Sunday, July 07, 2019
Dear Ginger
Dear Ginger,
It's been four months since we lost you. Does it get better, because so far it doesn't feel better. It's hard to imagine it getting better. We hear a lot about time, all the things that will change with time. I've noticed that time rarely feels like a friend. It's unreliable. Elusive. Brutal with its forward motion when you're desperate for it to stand still for just a minute, painfully slow in its churning during heartache. I'm grasping at air.
Ben turned three earlier this week. Early in June I realized how unbearable it would be to be here, celebrating without you. I remember you at his family party last year, bundled up in a brown leather jacket because you were cold all the time during chemo, and as a result of your weight loss. We were so scared but also so glad that you were doing well, all things considered, and could be there. This year I thought being home might be too much for the Husband to handle. He misses you and is grieving so much. I suggested a vacation. Let's get out of town for Ben's birthday! Escape from our lives for a good chunk of time, and then celebrate away with my family, who I knew would rise to the occasion to make Ben's big 3 so special, and they did.
Ben saw his first movie at the theater on his birthday. Toy Story 4. Watching his face as he watched the movie (and plopped jelly bean after jelly bean into his mouth) was more fun for both of us than watching the actual film, and it was a good one. I took pictures so I could just look at that face later and remember. I wanted to tell you about it. I wanted to post the pictures to Facebook so you could comment and share.
Do you know when Ben tells us he forgot something he says, "I got forgot that..." I want to tell you about that and laugh together. He says so many funny things these days. His vocabulary has gotten impressively large. We think he seems pretty smart. Of course, he can tell me the number of times he's pooped in one day, but he still refuses to potty train. I can imagine the conversation you and I would have about that -- my bitterness at having to change his man poops, and his cheerful "no thanks!" when I suggest giving the potty a whirl. Maybe tomorrow, he says. I know you'd get a kick out of it.
He's moving into the preschool room at school. The toddler is now a preschooler. He's excited and proud.
Leaving Sunriver at the end of our vacation, Ben's little voice from the backseat suddenly said, "Hey guys, do you remember that Nana died?" We exchanged a look and said, yes, of course we do. He replied sounding a little wistful, "Yeah...but it's ok." It is ok, and it is so completely not ok. Your pain is over, and we all wanted that. The memory that can bring me to tears every time is us pulling up to your house on a sunny weekend day for a visit. You weren't sick yet, so Ben was still pretty little. You came out to the porch to greet us, and I opened the door to unstrap Ben from his car seat. I said, are you ready to go see Nana? He rushed to scramble out of his seat and run to the door to see you. So excited and joyful. You were waiting at the top of the stairs, and I can still see you leaning forward and smiling at him and hear your voice saying hi to him, mirroring his obvious joy at being with you. That small moment feels like it holds all the beauty of having you as a grandma and all he lost when you died.
Do you know how much I miss you checking in with me every few days on Facebook? As your cancer and treatment progressed, I'd feel apprehensive if I hadn't heard from you or seen a post in a little while, and I'd breathe a sigh of relief when you'd pop up there or respond to a post. Now sometimes I log on to my computer in the morning and stare at the monitor, feeling heavy and wishing so hard for an IM from you. I can open our chat window and see our conversation history, but the pain of both the before and after is still too real and raw. I just can't bear to look. But I want to save that history forever.
Explaining cancer and death, something I can't even wrap my own head around, to a two year old/now three year old really sucks. While his daddy spent time with and helped take care of you those last few months, Ben asked questions, and sometimes my own grief made it hard to think straight. As hard as it feels sometimes, we make a point to talk about you with him to keep your memory alive. I bring up photos and those videos we have of your last visit to our house in October. Ben's obsessed with the picture of you from the funeral. He remembers it and that his auntie took it home. I need to have one printed up for him, because I think he associates it with you being present, alive. When he asks me about you being dead, I tell him that even though he can't see Nana here any more, he can visit with you in his dreams. Tonight he said, "Yeah, I do dat already." He told me a dream he had about being at your house, and there were dragons (mean dragons, he clarified). He told me that Nana held him. I told him that you would always hold him and protect him from dragons, that you love him forever.
Do you know that I chose Fleetwood Mac's Gypsy to add to your celebration of life playlist? In my mind, the words matched the freedom and return to your real self after life gave you such an unkind and drawn out ending. I'm still so pissed about that. Fuck cancer. I will always remember taking you to the Stevie Nicks concert when Ben was a baby. Your first concert! It was around Christmas time and it was hard to find parking near Key Arena with the ice skaters and holiday shoppers and Nutcracker viewers. After circling around for a bit, I scrambled to get us one of the last spots in a weird garage nearby. You were such a good sport. We had fun. Now whenever I hear a Stevie song I think of you. I've heard Gypsy a few times out in the world since you died, and I stop what I'm doing so it can tear at my heart a little. I wonder if your energy is nearby. I've listened to it alone in my car a few times and cried.
That night of the Stevie concert, you rocked Ben to sleep on your shoulder while sitting in Ruth's old recliner. I took a picture, the colorful lights from our sparse mistake of a Christmas tree glowing in the background. It's a little blurry. I love that picture. You had the magic touch of rocking Ben to sleep. He'd settle in and relax into you in a way he never did with me. I'd marvel at it.
God, what I wouldn't give to be in that moment again. Or any of the thousands of everyday moments we had with you. Just for a minute. But it's gone. How can you be gone forever?
You made your house feel like home, and you brought and held the family together. Now we're trying, but we're drifting in our sadness.
