I have been working at meshing my two articles together to submit to Glamour, and I believe that I have successfully accompished it, thanks to a rather lengthy nap on Paytons part, thanks to a bout of Chicken Pox. Anyways, disregard the first sentence, as it not my due date today, but that was how I decided to begin the article. I welcome your feedback as I need to edit the fu** out of it I want to win that money, which of course, I very much do. Enjoy!!
Today is an important day in my life. It’s my due date, the day our third child was supposed to join our family. But nothing monumental transpires. A typical day rises and falls in a very ordinary fashion. I wake up, go to work, come home, eat supper, clean the kitchen, bath the kids and tuck them in. As night descends, I lie awake in bed, filled with a sense of longing and sadness. For though today is my due date, one crucial fact remains: I’m not pregnant.
I reflect back to the dawning of a summer morning just eight months before. A sleepless night had passed, the question of whether or not I was pregnant weighing heavy on my mind. It seemed too good to be true. After all, we had only started trying a mere month before. But, a home test the previous evening suggested the faintest impression of a positive result. So I woke early, intent on testing my morning urine, hoping for a stronger indication. Anxiously, I repeated the test, and this time it was clearly positive. When I emerged from the bathroom, I was filled with a sense of wonder and excitement. We were having another baby. The world was full of hope and possibility. I was naively unaware of the way my life was about to be profoundly and forever changed, not once, but twice.
Without warning, the pregnancy ended at seventeen weeks. Up to that point, things had been progressing normally, with no indication of impending disaster. No spotting. No cramping. Nothing.
Okay, maybe in retrospect there was some warning. Suddenly I wasn’t nauseated anymore, a fact which I was elated about. And I had so much more energy. My pregnancy had taken a sudden turn for the better. Or so I had thought.
At the time I didn’t question the loss of the symptoms. I was seventeen weeks, it seemed reasonable at the time that those symptoms would disappear.
So there was no obvious warning. I don’t know why that matters so much. If I had had warning, would I be happier now? I doubt it. I somehow don’t picture myself sitting here saying ‘oh, well, at least we had warning, I guess we can’t complain.’ I can’t figure out exactly how it matters that we had no warning, but yet, somehow, for some reason beyond my comprehension: it does.
It was just at a regular prenatal check. I remember sitting in the waiting room, flippantly reading this cheesy romancy novel. My mood was light, like the book I skimmed, and I waited patiently for my name to be called, not anxious or fearful in the least. After all, there was nothing to be fearful of. Just a routine check. Weight, blood pressure, and a quick listen to the baby’s heart.
But a quick listen to the baby’s heart took a lot longer than it should. For the first ten or twenty seconds I was not alarmed when the doctor struggled to find the rhythmic lub dub, a simple sound that conveyed so much. But as the seconds ticked by, a growing dread mounted. The doctor repositioned the Doppler several times, each time turning up nothing but the sound of my own heart beating and a bunch of static. After a few minutes, the doctor turned the Doppler off. She stated the obvious, that she was having a hard time finding the heart beat. But obvious though it was, hearing the words spoken out loud changed everything. It brought the gravity of the issue into startling focus. And though I tried to tell myself that these things happen, that fetal heart rates can be hard to find and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything, I couldn’t help but recall my previous appointment, where the heart beat was instantly audible.
Within minutes, I was in another waiting room, more than slightly shaken. It wasn’t so much a room as a small antechamber with three folding chairs lined in a row. Two other people sat, awaiting ultrasound. They glanced surreptitiously at me now and then but said nothing. A part of me couldn’t wait for my name to be called. I needed to know. Another part of me wanted to give up my turn to someone else when my name was called. I didn’t want to know. My stomach flip flopped with my mind. I felt sick, I felt okay. My name was called. I found myself standing up and being led to a small exam room. It took but a moment for the ultrasound to simultaneously confirm my worst fears and obliterate my highest hopes. The baby was dead. I cried and cried. None of it seemed real. This couldn’t be happening.
After all, we’d had no warning.
They had to induce me into labor. It was a weird feeling, being in labor at seventeen weeks. I could feel my stomach hardening. I would put my hand on my stomach and feel my tiny baby. And I always felt this urge to try to protect the baby, to try to stop things from happening. I didn’t want my body to expel it, though I knew intellectually that it was dead no matter what. Dead if I expelled it, dead if I defied my body and kept it tucked away inside me. Anyways, it was a feeling I can’t quite explain. I wanted it to be over. I didn’t want it to be over. I just wanted to be back in that waiting room. Reading that dumb book, innocently unaware of everything that lay ahead.
