In your room

Dear Cleatus,

Yes, I am aware that you have a ridiculous name. For that, you can blame your uncle. We were working on a name that you would be called throughout your life, but as you can see, I'm still calling you Cleatus. Now, it reminds me of how silly-happy-giddy we were about you being created. Your whole family was excited, right down to your cousins. I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to keep calling you Cleatus. It makes me smile and reminds me of how much I laughed while we were together.

Your family is home now. While we were away, cards came in the mail telling us how happy people were about you. I told lots of our friends about you in our Christmas cards. They were so glad for us. I also got your baby book in the mail. It is really nice. I won it in a raffle for Her Bad Mother's nephew and Muscular Dystrophy research. In the spirit of my often untimely and slightly inappropriate laughter, I thought to myself when I opened it, "Well this is going to be a short book."

I am sitting in your room now. In our rocker. And I miss you. I am determined not to be that mother who burdens her children with her pain. I will not ask you or your siblings to shoulder my grief. I just want you to know that I miss you. It is empty here without you.

Today, we stopped in Montreat and took Lovely to the spot where Guy and I were married this summer. It was a place I wanted to take you as well. The creek had risen and drowned out the noise my breathing made as I tried not to cry. You would have gone to kids' camps and youth conferences in Montreat. We would have rock hopped together. I bought a book in the bookstore there that was about helping women deal with grief after miscarriage. The last page said something like this:

The depth of your grief is a measure of the love you have for your child. If there was no love, there would be nothing to grieve.

If that is true than I love you more deeply than I had even thought was possible.

I don't know if I believe in heaven or not. I wish that I did now. I wish that I could imagine you somewhere that we could be together again someday. If it is true, and you are not simply just gone, then I hope you can hear me when I still talk to you. When I still play for you. You can ignore the whole crying thing though. I'm told that will subside with time, and I will be okay.

If I believe that you are not simply just gone though, then it leaves me to worry about if you are alright and if you know how much you are loved. Yes, your mother is a bit loony. Sorry about that.

The walls of your room are missing and there is no light. Part of me wants to shut the door and never open it again, another part of me wants to never leave it. I can sit in here, in the dark, and no one wants to come in. There is only our rocking chair and piles of my junk. This weekend your daddy promised to get the sheet rock up and buy me a treadmill. We are going to put it in your room. If I am going to think about you nonstop, then the least I can do is work off those milkshakes you asked for. By the way, thanks for that. You stinker.

This didn't turn out how I wanted it too. Well, I guess more than one thing applies there. Your life didn't turn out how I wanted it too, but I meant this letter. I wanted to tell you about what I had planned and dreamed for us. I wanted to tell you about what I picked out for your nursery and the Mother's Morning Out programs I had thought about so that you could make friends. I wanted to tell you about the Jeep that Guy bought me and deemed the Mommymobile. I could fit all my gear and a baby seat too. You and I were going to gigs.

Truth is though, those things are not for you now. They will be for your sibling. You did not need those things from me.

There will be a time when I can be thankful for the life we did have together. I am already, but the pain of losing you so before getting to see you and hold you is making it hard to remember how grateful I am to have had you as long as I did. I was already proud of you.

I will always be proud of you. I will always love you. You will always be my first baby. Thank you for showing me that I can love enough to be a mother.

With Love,
Your Mom

No effort required

Suppose I won't know what is going to set me off for awhile. Today It was a puppy.

We stopped for gas at a very most awful BP in eastern Tennessee. Yikes. When we got out of the car, I took Lovely in to find the restroom and then not leave her side since it was a scary scary place. As we crossed the parking lot, a little puppy ran the other way. Cute little brown and black guy. Guy was getting our own pups out to go for a walk. Right before Lovely and I got to the door, I heard what sounded like a car losing a tire, a thump, and the screaming of an injured dog.

My first thought was about my own pups, but as I turned and started back to the car, I saw the little puppy limping along on 3 legs and crying its little lungs out. The sound of a hurt animal - it is so awful. It was heading for Guy and our pups. I was headed there too until I realized that Lovely was right behind me. The actions of a hurt animal - totally unpredictable. Plus, I didn't want her to have to see it.

Against all of my rescue instincts, I turned away from the puppy, put my arm around Lovely and led her back inside. She asked if the puppy had been hit by a car, and I said yes, but there was nothing we could do for it. We were in the middle of nowhere, and we couldn't take the puppy with us and our own dogs.

The people inside the gas station were unbelievably callous. The cashier told me that people drop dogs off there all the time - they are bound to get hit. Why didn't we just take him wherever we were going. We looked like the type.

