Pity Party in Progress-You may want to skip this post.

I had high hopes for today. The plan was to go to school, attend all 3 classes, do the readings, and participate in life itself. It was a nice plan. So for those of you who have just about had it with reading my pitiful whining, you may want to navigate away from this page. The weekend's hope and reason has since faded away into oblivion.

Coming through the breezeway, I was playing the theme from Rocky in my head. Battered and bruised, I was determined to come back to life. I made it through my first class this morning without shedding a single tear. As I exited the lecture hall, that's when it happened. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a fellow l@w student who is about 6 months pregnant. And, like a grisly accident, I simply could not look away. I found myself staring at her belly. After a few moments of visual torture, I was on the verge of hysterical crying. My carrell is near the stacks, so I buried myself in the nearest hidden corner and sobbed. I did manage to get to my second class, but I still have no idea what we talked about in that lecture. Now, I have to figure out how to make it to 2:30 for the last lecture.

Here it comes, the whining (complete with all the overused phrases of self pity)...

Why me? Why not her? Why does every single thing in my life need to be so fucking hard? Let's review... In the beginning, I had a father with untreated Bipolar I. Under his rule, I was not permitted to wear pants, not allowed to cut my hair, and suffered enough beatings at his hand to make me the most fearful and yet devoted daddy's girl ever known. At 7 years old, my dear father died suddenly of a heart attack. No father for me. At 7 years old, I became a substitute parent for my 2, and later 3, younger sisters. At 7 years old, I assumed more adult roles than should ever be placed upon a child of that age. I cooked dinners, cleaned the house, helped with homework, and protected my sisters from my mother's frequent rages. No childhood for me. At 12 years old, my mother married my step-father. They had a child together...as if I didn't have enough to do. And to add to the fun, my step-father's OCD made my life a living hell. At 17 years old, I went off to college where I thought I could escape from my family. A year later, my mother sent my 15 year old sister to live with me because she couldn't handle her anymore. That lasted just long enough to obliterate my second year of college. At 24, I married a drug addict, because I'm an idiot. At 26, on April 1st no less, he announced he was in love with another woman and wanted a divorce. Around the same time, I was diagnosed with bipolar II. Somewhere in there, I made about 3 weak suicide attempts. I became a cutter, and have the disgusting scars to prove it. At 27, I was forced into bankruptcy by the debt left to me in the divorce and the mounting medical bills. At 32, I endured what I believe to be the first of many miscarriages. A few days later, I discover I contracted chlamydia from the first husband.

Now, in the big world, there are millions of people with a history much more tragic than mine. Even in the blogging world, there are worse tales. But somehow, this doesn't make me feel any better. I am so tired, beaten, bruised from this life. I am not smart enough to finish this horror called l@w school. I only got a Ph.Duh. because my advisor feels sorry for me. I am a sham, a failure, a loser. Because, in all of this badness, I have had good things. I went to college afterall. I remarried to the best husband ever.

But it's the loss that's killing me. No father, no Pooter, no credit, no future. I am really sorry for the pathetic tone of this post, and how ungrateful I sound. I feel frozen in my losses, as if Spring thaw will never come. Did I mention we got 5 inches of snow last night, and it's still falling? I am tired of crying.

Openly Miscarried

Updated to add: Because I know how healing your support is when there is an open wound, I want to encourage you all to head over to Ultimate Journey's blog and offer her the type of healing for which you are all so famous.

Husband phoned an old friend of his today. Old Friend announced that his wife was 5 months pregnant. Husband responded by telling him that we were pregnant for a bit, and now we're not. Old friend was quick to reveal that his wife had miscarried at around 11 weeks with the last pregnancy. The sad part is that their previous tragedy gave me the space to be happy for them in this pregnancy. It's incredible how bitter I have become.

However, her story and the success stories of so many others that have gone through this type of loss give me hope that I would not otherwise have. If we didn't talk openly about our loss, then others would never have been so forthcoming about their own losses. And so despite my vulnerability and sensitivity to all the asshats' comments, I continue to be open about Pooter. The good from telling my story weighs a lot more in the end than all the lame statements from people like my sister-in-law. I must speak, because silence just brings more suffering. Needless suffering.

So you may ask, well what about the not-yet successful stories? How does that help? Well, it tells me that survival is possible. Life is still out there waiting for me to rejoin regardless of my baby quest. I need to hear that more than anything.

Thus, to begin my forward march, I wonder when my cycle will resume it's normally scheduled programming. It feels so weird to have no idea where I am in the big fertile scheme of things. This month's crotch watch data has been decidedly inconclusive. One day's data point indicated a possible ovulation, but really who the hell knows. I have my D&C follow-up appointment next Friday. Doesn't 4 weeks seem like a long time? I still wonder whether my HCG has gone down to nil. It's the not knowing that I find so frustrating. When should I expect AF, anyway?