It took a long time. Throughout the night the pains would come. I would wake up, shift around, fall back asleep. I didn’t try to time the contractions. It wasn’t a happy labor, like in the movies when the wife wakes up and nudges her husband “I think it’s time”. It wasn’t like that. I think I wanted to ignore the fact that I was having contractions. I just wanted to be asleep.
In the morning I woke up to go the bathroom, which brought with it a certain amount of dread. The nurse had put a hat in the toilet the night before “just in case”. The silent implication of that stared at me every time I went into the bathroom. But I told myself there was nothing I could do. It was going to be traumatic. Whether it happened in the hospital bed or in the toilet, the baby would come one way or another.
I went to the bathroom rather uneventfully, though I did notice some blood in the hat, which hadn’t happened before. I stood up to go back to bed. Water trickled out and formed a little pool on the bathroom floor. My water had broken. I shuffled back into bed, startled and scared. I woke up and told my husband, Geoff.
“That’s a relief,” he said.
“A relief?”
“Well, finally, things are starting to happen.”
We had been in the hospital now for about sixteen hours. I understood what he meant, but certainly I did not share in his relief. I sensed that things were about to get intense. Was I prepared for what lied ahead? Could one ever be prepared?
We had talked last night, Geoff and I. I decided that I wanted to see the baby afterwards. Geoff decided emphatically that he didn’t. We respected each others choice. For Geoff it was like the less he knew about the baby the better. But I wanted to know everything that could be known. But now I was second guessing myself. Did I really want to see? And would I really be able to face it alone?
The pains got steadily worse. A resident examined me. Snapping her gloves off, which I couldn’t help but notice, were now heavily soiled with blood, she said that I was sufficiently dilated to deliver the baby, but the baby was still really high up. As soon as it came down a bit, it would be over with. In the meantime they offered me morphine. I waited for them to hook up the IV and the tears streamed down my face. I was crying because of the pain, first and foremost, but also because of the sadness. I was delivering my baby. What I had anticipated as such a happy moment in my life was near at hand. Except it wasn’t happy. I would leave the hospital with empty arms and a flat stomach.
It happened fast after that. The baby came quickly and quietly. Indeed, at the time I wasn’t even aware of it happening. A doctor came in to examine me again, a different doctor this time. I felt a kind of gush as he removed his hand. He informed me that the baby was passed. And with that it was over.
Later on, the nurse brought the baby to me. Though I was scared for this moment, I knew that I needed to say goodbye. And to know everything that I could know about the child that I had carried. The child that I had lost. He was brought to me in a little wicker basket, which had been made up with yellow blankets. His whole body fit into a bootie, and the little face peered out. What I can mostly remember was how he had his one hand curled into a fist and tucked neatly under the little chin. I remember him that way. Little fingers the size of spaghetti strands. And it gives me a good feeling. He didn’t look cute, objectively speaking; in fact he was down right alien looking. But he was posed in a cute way. And that is what my mind has chosen to remember. That tiny ball of a fist.
The decision to try again was a no brainer for me. I had inside me an intense and almost primal urge to carry another child. My husband was a bit more reticent, in light of the physical and emotional blow we were still recovering from. But I was insistent that what had happened was a freak thing, and that certainly we would not have the misfortune of experiencing anything like that again. For me, the thought of seeing another positive pregnancy test was like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. My healing from the loss of one pregnancy seemed contingent upon embarking on another. The time that elapsed between pregnancies was a blur of marking my cycle, counting days until I was fertile, and endless pregnancy tests. It took three months, but alas, finally, a positive result. I was elated. I wasn’t nervous in the least about the fate of the baby, as I held such a strong conviction that life could not be so cruel as to take from me once again the one thing that I wanted the most in the world.
But once again, I was wrong.
Flash forward three weeks later and I find myself poised at the pharmacy counter, slightly nervous at the prospect of buying Tylenol #1’s. I made 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 was almost overwhelming. I practiced 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. 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 into something 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. 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, I reprimanded myself inwardly. But she nary batted an eye as she handed over the bottle of 50 codeine pills. Feeling triumphant, I left 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 forward to the present. I’m not sure what was more daunting: the fact that I had to insert the medication my doctor had given me 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. And though neither notion particularly appealed to me, I nonetheless found myself inserting the tabs with the same detachment and aloofness one might expect when applying bug repellent or taking a cold pill, simply because I had to do it. And then, all that was left was do was wait.