I walked Lovely around to the side, where the bathroom was located, instructed her to touch as little as possible and dug through my purse for the Purell that she would need to bathe in on her way back to the car. I could still hear the puppy crying in the front of the building. When we got back to the car, I could see the puppy under it. Guy was pulling forward, and I thought he was going to run over it. I ran around, opened the door and told him that the puppy was under the car. Then, I got yelled at. The puppy had tried to bite him. The puppy had tried to bite our dogs. The puppy wouldn't come out from under our car. Guy had gotten him in the center, away from the wheels and was trying to move the car without hurting him anymore than he was already hurt. So, he already knew the puppy was under the car.

It is the second time though, that he has snapped at me. It is alright. The stress and pain of losing the baby isn't mine alone. Plus, he is about to have to go back to work knowing that he has been laid off. It is too much for one time.

I can't hold it together though. If I think for one moment that I have upset him, it sends me reeling. I guess knowing that he is on my side and we are taking every step together is what I am leaning on most now.

I cried. I don't know how long, but I cried. Lovely dug some tissue out of her backpack for me and suggested that Guy not be so harsh. The funny thing was, that after he apologized, which was practically instantaneous, I wasn't crying over him.

I was crying over that puppy. And I was crying over our baby at the same time.

Lately, I've felt nothing but helpless for the little lives that need me most. I couldn't do anything for Cleatus to help him. I don't know what happened to him, but there was nothing I could do. And, I couldn't do anything for that puppy in the middle of nowhere with my own family and pups to take care of.

Helpless.

It is strange what I've been connecting in my mind.

Tomorrow will be one week. Tomorrow he would have been 13 weeks. It hurts just as much now as it did last week.

My mother came in to find me crying at the computer a couple of days ago. She said to me, "Are you making yourself sad again?"

My answer, "No. I don't need to make myself sad. All I am is sad. There is no effort. I am completely sad. Thanks."

I was hoping that my mother would understand. She would understand my grief over the puppy better I think.

Heading home

Today we are heading home. Frankly, I am terrified. Being here, at my parents, I have been able to hide away whenever I wanted or needed to. I have only been around family. That is going to change now.

We will get back home tomorrow, and I do not want to walk through the front door of my house. There are baby presents from Christmas scattered about. Baby presents I haven't written thank you notes for yet.

There is the nursery. Granted, it isn't anywhere near done. It's even missing sheet rock on one wall, but still, we were already calling it the baby's room.

Then there are the friends. The acquaintances. The people you forgot you had even told who are bound to walk up to you and ask, "How's the baby?" The people who are going to unknowingly come up and basically slam a baseball bat into the side of my head - I'll have to just stand there and take it.

Maybe I will just post a sign in the front yard that says, "Don't ask."

Then again, there are moments when having people bring it up to me can be a good thing. Even when I'm in a good place of not obsessing over it. Sometimes they know just the right thing to say. Even though they are only six. My little Clone niece crawled in my lap 2 days ago and said in my ear, "I cried when your baby died."

Me too, little Clone. Me too.

Being a victim

It has been 40 hours since my breakdown. So far, so good. Guy and I went to iHop (noting that they, not the iPod, must have been the inspiration for all the iGadgets out now) with my parents for breakfast. My parents are not at the point where they are really very good at cheering me up, so that kind of stunk. It's not their fault though.

In the spirit of making decisions about how I feel rather than just letting the depression rule me, I've been working on a new list. The list of irrational reasons I am to blame for my miscarriage. Sil laughed when I told it to her the other night, and I could certainly use a good laugh, so I'm sharing. There are still pockets of laughter. They are why I know it will be alright one day.

1. I used to have an eating disorder.
2. I didn't start taking prenatal vitamins or folic acid until I was 7 weeks pregnant.
3. I didn't talk to the baby enough.
4. At 9 weeks 1 day, I had a pedicure and sat in the heated massage chair with it running.
5. I drank too much right before I was pregnant.
6. I drank some wine the night before I peed on a stick even though I suspected I might be pregnant but thought it just couldn't be true.
7. I lifted something that was too heavy.
8. I played a stressful concert.
9. God hates me for not going to church and always blaming him for bad stuff.
10. I existed on fruit smoothies for 5 days during my 9th week.
11. I didn't really exercise.
12. Guy and I had too much sex.
13. I didn't feel enough like a mom in time.
14. I used the microwave.
15. I cleaned the guinnea pig cage.
16. I walked both dogs at the same time.
17. I didn't relax enough and worried about my parents.
18. I let Guy's job situation, or lack thereof stress me out.
19. I didn't pay attention to signs I should have seen. I haven't figured out what they were, but I'm sure I ignored something.
20. I am generally just not cut out to be a parent.