Laughter through Tears

Laughter through tears is by far my favorite and most powerful emotion. It makes me feel human again. So in honor of that feeling, I will tell you a very short story about what an idiot my ex-husband was and is.

In the first year of that marriage, I was scanning the charges on our credit card bill. One line in particular caught my attention. It was a charge for $20 and I definitely did not recognize the vendor. It was a website called lunarembassy.com. Initially I thought that it was either an error or that someone had gotten ahold of our credit card number. Later that day, I asked then-husband about it. His face lit up when I mentioned it. He claimed it as his own purchase, and proceeded to tell me what our $20 had earned us. He had purchased a piece of the moon. That's right, we were the proud owners of a specific parcel of land on the moon. He was clearly proud of his shrewd buying activities. I was in shock while he rattled off the benefits of getting in on this once in a lifetime opportunity.

Despite his excitement and the fact that we were first time landowners, I got on the phone with the Lunar Embassy, and told them that "my son" had gotten ahold of my credit card and made the purchase without my permission. The woman was very kind and agreed to issue a credit to my credit card. It was the first time in that marriage that I realized I didn't have a husband, I had a teenage son. Sheesh.

Missions of Mercy (updated to an annoying degree)

Before you read the following, please note that I am not actually complaining about blogging comments, except for the one that I mention in the post. The asshat derived comments I am referring to are NOT from blogland. These are asshats that I talk to every day in my non-virtual life. So, please don't read into this post, I am not at all upset with any of my regular readers (ashmc2, you can go ahead and assume I am not all that impressed with your comment though).

The former version of this post has been removed. For those who did read it and those who commented, please don't be concerned. It will be OK.

The old version was a mistake. I shouldn't post such a thing, and when I went back to read it, it made me sick. I am too vulnerable and unstable to read any comments to such a disgusting post which actually reveals a little too much of how angry and ugly I have become. I apologize. Nothing to see here, please move along and pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain.

update 4/10/07: Now that I have made such an issue of the removed post, I feel like I am hiding from the bloggies, and I never want to hide from you all. Here is the most painful part of the post that I took down so that you can all understand why I find myself so ugly right now. As you can see I am really struggling.

All in all, it went OK. I promised myself not to discuss the miscarriage with the in-laws, mainly because I knew whatever they would say during such a discussion would damn them to hell in my mind. And, well, I was right. I talked about the death of Pooter. It sucked. Husband's sister, a 30-something single woman, couldn't help but throw in the two people she knew who had miscarried. Repeatedly, she told me that they were "very common, you know, like, no big deal." Then she proceeded to tell me how everyone she knows who has miscarried had no problem staying pregnant later. Clearly we are in different social circles. Few things make me angrier than when someone tries to either tell me why a bad thing isn't really that bad or why my grief isn't valid because it's so common.

And at the risk of losing every single reader I have, I will say this one thing to preempt a particular comment. I am perfectly aware of the fact that people are well meaning when they make comments (specifically check out the one from ASHMC2) about the miscarriage. I am well aware of the fact that they were just trying to help. I am completely aware of the fact that they don't know what to say. I know all of this, really I do. And, guess what? That doesn't make me feel any better. One person who does get to "feel better" for having said something is the insensitive asshat who convinced themselves that their words of wisdom would wipe away the pain. Not to ruin SIL's mission of mercy or anything, but I am glad that someone is feeling better, even though it's definitely not me. Looks like she wins either way. Nice.

As an attempt at something positive from this mangled post, I will add the following link. "Helping someone after a miscarriage" It's a lovely compilation of do's, don'ts, and not to say's to a person who has miscarried. Any New Zealander's out there? That's one country that seems to actually get it.

My mother-in-law

I love my mother-in-law (hereinafter MIL) but sometimes I don't like her. A few weeks ago, Husband was supposed to go up to his mom's house and set up her computer along with her internet service. We live 2 hours away, so a visit requires gas and gas requires money. We have absolutely no money. The weekend he was scheduled to go up was the same weekend as my D&C so he postponed the visit until the following weekend (just this past weekend, actually).

Because I didn't want to be alone all day on a Saturday and without a car, I decided to go with him to MIL's house. Our plan was to be at her house for a few hours, just long enough for him to set up her computer, and then we would proceed to a large park called Mendon Ponds for the afternoon before heading home. When Husband and I first dated, we would go to Mendon Ponds with the Jack Russell Terrier and walk the trails. It's a lovely place, and I tend to feel peaceful when I visit the ponds. We even went so far as to call MIL and let her know of our plans so that she wouldn't expect us to stay for the day. It was a good plan.