I won the mother-in-law jackpot. Before I knew you, I had no idea that was possible.During the year you were sick, I tried to tell you in different ways how much you meant to me, but was I able to make you understand? I don't know. I hope so. In the 10 years I knew you, you were always so great to me, but I felt your love and support the most during my pregnancy and after Ben arrived.
New motherhood was beautiful but hard for me. You understood. The nights you stayed up with Ben so we could catch up on desperately needed sleep. The summer olympics were happening when Ben was born, and I remember you sat with me on the couch one night in those early days, watching diving competitions while Ben marathon fed. The TV flickering in the dark living room through the July heat. When he finished I handed him over to you and went to bed. The days you spent with Ben when I reluctantly went back to work and grappled with terrible anxiety. You taking care of him one day each week, and sometimes more, eased my mind and made leaving him feel bearable. The dinners you brought for us to make and eat together, and the evenings we spent hanging out together with Ben, talking and watching Homicide Hunter because you liked crime shows. All the thoughtful gestures, all the time you gifted us to breathe and adjust to new parenthood. You gave so much to us and seemed to find such joy in that without wanting anything in return. You just seemed happy to be there and to be with us. You taught me so much about love in a way that I never expected or could have ever predicted. I don't know that I could ever fully express the incredible gratitude I feel, because it's greater than any words I have.
I wish that losing you was just a terrible flash of the imagination. But it really happened. I love you, Ginger. I miss you every day.
Megan
Cancer is the worst. Pancreatic cancer is particularly devastating because it's usually detected really late in the game, when the cancer has already spread to other organs. At that point, it's already stage 4 and terminal. This was the case with Ginger. Research funding for pan can has lagged compared to many other cancers, which is crummy because it's so tough to detect and treat. Pancan.org is a great place to learn more about the disease and how you can help.
Saturday, December 26, 2015
Tis the season…to be pregnant again. 11 weeks and counting. The Husband and I are playing it cool and just seeing how this goes. It’s hard to believe that we’re rapidly approaching the same point we made it to last time. Given what we went through in April to be diagnosed with a fetal trisomy, we have opted to go right to CVS this time. Our appointment is in a few days.
My mind drifted into the realization this morning that, by the time the end of December rolls around, I will have spent half of 2015 (6 MONTHS, people) in the first trimester of pregnancy. Ugh. I know I have it easier than lots and lots of women out there, but that is 6 months of just generally feeling crappy and exhausted. Which, you know, makes it a banner year. It reminds me that women are f*cking amazing and strong for making this whole life thing happen over and over. I'd be good with a one time success story.
I have a Yoshitomo Nara grump girl expression while reading pregnancy books and websites again. The bossiness and mixed messages are never-ending, and it annoys me. So...you must do everything in your power to avoid gaining even an extra ounce of fat during pregnancy. Exercise, exercise, exercise! But not too much, be gentle, but get in at least 30 minutes every day. Don’t you dare think for a moment that you are eating for two. Overeat at any point and doom will befall you and your unborn child. Put the brownie down. Now. Don't "diet" per se, but make sure you eat a tightly controlled diet, because every single thing that goes into your mouth is critical. Sleep as much as you can Ms. Baggy Eyes, but make sure that in addition to maintaining all your regular activities while feeling like crap you add prenatal yoga, arm toning exercises, two mile daily walks/jogs, and designing and preparing all organic, perfectly balanced menus to your already chaotic life. Have you started your list of unnecessary baby items to buy yet? Don’t forget to always, always be contemplating how you will fend off any notion of pain medication during labor. Look cute. Just look cute all the time. Oh, by the way, do you like this or that thing? TOO BAD, it’s off limits during pregnancy and for the 5 years you will of course be breastfeeding your child. What’s that? What’s that you say? You only had a sip of champagne on New Year’s Eve. Harhar, it’s adorable how you think you can decide for yourself. NO AMOUNT OF ALCHOHOL IS SAFE, DUMB-DUMB.
Mind your own business, internet! This is the place where I could get all defensive about my own choices and approach to pregnancy, but that isn’t really the point. My impression is that the vast majority of women want to have healthy and safe pregnancies…without going nutso in the process. We want information and advice, and we want to make the best decisions we can for ourselves. We already have to let go of so much control of our bodies and trust that it knows what to do. Yet, it feels like the medical community and random bystanders think this released control is up for grabs, to wield however they see fit. Sometimes this is helpful. Often it is not.
Not that I don't have my own demons to contend with, which I'm sure contributes to my irritation. I'm starting this pregnancy feeling a tremendous amount of pressure and, frankly, dismay about my weight. I'm no skinny-minnie. I absolutely love food and enjoying rich, delicious meals on occasion. I try to balance this out with a healthy, lighter diet and exercise on a regular basis. I’ve worked especially hard at this between these two pregnancies. I've felt good about the changes I've noticed and my increased strength. Yet, I learned after my first midwife appointment that, no matter how I feel, the pounds have stubbornly held on. In fact, I gained. I saw the number in the comfort of my home while reviewing my post-appointment health summary and, well, there were tears. I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my BMI is hovering over the brink of obesity, and while I’ll do my best to stay healthy and maintain activity, it will be pushed straight into it during pregnancy. And because I’m so OLD, the books and sites assure me that any needless weight gain will be much harder to lose.
I understand that concerns about the health implications and possible complications from excess weight are legitimate. It's anxiety-provoking, but I need to be mindful of very real concerns and proactive in addressing this with my doctor, not hide from the situation. Believe me, I really want to hide! But, my numbers are going to be scrutinized and discussed anyway. Of course I'm worried about the what ifs. Namely, what if no matter how hard I work to be healthy and manage my weight, I gain more than what’s recommended for my starting point?
