tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3988264250808056832024-03-18T02:03:27.589-04:00So Dear and Yet So FarSuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.comBlogger503125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-18305332255351206922017-09-28T15:44:00.001-04:002017-09-28T15:44:53.048-04:00SleepI think I said maybe I'd write about it more. I just read this, jotted in the middle of the night on my phone about a week after I put her to sleep. I considered posting it on Facebook, since so many friends were so involved, present for so many things in her life. Not sure if I'll do that though.<br />
<br />
The other day I wrote a much longer thing related, similar post. Maybe I'll replace this,or post it, I don't know.<br />
<br />
Anyway. Here it is.<br />
****<br />
<br />
Death is so weird. Odd. unexpected.<br />
<br />
I've always been agnostic about God and heaven. My mother was sure in her non-belief. I remember those last breaths. In..out. Pause. In...out. Pause. Pause. In....out. and gone.<br />
<br />
Stella's sedation...I think it help her body start to really let go. She was antsy in *the room.* But she arranged her blanket the way she wanted, and settled in on it. She got kind of shaky as the sedation really settled in. Enough for me to call the doctor with concern. She check and could see she was under. Told me she was going to do it and gave her the last shot. I could barely see her last breath, couldn't hear it after all those days of her working so hard for it, barely see that last breath from that swollen belly. Barely at all. Her heart kept beating for just a little bit longer and then it didn't. The whole time I just kind of spooned up to her, rubber her ears and her head and talking softly to her, what a good girl she was. I don't think I had time to tell her it was okay to go, to rest. But she did. And she was just quiet. I kept rubbing head, and talked to her, petting her shoulder, and paws. Somehow something changed. Maybe her paws started getting cold, that was when I had to go. I don't know why I kept talking to her, petting her. Maybe I hoped there was just a little of her left to hear me, sense me.<br />
<br />
After I delivered the boys, dissociative, I was told they were both born dead. Records later showed Jacob had a heartbeat, briefly, whatever that means. I felt awful that he died alone. Even if he wasn't conscious or developed enough to be conscious. If I couldn't be there, someone should have been, gently, tending. A witness to this last heartbeats. I still don't know time of delivery and death exactly due to the recording bring screwed up. Afterward, I wanted to see them, say goodbye, as if I'd be there at the time. I asked them to bring up the boys. Then, almost hysterical, I changed my mind. I couldn't bear holding them cold, especially from the morgue. And besides, I told myself, they weren't really there anyway, my boys, themselves were gone.<br />
<br />
<br />
Even as she had settled down on her blanket, Stella began getting quiet. She'd been concerned: it wasn't the regular type of room and no treats on the trip or while waiting. And we had to wait a little since they squeezed us in. She couldn't decide if she wanted water. But she made things as comfortable as she could with her blanket. Next to me.<br />
<br />
When she passed it was almost like she was sleeping, but not quite. She was always a snoozy girl, and even when she breathed easy you could hear and see it. To me, that was peace for her. Just resting, comfy, no worries. The scent of corn chips often wafting from her feet. I got one last whiff of it a few days before I brought her in. Or maybe it was a week. Time shifts around death.<br />
<br />
After Stella was gone, I told folks it was "heartbreaking, but peaceful." And yes, no more worries, working to breathe, no trying to please me with that tail going up when I called her name. And there was no panic or fear in the room as her breath and heartbeat stopped, just one of our comfy snuggles, and then quiet.<br />
<br />
Just quiet.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-59534000719305681712017-09-09T20:26:00.000-04:002017-09-10T10:28:22.419-04:00Stella's HeartStopped beating at about 5:05 pm on Friday, August 18, 2017. She was about 12 years old.<br />
<br />
I didn't feel it stop; the vet did but she went sleeping, spooned against me, as I petted her silky ears, gently rubbed her face.<br />
<br />
I hope to be posting something more about her, but since I shared her entrance into my life nine years ago, <a href="https://sodearandyetsofar.blogspot.com/2008/11/im-doing-okay.html" target="_blank">https://sodearandyetsofar.blogspot.com/2008/11/im-doing-okay.html</a> , I thought I'd share news of her passing away from it.<br />
<br />
She started out sad and often apprehensive, but her spirit grew and it was a privilege to watch. Despite the many physical challenges Stella faced over her life, she stayed trusting and cooperative. Never did a tooth touch skin -- canine, civilian, or medical. The overarching adjective for her from stranger to friend to veterinarian was "sweet."<br />
<br />
She was a good girl, no matter what she got into, tore up, or ate. She was there for me when I needed her. She was a good girl, heart and soul. And I loved her.<br />
<br />
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Okay, technical difficulties -- working from my phone. I'll post the others soon, maybe. In the meantime, here's one of my favorites, from October 2016.Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-87992448623370767692017-03-03T00:47:00.000-05:002017-03-10T16:45:03.872-05:00RevisitedThere are only two pictures of me visibly pregnant, from the same day at 16 weeks. I'd just gotten home from the hospital from my nth visit for fluids, and only recently did I see how really pregnant I did look. I had been so hunched over with nausea and worry and exhaustion,..but hope. just a teeny bit of hope that grew as my boys did. There was one day, I was weepy after class, worrying that I was so sick, I couldn't give them what they needed to grow and be healthy. A friend, mother of 3 soon to be 4, put her arm around me, comforting me, "Don't worry, it's okay, really, they'll take what they need. They'll be okay." It helped,<br />
<br />
My memory of my pregnancy is not one of round, full, excitement. There were wonderful moments, Ultrasounds and sharing the news, the butterfly flutters as they moved around my belly, early on. Then the first real shove.<br />
<br />
After it was all over, I was empty. At least at first. The roundness disappeared, my arms skinny, my belly loose, but empty. It surprised me that it was loose, since I had never put on weight (I had lost 6 lbs by 19+ weeks), I lost the roundness after, though. the fluids and extra blood of pregnancy. And after, all of a sudden, it seemed, people started saying, yeah, you were pretty sick, skinny, It had even been hard to tell I was pregnant if I was wearing a coat. I guess because it was just belly.<br />
.<br />
I had had no idea how round and excited I had become, though. I was happy to finally be getting close, despite the nausea and puking and stress and everything else. And I had found my work, and colleagues I enjoyed, and now pregnancy -- and my child would have a brother! And no more fertility treatments! -- and my loving husband. My family, I was growing my family. I was helping to grow my family, with the sleepless nights and the first days of kindergarten and the adolescent arguments and the first days of college, the empty nest, And the silliness.<br />
<br />
Way back before we started trying to conceive, when one of my nieces or nephews was little, a toddler, no more that a year or 18 months. or they looked around and found who they were looking for: "Mommy!" they exclaimed. Mommy! and my uterus ached and my chest clenched. I felt it. I wanted it. I knew.<br />
<br />
***<br />
Every day it becomes more clear to me that I am Childless and will ever be. I am missing all these things, yes, but that not what consciously runs through my mind. <br />
<br />
This is really who I am now. No pregnancy... none of all that stuff No miracles, no adoption at my age or status or PTSD (even now that it's treated), Foster children? To have a child, love a child, and let it go -- I've already done that. I don't know if I could do it again.<br />
<br />
There won't be a child that is mine to raise. Not a family. Plan A is gone. Time to embrace Plan B. Long time past that. Or C, maybe. If I can figure out a way to do that.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-30760116149085545682016-08-14T16:18:00.000-04:002016-08-14T16:18:04.055-04:009I guess that was partly instigated by the time of year. My cycle is lining up with the one I had when I got pregnant with the boys.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nine years ago.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sad, really, that that sticks, though I am usually a freak with dates and stuff like that. If you've been around here, you might remember. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Don't know that I'll write much more, but I'll keep this up here. Maybe it -- I -- can keep someone company.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't know what I'd have done without it, and the company I've kept. Then and know.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sending love.</div>
Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-63429506914876137822016-08-14T16:11:00.000-04:002016-08-14T16:11:27.380-04:00(LONG self-indulgent post.)<br />
<br />
Stella (11-year old dog) is now supposed to be getting B12, initially 6 sub-q shots on Saturdays since I took her in on a Saturday. I forgot yesterday, so I did it today. No biggie. Filling the syringe, finding a spot, finding makeshift sharps container. I was a pro. I mean, she's skinny, so finding a spot was hard, but the whole ritual.<br />
<br />
Familiar.<br />
<br />
I was just telling a friend about it. The sub-q and the intramuscular, and the pills for this and the shots for that and that and that...just to TTC.<br />
<br />
then still shots and stuff once I got pg.<br />
<br />
We got used to having med bottle caps and syringe boxes and sharps containers, alcohol swabs, some just around, some neatly stashed. I used to bring my lovenox to school in my backpack when I was pg. When we were trying once I had to do a shot in the airport bathroom.<br />
<br />
I completely forgot yesterday. I had even been kvetching about the dozen things I have to do for Stella and Hazel (one of the cats)...totally forgot. Not a big deal for her medically, esp since she's way better than a week ago.<br />
<br />
It wasn't on the calendar, and though nothing else is, it was in a paper bag, easily neglected.<br />
<br />
I had forgotten all the steps it took, all the pills and the shots and creams and all the appointments and the internal ultrasounds and being told when to have sex. I mean, I remembered, but it was kind of a blur.<br />
<br />
9 cycles over almost 2 years. (Some of them almost worked!)<br />
<br />
Then 4 more.<br />
<br />
I'd forgotten how much work it was. 9 cycles. And a few years later, 4 times more. And here I am. Where I am.<br />
<br />
I just hadn't thought about it in a long time.Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-36822356655039458062014-12-02T12:07:00.002-05:002014-12-02T12:07:48.605-05:00Narrative<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">From an assignment for a class about the use of narrative. Not my best work, and I may have posted it before, but it's been on my mind. At the end are comments from my professor.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">*****</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“You’ll figure it out,” he says, as I gather my computer, my purse and a snack, on my way upstairs to complete this damned project. It has been through iteration after iteration. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Word pictures. Poems. Edited posts. Posts straight from the blog. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But which posts? What part of the narrative do I tell?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I sit cross-legged on the bed. The dog is snoring nearby, curled up on the pale blue t-shirt I wore today. It was a long day today. Both Cliff and I were at school the entire day. She worries, the dog, I mean. At least she looks like she worries, with those magic ears that can transform her face from curious beagle to Saddest Basset Hound Ever in the blink of an eye. As Cliff says, “She has cares.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I burn about 5 minutes describing the dog instead of pondering how to bring a sliver of this story to the page. It’s not that it’s so original. My story? I started the blog in a desperate attempt to find some support, some community. Someone who might understand what it’s like. In the two years I spent trying to get pregnant, I filled hours reading infertility blog after infertility blog. I never commented, save once or twice. I considered, occasionally starting my own blog, but it didn’t seem that what I had to say was particularly compelling. I found enough support in just knowing there were others out there. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Almost a week after delivering the boys, I made my first foray back into the community: a trip to Starbucks where the staff offered condolences and a trip to school to meet with the Chair. After being out for an hour, I came home exhausted. I felt like I was moving through water, all my motions slowed, voices sounded warped and my vision, well, I just felt a huge invisible, yet physical barrier between me and everyone else. I was weighed down at the bottom of a sea. I lived in a different world now. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I came home and sat down on the beat-up loveseat in the living room. Well, I’ll give it a try, I guess. I opened up the computer. I came up with a title and a chose a template. Easy enough. The profile was more of a challenge. How does one begin a blog? This is how I started mine:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The beginning of the end </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">All I wanted for Christmas this year was to enjoy what seemed to be the cessation of my interminable morning sickness. A warm, quiet house on our last child-free Christmas, with day dreams of the happy chaos to come. That morning I woke up to a gush, knowing something was horribly wrong. It was the beginning of the end. My boys would not last; my husband and I -- our hearts broken -- would never be the same. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I sent a note to a clearinghouse website for infertility and loss telling them about my blog. And then I closed the computer up for 4 or 5 days. When I opened it, I found 27 comments. 27. Condolences from strangers. Some who had been through it, some who just wanted to say, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Cliff came downstairs and found me crying. “Look.” I turned the screen to him. “Wow. That’s good, isn’t it?” I nodded, but couldn’t say anything. Each comment brought more tears. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It was like reading the sympathy cards we got in the mail. I was so touched by each one: by both the thought and the reason for sending it. Almost two and a half years later, I can still feel that tingle behind my eyes when I think of it. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I posted once or twice more, then left it for almost a month. After a particularly rough day out in the world, I just jotted down some thoughts, vented some frustration. I wrote as I would in a journal, or tried to, but my audience was always there, in the corner of my eye. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I began to read others’ blogs more regularly. I learned the etiquette. I read some brilliant writing. Different stories, each of them, but with the same sad ending. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">When I was writing, creative writing, in my twenties, somewhere I read or was told that “what is most personal is most universal.” Those words echoed in my head, but did not ring entirely true. I felt disconnected from everyone around me, as I tried to process the loss and the trauma. But reading the words of other women, babylost women, as some call them, I heard my own fears, dreams, hurt articulated. And I was reassured by those who had come before me. Somehow, I was able to reach out to those who came after me. I didn’t know much, but I could listen. I could simply say, “I’m so sorry,” and know that I was helping if only for a moment. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">In the months following our loss, I posted and posted and posted again. Getting it out helped. Reaching out helped. Before I knew it was part of a community. My entries became more like letters or emails to dear friends. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">In the two years and several months since I started my blog, I have written 434 posts. Sometimes I just want to vent, sometimes just to document. It helps, sometimes, just to write something out; I don’t even need to post it. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So what do I hand in for this freaking project? The dog is still snoring, and it’s almost an hour later. What story do I want to tell? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I still don’t know. “Life goes on.” “It takes a long time.” What about the reaction I got when I asked about potential participants for research on pregnancy loss and women’s professional lives? Unanimous sentiment: Please, tell this story. Loss is not the end of us, but it is an important part of us.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Sometimes, I feel like my story began on December 25, 2007, when my water broke. Sometimes I feel like it began when we got pregnant. Or when we started trying to get pregnant. Or when I delivered my twin boys at 20 weeks 5 days gestation. My life has been materially changed by my pregnancy, the 10 days it took to let go of it, the delivery itself… I am materially changed. I think my blog has served to document both the change in my life and the change in me. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But I’m not done yet. Of course, no one is ever done, but what I’m trying to say is that I’m still trying to figure out who I am, and what my place in this new world will be. Two years in and my friends, those in the “club no one wants to be in” are still with me.