Rainbows IV

I went and saw Delilah today because I'd kinda like to establish an actual relationship with her vs.simply bribing her with whatever she wants when she comes sees me.  I mean, I am totally not above doing so if I need to but I figured her parents would probably like me to not have to sugar her up and spoil her with whatever she wants when she's around me.

Wait, who am I kidding?  That's gonna happen anyways.

So let's just say I'd like for her to recognize me when she sees me.  She's getting so alert, and of course was just being her adorable self today.  Even her spitting up and coughing and sneezing and farting on me were adorbs.  And of course she's a total genius because she can hold her head up so well and is so strong and totally knows who her mommy is and tried to hold her bottle all by herself and can get her fingers into her mouth.  Duh.

Before she marked me as her bitch by spitting up on me (three times) and then conking out all snuggled up to me, she appeared to notice my necklace.  She's never paid any attention to it before, but today it seemed to have caught her eye.  I even made a comment about it, but really did not think twice.  I mean, it's shiny.  She's an infant.  It's right at eye level when I hold her out in front of me to discuss very serious issues like how adorable she is.  

On the way home, it started to rain to the west of me, while to the east was sunny as can be.  Naturally, I looked for a rainbow.  I expected to see a normal, thin-ish rainbow, like what you typically see.  It was not:

These pictured do NOT do this thing justice.  At all.

This rainbow was the most intense, brightest one I have seen in my entire life. And it was THICK.  IDK if that was because it was mostly so close to the ground, or what...but I literally stopped my car to take these pictures at an intersection.  (Don't get your panties all in a bunch.  No one was around...I was so enthralled with it that I missed a turn and ended up near a NASA station somehow, so now I'm probably on about 30 watch lists...)

Coincidence?  Again, IDK.  I like to think my boy was signaling his approval of his niece.  Because duh, she's perfect.

Walking

Tonight Charles and I forced the little girls to go on a walk with us at a local park with a "nature trail."  I put nature trail in quotes because it is literally like a half mile loop through some woods, with a little creek.  Bitchez, I grew up with the Cleveland Metroparks...I can show you a goddamned nature trail, with a pretty good sized waterfall, even.  Hell, in high school we used to go into the woods at one of these trails as a cross country team and play tag.  For hours.  Well, not really, but sometimes it felt that way.  Point being, I am being indulgent to our small little town here by referring to it as a nature trail.  Maybe more like a nature footpath?

I digress.  Forcing the children to go, right.  I am literally the worst mother ever, for the record, because I made them go outside and play today.  They had to do things such as go swimming, play on the trampoline, and swing on the swingset.  I'm telling you, people, DO NOT parent like I do because activities such as these are surely screwing my children up way more than allowing them to have processed sugar and antibiotics for strep throat and watching Disney movies ever will.

It ended up being a good time. We took the dogs, Roman's first time in the woods ever, and Charlie read the story on the Storybook Trail the library puts up in the summer (NOT in the woods, mind you...It just goes around the little track around the baseball field at the park).  She was reading the book so casually, all like "NBD, Mom.  I can read words like accordion and frolic because I am so big now."  Alexis was out of her tween attitude for the moment and she and Charlie must have signed some kind of peace accord for the evening as they weren't actively plotting each other's demise while simultaneously verbally assaulting each other.  The weather was lovely and the park was empty (which it usually is.  Small town.)

It reminded me of summers in the past, when Alexis was a baby, and Charles and I would load her up in her little pull along thingy and hop on our bikes with Elizabeth.  We'd let her choose which way to go (which honestly, sounds more exciting than it really is in a town of less than a square mile; remember, small town?  I wasn't joking...) and would just ride all around with no real plan other than being out in the lovely weather and enjoying it.

It made me a bit sad, too, to be honest.  Elizabeth is all grown now, out doing her own thing at college.  She lives at school full time now, sharing an apartment with her boyfriend and her cousin at college.  She is an adult now, or at least a reasonable facsimile (really, aren't we all?  Does there ever come a day when you are like, yep, I am now solidly an adult?  I still haven't had that day if there is...).  We never had those times with all three girls, the lazy summer evenings when we just were together.

It is so over-said, but time does truly slip away.  Another year has gone by.  June is slipping away.  Gabe's birthday came, number 10, and I saw a rainbow that evening.  I deliberately took the entire week off, partly because the Fourth of July was on a Wednesday this year, but mostly because I was not sure how double digits was going to impact me.  I got through that day, as I always do, but now the first full week of July is gone and holy fuck, I didn't even write a blog post in June this year!  It's literally like trying to hold onto a fistful of sand...before you know it, time is just gone.

