Shed Love
-
It is at this time of year, when I can fling open the doors to my shed that
I probably love it most. In the winter I love it because it is cosy, but
the...
9 years ago
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Our boy
Friday, May 25, 2012
Ali John is here!
He really truly is here - making little faces in his sleep as he naps on my lap after a big feed. Ali John - born at 3:44pm on Monday 21 May, weighing in at 4.26kg. His birth story will take me a little while, but I'm going to paste in my post from over at glow in the woods which explains a bit:
(I'm having trouble posting a photo using blogger on my phone - will add one once I get laptop up & going)
Hi everyone - I cannot thank you enough for providing kind & wise words & a safe space to think all this through and I credit it with helping me go into labor (almost) spontaneously. We did have the VBAC we were after, but ironically, only after El Prima and I had a big weepy discussion about it and I accepted that we needed to have him sooner rather than later - and if that meant another caesar, then I was okay with that.
Two other things helped - one was realising that we did have another medical induction option open to us that didn't increase the risk of rupture, namely breaking my waters, and the other was listening to my own body and realising that, of all the hippy non-medical induction techniques we were trying (Accupuncture, aromatherapy, curry, orgasm, walking etc) the one thing that consistently brought on strong BH contractions was nipple stimulation. After El Prima and I resolved that we needed to have this baby ASAP, we spoke to our midwife, Jan, about it on Sunday morning. She completely understood why, and gave us a practical plan to make it happen - that she would come that afternoon, do a stretch and sweep, hoping that would kickstart things, then we would go into the hospital first thing Monday morning asking to have my waters broken, knowing that if that didnt then result in natural labour, we'd have to go for a c section.
With that plan agreed, el Prima and Snazzy & I went for a big walk, and with a big scarf to keep it discreet, I kept up the nipple stimulation all the way there & back. Part way to the bakery, I realised that the BH contractions were now coming regularly and getting more painful (sorry, "better" to use Jan's phrase), so El Prima started timing them. I'm going to hav to write up the full birth story soon, but the upshot was, I was 3cm dilated by 10pm that night, we went to hosp at 7am the next morning, they broke my waters when I was 5cm dilated at about 2pm that day, surprised everyone by being fully dilated 12 minutes later (!?!?) and pushed out our 9 pound son by 3:45pm. If I sound a bit excited by it, I still am - it was the craziest, most painful, most mind-bending thing that has ever happened to me, perhaps with the exception of being mama to z.
I feel so lucky to have had the support, and the good outcome that we did - i keep looking st hin to check he's really alive and ok. Getting a chance to experience this birth with him was a bonus - I'm so glad el Prima was willing to take the leap of faith with me, and that we had such an experiences midwife & medical team who could make it happen in the safest possible way for our baby. I also realised that my dream of a completely natural spontaneous birth was something I lost along with losing Z, and it was okay to grieve that, and to accept that my reality was now different. Thank you everyone who commented here for helping me get to that place. Xxxxxxxx
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Nesting with a vengeance (or, Grief is grotty)
To be honest, I was really a bit scared to start nesting. But then our dear friends S and C offered as their baby gift a whole day of spring cleaning to help get our place in lovely shape for Adzuki to come home to. And somehow, having someone to work alongside, and who were really imagining a living breathing baby in our house, unleashed the nesting monster. All the nesting we never got to do for Z, because we were moving interstate and she died before we moved into the new house - and a whole lot of new nesting for this baby. For so long, we had just been in survival mode. We'd unpacked in such a random way - I was discharged directly from the rehab hospital to our new house, and friends and family had unpacked all our furniture the day before.
El Prima and I were never the biggest fans of housework to start with, but grief sucked much of the remaining house pride out of us. Just getting back into work, getting the girls to school, dinner on the table, bills paid, laundry done, and then starting IVF took all our energy. And when you've been given an acute appreciation of how the people you love can be gone in an instant, well, dusting just really doesn't come very high on your priority list. And El Prima and I really didn't need another thing to argue over. Oh look, we had all kinds of good excuses, but essentially we'd given up on the notion of having a lovely clean house - it was all just too overwhelming. Somehow, having S come and clean broke that pattern - and as the one day of spring cleaning turned into about three and a half, and El Prima and I started getting into it, I realised I could start caring about this house again - that looking after it didn't have to be an act of drudgery but could be an act of love and care - for ourselves and for Adzuki.
That doesn't mean that our place is now spotless, but it is so so much cleaner before, and with this new energy, we've been able to let go of lots of stuff we don't need, and to re-arrange and tidy up the stuff we do need. Who knows if our hearts will be broken again, but I figure - we're already so in love with Adzuki - holding out on preparing for him to come home living and breathing wouldn't make things any easier if he didn't make it. If we're jinxed, we're jinxed already by loving him so much. The first thing I bought for him back in November was this vintage kimono - it is now hanging on the wall near his drawers and change table, hot pink with hope. We're now at 38 and a half weeks - ready when you are, little one!
El Prima and I were never the biggest fans of housework to start with, but grief sucked much of the remaining house pride out of us. Just getting back into work, getting the girls to school, dinner on the table, bills paid, laundry done, and then starting IVF took all our energy. And when you've been given an acute appreciation of how the people you love can be gone in an instant, well, dusting just really doesn't come very high on your priority list. And El Prima and I really didn't need another thing to argue over. Oh look, we had all kinds of good excuses, but essentially we'd given up on the notion of having a lovely clean house - it was all just too overwhelming. Somehow, having S come and clean broke that pattern - and as the one day of spring cleaning turned into about three and a half, and El Prima and I started getting into it, I realised I could start caring about this house again - that looking after it didn't have to be an act of drudgery but could be an act of love and care - for ourselves and for Adzuki.
That doesn't mean that our place is now spotless, but it is so so much cleaner before, and with this new energy, we've been able to let go of lots of stuff we don't need, and to re-arrange and tidy up the stuff we do need. Who knows if our hearts will be broken again, but I figure - we're already so in love with Adzuki - holding out on preparing for him to come home living and breathing wouldn't make things any easier if he didn't make it. If we're jinxed, we're jinxed already by loving him so much. The first thing I bought for him back in November was this vintage kimono - it is now hanging on the wall near his drawers and change table, hot pink with hope. We're now at 38 and a half weeks - ready when you are, little one!
Monday, April 16, 2012
Archaelogy
There is a back corner of our garage where baby things accumulate. It's where we hid away the little red suitcase of things we'd bought or been given for Zainab when it became clear she wasn't ever going to use them, along with the pram and carseat. Over the last six months or so of this pregnancy it is where pre-loved baby things have washed up as dear friends have pressed them upon us. Yesterday was a clear sunny day, impossibly warm for Autumn but a good washing day, so El Prima and I started our excavations.
