Here in the dark.
Hearing our laptops hum
At night.
Not so softly
I ask you,
what I should write.
You say,
“Um, I do not know.”
Imagine those words sung to the melody of Journey’s “Open Arms.” Sadly, Dave did not sing it to me that way. That would have been awesome, though! Seriously! It would. He is busy working and has no idea that while I was thinking about what I should write about, I looked over at him and of course the phrase, “Lying beside me, here in the dark…” popped in my head. And then I saw myself riding in that early 1980s paneled-side-station wagon (or weigh-gun as we say it in Minnesota), to the Journey/Brian Adams concert. I was only thirteen years old. True story. This older kid we knew from church had his driver’s license (obviously). We talked him in to driving us from the Minneapolis Suburbs all the way to St. Paul. I believe Melanie, my BFF, her boyfriend, Mike and this other dude went along. We sung in our hairbrushes all the wat as we listened to the awesomely awesome words of “Open Arms” during the forty-five minute drive to the show. Now that I think of it I, swear my brother Bill was there too. Were you, Bill? Maybe there were more people. Wait. Maybe it was Anna Oelkers not Melanie. I cannot remember. Mel or Ann, you must tell me, please! [UPDATE 12:48 PM MST, I just heard from Anna. She was there, but went with others. It was Melanie. I should have gone with me first instincts.] They both dated Mike. I was young, naive and was really focused on one thing. I needed to hear MY song, Journey’s, “Lights.” “Faithfully” was for the masses and I was (am) an Outlier. I still remember standing there, swaying along with my imaginary lighter. I did not smoke and it was eons before the fake-lighter-iPhone App arrived. And when the song began playing live, well, I burst. I could scream now. I would scream just thinking about it, but I think I might scare Dave. Please, please do not tell thirteen-year-old me that I have moved on in my musical taste. Fourteen-year-old me found U2’s Unforgettable Fire and sixteen-year-old me fully immersed herself into The Cure. Please. Thirteen-year-old me was earnest, eager and hopeful. She had her moment and I will never take that away.
Music was a big deal in my house. My sister loved Led Zepplin. My brother loved STYX. My mom adored Johnny Mathis and I was determined to find not only my own band, but my favorite song. Take that, “Stairway to Heaven”, “Babe” and “Chances Are.” I found Journey and I had “Lights.”
Feeling like I have been so intense I needed to lighten it up. My day-to-day is currently routine except for this pounding headache I have been carrying around. My friend Teresa says it is because, “Um Beth, you lost a lot of blood and you are not drinking enough water.” Ok. She is correct. It is hot. It reached over one hundred degrees in this high desert heat today and I could stand to hydrate. Instead of running to the kitchen for another giant glass of water I am heating my abdomen with this laptop and remembering days when I was way too young to think about hospital bills, wanting to punch pregnant ladies, soccer camps, husbands who work all night or even know that people really do lose their babies. All I had to worry about is convincing my parents that this teenage boy could safely drive me far away so I could hear my dream. And until tonight I never realized how simple that song really is, with its few and repeating lyrics, it didn’t matter, it was my song and that was my night.
Kyle at Fort Columbia State Park, WA (just over the river from Astoria, OR)
Finally home, although we already miss Portland. After two and a half weeks on the road we are finally home. The boys are up in bed. Dave is in the kitchen looking at all the mail and I am watching a recorded episode of, “So You Think You Can Dance.” I love that show! And maybe it is because I am finally home, or because I am finally alone, or maybe it is because I am extra super tired, but just now when I heard the first few bars of, “I will always love you,” tears started rolling, simple, slow and quietly down my face. I sucked a deep breath in and of course I thought of Whitney and yes, I wondered why she did not have someone watching her in that bathtub.
I watched the beautiful dance and then I listened. I think it is the words and I think it is because in this moment I see that I will not have another child. I get it and then I realize I am not breathing. I concentrate and tell myself, “breathe, Beth, breath,” and then I let the tears fall. I let them stream. Those words, as cheesy as they are, were reaching, reaching me and I am glad. Before tonight, whenever or wherever I heard those words sung, say in a dressing room, my car, or sung by at least one contestant every single year on American Idol, I blurted them out loudly and sung them with my best power-ballad-styled conviction. Didn’t we all?
Cathedral Tree/Column Trail Astoria, OR
Dave, while on a LDS Mission in Caracas, Venezuela, had a mission companion who incessantly played the Bodyguard Soundtrack, which of course includes the song, “I will always love you.” This guy played the Bodyguard soundtrack so often that one day Dave could not take it any more and in an instant he threatened to toss that damn Bodyguard Soundtrack cassette tape out the window. “Use your headphones!” Dave demanded! “If I hear that music played out loud one more time, the tape is gone! I will throw it out the window!”
Not soon after Dave uttered those words, his companion must have either doubted Dave’s threats or simply could not resist his sweet, sweet Bodyguard Soundtrack and had to play the “and I, yi, yi, yi I will always love you, ew, ew’s,” one more time. Upon hearing those first bars, Dave walked over, stopped the cassette player, pulled out the threatened cassette tape, walked over to the window, opened it and threw that damn Bodyguard Cassette out the window, where it fell to its untimely or timely (depending on how you see it) death; no sooner to be run over by a car below.