Husband told his mom that the subject of my miscarriage was off limits and requested that she not bring it up. When we arrived, Husband went right to work on her computer. I was stuck talking to MIL, despite the fact that I was attempting to read my casebook for school. She proceeded to go on and on about Husband's 2 cousins, both of them are 3 years old. Great, just what I want to talk about...children. Then, as she walked away, she threw in that one of those 3 year olds plus his older brother would be coming over for the day. Perfect. And, that we would be coloring Easter eggs together. Wow, it just gets better and better.

Just as Husband is finishing up, she tells me that dinner will be ready at 3pm. Dinner? No sooner do I find out that she has slated us for dinner, does Husband's sister show up. Clearly this dinner thing had been planned from the beginning and she had not warned or even asked Husband whether he wanted to stay. Once dinner was done, I thought, well, we still have some daylight to go to the ponds. When I go to look for Husband so we can round up the dogs and head out, I discover him in MIL's driveway surrounded by parts excavated from his sister's car door. In fact, he had taken the whole thing apart to fix her window. I was in shock.

It was quite clear from that point, that we would not be going to the ponds, and that MIL had no intention of allowing us to stick to the plan we had told her about. We had been ambushed once again by my MIL. Fuck.

The kicker is that I was angry with myself for expecting things to be different than they are. I went in expecting to follow our plan when in the past such plans have always been summarily ignored by MIL and Husband. What was I thinking? I know better than to expect what I cannot have, and yet I expect it anyway.

I want to take a long walk off a short pier. I want to play in traffic. I want to go to war. Anything that would provide a method of self destruction. I am so tired of me. When I look forward at the minutes I have to fill, I just want to leave them empty.

The Socks

Left: Photo of a landscape architecture installation in our collegetown area.


I stayed home from class today. I really had no desire to wander the l@w school while I sobbed in public. Plus, did you know all that ugly crying seems to make you twice as ugly the next day? So as much as I would like to be surrounded by people living in the world of the sane, I am spending my time blogging at home. Historically, I have stayed home from work or school because of emotional trauma, and subsequently, I end up feeling so isolated and alone in the world that it makes everything worse. So now when I stay home, blogging allows me to be by myself while still remaining connected to people, really really good people.



I have a dozen stories in my head that I would like to write about at this time, but one in particular has been at the front of my head. Mainly because it happened recently, and for the 3rd time. It involves some very minor crafting, and the dogs. I take a white tube sock and fill it with uncooked rice. Then, I tie off a knot at the end of the sock to close it up. At that point, it becomes The Sock. When my neck/back muscles are sore, I heat up The Sock for around 2-3 minutes in the microwave. It serves as a fabulous heating pad for sore muscles, and can easily be wrapped around the back of the neck. The truly crafty can add lavender to the rice to give off a lovely scent.

The problem at my house is the dogs. I have made 3 of these socks in the last couple of years. All 3 of The Socks, have been summarily ripped open by our two dogs, a male German Shepherd and a female Jack Russell Terrier, when we have mistakenly left The Sock out and not in use. Once they get The Sock open, the two of them consume as much of the rice as possible. The rice that escapes into the carpet is like a snack that they can go to when feeling the munchies come on later. During the last sock destruction and consumption party the dogs had, they did manage to leave some of the rice in the sock. I threw that sock and its rice in the garbage. About a week later they found the garbage that contained the remnants of the sock, and succeeded in pulling it out of the garbage and eating the remaining rice now well seasoned with other garbage. Nice.

The digestive fallout from these rice episodes isn't pretty. And now that I am not pregnant, I am part of the clean up crew again. Good times.

Now what? (with minor update)

So, I don't really know how to keep going. This is my first day back to class after being absent for the last week. To say that I am a vegetable may be overstating my ability to function. I tried to read up on the assignments so I would be ready for class, and it just wasn't happening for me. I just keep reading the same sentences over and over again. Honestly, I don't know how I am going to complete the semester.

I am stuck in grief. Last night, we went out to see David Sedaris do a reading at our local theater. Towards the end, he promoted a book about zombies, the living dead. Now that I think it over, I think that may be me, the living dead, a zombie. A lifeless but moving corpse that just wants to bite people's heads off. That's me.

It's a bit scary when I realize that I have zero desire to live or to be alive. I just want to fade to black, quietly, while no one is paying attention.

Updated as of 8ish this evening: I have been crying in that ugly way all day, but I am still here. Thanks to all of you, the husband, and the pups (even though they got into the garbage). Not going anywhere today, promise.

How are you doing today? Well, I'm pissed off.

I am extremely sensitive to comments from people in my everyday, non-bloggie, life. Very sensitive. Here are a few excerpts of what has been said by well meaning people, and how I would like to respond is in italics.

• "It's just bad luck and you were the one in five in these odds for miscarriage. So if you have 5 pregnant women in the room, 1 of those women will miscarry and that was you." Really, Sherlock? Is that how odds work? If we have 5 people in a room, and I use everyone of them to beat you senseless, then what are the odds that I will kill you? Pretty high, I'd say.
  
• "It just wasn't meant to be." So the baby wasn't meant to be, but the miscarriage was? Nice. If it's not meant to be then maybe it shouldn't have started like it was.
• "Well at least you know that you can get pregnant." Unfortunately, it takes a bit more than that to get one of them take home babies though. So if that's all the optimism that you can muster, please don't bother even opening your mouth.
• A nurse at the hospital after my D&C apparently thought that this comment would be helpful in some way, "I've had 5 miscarriages so far." Well, that's some happy news, please tell me more. If I get to number 5, then I will surely shoot myself in the head. That way I won't have anyway of saying the same thing to an unsuspecting, sad patient after her first D&C/miscarriage.

OK, so maybe I am a bit snarky right now. The thing is that I never say any of the stuff I am thinking when people make these comments. Instead, I just smile, thank them for their help, and even tell them they are so insightful. I am such a liar.

Uncomfortably Numb

The bottom dropped out this morning. Since the physical pain is gone, I don't need to continue taking the Per.c0cets. So now there is plenty of room to feel the emotional pain. Until today, I couldn't really cry. And, I find it ironic that I am curled up in fetal position on the couch unable to be productive in any way at all.

Thank you all, by the way, for all of your comments and support. Reading them over and over again hasn't gotten me through things so far. Without all of you, I certainly wouldn't have managed so long.

But now I am hurdling toward hell. Husband has opted to stay home with me today. My lighthouse in the storm. And this has been no fun for him either, he is truly mourning and working through his grief. I, on the other hand, am not. Even though, I know it's not good, I am fighting the grief in the same stubborn way I fought the anesthesia the day of the D&C. I simply can't find words for my grief, and so I feel so numb and in silent pain all at the same time. I don't even know how to feel so much pain.

And, you would think that by now, I would have learned how to efficiently deal with pain. It's certainly not new to my world. Perhaps I am just tired of loss. Pretty pathetic given that this is my first miscarriage. It's the accumulated loss over a lifetime that is crushing me.

Adventures in Medicine

So yesterday, Husband and I arrived at the hospital for my D&C at around 2:00pm. The very kind nurses got me situated in the same day surgery department and I was lounging on the gurney trying to appreciate the rare moment of watching cable TV. Plus, I was efficiently hydrating with my new IV line. Around 3:00pm, Mr. Doctor came in to brief me, and when he asked if I had any questions, I wondered aloud about the results of the last cervical smear Mrs. Doctor had done when she couldn't find the heartbeat. That day, she remarked that my cervix was looking rather raw. Concerned, she did a quick smear and sent it out. They got the results of that test late Thursday. No one had thought to look at the results before hand, so when I mentioned it to Mr. Doctor he ran out to call the office and find out if the results were indeed back and what they said.

Now before, I reveal what those results were, I need to remind everyone of something. Both Husband and I were married and divorced before this marriage. Both of us left our first spouses upon the discovery that his wife and my husband were in fact cheating on us. As I have previously mentioned, the first husband didn't just cheat once, he had actually been sleeping with other women the entire 10 years we had been together. Once I got a divorce and before I began my relationship with Husband, I went to Planned Parenthood and got a full work up concerning STDs, including HIV. It was scary, but the results all came back negative at that time. Little did I know that a few diseases can lay low and remain undetected for quite awhile.

The lab results came back as equivocal for chlamydia. Basically, the results were neither absolutely positive, nor necessarily negative. Nice, huh? I thought so. When Mr. and Mrs. Doctor consulted with me yesterday, they both agreed, and thus so did I, that they wanted me on 48 hours of the best antibiotic before doing this D&C. Too high of a risk of driving the bacteria further into my reproductive organs than it already might be. And while it doesn't currently appear that the bacteria has done any damage to the tubes, the bacteria may be responsible for the death of my fetus.

This is an incredibly painful time for me as it was. But now to know that my first marriage and all of the awful things that happened as a result of it continue to haunt me in the most important thing in my life right now. I am filled with rage, and anger, and revenge. I am going through life mostly in silence at this time. I just can hardly say anything at all. I fear that if I open my mouth, I won't be able to stop the explosion of hate that would come from within.