My baby boy, saying hi. 

I want to just grab my kids and hold tight.  To just freeze them where they are and to keep all of the nasty and the ugly and the flat out shit that is going down in this country today away from them.  To stop the heartache that is coming their way and the life lessons they will ultimately learn and the independence they will ultimately attain.  I just want to be free to wander with them, just a little longer, and to explore the world when it is still fresh and new and they are relatively un-jaded.

And, let's be honest, while they all still think I am at least alright. 

Time

Our clock in the kitchen died today.

Forever frozen at 5:33 and 58 seconds.

We have had this clock for 13 years, as evidenced by the early 2000's wonder of wood with gold.  It has served its purpose in the kitchen, not only telling time but serving to totally fuck with our minds every time Daylight Saving Time rolls around or when the battery dies.  I noticed today that it was stuck and went to change the battery, but nope.  Our old faithful time keeper hath kicked the bucket.

It is remarkably symbolic, as we are in the process of trying to pawn off sell our current home and either buy or build a new one.  This house was our "starter house" that we bought 13 years ago, intending to stay for maybe 5 years, then move out into the country.  Then...the economy happened, and our finances (and the equity in the house) took a huge hit because of course we bought at the height of the market.  Then I decided to go back to school, and gas prices rose to $4/gallon for my lovely 1.5 hr (one way...) drive there...yeah.

So we climbed out of that hole, but in the meantime we made a lot of memories here.  A lot of our children's firsts were in this house...Elizabeth's first dances, boyfriends, heartbreaks....our first screaming match...her graduation party.  We brought Alexis and Charlie and Gabe home to this house.  We've had many parties here, birthdays, Memorial Day, baptisms.  We've had numerous pets come and go.  The backyard has had many children running and playing in it.  We have had thousands of meals, and millions of laughs, in this house.

It is bittersweet.  I asked Elizabeth if she was upset that we were going to get a better house now that she is essentially out of it, and her response was that she could get a sweet wedding so no, not really (YES!  One less thing for her to discuss in therapy!).  Getting a different house will be a visible sign of our success...all of the people who thought I would never go anywhere or be anything because I happened to have a kid super young...all of the people who thought I was crazy for marrying a man who took me out to BFE...all of the people who doubted that I would ever be able to open a practice out here...yeah.  We did it.

I look forward to making new memories in a new house, whether we build or buy.  I guess I need to choose a new clock carefully, as it will keep the time not only in our old house, but the new.

No pressure though, right?  Again, I really like to test the limits of my meds...

Rainbows III

By now, you should know the significance of rainbows and my son for me.  If not, you can find it here, here, and here.  Most people also don't know this, but a baby born after a loss is called a rainbow baby.  Technically, I have two of those, Alexis and Charlie, though not many people know that either.

If you would have told me after my son died that I would soon become obsessed with the white light of the sun being refracted through raindrops into something colorful in the sky, I would have looked at you askew.  Of course, if you would have told me that I would be willing to get twice daily injections of heparin into my pregnant stomach to keep my body from killing a baby after that, I would have looked at you the same way...point is, it has become a pretty significant thing for me to see a rainbow.

I always loved storms.  As a child, I would sit in our front room and look out the window as they came rolling in from the west.  I used to freak my sister out by jokingly running into the middle of our lawn and licking my finger and holding it up in the air for the lightning to come strike me.  (I am strangely confused as to why it did not, but perhaps it was because I was still an innocent child?  I don't tempt fate now, I tell you what...)  Of course, I always came in before the rain started, because ew.  Water.  But even the torrential downpours that accompanied a thunderstorm were fascinating to me, from the dry safety of our house, of course.

I honestly don't remember seeing that many rainbows as a child.  Most likely explanation is that I simply wasn't looking for them.  I didn't run outside when the sun started shining in the west and it was still dark in the east to look for them.  They were no where near as meaningful at that time as they are now for me.  I've said it before, I am fully aware that the times in my life with rainbows are probably just as much a coincidence as the times with fire (and I haven't even talked about all the fire alarm drama, either...).  I like to think that the rainbows aren't, that my son is still with me even as his ashes sit on my dead people's shelf in my living room.  (For the record, he is the only literal dead person on this shelf.  It's not like I am collecting corpses to pose on this shelf in a variety of positions.   It has other mementos from our passed on loved ones, as well as his urn.   I strangely feel the need to clarify this for you people.)

