Here is another article that I began writing but abandoned at its midpoint. The problem with publishing this article is that it involves a third party, who may never read Glamour magazine, or even if he did, might not recognize himself in the article, as crucial elements have been changed. But on the off chance that he did, it could be a rather awkward situation for me.
How did I end up here? I’m not exactly sure. But working in a pig barn was definitely not what I had envisioned for myself when I entered, or graduated from, nursing school. But yet, there I was, washing clothes in the laundry facility at Prairie Swine Center. The laundry was in a big heap on the floor, manure clearly visible on several of the items. Flies swarmed the pile, and I swatted at them as I grabbed the laundry with my gloved hands. No way was I touching it with my bare hands. It wasn’t glamorous work, not in the least. You had to shower in and shower out, using harsh soap and Pert Plus. The towels, though laundered, had a lingering coppery scent of what I assumed was pig blood. I tried not to put the towel too close to my face when I came through the shower, just blotting dry my cheeks and chin. Seventeen visits to the barn were what were required of me. But seventeen visits could seem like a lot…
Back in my office the memory of the barn clung to me as stubbornly as the smell. Even out of the barn for hours, I could still sometimes catch a whiff of it in my hair. And when you washed it again later, it came back full force somehow, the water acting as some kind of a catalyst for the odor to release itself. But that being as it may, I had survived the first week of the barn and now I had two weeks of work in the office before I had to go back. My job was as a research nurse. It consisted of an odd mix of jobs, only some of which seemed nursing related. I spent one day making an insulated box to ship mouthwash specimens to the States in. An odd job for a nurse perhaps, but I now know how to make a cheap cooler. Although, in reality, I suppose one could acquire one at Canadian Tire for less that in cost to make it. But still…
On my agenda for today was allergy testing, something which I enjoyed to some extent because at least it resembled nursing ( I got to use alcohol swabs and everything), but I simultaneously loathed it because it was dreadfully repetitive.
Have you ever had an allergy test before? No, well what it is is tiny drops of allergens that I’ll place on your arm. Once they’re on I draw a grid with a (washable) marker and then gently pick at the skin so that a small amount of the allergen will go under the skin. This procedure is not painful and feels more like light scratching than anything.
That same spiel, all day, every day. I honestly felt like making a recording and just hitting play and then leaving the room. It seemed that many of the students were ill inclined to listening anyways. Mostly of all of them were punk ass kids with the ipods turned up so loud that I was effectively tuned out. Some of them were respectful enough to turn them off. Some of them weren’t. I had never, at 28, really felt old before, but I realized just how far removed I was from this population now. In one way it seemed like yesterday that I was one of them, balancing precariously a huge coarse load and a skinny wallet. But at the same time, their clothing looked totally foreign to me. And they all looked so young.
That’s why I was surprised when he walked into my office. I didn’t know his exact age right off the bat, but I could tell in an instant that he was older. Perhaps not as old as my (gasp) 28 years but perhaps close to it. And so from the very get go I felt this sense of relief when I met him, this sense of familiarity.
We chatted throughout the allergy test, the usual stuff but it seemed easier delivering the spiel to him. At least it was clear that he was listening. I asked him what he was taking in school. Civil engineering was his reply. Whatever that is. But it sounded impressive so I nodded as though I were the leading expert in it.
“Sounds interesting,” I said. It didn’t sound interesting in the least, but it did sound difficult. Evidently, he was as smart as he was good looking and engaging.
“Definitely. But it’s a bit of an adjustment being back in school. Especially now that my wife has decided to go back as well.”
Wife?
I did a quick double take and there it was, right where it was supposed to be: a platinum band on his left hand. How had I missed that? For a moment I felt this sense of deflation. But then I reminded myself: I’m married, too. So we were both married. Which is great, of course. Marriage is bliss.
My first day back in the barn and I came home to pork chops. Ruefully, I stabbed at the meat. My husband regarded me with a perplexed look.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I replied, pushing the food around my plate. It wasn’t that I was ethically opposed to the slaughter of animals. It was just that the pigs were so damn smelly. A true city girl, pork had always presented itself to me in neat packages. The realization that pigs were dirty, smelly, defecating and urinating animals was a harsh one for me.
Even more hash was the reality that my husband, after five years of marriage actually believed me when I said ‘nothing’. He nodded and continued to shovel food in his mouth, undaunted. After a brief attempt at eating I did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen while my husband was sprawled out in front of the TV, either oblivious to my toiling in the kitchen or aware but not motivated to help. Probably the latter, I thought, vigorously scrubbing burned pork chops off of a frying pan. My thoughts turned to Matt, the civil engineer. He was probably somewhere right now, helping his wife with the dishes, playfully tossing bubbles at her. Laughing in the fading sunlight. All right, maybe not the last part. There was something about him… the dimple in his chin, the flecks of green in his eyes, the easy conversation that flowed like booze at a frat party. Whatever it was, I had to get it out of my head. I was married. We were married. And even if not…
Oh, it was futile to think about what might be. I stopped myself and went to watch TV with my husband, the person who I had chosen to spend my life with, despite the fact that he was watching a poker tournament, of which I couldn’t have been less interested in.
