Just another record of my crazy.

**Disclaimer:  This shit is TOP SECRET, yo.  Well, as Top Secret as it can be when it's posted on the internet.  I can't not blog about this life-changer, but if you know me in real life, please don't share the news - I can't bear to have to make those phone calls or announcements again if things don't end well.

I started this post yesterday morning, then got side-tracked by shiny things and didn't finish it.  But what I was trying to say, it's sort of a big part of where my head is right now, so even if it's a day late, here ya go:

I should be doing laundry, but we've got all day for that, right?  It's Sunday, there's plenty of time for chores later.

We're in the middle of a record-setting heat-wave here in Kentucky.  We've passed hot and reached "Just don't go outside" temperatures.  I took Finn for a walk in the park this morning at 8, early enough to beat the heat, I thought, but I still found myself sweaty and tired by the time we reached our half-way mark.  Of course, I'm extra sweaty these days anyhow, and I'm always tired it seems, so maybe that had more to do with me than the weather.  Either way, I think now I'm in for the day.  I'm not a fan of hot.

I don't want to talk to anyone or see anyone or do anything.  I want to sit in my house and be safe until I know that everything's going to be okay, and then maybe I'll come out to play.  I sat in the living room Tuesday night and talked baby talk all night long...and the next morning, our friend went for a checkup and they couldn't find her baby's heartbeat.  I'm so fucking sad for her, for them.  And not that it has anything to do with me, cause I know it doesn't, but I can't help but go right back to that place where she is now, and it reminds me of how fragile and unguaranteed this whole deal is.  I've made it further than last time, but she was even further than me, and look.  See?  Anything can happen.  You just never know.  And every time I say the words out loud, or talk about the future, I'm that much more emotionally invested, and I'm just so scared to be too emotionally invested right now.

I want to say that this feels different, that it feels right.  I imagine, though, that every expectant mother feels that way.  I don't think anyone says, "Oh, this one probably isn't going to work out.  It just feels like it's probably going to end."  I think every miscarriage is a surprise of the worst sort, so I can't even follow my instinctual feeling of "every little thing, gonna be alright". 

Alanis, would you define irony as...

An anonymous 20 year old left a comment on my birth control post from 5 years ago, talking about how this particular brand of birth control failed her, as she is now the winner of an unplanned pregnancy. 

My first thought was "she could give me her baby". 

Birth control falls into that "wish I'd know I didn't need it" category, like the insurance you buy to cover a package that is delivered safely intact. 

Love always leads to heartbreak.

Last year, during the week I knew I was pregnant, there was a night when the smell of the litter box was really getting to me.  I asked Jimi to clean it; he said he would, then went back to doing what he'd been doing before I'd asked.  I'm sort of a bitch in that when I ask someone to do something, I sort of expect them to get up right that minute and go do it; Jimi makes me crazy, because he NEVER gets right up and gets on it.  He asks me for a glass of water, I'm up and getting it before he finishes the last word in his request; I ask him for a glass of water, and 2 minutes later he's still sitting there so I just get up and do it myself.  That was the way it went the night of the cat box, too.  I asked, he acknowledged and didn't move, so I did it myself.  Once he figured out that I wasn't waiting for him to get to it in his own time, he ran downstairs and took over for me, lecturing me on how I shouldn't be messing with cat shit blah blah blah.  "Yeah, but I can't stand smelling it, either, and if you weren't going to clean it, then someone had to."

Fast forward over a year, to last week.  That pregnancy is long gone, reduced to nothing more than a handful of shattered dreams and a line of demarcation in my life of "before" and "after".  I think about it all the time, of course.  Last week, I was explaining that to Jimi, how I can't make my brain turn off the baby switch, how I obsess with the idea of getting pregnant again but can't really picture life with a child, how I blame myself for the loss of a ball of cells that we already loved.  "I blame myself too," he told me, and I looked at him through the tears I cry every time we talk on this subject.  I was confused and surprised; he's never mentioned guilt before.  "That night, with the litter box?  I wonder if things would've been different if I'd just gotten up and done it when you asked me to.  Maybe that caused something, you know?"

People write about heartbreak as a literal pain in their chest at the moment something tragic happens.  I know that pain pretty good, I've felt it a few times - when I found out my first live-in boyfriend was cheating with a 17 year old mother, when my husband told me (over the phone, as I was driving to work, when he was 700 miles away) that he wanted a divorce, when my Momma told me (as I sat at the airport gate, waiting to catch my flight home to see her one last time) that my Granny had died.  When I realized I was losing my baby.  And then, when Jimi told me he thought it may have been his fault.

How could something so small, so brief, lead to all of this hurt, all these tears?  If things had gone differently, would the end result have lead to an equal amount of happiness and laughter?

It's just a bottle of pills.

I bought a bottle of prenatal vitamins about a year ago, the day I peed on a stick and it showed two lines.  I was so excited.  I bought a pregnancy book, too, which promptly scared the shit out of me and was banished to my bookcase.  (Who knew ham was bad?  Holy crap!)

My surprise only stuck around for a week, and then a week after that it was all over; my life was back to "normal".

I banished the prenatals for a couple months, then my hormones went into overdrive and I could think of nothing but getting pregnant again; I dug them out of the closet and started taking them nightly, so I would be prepared, covered, all set when the next set of double lines appeared.  

It's been almost a year; the vitamin bottle is empty, the book has been passed to my pregnant sister/cousin, and if peed on a stick right now, there would only be one line.

I think I'm okay with it all, with the way everything has played out.  I'd say "no big deal", but then I'd have to ascribe another cause to these tears welling up.

I thought I'd be a mom by now.  I really did.  I thought for sure nothing would go wrong and everything would be perfect.  When things went wrong, I was shocked.  How cruel reality can be.

Then I was going to be pregnant by Christmas.  When that didn't happen, I thought, "Surely by summer."  It's September.

I'm accepting that maybe "parents" isn't a title we're destined to claim.  As I type those words, I'm thinking in the back of my mind, "but I'm only 31.  Lots of women have babies at 32, 33, 34..."

Getting pregnant is something I always thought I'd be able to do whenever I decided I was ready to do it.  Even now, I still hold this little thought that says, "If I bought some of those ovulation predictor things, or charted my temperature; if I really TRIED, I'd be successful."  Maybe it's true.  The fear that maybe it's not is what keeps me from taking those steps.

I thought we'd be parents by now.  I thought for sure it was our reality.

I believe things come to you when you're ready for them; that the universe has a way of putting people, places, things in your life at precisely the right moments, just when you need them, or maybe not until you're able to cope with them.  I hope it's just not our turn yet, not our time.  I fear it may never be our turn, but maybe there's something different, better out there for us.  The not knowing is the hardest part; I feel like I could accept the answer either way, if only I could just know what it is.

Love, if today is opposite day.