I'm really hoping that the fire shit isn't like a sign from hell, though.  That would not strike me in the feels nearly as much as the whole rainbow thing.

'Merica

*Note:  I am well aware that I have not written a post on my son's birthday this year.  I assure you that this is not because I have forgotten.  In fact, I have not and the only reason I got out of bed that day was because Alexis had dance (Nationals, baby!  Though by the end of this week I was so done and wished that her team sucked so we didn't have to go to the invite-only Big Show at the end of the week...), and in case you missed it, I am apparently a dance mom.  In keeping with the spirit of last year, I have decided to again write a post with the usual inanity and bluntness and propensity to offend as I usually do.  Enjoy!


It's Independence Day Weekend, bitchez!  Let's celebrate 'Merica!  For those of you not from the U.S.A, this is the weekend that we celebrate the mistaken notion that the Declaration of Independence was signed on July 4, 1776 (it was actually just officially adopted on this day, thus showing that U.S'ians aren't bothered by things like historical accuracy or fact checking.)  There are a lot of traditions that go along with this, and most of them are as fucked up as all get out, so of course I am going to dissect them here.

First, let's start off with a tradition that is not necessarily limited to the Fourth (capital F, bitchez, cause it's a goddamned government sanctioned holiday and we don't get mail that day.  It's THAT important.).  Catching lightning bugs.  You may know these as fireflies.  Who thought up the good idea of releasing small children out into a yard to catch these poor mothafuckers who are just trying to get laid, to either be squeezed to death in a toddler's hand and smearing their yellow glow shit all over the fucking place, or they go into the jar of death and torture.  There are a lot of variations on this jar of death and torture, FYI.  When we were little, it was a margarine tub with fork holes stabbed in the top.  Some people perpetuate the whole American consumerism thing ('Merica!) and purchase a special receptacle to capture those things.  My kids get a mason jar with holes stabbed into the lid, which I then superglued to the ring.  Cause nothing says 'Merica like being inventive.  But seriously, once those little guys are in the jar, they are desperately trying to climb out to get their freak on, and the kids are pounding on the lid to get them to fall to the bottom...and let's not even talk about the ones who inadvertently get smooshed a'la that scene in Scream where the girl gets all tangled up in the garage door.

Then there are the sparklers.  Let's give children hot pieces of wire that shoot sparks and let them run free, in the dark.  Cause nothing says Independence Day like being branded by your five year old after sundown.  Plus all that smoke inhalation and fumes from the sparklers, year after year after year, surely can't be healthy for you.  But hey, this is America, land of the free!  Health care is not seen as a right, yo, so no need to treat the lung cancer from the smoke inhalation!

Fireworks.  OK, in Ohio, they are illegal to shoot off in your backyard.  People do it all the fucking time.  Which is great until the cops show up, or someone loses an eye.  Plus, does no one see the irony in firing off something that is going to remind the combat veterans of this country of combat in celebration of the freedom that we have, that was earned through combat?  Be respectful of the vets, bitchez.  They are the reason your dumb asses can shoot that shit off.  And the dogs, too.  I imagine that more Valium is consumed by the canine population this week than any other.  And there are the stupid "fireworks" too, like the snakes and those popper things that you throw at people's feet, while screaming "Dance, mothafucker!  Dance!"  (At least that's how I do it...)  We had some pretty interesting ones tonight, like a pooping dog and a chicken blowing up a balloon.  Cause, 'Merica!

Nothing says Independence from Oppression like sparks blowing out your ass.

Parades are also kinda fucked up if you think about it.  First of all, let's take the emergency response vehicles and have them drive at 5 MPH down the road with their sirens blaring.  Cause hearing is just an extra sense to have, doncha know?  And who cares if there is an actual emergency.  There's a parade, dammit, deal with it your own fucking self.  Then let's let the perpetuation of misogyny come with the princesses being paraded down in sports cars.  And of course it's the middle of July so it's usually like 90* with 99% humidity in Ohio, so their make up is slowly melting and I am sure that they are silently cursing whatever possessed them to run for Little Miss whatever.  Then there are the floats, wherein people throw candy into crowds for children to get.  This usually involves them having to run into the streets, because by god if the obesity won't get them, modeling running into the street surely will.  If, that is, they did not get an eye taken out, either during the parade from the errant Tootsie Roll or from the fireworks and/or sparklers from the night before.

