I can't thank you all enough for your love and support this week. It means a lot to know that you are there, walking with me, and holding my hand, holding me up. I don't really have the words to say it, other than thank you.
Edited to add: Thanks to Tash for posting this. It's how I felt with your love and support.
Our grief counselor from the local hospital called me today to check up on us. I was sleeping (nice thing about depression, you get your rest - WHMS) and got the message a half an hour later. We haven't seen her since June, I think, or maybe it was July... No, it was June, right before C defended his Diss. We were stuck in the hospital during a tornado threat.
It makes sense that she'd call today, the 25th, though I don't know if she did it on purpose. The 25th. Nine months. Or is it 10? No, it's nine months since my water broke. We were scared, but still pretty much in denial on the 25th. JK's dad died on that day, too.
It was on the 26th that reality hit, and hard. JK's birthday, too. On the 26th we got confirmation of what the doctor suggested. We got the falling leaf on our door. We got transferred to the big city hospital.
On the 26th of September, last year, I was puking my guts out. I had spent that weekend "praying to the porcelain god" as I put it in an email to JK, then. Wednesday of that week was the 26th, the heartbeat ultrasound. 8am. I puked 3 times before we got to the RE's for our appointment. (Once behind a S.teak & Shake off the highway at 7:45am -- not pretty).
Considering all my nausea, I felt pretty sure we'd see at least one heartbeat. I wasn't too worried, and I was distracted because of the way I was feeling physically. I was hoping I could get a shot of something to help with the nausea, since I had thrown up the Zo.fran on the way to his office.
We showed up for our appointment and got right down to business. The size of each sac was good, and hey, see that blinking? And that over there? There are the heartbeats. Two of them. Good rates, too. 85% chance of each surviving now. C was speechless.
Yeah, that's great, Doc, can I have some drugs please? Something so I won't puke so much? I had looked forward to the appointment, expecting to be teary and excited. Don't get me wrong, I was really pleased, but really, I expected them to be okay. Somehow, from the week before, I knew they'd be okay, that it was going to work out. I just wanted to stop throwing up.
The doctor sent me to a local medical center to get fluids and IV Zo.fran, and the nurse there told me that she was sick during her entire first pregnancy and had a healthy baby at the end of it. Once the fluids and drugs started working, I was making jokes about how I was only 6 and a half weeks along and my kids were already sucking the life out of me. Hah hah. Isn't that funny. Yeah.
A year ago, I was miserable, physically, but excited. Hopeful.
Now, I'm physically fine, but miserable. Trying to find hope. Not really succeeding.
Did you know yesterday was National Punctuation Day? Someone said that to me at school, that it was NPD, and all I could do was bite my tongue about how perfect it was that I had just gotten my period.
Yeah, yesterday was CD1. I hesitate to say that, aside from the fact that, well, readers, what do you care? And, also, I don't like the idea that it might be suggested that my emotional breakdown the other day was brought on just by hormones. Since my pregnancy, I've been having a lot of pms -- lots of physical symptoms and I've been pretty emotional in the days preceding my period. Symptoms I've only had in relatively mild form in the past.
On Tuesday I had an extremely rough therapy session. Combined with this major depression I've been developing. And then there's the grief. And the reliving of the fall and reminders everywhere of what I had last year. All I went through and how I'm right back where I started with nothing but pain and frustration. More doubts about school. While the class I'm teaching is going better, I'm not nearly as focused on my own studies as I should be. Not nearly.
So, Tuesday. Yeah, so I was talking with S, my shrink, about how I was feeling and we were talking about how I seemed to be punishing myself, how I seemed to be holding on to all this pain. Not moving through, not moving forward with it, but stuck, holding it. We talked about what I went through last year, how I felt when I was pregnant. How I was excited, but anxious. Scared to death of having twins. How would we do it. How physically miserable I was, but how it seemed like things were falling into place: family, school, marriage. Getting what I wanted.
The words that stick out for me from Tuesday: a 20-week panic attack. I think my anxiety may have made the sickness worse. I made mistakes. I didn't get taken care of. I couldn't take my pills. Or I did, but puked them up. I missed some of my love.nox doses. I didn't demand good care. I didn't go to a high risk OB (except the peri). I wanted to believe that things weren't as hard as they were. I pushed myself physically.
I was ambivalent. I had moments where I thought, I just want to eat something. I remembered that I used to love eating. I was frustrated because I couldn't have a normal pregnancy. There were moments where I just... and this is...I can't even say it out loud. I didn't want to be pregnant anymore. I just wanted to feel okay. Not sick. Not dehydrated. Not exhausted.
The rational part of me says, well, that's probably normal, everyone feels physically out of control at some point or another during pregnancy. Lots of people are ambivalent.
But I wonder how much. I wonder how it shaped my actions.
Some mistakes can't be corrected. That's what I said to JK on the phone Tuesday afternoon. I've made plenty of mistakes in my life, some worse than others. I think of how I depended on my inept vet when my 15-year old cat was dying -- how she suffered longer than she should have because I was in denial. I think of other things. But all in all, mistakes I've made have not had long term consequences. They have not hurt anyone like this. Not like I hurt. More importantly not like C hurts. Not like my boys suffered.
My sister happened to call later Tuesday afternoon. I told her a little bit about what I was dealing with. She was supportive, and disagreed that it was my fault, that I failed, and my body failed my boys and my husband. But she suggested approaching this from the other side: what if it was my fault? What could I do about it now? What could I do to live with this, perhaps forgive myself and move forward, live my life?
I really don't know.
I really don't.