She talked shit about my man; that's what opened my eyes.  That's how I came to see the things that were in front of me, but camouflaged so well.  "If you want to have a baby, I think you should hurry up and do it while you can," she whispered to me conspiratorially, two summers ago, as we lounged on the deck of her second home, "but don't expect him to help you at all.  He's useless."  This slander she said because he'd waited for she and I to come in from the water before starting dinner - her complaint was that the children hadn't yet eaten and our meal was not waiting.  We'd been in the water for hours, and had given him no timetable regarding when we'd be ready to eat.  The children had been fed fruit salad.  This was no excuse for the lack of a hot meal ready when she pulled her ass into the kitchen at 10 p.m., ready to be fed.

I've not been very Christian about this incident.  I've held onto it, and I've let it linger inside me, reminding me of the depth of her distorted reality.

Have I ever mentioned that when Jimi and I started dating, I methodically interviewed our mutual acquaintances, searching for someone who had some negative something to say about this man who made my heartstrings sing?  I found not a one; not a single person had bad words to share in relation to this newly anointed man o' mine.  Not one.

And now this?  This "he's useless" and "you will never be able to rely on him to help you" from a woman he'd rescued when she blacked out at the bar one night?  The woman he drove home, put to bed, and made breakfast for the next morning?  (No, they weren't dating - she was shit-faced at the bar, and he was looking out for her, making sure she didn't drive herself home or end up being raped by some drunken asshole who thought she was easy prey.)  Yeah, I'm holding a grudge.