Apple Pie...ok this is one thing that we got right (is it American?  IDK, to be honest, because like most Americans I am unconcerned with things like fact checking or historical accuracy.  At least about my baked goods, that is.).  Sweetened apples, baked into a flaky crust, served warm with ice cream on it.  Great huh?  No, we have to fuck things up royally here in 'Merica and even the innocence of apple pie was corrupted by an infamous movie scene where a young boy let himself loose on a poor unsuspecting pie.  That is just a bacterial infection waiting to happen there, folks.

And now I want pie.  The innocent kind, not the corrupted movie kind.

Humor

Note:  Usually, around this time, I write about my son and his death and my struggles with this time of year.  It hasn't gotten any easier, even 7 years out.  This year, I am taking a bit of a different approach and will be writing a more lighthearted post.  I'm well known to use humor as a coping mechanism (see: me barely avoiding giggling like a school girl cause the chaplain at the hospital kept referring to Gabe as she and Charles kept trying to correct him to no avail...) so I figured that this year I would give that a shot.  If you are interested in reading about Gabe, there are posts here, here, here, here, here,  here, and here.


There comes a time, in everyone's work day, when you just know that you aren't going to be productive anymore.  It happens to the best of us.  It happened to me today.  Now, mind you, I was staring down the barrel of a 4 day weekend and was antsy to get the hell out of the office.  One of my coworkers came by, and we started to discuss various emergencies that we have worked on together.  We then tried to dissect the mind of people who deliberately try to commit their loved ones when they get mad at them.  We were unsuccessful.  Hell, there are days when I wish Charles would go to court and probate me to the psych ward.  I could use the break.  But only if I go to a swanky one.  Because you know, that is totally how the system works.

(FYI, it's totally not.)

This conversation then proceeded to devolve further into the wonders that we had seen while doing in-home therapy.  Mostly it revolved around the whole people wanting to do therapy in various stages of undress.  I mean, I am all for being comfortable in your own home, but for the love of God, therapy requires pants, people.

This then moved to the idea that pants were not optional in the office, except for strippers, but that they probably wanted to put their clothes ON at the end of their shift vs taking them off, and then to people sending penis pictures using company e-mail.  Again, the logic that goes into this was beyond us.  As my coworker said, "Sending someone a picture of your penis is like the opposite of romantic.  In fact, I think you may have skipped at least ten steps one would normally take before you get there.  Minimum."

Then, the conversation moved to serial killers keeping heads in their fridge because they accidentally decapitated them in the midst of their psychosis because they just kept killing people when they did not mean to.  We both agreed that it was a little frightening that we could follow the logic of keeping heads in the fridge because of accidental removal of said head from the body but not of sending penis pictures or feeling that pants were optional in the work place.  However, the conclusion that was reached was that both being pantless at work and decapitating people, accidental or otherwise, are probably no-no's in the scheme of life.  Additionally, being in a relationship where your go-to move when mad is to involuntarily commit your partner is probably not healthy.

I guess the take home from this conversation?  (Besides the fact that mental health workers are pretty disturbed in and of themselves?)  Apparently I understand the psychosis that leads to serial killing better than I understand misogynistic thought processes.  I always knew I would make a disturbing psychotic person vs a happy one.

Good

"You're doing good."

I heard that frequently in the days after I had my son.  When we went to the funeral parlor to make arrangements, the funeral director expressed surprise at how "good" I was doing.  The basis for this?  I guess I was not crying hysterically in his office.  I was numb, shocked, grieving.  But it was all inside.

Society's standards for acceptable grieving are just that.  Keep it inside.  You are doing "good" if you are able to function.  Forget that my entire world was just turned upside down.  Forget that instead of bringing a baby home from the hospital, I got a box of ashes and a death certificate.  Forget that instead of celebrating the anniversary of his birth, I get to remember the anniversary of his death.

Fuck that.

I didn't want to have to do "good".  I wanted to post the funny shit he said at Facebook.  To mock my parenting and all the ways I was surely screwing him up.  To debate the years of therapy he would need.

All of the stuff I will never have.  A mother/son relationship.  A little brother for Alexis and Elizabeth.  A big brother for Charlie.  A nephew for my siblings; grandson for our parents.  In an instant, it was taken from all of us.

And I was expected to do "good".

I take July 2 off every year.  I can't work that day.  I just can't.  Yet I was asked when I thought I would stop doing this.

Because I am doing "good".

I didn't ask for good.  I didn't sign up for this.  I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.  I wish that I could make this funny; that I could laugh this off like I am able to do with so many things.  Humor has saved me on more than one occasion.

