Pausing...

...For a moment to remember the baby we lost this time last year. 

Technically, we don't know when his little heart stopped beating, but today is the anniversary of the D&C.  Not really a birthdate at all, but...well, it seems significant anyway.  At least to me.

It has been a difficult year, and I know I haven't been as good about posting as I used to be.  It is probably a combination of not knowing where to start and not being able to find the words.

And then there is the guilt.

Guilt because I always thought I wanted answers.

Guilt because now I have them.

Guilt because I have no choice but to move on.

Guilt because I know I'll always wonder about what could have been.

A clotting disorder.  I have a clotting disorder.  Something about Protein S and Protein C deficiencies and copies of some mutation on a couple of different genes.  I really don't know that much about it other than my doctor saying that just one of those things - by itself - puts a person at a high risk of thromboembolism.  And I have three (four?  Do you count the genes individually or just the mutation?  Or are the Protein S and C deficiencies caused by the mutated genes?  I don't know).  Not that it matters, really.  It's what killed my baby last year.  A blood clot formed on my side of the placenta and...well, that was it.  No clot and I would have a six month old baby boy in my arms right now.

I even know what we would have named him.

Of course, the miraculous part of all of this is that Banner IS here.  The same thing could have happened to him.  Did - in fact - happen to him.  Remember that placental abruption that very nearly killed both of us?  Blood clot.  They don't know when his formed.  Only that it made his entrance into the world much, much more dramatic and terrifying than I imagined it would be.  Thank God he survived.  I cannot imagine my world without him.

Although, it is easy enough for me to imagine a world where his brother survived.  Still.  To this day.  Whether I want to our not.  I see him everywhere.  In the arms of friends who had babies around the same time.  At the Arboretum.  While at swim class.  In all of Banner's hand-me-downs that I saved in case I had two boys.  Sometimes I dream he occupies the now empty nursery down the hall.  I think about the milestones he'd be reaching.  Solid food.  Sitting up.  I tear up.  No one knows.  No one sees.  No one wants to talk about it.  Because it has been a year.  Twelve months.  365 days.  Time marches forward, but I don't think this particular wound will ever heal.  Scar over one day maybe, but right now it still bleeds. 

It is what it is.  No one ever said miscarriage was easy. 

Banner sometimes tells me he wants a baby brother, and I tell him he has one.  In Heaven.  Watching over him.  Watching over us all.

What Makes a Mother...

I thought of you and closed my eyes
And prayed to God today.
I asked what makes a Mother
And I know I heard him say,

A Mother has a baby
This we know is true.
But God, can you be a Mother
When your baby's not with you?

Yes you can, he replied
With confidence in his voice.
I give many women babies
When they leave is not their choice

Some I send for a lifetime
And others for a day.
And some I send to feel your womb.
But there's no need to stay.

I just don't understand this,
God I want my baby here!
He took a breath and cleared His throat
And then I saw a tear

I wish that I could show you
What your child is doing today.
If you could see your child smile
With the other children and say,

"We go to earth to learn our lessons
Of love and life and fear.
My Mommy loved me oh so much
I got to come straight here."

"I feel so lucky to have a Mom
Who had so much love for me. I
learned my lesson very quickly
and My Mommy set me free."

"I miss my Mommy oh so much
But I visit her each day.
When she goes to sleep at night
On her pillow is where I lay."

"I stroke her hair and kiss her cheek
And whisper in her ear,
Mommy don't be sad today
I am your baby and I am here."

So you see my dear sweet one
Your children are okay
Your babies are here in My home
And this is where they'll stay.

They'll wait for you with Me
Until your lesson is through.
And on the day that you come home
They'll be at the gates for you.

So now you see what makes a Mother
It's the feeling in your heart.
It's the love you had so much of
Right from the very start

October 8th...

I know.  I know.  I'm behind.  But to be fair, it's been a little overwhelming lately with the fair, Ebola and that severe storm last Thursday that took out left hundreds of thousands (including us) without power for DAAAAAYS.

Also, I haven't really been in the writing mood.  I try and nothing comes out.  I have about twenty drafts saved on my blog dashboard that are little more than main ideas with little to no sentence structure.

