So Many Questions. So Little Time.

How can nearly three months have passed since my last post?

How is it September already?

How do I have only one week - correction, 6 days - left to my maternity leave?

How can Ethan be starting big-boy-all-grown-up Kindergarten in only one week - correction, 6 days?

How can CG have outgrown all of his "T" clothes (2T, 3T, 4T) so quickly and moved on to sizes with no letters?

How can Jete's transitional leave from his job before its permanant termination be over already?

How can this person, this being that did not exist in even microscopic levels only one year ago, feel like an old soul that has always been a part of our family?

How can she have gone from this:
to this:
to this:


in only two months?

How can she be "only" two months old, when it seems we've known her forever?

He can she already be two months old?

How do I slow it all down?

***
I can't say enough how touched I am at your well wishes. I'm amazed so many of you have bothered to check back here when it seems I've had few words to share for nearly a year now. What a long, strange year it has been.

There is much to say. Discuss. Examine. I've been unable to do much more than read your blogs these past few months. (I can scroll with one free arm while nursing, but can't seem to get anywhere with one-handed typing.) In spare moments, I've started and abandoned half a dozen posts. Something always seems to come up and interupt me. Someone always seems to need me. I'm still getting used to this juggling act. And I know that time will become even more scarce when I return to work next week.

But I also know that I need this. I love this. I thrive on a connection, on finding others on a similar journey and not feeling so damn alone. I crave a creative outlet; something just for me. I can't wait to spend some time sprucing this place up a bit. Making things fresh and clean again. I deserve something special for myself amongst the constant neediness I seem to encounter every minute of every day.

It may not be often, but I will continue, when I can. Be sure of that.

You haven't seen the last of me yet.

:)

Term

Hello out there.

I'm still alive. You might have noticed it during my sporadic commenting on your sites now and then. Occasionally I've been moved enough to comment on someone else's thoughts - but I just haven't mustered up the energy to compile my own thoughts in any coherent matter.

This pregnancy has been rough, in more emotional ways than physical I suppose. I never believed or experienced so called "Pregnancy Brain" in my previous pregnancies, but this time it hit me hard. I can't think, I can't speak (is that a song? no clue.) and I even rear-ended someone a month ago while in a complete haze. A friend suggested it's probably the children I already have that are contributing to my absentmindedness, but I have to believe it's all of the people in my crazy life - including the one still cooking.

Depending on whose chart you use, I'm 37 weeks exactly today. Officially full-term, by most accounts. At my last ultrasound, the baby was measuring in the 80th percentile or so - already 6 pounds 11 ounces. Compared to the boys' birth weights (3 lb 14 oz, and 6 lb 3 oz) that sounds amazingly large to me.

On one side of my brain, I'm reassured by these numbers, but only to a point. I still feel a twinge when I tell coworkers that I'll be going on maternity leave soon. I feel like I should leave out the "maternity" part, because - what if? What if something else goes wrong? Even though I'm well past the point that my problems happened with Ethan and #3, and everyone is being super cautious, and I'm being followed with testing twice a week... there's just no "out of the woods" in my world.

I'm off soon for BPP # 3 (or 4, who can keep track) and feel my same combination of calm and nervousness. I can feel the baby moving now, but what if she doesn't cooperate during the test? What if something else shows up that hasn't to this point? What if my BP is up now?

Yes, for those of you paying attention, I said "she". As far as they've been telling us, this baby is a girl. We were very happy to hear that, but honestly no happier than we would have been if they said it was a boy. I could write sixty posts on the ridiculous comments I've received - both positive and negative - regarding baby gender. Yes, I'm excited to have the chance to see the "other" side of parenting now, but I would have been just as excited to have the chance to have three boys. Seriously.

NO. I'M NOT JUST SAYING THAT.

NO. I WASN'T SECRETLY HOPING FOR A GIRL.

Anyway, I need to start motivating myself and CG to get out the door. This post is all over the place, as is my brain lately, but I make no apologies for that. I also don't apologize for not posting in months. I am not ready to throw this blog away, but I'm also not ready to feel that my life or free time are less important than writing something.