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I’m going back and forth, still, on which posts – if any – to share. I considered some of the really tough ones from the delivery, the decision making, but instead, I think I’ll share some of the periphery of remembering on the anniversaries of the loss, and life after the first year. Just some connections.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Saturday, January 3, 2009</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I thought I could do it </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I just opened up my computer after spending $100 at the grocery store on mostly crap. Cookies, comfort food.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And yarzheit candles. I bought 4 of them. I'm not sure why I got 4. It's getting close to sunset; we'll light them soon.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I thought I could describe the 180-degree change in the demeanor of the OB resident when she realized what I was there for. And how she had to do yet another pelvic/cervical check (#12?) and ultrasound. The room was darkened for it; I couldn't look, finally, I just couldn't look at the ultrasound. C just held my hand and kept me looking at him.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I thought I could recount the different rooms I was in, all of which echoed with other women's healthy babies' heartbeats in neighboring rooms. How I heard and saw healthy woman laboring as I was wheeled in my bed down to my tiny laboring room.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I thought I could talk about the delay after day in getting the pitocin up to my room, so that (even though I was there at 6:30 am, I wasn't induced until about 2pm).</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I thought I could describe how wonderfully easy it was to fall against the nurse, Nurse Bob, so I could get my epidural. And how the intern hit big nerves three times, enough for me to cry out, before his supervisor took over. And how the numbness never fully reached my right side. And how we were able make a lame joke, finally, about my having a lot of nerve.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I thought I could talk about how my family took turns sitting in my room because it was so small. There was nothing bigger available, as the department was under construction. Two at a time, plus C. My sister was a writer for sitcoms in a former life, thank god, so her innate sense of humor could make me laugh, even as I watched my stomach clench periodically. Her and the ativan.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I thought I could tell how awkward it was with my brother and BIL. And the low, florescent lighting cast a pall over everything. And how my father, through his smile to try to comfort me, looked so very sad and worried. How his big, rough hands held mine and patted them, gently.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I thought I could describe how inured I was to cervical checks, and how each one showed that I was not progressing and how it seemed my body didn't want to let go. How it wasn't until that evening that my protocol changed.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">*****</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">There is much more from this day that I wanted to share. Perhaps I'll be able to tell more later. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Posted by Sue at 4:30 PM 10 comments </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Tuesday, January 6, 2009</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Evening Comes </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I don't really know how to end this. There is so much that follows that I've already written about. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I need to take a breath or two, now. Thinking about what I (we) just wrote, what happened, and about you. I have felt so alone. Even with you here with me. Writing this made me realize just what we went through. It has made me realize that no one, except C and perhaps my sister and father, knew the whole story. The Whole story. I have censored and edited, and really, most of what happened does not fit into casual conversation. Into any conversation. And really, I don't know that it's a story I could tell anyone but you. Not like this.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So now I may take a moment to breathe, a day, or a few days. I'm struggling hard again. School begins next week and I still don't have a plan. But Stella begins school, too and I'm hoping that the routine of day to day will help me ease my way out of this pit again.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Thank you for reading, and for abiding with me. I felt every hand on mine, every arm around my shoulder. I'll leave you with this poem by Jane Kenyon, one of my favorite poets.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Let Evening Come</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Let the light of late afternoon</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">shine through the chinks in the barn, moving</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">up the bales as the sun moves down.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Let the cricket take up chafing</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">as a woman takes up her needles</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">and her yarn. Let evening come.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">in the long grass. Let the stars appear</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">and the moon disclose her silver horn.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Let the fox go back to its sandy den.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Let the wind die down. Let the shed</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">go black inside. Let evening come.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">in the oats, to the air in the lung</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">let evening come.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Let it come, as it will, and don't</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">be afraid. God does not leave us</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">comfortless, so let evening come. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Posted by Sue at 9:20 PM 17 comments </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Sunday, January 11, 2009</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Loving </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">One day I'll write a post about how twice a year she sends me care packages filled with Jewish and NY goodies I can't get here, goodies from Zabars, making sure to include lox spread for C. I'll write about how she sends me articles on topics I once mentioned I was interested in.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Someday I'll write a post about how she begins her notes to me "Suzi dear," and still remembers terrible jokes I made about cereal when I was 10 years old, still gives them a warm laugh. I'll write a post about how at every family gathering for a holiday meal, she will bring crunchy, raw, red peppers for me, because she knows I love them.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Today, I'll write just a few words about how, during our phone call today, after I thanked her for her recent care package, and she asked me about school, my dear Aunt L (Tia, as she prefers), asked how I was doing. I was sort of honest, that it's been hard, this time of year, but I'm getting through. And she told me she lit yahrtzeit candles for the boys.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And I amazed, and touched, that she was thinking not just of me, on those days, but of my sons. She was loving not just me and C on those days, but Jacob and Joshua, too. Perhaps, if she remembered the words, she was saying prayers in Hebrew as she touched the match to the wick of each candle.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And 2 hours after our conversation, I am crying as I think of it, and I think about my worry that my boys would be forgotten. Or, dismissed. And I picture her in her tiny NYC kitchen, looking at each flame, and remembering them. Loving them as she loves me. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Posted by Sue at 6:50 PM 16 comments </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So, that’s a snippet of a few days in which I remembered a few days from the year before. Did I tell a story? Maybe. Was it one I intended? I don’t know. But it’s likely there’s more to come. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">*****</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Sue, </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It is a story and a powerful one indeed. It should not be neat and linear as that strategy only obscures how messy loss, tragic loss really is and how it never really goes away…maybe it only ebbs and flows. The narrative I hear here is the one about finding the courage, finding the energy to tell the story of healing or the story of struggling to heal or doing something before you yourself die from sadness and complicating what that might mean really. There is a very important book here and you should carry on. I wish you what was once wished upon me at a time of utter loss: I wish you peace beyond your own understanding. I know that peace seems, at this moment, so very incomprehensible but hopefully you will find it in your quest to remember Jacob and Joshua rather than forgetting what happened. </span><br />