Dolly Parton wrote the song in 1973 after a break-up with her partner and mentor, Porter Wagoner. Tonight I listened to the Whitney version, and as I heard those very first bars, “If I should stay, I would only be in your way,” I let go, gave in and was somehow able to disconnect from the gooey, overly sentimental and overplayed aspects of that song and just listen. It was like our child was singing to me. Crazy, right? It was as if my broken hopes were saying, “hey Beth, I get it. I know you wanted another child for years. I know when you found out about me you were mad. I know you wanted to carry me, to feel me grow. I know you were scared. I know you didn’t want me. I know you did. I was here, but I had to go. I know you felt me leave. I know. I get it and somehow you will be ok.” Now how weird is that? How weird is it that a reality dancing show playing an overplayed Whitney Houston song brought me to soul-gripping tears? I thought it was a little weird too, yet it did.
As the song ended (I rewound and played the dance through twice), well, as the song ended a second time, there were no long drawn out power-ballad crescendos from me. Instead I just heard myself saying,
And I will always love you. I will. Then I held my breath again.
At the top of the Column Astoria, OR
A question I have been asked a lot about the last few days besides, “are you ok?” is, “was it painful?” or better, “you really don’t mention the pain at all?”
The answer, if I can give you one: it was horrific! It was horror movie bloody, gory and I felt searing, gut-wrenching pain. I felt pain before the hospital. I felt pain the night before, at lunch, at Ruby Jewel and once there, if it were not for Liz, the amazing Ultrasound tech, I believe I would have passed out from the intensity, literally! Finally, as the blood continued to gush like some insane river, Liz yelled at my nurse, “Do not listen to her. She needs something for the pain!” The nurse tried to have a business-meeting styled conversation with me and began dissecting every single word as he asked me what I wanted or if I even needed pain medicine. I tried to rationally answer him in between tears, terror and my constant questions, “What is happening to me? Why is there so much blood? I can feel it rushing over your hand. Liz, the blood. It will not stop!”
Dave and Liz both piped in. “Do not listen to her. Get her something now!” Grateful. I am so grateful! It hurt, but I wanted to feel that hurt. My stupid nurse played right in. I think he wanted me to hurt to. I felt like he was thinking, “well, she isn’t having a baby so how could it possibly hurt that badly?”
I wanted to bleed through my nightmare and get through. I wanted to feel this moment. I needed to feel this moment so deeply that I will never forget these last seconds that I was pregnant. I kept thinking of the last moments I nursed Eli. It was May 2003. I looked at his sweet little face and said to myself, “This is it. Do not forget! Look at him and remember this moment. It may not happen again.” Did I jinx myself? I don’t think so. I am grateful I remember. I am grateful I remember what it is like to hold a baby in your arms and nurse. I remember how it feels to fell so close. I want these moments seared into the involuntary spaces of my soul. There is no other way to say it. I wanted to feel this pain so I never forget. They were contractions. I finally realized. Another friend asked about them. When she was miscarrying she told me she had really horrible contractions.
Yes, I had them. They came on hard and they came on fast. I thought I was going to die. Seriously I was like, “what the hell is happening to me? Really? What?” Because there was no baby, I had a difficult time connecting to the fact that they pain I was feeling was indeed labor. Because there was no baby, I felt like I deserved this pain. Seriously. That is how it was. I already knew I had failed and because this was the end, albeit a surprise ending, it was the end of a very long road. And because it was the end, I needed to feel the pain.
The bridge between Oregon and Washington at Astoria
—-
Earlier today I had my blood drawn. I am assuming my hCG is going doing and that my Hemoglobin is where it needs to be. Cross your fingers that my products of conception have flown the coop and that I am on my way. Yes, Thom and Adam, to be continued. I will give you the word as soon as I hear from my doctor.
Eli, and his Portland hair, courtesy of Dave’s best friend, Justin
Tuesday, July 31, I was in bed thinking all was as it should be, Dave woke up and left for work. Work in Portland, you ask? A few months ago Dave’s brother Dennis and Dave’s best friend, Justin, bought a church. Dennis and Justin are business partners/property developers. They bought a church and now they have offices at the Alberta Abby (as they call it). No really what we like to call it is the Downtown Abby because it is close to Downtown Portland and we think we are funny because we are making a Downton Abby reference. Dave left, asked me to take it easy, I cleaned, did what I do and I got ready for lunch. Dave would be home at noon and we were meeting a good friend, David Roy, and his wife. We would be meeting his wife for the first time and had just reconnected with him after sixteen years, which is an important plot point. Our friend is this most awesome guy and really if it were not for him, Dave and I probably would have never really started hanging out. I have always been grateful. We saw our old friend a few days before at a get together and the night had gone so well that we set our lunch date.
I was excited to meet his wife. I was excited to renew our connection. I met him through an old boyfriend and we reminded each other that this certain old boyfriend always would say, “Once you meet David Roy, you will like him better than me.” Guess what? My boyfriend was right. David Roy and I became besties and Dave and I were always sad that we had lost touch. Lunch would be a good thing. Dave and I arrived first, were seated and our friend David arrived Portland style (on his bike) and dripping from the afternoon heat and humidity. He warned us that his wife was bringing Che, their dog, and asked if we wouldn’t mind eating outside. David’s lovely wife arrived. I had already been to the bathroom once by that time. We were all seated and I just thought I was continuing on my miscarriage way. Our food arrived, I felt another gush and excused myself from the table. By the third time this happened I had to excuse Dave as well. He had the car keys and I needed more supplies. Ok, so, how do you tell your friend you haven’t seen in a million years and his wife that you just met, “Um, so I have bled through my protection three times in an hour. Every time I go to the bathroom the tissue expelled is greater than the time before?” So weird. I know I am telling the internet, but like I have told those who have asked, “I control the output and I do not have to look into your eyes and tell you this.” It’s true. My blog is a little space I hope you come to, but know you chose to be here. Does that make sense? Anyway, the conversation was actually really good. We caught up with each other, learned about Geology and made jokes about my old boyfriend. We had to. The best one. . .wait. . . there are two best ones. I will tell the appropriate one here. So one time years ago my old boyfriend and I were driving from Minnesota to Utah when he noticed that there was an outlet mall near Mount Rushmore. Instead of seeing Mount Rushmore (understandable) or the Black Hills or Deadwood (not understandable), we went to the Ralph Lauren Outlet. Hilarious. As David Roy and I parted ways, we promised not to lose touch again. I started realizing there may actually be a problem. Every single time I have miscarried it has always been the same. Always! I have super bad cramps, lose a lot of tissue for a day or a few hours and then it’s like a regular heavy menstrual cycle. That whole process happened the day before at the park. At this point I was bleeding more, not less.