When I saw his name on my day sheet the next day, I can’t say that a part of me wasn’t excited. Well, perhaps more than a part. He was coming in again for a second interview. Some of the subjects were selected for further investigation, and he happened to be in that pool, due to random chance.
Or fate. Depending on how you want to look at it.
Just be professional, I reminded myself when he came for his interview.
“So I just need to ask you some questions about your health,” I began.
“All right. As long as they’re not the same questions they ask when I give blood. As far as I’m concerned, whether or not I sleep with men for money or drugs is nobody’s business but my own,” he says with a laugh.
So much for professional, I thought, as I had sudden vision of him in a compromising position.
I find myself laughing along with him. “Don’t worry. These questions are pretty standard.” And boring, I add to myself.
We get going with the questions. It comes up that he’s finishing his PhD.
“Wow, that’s pretty impressive,” I comment.
“Well, look at you, Miss Researcher, with her own office on campus” he says, perusing my office with a look of awe.
“It’s actually a shared space, such as it is” I demur, looking around at the packed office. It was stuffed to the gills with old boxes and antiquated equipment.
“Still, it’s pretty impressive,” he says.
“Well, you know…” I begin, clearing my throat. “It’s a living.”
We get back to the questionnaire, but chat in between questions as if we had known each other in a previous life or something. Not that I actually believe in that. It wouldn’t be a fitting thing for a researcher, a woman of science, to believe in. Not at all.
After an hour our allotted interview time is over. We’ve only completed half of it.
“It was really nice talking to you,” he says as he’s leaving. There’s something in his eyes and his voice, something that suggests this is more than just a formality. Or maybe I just want there to be something there. Maybe it is just a formality.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
All Hail Nikolai
Nikki, you are a freaking genius!! I checked it out and that contest pays $10,000!!! Now, granted I am not gaurunteed to win, but even the mere possibility has gotten me excited, just like the song "I'm so excited". So I shall set to work immediately to get my entry in. The winner isn't picked until Dec 31/07, but I guess that is OK. I'm used to waiting around. But the question remains: what do you propose I submit- my first article or second?? The second is not finished yet. I shall work on it as soon as the alcohol ban is lifted (24 hours post surgery). Or shall I try to merge the two of them?? Or should I write about something else entirely? I will post another half written possibility, entitled Swine and Dine, which chronicles my (brief) love affair last winter. Well, it wasn't a love affair per se. More of just a tiny crush. The possibilities are endless, endless! I say.
Anyways, I guess you must realize by now that I've survived the surgery, in the face of very serious odds against me. I'm just like that watch company. Take a lickin but keep on tickin. The surgery went pretty OK as far as surgeries go. It was funny because after it was all said and done, the nurse said 'you're free to go home now, all you have to do is go to the washroom for me.' Goeff and I looked at each other warily. I knew exactly what Geoff was thinking. "Easy there, old girl. This is where you bit it last time and bought yourself an extra four hours of IV." But I passed the bathroom test with flying colors. Geoff and I had a good chuckle, though. Ah the good old days. The funniest part was when I said to him 'oh, geez, for a second there I thought I was going to pass out or something. But I see I made it back to bed at least" He was like "no you didn't make it back to bed, you collapsed forward onto me, practically taking me down with you. The nurse and I had to drag you into bed." Anyways, but I do go on.
So it seems I'm little miss popularity all of a sudden. First my mom comes by with flowers. I just finished getting those into a vase when another knock on the door disturbs me from admiring them. And guess what: More freaking flowers!! So now my house is a virtual greenhouse (plus remember, I have that one plant by the window?), which should hopefully help to cover up our pet house odor du jour.
Anyways, back to the surgery. It was quite swell because the doctor decided to do my surgery in between cases, which was nice of him, because I was supposed to get done only after the OR slate was clear. But he said by the way it was looking I would have ended up waiting half the night. So he snuck me in at about two thirty ish. He was a very nice doctor, though I've heard bad things about him. He explained to me that studies show that if you take a hundred miscarried fetuses and send them to a genetics lab for tests, about 80 some percent would come back showing a severe genetic or chromosomal anomoly, such as Downs Syndrome. He said that 98% of Downs babies end up being miscarried, generally at a very early stage. So he said, even though this is a very unpleasant thing to go through, it is, in the long run, for the good of the families to not have these pregnancies carried on. Which, I guess, makes me feel a bit better. People always say 'there's a reason for everything' or 'its for the best' and usually these cliche's don't do anything to lessen my grief, but when you start talking 'studies' and 'genetics', then you've got my attention. Then they're not just empty words or dumb cliches.