<br />
Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-36137376449382820192014-09-10T12:39:00.002-04:002014-09-10T12:41:50.111-04:00I had to look it up568<br />
<br />
Details fadeSuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-91706468997559299532014-09-08T20:02:00.000-04:002014-09-08T20:57:51.932-04:00Last time<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; font-size: 17px;">7 years ago today, my wonderful cousin got married in a gorgeous wedding in a gorgeous outdoor ceremony, filled with all kinds of color and people and traditions and love. And food. Such a beautiful, happy day. Such joy. So much joy. Happy tears.</span><br />
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7 years ago today, those two pink lines were dark and thick, more than I had ever seen, getting darker every day, every 12 hours, for 4 or 5 days, never wavering, as they had done, as they had done each time, three times before, before fading to nothing over a week, or two. </div>
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7 years ago today, I felt confident -- well, hopeful -- enough to tell my father that it looked like this cycle may have worked, this 9th cycle. It was in a quiet corner during the wedding reception and tho I never uttered the "p" word, he hugged me and gave me a huge kiss in the cheek. I had only ever told him after the failures, the losses, and wanted up give him a little gift of hopeful grandparenthood.</div>
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7 years ago today, I was four weeks pregnant. I knew the beta would show something, but was wracked with apprehension. And hope.</div>
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7 years ago today, I was four weeks pregnant for the last time. Ever.</div>
Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-6494894744541905192014-08-14T12:29:00.002-04:002014-08-14T17:34:10.802-04:00No title<br />
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Every so often I look at the Statcounter and see there are still a few folks visiting, if only, perhaps, to look for updates.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I'm at a very low point right now (very, very low) but maybe as I come through, I'll be able to share more, to revive the blog. And even just being here is fraught.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Loss is indeed scary, but this scary is hard to read about, let alone write about. And it's not that I don't want to bum out readers. But sometimes I feel like the cliché "mother who fell apart" after her babies died, even if it was "understandable" with the unending horrors from TTC up until today, even. Someone you see on one of *those* shows on TLC. You know what I mean. </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
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Thank you for stoping by, old friends and new. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
(Thanks to <a href="http://www.stirrup-queens.com/" target="_blank">Mel</a> at Stirrup-Queens.)</div>
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Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-26367967182817338172012-12-25T16:44:00.001-05:002012-12-25T19:05:35.662-05:00Five yearsFive years ago today my water broke and my life changed forever.<br />
<br />
It's been almost a year since I've posted, though I've been wanting to. Things have been difficult, with the regular ups and downs of living, I suppose. So, i guess I'm not up to catching up almost a year's worth of blog in one post. And really, there hasn't been much happening, aside from a move out of the Midwest, the passing of my dear Tia. Both in July.<br />
<br />
I've been inconsistent with the antidepressants since we moved, and it's shaken me a bit, though I'm getting back on the wagon. Sometimes, though, it's seemed to me that, while they helped me be far more functional, I hadn't been really focusing on rebuilding... Uh, I guess rebuilding myself and my life. my therapist calls it crisis management, last spring, and I guess it was. As you may have seen, I got really low last winter-into-spring. In February I probably hit my lowest point ever. Nothing *happened* but oh it was really bad. Fortunately my therapist and shrink worked together and I climbed out of my hole.<br />
<br />
Mostly, I've been struggling to figure out how to live this life, the one with no more pregnancy, the one -- probably -- with no children. The one in which I am loving other people's children. And I am glad that they have wonderful children to love, but it is still not the same, is it. In the end, it's not the same.<br />
<br />
Trying to reconcile...well, myself, I guess.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
Today, I am up and down. Last night was bad, but I am okay enough today to occasionally "like" things on FB. Snarky exchanges with my sister, who is all about encouraging the snark over the mope, which is good. I'm going to try to stay away fora few hours today. It's so great to see my friends and family and their pictures and stories, but there is also the hangover to deal with.<br />
<br />
My friend S, the dear friend who was there for us, for me, during and since, remembered the significance of today. She commented on a status posted that Time Flies. She is the only one. I miss her so much. I can't reach out, somehow. I follow her doings on FB, but what do I have to offer her? I can listen and be excited for her. That is what friends do. Good friends. I am not a very good friend these days. I think that's why I've avoided the blog. Tired of being sad and struggling. Tired of hearing about it. Tired of processing. Tired of being the ne who is still struggling. Not just with the loss, I think, not just my boys, but with the delivery, the doctors and decisions and inadequate care we received. And... All of it. Second (third, fourth, fifth) guessing. And resisting this newer life. The one I didn't want. Looking around at the others who have what I want (at least on the surface).<br />
<br />
I tried to post a status on FB, just a small comment on or recognition of the day, but nothing feels right. I still think about the two little stars metaphor, but it just doesn't feel right anymore. Hasn't for a while.<br />
<br />
So in the world, where I don't really have a place to share this, I've come back here. I'm glad you're here -- I always have been. And I think I'm going to try to write again. Or at least come by more often. Thank you for sticking around.http://sodearandyetsofar.blogspot.com/2009/01/loving.html?m=0http://sodearandyetsofar.blogspot.com/2009/01/loving.html?m=0Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-13250524324617220442012-02-13T16:56:00.001-05:002012-02-13T17:09:23.336-05:00AfraidThat's what it is.<br />
<br />
I try to work. I try to write. <br />
<br />
Anxiety? <br />
<br />
Fear.<br />
<br />
I don't even have the words.Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-25382065148278736082012-01-25T17:37:00.002-05:002012-01-26T00:00:28.909-05:00stream of four years' consciousnessI need to write, but I don't want to. I know there are things to write, but I don't want to. I've told my story too many times until I can see people inching away thinking <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Why does she have to mention this again?</span> Dead babies, lost pregnancy infertility, Grief. I have talked and vented and cried. I have yelled at people who didn't deserve it. I have loved and I have gotten lost in it. I have lost who I am, what I want (need) who I used to be No that's not right. Kubler Ross says we tell our story to make sense of it, to let a little in at a time, as much as we can hard it leaks out a bit at a time with tears with seething -- the almost sweet smell of amniotic fluid on the white pad between my legs -- after that first burst it came and went movement, sleep I could feel it leaving me. My only living son my body slowly slowly bit by bit falling away his source of life of growth even as his heart beat strong wavy lines on the ultrasound, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Oh look, you can see he's practicing breathing</span> -- But how could he live, how could he grow and breathe and play when my body took away what he needed to do all these things<br />
<br />
I had wanted to watch my child grow -- discover his fingers and toes, giggle and walk, grow into a person a little beautiful person someone to walk with for a little while -- so trite is the expression but walk with as he grew on his own with his mother and father slowly receding as he grew into a man -- I wonder if the wonder and joy of watching your child discover his toes ever really goes away<br />
<br />
My chest closes off and my throat is tight, squeezing tears, again the tears that you'd think would slow, would dry up after four years<br />
<br />
What did that what closed my throat discovering pink little bubble gum toes that fit in a little toothless mouth -- the milestones of growing up all those things I knew I was letting go of, letting him go -- And I couldn't even face it, couldn't be present.<br />