And you know what?  I can do good 51 weeks out of the year.  I can walk around and pretend like a part of me did not die that day.  That I won't sob tomorrow, clinging to his blanket and his hat and looking at the really shitty picture I have of my son.  Reading all of the cards we got.  Re-experiencing it like I do every year.

That is about as good as it gets.

Hope

After Gabe's death, some of my very dear friends got together and sent me a flowering myrtle tree to plant.  Someone else had given me a rose, but they tend to commit suicide when they see me (and in fact, I did manage to kill it off...) so having something that I was not likely to kill was nice.

The tree has provided us beautiful blossoms every summer.  It is a lovely reminder that my son is not forgotten.

After this winter, though, I was not so sure it would make it.  This winter was brutal, cold, and brutally cold.  It was a winter that a lot of people, myself included, struggled to make it through. There did not appear to be any new growth on the tree.  It seemed to have succumbed to the cold.

I started to clear away the dead wood as best I could.  It left a bunch of pointy sticks that I was going to grab a shovel to dig up.  The tree was dead anyways; why leave something in the ground to potentially impale my children (or, let's be honest, myself) on?

Then I saw it:

Hidden amongst the dead was new growth.  New life.  Tiny, persistent, struggling to get air and light and water...but alive.

A new reminder that life goes on.  After I lost my son, I begged my husband to not let me go crazy.  I seriously feared that I would go off the deep end.  One might argue that I did, but I say I was this wacky before.  I am talking the kind of crazy where I would take out my whole family and then myself.  The kind of crazy where I would dump his ashes out and smear them all over me.  The kind of crazy that people fear when they hear the words "mentally ill".

I know better now.  The mentally ill are not to be feared.  They are no more likely to hurt you than anyone else; in fact you are more likely to be harmed by a loved one who is not mentally ill.  I have a mental illness; and I abhor violence and probably couldn't hurt a flea.

That new growth, coming up out of the ugly, pointy, dead wood...hope.  That is what kept me going on.  That is what keeps all of my clients going on; why I do what I do day in and day out despite people demeaning my profession; despite the stigma; despite the fear and desperation and frustrations.  

It was what kept me going after Gabe died.  It is what keeps me running outside when it rains and is sunny at the same time, looking for the rainbow.  It is what keeps me saying the same things day in and day out.

Hoping that it will sink in.  Hoping that it makes a difference.  Hoping that it will get better.

Because it does.  The new life will spring up from the carnage.  That it will be just as beautiful.  

That it will persevere.

Five

It is hard to believe sometimes that it has been five years.

Five years since my world was turned upside down.

Five years since I learned things I never wanted to know.

Five years.  Half a decade. Kindergarden age.  The Wood anniversary. 

It has not gotten easier.  I dread the days leading up to July 2 like no other.  No matter how much time passes, I don't think that it will ever get to the point where I can work that day.  Where I can think of the events of that day without a panic attack.

Where I wonder how the hell I carried on and functioned and why the world did not stop when mine was falling apart.

Five years.  Both so short, and yet so long.

RIP and happy birthday, Gabe.  Mama misses you every day.  And Mama will never allow you to be forgotten.

Rainbows II

I recently had to do an assessment that sent me to my knees for a variety of reasons that I cannot go into (HIPPA, yo!).  This was the kind of thing where I really struggled to maintain my composure and in fact, lost it during the session.  Luckily it was clinically appropriate.  I got back to my office, shut the door, and sobbed for about 10 minutes.

It was a rough day, to say the least.  It really did not get any better after that.  Thank God for 5 PM.  I went to pick Charlie up from the daycare.  She jumped up and down, she was so happy to see me.  That helped.

I take her to the Jeep and strapped her into her car seat.  There, across her cheek, was a small rainbow. I have hanging in my rear view mirror a prism that was my grandmother's.  I vividly remember it hanging in her dining room window, above her cart of houseplants.  She always had the most beautiful plants, and her  violets were always so vibrant and a deep purple.  Obviously I did not get the talent for growing house plants as they enter my house and just kill themselves instead of waiting for me to do it for them.  Anyways, this prism always shone rainbows all over her dining room and I always was fascinated by them.  This prism has always been in my car, and at various times does shine rainbows.  However, it had never done so at this time of day as it just did not catch the sun where I park.

Until this day.  There it sat, a small rainbow with no explanation for how it got there.  Never saw one there before, and have not seen one since.  A rainbow, just when I needed it.