So I guess that's all I really wanted to say for this day. Except to say that my little hiatus from work is nearing its end, which I am not happy about. I have decided that I shall return to my old job, but focus on my writing much more. I want to complete my book by the end of the summer and work very hard at getting it published. It may just be a pipe dream, but I guess we need to keep those dreams alive no matter what. Its like they say "I work to live, I live to (put your favorite hobby in here, Lorrie, in your case, make tattoos out of moles)." Well, now this is really I wanted to say. For sure this time. So have a nice evening, which I shall because I'm going to Boston Pizza tonight with some very upstanding people. And thanks again Nikolai. I will be sure to purchase you a little something if I win the contest- perhaps a broach or a hamster, I'm thinking.
Anyways, I guess you must realize by now that I've survived the surgery, in the face of very serious odds against me. I'm just like that watch company. Take a lickin but keep on tickin. The surgery went pretty OK as far as surgeries go. It was funny because after it was all said and done, the nurse said 'you're free to go home now, all you have to do is go to the washroom for me.' Goeff and I looked at each other warily. I knew exactly what Geoff was thinking. "Easy there, old girl. This is where you bit it last time and bought yourself an extra four hours of IV." But I passed the bathroom test with flying colors. Geoff and I had a good chuckle, though. Ah the good old days. The funniest part was when I said to him 'oh, geez, for a second there I thought I was going to pass out or something. But I see I made it back to bed at least" He was like "no you didn't make it back to bed, you collapsed forward onto me, practically taking me down with you. The nurse and I had to drag you into bed." Anyways, but I do go on.
So it seems I'm little miss popularity all of a sudden. First my mom comes by with flowers. I just finished getting those into a vase when another knock on the door disturbs me from admiring them. And guess what: More freaking flowers!! So now my house is a virtual greenhouse (plus remember, I have that one plant by the window?), which should hopefully help to cover up our pet house odor du jour.
Anyways, back to the surgery. It was quite swell because the doctor decided to do my surgery in between cases, which was nice of him, because I was supposed to get done only after the OR slate was clear. But he said by the way it was looking I would have ended up waiting half the night. So he snuck me in at about two thirty ish. He was a very nice doctor, though I've heard bad things about him. He explained to me that studies show that if you take a hundred miscarried fetuses and send them to a genetics lab for tests, about 80 some percent would come back showing a severe genetic or chromosomal anomoly, such as Downs Syndrome. He said that 98% of Downs babies end up being miscarried, generally at a very early stage. So he said, even though this is a very unpleasant thing to go through, it is, in the long run, for the good of the families to not have these pregnancies carried on. Which, I guess, makes me feel a bit better. People always say 'there's a reason for everything' or 'its for the best' and usually these cliche's don't do anything to lessen my grief, but when you start talking 'studies' and 'genetics', then you've got my attention. Then they're not just empty words or dumb cliches.
So I guess that's all I really wanted to say for this day. Except to say that my little hiatus from work is nearing its end, which I am not happy about. I have decided that I shall return to my old job, but focus on my writing much more. I want to complete my book by the end of the summer and work very hard at getting it published. It may just be a pipe dream, but I guess we need to keep those dreams alive no matter what. Its like they say "I work to live, I live to (put your favorite hobby in here, Lorrie, in your case, make tattoos out of moles)." Well, now this is really I wanted to say. For sure this time. So have a nice evening, which I shall because I'm going to Boston Pizza tonight with some very upstanding people. And thanks again Nikolai. I will be sure to purchase you a little something if I win the contest- perhaps a broach or a hamster, I'm thinking.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
New plan
So I went to the doc. I took some pride in the fact that I was, literally, the skinniest chic in the room as all of the others were fat pregnant whales. So I was like 'guess none of you will be a size seven any time soon'. Though, in actuality, I'm not exactly a size seven myself, per se, but they don't have to know that. So that felt a bit better. But the thing that is troubling, body wise, is that you would think that after five pregnancies my breasts would have grown a size or two?? Frustrationville.
I had an ultrasound, and it was as I expected, although not entirely so. The embryo is no longer in there at all, which is strange because I haven't bled at all. But the gestational sac is still there. And it has grown. It is now measuring at seven weeks five days. But, obviously, without the baby it doesn't matter what it measures. So then I had to wait an hour to see that doctor for literally thirty nine seconds. She was like 'yeah, so the medication didn't work. Go to City hospital tomorrow at nine fasting and we'll proceed with the D&C'. Good bye. Farewell. So no ketchup burgers for me tomorrow. The only thing that I really don't like about the whole things is the stupid IV. It freaking hurts. And the fact that I can't eat anything, not even a mesely bowl of jello. But, oh well, what can you do when you live in a shoe??
Anyways, I guess I will just be glad to get this over and done with. Have a good night and try not to worry about me, though, in reality, I could die on the table. So sleep tight.