It had already been a full week of waiting, so I was intimately familiar with the concept. I had my first ultrasound ten days previously. It was intended only to reassure me, because of what happened last time. But reassuring it was not. Immediately it seemed that 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 less 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, though in reality it was only a span of three days. 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. I felt like I was in some twisted version of a reality show. “Randine Sorowski, please join me at center stage. The results are in. Was your HCG in the top three or the bottom three?” Except that there was so much more at stake than a mere recording contract or monetary prize. This was life, delicate, precious life that hung in the balance. I cannot recall the exact substance of the conversation, because I felt rather than heard her words. They came at me like a physical assault. And though I knew that this was happening; knew 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. 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 infuriating as well as deftly saddening.
It was at that appointment where I received the pills which were to cause the miscarriage to happen. But the pills did not work as they were supposed to. Every day that passed without bleeding, I felt strangely relieved, though I knew intellectually that the baby was not viable whether I bled a lot, and just as non viable if I bled none at all. They say that denial is the first stage of grieving, and perhaps it was all too easy to deny the loss when there were no outward signs of anything happening. I could almost convince myself for a second that ‘maybe the lab just made a mistake’, or ‘maybe the radiologist simply looked away and didn’t quite catch the heart beat.’ But in my heart of hearts, I did understand the finality of the situation. It was in being able to accept it that I struggled.
The following week, they performed a D&C to remove the ‘products of conception’ from my uterus. And though it was a difficult time for me, I could not help but feel a sense of relief that it was all over and done with. I have few reminders left of that pregnancy. One ultrasound picture, a hospital band and a single appointment card with the obstetrician. It is all the concrete proof that I have that, indeed, I really was pregnant for a time.
And now here I sit, asking myself unanswerable questions at a time when I should be rejoicing in new life, but am instead grieving for it once again. I guess it is at this point where I’m supposed to conclude with something profound about what I have learned or how I have grown. And though I’m sure that these experiences have changed me as a person just as certainly as I know they’ve changed the course of my life, I’m at a loss as to how to accurately and concisely convey this on paper to you, my reader. Is my heart broken? Yes. But as Celine taught us, the heart does go on. The fire that I had within me to have another baby is now extinguished. But yet, I know that the hope and potential that I sensed in the world eight months ago still exists. It is simply of a different nature now, rather than gone altogether. I see that hope and potential every day in the lives of the two children that we already have, and I draw pleasure out of the simple moments with them, such as the feel of my daughters small hand entwined in mine, or the adoring gaze I sometimes catch her giving her big brother. They are precious. Life is precious. And I guess, this is the lesson I have learned.
Now I need but to live it.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Swine and Dine
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.
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.
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.
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Plan
I've spoken with my doctor and the plan for now is to monitor my HcG levels for the week. She said they should be doubling every 48 hours, but even if its not doubling exactly but even just going up we will be happy. She sounded somewhat optimistic, saying that at least the pregnancy is progressing, as at least today there was an embryo with a heart beat. She said she's seen two other cases like this: in one the person miscarried but in the other it turned out OK. So I guess we will have to wait and see. Should know by the end of the week whether the numbers are going up or down. In the meantime I will be staying home from work and taking it easy.
I've done much reading on the subject and from what I can tell, my chances are slim to none. Here is a website where several other people have been in my same situation. If you have some time to read it's interesting stuff.
http://www.pregnancy-info.net/QA/answers-Low_fetal_heart_rate/
I've done much reading on the subject and from what I can tell, my chances are slim to none. Here is a website where several other people have been in my same situation. If you have some time to read it's interesting stuff.