I do miss writing though, which is very cathartic for me. I especially miss the community I've forced myself into, of other parents of children with special needs. No person I've met in "real life" has been able to completely express what I've felt like Billie, or Rob, or the dozens of others I've come to know and love through their brutal honesty. I will continue to stalk them through their blogs as long as they feel like sharing.

And eventually, I will get around to expressing my own feelings again. As much as this pregnancy is a joy, I can't wait to have my brain back again. In 10 or 20 years.

Driftwood

You know how things are with old classmates, or former co-workers?

At one time you were close, forced together in a daily routine that kept your orbits circling round each other. You knew what they ate for lunch on Tuesdays, what their favorite kind of music was, and how they always got annoyed by calls from their mother. If they changed up their routine with a new haircut or sweater, you knew the moment it happened. They didn't need to notify you of the small changes, never mind the major ones, because you were always there, sharing the experience with them, watching from the sidelines.

But things changed. You graduated, got a new job, moved to Kansas, and your relationship had to change. You swore you'd stay in touch. You'd call. You'd write. And you did... for a while. Then it took a few weeks longer to return that email or phone call. Next time, a few months. "We'll get together in the spring," you promised, until summer passed without a single contact. You got busy. You got distracted by your own joys, your own sorrows, and forgot to reach out. Seasons went by. Years. You drifted apart.

From time to time, you think of them, and want to reach out. But now, there is a gulf between you. Not only time, but life has passed. So many things have happened in the months and years since you last spoke. You're overwhelmed by how much you'd have to explain. Is it worth that amount of effort, to rekindle a once comfortable relationship? Where would you begin?

And then you think - Maybe it isn't worth it at all. Maybe we don't have anything in common anymore. Maybe I'm not the same person I was when I knew them anyway. Maybe it's time to just let the relationship go, to accept that it's over.

***
I was reading through old emails last weekend, trying to clean things up and clear out virtual clutter. I saw emails from old co-workers and friends I haven't spoken to in years. Some, almost a decade. Most don't even know I got married, never mind the fact that Ethan exists. They don't know all I've been through in the past few years. Frankly, I don't feel like bringing them up-to-date. I would need a week to bring them up to speed on the past year, never mind the past five.

Lately, I've felt similarly about my blog. It's been six weeks since I last wrote, and it seems like an eternity. I have no energy to read or write or do anything lately. When I can spare a few minutes, do I really want to write a quick story without explaining the context? There is so much I want to say, but as more time passes, there are more gaps to fill in. It overwhelms me, so I give up and go to sleep instead.

Yes, things are fine. There are no major catastrophes or "miracles" to share. Just little things. The daily happenings from a house of chaos.

Thanks to CG's daycare, we've all been sick for about two months straight, including Ethan. Still, he started school and seems to like it. His seizure and GI meds have all been changing. He had a sleep study done. I think his hips are getting worse. Again.

CG graduated from Early Intervention and no longer gets speech therapy. He's sleeping in a big boy bed every night now, but the pacifier is a whole other problem. With all the change in the house, he's become aggressive with his friends at daycare.

We had our 19 week ultrasound, and things went okay this time. We found out the gender of the baby. A week later, I had a bad experience with a different doctor and lost what little confidence I'd mustered up. I'm still being watched like a hawk, which makes me feel better and worse all at the same time.

I've been up, but mostly I've been down. I've gone back into therapy again. I'm trying to climb up from this hole I've fallen into. I'm trying not to let the past drag me down. I'm trying to focus on the little joys, and not get tangled up in the big worries. I'm doing all I can to hold onto hope when the echo of experience tells me not to believe in happy endings.

I miss hope. I miss being able to breathe through my nose. I miss having energy and passion. I miss reading and commenting on blogs. I miss writing. I miss using my blog to get things out of my head, to talk through ideas and share feelings and find out I'm not so alone.

