14 dpo, not pregnant.
This is the end. I'm not trying anything else. I don't have it in me. I wish we could afford going to an RE, but it's not going to happen. Off to foster-adopt we go.
I think being so sick is cushioning the blow. I am too weary and in pain to care about much else right now. Maybe tomorrow I can cry all day.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
yet another way my fucking body can kill a baby
High fever around 4 weeks can cause neural tube defect. Fuck.
I haven't taken a test yet, I'm just too sick. Cramps today, so who knows.
I can't do that again. I just can't. Please don't make me.
I haven't taken a test yet, I'm just too sick. Cramps today, so who knows.
I can't do that again. I just can't. Please don't make me.
Deathly ill
- not that I'm actually dying, just that I sometimes wish I would. I haven't been this miserably sick in a long time. It is doubly frustrating right now because my temps are useless and I can't get a concentrated urine sample to test yet. I'm pretty sure I'm not pregnant and I have a feeling when this horrible disease wears off I will be devastated. In the meantime I'm sorry I can't keep up with everyone. My eyes are nearly swollen shut and a brass brand is playing in my head. The fever makes it hard to concentrate on anything also.
I hope everyone is doing okay, hopefully I'll be catching up in few days.
I hope everyone is doing okay, hopefully I'll be catching up in few days.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
déjà vu
This is going to be long because there is a lot of background, bear with me. Also – this blog has become my therapy so I apologize if things get too dark for some of my readers. It really helps me to put this out where I have a relatively anonymous audience. Free therapy!
I don’t think I have mentioned it much on here yet, but I had a very difficult childhood. My father was a “dry drunk”, which in AA speech is an alcoholic who isn’t drinking but has not sought any treatment and therefore still has all the behaviors of an alcoholic. My mother had a mental breakdown and became suicidal when her abusive mother died. I was 9 when she made her first of five suicide attempts. She spent most of 3 years in a mental institution and my sister and I were left with our abusive father and abusive older brother. My relationship with my mother was extremely combative until about the age of 16. I was always told that my behavior changed after having febrile seizures and being put on Phenobarbital at the age of 3. I was her “perfect, sweet little girl” before then. After, I was frequently out of control; hurting myself, damaging property, and getting into screaming and fighting matches with my parents. After a whole lot of therapy as an adult I finally realized that all my behaviors were the direct result of abusive and mentally unstable parents, not something wrong with me. I grew up knowing no one loved me for who I was (my father once accused me of causing my mother’s mental problems – I was 10) and always thought it was because I was being unlovable. So when I was old enough to realize how to play the game, I become what my mother wanted me to be. We became very close and I thought we had a great relationship because “I” was better. It took me many years to understand I was not actually better, I had just learned what was expected of me. I was so desperate to be loved that I went along with it. I again became her perfect, sweet little girl and for awhile I was happy.
After I had my daughter and my first bout with postpartum depression, I found the most amazing counselor. She wouldn’t let me make excuses for people like I always had. She wouldn’t let me say that something annoyed me; I had to say it made me angry. She was the first person to point out that how my mother treated me was very damaging. She helped me understand that no 3 year old can be held solely responsible for her own behavior. I am old enough, and healthy enough now to recognize where behaviors came from and change them. Once I started doing that I gained a vastly different perspective on my childhood, and a much different view of my mother. It’s not that I hate her now, although at times the memories make me want to scream at her, but let’s say that I am no longer looking through rose tinted glasses. She is a petty, spiteful woman who needs to be the eternal victim. Yes, she has had a hard, brutal life, but she has never taken any responsibility for her own actions or her own healing. Everything is always someone else’s fault.
I called her today to tell her my daughter was better (the fever broke yesterday – thank god). I have avoided talking to her much since Aiden died because I can’t stand listening to her complain now. Every single comment she makes is a complaint. Most of them are about what a terrible parent my sister in law is, and how awful her kids are. She lived with my brother until his wife had enough and kicked her out for getting in a fight with my 12 year old niece (seeing a pattern here?). She now lives near them and still visits often. I don’t much like my SIL, and I don’t think she is much of a parent, but my Mom is certainly one to talk. She has always been very critical of my brother’s kids. The girls don’t take any care in their appearance, they all run wild and won’t listen, and the oldest is a sociopath in the making, according to her. Today she said something that put me right back into the worst period of my childhood.