We worked through boxes of baby clothes - washing and sorting them by size. Tiny jumpsuits hung from our washing line like a cloud of white fluffy bats. And we tried to imagine Adzuki's little feet - those little heels sliding regularly across the inside of my belly and giving El Prima well-timed kicks in the back - wearing some of these clothes. It all feels quite unreal at this stage, but now that we've gotten past the same stage as our accident last time, some of the fear has lifted. We're doing that crazy unbelievable thing - preparing for this baby to come home with us, and getting ready all the things we'll need to care for him as a living, breathing baby. The part of my brain which tells me that I'm tempting fate, I'm hearing but not heeding. Who knows what will happen, but I want to enjoy this bit of anticipation while we can.
We started with the most recently stashed away things from friends, and then gradually dug deeper into the pile, finding the pram we'd bought second-hand for Zainab and pumping up the tyres, along with all the bits and pieces for it. And finally we took a deep breath and turned to the little red suitcase. I had imagined this as a little time capsule of all our hopes for Zainab - that we could open it, and while it might be sad, there might also be something bittersweet about her little brother wearing her hand-me-downs - a connection between the two. I should have known from the weight of it that something was up, but the moment I unzipped it, we could smell what had happened - somehow water had got in and everything inside was mouldy and mildewy. At first I just took a deep breath and started separating out the irretrievable things from the ones that might come good with a good soak, but as the extent of the damage became clear, we stopped and I wept. That time, when we had felt Z kicking, and had bought these small things in anticipation - was well and truly gone - the new clothes we had bought then are no longer new but decaying. The little gold sequined mardi gras shoes were still wrapped in plastic, so they smelt musty, but were mostly okay - the blue and orange overalls were so badly mildewed that the fabric fell apart as I pulled them out. The irretrievable things I packed back into the little red suitcase - it will have to go in the bin soon, but for now I needed some means of disposal that reflects the love and sadness we have for these mouldy little scraps and the baby who was supposed to wear them.
The other things, I soaked and washed and pegged out on the line - hoping that sunshine will help get rid of the smell, and that Adzuki won't mind if some of his clothes look slightly the worse for wear because they come from his sister. Wednesday will be 36 weeks, so chances are, we'll be meeting him in the next month or so. As scary as it is, we're putting faith in that thought.
We started with the most recently stashed away things from friends, and then gradually dug deeper into the pile, finding the pram we'd bought second-hand for Zainab and pumping up the tyres, along with all the bits and pieces for it. And finally we took a deep breath and turned to the little red suitcase. I had imagined this as a little time capsule of all our hopes for Zainab - that we could open it, and while it might be sad, there might also be something bittersweet about her little brother wearing her hand-me-downs - a connection between the two. I should have known from the weight of it that something was up, but the moment I unzipped it, we could smell what had happened - somehow water had got in and everything inside was mouldy and mildewy. At first I just took a deep breath and started separating out the irretrievable things from the ones that might come good with a good soak, but as the extent of the damage became clear, we stopped and I wept. That time, when we had felt Z kicking, and had bought these small things in anticipation - was well and truly gone - the new clothes we had bought then are no longer new but decaying. The little gold sequined mardi gras shoes were still wrapped in plastic, so they smelt musty, but were mostly okay - the blue and orange overalls were so badly mildewed that the fabric fell apart as I pulled them out. The irretrievable things I packed back into the little red suitcase - it will have to go in the bin soon, but for now I needed some means of disposal that reflects the love and sadness we have for these mouldy little scraps and the baby who was supposed to wear them.
The other things, I soaked and washed and pegged out on the line - hoping that sunshine will help get rid of the smell, and that Adzuki won't mind if some of his clothes look slightly the worse for wear because they come from his sister. Wednesday will be 36 weeks, so chances are, we'll be meeting him in the next month or so. As scary as it is, we're putting faith in that thought.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Holding onto the handrail
I'm sorry I went quiet there for a bit. Just keeping up with full-time work, and staying sane, and safely gestating is using up most of my time and energy at the moment.
Adzuki is 33 weeks today, and I can't help but replay where we were at this gestation with Zainab. They were our last days with her, and we had no idea. We were in the midst of packing up our house and moving interstate, and then the busy noisy chaos of Christmas and family. This is why I linger in bed in the mornings when Adzuki starts moving - because we had so few opportunities to do that with Z in those last days. I'm grateful that he seems to be a very active baby - whenever I start getting worried about him, I tune in to my belly and have been able to feel him move or hiccough. I'm trying to balance the fears - doing what I can to hang onto the handrail and stay as safe as possible - with the moment to moment experience of having this small person dancing in my belly. I'm avoiding car trips wherever possible, and using a special seat that keeps the seatbelt away from my belly. I know it's unlikely that the same thing would happen, but I also know how common car accidents are, and that even a less serious bingle could harm Adzuki.
And in just over a week (if all goes well) Adzuki will have been in my belly longer than Z ever was. I feel frozen, uncertain of what to do. I find myself procrastinating with my work - I long to hibernate in bed, to wait this out until I wake one morning and go into labour.
I think our strategy for now is to mark 34 weeks as another anniversary for Z, and then to begin in earnest the preparations for Adzuki's birth - getting his space in our room set up, listening to the birthing cds, getting my head around the prospect of a pregnancy ending with a living baby rather than trauma and grief. At least we really hope so this time!
Adzuki is 33 weeks today, and I can't help but replay where we were at this gestation with Zainab. They were our last days with her, and we had no idea. We were in the midst of packing up our house and moving interstate, and then the busy noisy chaos of Christmas and family. This is why I linger in bed in the mornings when Adzuki starts moving - because we had so few opportunities to do that with Z in those last days. I'm grateful that he seems to be a very active baby - whenever I start getting worried about him, I tune in to my belly and have been able to feel him move or hiccough. I'm trying to balance the fears - doing what I can to hang onto the handrail and stay as safe as possible - with the moment to moment experience of having this small person dancing in my belly. I'm avoiding car trips wherever possible, and using a special seat that keeps the seatbelt away from my belly. I know it's unlikely that the same thing would happen, but I also know how common car accidents are, and that even a less serious bingle could harm Adzuki.
And in just over a week (if all goes well) Adzuki will have been in my belly longer than Z ever was. I feel frozen, uncertain of what to do. I find myself procrastinating with my work - I long to hibernate in bed, to wait this out until I wake one morning and go into labour.
I think our strategy for now is to mark 34 weeks as another anniversary for Z, and then to begin in earnest the preparations for Adzuki's birth - getting his space in our room set up, listening to the birthing cds, getting my head around the prospect of a pregnancy ending with a living baby rather than trauma and grief. At least we really hope so this time!