I am not going to comment on beliefs about God, heaven, and the afterlife.  Mostly because I know that my  whole 7 readers run the gamut from the extremely devout to outright atheists, with everything in between.  And quite frankly, what I believe is what I believe and none of your business. Could the rainbows be a coincidence?  Absolutely.  Humans do look for meaning in the mundane.  I am incredibly comforted by the idea that my son is looking out for me in some way.  Whether it is true or just me grasping at straws, it was comforting.

Saved

One thing that I repeatedly hammer home to my chemical dependency group is the disease model of addiction.  Chemical dependency is a progressive, chronic, treatable, and fatal disease, just like diabetes, thyroid disease, or heart disease.

And Sjogren's.

I don't often think about Sjogren's in that light.  No one really wants to confront their own mortality, let alone the possibility that a condition you have could potentially hasten it.  My father died from complications stemming from it.  It is a treatable, but not curable, disease.

I don't often think about the fact that my dry eyes will get worse.  That I might lose my teeth due to the dry mouth.  That my sinus infections might get more frequent and severe.  That I am more susceptible to pneumonia.  Neuropathy. Lymphoma. 

I never know what kind of day I am going to wake up to.  Most mornings, I move like an old lady getting out of bed.  The early morning stiffness most days lessens and I can function.  Then there are days when my body just aches.  When walking hurts.  When sitting hurts.  When the fatigue is so mind numbing that even sleep is not a relief.  Getting a simple cold is not simple for me.  It always almost develops into a sinus infection or bronchitis that requires antibiotics.

That being said...I can treat all of this.  I take medications to slow the progression of the disease.  I can limit my intake of gluten to help with the inflammation of my joints.  I can use eye drops, drink plenty of water, and suck on sugar free hard candies.  I can take antibiotics when I get an illness that other's immune systems would be able to fight off.

I know that how I feel some days is not normal.  I know to do all of this to take care of myself because I have a diagnosis.  I have a diagnosis because of my son.

Had Gabe never died, I would never have stopped to take a look at my own health.  I would have continued to think that the mind numbing fatigue was a function of being a parent.  That the joint pain was just from over use.  My eyes and mouth have been dry for so long that I don't remember what they feel like normally.

Had Gabe never died, I may have had many complications.  Not only do I have Sjogren's, but I have a clotting disorder.  What would it have taken to get my attention?  A stroke?  Pulmonary embolism?  Permanent incapacitation?  

I now focus on the fun in my life, precisely because I don't know for how long I can fully enjoy it.  I try to laugh at myself and the absurd around me because there are days when I don't want to.  I try to be there for my children who are living to the fullest I can now, because I don't know for how long my health will stick around.

I don't want my kids to remember me as being sick.  I also don't want Gabe's death to have been in vain.  The greatest gift that my son gave to me and his sisters is the gift of that diagnosis and the treatment that accompanies it.  Because of Gabe, I can eliminate that fatal part of the disease definition.

Thank you, son.

7/2/2008

I realized that I have never ever written out the entirety of my son's birth story (or any of the kids', for that matter).  Seeing how today is the day he was born, I thought I would do so.

His story actually starts on June 30th, the day we were supposed to find out the sex at the "big" ultrasound.  It was a really shitty day, weather wise...pouring down rain, and kinda cold.  I had to go into Fairview Hospital for the ultrasound because Dr. Gingo makes me get Level II ultrasounds because he always disagrees with me on my due dates (and for the record, I am always right...)  Charles and I dropped Alexis off at the daycare, then headed out.

We get to the hospital, and get ourselves checked in.  I had to drink the 12 gallons of water that they make you drink and of course had to pee.  We get called back to the room, and they ask if we can have a student observe.  Sure; why not?  That student sure got a lesson that day, poor girl...

They put the gel on my belly and start.  Here, Charles said that he immediately knew something was wrong.  There was no flickering heartbeat on the screen.  I was just smiling at seeing my baby.  The technician starts to take measurements.  The head is around 15 weeks.  I say, "No, I am about 20 weeks."  I start to get worried.  Is there something wrong with my baby?  They measure the arms.  17 weeks, 3 days.  OK, a little better...maybe I am wrong on my dates.  They they try to get the baby to move so they can get better measurements.  Pushing, poking and prodding on my stomach does nothing.  The baby is just lying there.  They make me go pee because my bladder is about to explode.  Nothing.

The doctor comes in. At this time, I am mildly alarmed because I knew from experience that the doc does not come in till the end.  Dr. Moodley (the specialist I had to see) looks and frowns at the screen.  Then he turns on the fetal heart rate monitor.  Silence.