Sometimes it takes very small selfish things to make your views change, though; to help you see the entire picture.  Her comments that night made me view her, and her world, in an entirely new way, with new lenses - and I was shocked and horrified by what I saw.

~~~~~~~~~~

She couldn't say "I heard you had a miscarriage last fall, are you okay?"

She said, "I heard something, and I don't mean to bring up bad memories or anything, but I heard, oh, how did it go?  Someone was down at the lakehouse a while back...no, wait. How did it go?"

"Are you asking about my miscarriage?"  Here.  I'll say the hard words for you.

"Yes.  Well, I heard last fall that you were going to have a baby, and recently someone was down at the lakehouse and I asked if you'd had a boy or girl, and they told me you'd lost the baby.  You know, I've lost two babies, so if you ever needed someone to talk to..."

I started telling my story, God love me.  I did.  I started to pour my heart out, the way some stories must be told, with your full truth, emotionally raw as it may be.

She interrupted me to explain to her 5 year old, the one I used to rock to sleep, that he couldn't eat his kindergarten snacks now.  "Do you want to go to school on Monday and not have any good snacks like the poor kids?"

My heart hardened.

Because we've not spoken in two years and the last time we did, that child fell asleep in my arms.  He doesn't know me now.  Because I'm telling her how I lost my child, and she interrupts me to talk down to her hers, the one I loved like my own.  Because suddenly I know why she sent me that message and friend request; suddenly, the recent break-up, the "my kids are all going to be in school, what will I do?", the "my 40th birthday is coming" - these things explain it all, especially when paired up with this piece of gossip that was obviously too much to resist.

She needed the companionship, and the gory details.

I should've told her about...no, I'm not mad at you.  I won't give you that visual.

VV, here's how I've handled this:

I accepted the friend request.
I friended up with the two kids who're old enough to have Facebook accounts - because I love them and I miss them, and if I can watch, even from the periphery, that's enough.
I exchanged brief, cordial facebook messages with her.

And then I called her.  And I remembered why we're not friends.

"The agreement was you'd go upstairs with your kindergarten snack so I could talk on the phone and drink my beer.  No.  You're not supposed to be down here bothering me," she says to her almost-kindergartner.  "Sorry about that; I'm going outside to smoke a bowl in peace," she laughs to me.

Two years.  "I've been through hell and back, and I've changed a lot."

Not really.  Not at all.

We're not friends because she's a bad mom.  I've never told her that, and I probably never will.  My choices were to remove myself from the situation completely, or call child protective services.  I chose the pussy way out.  The situation is complicated, and even if I did the right thing, nothing would change and no one would come out better on the other side.

But I don't have to watch up close, do I?  I can't.  Her children have enough of everything - except loving kindness and good examples.  For a time, I thought I could be both, but it hurt too much.

The oldest remembers me; he doesn't live with her anymore, and we'll get together eventually and play a round of disc golf and talk about everything except her.  The middle child had conversations with me back then, but doesn't remember me now.  I was sad about that, until I realized that I couldn't come up with any particular story to jog his memory about who I was...who I am.  The baby, the one for whom I was the only babysitter until he was 3 years old...he starts school on Monday and, obviously, doesn't know I exist.  When I saw pictures on Facebook from his 5th birthday party my heart skipped a beat.

I love those boys so much.

So now I'm going to go click the Unfriend button.

I just can't be whatever it is she needs from me.

The crazy, I has it. Bad. Well, not SO bad...

I'm proud of myself and feeling a little less crazy today - I've managed, for the first time in 9 months, to go through an entire cycle without over-analyzing everything my body's doing and wondering "Am I Pregnant?!"  I didn't even pee on a stick this month, guys.  That's sort of a big deal.  Maybe my hormones are back to normal? Maybe I'm starting to not be quite so obsessive?  Maybe I'm not quite so crazy?

I still think about having a baby and getting pregnant every single day, but now the thoughts lean more toward "It's probably better if we don't have children" and "Think about all the fun things we can do now that we wouldn't be able to do if we did have a baby..." and "If we saved up for the next year what we would've spent in daycare costs, we could go on the most awesome European adventure next summer!"  These thoughts feel more hopeful and optimistic, and not so narrow and focused and do-or-die as the "MUST HAVE A BABY" thoughts from just a few short months back.  These thoughts feel wide open with endless possibilities - those thoughts felt obsessive and all-encompassing and so fixed, set, unmoving.  Then, there was only one option for happily ever after - now, I'm remembering that I'm right in the fucking middle of my happily ever after and I should enjoy it and not waste it away wishing for something more.  

Yes, of course I realize I'm totally faking myself out.  Kinda.  I guess.  Am I?  I'm starting to wonder.  I always wanted to be a mom because, well, that's what girls do, isn't it?  We grow up, we get married, we have babies...right?  What if I'm realizing that maybe I don't think cleaning up after someone else's messes and losing sleep and worrying constantly sounds like it fits with my definition of awesome?  And life right now?  It's pretty awesome.  

God.  Whatever.  No one cares.  I don't even care.  It's not even worth writing about.  It's just the crazy that is in my head all the time, trying to justify my choice either way, assuming, of course, as always, that it is a choice I actually have.  

Kimmie got her treadmill last night, so tonight begins our "walk 30 minutes a day" challenge.  I'm not sure how we're going to make this work beyond pure guilt and competition, but whatever, I need motivation however I can get it.  And I'm feeling particularly fat today, so it couldn't happen at a better time.  

Oh, and I've managed to keep the kitchen clean for two whole days.  I even cooked in there and everything!  I'll keep you updated on my progress.  (Let's not discuss the state of the laundry, the litterbox, or the vacuuming.)  

Back to work. 

The crazy, I has it.

If I'm not pregnant, I'm going to be so fucking disappointed.


My boobs have that heavy, sore, full feeling.  I remember it.  It's not the same as "my nipples are tender because I'm about to start my period".


The dreams.  The lack of sleep.


That's really all.  I'm so not pregnant.  I tell myself I don't want to be, but I want to be.  Oh, I want to be.


I took a test at lunch today; negative, of course, but I imagined I could almost see a line there.  Almost.  Not quite, but almost.


But I'm not.  I'm not.  No way.


Probably not.


Right?

*****************

That was Monday night.  Last night, my questions were answered in the form of cramps that were so severe I thought I'd throw up from the pain.  Advil, heating pad, home remedies - nothing touched it.  (That's not normal, thank goodness, and they are back to only mildly annoying this morning.)

I need you to tell me I'm not going to do this shit every month.  I need you to tell me that one of these days my period will approach without me comparing every symptom to the way my body felt for that week 8 months ago when I, for a moment, experienced something new.  Even when I know our timing wasn't such that would've lead to a baby, my brain still takes over in the last days of each cycle, causing me to analyze every twinge or cramp.  I want to feel my body getting ready for menstruation and know that's what it is - not spend days comparing this to that and falsely convincing  myself that I'm knocked up again.  

I don't want this.  I want that, but I don't want this.  I don't want to buy stock in dollar store pregnancy tests, but the longer this goes on, the more I think of how much money it'd save.  

I just want life to be back to normal.  I want to not be crazy.  I want to not feel foolish...but that's how I feel when I write shit like I wrote up there.  (No, it's not the first time.)  

I wish I could fully accept the idea of never having children.  If I could convince myself 100% that would be okay, I think things would be easier.  That fear of not having a choice - it's permeating everything.  

Who needs some formula?

Similac didn't get the "remove me from your mailing list" memo.  

They've got good timing, though - if I hadn't miscarried, I'd be ready to deliver any day now.  I'm sure I'd be super appreciative of this and the $5 off coupon...if things were different.  

I don't feel punched in the gut, though.  Had this arrived a few months back, I'd be pissed off and wanting blood.  Now I'm thinking, "Hmm - I wonder if Kari's planning to bottle-feed?"  (Are you?  I'll send you this, and the coupon!)

Huh.  It's kinda funny.

The sun is shining today, friends.  Work wasn't so hard today.  I've got some energy.  I feel pretty dang good, even with two reminders of the worst thing ever sitting right next to me. 