I must have run away a dozen times from the ages of 10 – 15. I usually got caught and brought back before the end of the day because I would get scared and go to a friend’s house. Their parents would call the cops and the cops would look at me, see no bruises, and cart me off home. One of these times my mother dropped me off at the mental hospital with only the clothes on my back and told the intake person that I was a runaway risk. That meant they put me in the high security area where there were video cameras in the bedrooms and no doors on the bathrooms. I was livid. She did that just to be mean. She knew I would only run away from home; that going to the mental hospital was a vacation from my life. She did that just to hurt me. The doctors even knew it. As soon as a psychiatrist saw me I was moved to the open ward. When she came to visit I was still angry and I refused to talk to her. In retaliation she told me I could not see my little sister anymore if I wasn’t going to be civil. I’m sure she phrased it so that she was protecting my sister. I loved my sister. We didn’t always get along but she was the only person in my family I loved and trusted. I broke. I begged her to come back and told her what she wanted to hear because I couldn’t lose my sister, I just couldn’t.
Today I was talking to my mother and she repeated this exact story, only this time it was my niece in the hospital. My niece was involuntarily committed 3 months ago after several violent episodes. I’m not living there, so I can’t say for sure, but I think my mom is responsible for a lot of the damage done to my niece. Every time my mom talks about her it is an eerie echo of my childhood. A (my niece) is never good enough, she is never clean enough, she is never nice enough, she never behaves, and she is unlovable. Judging from my childhood I’m sure my niece picked up quite well what my mother was dishing out.
Anyway, my niece is 17, locked in a residential facility where she has not progressed in treatment. This might mean that she will never be going home. Her mother brought her little brother to visit recently and has decided not to do that again. In the words of my mother, “A was so nasty that K (my SIL) decided not to bring B (my nephew) back when she visits, he doesn’t need to be exposed to that.” My niece dotes on her little brother, from what I understand. It may not be a perfectly healthy relationship, but it is a loving one. They are doing the exact same thing to her that my mother did to me. I guarantee that if I said something my mother would deny ever doing that to me and she would deny that is what is happening now. I don’t have the entire story – A reacted differently than I did to a troubled childhood, she could be a danger to her brother – but somehow I doubt it. I only get my mother’s side of the story. I hope my niece can find a way out of that toxic situation. I hope she can learn the things I did and take responsibility for her own happiness. And I hope to god my mother never gets a chance to ruin another child.
Oh – and the other reason I quickly got off the phone – my mother’s descriptions of what is “wrong” with my nephew, they bear an awful strong resemblance to how my daughter behaves. It sounds like my daughter and nephew are both strong willed, very active children. My mom can’t stand that apparently. She would crush their spirits if she had control of them. I can’t stand for her to complain about B’s behavior because it seems like she is criticizing my parenting also. After all, if my daughter acts like my nephew, who is so out of control, then I must also be doing something wrong. Damn her.
There is nothing wrong with my daughter. She has a beautiful spirit. Parenting her is challenging, but a complete joy. I won’t let my mother’s poison change that.
I don’t think I have mentioned it much on here yet, but I had a very difficult childhood. My father was a “dry drunk”, which in AA speech is an alcoholic who isn’t drinking but has not sought any treatment and therefore still has all the behaviors of an alcoholic. My mother had a mental breakdown and became suicidal when her abusive mother died. I was 9 when she made her first of five suicide attempts. She spent most of 3 years in a mental institution and my sister and I were left with our abusive father and abusive older brother. My relationship with my mother was extremely combative until about the age of 16. I was always told that my behavior changed after having febrile seizures and being put on Phenobarbital at the age of 3. I was her “perfect, sweet little girl” before then. After, I was frequently out of control; hurting myself, damaging property, and getting into screaming and fighting matches with my parents. After a whole lot of therapy as an adult I finally realized that all my behaviors were the direct result of abusive and mentally unstable parents, not something wrong with me. I grew up knowing no one loved me for who I was (my father once accused me of causing my mother’s mental problems – I was 10) and always thought it was because I was being unlovable. So when I was old enough to realize how to play the game, I become what my mother wanted me to be. We became very close and I thought we had a great relationship because “I” was better. It took me many years to understand I was not actually better, I had just learned what was expected of me. I was so desperate to be loved that I went along with it. I again became her perfect, sweet little girl and for awhile I was happy.