He turns to me and says, "I am afraid that there is no heartbeat.  The baby is very small and has died.  I am very sorry."


I ask if I will have to deliver.  He says yes.  It seems like torture to me.

Someone called Dr. Gingo's office.  We are told to go immediately there.  I am sobbing at this point.  I had texted everyone who was waiting eagerly to hear the news.  I leave the hospital and get in the car.  I call my mom.  I  make Charles call Matt to tell Elizabeth.

We get to Dr. Gingo's.  They set up an induction for the next day.  At the time, again, it seemed like torture.  What I did not realize at the time, and what I will forever be eternally grateful to Dr. Gingo for, is that waiting that one day put me at 20 weeks exactly.  I got a death certificate for my son becuase of that one day.  Otherwise, his birth could have been considered a miscarriage and it would have been a royal pain to get him cremated.

I called Elizabeth.  Besides from when I had to tell her that her beloved Papa, my father, had died, that was the hardest thing I ever had to do.  She had been so excited, and had just bought him a t-shirt.  In fact, that shirt is currently on the Build-a Bear that my sister had bought for us.  Gabe's death also prompted her to text me for the very first time, and earned him the nickname of "The Gabe".

That night, I got online and started to research.  Part of me is wondering what my son will look like.  If you ever want to torture yourself, look up "macerated fetus".  On second thought, don't.  There are some things people should not have to see.  I stumble across the statute that explains the whole death certificate thing.  I finally go to bed, and I completely lose it. I just remember begging my husband to not let me lose my mind.  I was convinced that I was going to, because at that moment I was out of my mind with grief.

I slept some.  The next morning comes.  I don't want to get out of bed.  I do; we drop Alexis off at the in-laws and go to the hospital.  When we get to the maternity ward, the first thing I hear is an infant crying.  I almost lose it as I check in.  The nurses at the hospital were fantastic.  As soon as they realized who I was, I was immediately whisked into a room.  There were two doors to this room.  I requested to have them both shut.  I did not want to hear those babies when I would never hear my own.

Dr. Gingo popped in and explained that the on call doctor would be monitoring me that day.  I was given another ultrasound.  The doctor explained to me very gently that this was just to "make sure".  I looked right at her and said, "There better not be a heartbeat, cause there is surely something horribly wrong then cause there definitely was not one yesterday."  There is none, and she confirms that the baby is really small.  They start me on the meds, some kind of vaginal suppository to start labor.  The ones that I had always been told to avoid because of the risk of still birth.  Guess it did not matter at this point.  I was told that I could get an epidural whenever I wanted.  I almost asked for it right there, but I wanted to be able to move if I wanted for as long as I could.  Then we waited.

I went into the hospital at 8 AM on July 1, and did not deliver until 2:45 AM on July 2.  I got the epidural at some point.  I had started to have some mild discomfort in my back, and asked for pain meds.  I expected to be given Motrin; they offered the epidural instead.  I sat and read my book, a marital therapy one by John Gottman.  I was still in school for my master's at that point.  We looked at the funeral information that had been discretely provided to us.  We called the first place listed and made arrangements for the cremation.  I got several more shots for my epidural, and then finally a pump.  The epidural made my blood pressure bottom out (got as low as 50/24 at one point).  My sister brought Charles lunch.  I got Jello and ginger ale.  Dinner came and went; my mom brought Charles dinner at some point too. I slept a bit.  During this sleep, I saw my dad with my son and was comforted somewhat.  I told Charles about this; he visibly relaxed too.

At about 2:30 AM, I shifted slightly and felt something between my legs.  I had started to bleed a little bit, so I thought nothing of it.  I sat up at 2:45 and delivered my son.  It was literally that quick.  At the time, I did not know that; I just knew that something had come out.  Charles got the nurse, who got the doc.  She picked the baby up.  He was born in the caul, and I delivered everything at once.  I was lucky...I did not have to have a D&C after.  They allowed me to hold him briefly, then took him away and cleaned him up.  They brought him to me again, on a tiny pillow.  He was wrapped in a blue crocheted blanket and had a tiny cap on.  I can fit three fingers inside that cap, that is how small he was.  I remember his tiny little finger nails, and that the way that his chest meets his arms is exactly the way that Alexis's was as a baby.  He had big cheeks and looked just like Charles.  One of my regrets of that day is that I did not take pictures of him. I was not aware of organizations such as Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep then. I had the camera; I just did not get it out.  We just have a really crappy one the hospital gave us.  It does not do him justice.  He did not look as bad as I feared.  In fact, he was perfect. 