The list will continue to grow I think. Everyday I come up with something else that might have happened, share it with Guy, and then listen to him explain again why it wasn't my fault.

I know this is true. I know it wasn't my fault.

There is a story though. Something I think is relevant. When I was in high school, there was a teacher. He was a pervert and a creep. He sexually and emotionally abused me. I went to therapy a few years later and spent a good deal of time talking about it and having someone try and convince me that it wasn't my fault. I was just a child. I was a victim.

Pardon my language please, but I fucking hate being a victim.

On my last day of therapy, I looked at my therapist, and told him this: I am not a victim. I was 17 years old and knew better. Sure, he shouldn't have been doing what he was doing, but I'm not an idiot. I should have told someone and I should have stopped it.

It was that day that I finally felt better. I took ownership of what had happened to me, acknowledged that it sucked, and felt stronger for admitting that I should have spoken up sooner.

I so wish that applied here, but it doesn't. It just helps to explain a little bit more to myself about why I am how I am. I wish I wasn't a victim, but I guess in this case I am. Me, my baby, Guy, and Lovely. All just victims. How sorry is that?

So much for the laughing. Sorry about that. I seem to walk in circles now, from alright to sad again. I'm thinking that the key might be to figure out how to be alright and sad all at the same time. When I can do that, those are the moments that I can feel hope creeping in.

Guy hopes it isn't a train

Each morning I have woken up, wished I hadn't, cried, and then stayed in the bed. This morning was different. We woke up to the phone ringing. The home phone is forwarded to Guy's cell phone right now, and it was my doctor from back home calling. She had just gotten the news and was calling to check on me. I really like her.

We had a good talk. She said the same things I have already heard, but it doesn't matter. Each time I hear them, be it from a doctor, a family member, a friend, or even just a comment here, they make me feel a little better. That phone call seems like a turning point. Don't get me wrong, I'm completely allowing another turn around to spin me back if needed, but at least this morning, I feel better.

Guy and I have decided that the night from hell was greatly accentuated by taking a Percoset too late in the afternoon and then having a glass and a half of wine with Sil that evening. Quite possible. Anyway, my doctor said that drugs will just mask the grieving process and that I shouldn't really be okay right now. It was just fine to not be okay. That unless I felt like hurting myself, we should wait on the drugs.

I figure that if anything even comes close to being like it was night before last, that I will run, not walk to the land of happier drugs. For now, I'm going to give it one more shot without them. I do want to grieve. I also want to live though. Today I think I can do both.

After I got off the phone, I rolled back over to Guy who held me like he loved me instead of holding me like I needed it. It felt good and I asked him, "Do you see light at the end of the tunnel yet?"

He answered me, "Yes. I'm just hoping it isn't a train." Smart ass.

Here's to a new year. Starting over. Trying again. Taking two steps forward and hopefully from now on only one step back at a time.

How I really am

I debated about posting this, but since I haven't left out anything thus far, here goes nothing.

Last night I think I lost my mind. Whymommy and Sil have been telling me about the hormones and the havoc they will be causing in my life, and last night I believe I met them. Fought them. And lost.

Sometime around 11:00, sitting at Bro's house, I freaked out. Picked up my purse and coat and walked out the door. Guy came running after me and wanted to know what was going on. I simply said, "I'm leaving." He talked me into waiting for him and then we left together.

I tried to just go to bed, but I had drunk a ton of water and ended up having to get up to go to the bathroom about 30 minutes after I lay down. Yesterday, I had been in physical pain all day with cramping and general hurtiness that the Percoset had stopped helping. When I went to the bathroom last night, there was a lot of blood. Again. And I lost it.

I don't know how long I was on the bathroom floor, but it was long enough for the left side of my face to swell up to where my left eye would not open from the crying. I was curled up on the tile floor, sobbing, wishing that someone would hear me and come to help. Guy didn't hear me, and my momma thought I was already with him. No one came. I lay there, crying, and thinking the most irrational thoughts I have ever had.

There was the thought stream about the wallpaper. It is black and white toille, which is what I had picked out for the baby bedding in the nursery. There was the thought stream about thank you notes. How do you write thank you notes for presents you were given for a baby who is now gone?

Then there was the thought stream about how I could hurt myself. I have never had that one. I won't go into all the ideas I had because they don't really matter now, but I finally decided that I would just leave. So I picked my pathetic swollen head up off the tile, went into the bedroom, got dressed, got my purse and started for the door.