The part that irks me about the weight issue is the judgy emphasis on looks more so than health. Constant commentary on the fact that fat is pretty much the worst thing you can be aesthetically prevails even during pregnancy! This thinly veiled message, often under the guise of "health," pops up in articles, boards, and comments all over the internet. I bristle reading on What to Expect that in the first trimester you simply look pudgy, not pregnant, like you couldn't keep your greedy hands out of the doughnut box. What to Expect is big on the doughnut talk. Obviously, the only reason why we ladies gain weight is, you know, our weak willpower against the almighty evil doughnut. Junk food. It's that black and white. I wish.
Ladies online really can't wait for their bellies to pop out so people will finally know they're pregnant, not just overweight. There's lots of talk about how to avoid looking fat and to manage your appearance to continue looking good (i.e. thin) until the telltale belly appears. Clearly, the only socially acceptable time to grow bigger is during pregnancy. Otherwise you've simply let yourself go and are a terrible slob of a person. But, even with pregnancy as an excuse, there are countless ways that you could still become a hideous slob over these 40 weeks, so watch out!
I could go on and on about how our celebrity obsessed culture feeds into this and blah, blah, blah. It's been done. I can also sit around feeling miserable about myself and the ways I'm far from society's ideal, but I could do that any old day. It's no good. I realize that I need to take ownership of who I am and where I’m at, while also letting go of what I can’t control. If this pregnancy is a go, I’ll do my best to take care of myself, and I’ll have to trust that my body’s got this. I don't have to buy in to all the nonsense. I can find real inspirational stories from real women out there if I dig a little bit more. I love those women.
As my OB said last time, it would be a shame to let negative feelings about my weight prevent me from enjoying my pregnancy. That was a helpful point. The rebellious part of me that isn’t sniveling over unwanted pounds says, damn right! Rebellious me also says it’s totally fine to block all the annoying pregnancy websites and bury the books in the backyard for the time being.
My mind drifted into the realization this morning that, by the time the end of December rolls around, I will have spent half of 2015 (6 MONTHS, people) in the first trimester of pregnancy. Ugh. I know I have it easier than lots and lots of women out there, but that is 6 months of just generally feeling crappy and exhausted. Which, you know, makes it a banner year. It reminds me that women are f*cking amazing and strong for making this whole life thing happen over and over. I'd be good with a one time success story.
I have a Yoshitomo Nara grump girl expression while reading pregnancy books and websites again. The bossiness and mixed messages are never-ending, and it annoys me. So...you must do everything in your power to avoid gaining even an extra ounce of fat during pregnancy. Exercise, exercise, exercise! But not too much, be gentle, but get in at least 30 minutes every day. Don’t you dare think for a moment that you are eating for two. Overeat at any point and doom will befall you and your unborn child. Put the brownie down. Now. Don't "diet" per se, but make sure you eat a tightly controlled diet, because every single thing that goes into your mouth is critical. Sleep as much as you can Ms. Baggy Eyes, but make sure that in addition to maintaining all your regular activities while feeling like crap you add prenatal yoga, arm toning exercises, two mile daily walks/jogs, and designing and preparing all organic, perfectly balanced menus to your already chaotic life. Have you started your list of unnecessary baby items to buy yet? Don’t forget to always, always be contemplating how you will fend off any notion of pain medication during labor. Look cute. Just look cute all the time. Oh, by the way, do you like this or that thing? TOO BAD, it’s off limits during pregnancy and for the 5 years you will of course be breastfeeding your child. What’s that? What’s that you say? You only had a sip of champagne on New Year’s Eve. Harhar, it’s adorable how you think you can decide for yourself. NO AMOUNT OF ALCHOHOL IS SAFE, DUMB-DUMB.
Mind your own business, internet! This is the place where I could get all defensive about my own choices and approach to pregnancy, but that isn’t really the point. My impression is that the vast majority of women want to have healthy and safe pregnancies…without going nutso in the process. We want information and advice, and we want to make the best decisions we can for ourselves. We already have to let go of so much control of our bodies and trust that it knows what to do. Yet, it feels like the medical community and random bystanders think this released control is up for grabs, to wield however they see fit. Sometimes this is helpful. Often it is not.
Not that I don't have my own demons to contend with, which I'm sure contributes to my irritation. I'm starting this pregnancy feeling a tremendous amount of pressure and, frankly, dismay about my weight. I'm no skinny-minnie. I absolutely love food and enjoying rich, delicious meals on occasion. I try to balance this out with a healthy, lighter diet and exercise on a regular basis. I’ve worked especially hard at this between these two pregnancies. I've felt good about the changes I've noticed and my increased strength. Yet, I learned after my first midwife appointment that, no matter how I feel, the pounds have stubbornly held on. In fact, I gained. I saw the number in the comfort of my home while reviewing my post-appointment health summary and, well, there were tears. I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my BMI is hovering over the brink of obesity, and while I’ll do my best to stay healthy and maintain activity, it will be pushed straight into it during pregnancy. And because I’m so OLD, the books and sites assure me that any needless weight gain will be much harder to lose.
I understand that concerns about the health implications and possible complications from excess weight are legitimate. It's anxiety-provoking, but I need to be mindful of very real concerns and proactive in addressing this with my doctor, not hide from the situation. Believe me, I really want to hide! But, my numbers are going to be scrutinized and discussed anyway. Of course I'm worried about the what ifs. Namely, what if no matter how hard I work to be healthy and manage my weight, I gain more than what’s recommended for my starting point?