http://www.pregnancy-info.net/QA/answers-Low_fetal_heart_rate/
Good News/Bad News
Well, the verdict is in and it is......... inconclusive. The good news is that there's a little embryo in there now with a heart beat. The bad news: the heart is beating very low. It's beating at 85 where it should be in the 120-160 range. The radiologist said that's "very worrisome" at this stage and that there's still a chance it's not viable. Exactly what that chance is who knows. So I guess all I can do is keep waiting. Anyways, that is all for now. Just want to keep you informed of the latest development.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
The waiting game
For the first time in my twenty nine and some years, I am actually wishing the weekend away. I simply cannot wait for Monday to arrive. Usually, when the alarm goes off on Monday morning I curse it, and then press snooze a few times, or vise versa. I'm not too sure of the exact order, I'm usually to groggy to remember. But this Monday I will be so happy to hear that shrill sound. I just want to have this ultrasound and know what is going on in there. About a third of the time I'm optimistic about it, thinking for sure it will be good news. But the rest of the time I'm like "I must be delusional to think there's still a chance- it was pretty cut and dry at the last appointment- no embryo." It's very annoying. But at least I'm not having any bleeding or anything. Every day that goes by without bleeding I breathe a sigh of relief. But not that that necessarily means much. I didn't have any bleeding last time, and the time before that I only started to bleed three weeks after the baby had died. I always think 'I'll feel better once I know", that once I know what I'm dealing with then I'll be able to deal with it. But then when you actually find out, and its bad news, then you just wish you could go back to not knowing, when there was still some hope, however bleak. Anyways, just to let you all know, there's a Burger sale today at C-Tire from 10-2 for Lorries nephews bnowling team. Be sure to go and get your burger before their gone. I'm going to take the whole family out. Well, that's it for now. Peace out.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Maybe Baby
Well, this week has gone quickly. Love those four day work weeks. Anyways, you might be wondering about the title of this blog. This is something that I have debated about a lot over the last two days and I decided to just post this now. See, I had this big surprise planned. Truth be told, I'm seven weeks pregnant right now. I found out a few weeks ago and have been keeping it to myself. I've even gone so far as to pry the lids off of Orange Smoothie Coolers, dump the alcohol down the drain and refill the bottles with orange soda for the purpose of appearing not pregnant at various family functions. Which actually worked like a charm. Although let me tell you, its not easy as you might think to drink a litre of orange pop in an evening. The first one is kind of OK but the last three are hard to get down. But anyways, I had this big elaborate scheme. I was booked for an ultrasound on Wednesday and I wanted to wait until I had a picture of my lovely little embryo before I broke the news. I was going to frame it and wrap it up and give it to my parents as an anniversary gift when I have them over for supper on Sunday and watch the surprise on thier face. But unfortunately, my ultrasound did not go so swell and I did not end up getting a picture of my baby embroy.
The ultrasound showed a gestational sac with a yolk sac in it but no visible embryo. So this was upsetting to me. But the technician said that it's too early to tell for sure for sure if it's going to be viable or not. By dates, I was six weeks and six days at that time, at which point he said that there should most definately be a visible embryo with a clear heartbeat, neither of which he could see. But he said that if I was five weeks, six days it could potentially be considered normal. So he said to come back in a week and recheck it. If it's grown, then it's all good. If it's still the same, then obviously it's not viable. So right now I'm just kind of waiting, my sanity hanging in the balance. I honestly did not consider the fact that I would lose this pregancy, too. I thought that I've had two miscarriages already, more than my fair share, so I should be safe with this one. But if I've learned anything over the past couple of years, its that the powers that be really don't hesitate to take from a person once, twice or however many times it damn well wants. I don't hold out too much hope at this point b/c the thing is that I know my dates, and I know I'm not off by a week. But I guess it ain't over til the fat lady sings and she hasn't quite sung yet. I go for my next ultrasound on Monday at 9:20. In the meantime, I'm going to just keep my fingers crossed (and my legs as well- don't want to disturb anything in there). Pray for me. I need it much more now than I did when I had the staple incident, although, in retrospect that was a close call. I could have died from the blood loss alone, to say nothing of the anesthetic or the surgery...
And I do apologize for not telling certain people in person (namely my parents) but I just don't really want to talk about it right now so it seemed easier to post it on here. And also, it's such a convuluted story at this point. I'm pregnant and I've been living a lie but now I might not really be pregnant but I still could be... surely you see what I'm saying. Anyways, I will let you know how things go on Monday. Hopefully it will be good news.
Have a nice weekend.
The ultrasound showed a gestational sac with a yolk sac in it but no visible embryo. So this was upsetting to me. But the technician said that it's too early to tell for sure for sure if it's going to be viable or not. By dates, I was six weeks and six days at that time, at which point he said that there should most definately be a visible embryo with a clear heartbeat, neither of which he could see. But he said that if I was five weeks, six days it could potentially be considered normal. So he said to come back in a week and recheck it. If it's grown, then it's all good. If it's still the same, then obviously it's not viable. So right now I'm just kind of waiting, my sanity hanging in the balance. I honestly did not consider the fact that I would lose this pregancy, too. I thought that I've had two miscarriages already, more than my fair share, so I should be safe with this one. But if I've learned anything over the past couple of years, its that the powers that be really don't hesitate to take from a person once, twice or however many times it damn well wants. I don't hold out too much hope at this point b/c the thing is that I know my dates, and I know I'm not off by a week. But I guess it ain't over til the fat lady sings and she hasn't quite sung yet. I go for my next ultrasound on Monday at 9:20. In the meantime, I'm going to just keep my fingers crossed (and my legs as well- don't want to disturb anything in there). Pray for me. I need it much more now than I did when I had the staple incident, although, in retrospect that was a close call. I could have died from the blood loss alone, to say nothing of the anesthetic or the surgery...