I had an ultrasound, and it was as I expected, although not entirely so. The embryo is no longer in there at all, which is strange because I haven't bled at all. But the gestational sac is still there. And it has grown. It is now measuring at seven weeks five days. But, obviously, without the baby it doesn't matter what it measures. So then I had to wait an hour to see that doctor for literally thirty nine seconds. She was like 'yeah, so the medication didn't work. Go to City hospital tomorrow at nine fasting and we'll proceed with the D&C'. Good bye. Farewell. So no ketchup burgers for me tomorrow. The only thing that I really don't like about the whole things is the stupid IV. It freaking hurts. And the fact that I can't eat anything, not even a mesely bowl of jello. But, oh well, what can you do when you live in a shoe??
Anyways, I guess I will just be glad to get this over and done with. Have a good night and try not to worry about me, though, in reality, I could die on the table. So sleep tight.
The ketchup encounter
Well, first off, I'd like to start off by saying that unless you are a big world war two buff, you might want to skip the Good Shepherd, starring one Mr. Matt Damon. I found the plot utterly inscrutable, as it was all about this foreign intelligence crap, and then counter intelligence on top of that. The upside was that it starred Mr. Matt Damon, though I must say he didn't look hot exactly in the movie. He was portrayed as sort of a geeky sort. Though, in reality, he's still doable in my books no matter how bad the hair part of how square the glasses.
My week has been going rather swell. Every morning I drop the kids off at nine, return home, get in my pyjamas again and lay in bed with junk food all around me, and A&E on the telly. My animals lay with me and I feed them the stray chip here and there, which they really appreciate. And it's pretty good. Then at lunch time I usually run out to BK or McDonalds and then return to eat lunch in bed. That's followed by naptime. Busy days. Crazy days. Today I'm going to have to miss naptime to go to the Doctor again. So this should be interesting. Perhaps I can still take naptime if I bring a blankie with me...
Today was also disapointing because I asked for no ketchup on my burger, and then I get home and what do I find? A ketchup burger! So that was garbage, because you know how I feel about ketchup. So I only had fries for lunch. Which wasn't what I wanted in the first place, because I saw a commercial this morning for deep fried french toast stuffed with whipped cream and cherry sauce, served with crispy bacon. But then I phoned my mom and apparently we don't have an IHOP here? So it was BK again. But I guess we have to make compromises. Now I am just gearing up for an another meeting with the doc. I'm curious to see what she'll say. Last night even Goeff was like 'maybe the baby came back to life', because it seems like it's really burrowed in deep there and not easy to shake loose. But I was like, no, I don't think so. But I know what he means. It's hard to accept the finality of it when there's no outward signs of anything happening and I still feel pregnant sometimes- my breast are still tender and I'm still slightly nauseous at times- because my hormones remain high though they are slowly coming down.
Other than that, I'd just like to clarify to a certain someone who works at Superstore, whose initials are N.S, who will remain nameless, in regards to my last post that the codeine pills were not the pills that I had to insert vaginally, though looking back at my last entry I can see how one might get that impression. That's what happens when you write after drinking a bottle of Chraz and a Chocolate Martini. No, it's like this: the codiene I took orally because I had to take these other pills (Cytotec) which were supposed to cause the miscarriage to happen, but they did not work properly anyways, so I guess I really didn't need that codeine, but they teach you in Nursing school to always be prepared. Or maybe that was boy scouts. Whatever. Anyways, I hope that that issue is settled. Have a good day and just be advised if you go to Burger King to really talk slowly and enunciate everything as the people, I fear, are hearing impaired.
My week has been going rather swell. Every morning I drop the kids off at nine, return home, get in my pyjamas again and lay in bed with junk food all around me, and A&E on the telly. My animals lay with me and I feed them the stray chip here and there, which they really appreciate. And it's pretty good. Then at lunch time I usually run out to BK or McDonalds and then return to eat lunch in bed. That's followed by naptime. Busy days. Crazy days. Today I'm going to have to miss naptime to go to the Doctor again. So this should be interesting. Perhaps I can still take naptime if I bring a blankie with me...
Today was also disapointing because I asked for no ketchup on my burger, and then I get home and what do I find? A ketchup burger! So that was garbage, because you know how I feel about ketchup. So I only had fries for lunch. Which wasn't what I wanted in the first place, because I saw a commercial this morning for deep fried french toast stuffed with whipped cream and cherry sauce, served with crispy bacon. But then I phoned my mom and apparently we don't have an IHOP here? So it was BK again. But I guess we have to make compromises. Now I am just gearing up for an another meeting with the doc. I'm curious to see what she'll say. Last night even Goeff was like 'maybe the baby came back to life', because it seems like it's really burrowed in deep there and not easy to shake loose. But I was like, no, I don't think so. But I know what he means. It's hard to accept the finality of it when there's no outward signs of anything happening and I still feel pregnant sometimes- my breast are still tender and I'm still slightly nauseous at times- because my hormones remain high though they are slowly coming down.