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Slow
I'm now 26w pregnant, and it is odd to be back in this visibly, publicly pregnant state - almost as big as I was when we lost Z. And I'm just realising that, no, I didn't imagine it - my boobs really were this big last time, my belly really was this huge. It's almost as though, when Z died, a part of me felt that because I hadn't managed to deliver a living baby, that my pregnant and post-partum body was somehow imagined - or worse, a kind of fakery, when really - there was no baby to show for it. As though I wasn't entitled to have all this odd bodily paraphenalia of pregnancy. As though her death cancelled out the whole pregnancy and turned all our plans and love for her into self-delusion. Here I was, impersonating a mother. Back when I started this job, I thought of myself as an injured person recovering from a car accident rather than a new mother of four months. I was so focused on getting back on track so that we could get pregnant again - grief was an energy-sucking distraction, an indulgence.
I look back and I'm shocked at my own cruelty to myself. It took me quite a while, but I've now properly claimed that title of mother to Z. While it still breaks my heart that she's not here and whole, revealing her two-year-old self to us, I'm proud of her. And I feel like I've learned a huge amount about being a mother because of her. That I can survive the unimaginable, that I can feel that awful and still be me - even if it is a weepier, more fragile me. That things can be completely, irretrievably broken, and mundane or miraculous at the same time. I'm kind of stunned that I had this depth of love within me - to love a child who isn't even here, who gives us no tangible sign of response, and yet who makes love spill out of me in such a way that I have to lavish it upon the stars, earth, sea and air in the hope that maybe some of it will hit one of her atoms. She has, exactly as I feared, made me into a bit of a grief-struck crazy-lady, but in a much more whole and connected way than I ever imagined. I even have some fondness for my crazy-lady habits, because that's how I know that I'm her mama - because I'm the woman who pauses on the street to stick my nose right into the heart of the rose, and inhales, whispering, l love you, my darling girl.
We're at the point where we are beginning to plan for all the things we'll need if Adzuki arrives safely. It feels ridiculously foolhardy to do these things - to accept gifts of second-hand baby baths, to go to a breastfeeding preparation class, to start moving furniture so we can fit a cot in our room. A voice in my head constantly harps, Don't you know what happened last time? What makes you think you'll be needing these things? And the truth is, we don't know. Nothing can guarantee that he will come home with us, living and breathing. But I also know now that if all the awful things conspired and he didn't come home, I would still love him and he'd still be our son. I won't kid myself that one grief fully prepares you for another, and I am still terrified of all the possibilities for things to go wrong. But being able to sit with those possibilities also enables me to let in the good possibilities, and to appreciate that right now things are wide open, that for now I get to feel every kick and try to be awake to it - to experience the aspects of the pregnancy that are similar to my pregnancy to Z, and also those which are completely different.
El Prima and I are getting impatient now - mid May feels so far away. And we know from Z that it could all happen much sooner than that. I'm trying to hold onto the realisation I had while looking at the clouds the other day - that even when it looks like nothing is moving, if you give it proper attention, you'll see the slow shift of things changing moment by moment.
I look back and I'm shocked at my own cruelty to myself. It took me quite a while, but I've now properly claimed that title of mother to Z. While it still breaks my heart that she's not here and whole, revealing her two-year-old self to us, I'm proud of her. And I feel like I've learned a huge amount about being a mother because of her. That I can survive the unimaginable, that I can feel that awful and still be me - even if it is a weepier, more fragile me. That things can be completely, irretrievably broken, and mundane or miraculous at the same time. I'm kind of stunned that I had this depth of love within me - to love a child who isn't even here, who gives us no tangible sign of response, and yet who makes love spill out of me in such a way that I have to lavish it upon the stars, earth, sea and air in the hope that maybe some of it will hit one of her atoms. She has, exactly as I feared, made me into a bit of a grief-struck crazy-lady, but in a much more whole and connected way than I ever imagined. I even have some fondness for my crazy-lady habits, because that's how I know that I'm her mama - because I'm the woman who pauses on the street to stick my nose right into the heart of the rose, and inhales, whispering, l love you, my darling girl.
We're at the point where we are beginning to plan for all the things we'll need if Adzuki arrives safely. It feels ridiculously foolhardy to do these things - to accept gifts of second-hand baby baths, to go to a breastfeeding preparation class, to start moving furniture so we can fit a cot in our room. A voice in my head constantly harps, Don't you know what happened last time? What makes you think you'll be needing these things? And the truth is, we don't know. Nothing can guarantee that he will come home with us, living and breathing. But I also know now that if all the awful things conspired and he didn't come home, I would still love him and he'd still be our son. I won't kid myself that one grief fully prepares you for another, and I am still terrified of all the possibilities for things to go wrong. But being able to sit with those possibilities also enables me to let in the good possibilities, and to appreciate that right now things are wide open, that for now I get to feel every kick and try to be awake to it - to experience the aspects of the pregnancy that are similar to my pregnancy to Z, and also those which are completely different.
El Prima and I are getting impatient now - mid May feels so far away. And we know from Z that it could all happen much sooner than that. I'm trying to hold onto the realisation I had while looking at the clouds the other day - that even when it looks like nothing is moving, if you give it proper attention, you'll see the slow shift of things changing moment by moment.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
2012
You know that fresh, clean bit of the new year, when it really feels like ages until you have to go back to work? When you really do think this is the year you will get organised and do all those little things that need to be done? Yep, well that bit is definitely gone. And I'm afraid that all the blog posts that were on my list of things to be done have evaporated into thin air - chewed up by the busy weeks organising and then staffing at a summer camp for the girls.
The camp was an amazing, intense week, which reminded me that actually, I can organise things, I can run a team, and I can build yoga and quiet time into even the busiest of days, and that I have a beautiful support network. The camp is also near where Z's ashes are, so I was able to visit her everyday, which I loved. But I'm exhausted from the 7am-11pm days and from coming home to big fights with El Prima and a chaotic house with 7 members of El Prima's family staying over - including in our bedroom. I mean, I'm taking the fact that they now come to stay as a lovely acceptance of our relationship (at last) but seven people as well as the four of us who already live there in a three bedroom house with only one couch and very little living space is very difficult!
El Prima's eldest daughter has also come to stay - very welcome after a long absence, and she's actually been the most helpful and thoughtful of all the guests. The rest of the family have now headed home, and we've got our house back, but there's nothing like in-laws to put a strain on things. (There were also some unintentionally hilarious moments - El Prima's older sister seeing that I was pregnant and asking in a semi-scandalised voice, "Does your father know?" I thought she was quite restrained, given that she's suggested on previous occasions that she could find a husband in Lebanon for me.)