<br />
Why didn't we wait a little longer? Why was I the only one with hope -- desperate hope for a future<br />
<br />
Was it imaginary? this future? or would it bring pain for my boy? Toes he couldn't reach -- brain bleeds and spastic, cramped muscles -- a feeding bag an ostomy. Five to 10 percent if we made it to 24 weeks, 28 weeks -- 32 -- stunted lungs -- poor weak legs --<br />
<br />
And I couldn't say good bye -- not to my cold dead child.<br />
<br />
I watch my sister with her eminently healthy child, the one who discovered her toes and fingers and slept, newly born, with a smile on her face -- She is happy and sociable and is learning to use verbs -- verbs, just like that. and she says, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I love you, Aunt Sue,</span> and I -- my body my chest constricts with all the air my son never got <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">-- (neither of them got) -- at least one had a chance, such a small one </span>-- oh, the breath stops in throat, and I need to practice breathing.Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-21880975117949948412011-12-21T01:38:00.001-05:002011-12-21T07:39:15.834-05:00Quiet nightI'm sorry it's been so long. For those of you still around, well, thanks for being around. It's been a difficult season and, I anticipate, another difficult week or two. We have some distractions planned, but, well, you know.<br />
<br />
My dear friends in the computer (those I know, and those who lurk) and those in real life, I think of you, and of your little ones, very often despite my apparent silence. There is a lot to say, and yet I seem to have no words right now. (I may be creating a new space, but the same applies there, so...)<br />
<br />
I just wanted to stop by briefly to say hello, and to wish you all moments of joy, peace and light during this holiday season. During this season, and every day.<br />
<br />
SSuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-17008265641464687372011-09-10T10:18:00.003-04:002011-09-10T10:37:19.100-04:00Never before and never since<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/1AHxD_BMBfE" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
These are the days<br />
<br />
These are days you'll remember.<br />
Never before and never since, <br />
I promise, will the whole world be warm as this. <br />
And as you feel it, you'll know it's true that you are blessed and lucky.<br />
It's true that you are touched by something that will grow and bloom in you.<br />
<br />
These are days you'll remember.<br />
When May is rushing over you with desire to be part of the miracles you see in every hour. You'll know it's true that you are blessed and lucky.<br />
It's true that you are touched by something that will grow and bloom in you.<br />
<br />
These are days.<br />
These are the days you might fill with laughter until you break. <br />
These days you might feel a shaft of light make its way across your face. <br />
And when you do you'll know how it was meant to be.<br />
See the signs and know their meaning.<br />
It's true, you'll know how it was meant to be. <br />
Hear the signs and know they're speaking to you, to you.<br />
<br />
Natalie Merchant<br />
<i>These are Days</i> (1992)<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
Four years today since the first beta. Once this week is over, most of the dates will fade. I just recall feeling this way that week, cautiously, after the first and second beta. And then there's the bit about May, but that's another post; I've spent plenty of time on May, haven't I.)<br />
<br />
Thanks for hanging around.Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com116tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-80710235162037229832011-08-25T18:51:00.000-04:002011-08-25T18:51:43.389-04:00Lost in space, or BookendsSorry I disappeared. It's been a summer. You know. Lots going on, but much of it in my head.<br />
<br />
I don't have much time to write right now, but I'm doing okay. I'm doing well, even. Therapy continues to be helpful. I have barely begun the diss proposal, but I have begun. If I want to be done with all this by the end of next summer (my own potential deadline), I need to have the proposal done and defended by mid-October. Sometimes I feel like I can totally do it. Sometimes, I'm frozen. <br />
<br />
My topic is not about DBMs, specifically, but it's about being a woman in the workplace (specifically academia), and the private and public nature of women's bodies, especially around pregnancy -- and then what happens there, at work, when there is a loss? So far, that seems to be the direction. Academia is an institution focused on the mind, and yet women are (still) valued for their bodies. What do we do with women, what do we do with their grief. I could go on and on, since I'm not very far yet. You get the idea.<br />
<br />
Like I said, I'm doing good work in therapy. It ranges from loss to IF to body stuff to health to whatever it is in my head, and more. It's not easy, but good. I'm weepy lately, though I'm hoping it's part of the process.<br />
<br />
I've been distancing myself from this world, I'm sorry to say, but I need to keep from dipping my foot in that pool too often. I read on my reader, I lurk. My heart is there, but my head seems to need to lead it out a little more.<br />
<br />
I'm writing today, probably because of the date. I can't not remember. Not important ones. At the very least, I remember the season. My body remembers the time of year. The smells of late summer; the feel of the air.<br />
<br />
Four years ago today, we had the IUI that conceived the boys. <br />
<br />
IF was getting to me, to us. Our one last shot (so to speak) with the leftover meds. Talking about next steps we figured what the heck.<br />
<br />
We don't know what the next steps will be. Back where we started. Only not. <br />
<br />
More soon. Thank you for hanging in there with me.<br />
<br />
Sending love,<br />
SSuehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com76tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-91551379885837479852011-07-11T22:58:00.000-04:002011-07-11T22:58:30.626-04:00just occurred to meHow much emotion I left out of that last post. It seems that there's a lot of feeling I'm not articulating. Not yet anyway. Perhaps I am out of practice. Perhaps it will come soon.<br />
<br />
We shall see.Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-2711218824860091372011-07-11T21:07:00.002-04:002011-07-11T21:56:32.022-04:00That time of year<i>(Sorry, this is really, really long...) </i><br />
<br />
So, it's my birthday this week. When I was a kid, I loved my birthday, I got excited about it. I was disappointed if the weather was crappy or there wasn't much planned. it's not that I wanted some huge party, but perhaps just recognition. And being one step closer to being grown up. I don't know what I expected to be so great about growing up, but there was *something.* Maybe I just hoped it would be easier than being a kid, a teenager. It would be when I'd have all my shit together, or married or loved or parenting. Having some control in my life, maybe. The last five or seven years or so, not enjoying them so much.<br />
<br />
Whatever.<br />
<br />
I'm in a pretty bad mood today. There are several possible reasons, but most likely is that I think I skipped some of my pills last night. I think that pisses me off even more than the other stuff.<br />
<br />
Anyway. C and I are supposed to be furiously cleaning up the house because, as I found out on Friday, C's folks will be coming to stay with us overnight on Thursday. How did I get out of the loop? This was mentioned months or weeks back, but somehow I never heard. Or never heard when. Nothing's getting clean. He's got mixed feelings and so do I, but I think for different reasons.<br />
<br />
The car seems to need a new radiator cooling fan. It makes this terrible noise if I turn on the fan and the a/c at the same time. Of course, it's been June/July. Today it was about 90F, with a "real-feel" of 114. No A/C in the car. No idea how much this will cost, but I've had to cancel two different appointments to get it fixed because<br />
<br />
There has been much drama with the dog. She needed emergency surgery in May (the day before our anniversary) for a large foreign body in her stomach. After a night of violent vomiting (4 or 5 times) and a week of nausea and lethargy, when she finally refused food despite the anti-emetic, we took her to the local city's emergency/referral animal hospital. Doc did x-rays and an ultrasound which showed that her stomach's movement (peristalsis) had completely stopped because of the foreign body. It was basically surgery or death, so, obviously we opted for the surgery. Thank you, Grandma's inheritance for $3,000.<br />
<br />
Exactly a month later, Stella started furiously licking the carpet again in an effort to vomit, which she did 3 or 4 times in 15 minutes. Emptied her stomach. Off for an 11pm visit to the Doggie ER so find a small foreign body. $1,000 and two x-rays later they gave her fluids and anti-emetics and after she recovered from a "random" period of lethargy, we took her home. They said, can you keep her from licking the carpet? I told THREE doctors that she only does this when she needs to throw up. Hmm. They said, "Can you crate her so she doesn't lick the carpet?" sigh. Make an appointment with the Internist. This premiere facility has only ONE internist. She is out all week for a conference. We make an appointment. Stella has another vomiting episode at 4:30 in the morning, and then develops diarrhea in the days before the appointment.<br />