The part that irks me about the weight issue is the judgy emphasis on looks more so than health. Constant commentary on the fact that fat is pretty much the worst thing you can be aesthetically prevails even during pregnancy! This thinly veiled message, often under the guise of "health," pops up in articles, boards, and comments all over the internet. I bristle reading on What to Expect that in the first trimester you simply look pudgy, not pregnant, like you couldn't keep your greedy hands out of the doughnut box. What to Expect is big on the doughnut talk. Obviously, the only reason why we ladies gain weight is, you know, our weak willpower against the almighty evil doughnut. Junk food. It's that black and white. I wish.
Ladies online really can't wait for their bellies to pop out so people will finally know they're pregnant, not just overweight. There's lots of talk about how to avoid looking fat and to manage your appearance to continue looking good (i.e. thin) until the telltale belly appears. Clearly, the only socially acceptable time to grow bigger is during pregnancy. Otherwise you've simply let yourself go and are a terrible slob of a person. But, even with pregnancy as an excuse, there are countless ways that you could still become a hideous slob over these 40 weeks, so watch out!
I could go on and on about how our celebrity obsessed culture feeds into this and blah, blah, blah. It's been done. I can also sit around feeling miserable about myself and the ways I'm far from society's ideal, but I could do that any old day. It's no good. I realize that I need to take ownership of who I am and where I’m at, while also letting go of what I can’t control. If this pregnancy is a go, I’ll do my best to take care of myself, and I’ll have to trust that my body’s got this. I don't have to buy in to all the nonsense. I can find real inspirational stories from real women out there if I dig a little bit more. I love those women.
As my OB said last time, it would be a shame to let negative feelings about my weight prevent me from enjoying my pregnancy. That was a helpful point. The rebellious part of me that isn’t sniveling over unwanted pounds says, damn right! Rebellious me also says it’s totally fine to block all the annoying pregnancy websites and bury the books in the backyard for the time being.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
K...3?
The Husband and I decided that we missed having a little buddy around too much, so please meet the new addition to our household: Liz LeMON!!! (think Oprah voice here)
She's an adorable little squeaker who came from the hardened streets of LA. We adopted her from a wonderful Seattle shelter, Whisker City, that rescued her from death row (literally hours before the doom) at a pretty terrible shelter down there. LL is missing part of one ear, which we learned was inexplicably done at the LA shelter, too, and they ended up shipping her up to Seattle on a bus with her carrier propped up on top of kennels of dogs.
She's a bit skittish, and no wonder after all that trauma.
But, more and more she's venturing away from the kitty condo and exploring her new space. We love her.
 |
| LL's safety zone - the kitty condo |
She's an adorable little squeaker who came from the hardened streets of LA. We adopted her from a wonderful Seattle shelter, Whisker City, that rescued her from death row (literally hours before the doom) at a pretty terrible shelter down there. LL is missing part of one ear, which we learned was inexplicably done at the LA shelter, too, and they ended up shipping her up to Seattle on a bus with her carrier propped up on top of kennels of dogs.
She's a bit skittish, and no wonder after all that trauma.
 |
| Grumpy First Day Liz Lemon |
But, more and more she's venturing away from the kitty condo and exploring her new space. We love her.
Friday, September 04, 2015
Dear Seattle, I love your passive aggressive notes
Last week I was reminded of why living in Seattle is so great when I found this ziplocked note on my car.
There's a lot to unpack here. OH MY GOD, IT'S SUPPOSED TO RAIN 3 DAYS FROM NOW. WHAT IF MY NOTE GETS DESTROYED???? Better seal it in plastic, just in case.
The underline really hits home how unwelcome it is to see my car in front of their house. I'm wondering, do we understand how street parking works, folks? There aren't assigned spots. I'm certain this note came from our neighbors right next to us since I was parked in front of their house at the time it appeared. It took heavy detective to put two and two together. Figuring I should respond as a nice assertive neighbor, I went to their door to discuss the situation. They were clearly home but no one would answer my friendly knocks. Typical.
I've only caught glimpses of the couple who live there. The word that comes to mind is stodgy, and the woman usually has a pinched look on her face. They also have one of those little yellow sandwich board things that say, "Caution! Children Playing" placed at the end of their pristine driveway. The thing is that I've never seen a kid come out of that house, and we don't really have kids at this end of the block who play outside. It's all lies!!!
God, it's good to be back. The entertainment factor is a 10.
There's a lot to unpack here. OH MY GOD, IT'S SUPPOSED TO RAIN 3 DAYS FROM NOW. WHAT IF MY NOTE GETS DESTROYED???? Better seal it in plastic, just in case.
The underline really hits home how unwelcome it is to see my car in front of their house. I'm wondering, do we understand how street parking works, folks? There aren't assigned spots. I'm certain this note came from our neighbors right next to us since I was parked in front of their house at the time it appeared. It took heavy detective to put two and two together. Figuring I should respond as a nice assertive neighbor, I went to their door to discuss the situation. They were clearly home but no one would answer my friendly knocks. Typical.
I've only caught glimpses of the couple who live there. The word that comes to mind is stodgy, and the woman usually has a pinched look on her face. They also have one of those little yellow sandwich board things that say, "Caution! Children Playing" placed at the end of their pristine driveway. The thing is that I've never seen a kid come out of that house, and we don't really have kids at this end of the block who play outside. It's all lies!!!