After I had my daughter and my first bout with postpartum depression, I found the most amazing counselor. She wouldn’t let me make excuses for people like I always had. She wouldn’t let me say that something annoyed me; I had to say it made me angry. She was the first person to point out that how my mother treated me was very damaging. She helped me understand that no 3 year old can be held solely responsible for her own behavior. I am old enough, and healthy enough now to recognize where behaviors came from and change them. Once I started doing that I gained a vastly different perspective on my childhood, and a much different view of my mother. It’s not that I hate her now, although at times the memories make me want to scream at her, but let’s say that I am no longer looking through rose tinted glasses. She is a petty, spiteful woman who needs to be the eternal victim. Yes, she has had a hard, brutal life, but she has never taken any responsibility for her own actions or her own healing. Everything is always someone else’s fault.
I called her today to tell her my daughter was better (the fever broke yesterday – thank god). I have avoided talking to her much since Aiden died because I can’t stand listening to her complain now. Every single comment she makes is a complaint. Most of them are about what a terrible parent my sister in law is, and how awful her kids are. She lived with my brother until his wife had enough and kicked her out for getting in a fight with my 12 year old niece (seeing a pattern here?). She now lives near them and still visits often. I don’t much like my SIL, and I don’t think she is much of a parent, but my Mom is certainly one to talk. She has always been very critical of my brother’s kids. The girls don’t take any care in their appearance, they all run wild and won’t listen, and the oldest is a sociopath in the making, according to her. Today she said something that put me right back into the worst period of my childhood.
I must have run away a dozen times from the ages of 10 – 15. I usually got caught and brought back before the end of the day because I would get scared and go to a friend’s house. Their parents would call the cops and the cops would look at me, see no bruises, and cart me off home. One of these times my mother dropped me off at the mental hospital with only the clothes on my back and told the intake person that I was a runaway risk. That meant they put me in the high security area where there were video cameras in the bedrooms and no doors on the bathrooms. I was livid. She did that just to be mean. She knew I would only run away from home; that going to the mental hospital was a vacation from my life. She did that just to hurt me. The doctors even knew it. As soon as a psychiatrist saw me I was moved to the open ward. When she came to visit I was still angry and I refused to talk to her. In retaliation she told me I could not see my little sister anymore if I wasn’t going to be civil. I’m sure she phrased it so that she was protecting my sister. I loved my sister. We didn’t always get along but she was the only person in my family I loved and trusted. I broke. I begged her to come back and told her what she wanted to hear because I couldn’t lose my sister, I just couldn’t.
Today I was talking to my mother and she repeated this exact story, only this time it was my niece in the hospital. My niece was involuntarily committed 3 months ago after several violent episodes. I’m not living there, so I can’t say for sure, but I think my mom is responsible for a lot of the damage done to my niece. Every time my mom talks about her it is an eerie echo of my childhood. A (my niece) is never good enough, she is never clean enough, she is never nice enough, she never behaves, and she is unlovable. Judging from my childhood I’m sure my niece picked up quite well what my mother was dishing out.
Anyway, my niece is 17, locked in a residential facility where she has not progressed in treatment. This might mean that she will never be going home. Her mother brought her little brother to visit recently and has decided not to do that again. In the words of my mother, “A was so nasty that K (my SIL) decided not to bring B (my nephew) back when she visits, he doesn’t need to be exposed to that.” My niece dotes on her little brother, from what I understand. It may not be a perfectly healthy relationship, but it is a loving one. They are doing the exact same thing to her that my mother did to me. I guarantee that if I said something my mother would deny ever doing that to me and she would deny that is what is happening now. I don’t have the entire story – A reacted differently than I did to a troubled childhood, she could be a danger to her brother – but somehow I doubt it. I only get my mother’s side of the story. I hope my niece can find a way out of that toxic situation. I hope she can learn the things I did and take responsibility for her own happiness. And I hope to god my mother never gets a chance to ruin another child.