Other than that, I'd just like to clarify to a certain someone who works at Superstore, whose initials are N.S, who will remain nameless, in regards to my last post that the codeine pills were not the pills that I had to insert vaginally, though looking back at my last entry I can see how one might get that impression. That's what happens when you write after drinking a bottle of Chraz and a Chocolate Martini. No, it's like this: the codiene I took orally because I had to take these other pills (Cytotec) which were supposed to cause the miscarriage to happen, but they did not work properly anyways, so I guess I really didn't need that codeine, but they teach you in Nursing school to always be prepared. Or maybe that was boy scouts. Whatever. Anyways, I hope that that issue is settled. Have a good day and just be advised if you go to Burger King to really talk slowly and enunciate everything as the people, I fear, are hearing impaired.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
The unpregnant imposter
This is the writing I have began on my latest misadventure. I have not yet heard anything back from my last piece, but perhaps this follow up will interest them. I welcome your comments, as always.
I’m poised at the pharmacy counter, slightly nervous at the prospect of buying Tylenol #1’s. I make a concerted effort to keep my eyes on the level. Avoiding eye contact could make me seem suspicious. The urge to spew forth an explanation is almost overwhelming. I practice it in my mind’s eye. “I don’t normally take these things. But I’m having a miscarriage and I’m worried about the pain, so that’s why I need them. I’m not a crazed drug addict or anything like that. Pinky swear. And I’m certainly not someone who’s going to ‘cook’ them in some kind of a factory in an abandoned warehouse out on a deserted rural road that you sell to young kids to get them hooked. I’m a nurse, for Cripes sake. Not to mention the fact that I wouldn’t even know the first thing about cooking Meth, or any other drug for that matter. But actually, if we’re being honest with each other, I do know a little bit about cooking meth, just from an episode of CSI Miami that I watched once, but honestly, it’s not enough to actually be able to do it. And even if it were, I probably wouldn’t be able to get all of the chemicals that I would need. Scouts honor. You could call my doctor, name’s Shanna and I now know the phone number off by heart. It’s all legit. Too legit to quit, in fact.” Okay, so that last bit was unnecessary, but I have this nervous habit of rambling.
But she nary bats an eye as she hands me over the bottle of 50 codeine pills. Feeling triumphant, I leave the store, intent on beginning my next, and perhaps less exciting mission.
Necessity does the work of courage, or so I had once heard. And I do believe this to be fundamentally true. We do what we have to do when we have to do it, simply because we have to do it, not because we are noble or great or otherwise of above average virtue. Even at the tender age of six, my younger brother alluded to this, commenting “sometimes a mans got to do what a mans got to do’ when facing the rather grim task of removing our dead rabbit from its’ hutch, its’ cold and lifeless body solid from rigor.
And sometimes a woman’s got to do what a woman’s got to do, I thought sardonically, brining myself to the present.
I’m not sure what is more daunting: the fact that I must insert the blasted tablets into my vagina “as far up as they will go”, or the knowledge that once in there they will set to work immediately at forcing the contents of my uterus out. It’s a toss up. But I find myself inserting the tabs with the same detachment and aloofness as putting on bug repellent or taking a cold pill. And then all I can do is wait.
It’s been a full week of waiting, so I’m familiar with this concept. I had my first ultrasound ten days before. It was intended only to reassure me, since I had two previous miscarriages. But reassuring it was not. Immediately it seemed there was a problem. The radiologist pointed out the gestational sac, and even my untrained eye could see that it was lacking a rather crucial element- the embryo. But that was that. The radiologist suggested another scan in a week or so to see if anything would grow, which he said was possible because at such an early stage things could change drastically even from one day to the next.
The next five days passed too slowly. Part of the time I was optimistic. But most of the time I was inclined to think the worst. It just didn’t seem possible that I could be losing another pregnancy. And yet, it was difficult to convince myself otherwise.
I prepared myself for the worst at the next ultrasound. I had a brief moment of elation when there was a visible embryo. The unthinkable had happened. The baby had begun to form. But in the radiologists’ next breath, my hope was stolen back. He didn’t like the look of the heart beat. He zoomed in and it became clear that the heart was beating, only very slowly. Too slowly, in fact. The heart rate was 85. It should have been 120-160. It was not a good sign. The uncertainty that I had been living with had made a rather unwelcome comeback.