But I know that I needed this break from writing. As I told Bad Experience Doctor, I know my limits. I work full-time. I have a severely disabled child. Ethan has had almost a dozen doctor's appointments and lab visits since January. I've been going to prenatal appointments every other week, plus other appointments that have nothing to do with pregnancy. Plus, I have a husband and a toddler who need their own time and attention. I'm doing the best that I can. And I have no regrets.

Except... maybe, staying up until 11:30 and rambling for a few dozen paragraphs probably wasn't the best decision.

But other than that. Definitely, no regrets.

More to come. At a more reasonable hour, of course.

More Gray. And Maybe a Few Other Colors.

Even gray comes in different colors.

I haven't been able to get Ashley's story out of my head since I first heard about it last week. I keep mulling it over, thinking and rethinking it, wondering what I would have done in the same situation. Because of course, even though my son is similar to Ashley, I'm not in the same situation. No one is. Just as no other parent is facing exactly what we are facing with Ethan.

I'm fascinated by the hundreds of comments I've read on message boards and blogs. There's no denying that Ashley's story has resonated with people. Which, no matter how you feel about the story itself, is a good thing. People are discussing the care of disabled as a major headline. For a few minutes, parents of severely disabled children are the experts. They are being sought out for their opinions and experiences. To share their child's stories. People are acknowledging how lacking our nation's support system is, and demanding changes so no other parents have to turn to such drastic measures again.

And frankly, I think it's about damn time.

For the most part, the only people who think about the disabled are their parents and families. I'll be honest - until Ethan was born, I never once thought about how people manage to care for a disabled child. I honestly assumed that anyone who was disabled, especially children, automatically qualified for money from the government. That you got Social Security benefits, assistance for in-home nursing care, and free health insurance.

Yes. I was that ignorant.

The truth is, disabled children do not exist in the government's eyes until their 18th birthdays. Until that point, they are considered the parents' full responsibility. There are no additional benefits or support available unless their parents are extremely poor or until the child turns 18. And even then, there isn't much worth calling "support". Extremely limited funds. Few available daycares so parents can work full-time. Limited public facilities that make true mainstreaming possible. I don't think the average person realizes this until it hits them personally. But maybe, through some of these conversations, they're starting to learn now.

However, while I'm hopeful Ashley's story may effect awareness, I got a bit discouraged when I realized the only blogs I saw discussing this story were medical blogs and parents of special needs children. It has not spread much farther than that. (Granted, I do not read every blog that exists. And I did find this one entry at Wonderland - Finslippy's second home - but it seems to be in the minority.)

My family members heard of the story, but hadn't listened closely and weren't really sure what it was about. Coworkers never talked about it at all. When I brought it up in conversation one day, none of them had even heard of Ashley. They had however, heard and chatted about Howard Stern's recent raise, the blizzards in Denver, and the new plans for Iraq. This just reinforced my belief that Ashley will be a passing interest, taken over in a week or two by a new "headline grabber". Only time will tell.

In the meantime, I encourage all of you to read about this story. To think about it, and more importantly, talk about it. Even if you think you've made up your mind, you might want to seek out an opposing opinion, just to get another point of view. There are many good thoughts out there that I think are worth reading - even those I may disagree with. If you're looking for more insight, check these out:

• Carrie passed along this entry from Disability Studies, Temple U in the comments.
• Dream Mom has tackled this topic twice so far; Part I and Part II.
• Ben and Bennie added their two cents in a few different entries as well.
• The Gimp Parade has several great posts, plus many links to other discussions about Ashley.

As Dream Mom says: "You Could Be Next". What many people don't consider is that we all have the chance of becoming disabled one day, or having someone close to us become disabled. This topic does not just affect "those kids" or people who care for them. It affects every human being. We are all equally fragile.

***

I wanted to respond directly to some of the questions that were posed in my last entry:

becca asked: Mete - can you not get some bathtime-related assistive tech. for Ethan?

Simple answer: "Yes". Real answer: "Yes. With lots of money."