And I do apologize for not telling certain people in person (namely my parents) but I just don't really want to talk about it right now so it seemed easier to post it on here. And also, it's such a convuluted story at this point. I'm pregnant and I've been living a lie but now I might not really be pregnant but I still could be... surely you see what I'm saying. Anyways, I will let you know how things go on Monday. Hopefully it will be good news.
Have a nice weekend.
Monday, April 9, 2007
One down, one to go
Well, here we are, a family of three, having successfully pawned off our oldest child for the entire week. We thought it couldn't be done- as he's the clingiest nine year old ever. But he actually decided to leave his family behind and venture north to Candle Lake with his gram and gramp. I'd like to say that I miss him terribly, but so far its been pretty OK. I took Payton shopping this afternoon to Old Navy. I made lasagne for supper tonight and put mushrooms in it--a big NO-NO when Gage is around because he has this thing that if a mushroom comes in contact with any piece of his food on his plate the entire meal is not edible, so he stubbornly refuses to just 'pick them out', claiming that the entire dish tastes like mushrooms. Because you know how overpowering mushrooms are. Eventually, I stopped cooking with mushrooms altogether just to avoid the fight. So for an entire week we can eat mushrooms to our hearts content. The weird thing is that he actually likes mushrooms when they're raw. But somehow once they're cooked its totally different. I'll never really understand how his logic works. Its like how he refuses to eat tomatoes on his burger but he'll smear the shit out of it with ketchup. Nine year olds. I guess I was one once, but I'm sure I was a lot more mature than that.
So back to work tomorrow after a luxurious four days off. A big shout out to Aunty Gail for the gala Easter festivity she held yesterday. The food was fanfreakingtastic and a good time was had by all!! The kids were entertained by an Easter Egg Hunt, which they really enjoyed. Also, a big shout out to Lorrie and Trent for hosting Terrys impromptu 50th birthday party on Friday. Again, a good time was had by all. Karaoke got going a bit later in the evening and it was quite the show. A lot of talent in our family. I was sorry, though, that I missed out on Jen and Trents Duet "the Purple Onion Song', which, by all acounts, sounds really intriguing. Word on the street is that their songwriting ability rivals their singing.
Other than that, not much is new with me. Some of you already know this, but my dear husband is booked for surgery next month. He will be having his testicles operated on, and I will be sure to post before and after pictures for all to enjoy. I'm not 100% confident that he'll go through with it, or even 55% for that matter, but he says that he's going to. So that will be that. No more kids in the Makepeace clan. But we can always keep getting puppies...
Speaking of which, I took my new puppy for a walk today along with JD (our Szi Tzu, 4) and Payton (our Human, 2). It was quite an interesting walk let me tell you. Two little dogs can actually cause a lot of mayhem, more so than you might imagine. Here I was envisioning this lovely stroll with my two perfect dogs walking along in tandem. People would be stopping to stare. They would call me "the girl with the cute dogs". But instead I think they were calling me "the girl with the retarded dogs." Their leashes kept on getting tangled up. They kept on wrapping themselves around me. JD was running ahead of me, choking on the leash, and Baxter was steadfastly resisting and had to be dragged behind me. And Payton was chugging along, sloshing through all the puddles with her new Pooh Rubber Boots (Wal Mart 9.99). It was OK, though. Hopefully future endeavors will be better as Baxter learns that the leash is your friend, not your enemy.
Anyways, that is all for now. Have a pleasant day.
So back to work tomorrow after a luxurious four days off. A big shout out to Aunty Gail for the gala Easter festivity she held yesterday. The food was fanfreakingtastic and a good time was had by all!! The kids were entertained by an Easter Egg Hunt, which they really enjoyed. Also, a big shout out to Lorrie and Trent for hosting Terrys impromptu 50th birthday party on Friday. Again, a good time was had by all. Karaoke got going a bit later in the evening and it was quite the show. A lot of talent in our family. I was sorry, though, that I missed out on Jen and Trents Duet "the Purple Onion Song', which, by all acounts, sounds really intriguing. Word on the street is that their songwriting ability rivals their singing.