It didn’t take too long to learn from the internet that a fetal heart rate of less than ninety on a six to eight week scan is a dire finding, usually resulting in imminent fetal demise. Though no one had straight out given me any odds, I estimated them to be at les than ten percent. But, even as bleak as that was, I refused to give up hope. Even any chance was better than no chance, after all. I had my blood taken every 48 hours to check my hormone levels. If they were going up, that was a good sign. But if they started going down, it meant that the baby was gone. It was a long and difficult wait for the news to come. At one point, I was so desperate for an answer that I contemplated presenting in the ER with vague abdominal complaints so they would have to perform an ultrasound. What dissuaded me was the fact that vague abdominal complaints would, in all likelihood, only result in a seven to fifteen hour wait in any ER. At times I doubled up on my Materna, rationalizing to myself that this would make my baby stronger, though I knew this intellectually to be pure superstition. I told myself that all I wanted was an answer. Whichever way it went, I would deal with it. But the waiting was more agonizing than any bad news I might (hypothetically) receive. Or so I had once, (naively) believed.
“I’m afraid I don’t have good news for you,” began my doctor once the results were in, much like Ryan Seacrest on American Idol, except that so much more hung in the balance than a mere recording contract. This was life after all; delicate, precious life that hung in the balance. I felt the words like a physical assault. And though I knew that this was happening; knew all along that I had this date from that first, ill fated, ultrasound; it came as a shock somehow still.
The following day found me in a busy OBGYN office downtown. If there’s anything worse than being in the throws of a miscarriage, it’s being in the throws of a miscarriage and sitting amidst a crowd of obscenely pregnant women. Everything that I had lost seemed to be staring me in the face as they patted their swollen bellies, too smugly, it seemed to me. Angrily, I swiped tears away, while erstwhile trying to appear immersed in Today’s Parent. I began to worry that my tearfulness and obviously unpregnant abdomen would peg me as an abortion seeker, which in a sense I was, though certainly not through my own choosing. This was the same office that I had sat in five months earlier, when my last pregnancy came to an abrupt end at seventeen weeks. Sitting in that room again made my stomach swirl with familiar emotions, not forgotten but merely stowed away. It was like bad deja-vous. Except it was really happening. Again.
That was the first time that I really felt a deep loss of personal control. We plan our lives to happen a certain way. Stop taking the pill, monitor your cycle, take the folic acid, controlling things every step of the way. But it was all an illusion. We control none of it. The fertilization of an egg is a chance occurrence. It’s very survival is a chance occurrence, despite our best laid plans. And in fact, aren't we all dying since the day that we're born? Or perhaps, more accurately, since before we're born? I felt the loss of control in a broad, cosmic sense, as well as in smaller, more minute, ways. Sit here, wait her, sign this, stand up, sit down, wear this gown, put your feet here, etc, etc, I was being prodded along like a beast of burden. These things were happening to my body, and I had absolutely no control over any of it. I was merely a silent witness to what was happening inside of me. That realization was both madly infuraiting as well as deftly saddening.
This work is, as yet, unfinished, as the story is still unfolding to this writer.
I’m poised at the pharmacy counter, slightly nervous at the prospect of buying Tylenol #1’s. I make a concerted effort to keep my eyes on the level. Avoiding eye contact could make me seem suspicious. The urge to spew forth an explanation is almost overwhelming. I practice it in my mind’s eye. “I don’t normally take these things. But I’m having a miscarriage and I’m worried about the pain, so that’s why I need them. I’m not a crazed drug addict or anything like that. Pinky swear. And I’m certainly not someone who’s going to ‘cook’ them in some kind of a factory in an abandoned warehouse out on a deserted rural road that you sell to young kids to get them hooked. I’m a nurse, for Cripes sake. Not to mention the fact that I wouldn’t even know the first thing about cooking Meth, or any other drug for that matter. But actually, if we’re being honest with each other, I do know a little bit about cooking meth, just from an episode of CSI Miami that I watched once, but honestly, it’s not enough to actually be able to do it. And even if it were, I probably wouldn’t be able to get all of the chemicals that I would need. Scouts honor. You could call my doctor, name’s Shanna and I now know the phone number off by heart. It’s all legit. Too legit to quit, in fact.” Okay, so that last bit was unnecessary, but I have this nervous habit of rambling.
But she nary bats an eye as she hands me over the bottle of 50 codeine pills. Feeling triumphant, I leave the store, intent on beginning my next, and perhaps less exciting mission.
Necessity does the work of courage, or so I had once heard. And I do believe this to be fundamentally true. We do what we have to do when we have to do it, simply because we have to do it, not because we are noble or great or otherwise of above average virtue. Even at the tender age of six, my younger brother alluded to this, commenting “sometimes a mans got to do what a mans got to do’ when facing the rather grim task of removing our dead rabbit from its’ hutch, its’ cold and lifeless body solid from rigor.
And sometimes a woman’s got to do what a woman’s got to do, I thought sardonically, brining myself to the present.
I’m not sure what is more daunting: the fact that I must insert the blasted tablets into my vagina “as far up as they will go”, or the knowledge that once in there they will set to work immediately at forcing the contents of my uterus out. It’s a toss up. But I find myself inserting the tabs with the same detachment and aloofness as putting on bug repellent or taking a cold pill. And then all I can do is wait.