Our bathroom is the size of a small closet. There is no way we could comfortably get a lift in there to use. Besides, the door is so narrow that we couldn't wheel him in or out of the room anyway, so he'd have to be manually moved from the lift back to his chair in the other room. We'd have to purchase the lift itself (relatively expensive) and do major renovations to make our tiny bathroom work. And none of this would be covered by insurance, because of course bathing is NOT a medical necessity. At least in the eyes of insurance companies.

Right now, our current system works, using the bath seat we purchased (out of pocket) last year. We know there will come a day when this won't work anymore, and we have a plan in place to deal with that. Frankly, we are outgrowing our current home in more ways than this, and we hope to move in the next few years. Even if we don't, we would plan to build a new bedroom/bathroom area to support Ethan and his needs down the road. At that date, we'd look into the lift vs. roll-in shower solutions.

But honestly, my point in Gray was not to focus on how difficult it is for us to bathe Ethan. Rather, it was to say that Ethan is losing more and more of things he enjoys as he gets larger. His mind is that of an infant, and as all infants do, he loves to be held, to be carried, and to splash freely in the bathtub. But as he grows and gets bigger, I watch him losing out on those things that he enjoys so much.

Yes, we can find alternate solutions. There are ways to adapt, and we employ some of them today. But it still makes me sad that he is losing these few pleasures he has. I honestly believe he was more able to enjoy life at the size he was two or three years ago than he is now. And it will only get harder. Our holding, carrying, (and Jete's rough-housing with him) has grown very limited as his size increased. One of the only ways we can communicate with him is through touch. While I can sit beside him, and hug him, and hold his hand, I still feel he is becoming more and more isolated from us.

I just wanted those who quickly called these parents selfish and evil to think about that for a moment. Think about your child as a baby, and think of never being able to hold them or dance with them or bounce them on your knee. Think about being forced to move them only from their bed to their stroller (or wheelchair) and back again. Think about how that makes your child feel to not have that additional contact. When I thought about my own situation, I could relate to some of their motivation, even if their actions were less relatable.

***

Liza asked - Are you considering seeking a similar course of treatment for Ethan?

No. We aren't.

Obviously, my situation is very different. First and foremost, Ethan is a boy. We will face different challenges as he goes through puberty than if he were a girl. If he were, I still don't think we would take such drastic measures. He's been through so many surgeries and medications, I can't imagine adding more to them right now.

That said, if he were a girl I would probably make decisions as issues came up. If "she" had problems or discomfort with menstruation, I would have no issues with using medications to handle or stop that. If "she" developed a large chest, I'd have to see how comfortable that was with the stroller and stander and look into possible reduction (which several adult women in my family have opted for). I would not be opposed to making my child more comfortable, in the least invasive methods possible.

I don't believe the surgeries Ashley had were that extreme. But if it was something posed for my child, I might have issues with the permanancy of them, and the fact that they were pursued with no real proof that they would help. Yet, there are many who believe these surgeries were not only wrong, they were "barbaric". Some of them would oppose even the lesser measures I might take. They don't believe you should intefere with a healthy body's "natural" processes. Personally, I believe that borders on an argument against any medical intervention.

Of course, I come from a different place. We put our three year old son through a 10 hour surgery, cutting and reforming his bones, slicing into the tendons in his groin and legs, trapping him in a full body cast for three months. All for something that might happen. His hips were displacing, and he might get arthritis in those joints someday. Then again, he might not. We knew that from the beginning. Someone - a purist, perhaps - might say that surgery was unnecessary. Barbaric, even. It's all a matter of perspective.

***

In a week of thinking, reading and analyzing this story, I'm still not sure exactly how I feel. Many things the parents did and said bothered me. The term "pillow angel" strikes an uncomfortable chord. I don't like the fact that the photos on their blog give privacy to everyone in the family except Ashley. And I find the arguments that they did this in part to prevent sexual assault weak, especially considering how many pedophiles are out there.

However, I do believe they love Ashley. I do believe they had her best interests at heart. And I do believe they had the full backing of medical and ethical experts. I do not believe they "mutilated" her as some are claiming, nor do I believe they are abusers or criminals as others say. And so, I find myself defending them.