Oh – and the other reason I quickly got off the phone – my mother’s descriptions of what is “wrong” with my nephew, they bear an awful strong resemblance to how my daughter behaves. It sounds like my daughter and nephew are both strong willed, very active children. My mom can’t stand that apparently. She would crush their spirits if she had control of them. I can’t stand for her to complain about B’s behavior because it seems like she is criticizing my parenting also. After all, if my daughter acts like my nephew, who is so out of control, then I must also be doing something wrong. Damn her.
There is nothing wrong with my daughter. She has a beautiful spirit. Parenting her is challenging, but a complete joy. I won’t let my mother’s poison change that.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Breathing
My heart, she is still breathing. But dear god, we had a rough day. Kira was worse this morning. Her fever was higher and she was getting dehydrated and lethargic. Motrin and Tylenol have been knocking the fever down but it never stays down. I decided it was time for the ER. They had to torture her for over an HOUR to get enough blood for the tests they needed. After all that they found nothing. She may have an ear infection - her ears and throat were pretty red. I really hope that is it, because if this is a virus then the antibiotic will do nothing and she may not get better. I had to leave the room when they did the chest x-ray because I could be pregnant. I stood in the hallway, listening to her begging for me and to go home, and sobbed. She could not understand why we were hurting her so badly. After she wore herself out screaming and fighting she fell asleep sobbing in my arms, begging to go home in this hopeless little voice. I really have no idea how my husband's best friend dealt with her 3 year old son's leukemia, I really don't. I barely held it together today and she wasn't even admitted. I called my sister (a doctor) in hysterics. Not because I thought Kira was about to die of some rare disease, but because I just could not handle watching her go through that. Putting her through that. This is our fist hospital experience since Aiden died and apparently I am going to have issues with that for awhile. And I thought getting my MRI was tough.
I am typing this in the dark in my bedroom, listening to Kira's snoring, waiting for pauses. We tried to put her to bed 3 hours ago but she keeps waking up sobbing. That probably has something to do with her parents allowing strangers to stab her with needles over and over again. I finally put her in our bed for the night. I'm glad she's here. Even though I won't get any sleep, I will know right away she is okay. And I'll know if her fever spikes again before it gets too bad. I hate this. I want her well. I want to be able to deal with this without falling apart.
We could use some well wishes and prayers. I'm sure she'll be fine (liar) but a little positive energy directed our way couldn't hurt.
If I go back to work tomorrow it will be because she is better and I may not have a chance to post. Assume no news is good news.
I am typing this in the dark in my bedroom, listening to Kira's snoring, waiting for pauses. We tried to put her to bed 3 hours ago but she keeps waking up sobbing. That probably has something to do with her parents allowing strangers to stab her with needles over and over again. I finally put her in our bed for the night. I'm glad she's here. Even though I won't get any sleep, I will know right away she is okay. And I'll know if her fever spikes again before it gets too bad. I hate this. I want her well. I want to be able to deal with this without falling apart.
We could use some well wishes and prayers. I'm sure she'll be fine (liar) but a little positive energy directed our way couldn't hurt.
If I go back to work tomorrow it will be because she is better and I may not have a chance to post. Assume no news is good news.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Fragile
You wouldn't know it from this blog, but most of the time I am okay, or at least come off that way. People tell me all the time that they are amazed that I'm so strong. They tell me they couldn't have made the decision we made out of love, that they couldn't have held themselves together so well for their living children. Sometimes I even believe them. Although when I do it is with the guilty feeling that I should feel worse. But tonight has shown me something. (nothing is wrong - just in my head)
I am incredibly fragile.
My faith that things will work out, that the world is fair, has been shattered. My belief that everyone I love will wake up in the morning is gone. It has become a mantra in my head, "Kira is breathing, Kira is breathing." I try very hard to not let this show. I try to not be overprotective, or clingy. I mostly succeed. But days like this make me realize that I am not strong. I am only one breath away from not living anymore. One breath contained in the tiny body of a precocious, beautiful, loving little 4 year old girl. My baby is sick, and I can't make her better, and for some reason that leads to constant thoughts of how I would deal with her dying. She's not very sick - just a somewhat high fever, and a very red eye that is worrisome. She'll be okay. But now I know that sometimes they are not okay. Sometimes they just stop breathing and no one ever knows why. I feel like Bluebeard's wife. I looked behind the locked door and now I can never erase that knowledge from my head.
I have to go check on my heart again. And figure out a way to get some sleep tonight.
I am incredibly fragile.