It’s been a full week of waiting, so I’m familiar with this concept. I had my first ultrasound ten days before. It was intended only to reassure me, since I had two previous miscarriages. But reassuring it was not. Immediately it seemed there was a problem. The radiologist pointed out the gestational sac, and even my untrained eye could see that it was lacking a rather crucial element- the embryo. But that was that. The radiologist suggested another scan in a week or so to see if anything would grow, which he said was possible because at such an early stage things could change drastically even from one day to the next.
The next five days passed too slowly. Part of the time I was optimistic. But most of the time I was inclined to think the worst. It just didn’t seem possible that I could be losing another pregnancy. And yet, it was difficult to convince myself otherwise.
I prepared myself for the worst at the next ultrasound. I had a brief moment of elation when there was a visible embryo. The unthinkable had happened. The baby had begun to form. But in the radiologists’ next breath, my hope was stolen back. He didn’t like the look of the heart beat. He zoomed in and it became clear that the heart was beating, only very slowly. Too slowly, in fact. The heart rate was 85. It should have been 120-160. It was not a good sign. The uncertainty that I had been living with had made a rather unwelcome comeback.
It didn’t take too long to learn from the internet that a fetal heart rate of less than ninety on a six to eight week scan is a dire finding, usually resulting in imminent fetal demise. Though no one had straight out given me any odds, I estimated them to be at les than ten percent. But, even as bleak as that was, I refused to give up hope. Even any chance was better than no chance, after all. I had my blood taken every 48 hours to check my hormone levels. If they were going up, that was a good sign. But if they started going down, it meant that the baby was gone. It was a long and difficult wait for the news to come. At one point, I was so desperate for an answer that I contemplated presenting in the ER with vague abdominal complaints so they would have to perform an ultrasound. What dissuaded me was the fact that vague abdominal complaints would, in all likelihood, only result in a seven to fifteen hour wait in any ER. At times I doubled up on my Materna, rationalizing to myself that this would make my baby stronger, though I knew this intellectually to be pure superstition. I told myself that all I wanted was an answer. Whichever way it went, I would deal with it. But the waiting was more agonizing than any bad news I might (hypothetically) receive. Or so I had once, (naively) believed.
“I’m afraid I don’t have good news for you,” began my doctor once the results were in, much like Ryan Seacrest on American Idol, except that so much more hung in the balance than a mere recording contract. This was life after all; delicate, precious life that hung in the balance. I felt the words like a physical assault. And though I knew that this was happening; knew all along that I had this date from that first, ill fated, ultrasound; it came as a shock somehow still.
The following day found me in a busy OBGYN office downtown. If there’s anything worse than being in the throws of a miscarriage, it’s being in the throws of a miscarriage and sitting amidst a crowd of obscenely pregnant women. Everything that I had lost seemed to be staring me in the face as they patted their swollen bellies, too smugly, it seemed to me. Angrily, I swiped tears away, while erstwhile trying to appear immersed in Today’s Parent. I began to worry that my tearfulness and obviously unpregnant abdomen would peg me as an abortion seeker, which in a sense I was, though certainly not through my own choosing. This was the same office that I had sat in five months earlier, when my last pregnancy came to an abrupt end at seventeen weeks. Sitting in that room again made my stomach swirl with familiar emotions, not forgotten but merely stowed away. It was like bad deja-vous. Except it was really happening. Again.
That was the first time that I really felt a deep loss of personal control. We plan our lives to happen a certain way. Stop taking the pill, monitor your cycle, take the folic acid, controlling things every step of the way. But it was all an illusion. We control none of it. The fertilization of an egg is a chance occurrence. It’s very survival is a chance occurrence, despite our best laid plans. And in fact, aren't we all dying since the day that we're born? Or perhaps, more accurately, since before we're born? I felt the loss of control in a broad, cosmic sense, as well as in smaller, more minute, ways. Sit here, wait her, sign this, stand up, sit down, wear this gown, put your feet here, etc, etc, I was being prodded along like a beast of burden. These things were happening to my body, and I had absolutely no control over any of it. I was merely a silent witness to what was happening inside of me. That realization was both madly infuraiting as well as deftly saddening.
This work is, as yet, unfinished, as the story is still unfolding to this writer.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Not what I was hoping for...
Well, I have heard from my doctor and the news is not what I was hoping for. My HcG on Tuesday was 35,000- which she had said was actually very reassuring at that point. But then today it was down to 30,000- which she said that the only way the numbers would go down is in the case of fetal demise, with a normal pregnancy they double every 48hours. So even though I thought that I was prepared for bad news, it was still very sad to hear, I felt the words like a physical assault. I guess we can never really prepare ourselves for stuff like this. I knew from what I had read on the internet that the chances weren't good at all, but I guess deep down inside I carried the hope that I was going to be the one to beat the odds. Anyways, for me this pregnancy started out full of hope. I simply thought that there was no way that I would lose another one. The last time ended badly, but that was a freak thing and it wouldn't, couldn't, happen again. I can still remember the day in Lorrie's kitchen when I first found out. I wish I could rewind time and go back til then. What I would do differently, I don't know. I did what I could. Folic acid before I got pregnant. Materna as soon as I found out. No alcohol. No smoking. Ate healthy, etc. Anyways, I guess it was all for not. What makes it worse for me is that my due date for Reid is coming up quick- May 4th. And now, instead of celebrating new life, I am, once again, grieving for it. But, I guess, life will go on...