See, Jimi?  I told you I was coming out on the other side.  Told Ya!

Sunday Somethings

I'm not Catholic, but I went to Mass this morning.  I'm 99% certain today is the first time I've gone to church on Easter Sunday - any church.  Counting that wedding I went to in 2001 and the funeral we went to a few weeks ago, this Mass was the third I've attended in my life.  I expected waving palm fronds and lots of Hosanna singing - like in Jesus Christ Superstar.  It doesn't really go down like that, turns out.  (I've got a sudden urge to pop in that DVD.  Love that movie!)

*************************

Jimi and I had a bit of a cometoJesus this morning as we drove to his brother's house before church.  He's worried about me, folks.  He's concerned that I read too much sad - blogs about infertility, about multiple losses, about children who've died, about cancer patients.  He's worried that I'm not happy, or that my grieving is overwhelming me.  "I'm coming out on the other side of it, baby," I assured him.  "I had a lot to work through, but I'm coming through it."  I guess I don't talk to him much about where I'm at in this process.  I don't talk to him much about where he is, either.  We've sorta been dealing with things on our own, in our own heads. I come here and spill my guts; to say the same words to him out loud would feel like repeating myself.  (Have I mentioned he doesn't read my blog?  No wonder he doesn't know where I'm at.)

He said the thing I've been thinking of but afraid to say - the due date approaches.  May 4th, May 5th - something like that.  "I've thought of it," I told him. "But I don't feel any real significance or connection with the date, honestly.  If we'd heard a heartbeat, if a doctor had given us a date to mark on our calendars, then it would be harder.  Now, it's more like 'Huh.  If things had worked out differently, how different would my world be right now!'"  But of course I've thought about it.

It's been a roller coaster of emotions and hormones for the last several months.  I don't feel the urgency I felt.  I don't feel the confusion or so lost.  I'm not empty; I felt empty there for a while, but I don't feel that anymore.  I don't feel betrayed by fate, or cheated, or punished.  I don't feel like a failure as a woman.  I don't feel like I've failed Jimi.  I know grieving is a process, and I'm glad that the veil is lifting.  I never would've thought I could grieve so hard for someone I never met.

**************************

Brew day ended with an interesting twist yesterday - the cooling system the boys use, a large coil of copper pipe that's immersed into the brew keg full of raw beer and flushed with cold water to cool the boiling liquid, it sprang a leak.  The leak wasn't discovered until they had introduced something like 5 gallons of unfiltered water to their brew.  shitfucksonofabitch.  The BBC brewmaster was on hand, and he suggested an attempted save involving removing three gallons of the tainted brew, bringing the rest to a hard boil for an hour or so to kill off any bacteria, then adding an extra pound or so of honey to keep up flavor and gravity.  I'll let you know in 8 weeks or so if it worked.  (I hope it worked; a batch of beer isn't inexpensive to make.  Beyond the cost, though, they put so much of themselves into this stuff - it's tear-jerking to think of their efforts and hours of work all being for naught.)

Maria generously volunteered to pick up for dinner a selection of delicious yums from her brother's Argentinian restaurant.  I've never been to Palermo Viejo, mostly because I'm a picky eater and new things scare me, but dude.  If you're ever in Louisville, and you're in the mood for some out-of-this-world food, this would be a good place to start - Empanadas in four varieties, all of which were unbelievably tasty, a 10 oz. filet served with a vinegar based spicy sauce that her father makes, some breaded chicken/ham/cheese/tomato dish that almost made me cry, the mashed potatoes, the bread - Oh, it was all so freaking awesome.  I will be visiting the restaurant to sample his other wares, I assure you.  

*************************

Jimi said he's going to send me for a massage this week.  And that was before he discovered the golf-ball-sized knot of tensed up muscle in my shoulder that I woke up with this morning.  Very much looking forward to that.  Also on the list of things to look forward to this week:  folding, stuffing, and stamping my own invoices; doing my own filing; screening my own phone calls.  That's right, friends, I'm once again on the hunt for a new administrative assistant.  If it wouldn't mean an extra 20 hours of work for me each week, I'd say fuck it and petition my boss for a small raise and do the shit myself.  But I don't want to work 55 hours a week.  And I refuse to believe finding someone to fill that job long-term is impossible.

**************************

Is Easter candy on sale today, or do I have to wait until tomorrow?  And why is everything open today?  Even the Book & Music Exchange was open.  I remember way back in 1998, Kat and I tried to find some shit to get into on Easter Sunday and it was like this town was on lockdown.  Even Wal-Mart and Meijer were closed.  I told Jimi, "It's a sign of the times, yo.  We're all a bunch of Godless heathens nowadays."

*************************

I'm leaving the giveaway up for another week.  I really want to send you all of this shit from my house, so you really should go enter.  :)  

And I'm obviously the worst blogger ever.  I've been awarded the Versatile Blogger award four times (4?!) in the last few weeks, and I've not made the time yet to accept or acknowledge any of them.  Ixy (at Illusion), Carlia (at The Stork Drop Zone), LJB (at CrankyMonkeys In London), and Crystal (at Never In One Place) - Ladies, thank you, and I have no excuse other than it feels like life has been really hectic and crazy and I'm way far behind on everything.  (Over 1000 things to read in my Google Reader right now.  1000!!!  Like that'll ever happen.)  Anyhow, I'm sorry for being lame-o.  I'll fix it, promise.   

I think that's all I've got.  Happy Easter, Friends.

ICLW - ...wha...?

If you've found me from there, I feel like I should apologize.

Wait.  Don't go away just yet - let me tell you why.

Okay, I found Sparkles and Fairy Tales via Single Infertile Female a few months back.  The other day, Sparkles mentioned this here ICLW.

This is the part where I'm going to start to sound like a jackass, if you're from there.

I read her post.  It (ICLW) sounded cool.

I found the link, I read the post with directions and instructions, and it was 3/21 - last day to link up!!

Quick, hurry!! Sounds awesome!

So I did.

And it asked for three words that described my blog.  Hmm.  I've never answered this question before.  No, really.  I click the x at the top of the page when things ask this question.  Three words?  Really?  I'm bad at brevity.

But I thought about it for a minute.  "Life, Love, Happy"

Cool.  That's pretty good.  Yeah.  That'll work.

Here's the thing - I didn't read anything about any of the other blogs entered before I linked up.  I didn't pay any attention to much of anything beyond the post content - the rules and regulations of participation.

Okay, my next goal was to find 6 blogs to comment on for day 1 of the "hop".

I started noticing a trend.  Each of the blogs was following a similar theme - 2 of the first four were announcing BFPs.

I went back to the link-up page.  The three words describing each blog?  They were appearing there at the right of the blog titles, in parenthesis - ttc, miscarriage, IVF, multiple loss, infertility, adoption.

"Oh shit," I thought.  "I don't belong here - how do I take back my link?"  I looked - nope, no button for that.

I don't mean to intrude, if that's what I'm doing.  As I told Jimi tonight when I tried to explain this particular situation, I feel like I've got the tip of my big toe in your pool, but I'm not really part of your group.

Does that make sense?  God, I hope you don't take that the wrong way.  Here's what I mean:

The idea that I might be infertile scares the holy fuck out of me.  I've had a miscarriage - my one and only pregnancy.  But I was 30 before I got pregnant for that first time.  And we've not used birth control for the last three years.  According to my gyno (whom I've met once, when I was mid-miscarriage), that qualifies me for the title Infertile.

Holy fuck.  That's an awfully big word.

I don't want to be part of the infertility world.  I'm not strong enough to deserve that title.  I'd rather be the one sitting over on the side, saying "Eh, if it happens, it'll happen" and then, if it doesn't, "it just wasn't meant to be for us".  I can't fight that battle; I don't have that sort of strength.

Somehow, I've found my way to the world of infertility blogs.  In a bizarre, fucked up way, I'm jealous of these women, who KNOW what they want, and they're willing to risk so much - emotionally, financially, physically - to have a child, to be a mother.  I'm not selfless enough to fully convince myself that I'm ready for all that.

I'm screwing this all up.

I want to have children.  I knew that before I had my miscarriage.  But all of a sudden, I'm 31 (in like 3 weeks - may as well accept the inevitable), no kids, one pregnancy that ended in a horribly emotional miscarriage (as I imagine they all must)...and suddenly my hormones are insane, suddenly I MUST HAVE A BABY...