In the car I remembered the Sage words of my OB, “If you soak more than one pad an hour, go to the ER.” I was soaking three. I called her and wanted to make sure I was not overreacting. “Beth, if this does not settle down in two hours, you need to go in.” I called another Portland girlfriend for hospital suggestions (thank you, Carrie) and waited. While I waited Dave and I picked up the boys and then we took Dave back to the Abby while the bleeding only increased. Trying to keep my mind off of things and knowing I would have to break our OMSI date, I asked the kids if they wanted to go and get ice cream from Ruby Jewel. “Of course we do.” Kyle sweetly responded and then Eli inserted, “Mom, do you know this will be the sixth time we have gone to Ruby Jewel since we came to Portland.” I didn’t know it was six, but I knew it was up there. We made our way over to the Mississippi Avenue neighborhood of Portland where I enjoyed my Salt Lime/Burnt Orange Sorbet combo. I had no idea that it would be the last thing I would eat for hours (which to me felt like days).
Kyle, Eli and I outside of Trader Joe’s in Portland, OR
My kids are tweens. They know I have been pregnant and have been very good about helping me and keeping my crazy pregnant behavior to themselves. Now looking way back in early June I should have known I was pregnant that day I was dead dog tired at the after school talent show Pogo Practice that something was up. I didn’t. I bet my boys did. I just thought it was the LMFAO-Party-Rock-disorganized-mayhem of trying to get six distracted boys to learn their pogo routine. That day and always my boys have had my back. These past months when I missed hikes with their friend’s mothers, Kyle and Eli did not say anything like, “Hey so my mom is pregnant. She really can’t go on a hike because she thinks she is going to puke.” I have asked them to keep my secret and have also told them the truth along the way. So on our ice cream adventure it made perfect sense to give them the heads up. “Ok guys, you know because of last night I lost the baby, but now things are getting a little weird so we may go get things checked so I will be ok.” I told them while driving back to our Portland digs. “Mom, we just want you to be ok.” Kyle quickly said.
I muscled through for another hour and called Dave. “Hey, so I am still bleeding. Well, actually it is worse. We should probably get it checked. I am on my way to get you.” The hospital was close and we were on our way.
Dave dropped Kyle and me off. “Kyle, you come with me. You know hospitals.” I said while Dave and Eli parked. I checked in and then talked with the admitting nurse. She was very hung up on the fact that I have been giving myself two shots of Heparin a day for the past two months. I assured her she could call my doctor. I assured her that the dose was small and metabolizes quickly. I know about people taking you down the wrong medical path and was starting to wish I had never ever mentioned this lame miscarriage prevention treatment. I did and I was stuck.
Nevertheless she took me seriously and got me in a room fast. Calm. I was calm. When my male nurse talked to me, I was calm. “I am bleeding. I’m from out of town (he never heard the out of town part) and my doctor recommended I come in.” I asked him about D&C’s and what they could do. “Oh, we don’t perform D&C’s at our hospital (BIG FAT LIE).” He said. “Really?” I pushed. My nurse did not like that I did not want my IV in the crook of my elbow. Have you ever had an IV there? They hurt! He was utterly convinced that I was an idiot and that I was taking Lovinox (another blood thinner), not Heparin. “Um, Heparin is cheaper. I promise I am taking Heparin.” I insisted. He mocked. Do you want his name? I am still thinking I will write the hospital. Nevertheless when my situation became more critical (way more cool and interesting) he was there.
Better than the elbow regionThe boys making the best of this tiny ER room
The kids had made their way to my room. I actually had a room. They were bored, hungry and Eli kept asking, “Mom, when will this be done? When can we leave? Dad, I am hungry.”
Dave’s consistent response was, “We are not leaving until we know what is going on with mom.” Yay, Dave!
I put my sandals back on because my nurse went to dinner and forgot my socks.
iPod Touches were in full operation and Kyle turned my above TV onto the Travel Channel. “Mom, it’s Bizarre Foods! I love that show.” In between watching the Bizarre Foods guy eat Bull Penis (Yes, Bull Penis) I cramped. I bled and Dave took me and my IV to the bathroom. Over and over I went to the bathroom. The first bathroom to the right had pee all over the floor so I made sure to keep my sandals on. Yes, I asked my lovely nurse for socks and yes, he went to dinner instead. I texted a few friends, one being our ER doctor friend. Asked about Heparin. Made jokes about the nurse and waited for the doctor. Here is one of my texts:
“Doctor (super awesome doctor) just came in. He is so much better than the nurse. Agreed with me about Heparin (it has nothing to do with my bleeding and has already metabolized). If the nurse wants to be a doctor, he should go to medical school. Still bleeding and a ton of pain.” 7:15 PST
And by 7:47 PM PST my Park City girlfriend was texting me. Dave had just left with the boys and was coming back after he got them fed. I walked myself to the bathroom. I could not believe the blood. I could not believe the hours and hours of increased clots and bleeding. As I sat on the toilet, a giant clot flipped out and landed on my ankle. I know it’s gross. I just need to say it. I was in shock and a giant piece of blood clot was sitting on my ankle. So so crazy! I cleaned myself up, lifted my IV bag off the hook and walked back in the room. A sweet young med tech was standing there about to tell me something when I felt the gush. It felt like someone had just broken my water. “Um, I do not know what is happening.” I told her. “I think I need some help.” I just stood there.