God, it's good to be back. The entertainment factor is a 10.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Change of Heart
On Friday, May 1st I lost a pregnancy. Well, to be clear, we chose to end the pregnancy, but it only felt of tremendous loss. Just that Monday, at the very start of the second trimester, my OB called to tell me the results of a fetal DNA test we'd had done the previous week. Her hushed, sympathetic voice informed me ours tested positive for one of the big trisomies. It was obvious that she hated delivering this news. I don't think it was obvious then how much it hurt to receive it. My mind clicked into rational mode. I don't remember pausing, or any immediate feelings, only asking about next steps. The sadness and crying part came later -- like seconds after hitting End Call.
My doc advised that we have a CVS and to have it soon. We were fortunate enough to get in the next day, and the FISH results on Wednesday confirmed what we already knew to be true. We had all the evidence needed to make a decision. I can't call it a decision at that point, really. We'd talked about possibilities like this before even getting pregnant, agreeing about what we'd do. More talking quickly showed that we remained bonded in that choice. Another phone call for another appointment. In just five short days, I went from being one thing to something completely different.
I am different. I'm no longer a pregnant woman. I'm not in my third trimester anticipating the upcoming due date (which also happens to be our wedding anniversary - ouch). After the procedure, we immediately went away for a couple of days to recover. We burned a memorial candle our dear friend had given us throughout our retreat. We took walks and talked and rested and allowed the sadness. We began processing a loss we'd never known. We came home and returned to our jobs. I talked to my many supportive people. I sipped wine and ate chocolate. My body de-poofed right away, and I returned to my pre-pregnancy clothes, almost like nothing happened. I cried sometimes, and took anti-anxiety medicine sometimes, and just went through the motions of being present sometimes.
And then my sister's partner was diagnosed with melanoma. Such a totally crummy situation for a young father and family. Not only were they dealing with overwhelming medical uncertainty, but also significant financial concerns. I was terrified for him, my sister, and baby nephew. Helping to put together supports for them provided a welcome distraction. During both my own loss and his health crisis, so many people rallied to offer pure love and generous help. Sometimes this arrived in the form of delicious meals, which is my kind of love language. Luckily, the surgery to remove the offending mole on his temple, and a big chunk of skin around it, proved successful. After a scary period of waiting and procedures and more waiting, the verdict came in at Stage 2. He's cancer-free right now.
After that, our lease came to an end, and The Husband and I realized it's time to hightail it back to Seattle. We found a 1950s brick house to rent in a great neighborhood that still feels like old Seattle. Sadly, though, one week before we moved, our challenging but lovable cat went outside one evening and didn't return. We searched and searched and found no trace of him. Just the weekend before, he'd finally sat on my lap for, like, a half hour. This was huge. He wasn't a lap cat EVER, but he had curled up on my stomach once for a few minutes while I was pregnant. I thought we'd turned a corner on the affection, but now I wonder if he was saying goodbye? We moved away without our kitty.
There have been other little upheavals, losses, and missed opportunities, but I'll give it a rest before violins start tuning. My point is that 2015 hasn't been the best year overall. I think you've got it.
My long ago last post was all about baby ambivalence. Wasn't I about 90% sure I didn't want kids? Yes, I was...and then I changed. As our end of 2014 deadline to decide approached, I started having an inkling (if you call a month of hanging at the edge of a panic attack an inkling) that maybe I wasn't so sure after all. I realized I wanted the possibility of parenthood. The Husband agreed. The panic disappeared.
It would be dishonest to give the impression that we marched determinedly toward conceiving and never looked back. Nah, ambivalence didn't make a swift exit. We decided without making an effort. Our approach: Let's pull the goalie and see what happens! I stressed to the Husband that we would be lucky if I wound up pregnant in a year (or, of course, at all). We should just have fun with the process.
Instead, I got pregnant straight away. We were shocked. I yelled "holy shit!" when I glanced at the pregnancy test I had taken while working at home one afternoon, just to be sure that my barely late period didn't mean baby. Ta-da! It did. I broke the news to The Husband that night after handing him a glass of whiskey.
The first trimester was difficult. It felt unreal at first, until we saw the little bean on a screen and named it Garbanzo Seahorse. That's what the little blip looked like. Garb for short. I was scared sometimes. Money, careers, daycare, how would we make it happen? Eating became difficult. I hate cucumbers! I love cucumbers! I HATE cucumbers! I went through a phase of despising the smell of the kitchen. I had a particularly upsetting incident of extreme side pain while at a work event. Examinations and test results always showed that everything was fine. I always heard that things looked good.
I started feeling better as the end of the first trimester approached. We'd gotten used to the idea of a baby, and shifted from mostly freaked out to mostly excited. Except that I sometimes felt uneasy, especially during those later ultrasounds when Garb appeared minimally active and wouldn't cooperate for key measurements. We had to return for follow up appointments to see if Garb would kick it up a notch and change positions. Movement looked like a struggle.
I'm not claiming that I sensed something was off. How would I know anything the first time around? Mainly, I think unease came from hormones and the resulting mass of confusing emotions most of the time. Learning about Garb's genetic condition was a terrible blow; the decision was heartbreaking. Physically I've recovered, and emotionally I'm better. Mostly normal, I guess. Now I think about other things more often than not. Yet, grief still clutches on to me with its grimy nails every once in a while.
We remain at complete peace with our decision. We wish what was hadn't been, but we wouldn't do it differently if given another chance. I'm just different after everything that's happened. How could I possibly be the same? My heart has a Garb in permanent residence as we prepare to open ourselves up to possibility again.