Part of it is stress related.  Work has been crazy lately and I've been working a lot of overtime.  It is good to be busy, but it is also exhausting.

The other part is more emotional than anything, and just makes me sad.  For the last three weeks, I've been counting down the days…until today.  October 8th was my due date.

I went to a wedding over the summer, and one of my mom's friends took me aside and asked me how I was doing.  At first I didn't know what she was talking about, and I was all, "I'm fine!"  Then she confided that she, too, had a miscarriage decades earlier.

"How are you doing?  How are you doing really?" she asked.

I paused.  This was back in June when - honestly - I was still a wreck.  Physically I was experiencing frequent heart palpitations and inexplicable weight gain, and emotionally I felt hollow.  Like a complete failure and waste of space. 

"Does the pain ever go away?"

"Not really, but it does get easier.  You will never forget, though.  Whenever you see a child celebrating a birthday around the time yours should have been born, you will remember.  You will imagine how old they would have been, milestones they should be reaching, lost teeth.  And later, when you are my age, you will think of them at graduation ceremonies and weddings and the birth of grandbabies.  There will always be little reminders.  But with time, I promise, they will sting less.  Although, the ache...the ache will never truly go away."

So much of what she said resonated with me.  Since the miscarriage, there hasn't been a day that I haven't thought about where I would have been in my pregnancy.  Symptoms I would have been experiencing.  When I hit what should have been the 37 week mark, I started thinking about whether or not I would have gone into labor on my own, scheduled a C-section at 39 weeks or insisted on trying for a VBAC.  I've stared at other women's pregnant bellies with a combination of misplaced resentment and longing.

It's been a very difficult 28 weeks.  I have so many more white hairs now. 

 

But here we are:  D Day.  If that little boy hadn't died in my womb, he'd be here by now.  And yet...it is just another Wednesday in October.

Things have gotten better, though.  Really.  The heart palpitations now have an explanation (benign heart murmur and PVCs), and that random weight I gained disappeared - literally - overnight in late July.  I had complained to several doctors about the 10-12 pounds, and not one of them took me seriously.  They just told me it was most likely because I was getting older or eating more because I was still depressed about losing the baby.  No one would even consider that it was hormonal or water-related, which was crazy-making.  I was oh-so literally running until I bled trying to get it off, and borderline starving myself.  I had all but given up hope, and then *poof*.  The water went away, the PVCs all but stopped and I finally felt like my body was starting to get back to normal. 

Emotionally, though, I still have plenty of moments.

For instance…

…Trevor and I became Godparents on September 21^st, and Banner absolutely adores his God sister, Abby.  Banner and I have taken her to the Arboretum on playdates, and he loves to push her stroller and check on her.  One time, at lunch in August, she was fussy with reflux and red faced with tears.  Banner wanted so badly to help her feel better that he covered her infant carrier and feet with stickers.  Since then he asks frequently to go see "Baby Abby".  He will hold her hand and smile at her, and Abby will stop crying and smile back when she sees him.  It melts my heart to see them together, and I can’t help but tear up when I think that he was supposed to be a big brother by now.

Or…

…Back before Banner was born, my mother bought a newborn Santa outfit.  Ban was supposed to arrive before Christmas, but was stubborn and showed up nearly two weeks late.  When he finally arrived in January, it never occurred to me (blame first time parenthood) to shove him in the tiny little outfit for a photo before he was way too big for it.  Something I’ve always regretted.  When I found out I was pregnant back in January, one of the thoughts that made me happy was having another opportunity to use the never worn Santa outfit.  After all, the timing would have been perfect with the holiday’s right around the corner.  Maybe an announcement photo?  It is a silly thing to be sad about:  an unused Santa onesie.  But I am.  I tear up when I think about it sitting in a bag in attic with the tags still attached.    

Maybe tomorrow I'll find my words and finish one of those drafts on my dashboard.

 

Here's to hoping.  Here's to tomorrow.

Note to self: Next time just shut up...

Abby has been one of Banner's classmates since they were in the infant room back in 2012.  While the two of them are close, the same cannot be said of Abby's mother and I.  Why?  Because I am an idiot and have a tendency to make even the most pleasant of moments acutely awkward.

It's like my very own extremely undesirable superpower.