“What do you need?” She asked. “I think I need to go to the bathroom again. Will you help me?”
“Of course. Whatever you need.” She said and I kept apologizing while saying, “I do not know what is happening. I do not understand.” We were back in the bathroom where I was still gushing blood. She helped me there and then helped me back. She was so much kinder than my nurse had been. Back in bed by 8:00PM there was a huge cramp and another gush. I heard my phone beep. It was my Park City friend. I asked her to text Dave. I think I knew I could text him to, but she was there so I asked her. Moments later I needed the bathroom again. I was confused. I was covered in blood and so scared. I came back to the room and found the Ultrasound Tech. She is in her sixties and when I said, “Please. Please. I do not know what is happening.” (Where was my nurse? Who the hell knows?) The Ultrasound tech asked my what I needed and when I said, “I need the bathroom again,” I could tell she was bummed that I was emptying my bladder, but she was lovely and kind. “Whatever you need.”
Davy
In those moments Dave came rushing back to the room, leaving the boys in the car. “What do you need?” He asked. “I don’t know.” She inserted the ultrasound wand and I felt something I never want to feel again. For the several minutes she was viewing my uterus from every angle, blood was flowing out of me like a faucet. I whimpered. I did not cry. I kept asking her what was happening. “Oh honey. I know. I know.” She kept saying. “I know what you are going through. There is a lot of blood.” I was, in a way, giving birth. She showed me the gestational sac on the screen. There was no baby. No joy. I was exposed, worried and lying in a pool of blood — blood I have only seen in really bad horror movies. I just kept bleeding and my blood pressure, kept dropping.
Finally, really, finally, I guess I became serious enough for my nurse to pay attention [insert Super Man theme music here]. He came in my room and my lovely Ultrasound tech said, “She really needs something for the pain. You need to help her!” Because the Ultrasound tech is lovely, she also insisted that he is a good nurse. I think he is a good nurse when things interest him. He confirmed with my doctor and gave me a shot of Dilauded. I was not hooked up to a blood pressure cuff at the time and have no idea why. I asked Superman, my male nurse, if he would take my blood pressure. “I feel dizzy and I do not feel right. Please. Please take my blood pressure.” He handed Dave a blue plastic barf bag, slipped a blood pressure cuff on my upper left arm, and cautioned Dave, “If she throws up, come find me.” I felt the pump, pump, pump of the cuff and watched my blood pressure go down, down down to 77/33. “I don’t think that is ok.” Superman immediately lowered my bed and said, “Oh, it’s fine.” Once my bed was lowered, my pressure went back up to 81/43. I know enough about blood pressure to know that once it goes too low that the body starts shutting itself down. I knew if I kept bleeding and my blood pressure stayed low that we would have a bigger problem.
My blood pressure
After the nurse left we texted our doctor friend. When we shared my blood pressure numbers with him he insisted, “Push your call button now!” And this is an ER doctor dude who does not scare easily.
I whimpered. I cried. I could not believe the intense and continued pain. The pain medicine as continued as it was too, wasn’t helping. I asked Dave, “Am I going to die?”
“No. No Beth. You are not going to die. You are going to be ok.”
And earlier tonight while Dave and I talked I realized why I didn’t die. I listened to my OB and even though my nurse was not listening or initially even respecting me, I knew where I needed to be, I remained calm and I held my ground.
My blood pressure did not stabilize. They kept switching IV bag after IV bag. We stopped counting at around ten. The bleeding only got worse. I heard the phrases, “packed cells and blood volume,” over and over. Yet through it all the doctor kept saying while simultaneously being freaked out, “You are so healthy. You should have already had a transfusion. Wow. The altitude is saving your life. I cannot believe this.” I couldn’t either. Because I live at 7,200 feet (yes, that’s right) and was now at approximately sea level, I had some extra hemoglobin.
Right before surgery I was able to change out of my second completely blood-soaked gown. I asked the med tech if it was bad and she shook her head in compassionate alarm. Earlier and when I could still walk, she had just wrapped the other blood-soaked gown in a sheet when she took me to the bathroom. I was able to see the tremendous amount of blood on the bed. “Only really bad head wounds or gun shot victims have this much blood,” I thought. She, Dave and I removed my second gown. I saw clots stuck on fabric and the heavy red stains of what I had just lost.
We spoke with the OB surgeon and conferred with the ER doctor. I really had no choice. “We need to do a D&C. We need to stop the bleeding.” I had surgery. I made it through. I was able to go home in the middle of the night. Best part of the experience was when Justin brought the boys back to us. Earlier I sent a text to Dave’s brother and sister who live in Portland. Dave’s sister only knew I was pregnant the night before and Dave’s brother had no idea. I sent the text asking if they could come get the boys. Justin already knew. Justin and Denny took the boys for several hours. I wanted them back. I wanted to see them. They came in my room, helped me eat my popsicles. I could tell Eli was freaked out. Last time he was at the hospital was when Kyle was sick. I asked Eli to come snuggle and told him it was ok. He fell asleep next to me.