Other than that, not much is new with me. Some of you already know this, but my dear husband is booked for surgery next month. He will be having his testicles operated on, and I will be sure to post before and after pictures for all to enjoy. I'm not 100% confident that he'll go through with it, or even 55% for that matter, but he says that he's going to. So that will be that. No more kids in the Makepeace clan. But we can always keep getting puppies...
Speaking of which, I took my new puppy for a walk today along with JD (our Szi Tzu, 4) and Payton (our Human, 2). It was quite an interesting walk let me tell you. Two little dogs can actually cause a lot of mayhem, more so than you might imagine. Here I was envisioning this lovely stroll with my two perfect dogs walking along in tandem. People would be stopping to stare. They would call me "the girl with the cute dogs". But instead I think they were calling me "the girl with the retarded dogs." Their leashes kept on getting tangled up. They kept on wrapping themselves around me. JD was running ahead of me, choking on the leash, and Baxter was steadfastly resisting and had to be dragged behind me. And Payton was chugging along, sloshing through all the puddles with her new Pooh Rubber Boots (Wal Mart 9.99). It was OK, though. Hopefully future endeavors will be better as Baxter learns that the leash is your friend, not your enemy.
Anyways, that is all for now. Have a pleasant day.
Friday, April 6, 2007
More book
I watched CNN for a while. Well, actually it was only about twenty minutes but it felt a lot longer. And I didn’t even learn much about the situation in the Middle East. They were talking about the candidates for some kind of an election in the States. I’m not too into politics at the best of times, but American politics? No thanks. So I started to channel surf.
Jeopardy intrigued me for a little while, only because the people on it have the dullest lives. Ironically, they are so dull that they make the show interesting. The one guy began by telling this painfully bland story about walking his dog in the park when his dog (and here’s the kicker) caught somebody else’s Frisbee, which caused quite a ‘brouhaha’ (as you might imagine). He was absolutely beaming as he told this story. You could just tell that this was the highlight of his life, the wildest thing that has ever happened in his life. His dog caught an errant Frisbee. I almost felt sorry for him. But then he won thirty thousand dollars in final Jeopardy, so I stopped feeling sorry for him. He may be a bit dull but his brains will get him by quite nicely.
By then end of the day I was getting bored. I started to look around the room, trying to decide which items I would bring with me in the event of a fire. There were only a few things. The photograph of my baby niece, Sam. The jewelry box my dad got me the year before he died. And maybe, time permitting, the afghan that my grandma knit for me years ago. Interesting, I reflected. The only things I’d chosen were those items with some sort of sentimental value. It was like an ink blot test, it offered up rich data about a person’s inner values and feelings. For example, had I chosen my make up and mirror, it could be said that I was vain. If I had chosen my lap top and papers from work it could be said that I was a workaholic. I wonder if I could get this published in Modern Psychology as a new psychometric tool for assessing personality. The phone interrupted me from my reverie. I cringe when I saw my moms name on the phone.
Now, you know that I had planned on telling my mom about this whole surrogate thing as soon as the details were finalized. But then I started thinking- perhaps it would be wiser to just wait and see what happens first. Because in reality, they say that it usually takes two or three attempts at in vitro before it’s successful. So there’s a high probability that I won’t get pregnant, anyways. And why cause all that drama if it turns out that nothing comes of this? Right? Even though I know it’s perfectly logical, I can’t quite help but feel a tug of guilt as I consider answering the phone. The problem is I need to try to avoid her for two weeks, when we get the results of the pregnancy test. I don’t think I can keep it from her if I see her face to face. I’ve been dodging her calls for some time now, afraid that I would spill everything as soon as I heard her voice.
The ringing let up. A stab of disappointment shot through me. My mom and I had always been close. It’s wasn’t like me to keep secrets from her. I guess I really should have just told her, but the thing is is that it was not that easy to bring up.
What’s new?
Nothing much. I might be carrying my boss’s baby, or rather, babies, but other than that, same old, same old.
You get the point.
It’s just not something that lends itself to casual conversation.