And nothing about today made that any less true.

See, Abby's mother is pregnant, and because pregnancy is such an iffy subject for me (despite all efforts to make it not so), I've avoid the topic altogether during our daily encounters in the hallway during pick up and drop off.  Because, although I'm (mostly) fine nowadays, there is still a part of me that can't help but continue to count down the days and weeks to what should have been.

I just can't seem to help it no matter how hard I try.

I'm still not sure how it started.  One minute Abby's mom and I were mindlessly chatting about a cranky Abby and hyperactive Banner, and the next she was telling me she was expecting a baby boy on October 5th.

And y'all?  It was like I was hit by a truck.  All the emotions I've kept so closely in check came welling up.  It happened suddenly, and I inhaled sharply.

It hurt so bad.  

Abby's mother looked at me curiously.  This was the moment that I should be congratulating her.

Instead?

Me:  "Sorry.  I mean, that's great.  It just that...well, I dunno.  I was also expecting a little boy in early October.  But...it wasn't meant to be, and...um, I'm fine.  We are fine.  Hopefully we'll get another chance someday, but...uh, yeah...I'm sorry.  It is just that they would have been the same age.  I really shouldn't be telling you any of this.  Who wants to hear about miscarriage, right?  It just surprised me, that's all.  The due date and gender, I mean.  I'm so sorry.  I should stop talking now.  Abby is so pretty, and you look great.  Have a great weekend."

This is going to get easier, right?

Too Hot To Handle and why I write about running...

So, Trevor and I ran the Too Hot To Handle on Sunday, and lived to tell about it.  He did the 5k, and I did the 15k because the 5k finishers didn't get a medal.  The Too Hot medals complete the Too Cold To Hold medals we got back in February, which is a stupid reason to run a nine mile race in July in Texas.  But then again, I've never claimed to be smart and have always been a little superstitious about finishing things I've started.

Plus, since I'm already missing a toenail (thanks to that half back in May), it isn't like like my feet can look much worse than they already do.

See?  It is like a giant BFF necklace.  Except I'm keeping both halves.
Because I earned them!

Anyway, I finished.  It was a lot easier than the Too Cold To Hold, which surprised me because yesterday was toasty.  I was hoping to finish in ninety minutes, but it took me closer to an hour and forty-five minutes.  At first this really disappointed me, but then I remembered that I forced myself to stop at every single water stop along the way.  Because even though the race started at 7:30 AM, it wasn't like it was getting any cooler.  In fact, yesterday ended up being our first triple digit day of the season.  Not that it was 100 degrees when I was running, mind you.  But it was in the 80s, and stopping to hydrate seemed like a necessary evil because OMG, THE SUN.

In other news, I always kind of feel weird about blogging about the races I run, because it feels very boastful.  Like, look at me!  I ran all the miles!  But that's not really my point at all.  I write about running because I like to document things.  Especially, things that challenge me, or things that I said I would never do (like running a race in the middle of summer).  But I also do so as a reminder that my body almost always does what I ask.  

See, I'm a big girl.  I've always been a big girl.  Part of it is because I'm 5'10.  Part of it involves my bones and genetics.  And part of it is because I have the metabolism of a turtle.  I don't lose weight.  I'm lucky if I can maintain my current weight, and well...since the miscarriage I've actually gained weight.  Which sucks because I've been eating well (as in "healthy" not "a lot"), running and circuit training in addition to every thing else (like chasing a two year old, gardening and three dogs).  I'm also very competitive and have a tendency to overdo the training, which - on occasion - has lead to weird injuries (my foot) and even illness.

Granted, there is probably a hormonal component to the weight gain.  I retain water like a sponge, especially in recent months.  But I can't tell you how emotionally devastating it is to run a race and actually GAIN WEIGHT.  Especially when your calorie burn is this:

  

And the thing is, I know that the number on the scale is just a number.  People keep telling me that it looks like I've lost weight, and I can't help but beat myself up because I know it isn't true.  

 

I'm healthy.  My blood work (except for a Vitamin D deficiency), blood pressure and cholesterol is perfect.  I take no medication except vitamins, and Nasonex (if I remember) for seasonal allergies. That should be enough.

I can run for hours, and leg and bench press more than most women (and even some men).  That should be enough.