Tomorrow I am supposed to go and see an OBGYN who will book me for a D&C, probably early next week. I have the option of a 'do it yourself abortion'- where they give meds to induce cramps. But I took that shit once before and all that happened was I bled all damn night and then found out that it was only partially effective and had to have a D&C anyways. So I think it will be easier to just take the surgery and be done. Anyways, thank you all for your care and concern over the last week. I guess the good news is- this is one way to get two paid weeks off work.
Tomorrow I am supposed to go and see an OBGYN who will book me for a D&C, probably early next week. I have the option of a 'do it yourself abortion'- where they give meds to induce cramps. But I took that shit once before and all that happened was I bled all damn night and then found out that it was only partially effective and had to have a D&C anyways. So I think it will be easier to just take the surgery and be done. Anyways, thank you all for your care and concern over the last week. I guess the good news is- this is one way to get two paid weeks off work.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Meet the Squig
This is the tiny squiggle that is causing so much stress. Not a great pic, especially in light of the fact that I don't have a scanner (live on the Westside- lucky to have a computer), so I had to take a picture of it and then download the picture on here. Anyways, the white is my uterus. The black hole is the getstational sac. The little white lump at the bottom is the baby squiggle, or as a like to call her, Squig. Five days ago that black hole was just that-- a black hole without the lump.It is difficult to determine a sex at this age but I am quite certain it is female. She just looks so dainty. And besides, several reliable signs seem to indicate a female gender: 1) the dream I had the night before my (first) ill fated ultrasound 2)The psychic who said that I would have two more kids- first a boy followed closely by a girl. I already had the boy (Reid), so this must be my girl and 3) The ancient chinese gender prediction chart. So in light of all this evidence, I have named the Squig Harper Grace Makepeace, because I think it really suits her.
For those of you have read the information on the internet about low fetal heart rates, you will know that it is not very encouraging. But I am trying to remain optimistic, as like I said before 'it's not over til the fat lady sings'. Also, I have worked in the NICU and nurses there have told me stories of how miracles do happen. They say that have seen cases where there was a 0% chance of survival (ie: Apgars of 0 and 0), but things inexplicably turned around and everything was AOK. For example: one woman presented in the ER on a cold night carrying a dead fetus and bleeding profusely. The first thing they did was weigh the fetus. It came in at just under 400 grams, which is below the limit for attempting resusitation. So they left the baby on the weigh scale, with no blankets or oxygen and tended to the woman who was in critical condition. An hour later, after stabilizing her, they returned to the fetus to clean it, etc, to give it to the parents to say good bye. But when they returned to the weigh scale the baby was breathing spontaneously, which they say is simply not possible physiologically speaking. So they went and started working on the baby, stablilized him, and to this day they say he is alive and well fifteen years later. Another story of hope: a woman, only 23 weeks pregnant, felt some abdominal pains and did what we all do: went to the toilet, where she ended up delivering a baby girl right into the toilet water. She fished it out, and put it in salad bowl, covering with towels and clamping the cord with a shoelace. The baby came to the unit extremely hypothermic and very low birth weight. The chances weren't good. But four months later that little one went home to her parents, albeit after losing an arm and with some damage to her retinas which could render her blind. But the fact is that sometimes, even when given the worst possible odds, a baby who is truly meant to be here can overcome anything. And so I will continue to hope for my little Harper.
I had blood work done today and will go again Thursday. With any luck, the numbers will keep going up. Its frustrating that I have to wait until Friday to find out anything, when it would seem so much easier just to do another ultrasound right away and find out for sure how things are shaping up. But what can I do? Anyways, when thinking about it all of my pregnancies have been slow starts. With Gage I had bleeding early on, and an ultrasound at 5 weeks 5 days showed no heart, but Dr. Eldemire was my doc at that time (who is now suspended for malpractice, I might add) and he pretty much said that was fine, don't expect a heart beat so early anyways. But Gage turned out OK. And with Payty, I didn't get a positive result until a full week after my period was due, so obviously my hormones remained quite low for the first week or so. Who knows what an early ultrasound might have shown. And also, I'm not bleeding at all, which I think is a good sign because it seemed that many of the woman on that website had bleeding. And today I felt a bit nauseated for a while there, though I think that could be because all I did all day was lay in bed and eat Dill pickle chips. Anyways, I guess all I can do right now is wait and hope. Thank you for your comments and concern.
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