<br />
So at the appointment, she runs a test (neg for pancreatitis) or two (neg for Addison's) and wants to do an endoscopy when the Addison's test comes back. But she can't because she's out of town, again, this time for a death in the family.<br />
<br />
Endoscopy scheduled for Monday AM that she comes back. Internist calls at 11am, says procedure went great and pup was doing great. The scoping showed some areas of "sick" or "unhealthy" tissue, which, when biopsied, was friable and did not bounce back as healthy tissue should. Her initial opinion was that it was likely to be Inflammatory Bowel Disease, though a small chance of Lymphoma. 3 to 5 days for results. In the meantime, start her on steroids (pred) as initial treatment for both.<br />
<br />
I called to check in at three days, and the doc called me back with the results. "It's good," she said, and I breathed for the first time in 3 days. Inflammatory Bowel Disease can be managed, but we'll need to find a new diet for her, one that includes a novel protein diet (like duck or venison, which she's never eaten) because the IBD is likely caused by an allergy to food proteins. So, the pred for a month and then we start to reduce and change her diet.<br />
<br />
The pred, as predicted is making her thirsty and peeing *constantly,* and always hungry. We are taking her out every couple of hours. She is peeing all over the house. She is to be on the pred (15 mg x 2/day) prescription food, a weekly B12 shot and daily pepcid. They start her on an anti-biotic because her digestions seems to be deteriorating. I called the local vet, overwhelmed and spent a half an hour talking with her about what we'll be doing, and she reduced the pred slightly since she was doing better with all these meds.<br />
<br />
After going through tons of paper towels, and leaving puppy pee pads all over the house (totally unused, btw), I went to the dollar store absorbent "chammy", then just went to target for cloth diapers because they are so absorbent. Floor, carpet -- they work great. We are washing diapers every day. Yes. Diapers. And we actually conversations about the color and consistency about the dog's poop.If it wasn't serious, it would be funny. Ironic, even. Perhaps.***<br />
<br />
Somehow she makes it 4 or 5 hours during the night, though there is usually a wet spot somewhere. Fortunately, she is going through so many *big* bowls of water a day the pee just looks like water. <br />
<br />
Stella is pretty confused, alternately lethargic from the pred and starving/sniffing out food crumbs on the carpet or under the couch or bed. We found out the other day she can fit her entire head under the couch and her whole body under the bed. Awesome.<br />
<br />
So far (not counting *all* the food and the last consult with the local vet) we've spent about $6,000 getting the dog diagnosed and treatment begun. Thanks to Grandma (again) and C's high interest emergency credit card. Also, I never got to start looking for a job because Stella's illness began the week we were finishing grading for the spring semester. We've been constantly running back and forth to the city and the local vet, with crisis, test or consult. For the last two and a half weeks, we have had to coordinate the entire day so that the dog is not alone for more than 2 or 3 hours at a time, to try to reduce the house-peeing. Or make sure she gets her meds on time. Or try not to spend money we don't really have. (thanks, again, Grandma).<br />
<br />
So, I would use the cc to pay for the car repair, except that I have to find a time to get the car fixed when C will be here -- that was going to be this Friday, but we will be hosting C's folks. Well, after I entertain them Thursday afternoon while he is teaching. And while I'm not following the dog around with a diaper or dragging her out into the heat to pee. Again. <br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
We had had plans to go to see C's family in the SW and go to NY so I could meet my youngest niece from across the room (don't get me started again) and my dad and elderly aunt & uncle. And B, my wonderful friend and respite. And I wanted to go to LA to see my sister and niece. Before all this, I wondered how we (I)/she would deal with the dog being boarded, but now, after all this money and time, there is no time. <br />
<br />
My sister's daughter just had her second birthday. She is gorgeous and amazing and has recently had growth spurts, physically and verbally. And she recognizes me on the skype. Along with the foof and mew. I do come in second to my dad, her grandfather, whom she has wrapped around her finger. But that seems as it should be. I'm craving a visit. I haven't seen C's family/sisters/nieces/nephews in probably 4 or 5 years. It's been more than a year since seeing A's daughter. I've never met my brother's daughter who was born at the end of October.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
There have been some small good things: my brother (who has not spoken with/connected with my sister for most of his daughter's life) sent a birthday card and some stickers for nieces birthday last week. It appears that his wife had no knowledge of his actions, and did not even sign the card (he signed for all of them), but we (my sister and I) are really pleased that he finally, finally has shown some independence and understanding of the connection he has with my sister's daughter. And my sister. He's been getting therapy, and who knows? maybe it's helping. It makes me hopeful, even though I need to contain it. A very small step, but a big one in their difficult relationship.<br />
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I got an email from a dear old friend in Boston who has met a man she says may be her "soulmate." He lives across the country and a bunch of other details. I've never "heard" such words or tone in her voice from her email. Wonderful, happy, hopeful. A little careful, but so happy. She had been putting off ending another relationship, but she did it this past weekend. I, being overprotective, want to know details like how she met him. I am wary, but happy for her.<br />
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*****<br />
Therapy is going well. I am feeling better overall, and want to start getting rid of my drugs, but I know that will take time, and I may never be without them. I don't know if it is a general sense of happy/hopefulness or what, but I am really craving baby. This birthday, though, really forces me to understand just how far away I am from that, in a number of ways. I may never raise children. I'm not ready to accept that. I don't want that. Not yet. There is a lot of work to do on many fronts. It makes me tired just thinking about it. <br />
<br />
I tried working on the diss proposal at the beginning of the summer, but it was just too much with the dog and the car (and did I mention my feet?) and a bunch of other things. Hoping to get back to that soon. It feels really far away, too. Several of my friends/colleagues (two of whom I started with) are graduating in a month. C says I need to let that go and forgive myself and understand that everyone has different timetables. Yes, I know. Still. It's frustrating to know that this wretched adventure has not only left me childless, broke, deeply depressed, largely medicated and no degree -- yet. I started both, so very long ago. I started the degree first.<br />
<br />
I don't know.<br />
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*****<br />
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I wish I were as bright as of this writing as I was in my last, but that will come soon enough, I guess. Meds, birthday overwith, therapy. There will be other things. I just have a lot of work ahead of me.<br />
<br />
Thanks for being here to listen.<br />
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<i>*** Please don't think that I'm not aware that this is what we would be facing if we -- indeed what many folks face when they -- have/had a child who is ill (and at much higher costs). Also, the whole, being on call every two hours and the frustration and the worry and the vigilance since early May are just like having a newborn -- and yet nothing so very intense and emotionally exhausting and life-altering...I don't know -- as having a newborn or a sick child.</i>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-858823597459970702011-07-08T11:24:00.000-04:002011-07-08T11:24:53.442-04:00ProcessingFor most of last semester, I met with my dissertation adviser who was/is supportive in every way. We'd talk about what I would do for our next meeting, and I would complete it, sort of -- mostly in the hour (30 mins?) before each meeting. I felt kind of ashamed, like I should really have been doing so much more (and really I should have), but she was always pleased with what I came with, and found really good thinking and focus in what I showed her. I would leave feeling mixed -- both proud and kind of like a fraud. Like I'd gotten away with something. <br />
<br />