Rainbows

So because I really like to put my Zoloft to the test, I decided today that I was going to join the community garage sale. That was today from 9-4.  At 11 AM.  I put my stuff out and got rid of a lot of baby shit...and made enough to go buy Alexis her bike. She wanted one for her birthday, but I am not so mean as to make her wait until the end of September (though certain other of my children may dispute this point...).

I felt a twinge or two as I was shameless giving away crap that I don't ever have a use for ever again.  It is quite public knowledge that I hate being pregnant.  I am happy about the size of our family.  The twinge was not about that.

Rather, it was more about giving the damn Bumbo seat, the red toddler bed, the Jumperoo, etc. away before ALL of my children had a chance to use them.  I had overheard Alexis telling her friend on the porch today as they colored, "I DO TOO have a brother!  He is in heaven!  I don't see him, though..."  Talk about being shot through the heart.

I went about my day.  I ran out to do the grocery shopping, and of course as soon as I get out of the grocery store, it LETS LOOSE.  I turn and look at the west...sun is shining as brightly as can be.  I am torn.  It is pretty much a tie between what I hate more...water, or being pregnant.  (This only applies to water that is on my body.  I drink tap water like I am getting paid to do so.)  Do I stay facing the east, in the rain, and look for the rainbow, or do I get my groceries, the crabby baby I  have with me, and my tired ass, in the car and headed in the opposite direction?

Practicality won out.  Plus I was cold.  I got in the car and headed home, convinced that I was not going to see the rainbow.  Disappointment was felt by all involved (which pretty much was only me).  

You see, rainbows have had a special significance for me since my son's death.  When I was in labor with him, I saw my father.  Big deal, right?  Yeah, except for he is dead.  He was holding a baby, wrapped in the God-awful receiving blankets that hospitals use, and singing this God-awful song he used to sing to all of the grandchildren:

Teera, Leera, Loora, 
Teera, Leera, Lie, 
Teera, Leera, Loora, 
Hush, now, don't you cry.

That was the first time since I had learned that I was going to have to deliver a dead baby that I felt comforted.

Fast forward about a month.  We were on vacation, and it started to storm again.  In the sky, there was a gorgeous double rainbow.  It was almost as though my dad and Gabe were saying, "Be at peace; we are here."

Since then, it has always seemed that whenever things were tough, or I was thinking about Gabe a lot for whatever reason (well, more than usual I should say...) a rainbow will come out.

It did not fail me today, either.  Looking in my rear view mirror, I saw the biggest, most beautiful rainbow against the dark slate gray storm clouds.  I almost drove the car off the road; I literally could not take my eyes off of it.  It was THAT brilliant and beautiful and big.

Thanks, son.

Necklace

I have a necklace that I had made for Gabe (from www.belkaidesigns.com, the footprint necklace if you are interested).  I have worn it daily since the day that I got it.

Last week, I was at the office and it slipped off of the chain it was on.  I noticed it in my cleavage and re-attached it to my necklace, with the vague thought of having Charles take a pair of pliers and tighten the loop up when I got home.  Needless to say, when I took Charlie to her apppointment at the ENT (tubes it is!  I guess 5 ear infections in only 10 months of life raises a red flag...) I lost it again.

I had tried to call security at the hospital...nope.  No one had turned it in.  I had resigned myself to having to buy another one because I was sure that it had gotten run over by a car and crushed, when I got a voice mail from a stranger saying, "I think I have something that belongs to you".

I assumed that it was security, and I was STOKED.  I called, described the charm, and sure enough...it was it.  She asked how she could get it back to me, and I mentioned that I would be back at the hospital again soon.  She agreed to leave it with security.

Then she said, "I found that necklace, and you know, I never usually pick stuff up off the ground.  Something told me to grab this, though.  I am so glad I did...if it had been me I would have wanted it back.  I ended up googling the name, found the obit, then your blog...I am so very sorry for your loss."

I was speechless.  This woman (she did give me her name, but I don't have her permission to publish it so I am not going to...) went through all of that time and effort to return a trinket that was worthless to everyone else but me?  I was moved beyond words.  Her simple gesture of trying to return my necklace to me made my freaking year.

This woman unknowingly re-affirmed for me the basic goodness of human beings.  I see so much crap, so much awfulness, that one basic act of kindness reminds me of why I do what I do.  People ARE good.  People do care.

Thank you.