Guy woke up and by the time he realized what was happening, I was down the hall. He chased after me in his underwear and my mother watched us struggle by the door. He had to physically restrain me and drag me back to the room by my left arm which was twisted and pinned behind my back.

From there, I became someone I have never seen before and hope never to see again. I began to hit him. Swing at him. I told him I hated him. I threw things. I was a terrible, awful, mean, and insane woman. He did nothing to deserve or cause any of it.

This morning, we woke up in a new place. We were both bruised. Literally. We were both hurt. Physically and emotionally. We had both been scared.

He held me anyway. He held me and told me that it wasn't me. It wasn't me having that insane fit last night. God, I hope he is right.

The depression and anger are not things I want in my life. I am generally a happy person. I would like to be that way again. I know it has only been four days. Yesterday though, people were telling me how well I was doing. Remarkably well.

That is only me trying. I am trying so hard to be doing well. I don't know how to battle the hormones though. That has to be what it is. Sil says they will be gone soon. She says to just hang on. The thoughts of how I can hurt myself are frightening though.

Guy says they make drugs for this. I'm thinking it might be a good idea if I look into that. I would really like to make it to try this whole baby making thing again. I so loved being pregnant. I so loved that little baby.

Am I weak for needing the drugs? Do they even work?

The new year can't come soon enough

I was planning to sort of do a year in pictures today. Before miscarrage. Everything is before I lost the baby. Instead, I'm just going to point out some of the good things that happened this year. I've spent enough time and words on what has gone wrong.

Marriage. July 24, Guy and I were married by a stream in Montreat. It was perfect.

Family. My parents moved around the corner from Bro and Sil. Mom has been declared in remission. Nerves are cooling and settling down. Dad is, well, one out of two parents is still good.

Work. I quit one job, leaving my precious school in the capable hands of someone new and a great Board of Directors. I got a new piano and am enjoying growing my career as a performer and teacher.

Self. I learned what it felt like to be pregnant. I learned what it meant to love someone you hadn't even met yet more than you could possibly ever love yourself. At the same time, I learned how to love myself better because I was carrying my baby. He taught me the reason my body worked the way it did, looked the way it did, and how to enjoy every glimpse and every moment of it.

I'm trying so hard to end this year on a positive note. That would be completely dishonest though, now wouldn't it?

No matter what else has happened this year, I'm afraid I have to admit that 2006 will always be the year that I lost my baby. My first baby. The one I have waited on for close to 10 years. Please God, let 2007 be better.

Every moment of forever

It is late. I have slept so much the past two days that I find myself awake at 1:21 AM. Awake laying next to my husband. So as I lie here (totally unsure of the use of lay and lie), I can stare at him while I type this (thanks to high school typing class). And I can tell you that I married the most wonderful man in the world.

He is why I will get through this. Not because I am not strong enough on my own, but because I want to be better for him. I want to get up and be with him. Try again. Get better and move on so that I don't miss a moment of life with him.

Cheesy? Perhaps. True? Most definately.

He said that I can take as long as I need and be as sad as I feel. I will. There is no getting around that. I still feel like they sucked out my heart along with everything else 2 nights ago. I am still empty and lonely. I still cry, and I still feel like I will always miss this baby.

What I am saying though is that I don't want to stay that way. 24 hours ago, I was convinced that I did. Convinced that I wanted to remain in the sorrow and loss of my baby. It felt like the sorrow was all I had left of my baby, so that is where I planned to stay.

The more room that Guy gives me to grieve though, and the more support he shows when I need it just lets me know that it won't last forever. I will be able to move on eventually.

He said today that I will be sad forever at the loss of my baby. I just won't be sad every moment of forever.

Time for a cuddle. Sleepy Guy is calling.

Building steps

This afternoon I realized something. This is the kind of sad that doesn't go away. This is kind of devastation that could keep me in the bed for as long as I let it. That is the key. How long am I going to let it control me?

At least a little bit longer, but not 24/7.

Guy came in this afternoon, and remember, we are still in Tennessee, 11 hours from home, staying at my parents' house, and says, "I really need to get some air."

I had two choices. I could let him go alone, or I could, for him, get out of the bed and attempt to go somewhere. I chose to get out of the bed.

It wasn't easy. He helped me shower. He helped me get dressed. We decided, as the dressing occurred, that we would go to the mall and buy me some non-maternity clothes. I had packed nothing but maternity clothes for our trip, and that was one thing keeping me from getting up and getting dressed. I chose the least maternity looking clothes I had and went with it.

The funny thing is, I loved looking pregnant. I have had incredibly sorry body image for so long, and as soon as that belly popped, I couldn't stop looking in the mirror. It was amazing to me - the changes that were occurring and how beautiful they were. I loved the belly.

Now, I'm obsessed with not looking pregnant anymore. I'm talking about buying a treadmill. Eating plain baked potatoes. Eating nothing. Whatever - I just don't want to be mistaken (there's that prefix again) for a pregnant woman.

There are things that the doctor here did that I think were both medical and for my emotional stability. One of those things was the drug he gave me to shrink my uterus. I understand that it also helped the bleeding and what not, but it was a real gift to stand in front of the mirror this afternoon and not look pregnant anymore. Side note: the doctor who didn't know me from adam took the most amazing and precious care of me. If you find yourself in Jackson and in need of a doctor, you should so email me right now.

The crazy part is, we did buy some new jeans. They are a freaking size 16, but we bought some new jeans. I cannot believe I just admitted that. Back to the crazy part though - I was still happy with the way I looked in the mirror. A gift from my baby. Decent body image. Am I reaching for a positive? Maybe.

It's going to take a hell of a lot of them to climb out of this hole though. One tiny positive at a time.

Totally not moving on

Miscarriage. It is a word that implies that you did something wrong. If you think about it, all the other "mis" words are words that you could avoid. Misspell. Misstep. Mistake. Things that you do that you could have prevented. Miscarriage. What a cruel word.

I am told there is nothing I could have done. While I logically believe that, I have spent today wondering how I could have not known that my baby had died. How did I walk around for 3 weeks, talking to him, playing the piano for him, feeding him at least a milkshake every 2 days, and not have known that he was gone? I believe that there was nothing I could have done to save him, but couldn't I have at least know he was gone?

It is so lonely without him. I had gotten so used to it being, "me and the baby." Now, it is just me again. Guy is here for me, but we have reached that phase though when he is ready to be up and doing things to get his mind off of it, and I am still lying in this bed sucking down the Percoset as often as allowed. He is busy repairing whatever he can find to repair in my parents' home.

I went back to the Babycenter Boards today. I had to go to the site to ask them not to send me anymore emails about my baby. Not surprisingly I suppose, the thread started for women who misscarried babies due in July 2007 is full of women more my own age, more like me. A lot of them were first time moms in their 30's with older husbands. That was strange. I had a pregnancy ticker on my signature. In fact, I had it on my sidebar here too. It is gone. I sobbed when I deleted it.

In fact, I sob a lot. Not just cry. Flat out gasping for air sobbing. I sob when I wake up from a nap and remember all over again that I'm not pregnant anymore. I sob when I can't force the image of little Cleatus just hanging there on the ultrasound screen with no heartbeat. I sob when I go to the bathroom and there is still blood. I have sobbed so much that the Percoset doesn't even touch the headache I've created for myself.

You see, I wish there had been something I had done. If there was, then I could prevent it for the next time. I could fix it and make it not happen again. Instead, I have to just try again and be terrified that whatever I couldn't prevent from happening to my baby this time will happen to the the next one.

The rest of it

I lay strapped down in the OR like I was on a crucifix. Both arms extended, I was left to soak myself in the tears I couldn't reach to wipe away. My terrible vision left everyone looking exactly alike in their green scrubs and caps. They would flutter in front of me, introducing themselves, telling me what their role was. I just wanted someone to dry my face.

Guy walked down to the OR with me so that I could wear my glasses as long as possible. I hate not being able to see. As soon as he left me, the tears came and wouldn't stop.

I knew my baby was dead, but I didn't want them to take him. I didn't want to stop being pregnant with him.

The lights above me were big and looked like flowers through my nearsightedness. They were purple and green and I was trying to focus on them and ignore all else.

The anesthesiologist (I think) leaned over and said something about that I appeared to be healthy except for the smoking. I squinted at him and said, "What?". He was confused I guess and asked if I smoked. I said no and he said, "Then you are in good health." I replied in my best smart ass while practically drowning in my own tears, "Right. Good health except for the baby losing and all. Thanks."

It is probably wise not to smart off to the man in charge of putting you to sleep and waking you up, but I couldn't help being pissed because that same man couldn't seem to read my chart properly and messed up the focusing I was trying to do.

They put me out rather quickly after that, and the next thing I remember is a new voice asking me if I'm alright. The only thing I could say was, "Where is my husband?" Apparently I was pretty adamant about it, because they let him into recovery with me against the rules. I think though, that it was also very late at night.

Guy stood next to me and fed me ice chips. My throat was dry and hurt from the tube that was in it during the surgery. He rubbed my head and talked to me, but I don't remember what he said.

In the room, I slept. Guy slept on the chair that turns into a slab. Kim took care of me all night as though she were an angel. I don't know how nurses are as kind and open as she was and yet are able to work their way through so many different patients every shift. It has to be draining.

I woke up around 3:30 and needed to go home. The tears started again, and I couldn't stop them. After a successful trip to the bathroom, Guy helped me into my maternity clothes and we left. There were prescriptions to fill, and I had to buy pads. I haven't bought pads in years.

We stood in the aisle of Walgreens, staring at pads and wondering which ones to get until a stock girl rolled a cart of pregnancy tests behind us to restock the shelves. Tears again, grab any pads, and head home.

I have never in my life wished so badly for something to not have happened. If there is any possible way to go back and make this not happen, to have my baby back, just please, let it be. I've turned to the typing today. Trying to work this thing out. Trying to find the pain and then find a way for the pain to stop.

I am now open to suggestions because nothing I am doing is working.

Finding out

It was just a precaution. Sil called her OB yesterday to see if they could work me in just to check things out. The spotting had gone on for about 24 hours, but I wasn't concerned. I had spotted after the doctor's visit and a few times after sex. Standing in the kitchen though, I became quickly aware that it was more than just spotting.

Still, I was thinking positively. Guy and I drove to the clinic and talked about how this was just a little nerve rattling scare. I told him, and believed with all my heart, that everything was going to be fine. I was not going to lose our baby.

The tech tried an abdominal ultrasound first. She said that she couldn't see what she needed to see from there. My palms started to sweat and Guy held my hand a little tighter. The vaginal ultrasound was confusing to me at first. Cleatus was bigger, and I thought he was moving, but later realized that it was the tech moving the instrument, not my little guy moving. The tech went to measure him and it came up on the screen as "9 weeks, 2 days."

That is when I turned my head away and started to sob.

She went to get the doctor. I asked him to try again. Please look again. Please try once more to find my baby's heartbeat. We looked again, and there was nothing.

I don't really remember from there. We moved from office to office filling out paperwork for the D&C. I was there and people were talking to me, but I wasn't there.

On the way out of the clinic, we passed by the pregnant woman who had been sitting across from me in the waiting room. She was smiling and saying goodbye. I didn't mean to look at her, and I'm sure she wished she hadn't looked at me. I know that look. It's like seeing the people coming from the back of the vet's office holding just a leash, an empty collar, and a used Kleenex. I pull my own leash in and lean down to whisper in my own pup's ear as they go by.

She looked at me as I walked by clutching Guy's arm and ignoring the tears streaming down my face, and she took a step back. She took a step back into the safety of her own pregnancy and away from the, "Thank God that isn't me."

I would have done the same thing in her shoes. I would have done anything to be in her shoes.

12 weeks

At 12 weeks yesterday, I gave in and bought baby clothes. Sil and I were at Old Navy and she helped me pick out the most precious "Baby's First Christmas" onesie and a pile of other gender neutral clothes. Mostly gender neutral. I threw in a onesie with a bulldog on it because a) I just knew my baby was a boy and b) It was possible to put pink pants with it and thereby qualified as either or to me.

We left Old Navy, picked up 36 Krystal burgers for the crew, and headed back to Sil's house. We had gotten new pj's and matching shirts for Lovely and my little Clone niece, and a pile of 50% Christmas randomness to show off and gloat about their cheapness. However, as I was standing in the kitchen serving drinks to the kids, I felt blood began to run down my leg.

Eighteen hours later, I am in my parents guestroom, being not pregnant.

Cleatus died at 9 weeks, 2 days according to the ultrasound. That was the day of the concert - the first day I needed maternity clothes. The D&C was last night here in Jackson. He was with me exactly 12 weeks. 12 weeks and you are supposed to be so much safer. Less risk. Everything is supposed to be alright.

They gave me plenty of prescriptions for pain, but none of them can touch where it really hurts.

On the subject of miracles

Believing in miracles is something that I don't do. Miracles happened in the Bible to tell stories. Stories were told in the Bible to teach us something and connect us under a common faith. There was a scientific reason the water turned to wine, or it was just a story. I didn't care which, because my faith has never been based on a literal interpretation of the Bible.

Someone recently commented on my spirituality or lack thereof. It is interesting to me that anyone feels they can judge how spiritual another person is or is not. To me, spirituality is a personal thing. Someone can comment on how unreligious I have become, but they have no idea about my spirituality.

It is all in the definitions of the words. I realized that when I started thinking about my momma and the miracle we seem to have been given. What I realized was that I had been defining the word much too narrowly. If I take a step back and look at a miracle as being given something that you didn't expect and didn't deserve, then my life becomes riddled with miracles.

My momma was not supposed to go into remission. Two months ago, she lay in a hospital bed, being sustained by a life support system, ovarian cancer taking over the spaces in her abdomen where she used to have ovaries and a uterus. Today, she is at home, taking care of herself and my father. She has been declared in remission. No cancer. Maybe next time, but right now, there is no cancer.

Maybe there is an explanation. Maybe there was something in their home in California that acted as a toxin. Maybe it took this long for the chemo to work. Maybe she ate some magic beans. I don't really care. I'm accepting that while there is most likely a medical explanation for what has happened, we will never know it, and I should accept that it is a miracle. It is something we didn't expect and didn't deserve. It is a gift.

As I sit in my music room, blogging here, there is another miracle. Lovely is sitting at our piano, playing her little heart out. "Jingle Bells" and other Christmas tunes are ringing out, along with her running commentary on whatever wrong notes she might hit. Having her for a stepdaughter is something I never expected and did nothing to deserve. She is a gift.

Most of the people in my life right now are miracles by my new definition. Guy of course. The timing of our finding each other had to have been a miracle. Loving his family like I do - miracle.

Boo and Pilot, miracles. Having them in our lives has been nothing short of one. She got me the gig with Dude, has been the best friend I've made in this town, and most amazingly, she has stood by me with unfailing loyalty. It's nothing I expected or deserved.

My students, all miracles. I have had so many changes and moves in my life the past couple of years, and they are still with me. It's certainly nothing I expected or deserved, so I deem them miracles as well. Their playing and determination is miraculous too, and I'm not just saying that for the brave one who reads these thoughts although she is definately one of the miracles in my life.

Finally, how on earth could I make it through this pregnancy without believing in miracles? Everytime I read an update on the changes in this baby from week to week, I am in awe of what is going on inside me. I am also completely freaked out by how very little control I have over it. Sure, there are medical explanations, and women have been having babies forever, but this is my miracle. Something I didn't expect. Something I didn't earn. Something I wanted so badly. Something I'm sharing with the other biggest miracle in my life, Guy.

But the biggest miracle of all is that my momma might actually get to know this grandchild after all. There is no better time than Christmas to be reminded of what you believe, why you believe it, and how faith never really dies.

More preggo brain

After my true confessions on how my hormones affected our Thanksgiving dinner and the cooking thereof, I thought that I would get a handle on my flakiness. Au contraire.

Since then, I have continued to do things which deserve admission to absolution from the blogging community.

You know how granola bars come in packs of 2? And sometimes you might only eat 1 and then wrap the other one up for later? That's what I did. I saved one. Then, when I was packing Guy's lunch one day last week, I thought that the 1 granola bar would make a good morning snack. It might have, if he hadn't opened it up to discover that I had already taken a bite out of it. The ensuing phone call of, "Why are you eating parts of my lunch and then packing them? Are we really that poor?" was rather humiliating, and yet I found myself laughing until I almost wet my pants.

You know how sometimes your new clothes come with stickers on them that tell what size they are? And sometimes you are so excited about a piece of new clothing that you want to wear it even before you wash it? That's what I did. I got some new maternity jeans (and no, I'm not having twins) that were so cozy and cute that I brought them right home, cut off the tag, and wore them to Costco. Then, as if I needed to advertise because people couldn't just tell by looking, I left the giant sticker running from my butt down to the middle of my thigh that said:
"Large Grande Large Grande Large Grande Large Grande Large Grande." Beautiful. I was so proud.

Next I'm going to have my pj bottoms embroidered "Wide Load" across the back and forget to change out of them before leaving the house.

Things everyone should know about my Bro

Since my Bro might joining us around here, I thought there were some things that you all needed to know.

My Bro taught me to fear the toilet monster. If you didn't make it out of the bathroom before the toilet gurgled, the toilet monster would grab you and take you back down. The noise of a toilet flushing haunted me for years. I occasionally still shudder at that gurgle.

My Bro taught me that Talladega was a bad word. As in, "Mommmmmm! He called me a talladega!"

My Bro used me for slumber party entertainment. There was the old putting my hand in warm water to make me wet the bed. There was the filling my hand with toothpaste and then tickling my nose. He taught me to always lock my door at night when he had company.

After all the torture though, if there is one person in my family that I know I can count on, it's Bro. When my parents made what seemed to us to be a absurdly random move to California 7 years ago, Bro and I made a pact to always spend Christmas and Thanksgiving together. That was of course, 2 kids ago for him and it hasn't always worked, but hey, we made a pact, and we've done the best we could at keeping it.

This year, the day after Christmas, we are loading up the car and heading to Tennessee. Guy hates to travel at the holidays. He might think I've forgotten this little piece of information, but I haven't. He didn't bat an eye when I said that I would really like to spend time with my family at Christmas.

Now that he has met my Bro in person, he totally gets it.

Dirty rotten dog

This is a bad bad bad dirty dog. She tries to hide it by being beautiful. She is a princess. She will even try to con sympathy out of you for her bum eye. Don't let her fool you. Besides, that bum eye was a gift from some vet friends of mine. Any other vet would have just sewn the socket shut. Instead, this spoiled dog got a fancy silicon implant so that she would still be a gorgeous setter. She is rotten.

Princess Dirty Dog is a counter surfer. She likes to go in the kitchen, put her paws up on the counter and see what yummy treat I have stupidly left out for her to eat. Sunday night, she really did me in.

We had company coming for dessert. Not just any company, mind you, but the vet friends. The very same vet friends who gave Princess Dirty Dog her new eye. I made a pie. Not just any pie, but Guy's favorite Black Bottom Banana Cream Pie. The very same pie that I messed up at Thanksgiving. This time I didn't mess up. It was perfect and beautiful.

I set the pie out on the counter, and waited a couple of minutes by the front door since our house numbers don't show up in the dark. As I let in our guests, Guy started yelling in the kitchen, "You've got to be kidding me! Bad dog!"

Princess Dirty Dog had eaten the pie.

Had I not been bawling my eyes out, I would have thought to take a picture of that pie. Instead, I had to settle for a picture of her the next day with more crap on her nose that she got there by counter surfing. Damn dog.

Still though, somehow she worms her way back into our good graces. I don't know how, but she does. She ate Guy's favorite pie and still there is this:

Bells, whistles, and other Christmas miracles

Mom didn't call after all. I did talk to my Bro. I told him to tell Momma to just call me tomorrow. The thing is, I knew that she would be giddy with excitement, and I just wasn't there yet. That probably sounds crazy.

Her cat scan showed no evidence of cancer. None. Nada. Not one speck. They had also redone her ca125 just to make sure and it had dropped another 10 points down to 14.

They have declared my mother cancer free again. Remission. Her next appointment isn't until March.

Any normal daughter would be falling all over themselves with delight. I still sit skeptical. So much of the news we have gotten from doctors over the past almost 4 years has been bad. I'm waiting for that proverbial other shoe.

Waiting.

Whymommy pointed out to me last night though that whether I believe in miracles or not, that the information we got yesterday was indeed good news and I just had to accept it at that.

She is so right. As usual.

I will call my momma today and be happy for her. Better yet, I'll call her today and be happy with her.

Text message

From my brother at 1:32 PM:

"Cancer is apparently gone. No details yet. Mom will call."

Curtain call

Saturday was a big day. The group I play with performed with a 200 voice choir in the symphony hall here in the lovely capital city. We have played on that stage before, and we have played on TV before, but never on that stage on TV. Plus, we were playing mostly brand new material. It was a little stressful.

Full dress rehearsal started around 10:00 that morning. Wouldn't you know that as I was drying my hair that morning, I looked in the mirror and saw, oh my word - my bump. Cleatus determined that the very day I was already going to be in front of the 10 pound adding camera, he wants to make an appearance as well. Luckily, my organza pants had an elastic waist. The sweater though - well, the sweater was shorter in the front than in the back. I guess that in itself isn't so new. My boobs are ginormous. However, Guy proclaimed (proudly, I might add) at the end of the night,

"You so looked pregnant up there on stage."

That's so cool. Of course, to some people I might just look chunky. I have no control over that. I did think ahead enough to get a manicure and stop by Kerry Catherine and get my rings cleaned. They always do a close up of the pianist's hands. I wanted those puppies to sparkle. Make Guy proud. He said that the camera was swooping in at me, so I hope that they got that shot.

Overall, I think the evening went pretty well. We held everything together, and Dude has an amazing way with a crowd, no matter what the setting. I don't know if it is his day job that gives him that - he is a morning news anchor - or if it is his personality. He just makes everyone feel at ease. He is a pleasure to play with.

The coolest part of the evening though was having my family in the audience. I could even see the from the stage. You can only see about 10 rows back because of the lights. But there they were, Guy, Guy's dad, and Lovely. There they were, smiling at me, and it was awesome.