But really, I feel as though I'm defending myself. I'm defending the right of a parent who knows and loves their child to be able to act in their best interests. After all, we are Ethan's voice. We are the only ones who know him at his core - his needs, what makes him happy, what causes him distress. It frightens me that someday, because a stranger disagrees with us, we may lose the right to decide what is best for him. Ethan's voice would be silenced.

***

Today is Ethan's birthday. He turned five. In five years, he has been through so much, and I'm sure the future holds much more. Sometimes I think we're up to the challenges, but other days I'm not so sure. I worry about the future. Will he stay healthy? Will we stay healthy? Will we continue to be able to care for him? Will our insurance woes get worse? Will he need more surgeries? Will he be in pain? Will he be happy?

We can't answer those questions. We can only do our best to make today the best it could be for Ethan. I think of Ashley's parents, and I can't help but believe they are trying to do the same for their daughter.

I wish there were more easy answers. I wish no one had to make decisions like this for their children. I wish things weren't so damn complicated. I wish the colors on the horizon always held more blue, and less gray.

Gray

I don't know how I feel about this. (More info here.) I really don't.

You'd think there would be a simple response. "It's wrong!" "It's right!" But it is not that simple. Nothing about this kind of life is simple.

There are those that say it's ethically questionable. I can totally see that. Putting a child through unnecessary surgery? Messing with a body's right to grow up? Forcing them to be a "child" forever, even into adulthood? It's unnatural. In fact, it's immoral.

Maybe.

Ethan is already 50 pounds at practically-five-years-old. A SOLID, dead weight, 50 pounds. I can barely lift him now, and Jete has to do all major maneuvering. I can't give him a bath because I can't safely get him in and out of the tub.

Soon, he won't be able to have baths anymore. He loves baths. He loves being submerged in the warm water. Nothing relaxes his tight muscles like a warm bath. But a 75 pound (wet) child can not be safely transported in and out of a tub. He'll need to move to sponge baths. To roll-in showers where he is cleaned but not bathed. Showers that do not give him the feeling of floating; of being free.

And I'm pretty sure that, in a few months, I won't be able to hold him anymore.

Ethan is my baby. He is practically-five-years-old, but developmentally, he is a baby. He will never be more than six months old. He loves to be held. I love holding him. And I know I won't be able to do that ever again. I can sit beside him, or lay with him on his bed, but never again hold him in my lap and just cuddle him. He'll be so difficult to move that he'll mainly spend all of his time in his wheelchair or on his bed, physically separate from the rest of us.

Now. Tell me again what's moral and what's not. I dare you to.


Updated to add: This was featured last night on Nancy Grace. I'm normally irritated by this show in general, but I could barely sleep after watching it, I was so angry. No impartial information here; we all know what we're SUPPOSED to think after watching this show. It must be nice to be so perfect and self-righteous.

We Wish You a Scary Christmas*

Updated to add: I'm starting to feel a bit guilty. So, lest anyone accuse me of worrying them needlessly, or worse, using scare tactics simply for the ratings (ha ha), let me say now: Fear not. Everything turns out okay by the end of this post. Unfortunately, Life doesn't give the benefit of a "skip to the end of the story" to see whether or not it has a happy ending. Hence, the scary week I detail below.

-Mete

***

Our Christmas weekend started out with the traditional gift of vomit. CG brought yet another illness home from daycare and christened our living room rug just before bedtime. We thought (hoped) he had just eaten too many holiday goodies at the daycare party. But this repeated two hours later, and then again an hour after that. and again. and again...

Saturday, the vomiting finally stopped. Jete and I had gotten almost no sleep the night before, trying to prevent cleaning every rug and blanket we owned. Finally, late in the afternoon, I got motivated to start prepping for the Christmas Eve party we host for Jete's family. I was up late into the evening, baking cookies and preparing as much ahead of time as I could.

Sunday morning, Christmas Eve, I woke up eager to get an early start. I slipped into the bathroom before tackling the rest of the baking and cooking I had on my list. I glanced down at the toilet paper for my usual half-hearted inspection and my heart stopped. Spotting.