In Adzuki news, everything went well on our 20 week scan. For the benefit of my dad, and anyone else who doesn't want to know Adzuki's sex, here is a little spoiler alert image so that you have to scroll down to find out. Just imagine some "oooooh-wah-ooooooooh" thinking music like they had on the 1980s Australian TV gameshow Perfect Match...
Okay, ...................................... drumroll........................................
..............................
He's a boy!
We had quite a hilarious ultrasound operator. First, she asked, "Is there anything you'd like to know about this baby?" And while I was temped to reel off a long list starting with, "where does this baby stand on the middle east crisis / circumcision debates / global warming?" and constantly punctuated with "will we get to bring this baby home living and breathing?", what we actually said was, "yes, can we find out the sex?"
To which she replied, "Well, there's the scrotum!"
I'll leave the visuals up to your imagination, but let's just say there wasn't really any room for confusion on that issue. I responded in quite bad mother fashion by immediately bursting into tears. Distraught, sad tears, I'm ashamed to say.
Let me try to explain this. We are so delighted. We are so bloody lucky to be in this position, with a healthy looking Adzuki kicking around my insides. But one of the reasons I wanted to find out the sex despite being a big believer in surprises and non-gender specific baby clothing was that I knew that I was somehow imagining a little sister for Z, and that I had invested a huge amount of energy into the idea of having a living daughter. I knew I needed time to work through all the emotions tied to having either a boy or a girl. I had been so convinced I was having a boy when I was pregnant with Haloumi / Z, and was so fond of that idea, that I really associated finding out she was a girl with first seeing her face - and that amazing surprise of seeing your own baby for the first time. Having a daughter was this amazing surprise gift from Z, that I didn't even know how much I wanted, even if she couldn't live. I know none of this really makes sense, but I guess when you know so little about your own child, you hang onto the small bits of info that you have got, and her sex was one of those things. And despite me knowing intellectually that Adzuki has always been a different baby to Z, that Z is irreplaceable - gone forever as the baby that we knew her - knowing that he's a boy is a clear confirmation that no, she's not coming back.
And poor little boys - they have so much crap to deal with in this world (I know, little girls too). But all those stereotypes about sport, and being tough and preferring trains / cars / mechanical un-empathetic shit.... I know that's not the whole picture for little boys, and I'm glad that we have such a beautiful diversity of gorgeous men in our lives - from my dad and brother, to El Prima's nephews, darling poet / engineer / loving dad friends and husbands / partners of friends and all our beloved gay boyfriends, including Z and Adzuki's donor. But just knowing opens up a whole new field of worry for Adzuki, and how he might navigate this messed up world.
The day after the scan was new years eve, and the kind of hot, dry day where just walking from the house to the car made you feel like every bit of moisture was being baked out of you. El Prima and I braved the late afternoon heat to visit the local pool for its last half an hour of evening opening. I did backstroke under the dry blue sky and wept into the chlorine. When I looked up again, the clouds had re-formed, and directly in my line of vision was the cloud shape of a new baby's face. Here he is, this tiny boy, completely dependent on me, and all I can do is weep because he's not a girl. I know this sounds very flaky, but I think that was Z and Adzuki, conspiring to rearrange the water atoms in the sky to remind me of who it is here in my belly - my beautiful little son.
(Z's day on 27 December deserves its own post and is next in line, but suffice to say that I now think it is pretty significant that one of the songs I chose for her play list (we hadn't had the scan yet at that stage) was "Here comes the Sun".)
The camp was an amazing, intense week, which reminded me that actually, I can organise things, I can run a team, and I can build yoga and quiet time into even the busiest of days, and that I have a beautiful support network. The camp is also near where Z's ashes are, so I was able to visit her everyday, which I loved. But I'm exhausted from the 7am-11pm days and from coming home to big fights with El Prima and a chaotic house with 7 members of El Prima's family staying over - including in our bedroom. I mean, I'm taking the fact that they now come to stay as a lovely acceptance of our relationship (at last) but seven people as well as the four of us who already live there in a three bedroom house with only one couch and very little living space is very difficult!
El Prima's eldest daughter has also come to stay - very welcome after a long absence, and she's actually been the most helpful and thoughtful of all the guests. The rest of the family have now headed home, and we've got our house back, but there's nothing like in-laws to put a strain on things. (There were also some unintentionally hilarious moments - El Prima's older sister seeing that I was pregnant and asking in a semi-scandalised voice, "Does your father know?" I thought she was quite restrained, given that she's suggested on previous occasions that she could find a husband in Lebanon for me.)
In Adzuki news, everything went well on our 20 week scan. For the benefit of my dad, and anyone else who doesn't want to know Adzuki's sex, here is a little spoiler alert image so that you have to scroll down to find out. Just imagine some "oooooh-wah-ooooooooh" thinking music like they had on the 1980s Australian TV gameshow Perfect Match...
Image (and context, should you wish to brush up on your 1980s antipodean game show trivia) from here.
Okay, ...................................... drumroll........................................
..............................
He's a boy!
We had quite a hilarious ultrasound operator. First, she asked, "Is there anything you'd like to know about this baby?" And while I was temped to reel off a long list starting with, "where does this baby stand on the middle east crisis / circumcision debates / global warming?" and constantly punctuated with "will we get to bring this baby home living and breathing?", what we actually said was, "yes, can we find out the sex?"
To which she replied, "Well, there's the scrotum!"
I'll leave the visuals up to your imagination, but let's just say there wasn't really any room for confusion on that issue. I responded in quite bad mother fashion by immediately bursting into tears. Distraught, sad tears, I'm ashamed to say.
Let me try to explain this. We are so delighted. We are so bloody lucky to be in this position, with a healthy looking Adzuki kicking around my insides. But one of the reasons I wanted to find out the sex despite being a big believer in surprises and non-gender specific baby clothing was that I knew that I was somehow imagining a little sister for Z, and that I had invested a huge amount of energy into the idea of having a living daughter. I knew I needed time to work through all the emotions tied to having either a boy or a girl. I had been so convinced I was having a boy when I was pregnant with Haloumi / Z, and was so fond of that idea, that I really associated finding out she was a girl with first seeing her face - and that amazing surprise of seeing your own baby for the first time. Having a daughter was this amazing surprise gift from Z, that I didn't even know how much I wanted, even if she couldn't live. I know none of this really makes sense, but I guess when you know so little about your own child, you hang onto the small bits of info that you have got, and her sex was one of those things. And despite me knowing intellectually that Adzuki has always been a different baby to Z, that Z is irreplaceable - gone forever as the baby that we knew her - knowing that he's a boy is a clear confirmation that no, she's not coming back.