Easy E zonked out in my hospital bed.
Friday Morning, August 3, we were in bed. The phone rang. It was the surgeon. I thought she was just checking in on me. She was. We were leaving for Utah that day. She wanted to make sure I was taking my antibiotics and also wanted to tell me that the Pathology Report had some unusual findings. “They did not see any products of conception in the D&C. Would you like me to call your OB in Utah? I would like to call her.”
We both think I must have passed everything earlier. Tomorrow I go for blood tests.
[Saturday Morning, August 4, 2012, 11:06AM: PART TWO will be waiting for you early Monday Morning. Thank you for reading and making it over to my space on the planet! It means a lot to me!]
[UPDATE: Saturday August 3, 2012. When I began writing this post on the evening of 7.30.12, I had no idea what the next twenty-four hours would bring. I will say it now and I will say it again: We cannot predict the future!]
Monday Evening, July 30, 2012: Surprise! I’m Pregnant.
Here is a picture of my actual pregnancy test.
I have spent my summer pregnant (the past three months) and today I am miscarrying. I know what you are thinking. I am thinking it too. I am old. My kids are almost teenagers and I thought I was done traveling this very long road.
“How did this happen?” I asked my OB.
“Oh, you know how this happened,” she very wisely responded.
Uncle Miah and the boys. See-saws at sunset.
Nevertheless and moments ago I was at a city park here in the Irvington Neighborhood of Portland, Oregon. I was snapping pictures and keeping an eye on my boys. We, joined with Dave’s sister, Dori and her family, had all just eaten a yummy combo picnic dinner and now were scattering around the park. I had already been spotting for a few days so I was not surprised when Kyle, Eli and their Uncle Miah stood wobbling on the see-saws while my nephews Andy and Nathan moved giant toy trucks back and forth through the sand that I felt one mother of a cramp followed by a big fat gush.
“I need to find a bathroom NOW! Really.” I calmly said to Dave and Dori.
“Let me go with you.” Dave said, as we first walked to the car to grab some supplies and then walked over to a prison-issue-no-seat-just-stainless-basin public bathroom.
The two tattooed, pierced and Portland-conservative looking men who each had a son who each sported an ironic toddler-mullet said one more thing to me as I raced to the bathroom door. Their toddler sons were fascinated with Kyle, Eli and the see-saws. “They can handle themselves. Don’t worry. Your boys are fine.”
I thanked them and walked on.
“Ew!” I screeched as I saw all this brown stuff all over the floor.
“Those are just leaves. Just walk over them. Everything is ok.” Dave quickly and wisely shot back. They were just leaves.
I walked over the leaves to the metal toilet, held my breath and squatted over the silver basin. In milliseconds, if that, weighty clumps of tissue dropped into the water. If you have miscarried before, you know exactly the weight I describe here. You know how it feels and weirdly I am grateful you do.
As I squatted, and if you know me, especially the-me-in-less-than-ideal situations me, you know I needed to keep it light and say something and by something, I mean, something humorous-ish. “Hey at least I am keeping it real theme-based. Last time I miscarried at a truck stop (true story).”
Dave probably rolled his eyes, laughed and helped me up. As soon as the heavy park bathroom door slammed like a snapped rubber band behind us, I felt another gush and knew it was time to leave. We yelled to the kids and told them we would be gone for a few minutes, walked over to our car and Dave drove me back to where we were staying. I went up to the guest room and immediately started writing.
Here I am and here is what I am feeling. In between moments of awful menstrual-like cramps and pure denial I am bursting, I mean, BURSTING with crushing quantities of anger while simultaneously filling with competing amounts of gratitude, DAMN IT! I don’t know how else to say it. I have re-written and re-written that phrase: gratitude combined with anger. So grateful I really cannot be mad! Many of you have traveled a similar road. I am grateful you understand and am very sad that you had to go through this too. Many of you also know that I tried for years to maintain a pregnancy. I have succeeded twice. Thank God for Kyle and Eli! Seriously! Wow! I get contrast. I feel selfish that I wanted more. I get that those two boys are two brilliant miracles! Birth is not easy! Yet, may I tell you in complete honesty, I was pissed when I found out I was pregnant. At the very least, this pregnancy has caused me a very inconvenient summer. At best, I feel equal amounts of gratitude and anger!
And I think the denial I have been in has given me this crazy strength, strength that I never thought I had. With this denial I have pushed myself hard. I have pushed harder than I have in a very long, long time. Wait, let’s not pretend, when Kyle was lying with a feeding tube shoved down his nose and his eyeball skin peeling off, I pushed hard too. That’s what you do. You push hard. You fight for those you love.
If only this was our two test box.
We bought a two-test box. “Dave, we have to buy a two-test kit. If we buy one, I’ll just end up buying another one tomorrow.” We laughed the Park City Smith’s laughing and joking about the psychosomatic effects of pregnancy tests. “You relax and then your period starts.” We only needed one. We only needed one pregnancy test because the second I peed on that stupid stick, it turned to a plus sign. When I saw that stupid plus sign I totally deer-in-head-lighted and then I laughed. “Really?” I really said, “really,” out loud. I bet you would have too. Do you know how many hundreds of negative pregnancy tests I have peed on? Wow! A joke? I bought the pregnancy test as a joke.
I saw the plus sign. I freaked out. Then I screamed, “Dave, you need to come up here now! Now! Dave! Now!” Then I grabbed my iPhone, opened up my web browser, Google’ed the phrase, “old pregnant ladies,” read the statistics and felt worse. Women over forty are screwed! The End! I know my history and when we told our doctor friend, here is what he told us:
“You’re old blah, blah, blah, blah and you are doomed blah blah blah. Oh and your fertility history sucks blah blah blah. Mostly, YOU ARE OLD!”
Dave is busier than he has ever been, which seems impossible, because he has always been busy. This summer was my time, pregnancy or not, to up my parenting game. Dave needed me. I do not breathe and until last night, I simply hold it all in. I have hardly told a soul and when I do I imagine what they must be thinking. I have a couple of close friends, my sister and my mom (of course), who knew. They all have had my back. They get my horror and every single one of them said, “I will be there to help you raise that baby or help you grieve its loss.” They knew my reality too. Last night I melted. Just a little, but I finally did. It was probably hormones. No. Really. I went nuts and kept asking Dave, “Why are you acting so weird? What is wrong with you?” Not my finest moment. Suddenly after yelling, screaming and being silent, I walked down to the kitchen, poured myself a bowl of Cocoa Krispies, then another, texted Dave from the kitchen, cleaned the cute little cracker crumb mess the other house tenant always leaves behind, and went back upstairs. While eating the second bowl, Dave responded:
“Come back up here and I will hold your hand. I need the points.”
[August 3, 2012]
Me and my boys in Oregon.
Like I mentioned, we are currently in Portland, Oregon. I love the house we are staying in. It’s an old Four Square Craftsman in the Irvington neighborhood. Our friends graciously invited us to stay while they are working in Phoenix. I know we have the better end of the deal. Whole Foods is a short walk and an even shorter drive. The Whole Foods folks already know me, make me the best gluten free sandwiches and the boys have discovered that the Portland Whole Foods sells warm Chicken Pot Pies. Yum! If this deceptive Portland sun keeps shining, I think we may just stay.
On Wednesday, July 25, we dropped Dave off in Pasco, WA. I know. Weird and a little random. He needed to be in San Francisco. When planning our trip we figured Pasco was the farthest he could travel with us before he needed to go. Once in Pasco and after washing our bug-covered and mud-covered car, we were under such a deadline that almost as quickly as we walked into a local Mexican Restaurant, we looked at the time, apologized, told the hostess they are number one in the area on Yelp, and we walked right back out. We did not want Dave to miss his flight. We stopped for gas, bought our requisite two Chick-O-Sticks and were on our way. I hugged Dave hard, held back tears and prayed that he would fly safely from this little airport we had never seen before.
We left Dave in Pasco and came from heartache in Spokane, where my head was spinning after feeling the reality of stomped on hearts and a broken marriage. Spokane was filled with love of old friends and hope that they will find their way. I wondered if they were felling angry and grateful. Life does not discriminate when it comes to pain or happiness, for that matter. As we arrived in Spokane, we were on the heels of our dreamy trip through Yellowstone and the Tetons (yes, when they ask, we tell them that Tetons indeed mean “boobs” in François and then we quickly admonish, “What we talk about in the car, stays in the car, like that Tetons mean, “The Big Boobs”). We had been planning this Yellowstone trip for months. We were never quite sure if it would happen and at the last minute and thanks to our fabulous-plan-making friend, Doug, it did.
On Thursday, July 19, we left Utah late morning. We met up with our Minnesota friends at the Park City Whole Foods. I walked all four boys over to the Kimball Junction Starbucks, I ordered my green ice tea, insisted they use the bathroom, the other three adults made their way over and we were on our way.
Old Faithful doing what Old Faithful doesI’m not overreacting. It is scary!
In the past two weeks we have traveled from Utah to stunning Jackson, WY. We stopped at a groovy health food store in Jackson thanks my friend’s clever and determined thinking. Thank goodness for her, and also gratitude for the discovery of the Gluten Free Sandwich. From Jackson, WY we drove through the Tetons with a quick stop at Jenny Lake, where we had to force a very sick Kyle to complete a very long hike, then and on to Yellowstone. We spent the night at a crazy Yellowstone Lodge. No, not the Yellowstone Lodge, just another random Yellowstone Lodge. We watched Old Faithful do its thing, because you have to, and somehow between puffs of smoke and really warm walking paths, I overcame my fear of hot springs. Seriously, do not read the book “Death in Yellowstone,” it may haunt you forever! We hiked the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, the top of Mammoth Hot Springs and then found our way to Bozeman, MT, where we hiked to the most amazing waterfall. (May I just add that Eli not only completed every single hike, but he was often the first done and always seemed to hike to the highest spot! So proud.) After the waterfall and a quick detour/Bison charging, we ate lunch at the Bozeman Food Co-Op and yes, Bozeman and its accompanying food co-op, are indeed where the real hippies exist. We sat at a lovely outdoor table, ate our yummy food, talked with our friends about our combined dreams of traveling to New Zealand while a very yappy dog barked away in the background. We said our goodbyes, met one more time at the gas station then they headed east and we headed west. On to Spokane, the Pasco, WA Airport and then Portland, all the while I was pregnant, or at least my body thought it was. The boys and I drove non-stop the windy four hours along the Columbia River Gorge into the waiting arms of Dave’s best friend, Justin, who immediately took very-hungry us to an open-late Portland eating establishment.
On Monday, July 30, 2012, I went to bed believing I had fully miscarried.
I think I was five or six years old when I first heard the term “manic-depressive.” And to very young, impressionable me, when I asked what those words meant, the response was simple and safe: “sometimes so-and-so is really happy and can get a lot of things done and sometimes so and so is very, very sad and cannot get out of bed.”