Jeopardy intrigued me for a little while, only because the people on it have the dullest lives. Ironically, they are so dull that they make the show interesting. The one guy began by telling this painfully bland story about walking his dog in the park when his dog (and here’s the kicker) caught somebody else’s Frisbee, which caused quite a ‘brouhaha’ (as you might imagine). He was absolutely beaming as he told this story. You could just tell that this was the highlight of his life, the wildest thing that has ever happened in his life. His dog caught an errant Frisbee. I almost felt sorry for him. But then he won thirty thousand dollars in final Jeopardy, so I stopped feeling sorry for him. He may be a bit dull but his brains will get him by quite nicely.
By then end of the day I was getting bored. I started to look around the room, trying to decide which items I would bring with me in the event of a fire. There were only a few things. The photograph of my baby niece, Sam. The jewelry box my dad got me the year before he died. And maybe, time permitting, the afghan that my grandma knit for me years ago. Interesting, I reflected. The only things I’d chosen were those items with some sort of sentimental value. It was like an ink blot test, it offered up rich data about a person’s inner values and feelings. For example, had I chosen my make up and mirror, it could be said that I was vain. If I had chosen my lap top and papers from work it could be said that I was a workaholic. I wonder if I could get this published in Modern Psychology as a new psychometric tool for assessing personality. The phone interrupted me from my reverie. I cringe when I saw my moms name on the phone.
Now, you know that I had planned on telling my mom about this whole surrogate thing as soon as the details were finalized. But then I started thinking- perhaps it would be wiser to just wait and see what happens first. Because in reality, they say that it usually takes two or three attempts at in vitro before it’s successful. So there’s a high probability that I won’t get pregnant, anyways. And why cause all that drama if it turns out that nothing comes of this? Right? Even though I know it’s perfectly logical, I can’t quite help but feel a tug of guilt as I consider answering the phone. The problem is I need to try to avoid her for two weeks, when we get the results of the pregnancy test. I don’t think I can keep it from her if I see her face to face. I’ve been dodging her calls for some time now, afraid that I would spill everything as soon as I heard her voice.
The ringing let up. A stab of disappointment shot through me. My mom and I had always been close. It’s wasn’t like me to keep secrets from her. I guess I really should have just told her, but the thing is is that it was not that easy to bring up.
What’s new?
Nothing much. I might be carrying my boss’s baby, or rather, babies, but other than that, same old, same old.
You get the point.
It’s just not something that lends itself to casual conversation.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
More of the book
Here is more of my book. I am too lazy to post a blog, but I shall make more of an effort tomorrow. Its just so hard right now in the middle of Idol season.
Perhaps it was jet lag, although, in reality, that seemed unlikely. The flight from Calgary to Saskatoon was only forty minutes. Perhaps it was the side effects from the sedative they had given me the night before the ‘procedure’, as they call it. Or perhaps it was just the stress of it all. Whatever the reason, I fell fast asleep almost immediately after setting foot into my apartment. I slept for twelve solid hours and woke the next morning to the angry ringing of the phone. It was like waking from a dream. As consciousness broke through the fog of sleep, so too did the dawning of my new reality. The reality that I could be carrying the offspring of Cynthia and Horrace Jacobson right now. Right now those blasted blastocytes could be multiplying and dividing away (do they multiply or divide—surely it can’t be both?). I sat up in bed very still, trying to somehow sense whether there was any activity going on in my uterine cavity. I couldn’t tell, but I did feel a little bit of a shiver up my back. I wasn’t sure if that had any significance or not.
Finally, after the phone rang a bazillion times I got up and picked up the call.
“Hello,” I answered groggily.
“Have you been drinking?” Cynthia’s voice assaulted my ear, even more accusatory and unpleasant than usual. I looked at my clock. Quarter after nine in the morning. Even if I had been drinking, which I couldn’t fathom, I surely wouldn’t be admitting it to anyone, let alone my boss. “Yeah, just fixing myself a boilermaker to get the day started.”
“No,” I replied with a yawn, more annoyed than defensive.
“You sound like shit,” Cynthia said. I suppose she wasn’t trying to be rude. It’s just how she is. But what I don’t understand is just what it was that she was expecting me to sound like? I had just had my body invaded by sharp metal objects. Was that supposed to make me chipper?
“I feel like shit,” I said candidly. I had never really been one to speak to my boss in thatmanner, but once you have their genetic material inside you, all bets are off.
“That’s a good sign,” she said emphatically. “I spoke with Dr. Lytchendracht, he said that things went very well.”
“Yeah, it went good,” I concurred, holding my picture of the blastocytes. Four little grey blebs all blobbed together. Precious.