And poor little boys - they have so much crap to deal with in this world (I know, little girls too). But all those stereotypes about sport, and being tough and preferring trains / cars / mechanical un-empathetic shit.... I know that's not the whole picture for little boys, and I'm glad that we have such a beautiful diversity of gorgeous men in our lives - from my dad and brother, to El Prima's nephews, darling poet / engineer / loving dad friends and husbands / partners of friends and all our beloved gay boyfriends, including Z and Adzuki's donor. But just knowing opens up a whole new field of worry for Adzuki, and how he might navigate this messed up world.
The day after the scan was new years eve, and the kind of hot, dry day where just walking from the house to the car made you feel like every bit of moisture was being baked out of you. El Prima and I braved the late afternoon heat to visit the local pool for its last half an hour of evening opening. I did backstroke under the dry blue sky and wept into the chlorine. When I looked up again, the clouds had re-formed, and directly in my line of vision was the cloud shape of a new baby's face. Here he is, this tiny boy, completely dependent on me, and all I can do is weep because he's not a girl. I know this sounds very flaky, but I think that was Z and Adzuki, conspiring to rearrange the water atoms in the sky to remind me of who it is here in my belly - my beautiful little son.
(Z's day on 27 December deserves its own post and is next in line, but suffice to say that I now think it is pretty significant that one of the songs I chose for her play list (we hadn't had the scan yet at that stage) was "Here comes the Sun".)
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Christmas Shopping for my ghost-baby
I don't know if this was torturing myself, but I got the idea in my head that I would buy some Christmas things to donate to the giving tree at work. The instructions said to label the gifts with the age and (if appropriate) gender of the child the gift would be suitable for. Here, let me imagine a hypothetical child who I wish I was buying a Christmas gift for. She's about to turn two, and apart from her curly dark brown hair, that's all I know about her. I'm not sure I can successfully combine my grief for Z, my desperate hankering for her to be here, with the altruism that Christmas giving really requires. All the same, at least this way of remembering her, of showing my love for her, has some benefit for a child who needs it. Yet it spikes my heart that a living child will get to use these things while Z never will.
The girls helped me pick out two things - a little navy and white striped summer playsuit and a fisher price pull-along telephone - ubiquitous toy of doctors waiting rooms and kinders. I was amazed they are still making them. Yay nostalgia. Buying things was hard. Leaving them there under the Christmas tree was harder. It still shocks me that this happened to us, that I have a daughter, but she died. I can't manage to pat this grief into any kind of shape today.
The girls helped me pick out two things - a little navy and white striped summer playsuit and a fisher price pull-along telephone - ubiquitous toy of doctors waiting rooms and kinders. I was amazed they are still making them. Yay nostalgia. Buying things was hard. Leaving them there under the Christmas tree was harder. It still shocks me that this happened to us, that I have a daughter, but she died. I can't manage to pat this grief into any kind of shape today.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Don't mention the bump
I'm still here, but have gone quiet for a bit. It is so hard to capture everything going on at the moment. I'm at that funny stage where some people will look pointedly at my middle and say, "Are you....?" and I'll have to confess, Yes, Pregnant, while others are still surprised when I tell them. Either way, there is a lot of telling going on, because being the blathermouth that I am, I'm not likely to leave things unexplained or unelaborated. And yet, it all feels so awkward, because so often there is a great yawning gap between their and my understandings of what all this pregnancy business means. For me, this is not a easy topic about happy future plans and discussion of baby products, it is a hot ball of molten lava which is both an amazing, miraculous thing and a very dangerous and unpredictable substance. I need to put on the fireman's gloves for that. It is here, on the newsy surface of things which people feel happy talking about, whether they know me or not and yet it is chained directly to my heart, so that even just telling people I am pregnant feels like an intimate exposure.
For people who don't know our story, this inevitably leds into variations of the question "Is this your first baby?". I'm getting better at getting the words out. No, our first daughter died... car accident ... eight months pregnant. And now that I've said it so many times, I can almost roll it out easily and move on with the conversation - out of self-preservation rather than callowness. They usually apologise - this was not the territory they were meaning to steer us into. So I need to sum it up so that we can move back to safe territory - "It's okay. It just meant that getting pregnant again was a Really Big Thing. Extra precious." Which doesn't really even begin to sum it up, but that's the best I can do for chit chat.
For friends and family who know the back-story, many have surprised us with the genuine intensity of their joy for us. It feels like a gift in itself, but I can't quite meet them on that optimistic territory - I just stand there smiling nervously and saying, "Yes, fingers crossed". And I think for a second - am I actually pregnant? Or have I just made a silly mistake? And I have to prod my belly surrepticiously, feeling for that taut roundness of womb.
Because, as amazing as it is to be pregnant again and to be feeling those first flutters, I have no illusions that this is a done deal. Knowing how many things could still go wrong (and have gone wrong for other babies I know of) makes it all the more precious. That bit is true, even if a small corny word doesn't capture the tenderness of it. But there's still a part of me that wants to save the celebrations until this chicken is well and truly hatched.
Zainab would nearly be two by now. Most of the babies who were belly-side with her are now speaking, playing games, running on sturdy small feet and learning to crack tantrums. Our street is lush with roses at the moment. I lean right in to smell them, crush the petals to my lips and talk quietly to my baby daughter. Her star has reappeared, now in a different part of the sky. The ritual of missing her is built into my life now - I stand at the dresser and consult her serious sleeping baby face on which brooch to wear, which earrings. When things are hard, I sigh "Oh Khallila" for her comisserations.
So many cues are interwoven with the missing of her. Wind in the gum tops makes me picture her as snugglepot and cuddlepie bush baby, learning to sing magpie warbles. The startling orange-red of pomegranate flowers against grass green leaves - those are the colours I wear for her. Poems, comic topiary, haloumi cheese, earrings - my link to her is cobbled together from so many little things. Even the little time I hive away for writing or art - this is a part of my life she reawakened in her short path through it. And every bit of being pregnant reminds me of her - suddenly I can recognise myself again as the mother-body who housed her. I'm becoming familiar with this mosaic-daughter, pieced together from so many small reminders and memorial acts. But I still hanker for her wholeness, and the thought of her dark-haired small form moving and making noise.
For people who don't know our story, this inevitably leds into variations of the question "Is this your first baby?". I'm getting better at getting the words out. No, our first daughter died... car accident ... eight months pregnant. And now that I've said it so many times, I can almost roll it out easily and move on with the conversation - out of self-preservation rather than callowness. They usually apologise - this was not the territory they were meaning to steer us into. So I need to sum it up so that we can move back to safe territory - "It's okay. It just meant that getting pregnant again was a Really Big Thing. Extra precious." Which doesn't really even begin to sum it up, but that's the best I can do for chit chat.
For friends and family who know the back-story, many have surprised us with the genuine intensity of their joy for us. It feels like a gift in itself, but I can't quite meet them on that optimistic territory - I just stand there smiling nervously and saying, "Yes, fingers crossed". And I think for a second - am I actually pregnant? Or have I just made a silly mistake? And I have to prod my belly surrepticiously, feeling for that taut roundness of womb.