My body has given me a healthy son.  That should be enough.

Trevor loves me the way I am, and that should be enough.

And, yet, I look at the image below and all I see is FAT.

Lining up moments before the race began. Trevor loves this photo.  I hate it.
Because arm flab and tan lines! And OMG, is that a fat roll under my boobs?!

Trevor also took a video of me finishing the race yesterday.  I finished strong; picked up the pace for the last mile and even sprinted the last stretch.  But all I could see was my wide hips, big a$$ and thunder thighs jiggling in overworked spandex as I ran past the camera.

Why?  Why do I do this?  Why do I think these things about myself?

I know it has something to do with the media, and wishing I weighed 125 (or even 150.  Hell, I'd take 175).  I'm guessing it also has something to do with losing 80 pounds in high school and being ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED of being that big again.  It may even have something to do with the miscarriage and wanting my body to be in good shape if/when we attempt to have another baby.

Whatever it is, no matter what I do, I cannot seem to muster a positive self image.  Which probably explains why we don't have a single full length mirror in our house.

Anyway, these blog posts about the races I've run?  They are the only place I give my body the credit it deserves.  Because it is far from perfect, but it gets the job done.  I'm not running marathons by any means, but I'm getting across my own finish lines with energy to spare.  Regardless of what the (effing) scale says.

That's something, right?

And while I'm confessing the true meaning behind some of my posts.  THIS ONE?  I wasn't really ready to donate my hair, but I started to shed about a month after the D&C and simply couldn't take it any more.  Like I hadn't already lost enough and now my hair was falling out.  For reasons I don't understand, I've felt guilty about not explaining that since April.  Maybe because my reasons for donating my hair weren't as simple as not getting a hair cut for eighteen months?  Maybe because I was forcing the smile in those stupid selfies?  I don't know, but there you go.  

But running with shorter hair?  Much better.

The ranch, the tractors and the Spartan Race...

So, Trevor registered for this Spartan Race months ago.  Which is funny in a way, because Trevor promised that he wouldn't register for any new races after I got pregnant (because I have a tendency to be a LOT little competitive).  And then - not even kidding you - ONE WEEK after I told him I was pregnant again back in January, he came to me with news of this "really cool race" down in Burnet in May that he just HAD to do.

Trevor needs a refresher on the definition of "promise".

But I relented.  Mainly because Trevor has always wanted to be a spartan and push tires in the mud.  And by "always" I really mean "since 2007 when he first saw the movie 300".  Who was I to stand in the way?  Plus, since the whole pregnancy thing didn't work out, it gave Trevor something to train for and look forward to after the miscarriage.

The nifty thing about this particular Spartan Race was that it close to the ranch.  So, instead of driving to Burnet, running a race and driving back to Dallas, we all just spent the weekend in the hill country.

Haskell was thrilled because this meant he got to go.

It also allowed us to come and watch Trevor run.  I don't know if anyone who reads this blog has ever gone to or participated in a Spartan Race, but it is quite the spectacle.  There are something like 30,000 participants spread out over two days.  Spectators are encouraged, and there is even a mini Spartan Race for the 4-8 crowd.

Of course, Saturday was toasty, and there wasn't much shade.  Which sort of explains Banner's sunscreen mohawk:

To be fair, we tried to put a hat on him, but he didn't like it because it was hot.  Desperate times, desperate measures.

Honestly, Banner didn't mind too much because we were waiting in line to ride on a school bus from the parking area to the starting line.  Little man was thrilled.  It was his first ride on a bus and he savored every second.  Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and be two again.  There is something magical about watching another human being be so genuinely happy and excited about doing something as mundane as riding a bus.  I wish I could bottle that enthusiasm.  It was contagious, and he is still talking about it days later.  Because, dude, he rode A BUS!

But back to the race.  Y'all.  There are no words, so I'm just going to show you some of the pictures I took of a few of the obstacles:

Waiting for daddy...

It was crazy.

Sadly, we missed Trevor crossing the finish line.  But only just.  Once we did find him, though, all he could say was "never again".  Which is hysterically funny since he was already planning a second Spartan Run a mere two hours later.