The spotting was pink, but naturally, I was still concerned. I called my OB and left a message for the doctor on call. As I sat on the couch waiting for the return call, I twirled my hair and stared into space, thinking. Would they do an ultrasound to confirm the inevitable? What about the 15 people coming to my house in a few hours? Was this some kind of sick joke? Did I really need to find out I'm having another miscarriage on Christmas Eve?

Dr. I. called me back. I explained what I saw, and he asked if we had heard the heartbeat in the office yet. Yes, I told him, we had seen it on ultrasound twice. "Well, then. You're usually safe once you've seen the heartbeat." I laughed on the inside, a bitter laugh. Yeah, "usually" safe, except for that whole last time when we saw the heartbeat twice and it DIED ANYWAY.

He was understanding about my concerns. "Really, it's probably nothing. And unfortunately, there's nothing we can do about it even if there is an issue. I don't see any reason for you to spend the holiday at the hospital. Call if it gets any worse, or come in first thing Tuesday when the office opens, if it makes you feel better."

After checking, AGAIN, about a hundred times, I decided it might not be as bad as I originally thought. He was probably right; it was probably nothing. Women spot all the time. No point in getting all worked up yet. I'd just go on about my Christmas business. Nothing takes your mind off an impending miscarriage like assembling seven cookie platters.

A few hours into my effort, my father called. "Did Sete go to the hospital?"

My sister Sete, a Type 1 diabetic, had been having some blood sugar issues. Her readings were really high and no matter how much insulin she took, they weren't going down. Her doctor finally recommended she go to the local emergency room to be treated. My mother had gone there with her.

Everyone insisted I finish my work for the party. Most likely, they'd get things under control in a few hours and send her home. There was no reason for me to sit there with them when I had other things to do. Throughout the afternoon, I got periodic updates from my mother. In the meantime, I was a nervous wreck. I distracted myself by baking, helping Jete clean the house, watching the boys - and trying not to go to the bathroom. AGAIN.

Evening came, and the party prep was basically finish. Just five minutes after the first guests arrived, my mom called me again. They were admitting Sete to stay overnight. She was doing okay, but the treatments they had tried weren't working like they'd hoped. They didn't want to send her home until everything was completely stable.

I felt terribly guilty for not going to see her at the hospital. But she called once she got to her room and told me to stay home. She was exhausted and was just going to rest anyway. I went on with the job of hostessing, but once things got rolling, I kept taking opportunities to escape to my bedroom. Laying on my bed, I'd watch Miracle on 34th Street, and zone out for a few minutes. I was having a really hard time being "on" with the guests. I just didn't care.

Finally, around midnight, after all the guests had gone home, Jete and I slunk into bed. Less than an hour later, CG woke up, coughing and crying for me. As soon as I stood up, I knew the spotting had changed. I went to his room to comfort him, then quickly went into the bathroom and turned the light on. When I checked, the light pink spotting from earlier in the day had changed to heavier, bright red, blood.

I got back into bed with a thud, and Jete asked me how CG was. "Fine," I told him. "But... the spotting's worse." He rolled in my direction and sighed. "But there's nothing we can do right now, right? Whatever's gonna happen will happen?" I nodded. Within a minute, he was snoring again. I stared at the ceiling.

Finally, I fell back asleep again. This time, we were both woken with a start around 3 AM. Ethan was crying. We both rushed to his room to find him completely congested. His nose was blocked with mucus. More frightening, he sounded incredibly wheezy. He seemed to be gasping to catch his breath.

Like a newborn, you can't explain to a severely disabled child how to cough or blow their nose. We tried a few different positions to make him more comfortable - holding him, rocking him the recliner - but nothing worked. Finally, we decided to take him into the bathroom and give him a steam treatment. (Thank you, 45 viewings of Terms of Endearment, for the idea.) I sat on the bathroom floor next to Ethan until the hot water ran out. He was breathing easier. Jete set him in an upright position on the recliner and set up his own sleeping quarters on the couch to be near him.