Because, as amazing as it is to be pregnant again and to be feeling those first flutters, I have no illusions that this is a done deal. Knowing how many things could still go wrong (and have gone wrong for other babies I know of) makes it all the more precious. That bit is true, even if a small corny word doesn't capture the tenderness of it. But there's still a part of me that wants to save the celebrations until this chicken is well and truly hatched.
Zainab would nearly be two by now. Most of the babies who were belly-side with her are now speaking, playing games, running on sturdy small feet and learning to crack tantrums. Our street is lush with roses at the moment. I lean right in to smell them, crush the petals to my lips and talk quietly to my baby daughter. Her star has reappeared, now in a different part of the sky. The ritual of missing her is built into my life now - I stand at the dresser and consult her serious sleeping baby face on which brooch to wear, which earrings. When things are hard, I sigh "Oh Khallila" for her comisserations.
So many cues are interwoven with the missing of her. Wind in the gum tops makes me picture her as snugglepot and cuddlepie bush baby, learning to sing magpie warbles. The startling orange-red of pomegranate flowers against grass green leaves - those are the colours I wear for her. Poems, comic topiary, haloumi cheese, earrings - my link to her is cobbled together from so many little things. Even the little time I hive away for writing or art - this is a part of my life she reawakened in her short path through it. And every bit of being pregnant reminds me of her - suddenly I can recognise myself again as the mother-body who housed her. I'm becoming familiar with this mosaic-daughter, pieced together from so many small reminders and memorial acts. But I still hanker for her wholeness, and the thought of her dark-haired small form moving and making noise.
Image from here.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Good Strong Knicker Elastic
I'm taking my title from Ann (Harvey & Dot's mum) and her comment to me on this post.
(image from here)
Good strong knicker elastic is indeed what I need - the kind that keeps your favourite saggy pair going until the holes make them too rude to wear. Persistence and strength in its most domestic and vernacular form. Adzuki gave us a scare last night - bright red blood and a trip to the local maternity emergency department. Our fabulous midwife was there before the doctor saw us, and took us into the birthing centre to use their Doppler - and found that lovely swishy heartbeat straight away. (She seems to know everyone - I take that as a good sign) The bleeding eased off very quickly, and we had to hang around to see the doctor and for blood test results and an Anti-D shot with the biggest needle El Prima's ever seen (I wouldn't look at it!).
All that fear came flooding back - and we felt stupid for having already told so many people I was pregnant - as though we could have caused this just by having a little faith in the pregnancy. It's hard to shake, that feeling that everything is going to be ripped out from under your feet again. Who knows what will happen. There's been no bleeding since, and the fact that there was no pain accompanying the bleeding is, I'm told, a very good sign. I never had any bleeding with Z (even when the accident happened - that's one reason why I thought she'd be okay), and I'd dismissed the crazy scary bleeding back in March as related to that pregnancy being a blighted ovum that was tenuous from the very start. Somehow, with my obstetric history, I've preserved some image of myself as a healthy pregnant woman. But this pregnancy after loss caper is not for the faint-hearted. Good thing I've got some sturdy knicker elastic on my side.
Good strong knicker elastic is indeed what I need - the kind that keeps your favourite saggy pair going until the holes make them too rude to wear. Persistence and strength in its most domestic and vernacular form. Adzuki gave us a scare last night - bright red blood and a trip to the local maternity emergency department. Our fabulous midwife was there before the doctor saw us, and took us into the birthing centre to use their Doppler - and found that lovely swishy heartbeat straight away. (She seems to know everyone - I take that as a good sign) The bleeding eased off very quickly, and we had to hang around to see the doctor and for blood test results and an Anti-D shot with the biggest needle El Prima's ever seen (I wouldn't look at it!).
All that fear came flooding back - and we felt stupid for having already told so many people I was pregnant - as though we could have caused this just by having a little faith in the pregnancy. It's hard to shake, that feeling that everything is going to be ripped out from under your feet again. Who knows what will happen. There's been no bleeding since, and the fact that there was no pain accompanying the bleeding is, I'm told, a very good sign. I never had any bleeding with Z (even when the accident happened - that's one reason why I thought she'd be okay), and I'd dismissed the crazy scary bleeding back in March as related to that pregnancy being a blighted ovum that was tenuous from the very start. Somehow, with my obstetric history, I've preserved some image of myself as a healthy pregnant woman. But this pregnancy after loss caper is not for the faint-hearted. Good thing I've got some sturdy knicker elastic on my side.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
El Dia de los Muertos
I'm slightly late, but wanted to say something about the Day of the Dead, especially given Angie's beautiful piece over at Glow.
I like Bionic Baby Mama's idea that wherever not-yet-born babies "are", spiritually speaking, they are probably in a similar spot as dead people, or are at least more able to get phone reception when the dead people call than we are. So the Day of the Dead feels like a particularly appropriate day to celebrate my children - both dead and unborn. (Gorgeous difficult-to-explain children that you are!) I have no cultural connection to this particular tradition, but I guess Z and Adzuki may have, given that their donor (our beautiful friend J) has Colombian heritage.
Given that, and my teenage obsession with Frida, I was excited to hear on the radio about a Day of the Dead party last Friday night. So El Prima and I went, along with my brother, and danced and ate and drank margeritas (well, I had a sip) and invited Z to party with us. It was beautiful to have a night in her honour, when thinking about our dead daughter wasn't "morbid" or weird, it was something to be celebrated and proud of, even if it did make us shed a tear while we danced. And I dressed up, somewhat ridiculously, as Frida. Yes, I may have ended up looking more like a dutch milk maid, but El Prima and my brother could work out who I was dressed up as.
We had our 13 week scan this morning, and my first reaction when we saw a beautifully formed, very much alive little Adzuki bean was to burst into tears. The same thing happens every time I look at the pictures. I'm not sure what it is - disbelief combined with the scary realisation that so so much is at stake now. I love this little thing with its own ribs and enormous head and tiny, pointy bum. This small dancing skeleton-baby - just like the decorations at the Dia de los Muertos party, only without the sombrero. And I'm so scared when I realise how little I can do to protect him or her.
As she was doing the scan, our sonographer gave us little snippets of good news - "there's the nasal bone - a good sign as lack of nasal bone at this stage is associated with Downs", "that's a good heartbeat, no sign of any valve problems", "you should be fine with the nuchal fold measurements from what I see here". So it was a bit of a surprise when she rang back a few hours later with the combined test results and told me that I'm actually classified as high risk for Downs - while my ultrasound result came back very low risk (1:795), my blood tests came back very high risk (1:53) giving me an overall risk of 1:161.