One day I came clean with her (mostly) and in talking about it with her, and with my therapist and a couple of others, it was universally suggested that I'm simply processing and then getting my ideas, the results of my processing down on paper (usually) in advance of our meetings. My thinking, they suggest, <i>is</i> productive, I just don't work like some other folks do. I need to do a lot of work in my head, rather than on paper. Sometimes.<br />
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***** <br />
<br />
So. Hi. For those of you who still stop by, I'd like to apologize for my long absence. Much of it has been practical distraction (sick dog, sick car, tired feet) and some has been mental distraction. Not reading, not reading for school, not reading for fun, not reading blogs much (forgive me, my friends). I guess that I'm processing. Therapy, life. You know.<br />
<br />
So, I'm off to take care of a few more of those practical things, but I hope to be back in the next few days to share some of the (mundane?) details and some things I've been thinking about. <br />
<br />
It's been an odd summer, I tell you. But I have been thinking about you despite my silence: <i> So. How are you? What have you been up to? </i>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-89022561472826515172011-05-26T00:05:00.003-04:002011-05-26T00:15:34.181-04:00where did the words goevery time I sit down to write, to participate in a DBM writing exercise, draw a picture write a freaking word -- I just can't<br />
<br />
The notebook closes.<br />
The window closes.<br />
The breath closes.<br />
<br />
Pencil down.<br />
<br />
I'm doing good work with my therapist. I don't want to say that "I'm getting close to something," because that doesn't seem to be the way this will work. Some of it is peeling layers, but mostly it seems to be taking bites out of things. Banging my shin into the chair and trying to figure out what will help to heal it.<br />
<br />
Or maybe it's just a matter talking with someone in a different way. Open to some things, challenging others. Cracking the door open to see how blinding the light is. Or how bitterly cold.<br />
<br />
<br />
How long can I go on with the metaphors?<br />
<br />
I just deleted a bunch of crap post about guilt and grief. It's all been said before. by me. A different context this time, but still. just displacement, I think.<br />
<br />
<br />
I have been eating constantly for the last 3 or 4 weeks. Or crying or angry. All the regular stuff, I know. Time of year, sick dog, and what-not.<br />
<br />
Surely I am stuffing down some kind of feelings I am not ready to feel. I've picked up all kinds of tools and media to exorcise it from my body.<br />
<br />
I pick it up. Put it down.<br />
<br />
Not yet.Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-48220376245146639642011-05-08T16:42:00.005-04:002011-05-21T01:10:41.954-04:00In response to Mel's post today about tornadoes(http://www.stirrup-queens.com/2011/05/mothers-day-tornadoes/) <br />
<br />
This is my first mother's day with no mothers. My grandmother died 2 days before mother's day last year. My mother died 9 days before mother's day ten years ago. The twins I lost at twenty weeks were due (had they survived that long) within a week or two of mother's day. <br />
<br />
Last year, my sister celebrated her first mother's day -- the one she had been working (?), trying for for 6+ years -- at the funeral of her last remaining grandparent, our maternal grandmother. <br />
<br />
This year is hard. Moreso than usual. Beyond new therapy and anniversaries, I'm not really sure why. It's quiet. This week has been tumultuous, but today is quiet. I try to remind myself that I am very lucky to have had the kind of maternal relationships I did have. As complicated as any, but loving. I mourn them. I mourn the frustrations and challenges that come with those relationships. I know that I am lucky to have had them. I know others whose relationships with their mothers were very different, very difficult, extremely painful. Maybe that recognition is progress. Less feeling sorry for myself? Probably not.<br />
<br />
(My father called a little while ago; there is always a lot of space when he leaves messages, thinking as he speaks. He said he wanted to say hello. He would call later today. I know that he wants to hear that I'm okay, doing something productive, or not really caring.) <br />
<br />
I don't. Well, no, I do. But more than sad, I think, I'm feeling angry. I'm not sure at whom, though, right now. My new therapist, G, suggested writing a letter to my OB, since I was so angry at him, but it wasn't really cathartic. I tossed around the idea of writing a letter to my body, since I'm hating it, angry at it. But that didn't really get off the ground either. C and I talked about getting a bunch of cheap dishes and glassware and just going somewhere and smashing it all. Cursing and yelling and crying and all. I don't know. I'd need someone else there, either doing the same thing or just being there for moral support, or egging me on. Or I could write all the failures, body and otherwise, one to a dish, and smash it. The idea of smashing is satisfying, but I don't know if it would accomplish anything. Or how to work the practicalities. So, yeah, lots of anger, especially this morning. Now, after a nap, quiet.<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
As B said in an email yesterday, it's just a Hallm.ark holiday. Both her parents are gone now, and she's navigating new space. This is the first Mother's day without her mom, without her sons' grandmother. The first anniversary is in a few weeks. I can imagine, but only sort of. <br />
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I don't really know how to end this. Just thinking.Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com81tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-84042236658699800692011-05-06T14:00:00.007-04:002011-05-21T01:08:15.322-04:00Mom's DayIt was Wednesday, May 4.<br />
<br />
As usual, the lead up was worse than the actual day itself, though I did find myself merged with the couch and unable to get up for several hours, despite the need to eat and do work. I found myself somewhat triggered by the Bin Laden thing; even though I hadn't lost anyone directly in the towers, I did grow up in their shadow, and my father worked in Tower 2 for about 20 years. I think on the 43rd and on the 48th floors. 9/11 occurred about 4 months after my mother's death, just as I was starting to get on my feet again. Like I said, somehow it triggered something.<br />
<br />
Monday was an anniversary of my sister's loss. Wednesday was 10 years since my mom passed away. Today, Friday, is the first anniversary of my grandmother's death. And, of course, there's Sunday comin.<br />
<br />
It occurred to me this week that I have no more mothers. (I have a mother-in-law, but I don't feel that way towards her, love her as I do.) And I wept. It's the natural process of things, but I wept. <br />
<br />
No more mothers. No children. (I could say "yet," but that seems trite and let's face it, we have no idea.)<br />
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*****<br />
I talked with my aunt yesterday, Tia, the one who addresses everything "Suzi, dear." Her birthday was on the 30th and I wanted to wish her a happy mother's day, as she is a mother and grandmother, and has been a loving presence in my life, for my whole life. We talked for a half an hour. It was so good.<br />
<br />
Outside of catching up about Passover and family, she asked me about the boy's dates. She said that she lights candles for them, on the yartzeit, at Passover and for Yom Kippur. There are two other holidays, but she couldn't remember. :-) I told her how much it meant to me. She said that she loved me and and how important I am, and the boys are, to her. She loves me and she loves them and will always remember them. <br />
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*****<br />
In the midst of this, my brother's wife is still experiencing post-partum something: depression, anxiety, psychosis. My request that, after flying 1000 miles to see her, I get to hold and interact with their daughter, my niece, triggered something else in SIL, exacerbating an already difficult situation. I think she hijacked his phone, his email. She apparently freaks out when anybody even talks about holding the baby, who was six months old a week ago.<br />
<br />
She has major mood swings and freak outs over other things now. My brother is working on setting up time with a therapist for himself to figure out how to deal with all this and get her some help, too. I'm worried about all of them. My reflex is to get on a plane and go there, but I don't even know what I would do. <br />
<br />
Sometimes it's easier to let go of that worry than others. I mean, not perseverate. Doing better. Though I grieve my brother's relationship with the rest of the family. My father and my brother went to the cemetery on Wednesday separately. It's usually something they do together. Most of my father's family is buried there, as well as my mother's (both paternal and maternal grandparents, paternal aunt & uncle, and my mother. My dad even buried some of my mom's dog's ashes along side her). My father had offered to help with arrangements for something for the boys, but we still haven't done anything. I doubt we will at this point.<br />