When morning finally came, I was beyond exhausted. The Christmas gifts remained unwrapped in my closet. As time was short, I had planned to wrap them first thing Christmas morning before CG got up. But now, my heart wasn't in it. He had gotten so many gifts the night before, I felt only a little guilty. But my idea of a nice Christmas morning - just the four of us, opening gifts - was out the window.

My parents came over in the early afternoon to watch the kids so we could go visit Sete at the hospital. She was doing much better by the time we got there. They had given her with antibiotics for an infection that most likely caused the issues. Her blood sugars were finally under control after being on an insulin IV overnight. Assuming everything stayed stable once she was back on her pump, there was no reason she couldn't go home that day. She eventually got discharged around 10 PM Christmas night.

When we got back home from visiting, I asked my parents to take CG to the Christmas meal at my grandparents' house. We had planned to take Ethan, but his illness obviously changed things. I was too tired and distracted to socialize, even with my own family. But I wanted CG to enjoy Christmas as much as he could, opening his gifts with his cousins. They left with him, and I took a much needed nap. It certainly didn't feel like Christmas.

By Tuesday morning, I was an emotional wreck. I called the OB office at 8:30 exactly, as soon as they opened. I needed to be seen, ASAP. I was bleeding ("spotting" didn't seem strong enough), and I needed to be checked. They told me I could come in immediately.

When I got to the office, there were already a few other women in the waiting room. I gave my name at the desk and sat as far away from everyone else as possible. Two visibly pregnant women started a conversation across the room. I was stuck directly in their path.

"When are you due?"

"February."

"I'm due in the middle of January. But hopefully they'll take this baby sooner, 'cause I can't be pregnant no more!"

"Tell me about it! I'm so sick of being pregnant."

"Do you know what you're having?"

"A girl."

"Me too! I think it's the girl pregnancies that make you more miserable. Even after they're born. They're so CLINGY. Which baby is this for you?"

"My sixth."

"SIXTH? Wow!"

"Yup. After this, I'm done."

"Me too! This is my second, but I'm all done after this. I'm not havin' no more babies. I want my body back! I want to be able to wear cute clothes again!"

I glanced at the two of them. As tears sprang to my eyes, I looked away. I hated them. Two women who were due at nearly the same time that I should have been. I couldn't help but think... in nine months most women have a single baby. And here I was, most likely losing two in the same gestation time.

The doctor finally called me in. She asked me about my symptoms ("Spotting, then BLEEDING.") and what the status was at that moment ("Well, it's turning brown again. But did I mention the BLEEDING? The RED bleeding?") She got out the doppler thing and started looking for the heartbeat. And looked. And looked. I stared at the dots on the drop ceiling, waiting for her to give up already. We all knew where this was going.

After about a minute of searching, I heard it. The galloping horses. She turned off the doppler. "Well. Heartbeat sounds fine. 152." I looked at her, disbelieving. "Are you sure that wasn't mine?" She laughed. "No. Yours was around 90." She moved on to check my cervix. Long and closed. Everything looked okay.

As I sat up, she gave the usual explaination. Many women bleed, and many times we don't know why. But everything seemed good so far. I should have an ultrasound and go from there. Since I was already scheduled to come in the next day for the nuchal check, I could just keep that appointment.

For the next 24 hours, I was more than skeptical. I would not be lulled into a false sense of security. Just because it had a heartbeat on Tuesday didn't mean it would still have one on Wednesday. Wait and see. Wait and see.

Wednesday, I had my ultrasound. Amazingly enough, it went fine. There was an appropriately sized (13 weeks, 2 days) creature. There was a heartbeat. There was no visible sign of why I had been bleeding. She was unable to get the nuchal thickness because it was moving around too much. Which didn't bother me, since we decided to skip any additional genetic testing. I want the answer to only one question: "Will it die?" If the testing can't tell us that with 100% certainty, it won't change anything.