El Prima and I are agreed not to do any further invasive tests such as an amnio - our main reason for doing the test at all was to assess the risk of the other more fatal triploidies - 13 and 18 - as we would be okay with raising a Downs syndrome child. And, when we separate out the figures, our risk level for those more serious disorders is tiny (1:100,000). Yet, because the test is designed primarily to pick up Downs, that leaves us with all the uncertainty and anxiety that goes with the "high risk" tag. Now I just wish I'd never taken the stupid blood test. After spending most of yesterday reading medical journal articles on the risk factors, my learned view is to forget the whole thing and just focus on enjoying this pregnancy and doing our best to get Adzuki here alive.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Weary
Oh, the posts that have been floating around my head! Sadly, I've had to direct my energy into marking two batches of 120 assignments - urk. Meanwhile, my head is spinning with missing Z and being tentatively excited / worried for Adzuki, and alternately feeling guilty for letting doubt creep into this new pregnancy.
Things seem to be going well. We had another scan at 8 weeks, and there was Adzuki with a rockin' heartbeat, with the beginnings of arms and legs and measuring a few days ahead. We've done crazy things such as book in with a midwife, and register with the hospital. I had my ten week blood tests yesterday, and my GP had a poke around my tummy and proclaimed, "I think that's the uterus - it seems pretty big already", which was reassuring and alarming at the same time. She's lovely though, as is our midwife, and I feel like we're in good hands whatever happens. (*whatever happens*... this is the kind of hesitant, tentative hope I'm holding onto at the moment.) I'm glad I can blame my fat tummy on that old uterus, though, because I feel exceedingly lumpy already. A student remarked on it today, and wished me luck! (Though I don't mind people wishing me well on the pregnancy so much when I actually *am* pregnant. It was pretty awful when I wasn't.)
I've been delighting El Prima with continuing nausea. She was very comforting but also a bit happy when I threw up my dinner the other night. I'd forgotten the absolute desperation of pregnancy hunger, as well as the importance of eating slowly and being careful to stop eating when the nausea demands. There is so much that feels just like my Haloumi pregnancy with Z, that it sometimes does my head in. And yet the food I get hungry for is very different - all salty things. So many little new bits of grief catch me by surprise - just the thought of explaining to a little child that her/his big sister died before she/he was born. The thought that Z would in probability be talking by now, and how much that would delight my dad. The thought of not having to explain to Z that she might soon have a little sister or brother.
Just "gestating safely" and getting my head around the whole thing seems to take up so much energy, and yet this has been precisely when my work has stepped up and demanded more from me than I feel able to give. I've also realised that I'm grieving the loss of my old job and workplace. It was my choice, of course, but I miss my colleagues and a system that I knew my way around in.
Our next scan is in two weeks at 13 weeks. I don't want to wish that time away, because I started this pregnancy wanting to enjoy every moment of it, I know those are two important, beautiful weeks for Adzuki, but it is pretty scary too. I'm trying to weave those two things together in my head - to know that this is the deal - this is what pregnancy after loss feels like - scary and amazing in equal measures. I'm so grateful to be here, even if it scares the pants off me.
Things seem to be going well. We had another scan at 8 weeks, and there was Adzuki with a rockin' heartbeat, with the beginnings of arms and legs and measuring a few days ahead. We've done crazy things such as book in with a midwife, and register with the hospital. I had my ten week blood tests yesterday, and my GP had a poke around my tummy and proclaimed, "I think that's the uterus - it seems pretty big already", which was reassuring and alarming at the same time. She's lovely though, as is our midwife, and I feel like we're in good hands whatever happens. (*whatever happens*... this is the kind of hesitant, tentative hope I'm holding onto at the moment.) I'm glad I can blame my fat tummy on that old uterus, though, because I feel exceedingly lumpy already. A student remarked on it today, and wished me luck! (Though I don't mind people wishing me well on the pregnancy so much when I actually *am* pregnant. It was pretty awful when I wasn't.)
I've been delighting El Prima with continuing nausea. She was very comforting but also a bit happy when I threw up my dinner the other night. I'd forgotten the absolute desperation of pregnancy hunger, as well as the importance of eating slowly and being careful to stop eating when the nausea demands. There is so much that feels just like my Haloumi pregnancy with Z, that it sometimes does my head in. And yet the food I get hungry for is very different - all salty things. So many little new bits of grief catch me by surprise - just the thought of explaining to a little child that her/his big sister died before she/he was born. The thought that Z would in probability be talking by now, and how much that would delight my dad. The thought of not having to explain to Z that she might soon have a little sister or brother.
Just "gestating safely" and getting my head around the whole thing seems to take up so much energy, and yet this has been precisely when my work has stepped up and demanded more from me than I feel able to give. I've also realised that I'm grieving the loss of my old job and workplace. It was my choice, of course, but I miss my colleagues and a system that I knew my way around in.
Our next scan is in two weeks at 13 weeks. I don't want to wish that time away, because I started this pregnancy wanting to enjoy every moment of it, I know those are two important, beautiful weeks for Adzuki, but it is pretty scary too. I'm trying to weave those two things together in my head - to know that this is the deal - this is what pregnancy after loss feels like - scary and amazing in equal measures. I'm so grateful to be here, even if it scares the pants off me.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Adzuki Bean
Once upon a time, on that other planet I lived on before our baby died, I was an ordinary pregnant lady who had a little bit of an obsession for red bean buns. I loved them so much that I had long conversations with El Prima about why I loved them so much, and why Haloumi demanded that I eat them on a regular basis. I googled "red bean bun" so that I could discover their principal ingredients. Because if I wasn't eating them, I wanted to be reading about them. And I discovered that the red bean paste is made from beans called (by some cultures at least) "adzuki beans". El Prima and I mused, if we ever had another haloumi cheese after this particular Haloumi Cheese was born, maybe we'd nickname him/her "Adzuki Bean" in utero.
That thought just floated, until our accident happened, and Haloumi died and was born - and was suddenly a real particular baby girl we named Z, rather than a Haloumi mystery baby-bump. Well, she was still a mystery baby - but one whose face we'd kissed, and who we had given a name. One of the few things we liked to think we knew about her was that she liked red bean bun and wanted me to eat it all the time. So the idea that she had somehow 'picked' the nickname Adzuki Bean for her sibling became very tender to us.
All of this is a long round-a-bout way of saying - we saw a heartbeat this morning - we've seen the Adzuki Bean! The whole 5.5mm of him or her! A copy of the picture is posted on the page I've just set up, specifically named "Adzuki Bean". Our usual IVF doctor was away, so it was a doctor we'd never met before who started by asking, "Is this your first?" (Cue a deep sigh from me, and a joint internal eye-roll, before El Prima launched into the answer) But once we'd told her, she was very sympathetic, and as soon as she started the scan was immediately saying, "Everything looks fine". At first, I couldn't see anything in the sac, and didn't really believe her, thinking we might only see empty sacs and blighted ovums. But she insisted, and there, indeed, was a tiny little adzuki bean, a promising little blob, with its own thumping heartbeat.