“Hmm?” I thought.
And because I was so curious, once the phrase, “mentally ill” entered my lexicon, I became fascinated and wanted to understand why people were having a hard time with their brain. Curious me became really curious about everyone else. I reminded myself of some of my gay friends. Once they came out, they were certain everyone was gay. Once I learned about mental illness, I thought everyone had something wrong with their brain and ever since, I have tried to figure out why people act the way they do.
With the openness of information like learning about mental illness, also at such an early age I was taught to give people an out. “If people are acting strange, mean, out of control, depressed, self-centered or whatever, they must be dealing with something,” I was told. The good parts of empathy, understanding, compassion and love all came from my mom. There have been many times when the only way I was able to let go was because of the kindness and openness my mom instilled in me.
So terms like mental illness, bipolar, empathy and compassion were simply and have always been a part of my vocabulary. My mom would always say, “Don’t assume. You just don’t know what is in their heart.” Many times when I really wanted to judge (and I probably did), I heard my mom’s voice ringing sweetly in the back of my head, “You do not know what’s in their heart.” Instead of shutting the door, with her words, I found ways to invite the stray dogs, misfit toys, misunderstood, sad, lonely and depressed into my life. I was really young and that’s what I knew to do.
When, at age nine or ten, I learned that some folks are even hospitalized when they are really sad, I was not at all shocked or surprised. It made sense that they would go somewhere to rest their very sad heart. Maybe it was because the innocence of childhood was wearing off (probably was), but by age twelve I knew there was a lot more to Mentally Ill people than the fact that sometimes they were really, really happy and sometimes they are really, really sad. When so-and-so was acting like an out-of-control asshole, I made an excuse. “They can act this way because they are sick! They can treat me this way because bad things have happened to them.” I could tell myself, “I don’t know their heart,” and then let it be.
Community Mural
Patterning is deep. Patterning teaches you how to embrace, interpret and cope with the world. My pattern was to try to understand why, and most importantly, to always give people an out. The main out I gave them was that their selfish, mean, weird or crappy behavior is understandable because they must be either mentally ill, autistic, an alcoholic, have anxiety, an eating disorder, are depressed, have ADD, ADHD, OCD, are bipolar, a sociopath, a narcissist, paranoid or some combination of the above and most definitely something that is out of their control.
Being around women, I know that many of them suffer various types of eating disorders. Overeating, under-eating, exercising until you die, I see it every day. It is so sad. I excuse their need to control because they have told me they are sick. When I find someone really difficult to deal with, it is easy for me to excuse their selfish or mean behavior and convince myself that the reason they have no empathy for others is because they have “something”. People who always need their way, “well, they must be suffering some sort of OCD or maybe they are a sociopath, but a nice sociopath.” When I am around someone who dominates the conversation, dominates the perspective yet will get beyond easily offended when someone pushes back, I think, “well, they must be a narcissist or at least one of the borderlines.”
My diagnosing of others was validated when I had these two roommates. I was on a Mormon Mission (whole other story, if you want to hear about it let me know and yes, I will write about it.) They were my mission companions and I was a brand new missionary. One woman was very sweet and one woman was big, tall and mean. Eventually, they both were committed to a psychiatric unit. A day or two after the nice missionary had been committed to the mental hospital, the mean one sat across from me in her pajamas. I was on my bed. She was on hers. She looked at me and out of nowhere said, “Sister Rodgers (my maiden name and because “Sister” [insert your last name here] is what you call yourself on a mission), if I ever met you on the street, I would not talk to you. I do not like you. In fact, I HATE you!” I sat stunned. We were alone together and I was not sure what to do. The tall, big, mean companion continued, “When I was in college someone called me a lesbian and you know what I did? I kicked in her ribs and broke six of her fingers. I DO NOT LIKE YOU!”
When that happened I excused her words. “She is sick. She does not mean what she says.” I was hurt. I was afraid, yet I knew she was not well.
In high school it was a hard day when my youth leader said to me, “Beth, I think you are depressed.” It was hard for me to swallow and I felt a little embarrassed. I talked with my mom and she agreed. Eventually, I found my way into counseling and realized yes, of course I was depressed. There were a lot of things happening that would make me, and really anyone, depressed. Once I accepted that depression was no big deal, it really has been no big deal. When I had my babies my memory is that my post-partum was huge, especially with Kyle, but the “no big deal” aspect of it all got me through. “No big deal” was not dismissive or undermining a serious mental health issue, the “no big deal” aspect meant that I could get help and that I would be ok. “No big deal,” meant I was not alone and I was not a loser. Help is a good thing. This new understanding deepened my patience and perspective. I became more tolerant of others, more curious as to why people act the way they do and I was very sad when I saw how afraid people were to get help. I found opportunities to tell people, “Hey, you are human. Sure your pain is horrendous. You can get help. You will be ok!”
Cowboy Mural
Recently, however, I had a new realization, a realization I am not sure I like. After years of diagnosing everyone in my path and getting diagnosed myself, something occurred to me. I was standing in my bathroom and as I brushed my teeth, I had this thought. “Not all mentally ill people are mean. Not all mentally people are selfish. Just because you are depressed, you don’t have to be a jerk.” It has been a sad realization. It is sad because I want to give people an excuse. I assume their heart is good. I realized in that moment, that people may not be mentally ill; they may just be mean. I have liked having a lifetime where I can excuse unkind, uncalled for and inappropriate behavior. I liked being able to say, “She screamed at me and said all those terrible things because she is sick.” This new realization has tipped my thought process on its head. I see that even people who are suffering do not have to be mean. They are being mean and selfish because they are mean and selfish, simple as that. Ouch! They are mean because they do not like you or they are mean because they think you wronged them or they are mean because that is who they are. I have always given people the benefit. I can understand not wanting to get out of bed. I hurt when my loved ones are sad. I feel so much pain when I see people struggle. I would rather give you an excuse than see your darkness. However, as much as I want to excuse the behavior, as much as I know I may not know your heart, bottom line is I do not think there is ever an excuse to be mean, ever!