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*****<br />
Overall, outside of the anniversaries, I've been doing better. Trying to work through things and feeling like there's some progress. Still with the roller coaster, which I know is normal, but really, a pain in the ass.<br />
<br />
I bought my sister two mother's day cards (one funny, one sappy) because I was feeling like it, and one for my aunt, but just couldn't send them. I told my sister I had cards here for her, which she wouldn't be getting. She told me that of course I didn't have to do that, but I told her the truth: I was so happy to be able to get them for her. I really was. We were talking on my mom's anniversary; she had called to check in.<br />
<br />
Despite the cards and everything else, and thinking about mother's day I shared a realization: <i>sometimes</i> <i>I'm really tired of being happy for everyone else</i>. I love my friends and family, and I'm so glad that they have families and beautiful children. But sometimes it takes work. And there's the hangover, after. And the distance that sometimes grows between the haves and the have-nots. I want to talk with them, hear what's going on with them and the kids. I initiate it even.<br />
<br />
It's not that I resent it. I don't think that's it. It's just a whole different life, and sometimes it feels like this huge chasm. Especially on FB, where I hear about (and see pics of) birthday parties and little league games and nights off when the kids are with grandparents. And really beautiful pictures of my friends and family with their truly precious children. And it makes me so happy for them. And so far away from their lives. One day I may have that. I may not. But right now, it's really hard. <br />
<br />
*****<br />
So, in honor of my mothers, I am going to briefly post a couple of pictures of them, but from long ago for some anonymity's sake.<br />
<br />
Here is my mother and me on the day of my college graduation, 20 years ago.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><i>picture removed</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Here is a close-up of my mom from the picture above.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Dz6Vygbe4rk/TcQ0mzLh1qI/AAAAAAAAAHM/8yd7gpMOymU/s1600/Mom+graduation+91.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Dz6Vygbe4rk/TcQ0mzLh1qI/AAAAAAAAAHM/8yd7gpMOymU/s320/Mom+graduation+91.jpg" width="285" /></a></div><br />
My grandmother in March, 2010. This was during a visit from my aunt and a cousin, which she enjoyed <i>tremendously</i> and brought her great joy to talk about. It was a few months later that she passed away, at 92.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bIUvXM4Sx5Y/TcRjCkseN7I/AAAAAAAAAHc/KLbfdcsBaX0/s1600/Gma+beret+2+Mar+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bIUvXM4Sx5Y/TcRjCkseN7I/AAAAAAAAAHc/KLbfdcsBaX0/s320/Gma+beret+2+Mar+10.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
This one captures all three of us, in spirit at least, on my wedding day. My grandmother is helping me put on my mother's pearls. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>picture removed </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
Did I mention that we accidentally scheduled our wedding for Mother's Day? A story for another day. <br />
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</i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>ETA: I took down the two pics that had me in them. I couldn't take down my mom and grandmother. And I think it will be nice to come across these -- two of my favorite pictures of them -- when I'm not really expecting it. </i><br />
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</i><br />
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<i>*Please don't let this keep you from visiting or commenting. Please.</i>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-88165929420600178292011-04-20T21:51:00.001-04:002011-04-20T21:52:10.375-04:00who knew?Beauty, brains and morals.<br />
<br />
http://www.dooce.com/2011/04/20/one-mother-another<br />
<br />
Christy Turlington Burns. The former supermodel. Looking at pre and perinatal care for high risk pregnant women. A cause I could get behind.<br />
<br />
There's a short article and a 1 minute trailer. Take a look.<br />
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*****<br />
Real post soon. Therapy seems to be productive so far, and I'm feeling, well, more stable. Hopeful, even. The tree in our front yard that I thought was dead? Sprouting leaves and blossoms. Not even a metaphor. Remember those two tulips I posted lo these many Aprils ago? They have found a friend.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to not read into it. I'm just trying to feel my way through effective therapy that leaves me tired, but, well, thoughtful. I' m not saying hopeful again, but thinking. Open, maybe.<br />
<br />
This song has been running through my head. I played it a lot when my mom was sick and in the years following, but not recently. It just feels so...close these days.<br />
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Thanks for hanging in there with me.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Z0m-4t-Wx9Q" title="YouTube video player" width="480"></iframe>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-73053410426956531242011-04-07T23:14:00.000-04:002011-04-07T23:14:14.002-04:00Just sayingThere are a couple of new posts up on <a href="http://letting-days-go-by.blogspot.com/">C's</a> blog.Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-9349418844532778472011-04-06T21:58:00.000-04:002011-04-06T21:58:23.198-04:00It's okayWell, no it's not, but I'm okay. Thank you for all your supportive comments. I kind of want to leave the comments up so when people go.og.le those sites, they can see what they're getting into. Though, I don't want to upset anyone randomly coming upon them. We'll see.<br />
<br />
Really, they made me more angry than anything else. I had had a really crappy day. I called it "death by one thousand cuts," because it was just a series of minor but pain in the ass crappy things happening all day long. I got 3.5 hours of sleep the night before, then I got home from 12 hours at school to these comments and I was someplace between laughter, horror and anger. Pissed off. If I had been in a better state of mind when I found them, probably I would have been more upset. At first, I wasn't even sure what I was looking at. <br />
<br />
Something that surprised me was not so much that these assholes decided to troll sites looking to share their hatred of babies and children. They were just being mean. <br />
<br />
Who does that? I mean, the posts they commented on (at least one of them) was not right in the open and purposely hit nerves. <br />
<br />
Who does that? Who has that kind of time on his/her hands? Who has so much hatred for people in general? <br />
<br />
At first I wanted to set up a profile and leave a post on the forum spewing vitriol and four-letter words. C talked me down. Really, not worth the effort or, well, anything.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
Five minutes after I found these comments? My dad called. I hadn't talked to him in almost 10 days, and felt bad enough about that, but I just couldn't talk to him. I know he's been going through hell with my brother and his wife. I wanted to talk to him, but I really couldn't. And after all the little, pissy crap I had to deal with for 12 hours, plus this, I started to cry. He said that was fine, he'd talk to me on Thursday. And that he loved me. I held it together and just got teary. A couple of pills and off to sleep.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
Just as an aside, I feel like I'm doing some good work with my new therapist. It makes me regret all the time that seems to have been lost, but I"m trying to tell myself that I hadn't been ready yet. There's someone who says that when the student is ready, the teacher appears. Maybe that's it. <br />
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*****<br />
Anyway. It meant a lot to get your support. It really did.Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-398826425080805683.post-21801740091143240542011-04-04T21:54:00.000-04:002011-04-04T21:54:40.644-04:00Anonymous can go suck it.I just opened two emailed comments on blog, 9:50pm on a really crappy day:<br />
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<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "<a href="http://sodearandyetsofar.blogspot.com/2011/03/this-resonated-for-me.html" target="_blank">This resonated for me.</a>": </div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">dead babies are funny <a href="http://www.bratfree.com/" target="_blank">www.bratfree.com</a> we love ded babies </div><br />
*****<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "<a href="http://sodearandyetsofar.blogspot.com/2011/03/intake.html" target="_blank">Intake</a>":<br />
hahahahah you killed ur two kids <a href="http://ww.bratfree.com/" target="_blank">ww.bratfree.com</a> </span><br />
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<span style="color: grey; font-size: x-small;">*****<br />
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Fuck You.Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03812637630030228124noreply@blogger.com18