It took him 3 hours to finish.  The race was supposed to be 8 miles long, but ended up being 9.5.  Any obstacle you either couldn't or failed to do required 30 burpees.  It was hot.  It was dusty.  But the water they had to crawl and swim through was icy cold.  Might sound refreshing, but it was a recipe for muscle cramps.  The poor guy could barely walk afterwards, but Trevor finished!!

Banner also got a metal.  Technically, he was too young to do the mini Spartan, but Trevor registered him anyway.  Spectators cost $20/each, but mini Spartan registration was $25 AND you got a t-shirt and two FREE spectators.  What would you have done?  ;P

Plus, Banner was so good all morning.  It was about a mile from the parking area to where the buses were picking up, and about another third of a mile to the starting line/observation area.  Banner was a trooper the entire time despite all the heat and sun.  So, I asked the guy handing out the mini Spartan metals if Banner could have one (since we had registered and paid for the metal anyway), and he gladly handed one over.  Banner was so proud:

Just like daddy!

After the race, we got lunch in town and spent the rest of the day hanging out at the ranch; complete with an evening cook out at the dam just like when I was a kiddo.

The ranch really is turning into one of Banner's favorite places, and it is neat to see him doing the things I did as a child.  Of course, nothing is cooler for a(n almost) 2.5 year old than getting to drive the tractor with Uncle Yum.  He was in heaven!

Thank you, William, for being so patient with him and taking him for rides!

Last but not least, Sunday was Gypsy's 11th birthday (or the tenth anniversary of her adoption from the SPCA of Texas).  She celebrated in style (even if she looks horrified):

All in all, a fabulous weekend filled with good fun, good food and good people.  Now if I can only figure out a way to talk Trevor out of doing a 13 mile Spartan Run in November.  Because...SERIOUSLY, TREVOR?!

So, yeah. About that...

Dear Internets,

You know when you are so focused on getting back to normal that you suddenly realize that you are miles away from normal?  From okay?  That was me on Tuesday night.  When I actually wrote THIS POST.

Monday was really hard.  I did not realize how much I was dreading seeing the other mother in mommy-and-me that is due five days before I was in October.  And there she was.  She's missed a bunch of classes recently, so I hadn't seen her since March.  But, of course, news had spread, and she knew.  She came up to me after class and said how sorry she was to hear about what had happened.  I had been doing so well, but I choked up talking to her.  In an effort to get away, I mumbled something about how the whole situation is hard.  That it sucks.  I held it together for the ten feet between her and the shower, and used Banner's post swim rinse off to mask the ugly cry I had right there in the locker room.

Then, the next day, I burst into tears when Trevor said something innocent after dinner.  I thought he was mad at me, but he was only kidding.  And, suddenly, I realized maybe I wasn't doing as well as I thought I was.  In that moment, I sat down and wrote the list of all the reasons I'm angry.

Honestly, I never intended to post it.  But I've received all these emails from people talking about how strong I am for writing about my miscarriage, and felt like I needed to give perspective.  Because these last six weeks have been a real struggle for me.  For Trevor.  For my family.  It would be a lie to pretend that everything is all hunky-dory six weeks out.  Mostly because I am not strong at all.  I'm heartbroken and angry.  And you know what?  That is okay.  After all, aren't all these emotions just steps in the grieving process?

So I made myself type out every.last.reason why I'm angry.  The order didn't matter.  I just let it flow.  When I was done, I felt lighter.  Twenty-four hours later, I reread what I wrote, and let Trevor see it.  I asked if it would be a mistake to publish it, and he said it would be a mistake not to.

I slept better last night than I have in days, and I no longer feel like a ticking time bomb of pent-up sadness and misdirected anger.  For me, writing down what I am really feeling is immensely therapeutic and liberating.  As for posting it on the internet?  Consider this blog my temporary confessional.

Thank you all for reading.  For caring.  It might not be today or tomorrow, but - as long as I have my boys - I'm going to be okay.

XOXO,
Deals

Six Weeks...

And then *bam* it hit me.

I'm angry.

There I said it.  I'm angry.

I'm angry that it still hurts six weeks out.

I'm angry that I'm not over it.

I'm angry I still can't talk about it without tearing up.

I'm angry that I counted down the weeks to my October 8th due date on my work calendar.  In pen.