My faith that things will work out, that the world is fair, has been shattered. My belief that everyone I love will wake up in the morning is gone. It has become a mantra in my head, "Kira is breathing, Kira is breathing." I try very hard to not let this show. I try to not be overprotective, or clingy. I mostly succeed. But days like this make me realize that I am not strong. I am only one breath away from not living anymore. One breath contained in the tiny body of a precocious, beautiful, loving little 4 year old girl. My baby is sick, and I can't make her better, and for some reason that leads to constant thoughts of how I would deal with her dying. She's not very sick - just a somewhat high fever, and a very red eye that is worrisome. She'll be okay. But now I know that sometimes they are not okay. Sometimes they just stop breathing and no one ever knows why. I feel like Bluebeard's wife. I looked behind the locked door and now I can never erase that knowledge from my head.
I have to go check on my heart again. And figure out a way to get some sleep tonight.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
six months
Six months ago today I finally gave up on trying to sleep around 4am. My doctor came in a little before 6 to give me another dose of cytotec. She checked my cervix first and then told me to try a little push. She didn’t tell me it was time; I thought she was just trying to see if she could feel the head when I pushed. I pushed and she told me she felt him, to push again. I did and I felt him slide out of me. It was so easy. I was nearly completely numb from the epidural but that part I felt. It didn’t hurt at all. There was just a little pressure and he was gone from me. I remember the doctor saying in a very soft voice, “I have the baby, he came out still in the placenta so we’ll get him out and cleaned up and give him to you.” I wasn’t crying. The whole thing was a little unreal. The lights were still off, the nurse and my husband didn’t say a word. I was relieved that it was over, but scared to see what my poor little boy looked like. I remember the rest of the day in bits and pieces but what gets me today is that I forgot.
I did not realize today was six months until I was trying to catch up on a friend’s blog and read her loss story. I started thinking about my experience and suddenly realized today is the first. The first day of the month that marks a time when Aiden has been gone longer than he was here. I remember thinking at the beginning of this awful journey that the dates would always be hard. The 18th when we found out he was dying, the 30th when he did die, and the 1st when he was born. But that hasn’t been the case. I don’t notice the 18th, or the 30th. I sometimes forget the 1st. Just this morning I was thinking that I am doing a lot better than I think I should be. I feel like I have forgotten my son, like he was just a dream. In part I’m glad that I’m moving on because my daughter needs me, but doesn’t my son need me too? Doesn’t he need me to remember him? I’m the only one who will. What if I fail at that too? I keep thinking that I need to write his birth story here, so I don’t forget the details. I wonder if I haven’t done it because I don’t want to remember. Am I really doing okay, or is this just denial? I’ve been so focused on trying to get pregnant again, and I went back to work so quickly, that I just feel like I am sweeping Aiden under the rug. Just minutes before I realized today was the first I was planning a light-hearted blog entry about a recipe I tried last night. How is this my life? My musings on the merits of using cheese in a recipe are interrupted by the sickening realization that I forgot my dead son. On the six month anniversary of his birth.
I did not realize today was six months until I was trying to catch up on a friend’s blog and read her loss story. I started thinking about my experience and suddenly realized today is the first. The first day of the month that marks a time when Aiden has been gone longer than he was here. I remember thinking at the beginning of this awful journey that the dates would always be hard. The 18th when we found out he was dying, the 30th when he did die, and the 1st when he was born. But that hasn’t been the case. I don’t notice the 18th, or the 30th. I sometimes forget the 1st. Just this morning I was thinking that I am doing a lot better than I think I should be. I feel like I have forgotten my son, like he was just a dream. In part I’m glad that I’m moving on because my daughter needs me, but doesn’t my son need me too? Doesn’t he need me to remember him? I’m the only one who will. What if I fail at that too? I keep thinking that I need to write his birth story here, so I don’t forget the details. I wonder if I haven’t done it because I don’t want to remember. Am I really doing okay, or is this just denial? I’ve been so focused on trying to get pregnant again, and I went back to work so quickly, that I just feel like I am sweeping Aiden under the rug. Just minutes before I realized today was the first I was planning a light-hearted blog entry about a recipe I tried last night. How is this my life? My musings on the merits of using cheese in a recipe are interrupted by the sickening realization that I forgot my dead son. On the six month anniversary of his birth.
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