The night before surgery I waited until the very last second to have one more drop of caffeine. I knew we would be up early, I knew my brain would not want to comply and hoping it would last.
At some ungodly hour (6:30 AM) Dave and I arrived at the hospital. It was so early that we dropped our showered-and-ready-for-school boys with their Frosted Mini Wheats, Rasin Bran and backpacks in hand at my most awesome friend’s house. She, unlike me, had already been up for about an hour, drinking her coffee and reading the newspaper. She welcomed the boys, we asked them to be very quiet because her boys were still asleep, they ran into the tv room while she gave me a hug and told me all would be well, and then we were on our way.
Bairpaws Hospital Gown with ports
We checked in and were immediately ushered into a tiny hospital room. While Dave tapped away on his iPhone, the nurse, who seemed way too serious and very conservative, handed me my plastic-wrapped Bairpaws Hospital gown with accompanying directions (good thing), asked me a bunch of questions and left the room. Even before she left, Dave and I were already joking about all the ports on the hospital gown and realized that if needed, they could even attach a heater hose to one of the ports. “That’s pretty cool.” Dave laughed. Except for my ugly, new and utilitarian brown hospital socks, I took every last bit of clothing and forgotten jewelry off. As I disrobed, Dave opened the package, pulled out the gown and helped me put on my papery-plastic-porthole-covered lavender gown.
Big Daddy waiting for me to go into Pre-Op
Seconds later he was sitting in a corner chair with his black light-weight Patagonia jacket covering his eye. I wished I were him. Instead I called and checked in with the boys. They were cracking jokes. And this is the text I sent them with the accompanying picture, “Hi Kyle and Eli. Notice Dad?”
Picture that accompanied my text
To which my friend responded, “Eli says he is not surprised to see his dad in that position.”
Kyle, Eli and their new friend
And of course this text was followed moments later with a picture of Kyle and Eli, “Dear Mom, we want a dog.”
Somewhere in there as the clock ticked and Dave began to snore, our texts digressed. Somehow I found my friend indulging my pre-surgery mind set, “Park City doctor friend just came to say hello and I have no underwear on. Crazy!” To which she responded with a picture of my boys and her boys in the car, on their way to school and these words, “Everybody’s farting.” (I needed this distraction. I needed to know my boys were ok and I needed to make really inappropriate observations.)
Moments after I knew my boys were safely at school another person came and wheeled me into pre-op. They inserted the IV and I immediately had to pee. They unhooked the IV and I walked over to the bathroom. Dave sat there waiting when my doctor, this most-awesome older Czech woman, walked up. We joked. We got serious. We talked about surgery. We talked about my fears. She left. The anesthesiologist came in with a nurse. We talked some more. Thank God my anesthesiologist friend, who also works at this hospital, prepped everyone for me and my concerns.
As I kissed and said goodbye to Dave, they wheeled me about five feet (literally) into the sunny operating room. [foreshadowing] Just as I was about to go under I blurted, “You know, it is allergy season and sometimes I have a hard time breathing.” “Good to know. We’ll have a breathing treatment ready when you wake up.” The doctor responded.
I didn’t even need to count backwards or think of sheep or anything. I was out cold and out cold fast…
“Stridor! Stridor! She can’t breathe!” I heard the screams. I heard them faintly like they were coming from miles away. In and out I went.
“Stridor!” I opened my eyes for another second. There were so many people standing around me. I was afraid and I did not know I could not breathe.
The next time I heard the word “stridor,” I was holding tightly to the nurse’s hand; so tightly I thought I might squeeze her hand off. I looked at her and because she was watching me closely, when she saw me open my eyes, she said, “You sure gave us a scare! You had Stridor.”
My throat was throbbing and I was glad to be awake. I looked around at the sleeping patients in the Recovery Room. No one was standing around them. No one was holding their hand. I was freaked out and dazed as she explained what had happend. When they pulled the breathing tube out, I could not pass air through my throat. Luckily I had mentioned allergies because they were prepared. Luckily I would be ok. “People die from post-operative Stridor or we have to give them a Tracheotomy. You are lucky.” I felt lucky and was not ready to let go.
I did the recovering I needed in the recovery room. I thought it was super cool when my doctor showed me a picture on her iPhone of my diseased gallbladder (I had asked her to take one) and I was glad to be back with Dave and back in the room where we started. We waited and waited and were finally able to go. My surgery was the easy part. It only took twenty minutes.
It was warm. It was bright and we were ok. I wasn’t ready to go home. I was not ready to eat a hamburger either. (My doctor told me that she has had patients who leave the hospital after gallbladder removal and head straight for McDonalds.) “That is crazy crackers.” I told Dave. “Let’s just go to Jamba Juice. I am really craving a smoothy.” We went over, had our juice, took a walk and went home.
Another dear friend had taken Eli after school and when it was time to come home, she picked Kyle up at the bus stop on the way. I could see the relief as the boys saw me and saw that I would be ok. The pain was not bad the first day. I always forget how long the IV pain meds last.