I'm angry that I don't have a new baby to look forward to.

I'm angry at myself because always thought I could reason my way through this.

I'm angry because everyone (including me) wants to sweep this under the rug, and I just...can't.

I'm angry that I know it was a boy because I keep picturing another little Banner.  I see two little boys playing together.  Growing up together.  Brothers.

I'm angry because I keep envisioning a life that will never be.

I'm angry because I'll never know why that little heart ceased to beat.

I'm angry because I know I'll never believe it wasn't somehow my fault.

I'm angry because no one talks about miscarriage.

I'm angry because someone who I thought loved me told me I make them miserable, to get over myself and that they are done feeling sorry for me.  And that was only three weeks after what happened, happened.

I'm angry because I feel the same way.  I don't want to be around me, either.

I'm angry that I can't look at Facebook without tearing up because so many people I know are expecting.  I want so badly to be happy for them, and hate myself that I can't.  Especially the ones that are due in October.  Their posts are like knives, but because I want to be excited for them, I can't look away.  It hurts, it hurts, it hurts no matter how much I want it not to.

I'm angry because I feel like I am mourning alone.

I'm angry because I know I'd be feeling the first movements about now, and we'd be going in for our twenty week sonogram early next week.

I'm angry that I've been avoiding my friends.  Especially the ones I know are trying to start families.  Because I don't want them to tell me they are pregnant in person.  I don't know how I'll react, and that makes me hate me.

I'm angry because another mother in the mommy-and-me swim class is due five days before I was, and I can't look at her without choking up.  I don't think I've ever truly been jealous of someone before.

I'm angry because I've been a terrible wife lately.

I'm angry because I know Trevor is losing patience with me, and I can't say I blame him.  I'm losing patience with me.

I'm angry that I'm so sensitive lately that I can't tell if someone is kidding or not.

I'm angry I can't even watch the TODAY SHOW without seeing a pregnant Savannah Guthrie.

I'm angry that all of the mothers at day care seem to be pregnant right now, and I can't go anywhere without pregnancy chatter and baby bumps.

I'm angry at my body for taking so long to physically recuperate and get back to normal.  I'm tired of the aches, the infection and the hormonal roller coaster.

I'm angry that I hesitate when people who don't know I miscarried ask if we want more children.  And then I feel horrible if the hesitation is noticed and I end up telling them the truth.  Because nothing kills a conversation like, "Oh, yeah.  I just had miscarriage".

I'm angry that Trevor never hesitates.  He happily tells anyone who will listen that we want more children.  He never dwells on what what we lost.  People like talking to him.

I'm angry because I know it could have been so much worse, and I have no reason to still be feeling like this.  I read about someone whose term baby girl was stillborn and another who lost her eleven month old to SIDS.  Compared to that kind of loss, mine is nothing.

And, yet...the anger is still there.  Or maybe it is just sadness?  I'm not even sure I know anymore.

Ranch escape...

We had been planning on going to the ranch the first week in April for awhile.  But then I miscarried, and the trip turned into a much needed escape. 

The weather was cold and rainy, which seemed oddly appropriate.  My brother and his girlfriend were there, as was Trevor's brother, Spencer.  Together, we spent a lot of time eating, sleeping, drinking, fishing, watching TV and just hanging out.

It may be cliché, but it was just what I needed.

Here are some of my favorite pictures from earlier this month:

Fishing with daddy.  It only lasted five minutes, and they didn't catch anything. 
But my heart melts every time I see the pictures.

The guys...

A day out with Thomas...

My son?  OBSESSED with trains, and has been ever since he was bitten by the Thomas bug back around his second birthday.  So, it was a given we would attend this event in the springtime. 

The funny thing is that I used to have to work this YEARS ago.  It was a partnership thing, and my museum hosted an activity table with arts and crafts.  Believe me, this event is much, much, MUCH better as a mom than an early to mid 20 something surrounded by HUNDREDS of very excited train-loving little people. 

The best part of this event, was that it got me out of the house.  This was our first real excursion post D&C (we went on March 30th).  It was hard, but seeing the look on Banner's face as Thomas pulled into the station made it all worth it.

But enough from me, I'll let the pictures do the talking: