My soul, these days, isn’t sure what path to take. I swing, wildly, from high to low. Moments of incredible despair and thoughts that torment me, that tell me that NOTHING will ever be ok and all I will ever have is a life of pain and grief so what’s the point swing to moments of, perhaps not happiness, but enjoyment: Beautiful weather and sun on my face, amazing blue sky and leaves turning; songs that make me sing as loud as I can and shake my booty and wish that I were in a band; my super-duper hubby – these good moments startle me sometimes and shock me into smiling despite myself. Sometimes, I think, life is decent. Maybe I can do this, maybe I can live.
And then the pendulum all too quickly swings back the other way and reminds me of all that I have lost: those babies, all of them precious, all of them gone, leaving behind nothing but holes in my heart and pictures of positive pregnancy tests; the life I wanted, filled with family and babies and joy; the weight of my dog as she wormed her way onto my lap, the silky soft touch of her fur and the way it wrinkled around her neck and the fact that I will never be able to touch her again. As quickly as it came, the joy is ripped out of me.
I find hope in those high moments, before the pendulum swings back around, and yet hope is dangerous for me because it makes the low times seem that much worse. I wonder – as much as I hate to admit it – if the meds are actually working, or starting to work.
Damn. I thought I’d be able to wear mascara today. File that under “Bad Ideas.”
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
perspective
If you’ve been a reader for a while, you might know that I currently work in a veterinary clinic. I never imagined, in all of my years of schooling for various things, that I would end up in a job like this. I do love animals, though, and while parts of the job are boring, frustrating, and heartbreaking, I generally enjoy working here.
There are times, though, when infertility rears its ugly head and I want to run screaming from the building. My coworkers are almost all female, and almost without exception, are child-free by choice. They prefer pets to children, for various reasons, and I respect them for their choice. But I am set apart from them, because it has never been my choice to be child-free.
And while I love my pets dearly (sometimes they are the only reason I drag my ass out of bed in the morning), I think I have a different perspective than my coworkers. They see their pets as their children. I see my lost babies, and my possible future children, as my children. My pets are a source of joy, sure. But they are pets.
This is where the bitterness comes in. One fellow staff member has lost two of her cats in the last few months. She is grieving their deaths, hard. I see the way everyone else rallies around her, supporting her, showering her with love to ensure that she makes it through this difficult time. It is wonderful, really, how supportive they are. And I know – because I’ve been there – how real and strong the grief for a pet can be.
This wonderful love-fest leaves me feeling isolated. Granted, most of my co-workers know only about two of our losses. But never has anyone offered me any of the support they are showing her. It is as if, in their minds, those babes never existed. I know, intellectually, that it is most likely because they don’t know how to approach the subject. But parts of me wonder if it is because it’s ME (do they hate me deep down?), and if it’s because they really think that losing a pet is the most traumatic thing that can happen to a person.
I know it is not right to compare grief, to say mine is greater than hers, but I want to shout “BABIES! I lost babies, people.” While they plan a memorial for her cats, I wonder where the memorial for my babies is.
All in all, work is just a clusterfuck for me right now. I feel bad that I feel bad, if you know what I mean. Add that to the fact that we have a slew of pregnant clients and pregnant friends of coworkers right now, and multiply it by the fact that this job was supposed to be temporary (you know, until I popped a kid out and stayed home to become mother of the year) and you have a formula for anxiety and depression.
I think I need to move on, find a job that is more fulfilling and pays more (so we can save what we need to save more quickly). It’s hard though, because I have more flexibility for doctor’s appointments with this job than I would with any other. And for someone with IF/RPL, flexibility in the work schedule is crucial.
Time for some soul searching.
There are times, though, when infertility rears its ugly head and I want to run screaming from the building. My coworkers are almost all female, and almost without exception, are child-free by choice. They prefer pets to children, for various reasons, and I respect them for their choice. But I am set apart from them, because it has never been my choice to be child-free.
And while I love my pets dearly (sometimes they are the only reason I drag my ass out of bed in the morning), I think I have a different perspective than my coworkers. They see their pets as their children. I see my lost babies, and my possible future children, as my children. My pets are a source of joy, sure. But they are pets.
This is where the bitterness comes in. One fellow staff member has lost two of her cats in the last few months. She is grieving their deaths, hard. I see the way everyone else rallies around her, supporting her, showering her with love to ensure that she makes it through this difficult time. It is wonderful, really, how supportive they are. And I know – because I’ve been there – how real and strong the grief for a pet can be.
This wonderful love-fest leaves me feeling isolated. Granted, most of my co-workers know only about two of our losses. But never has anyone offered me any of the support they are showing her. It is as if, in their minds, those babes never existed. I know, intellectually, that it is most likely because they don’t know how to approach the subject. But parts of me wonder if it is because it’s ME (do they hate me deep down?), and if it’s because they really think that losing a pet is the most traumatic thing that can happen to a person.
I know it is not right to compare grief, to say mine is greater than hers, but I want to shout “BABIES! I lost babies, people.” While they plan a memorial for her cats, I wonder where the memorial for my babies is.
All in all, work is just a clusterfuck for me right now. I feel bad that I feel bad, if you know what I mean. Add that to the fact that we have a slew of pregnant clients and pregnant friends of coworkers right now, and multiply it by the fact that this job was supposed to be temporary (you know, until I popped a kid out and stayed home to become mother of the year) and you have a formula for anxiety and depression.
I think I need to move on, find a job that is more fulfilling and pays more (so we can save what we need to save more quickly). It’s hard though, because I have more flexibility for doctor’s appointments with this job than I would with any other. And for someone with IF/RPL, flexibility in the work schedule is crucial.
Time for some soul searching.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Happiness is fleeting
Happiness is fleeting. And positive thinking is likewise making a hasty retreat.
I have been trying – although it’s been a struggle – to think positively about our family building future. And for the most part, it’s been working. I’ve been happier, more cheerful than I have been in a long time.
(Even though the aniiversary of my due date for my first pregnancy is fast approaching. Even though I’m constantly smacked with the realization that I should have a three year old. Even though no one realizes this/cares but me.)
But today, I reverted from Positive Polly to Negative Nelly completely. And what was the catalyst? Some momentous occasion? The arrival of Aunt Flo, perhaps? Oh no, internets, simply a meeting with a local sales rep. A sales rep who happens to have both a healthy three year old, and a healthy newborn. The thought hit me like a ton of bricks: she has conceived, gestated (is that a word?), and given birth to two children, all in the time that it has taken me to fail miserably at having just one.
Sigh. I just can’t believe how quick it can happen, that trip into Grief-ville. One minute – fine. The next minute – hiding in the bathroom so I can cry like a baby in private.
I’m trying to claw my way back to Positive Polly, I just don’t know if I can get there. (See, there I go, being negative again!)
I'll leave you with a quote that I just love (I guess I am truly massive!):
Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.
-Khalil Gibran
I have been trying – although it’s been a struggle – to think positively about our family building future. And for the most part, it’s been working. I’ve been happier, more cheerful than I have been in a long time.
(Even though the aniiversary of my due date for my first pregnancy is fast approaching. Even though I’m constantly smacked with the realization that I should have a three year old. Even though no one realizes this/cares but me.)
But today, I reverted from Positive Polly to Negative Nelly completely. And what was the catalyst? Some momentous occasion? The arrival of Aunt Flo, perhaps? Oh no, internets, simply a meeting with a local sales rep. A sales rep who happens to have both a healthy three year old, and a healthy newborn. The thought hit me like a ton of bricks: she has conceived, gestated (is that a word?), and given birth to two children, all in the time that it has taken me to fail miserably at having just one.
Sigh. I just can’t believe how quick it can happen, that trip into Grief-ville. One minute – fine. The next minute – hiding in the bathroom so I can cry like a baby in private.
I’m trying to claw my way back to Positive Polly, I just don’t know if I can get there. (See, there I go, being negative again!)
I'll leave you with a quote that I just love (I guess I am truly massive!):
Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.
-Khalil Gibran
Sunday, July 5, 2009
little knives
Today, I feel like a barren old hag.
I've been on one hell of an emotional roller coaster lately, and really all I can do is observe and report. I feel like I have no control over inner workings - I am just a passenger here.
Yes, we are still thrilled to be finally moving forward with adoption. No, adoption is not some magical cure for my grief. We always planned on adding to our family through adoption, regardless of my failure as a woman. I'm still going to start clomid next cycle, but really I've lost all faith that we'll be able to produce our own spawn.
The final push to this long downward roll came when I learned last week that Hubby's brother, along with his wife and new baby (AKA PIG), will be visiting in two weeks. Hubby's parents are planning a big to-do, so the whole family can meet the baby, the first grandchild. Or, more accurately, the first grandchild to survive pregnancy, but whatever - it's not as if they ever acknowledge our losses.
Enter old hag.
I felt physically ill at the thought of having to spend time in the company of fertiles and young children and babies. My heart started racing. I started sweating and felt nauseous and immediately weighed down like someone had placed an iron yoke around my neck. It's been there ever since.
My mind ran to the crazy - how can I get out of showing up? Can I break my leg? Get hit by a car? Stick a pencil in my eye? Perhaps I can manage to get bit by an animal at work that day. I have to do something, though - I do think I might actually have a breakdown if I'm forced to go. I'm too raw right now. I can't bring myself to hear everyone ruminate on who the baby resembles, or to see Hubby holding his niece and being tender and sweet. Little knives, right to my heart. What kind of person reacts this way to such a wonderful family event? A fucking horrible barren old hag, to be sure.
The timing of the party will be horrendous in another way. My body - my crazy, crazy body - is getting ready to pop out an eggy already. I find it absolutely amazing that my lady parts are always ready to go so soon after a loss. It's been less than two weeks, for Christ's sake! So, do the math, my friends: yep, that's right, I'll be having a visit from Aunt Flo that weekend, or close enough. I'll also, possibly, be on clomid for the first time and discovering the wonders that little pill will inflict. Yay.
More little knives - this time around, nobody gets it. I think the two people closest to me - mom and Hubby - are frankly sick of dealing with mood swings and weird unexpected grief moments. They think I should just suck it up and deal with it, go to the party and keep my mouth shut about my own personal hell. Or better yet - mom thinks I should, if I can't go, write a letter to BIL and his wife explaining my absence. Sure, I'll just bare my own dark soul for people I hardly know to see.
I'm ready for the next up on this ride, although I know it'll be followed far too quickly by a down.
I've been on one hell of an emotional roller coaster lately, and really all I can do is observe and report. I feel like I have no control over inner workings - I am just a passenger here.
Yes, we are still thrilled to be finally moving forward with adoption. No, adoption is not some magical cure for my grief. We always planned on adding to our family through adoption, regardless of my failure as a woman. I'm still going to start clomid next cycle, but really I've lost all faith that we'll be able to produce our own spawn.
The final push to this long downward roll came when I learned last week that Hubby's brother, along with his wife and new baby (AKA PIG), will be visiting in two weeks. Hubby's parents are planning a big to-do, so the whole family can meet the baby, the first grandchild. Or, more accurately, the first grandchild to survive pregnancy, but whatever - it's not as if they ever acknowledge our losses.
Enter old hag.
I felt physically ill at the thought of having to spend time in the company of fertiles and young children and babies. My heart started racing. I started sweating and felt nauseous and immediately weighed down like someone had placed an iron yoke around my neck. It's been there ever since.
My mind ran to the crazy - how can I get out of showing up? Can I break my leg? Get hit by a car? Stick a pencil in my eye? Perhaps I can manage to get bit by an animal at work that day. I have to do something, though - I do think I might actually have a breakdown if I'm forced to go. I'm too raw right now. I can't bring myself to hear everyone ruminate on who the baby resembles, or to see Hubby holding his niece and being tender and sweet. Little knives, right to my heart. What kind of person reacts this way to such a wonderful family event? A fucking horrible barren old hag, to be sure.
The timing of the party will be horrendous in another way. My body - my crazy, crazy body - is getting ready to pop out an eggy already. I find it absolutely amazing that my lady parts are always ready to go so soon after a loss. It's been less than two weeks, for Christ's sake! So, do the math, my friends: yep, that's right, I'll be having a visit from Aunt Flo that weekend, or close enough. I'll also, possibly, be on clomid for the first time and discovering the wonders that little pill will inflict. Yay.
More little knives - this time around, nobody gets it. I think the two people closest to me - mom and Hubby - are frankly sick of dealing with mood swings and weird unexpected grief moments. They think I should just suck it up and deal with it, go to the party and keep my mouth shut about my own personal hell. Or better yet - mom thinks I should, if I can't go, write a letter to BIL and his wife explaining my absence. Sure, I'll just bare my own dark soul for people I hardly know to see.
I'm ready for the next up on this ride, although I know it'll be followed far too quickly by a down.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Pregnancy #6: Epic Fail
The first beta hcg was 9 - not good. My doctor is reserving judgement until we see what happens on Wednesday, but it's looking pretty grim. I'm thinking that if I was getting positives last week, the hcg must have been higher than 9 at some point, leading me to believe that it's already falling. Pregnancy #6 = epic fail.
I hate that I keep bringing such pain into Hubby's life. He's devastated. I can see it in the set of his mouth, the droop of his shoulders. And his eyes - so, so sad. It breaks my heart that he keeps having to deal with this shit because of MY dysfunctional lady parts. Sunday, Father's Day, he kept touching my belly, and smiling, and it was so sweet that I knew it couldn't last. My life just doesn't work that way.
The doctor called me at work to give me the test results, and the waterworks started. I know my coworkers must know something is up, but luckily I got to hide in the office on the phone with tech support, so I could duck under the desk and play with wires whenever a fresh batch of tears appeared. I can't control them. They just pop up out of nowhere. I don't know how I'm going to function today. Especially if we have any preggo clients come in.
The sick thing is, I think I might want to try again. My name is Wifey, and I'm a miscarriage-holic. I have not yet fully implemented my straight edge, organic only lifestyle. Of course, I blame myself and those couple of beers I had after ovulation. I keep thinking that this whole trying to stay knocked up thing is like some crazy math equation: add organic everything, subtract pesticides, beer, sugar, carbs and anything else I remotely enjoy, multiply by a couple of doses of going to church (even though I don't believe in god anymore) and at the end, we'll get =baby. I know myself well enough to know that I won't be able to accept it if I feel like I haven't given 100% effort. I don't want to wake up some day 10, 15 years from now and wish that we had just given it one more try. I think I must be insane.
2 good things: Damn, do I have a strong marriage. We've been through the ringer and have only come out tougher and more in love. I just wish I could make him a dad, because he'd be a fab one.
The other good thing: some lawn care sales guy approached Hubby when he was out mowing today. He was in such a mood because of dealing with all this, I guess the thought of trying to wrangle the jungle in our backyard into submission sent him over the edge, and he signed a contract for professional weed control. I'm not thrilled about the whole chemical thing, but if you saw the weeds in our yard you'd know why we need to do this. They just won't die (unlike the babies in my uterus). We have a six foot privacy fence back there, and some of this shit is beginning to grow over the top of the fence. My soil, it seems, is fertile beyond belief. Oh, the irony.
I hate that I keep bringing such pain into Hubby's life. He's devastated. I can see it in the set of his mouth, the droop of his shoulders. And his eyes - so, so sad. It breaks my heart that he keeps having to deal with this shit because of MY dysfunctional lady parts. Sunday, Father's Day, he kept touching my belly, and smiling, and it was so sweet that I knew it couldn't last. My life just doesn't work that way.
The doctor called me at work to give me the test results, and the waterworks started. I know my coworkers must know something is up, but luckily I got to hide in the office on the phone with tech support, so I could duck under the desk and play with wires whenever a fresh batch of tears appeared. I can't control them. They just pop up out of nowhere. I don't know how I'm going to function today. Especially if we have any preggo clients come in.
The sick thing is, I think I might want to try again. My name is Wifey, and I'm a miscarriage-holic. I have not yet fully implemented my straight edge, organic only lifestyle. Of course, I blame myself and those couple of beers I had after ovulation. I keep thinking that this whole trying to stay knocked up thing is like some crazy math equation: add organic everything, subtract pesticides, beer, sugar, carbs and anything else I remotely enjoy, multiply by a couple of doses of going to church (even though I don't believe in god anymore) and at the end, we'll get =baby. I know myself well enough to know that I won't be able to accept it if I feel like I haven't given 100% effort. I don't want to wake up some day 10, 15 years from now and wish that we had just given it one more try. I think I must be insane.
2 good things: Damn, do I have a strong marriage. We've been through the ringer and have only come out tougher and more in love. I just wish I could make him a dad, because he'd be a fab one.
The other good thing: some lawn care sales guy approached Hubby when he was out mowing today. He was in such a mood because of dealing with all this, I guess the thought of trying to wrangle the jungle in our backyard into submission sent him over the edge, and he signed a contract for professional weed control. I'm not thrilled about the whole chemical thing, but if you saw the weeds in our yard you'd know why we need to do this. They just won't die (unlike the babies in my uterus). We have a six foot privacy fence back there, and some of this shit is beginning to grow over the top of the fence. My soil, it seems, is fertile beyond belief. Oh, the irony.
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