...except, I'm still pretty selfish, and OMG, what if I can't get pregnant, or what if Jimi's sperm count is like way low, or what if my womb is just an inhospitable wasteland, or what if or what if or what if...

And each and every month I've not gotten pregnant since, when, December?  I think that was the first month we were cleared to "try" (like somehow that green light would magically make it automatically happen, is what my head thought, I believe) - each month, when my Aunt Flow showed her ugly face on that swipe of TP, I've felt defeated.

And relieved.

And none of it makes any sense.  I'm very confused.

It felt like, as I scanned the list of bloggers on that ICLW list, I didn't belong.  I don't know that I do.  Compared to the struggles of the women whose blogs I've found so far?  I need to STFU.  My challenges are nothing compared to what these women have experienced.

But then I think - was my desire to carry my pregnancy to term any less than the desire of any of these other women to carry theirs?

No.  I don't know all of you, but I'm certain I know the answer to that question is no.

There's no litmus test, I guess, to determining who belongs to this world and who doesn't - there's not a "you must go this many years trying" or "you must suffer this many losses" before you're accepted as part of the crowd.  No offense intended, I don't want to be part of the world of infertility - but then again, I'm guessing there's not a person who's reading this who'd choose that path.

I've not experienced much of what many of you live as day to day reality, but I love you and hope the best things for you just the same.  I want you to find your happy, to find a way that brings you a child of your very own, no matter what path brings you there.

And if it works out for me too, well, that'd be cool.

Wanna hear what my HR Director said to me the other day?

Of course you do - it's a great story.

Background:  I don't like our HR Director.  He's (in my humble opinion) an idiot who should be declared mentally incompetent by the State and supported via Medicaid and Social Security for the rest of his days.  And then they can give me his job.

Okay.  Now that you know where I'm coming from, I'll commence with the story:

I called him because I needed the pay rate for our employee who'd filed for unemployment so I could respond to said unemployment claim.  Our conversation turned to the sad state of American Work Ethics - he told me he'd been at our facility a few years back, promoting our 401k program (which offers a badass match, by the way) and enrolling interested employees, when he got to talking to a couple of lifers - guys who've been working here for years and who will work here until they die or are able to somehow miraculously retire.  They told him they couldn't afford to put into a 401k, and he was confused; these guys have seniority, with first dibs on OT and such.

"I can't afford to work Overtime," the man told the HR Director, "If I work over 40 hours I'll lose my benefits."

"What benefits?" says Mr. HR.

"Food Stamps, Medicaid, Section 8," came the answers.

It says something that a man can work 40 hours a week for 20 years and still make a wage so low that allows him to qualify for public assistance, but that point is for another day, another post.

Our conversation turned from this blatant abuse of the system (though I'm not certain Mr. HR and I were talking about the same system) to the cost of healthcare, and how most of our employees don't opt into the best plans that are offered due to the cost.  Then we progressed to the cost of catastrophic events, or unplanned medical situations that can present unexpected costs if you're not adequately insured.

I told him about my miscarriage.  I told him about the cost of my RhoGam shot if I'd not been insured.

He made all the appropriate noises; the I'm so sorries and I've experienced that toos - told me about his wife losing twins at around 9 weeks.

And then he said this:

"I believe in God-given visions that come through dreams.  I read a book written by a very Godly woman, (insert her name here - I can't remember it), and she was given a vision from God, and in her vision, she saw Heaven, and she saw Hell.  And in Heaven, there is a room where all the aborted and miscarried fetuses are.  And there are Angels there, sewing together the torn apart and misformed and broken pieces of those children, and the Angels are weeping as they're sewing together those babies.  And those babies will go on to inhabit Christ's Millennial Kingdom, and they will get to grow and become adults.  And if you live a good life, and if you are right with the Lord, you will see your child one day.  You can know your child.  Isn't that wonderful?"

Lesson One, Mr. HR Man:  Know Your Audience.

His intention were good; I realize that, I do.

But dude.

I don't know what you call it.

I stormed out of the office, so angry I was shaking.  No one person, thing, or event inspired the rage - just a perfect storm of everything, as always; just another Fourth Monday.  (Or Thursday, as you probably know it.)

I was going to come home and rage and pound on my keyboard until all the anger was gone.  I was going to bitch about the incompetent motherfucker who promises the moon and then does NOTHING to make sure his promises are actually possible.  I was going to rant about the stupid effing Outlook that can't do a simple query without locking up and requiring a restart.  I was going to complain about the asshole who milked us for medical leave while he tried to find a job that would allow him to break DOT rules, then filed for unemployment on the basis of hostile environment because we wouldn't let him work a schedule he set.

I'm not going to do that, though.  That won't fix anything.  I'm going to be glad that I have a job.  I'm going to be glad I've got a computer to assist me in doing my job, even if it makes me get violent every 45 minutes or so.  I'm going to be glad I've got a folder of documentation that will easily dismiss the unemployment claim.

Problems all solved.  My dog was waiting for me at the door, so excited to see me.  Jimi put the leftover pasta from dinner into the fridge last night, instead of leaving it on the stove as I would've done, so I've got that for lunch now.  Finn was happy to cuddle up on the JaxxSac with me, licking my arm while I rubbed his belly; I like to smell his sweet puppy head.  It's hard to be mad when you're petting a puppy.

And what's the point?  It doesn't solve anything.  All my anger accomplishes is getting my blood pressure up.

As I sat at the light at 4th and Central, waiting for mine to turn green, a little old lady started to cross the intersection on the opposite side.  I glanced up to my right; the cross-light was yellow now - back to the old lady - yep, she'll be almost to my lane right as the light turns green.  "Fuck!", I think, pissed off that this little old lady is going to hold me up for 15 seconds.  I felt the rising up of the madness, the injustice of it all - that insanity rushing up through me like a wave - then I noticed how her long coat was whipping around her sweat-pant-clad legs, and how her hair was all messed up - it's windy and cold and rainy here today, just a real yucky day to be walking outside.  And this little old lady, who's probably cold as hell all the time anyhow, she's out in this nastiness, having to walk to the grocery or the bank or the pharmacy from God-only-knows-where, under God-only-knows-what circumstances - and I've got the gall to be pissed off that she's "inconveniencing" me for a quarter of a minute?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I get so wrapped up in me.  My life, my head, my wants, needs, desires.  It's all about me.  What's easiest for me, what's best for me, what's most convenient for me.  Forget everyone else, so long as I'm comfortable and content.

You know what, I wasn't going to write about this because it's so personal and hard to talk about without worrying that I sound like a crazy person, but I keep trying to think of everything BUT this and I just found myself crying instead and that's just not okay.  I'm not pregnant, and it bothers the fuck out of me.  I know, I know, I KNOW - there's time, it'll happen when it happens, if it's meant to be it will be, it's just not my turn yet - I KNOW.  I get it.  I do.  I swear.  And you know what?  Maybe it'll never be my turn and maybe that's for the best and that's all well and good, but goddammit would someone please tell my fucking heart and brain?  It's the first thing I think when I wake up in the mornings - "Am I pregnant?" - until I start bleeding, again, and then it becomes this quagmire of "maybe it'll never be your turn, Natalie.  Maybe you're not meant to be a mother.  You'd probably be horrible at it anyhow.  And you know Jimi doesn't really want to make a baby with you.  Look at you - who would?  Besides, you're too much of a quitter and a fuckup and far too selfish to ever be able to raise a productive member of society - it's for the best that you don't contribute one more screwed up person to the world."

I don't want to think about this anymore.  I want to be able to say I'm going to live my life and see what happens and not worry about it and mean it.  I want to not go into a depression every time I start my period.  I don't want to feel a panic set in when I'm mid-cycle, thinking "OMG gotta have sex NOW!"  How romantic.  I don't want to be this person.  I don't like her and I think she's more crazy than I'm comfortable with.

But damn I want to have a baby.  I'll be 31 next month; Jimi will be 40 in December.  My biological clock is SO FUCKING LOUD.

I wish I'd never gotten pregnant.  I wish I'd never known.  I wish I'd not paid attention to my cycle enough that I'd not even noticed that I was late. I wish I'd never seen that second line.  I wish I'd never gotten excited.  I wish I'd never experienced any of it - I wouldn't be this person now if that little cluster of cells had never existed.

I've said many times that my life is nothing like I'd planned; I was going to go to college, get married, have a few babies before 30, and live happily ever after.  What if life is REALLY like nothing I'd planned - what if babies never factor in?

Dear Natalie Of The Future:

If they've invented time machines, now would be a great time to find a way to send me some sort of sign 

- do I get to be a Momma or not? 

 I think I can handle it either way, it's this waiting and wondering shit that blows goats.  

Thanks for your help,

Crazy 

Non-Momma 

Still-Mourning-For-The-One-We-Almost-Had-Even-Though-I-Try-To-Pretend-I'm-Over-It 

Natalie

So maybe it's not my job that's the problem.

So. Many. Words.

I logged onto my retirement account last night and learned that I've made $1600 in the last 3 months.  Woot!  For the entire first year I'd been contributing to my 401k, my funds were stagnant in the general trust account - the plan administrator had never allocated the money into the stocks and funds I'd selected upon enrollment.  It wasn't until I received my 4th quarterly statement with no real change that I realized my money was not working for me.  I did some digging, learned of the error, and immediately got online to move some shit around.  Looks like I've done good - I wish I'd paid more attention sooner.

We've had a good weekend, full of happy and love and relaxation.  Friday night we split tacos and chicken nachos at the Mexican joint up the road, then, in an unusual burst of trying-to-be-a-good-girlfriend-ness, we spent an hour walking around Big Lots.  (Jimi loves to shop.  I love to sit on my ass - which is why this counts as a random act of kindness.) Baby bought me a Wahl personal trimmer.  I'm the one that picked it up and said I'd like to have it, but I still feel like his insistence that he pay for it means he thinks I need it. And I do, but still - I don't want him to imply it.  You know what I mean, don't you?  This is why men say we're crazy.

Last night we had dinner and a ridiculous amount of dessert at Stacy & Jessie's.  Stacy made an amazing dinner of filets with an onion/garlic/cream/wine pan sauce, and then followed it up with chocolate and white chocolate dipped strawberries, bananas, oranges, apples...it was out of this world.  Jimi and I had taken the fixings for marshmallow treats made with Chocolate Cheerios...which we topped with the chocolate left over after all the fruit had been dipped.  We didn't head for home until after 1 a.m. - and considering all the chocolate we ate, it's no wonder we didn't make it to bed until after 3.

It's been a weekend of good breakfasts.  I made biscuits, bacon, and fried apples with butter and cinnamon this morning.  Yesterday, Jimi broke in our new waffle iron with a from-scratch recipe that required beating egg whites into stiff peaks before they were folded into the batter - I guess to make the waffles fluffy and light.  Jimi, it seems, had never before beaten egg whites into stiff peaks, and thus did not understand that using a mixing bowl and a fork was not the preferred method - but not until he'd been beating the egg whites with a fork for seven or so minutes.  And thought his shoulder was maybe going to fall off.  My first reaction to his request that I take over was "Baby what are you doing?  That's why God made immersion blenders!" and then I took over the mixing bowl and fork until I thought maybe my shoulder was going to fall off and we said "good enough" and folded the nearly-stiff peaks into the batter.  The results were delicious:

Now Jimi's in there making some sort of awesome stew/pot roast thing with onions and garlic and butter and tomatoes and a rump roast his sister gave us - it'll be delicious.  Oh!  And somehow I'd forgotten, but we made cherry-rum-vanilla ice cream yesterday.  That will be a nice follow-up to the meat.  

I sure do talk about food a lot.  

Something I think about almost as often as I think about food is babies, and what fate has in store for me, and my desire to have one.  And I've also been thinking a lot about things that I wasn't thinking about so much a month ago - things like money, and how much babies cost, and how much I don't have.  I admit, I lost site of that fact there for a minute or month or so.  And I'm still the most selfish person I know.  And I'm not completely sure I want to give that up 100%.  I'm such a flake.  

I want a baby, I do.  I want an amazing, beautiful, perfect little miracle made with love that has Jimi's kindness and spirit and my optimism and lightheartedness.  I want to grow and nurture that baby into a curious, imaginative child full of questions and a new view of the world.  I want to teach and watch our child grow to be a good person, a responsible person.  But, honestly, I don't want to try.  I don't want to chart my ovulation or temperature every month.  I don't want to take the spontaneity and fun out of sex - I don't want to feel like our romantic gestures need to center around a certain date on the calendar.  I don't want to feel anxious if we're too tired or guilty if we both feel sexiest a few days too early or too late to hit that little target.  I don't want to set myself up for failure - I said it before and I'll say it again - I'm not emotionally strong enough to try for months and months and months and have no success and then to follow that road to a point where I'd have a new adjective to add to my blog title and labels.  I can't face infertility right now, and if it is in fact my reality, I'd rather ignore it and just not know.  

And I keep reminding myself that one miscarriage does not mean I'm infertile.  Hell, if nothing else, it should assure me that I can, at the very least, get knocked up.  But I fear the worst, and so my mind goes to the worst place immediately, and living with that fear in my heart, day after day, is something I just can't do.  It's too hard, it's too scary, it's too sad.  

So here's what we're going to do:  We, Jimi and I, are going to live our lives the way we lived our lives before September 2010; before the positive pregnancy test, before the miscarriage, before my hormones sent me into a biological clock tailspin.  We're going to fuck when we're feeling frisky, calendars and ovulation calculators and luteal phases be damned.  And yeah, maybe I'll pay a little more attention in the middle of my cycle to try to make sure my legs are smooth and my personal trimmer has been put to good use and that I'm extra nice to my man, and that I remind him of how sexy I think he is.  And if a baby is something we're meant to have, eventually, we will.  And if we don't, I'll stay focused on all the things I love about my life, without a baby, and remind myself every now and again that I already have so much happy in my life.

And I'm sorry I lured you in with talk of food and then threw that on ya.  My bad.  

I'm a bitch.

It's not easy to write about being a bitch.  I want to have this thing as a place I can record all my crazy, even the sort that puts me in a not-so-good light, but it's not easy to write things that I know make me ugly.

Our good friend and former roommate called with news Friday night.  She's 28 weeks pregnant.  Allow me to take this moment to remind you that she just found out she's pregnant like 2 weeks ago; we'd thought she was maybe 20 weeks.  PANIC.  7 months without prenatal care, 7 months without vitamins, 7 months without watching her diet, 7 months without abstaining from all those poisons we put in our bodies - be it alcohol or Ibuprofen.

But her baby, thank goodness, is healthy and right on track to make an appearance in late February.  And it's a Girl!

And I am jealous as hell, and I can't make it stop.

I'm happy for her, please don't misunderstand that.  I'm scared for her and excited for her and hopeful for her.

But I want what she has and it makes my heart hurt if I think about it too much.

I keep telling myself that it will come to us, all in good time.  I remind myself that I don't want to experience a third trimester in the humid, sweltering, Ohio Valley summer (which is what would happen if I got pregnant now).  I say, "Well, I want to be able to canoe in May, and I can't do that if I'm pregnant."  I list all my blessings (see: previous entry re: my ridiculous jealousy), I remind myself that I already have so much, I remember that I don't need anything more in my life to be happy.

Oh, but I want, I want, I want.

I've got to get over this.  I've got to stop coveting things that aren't mine.  I've got to stop feeling as though I've been cheated by the Universe.  I've got to accept that life goes on, and that the pregnancies of others are not a direct attack on me or the Universe's way of punishing me; they have nothing to do with me.  Successful, happy pregnancies are the way it's supposed to be, and one day it will be my turn too.

I think the biggest contributing factor to my insanity is the fear that something will be wrong; I'll have scarred tubes or Jimi's sperm count will be low or my womb will turn out to be an inhospitable wasteland.  If I could just have some reassurance that yes, one day it WILL be our turn, then maybe I'd not freak out so much and turn quite so green every time someone announces a pregnancy or birth or first birthday party.  It's the fear that that one pregnancy was a one-time fluke that never should've happened; that we'll fall into the world of infertility...and, well, that scares the shit out of me.

I hate the way I sound.  I hate complaining and whining and bitching.  I had one miscarriage, after an unplanned, unexpected pregnancy, and now it feels like my desire to have a baby is consuming me.  I can't write this without feeling like an asshole; I read blogs every day written by women who have lived my worse fears - learning they'll never carry a pregnancy to term, or having miscarriage after miscarriage, or trying for months and months and months with no results and no financial means to seek medical advice.  I know this shouldn't invalidate my feelings or my concerns, but it certainly makes me feel a little melodramatic.

But I can't help the way I feel.  And until I get pregnant again, until I hear that baby's heartbeat, until I see its image on the ultrasound screen, until I give birth to a perfect little blend of me and Jimi, I'm probably going to keep feeling this way every time someone announces a pregnancy, a birth, a first birthday.  But I promise, I'm trying to get better at hiding it.  I'm trying so hard.

I'm a green-eyed jealous monster.

Back in August, a friend of ours needed a place to stay for a while and so we moved her into our upstairs - a comfortable space with two bedrooms, lots of closets, and a half bath.  A couple of weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.  A week after that, I miscarried.  Our friend lived with us into early October, then her parents drove up from their Southern home and scooped her up to go be with her family while she figured out what her next steps in the world were going to be. 

She called last night to tell us she's pregnant.  That apparently, she got pregnant about the same time I did, or very shortly thereafter.  She was pregnant when she was in our home.  Must've been something in the water that month.

I won't lie, my first reaction to her news was pure, unadulterated jealousy and envy.  I smiled for her and told her congratulations, but my body tensed up and I felt on the verge of tears.  I had thoughts I'm too ashamed to write here; I listed all the reasons in my mind why I was more deserving of my child than she was of hers.  I'm a horrible, awful, terrible person. 

I passed the phone to Jimi, bundled up in two jackets, and went out on the front porch to have a smoke and try to stop thinking such bitchy things.  I did breathing exercises, focusing on each muscle group in my body and willing them to relax - I felt like I was bound from the inside.

I listed all my blessings; a man who loves me unconditionally and without end, a home that is warm and safe and filled with all of my favorite things, a job that pays me a living wage and provides me with insurance so I can receive top-notch medical care whenever I need it, a network of family and friends who guarantee I'll never spend a night on the streets or a day without a meal, a reliable vehicle that will carry me as far as I want to go; and then shame washed over me in waves.  I was ashamed that I would think anything other than happy thoughts for my friend, and for the new life she's growing inside of her.  I have so much already; how could I even for a moment feel as though I was more entitled than someone else, as if I were somehow more deserving?  Disgraceful.

Our friend will be a wonderful mother.  She's intelligent and beautiful and patient and kind and generous and loving and warm and she knows how to dream big and follow her dreams.  She has a loving and supportive family who will help her through the struggles and challenges that motherhood will bring.  Becoming a single mother in these times of economic hardships certainly wasn't something she planned for herself, but she will make the right choices for herself and her child and she will overcome any obstacles that come her way using her genuine southern charm and her brilliant creativity.  She's going to be a wonderful mother, and once my body had relaxed and the tension was gone, I saw this, and I was happy for her.  Really happy, not fake jealous-happy. 

And so I started worrying.  About the father's about-face, and how unfair it was and how hurtful it must've been for our friend.  And her sisters' not-so-joyous reactions; they'll come around, but Momma-to-be doesn't need the stress of the cold shoulder right now.  And her hip, and money, and medical care...and that's just before the baby arrives!  So many things to worry about.

But she'll be fine.  She'll make the choices that are best for her and she'll make due and she'll take it one day at a time and she'll have a beautiful little creative genius in her arms in a few short months and we'll be heading down south to snuggle that sweet bundle of love. 

I'm going to try hard not to be jealous; I'm going to try hard to not think of what might have been when I see pictures of her pregnant belly; I'm not going to think about how far along I'd be compared to her when I read her updates; I'm not going to wonder why her and not me.  I'm going to sit over here and remember how much I have and remind myself that I already have more than I ever could've dreamed or hoped for.  I'm going to remember that anything else that comes my way in this world is icing on the cake.  I'm going to keep in perspective the fact that I did not have baby fever 3 months ago.  I'm going to remind myself that if it's meant to be for Jimi and I to have a child, it'll happen in its own time; rushing it and being impatient will only get me frustrated.  And I'm going to remember that even if we don't have a child, we still have each other.

I may be a little obsessive.

I read a lot of blogs.  Like, dozens.  And then I come to work and I tell Kim about them.  She's started to notice a pattern - most of the blogs I read are written by women with children.  I explain this away by saying, "Well, that's who blogs - women with children do all the blogging."  She just nods and says "oh, okay."

But maybe that's not completely true.  I read blogs written by gay Mormon men (MoHo's - who doesn't want to read a blog written by someone who describes themselves as a "MoHo"?!).  I read blogs written by women whose husbands are in the military, deployed overseas, and several written by women whose husbands were injured overseas or killed in action.  I read blogs written by people who have left the Mormon church; I read blogs written by people who adore the Mormon church.

But the blogs I read most often, the ones I'm the most invested in, the ones I log onto the internet to check if there's been an update posted - those are mostly written by moms, pregnant women, and infertile women trying to get pregnant.

And I realized last night that at least 5 of the blogs I'm following right now are written by women who found out they're expecting right about the same time I found out I was expecting.  Except I'm not expecting anymore and they still are.  And watching their progress?  It kinda sucks.  It sorta hurts my heart. 

I hate their baby tickers.  I hate their "bump" pics. 

I keep reading though, because I'm invested and I'm fascinated and I want to see what stories they tell next.  I try not to imagine myself in their shoes when they talk about moving out of the first trimester, ultrasounds, listening to heartbeats.  I try to skip the posts that are ALL PREGNANCY, ALL THE TIME. 

Last night, a mommy-blogger that I read posted something along the lines of "Can it be my turn, universe?"  She wants to have another baby; she feels like she's surrounded by babies.  She says the next step is to see a doctor, but she's afraid that taking that step will lead her down a path she's not emotionally ready for...hold on, I'm just going to copy the exact text...

"As I discussed my feelings today, I realised that the next step is to see a doctor. But I can't bring myself to take that step. It is an enormous step to take. A step that will take me down a path that I am not sure I am emotionally ready for. So I sit and wait in having-a-baby limbo land. Waiting for my miracle."

This is exactly why I'm afraid to "try".  If we're just going along, doing our thing, and we happen to make a baby...AWESOME!!!  I can even handle going so far as to try to make sure we're "doing our thing" on certain days of the month to hopefully increase our chances of making a baby.  But you start talking about body temperatures and charting and ovulation kits...oh hell, I can't take it.  And what if I did do all that, and we still weren't able to make a baby?  Doctors visits and needles and pills and tests and...it's too much.  Too much.  My delicate psyche can't handle the pressure and stress. 

Mostly, I can't even allow myself to try to picture a world where someone tells me I'll never have a baby of my own on my own. I know a couple of things to be fact:  adoption isn't an option for us; in vitro and all those other invasive medical miracles they can do to make babies other than the old fashioned way - those also aren't an option for us.  So instead of seeing a doctor and being told that to have a child we'll have to do something more than just "it", I'd rather pretend we're still up in the air about whether or not an addition to our family is something we REALLY desire and then pretend that it's no big deal if it doesn't happen.