“That’s good. Horrace and I are in France for the week. We just needed some time to decompress after all the stress we’ve been under, with the procedure. But I thought I’d better let you know that I’ve booked you off for the week. I’d like you to lay low. Just take it easy for the next couple of weeks. You know what I mean?” she said/asked. It was hard to tell if it was a question or a command.
“Sure, good. Uh, I wanted to ask you a quick question about the number of blastocytes they put in. Dr. Lythen… blag (I fumbled with the name for a minute. Why did his name have to be so complicated? Couldn’t we have had a Dr. Smith or Dr. Black?) he said something about four, or something?” I trail off pathetically, hoping that it’s all a big misunderstanding.
“Oh-oh, I think I’m losing the connection now, Kris. Just remember what I said. Strict bed rest. Bye,” she called out with heavy emphasis on 'strict bed rest', as though the connection were breaking up, which, incidentally, it wasn’t.
Strict bed rest? Is that what she said?
I trail off into bed and lie back down. But wasn't tired. I had just slept for the last twelve hours. How could I possibly be tired, short of suffering from a major depression or being ninety six years old? I flip the TV on and switch it to CNN. It was finally time to get caught up on the situation in the Middle East.
Perhaps it was jet lag, although, in reality, that seemed unlikely. The flight from Calgary to Saskatoon was only forty minutes. Perhaps it was the side effects from the sedative they had given me the night before the ‘procedure’, as they call it. Or perhaps it was just the stress of it all. Whatever the reason, I fell fast asleep almost immediately after setting foot into my apartment. I slept for twelve solid hours and woke the next morning to the angry ringing of the phone. It was like waking from a dream. As consciousness broke through the fog of sleep, so too did the dawning of my new reality. The reality that I could be carrying the offspring of Cynthia and Horrace Jacobson right now. Right now those blasted blastocytes could be multiplying and dividing away (do they multiply or divide—surely it can’t be both?). I sat up in bed very still, trying to somehow sense whether there was any activity going on in my uterine cavity. I couldn’t tell, but I did feel a little bit of a shiver up my back. I wasn’t sure if that had any significance or not.
Finally, after the phone rang a bazillion times I got up and picked up the call.
“Hello,” I answered groggily.
“Have you been drinking?” Cynthia’s voice assaulted my ear, even more accusatory and unpleasant than usual. I looked at my clock. Quarter after nine in the morning. Even if I had been drinking, which I couldn’t fathom, I surely wouldn’t be admitting it to anyone, let alone my boss. “Yeah, just fixing myself a boilermaker to get the day started.”
“No,” I replied with a yawn, more annoyed than defensive.
“You sound like shit,” Cynthia said. I suppose she wasn’t trying to be rude. It’s just how she is. But what I don’t understand is just what it was that she was expecting me to sound like? I had just had my body invaded by sharp metal objects. Was that supposed to make me chipper?
“I feel like shit,” I said candidly. I had never really been one to speak to my boss in thatmanner, but once you have their genetic material inside you, all bets are off.
“That’s a good sign,” she said emphatically. “I spoke with Dr. Lytchendracht, he said that things went very well.”
“Yeah, it went good,” I concurred, holding my picture of the blastocytes. Four little grey blebs all blobbed together. Precious.
“That’s good. Horrace and I are in France for the week. We just needed some time to decompress after all the stress we’ve been under, with the procedure. But I thought I’d better let you know that I’ve booked you off for the week. I’d like you to lay low. Just take it easy for the next couple of weeks. You know what I mean?” she said/asked. It was hard to tell if it was a question or a command.
“Sure, good. Uh, I wanted to ask you a quick question about the number of blastocytes they put in. Dr. Lythen… blag (I fumbled with the name for a minute. Why did his name have to be so complicated? Couldn’t we have had a Dr. Smith or Dr. Black?) he said something about four, or something?” I trail off pathetically, hoping that it’s all a big misunderstanding.
“Oh-oh, I think I’m losing the connection now, Kris. Just remember what I said. Strict bed rest. Bye,” she called out with heavy emphasis on 'strict bed rest', as though the connection were breaking up, which, incidentally, it wasn’t.
Strict bed rest? Is that what she said?
I trail off into bed and lie back down. But wasn't tired. I had just slept for the last twelve hours. How could I possibly be tired, short of suffering from a major depression or being ninety six years old? I flip the TV on and switch it to CNN. It was finally time to get caught up on the situation in the Middle East.
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