My doc advised that we have a CVS and to have it soon. We were fortunate enough to get in the next day, and the FISH results on Wednesday confirmed what we already knew to be true. We had all the evidence needed to make a decision. I can't call it a decision at that point, really. We'd talked about possibilities like this before even getting pregnant, agreeing about what we'd do. More talking quickly showed that we remained bonded in that choice. Another phone call for another appointment. In just five short days, I went from being one thing to something completely different.
I am different. I'm no longer a pregnant woman. I'm not in my third trimester anticipating the upcoming due date (which also happens to be our wedding anniversary - ouch). After the procedure, we immediately went away for a couple of days to recover. We burned a memorial candle our dear friend had given us throughout our retreat. We took walks and talked and rested and allowed the sadness. We began processing a loss we'd never known. We came home and returned to our jobs. I talked to my many supportive people. I sipped wine and ate chocolate. My body de-poofed right away, and I returned to my pre-pregnancy clothes, almost like nothing happened. I cried sometimes, and took anti-anxiety medicine sometimes, and just went through the motions of being present sometimes.
And then my sister's partner was diagnosed with melanoma. Such a totally crummy situation for a young father and family. Not only were they dealing with overwhelming medical uncertainty, but also significant financial concerns. I was terrified for him, my sister, and baby nephew. Helping to put together supports for them provided a welcome distraction. During both my own loss and his health crisis, so many people rallied to offer pure love and generous help. Sometimes this arrived in the form of delicious meals, which is my kind of love language. Luckily, the surgery to remove the offending mole on his temple, and a big chunk of skin around it, proved successful. After a scary period of waiting and procedures and more waiting, the verdict came in at Stage 2. He's cancer-free right now.
After that, our lease came to an end, and The Husband and I realized it's time to hightail it back to Seattle. We found a 1950s brick house to rent in a great neighborhood that still feels like old Seattle. Sadly, though, one week before we moved, our challenging but lovable cat went outside one evening and didn't return. We searched and searched and found no trace of him. Just the weekend before, he'd finally sat on my lap for, like, a half hour. This was huge. He wasn't a lap cat EVER, but he had curled up on my stomach once for a few minutes while I was pregnant. I thought we'd turned a corner on the affection, but now I wonder if he was saying goodbye? We moved away without our kitty.
There have been other little upheavals, losses, and missed opportunities, but I'll give it a rest before violins start tuning. My point is that 2015 hasn't been the best year overall. I think you've got it.
My long ago last post was all about baby ambivalence. Wasn't I about 90% sure I didn't want kids? Yes, I was...and then I changed. As our end of 2014 deadline to decide approached, I started having an inkling (if you call a month of hanging at the edge of a panic attack an inkling) that maybe I wasn't so sure after all. I realized I wanted the possibility of parenthood. The Husband agreed. The panic disappeared.
It would be dishonest to give the impression that we marched determinedly toward conceiving and never looked back. Nah, ambivalence didn't make a swift exit. We decided without making an effort. Our approach: Let's pull the goalie and see what happens! I stressed to the Husband that we would be lucky if I wound up pregnant in a year (or, of course, at all). We should just have fun with the process.
Instead, I got pregnant straight away. We were shocked. I yelled "holy shit!" when I glanced at the pregnancy test I had taken while working at home one afternoon, just to be sure that my barely late period didn't mean baby. Ta-da! It did. I broke the news to The Husband that night after handing him a glass of whiskey.
The first trimester was difficult. It felt unreal at first, until we saw the little bean on a screen and named it Garbanzo Seahorse. That's what the little blip looked like. Garb for short. I was scared sometimes. Money, careers, daycare, how would we make it happen? Eating became difficult. I hate cucumbers! I love cucumbers! I HATE cucumbers! I went through a phase of despising the smell of the kitchen. I had a particularly upsetting incident of extreme side pain while at a work event. Examinations and test results always showed that everything was fine. I always heard that things looked good.
I started feeling better as the end of the first trimester approached. We'd gotten used to the idea of a baby, and shifted from mostly freaked out to mostly excited. Except that I sometimes felt uneasy, especially during those later ultrasounds when Garb appeared minimally active and wouldn't cooperate for key measurements. We had to return for follow up appointments to see if Garb would kick it up a notch and change positions. Movement looked like a struggle.
I'm not claiming that I sensed something was off. How would I know anything the first time around? Mainly, I think unease came from hormones and the resulting mass of confusing emotions most of the time. Learning about Garb's genetic condition was a terrible blow; the decision was heartbreaking. Physically I've recovered, and emotionally I'm better. Mostly normal, I guess. Now I think about other things more often than not. Yet, grief still clutches on to me with its grimy nails every once in a while.
We remain at complete peace with our decision. We wish what was hadn't been, but we wouldn't do it differently if given another chance. I'm just different after everything that's happened. How could I possibly be the same? My heart has a Garb in permanent residence as we prepare to open ourselves up to possibility again.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Postponing Parenthood - Babies for us?
It's inevitable. You date someone for a while in your 20s and 30s, and soon you're increasingly faced with The Question. The choice of words varies, but the meaning is always the same: When are you going to get married? At some point, you say I do. Vows are exchanged, you begin to settle in to married life, and immediately there's another Big Question: So, when are you going to have kids?
DUH, you might say. Of course. Lots of us are fielding that question. Yet, I guess naively, I didn't expect it to come up so much in my little bubble of a world. Practically everyone asks. And I do mean everyone. Just last weekend I had a very awkward conversation with the owner of a nail salon after a pedicure. I didn't see it coming as she processed my payment at the counter. Are you married? she asked as she craned her neck to look for a ring. I saw her eyes register confirmation, and I felt that now familiar sinking sensation in my stomach. I knew predictably what comes next: Do you have kids?
See? She was it. There's no one left to ask. (I tried answering with a simple "no" as The Husband suggested I do, instead of rushing headlong into some sort of longer explanation in anticipation of follow up questions. The nip-it-in-the-bud-with-a-clipped-response strategy. No dice. Oh, so do you want kids? Are you trying? Waiting until later? She eyed me up and down doubtfully with that last one. I'm sure correctly assessing that there's little time left for "later" at this point.)
Whether by circumstance or choice, "maybe someday" has been the default answer. Yes, through my extensive personal research, I've learned there's a label for me and the choices I've made. I'm what the self-proclaimed experts call a Postponer.
When I was a kid, I always assumed I'd have kids eventually. I bought wholeheartedly into the singsong dream of love, marriage, and babies. Of course, my fantasy also included marrying River Phoenix...until I went through my NKOTB phase. According to the paper fortune teller, Joey and I might end up living in a trailer, but the minimum number of kids written on the lined notebook paper was always 1.
Looking back, I'm not sure I demonstrated a ton of early maternal flair. My preferred childhood games typically gave me the opportunity to be bossy, so that's something. One of my faves was playing school with my sister, with me as the teacher who was always trying to get her to sit in the corner wearing the dunce cap. She hated it and would often march off in a huff. Later on I tortured my littlest sister by telling her she was adopted. She cried and ran to my mother while I laughed. The storylines of my Barbie adventures involved cool outfits, fancy jobs, rearranging the furniture in the Dream House, a happening club scene, and lots of dirty sex acts with Ken. Sure, there was a surprise pregnancy or two for Barbie, which led to *drama*, but the kid would conveniently fade out of the storyline shortly after arriving on the scene. Much like how it works on TV.
I liked the idea, the excitement, of being pregnant and having a baby, but Barbie and I weren't too interested in the mothering that came after.
I did and still do like kids, though. I like talking with them and hearing their world views. Some of my best conversations ever have been with small children. It's easy to get a laugh out of the little ones, and I appreciate that. As a teenager my summers were filled with babysitting gigs, either for my younger sisters or neighbor families in need of cheap childcare. I worked in daycare my first couple of years in college, mainly with two and three year olds, and I was pretty good at it. A couple of little ones liked me enough that their parents asked me to babysit. I adored the kids and had a blast with them, keeping in touch with the families even after I moved on. But, without fail, I always felt relieved when bedtime came around. What I remember most is feeling happy and free as I drove home after the parents returned. You see, I enjoyed kid time best knowing that my own time would soon return.
Not much changed, and I continued to assume that one day I'd have kids. Except, as I approached my 30s and got to know myself better, my thought process shifted from "someday" to "maybe not". I witnessed friends starting families, and my own family welcomed two nephews and a niece. They're amazing and I love spending time with them. Often, tears come to my eyes thinking about how much I love them, and I can't wait to watch them grow up. Yet, I also want freedom and need solitude, two things that are in short order once kids arrive. I've had to acknowledge that I'm an introvert at heart, and I feel acutely when my energy supply is tapped out. I become prone to tears, mopey withdrawal, and emotional outbursts, making those around me miserable until I have some down time. Considering this, I can't ignore the nagging voice that asks, Do I want this? Am I cut out for parenting? And, at my clinically advanced maternal age, can I even have kids?
Parenthood choices weren't a pressing issue for a long time, as I spent a good chunk of my late 20s and early 30s single, so my flip-flop decisions were always purely hypothetical, driven by present conditions. Like being around a kid who was acting like an asshole. But now here I am. Newly married and 37. Bound in matrimony and our ambivalence about becoming parents, The Husband and I have postponed ourselves down to the wire. It's go time if there is going to be a go time, and I still don't know what I want to do. We don't know what to do.
DUH, you might say. Of course. Lots of us are fielding that question. Yet, I guess naively, I didn't expect it to come up so much in my little bubble of a world. Practically everyone asks. And I do mean everyone. Just last weekend I had a very awkward conversation with the owner of a nail salon after a pedicure. I didn't see it coming as she processed my payment at the counter. Are you married? she asked as she craned her neck to look for a ring. I saw her eyes register confirmation, and I felt that now familiar sinking sensation in my stomach. I knew predictably what comes next: Do you have kids?
See? She was it. There's no one left to ask. (I tried answering with a simple "no" as The Husband suggested I do, instead of rushing headlong into some sort of longer explanation in anticipation of follow up questions. The nip-it-in-the-bud-with-a-clipped-response strategy. No dice. Oh, so do you want kids? Are you trying? Waiting until later? She eyed me up and down doubtfully with that last one. I'm sure correctly assessing that there's little time left for "later" at this point.)
Whether by circumstance or choice, "maybe someday" has been the default answer. Yes, through my extensive personal research, I've learned there's a label for me and the choices I've made. I'm what the self-proclaimed experts call a Postponer.
When I was a kid, I always assumed I'd have kids eventually. I bought wholeheartedly into the singsong dream of love, marriage, and babies. Of course, my fantasy also included marrying River Phoenix...until I went through my NKOTB phase. According to the paper fortune teller, Joey and I might end up living in a trailer, but the minimum number of kids written on the lined notebook paper was always 1.
Looking back, I'm not sure I demonstrated a ton of early maternal flair. My preferred childhood games typically gave me the opportunity to be bossy, so that's something. One of my faves was playing school with my sister, with me as the teacher who was always trying to get her to sit in the corner wearing the dunce cap. She hated it and would often march off in a huff. Later on I tortured my littlest sister by telling her she was adopted. She cried and ran to my mother while I laughed. The storylines of my Barbie adventures involved cool outfits, fancy jobs, rearranging the furniture in the Dream House, a happening club scene, and lots of dirty sex acts with Ken. Sure, there was a surprise pregnancy or two for Barbie, which led to *drama*, but the kid would conveniently fade out of the storyline shortly after arriving on the scene. Much like how it works on TV.
I liked the idea, the excitement, of being pregnant and having a baby, but Barbie and I weren't too interested in the mothering that came after.
I did and still do like kids, though. I like talking with them and hearing their world views. Some of my best conversations ever have been with small children. It's easy to get a laugh out of the little ones, and I appreciate that. As a teenager my summers were filled with babysitting gigs, either for my younger sisters or neighbor families in need of cheap childcare. I worked in daycare my first couple of years in college, mainly with two and three year olds, and I was pretty good at it. A couple of little ones liked me enough that their parents asked me to babysit. I adored the kids and had a blast with them, keeping in touch with the families even after I moved on. But, without fail, I always felt relieved when bedtime came around. What I remember most is feeling happy and free as I drove home after the parents returned. You see, I enjoyed kid time best knowing that my own time would soon return.
Not much changed, and I continued to assume that one day I'd have kids. Except, as I approached my 30s and got to know myself better, my thought process shifted from "someday" to "maybe not". I witnessed friends starting families, and my own family welcomed two nephews and a niece. They're amazing and I love spending time with them. Often, tears come to my eyes thinking about how much I love them, and I can't wait to watch them grow up. Yet, I also want freedom and need solitude, two things that are in short order once kids arrive. I've had to acknowledge that I'm an introvert at heart, and I feel acutely when my energy supply is tapped out. I become prone to tears, mopey withdrawal, and emotional outbursts, making those around me miserable until I have some down time. Considering this, I can't ignore the nagging voice that asks, Do I want this? Am I cut out for parenting? And, at my clinically advanced maternal age, can I even have kids?
Parenthood choices weren't a pressing issue for a long time, as I spent a good chunk of my late 20s and early 30s single, so my flip-flop decisions were always purely hypothetical, driven by present conditions. Like being around a kid who was acting like an asshole. But now here I am. Newly married and 37. Bound in matrimony and our ambivalence about becoming parents, The Husband and I have postponed ourselves down to the wire. It's go time if there is going to be a go time, and I still don't know what I want to do. We don't know what to do.
Monday, November 04, 2013
Documentaries
Dudes. I watched a very disturbing documentary on the Orcas at Sea World the other night. It's called Blackfish. Very interesting and emotionally confusing. I thought I was turning on Anthony Bourdain on CNN and instead it was the very intense Blackfish. Perfect for a relaxing before bed watch while honeymooning on Maui.
The bottom line is that Sea World is holding Orcas captive (while telling outright lies about why captivity is "better" for their health and lifespan) to entertain people and make a buck, and the Orcas are pissed about their situation. On one hand, I felt really bad for the trainers who have died, or nearly died, by Orca attack at Sea World locations. There is some truly horrifying footage in this film, and I feel for the families and friends of those lost. But, on the other hand...DUH! Is it really surprising that the Orcas confined to such small spaces, with other Orcas who aren't part of their own pods, to spend their lives entertaining humans for food are dissatisfied? Hell yes those dorsal fins are collapsing! What would we expect of humans in a similar situation? If we were watching this as some big blockbuster film, I bet you serious coin that we'd be cheering on the Orcas to end their imprisonment and take down their oppressors. I'm outraged and sickened by Sea World's irresponsibility and cold-hearted pursuit of profit at the expense of both human and Orca lives. Blech. But again, not surprising when big money is involved. I really appreciated the openness of the former Sea World Orca trainers who shared their experiences and emotions. This is a must watch. Free the Orcas!
There are many must watch documentaries out there, many that are a lot more lighthearted.
The Story of Anvil
Life 2.0
The Queen of Versailles
Searching for Sugarman
Exit Through the Gift Shop
Sallinger (which I haven't finished yet and is a bit dark, but it's excellent just for Sallinger asking crazed fans/stalkers outright if they are mental patients)
The bottom line is that Sea World is holding Orcas captive (while telling outright lies about why captivity is "better" for their health and lifespan) to entertain people and make a buck, and the Orcas are pissed about their situation. On one hand, I felt really bad for the trainers who have died, or nearly died, by Orca attack at Sea World locations. There is some truly horrifying footage in this film, and I feel for the families and friends of those lost. But, on the other hand...DUH! Is it really surprising that the Orcas confined to such small spaces, with other Orcas who aren't part of their own pods, to spend their lives entertaining humans for food are dissatisfied? Hell yes those dorsal fins are collapsing! What would we expect of humans in a similar situation? If we were watching this as some big blockbuster film, I bet you serious coin that we'd be cheering on the Orcas to end their imprisonment and take down their oppressors. I'm outraged and sickened by Sea World's irresponsibility and cold-hearted pursuit of profit at the expense of both human and Orca lives. Blech. But again, not surprising when big money is involved. I really appreciated the openness of the former Sea World Orca trainers who shared their experiences and emotions. This is a must watch. Free the Orcas!
There are many must watch documentaries out there, many that are a lot more lighthearted.
The Story of Anvil
Life 2.0
The Queen of Versailles
Searching for Sugarman
Exit Through the Gift Shop
Sallinger (which I haven't finished yet and is a bit dark, but it's excellent just for Sallinger asking crazed fans/stalkers outright if they are mental patients)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)