Only I'll know that my heart would be broken. 

So yeah, maybe it's a little fucked up that I spend minutes of my day reading pregnancy posts and mommy talk and tales of infertility struggles.  But we're only just to the point where we can start trying to get pregnant after the miscarriage; if we're not successful, my blog watch list may find itself trimmed in the best interest of my emotional well-being. 

#2 - this is why I pay for health insurance.

The bill for my Rhogam shot came in yesterday.

Without insurance, this little medical miracle that will allow me to successfully carry our future child to term without my body attacking its blood would've cost me at least a grand.

With insurance, I get a benefit statement telling me what my insurance company paid, and reminding me why I'm happy to let them deduct forty-five bucks from my check each week.

This is why we need universal healthcare.

What I meant to say was...

I meant to say that the OB nurse called me back yesterday and told me that my hcg levels on Monday were 164 and on Wednesday they were 41.  Miscarriage officially confirmed.  BUT!  Oh yes, there is a but.  But, I have to go back for a THIRD blood draw one day next week so they can confirm that my levels are negative (zero?  it seems like they should be zero.  how do you get negative hormone levels?), and oh, by the way, don't have intercourse until after we've confirmed those negative(?) levels.

WTF?

Come on, lady, I'm finally done bleeding out what I thought was going to be our first, our only, child, and you're telling me now I can't even get some of that good ol' fashioned comfort for another week?  After what has been the most emotionally traumatic, the most horrifically gross, the saddest experience of my life, I can't fuck out some frustrations?  Damn, you're mean. And your stupid lab tech will probably have to stick me twice to find the vein.  Again.  This shit sucks.  You could at least offer me a 2 week script for some xanax or something.

Shit.

But seriously, despite that little rant, I'm good.  I'm finding the silver lining.  One is that I was able to finish off that bag I bought right before I found out I was pregnant.  (HA!  Lame stoner humor is funny.)

On a more serious note, Jimi reconnecting with his sister is an awesome repercussion of this pregnancy.  I discovered that quitting smoking and drinking is pretty freakin' easy when you have to.  And to get ready to try to do this baby-making thing again, I'm going to have to quit my substance-abusing ways.  That can only be a good thing.  Jimi's motivated to get his ass moving, and he motivates me like nothing else can, so that will be a brilliant plus for us both, and for our future.  We have time now to focus on paying off our debts and getting more money stashed away, and we have a focus to keep us on target and help us reach our goals.  This feels like it's woken us up to a new level of what we want from our lives, from our life together.  And as ridiculous as it may sound, it does give me some comfort to know that if our timing is right, we can totally get pregnant.  I'd been unsure.  It happened once, though...we can do it again.  And we'll be ready next time.  We'll do it right.  And we'll live happily ever after.

I was only consciously pregnant for seven days.  The sadness is more of a whisper already.  Jimi's love, my family's love, the love from my friends, the understanding from my work family...it reminds me of how much good there is in my life.  I have so much already, anything more is just icing on the cake.  I only like a little icing on my cake.  Just a little.  Maybe a rose or two.

So there ya go.  I'm pretty sure this is going to be my last miscarriage post.  I'm totally returning to my regularly scheduled boring blogging.  Of course, this is probably pretty boring to most anyone who reads it, so I guess I'm still true to my title.  Either way, I never made any promises.

Retail therapy is my new thing.

Apparently the timing isn't right for pregnancy to be my thing.
I refuse to let miscarriage be my thing.
But I can still shop.  And suddenly, I don't need to start stocking up on diapers to get used to accounting for the expense in my budget.  All that extra money!!!

So I've gone shopping.  Yesterday, I bought new lotions and a lemon-scented body wash.  I replaced our immersion blender - guess who's having smoothies for breakfast again?  That's right -this girl!  I stocked up on colorful plastic tumblers, because I prefer to drink out of a plastic cup and it seems like the few we have are always dirty.  So I bought 16 of them.  That should last a while.  :)  I bought Jimi a "ham knife" - an 8" slicing knife.  I figured I could find a decent one for twenty or thirty bucks, but the nice ones were more like seventy or eighty (and up), and the only other one I found was the one that came in a set of four blades for $15.  Whatever.  It's a ham knife.  It'll do until I'm willing to spend almost a hundred bucks on a single knife.  We ain't that kind of high falutin' just yet.  I wanted to buy all kinds of chocolate, but I kept reminding myself that we've got four dozen cookies in the house and two half-gallons of ice cream and that I really don't need to add chocolate to the arsenal, especially not when we're all "Okay, we're going to get healthy and get ready and we're gonna do this thing."  I bought 2 lamps, because they were on sale for $7 each and they're super cute and I was just complaining the other day about how the only lights in our bedrooms are the overhead lights and that light is so harsh, you know?

I want to buy jewelry.  I want to buy Jimi a watch or a ring, and I want pearls.  Diapers don't cost that much, though, so I don't have that sort of money to blow.

Today, I went in for the follow-up blood work.  They're comparing my hcg levels of today with those from Monday to confirm what we already know so I can get on with my life. The intake nurse who took my blood pressure and weight and confirmed what was in the computer, she kept saying "oh, honey, you'd be surprised at how many women bleed and are still pregnant."  "This isn't that sort of bleeding.  I'm not holding out any hope," was my reply, which I thought was more polite than pulling her hair and screaming "DON'T GIVE ME FALSE HOPE, BITCH!  I CAN'T TAKE IT!", because that's what I wanted to do after she said "Oh, then you'll just be that much happier when you find out everything's okay."  Later, when they did the physical exam, and she was in the room, and the doctor was all "Yes, I think with what I'm seeing down here, I think your assumption was correct, I do believe you have miscarried" I wanted to be real nasty and say to that nurse, "See?  THIS is why I didn't need your false hope, you cruel evil person."  But that was Monday.  Today, I just had to go in, sign in, get stuck twice (only good ones can find the veins on the first try.  Most aren't good ones.), wait for 10 minutes so they could get a copy of the card saying I'd had the Rhogam shot, and then I was free to go about my business.  There were pregnant women everywhere.  The sign on the parking garage, a cut-out of a pregnant woman, made me cry.  The woman wobbling toward the building entrance with her husband at her side carrying her overnight bag - she made me cry.

I was in great shape when I got to work.  I started crying almost immediately.  I wanted to be almost anywhere else - except maybe for the doctor's office or parking garage.  Rick gathered up my paperwork, handed me his laptop, and sent me home.  I'm working from home today.  Thank goodness.  I wasn't ready to be there.  To be around everyone being sad for me.  Christi brought me a rose.  It smells really nice.  It makes me smile.

I've sorted my paperwork, I've done my billing, and now I've got orders to enter and a lot of data entry.  But I took a break, because on my way back to work this morning, I stopped at Walgreens and bought some pads.  The pads I bought?  Look like they were made for dolls.  They're tiny and not at all what I needed.  I fail at buying pads.  I'm a 30 year old woman, and I'm incapable of purchasing the correct menstrual product I need to get me through a single monthly cycle.  Thank goodness my boyfriend knows what he's doing.  So I had to go to the CVS this afternoon to purchase the correct pads - the ones like the package Jimi bought.  While I was there, I decided I needed to get some hair dye, too.  In that dark red color Jimi's been saying he'd like to see on me.  And a new lipstick, because maybe it'll make me feel better if I feel prettier.  And some peanut butter M&M's.  Because i couldn't resist the call of the chocolate any longer.

I swear retail therapy is my new thing.  Miscarriage is NOT my thing.  I just need to talk about it a little bit, I guess.  I'm sorry.  I'll try to be happier again soon.  I promise.

Yesterday was going to be the day I sat around the house and relaxed and recovered.  Instead, I was at the doctor's office and the hospital all day.  So, here I am, sitting on my ass in my sweat pants and wife beater and no bra with my Snuggie wrapped around me and my feet propped up and the TV on and the computer on my lap and the heating pad on my belly.

I may or may not get up and shower and go shopping later.  I might just sit here all day.

It's awfully pretty outside, though.  I should at least take the dog for a walk.  Especially after all the cookies I've eaten in the last few days.