The bleeding has basically stopped now, although I still get the occasional pink or brown smudge just to keep me on my toes. The nausea is consistent, my boobs hurt, and I'm enjoying round ligament pain whenever I do too much. I guess those should all be good signs. Still. I'm not holding my breath. Two more weeks until my next appointment. Who knows what can happen by then?

But I'm not going to worry about that now. Not until next year.


Happy New Year, everyone. I sincerely hope 2007 is a better year than 2006 was, for me and for all of you. I'm thinking there's a chance it will be. I mean, there's a seven in the number. That's gotta be good, don't you think?

(* Let's just hope the next post isn't titled, "...And a Crappy New Year".)

Coming Out Of the Dark

I lifted my head off the ultrasound table and turned to Jete.

"Well. It isn't dead yet. That's something."

He smirked. "You optimist, you." We both laughed.

Dr. I. came back into the room with the tissues he'd been searching for. "Hey. No laughing in here."

"Sorry," I said, as I wiped the goo from my stomach. "I'm telling bad jokes."

Jete stood up with my coat. "Dark humor."

I mentioned the joke again that night at a friend's house. No laughter then, just sympathetic winces.

Guess you had to be there.

***

Things are progressing so far, I suppose. I'm around 11 weeks now and I've had two quick ultrasounds just to make sure there's still a heartbeat. No science involved with these; they're basically for my own peace of mind.

After Christmas, we go in for the nuchal screening and some added bloodwork to look for genetic defects. Since we've got nothing else to go on, they're working with the assumption that the miscarriage was caused by a genetic problem. They want to be able to tell me as early as possible if there's a chance things might be heading down a similar path.

Although, honestly, I don't think we would change our course of action if there was a "possible" genetic problem. Most of the positives are false results. And even if it was a true issue, what would we do? If something was 100% fatal, with 100% certainty, we'd probably take action. But the gray areas?

Every situation is different, and I can totally understand why someone else would feel the need to take action if their child had a genetic problem and they knew early enough on. But for us... how can have a problem with a disabled or handicapped child? Especially when we already have Ethan? What does that say about him?

Of course, this is all getting way ahead of myself. Let's just wait and see if it will still be alive at the next scan. Then we'll take the step after that. No point in counting my embryos before they hatch.

***

Your comments on my last post made me cry. Seriously. Granted, it doesn't take all that much to make me cry on a normal day, never mind when I'm newly pregnant, but still. I was touched.

I've been watching people lately, online and in real life. I've started to face that the hard edge human beings have, the one that ultimately causes war and strife, runs deep. As a child, I was an idealist, using each birthday candle to wish for World Peace. I hoped that, over time, wars would end around the world. Girls would start being nice to each other on the playground. People would stop being so damn MEAN all the time. After ten years or so, I realized my wishes were never going to come true, so I started using them on more selfish things, like a nice boyfriend to come along.

As I've grown up, I've realized it's never going to stop. As long as someone in the media is mocking Britney Spears or someone at work is gossiping about so-and-so, there will be others to join in. The mobs will gather, the rocks will be thrown. The mud keeps slinging, and it's getting deeper every day. We're all drowning in it.

It makes me really sad how cruel people can be. I try hard to make a conscious efffort not to participate in it, but it gets me sometimes anyway. It makes me wonder if it's not better to just go back into your home and lock the door, and hide from everyone. Leave all the ugliness Out There.

But I've also come to understand that it's not that simple. If you shut yourself off from people completely, you miss out on the goodness they can offer: the kindness, support and good will people can display when they want to. Like your comments on my last post, or the love the world poured out to the Kim family this month. There's got to be a little hope for the world if we can display that much goodness.

***

I'm sure this post seems disjointed, but inside my head it makes perfect sense. Maybe I'm a sentimental pregnant woman, or maybe all that Christmas music is making me sappy. But for the first time in a long time, I'm starting to decide that things don't have to look all that bleak. I'm allowing myself the hope that this new year could be a slightly better one than the last, both for the world at large and my own little corner of it.

I sincerely wish you all a tall glass of Hope this Christmas as well. It's hard to find, but it's delicious.