It is strange to be back in pregnancy territory, with the same symptoms as with Haloumi, but with a body and a self altered by grief and motherhood. It is hard to believe that pregnancy could possibly work along a similar timeframe, or work in the same way as it did before. But while we'll always live with the chasm between 'before' and 'after', we're no longer in the wild woods of griefland. (Where are we then? Maybe we've found that grief has its own village, not all that far from where we lived before, and that as it turns out, many of the people we love have been a resident of that village at some time or other.) All the possibilities bundled into a pregnancy - I now know how many of those can break your heart. But this is the thing with possibility, you can't pick and choose. All we can do is recognise that we're at the mercy of all kinds of good and hard possibilities, and we'll experience whatever we get as open heartedly as we can.
There's such a long long way to go, but stick with us, Adzuki Bean, this could be so much fun!
That thought just floated, until our accident happened, and Haloumi died and was born - and was suddenly a real particular baby girl we named Z, rather than a Haloumi mystery baby-bump. Well, she was still a mystery baby - but one whose face we'd kissed, and who we had given a name. One of the few things we liked to think we knew about her was that she liked red bean bun and wanted me to eat it all the time. So the idea that she had somehow 'picked' the nickname Adzuki Bean for her sibling became very tender to us.
All of this is a long round-a-bout way of saying - we saw a heartbeat this morning - we've seen the Adzuki Bean! The whole 5.5mm of him or her! A copy of the picture is posted on the page I've just set up, specifically named "Adzuki Bean". Our usual IVF doctor was away, so it was a doctor we'd never met before who started by asking, "Is this your first?" (Cue a deep sigh from me, and a joint internal eye-roll, before El Prima launched into the answer) But once we'd told her, she was very sympathetic, and as soon as she started the scan was immediately saying, "Everything looks fine". At first, I couldn't see anything in the sac, and didn't really believe her, thinking we might only see empty sacs and blighted ovums. But she insisted, and there, indeed, was a tiny little adzuki bean, a promising little blob, with its own thumping heartbeat.
It is strange to be back in pregnancy territory, with the same symptoms as with Haloumi, but with a body and a self altered by grief and motherhood. It is hard to believe that pregnancy could possibly work along a similar timeframe, or work in the same way as it did before. But while we'll always live with the chasm between 'before' and 'after', we're no longer in the wild woods of griefland. (Where are we then? Maybe we've found that grief has its own village, not all that far from where we lived before, and that as it turns out, many of the people we love have been a resident of that village at some time or other.) All the possibilities bundled into a pregnancy - I now know how many of those can break your heart. But this is the thing with possibility, you can't pick and choose. All we can do is recognise that we're at the mercy of all kinds of good and hard possibilities, and we'll experience whatever we get as open heartedly as we can.
There's such a long long way to go, but stick with us, Adzuki Bean, this could be so much fun!
Monday, September 19, 2011
Taking it slow
I've been on a blog moratorium while I finished writing a presentation for work - it is so hard to focus when my brain is going around in little circles like an excited puppy: "Hmm - I wonder if I'm still pregnant? What about now? .... Now?"
Something about this feels real though - definitely feeling nauseous and super-full-body tired. I walked out of the train station the other day and could smell someone's dinner (fish), and then someone else's perfume. Smells are distinct, separate, detailed. It feels just like the early days of being pregnant with Haloumi. Which is a lovely feeling, but also scary. It's as though there's been a pregnant part of me that's been on-hold for the last 20 months, and I've just gone straight back to 'pregnant normal'. A part of me wants to leap straight into that certainty that things will work out, that we can start planning, while another a part of me has trouble imagining that this could end up with a living child.
It's now four sleeps until the scan. I've titled this post 'taking it slow', but I think that is an aspiration rather than a description. It is so difficult not to tilt forward and start planning or worrying about the future of this pregnancy. I dreamt last night that I had another baby girl - fairer than Z, with a squished up newborn face. She was alive, and I was trying to put a cloth nappy on her, but using ordinary sized safety pins. We were locked in a room with someone with a machine-gun, I was contemplating whether we might be able to hide behind the couch so that we wouldn't be killed. I though perhaps if I could hide her she'd be safe. Maybe this is my unconscious brain's clunky metaphor for pregnancy after loss, or maybe I'm just really scared. I also dreamt that we took her to the pub, where a band was playing - no idea what that means.
It's a reminder too of all the dreams I had of Haloumi. Despite me being convinced during waking hours that I was having a boy, in every dream I had she was a girl. And my dreaming brain was right. It had a 50-50 chance of being accurate I guess. Just like trying to conceive, pregnancy is such a huge exercise in uncertainty - but with such a clear timetable of 'successful outcomes' that it feels even more difficult to just take one day at a time. But we're here now, in this queasy, uncertain spot, and I certainly prefer this kind of uncertainty to the other uncertainty that follows a BFN.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Well, be careful of those home pregnancy testing kits...
Because sometimes they are WRONG!!
Blood test showed HCG 539. And then the nurse told me two completely improbable dates - 23 September for a scan to confirm a heartbeat, and 16 May 2012 as an estimated due date. I very nearly said, "Ha ha, as if!" but that would have been rude. And also showing very little faith in this tenacious little embryo's persistence. Oh, it is so so lovely to be proven wrong in my sad scared little theories that everyone but me was allowed to get pregnant.
Who knows what path lies ahead for this pregnancy, but we haven't gotten this far since Monday 1 June 2009, when I stood with a positive test in hand, staring at the wall - Haloumi's entry point into our lives.
16 May 2012. The day before my little brother's birthday. Yikes. But right now, 10 September 2011 is enough to deal with.
Thanks so much for all your love & encouragement. You rock too! xxxx h
ps so glad other people could see the elephant too.
Blood test showed HCG 539. And then the nurse told me two completely improbable dates - 23 September for a scan to confirm a heartbeat, and 16 May 2012 as an estimated due date. I very nearly said, "Ha ha, as if!" but that would have been rude. And also showing very little faith in this tenacious little embryo's persistence. Oh, it is so so lovely to be proven wrong in my sad scared little theories that everyone but me was allowed to get pregnant.
Who knows what path lies ahead for this pregnancy, but we haven't gotten this far since Monday 1 June 2009, when I stood with a positive test in hand, staring at the wall - Haloumi's entry point into our lives.
16 May 2012. The day before my little brother's birthday. Yikes. But right now, 10 September 2011 is enough to deal with.
Thanks so much for all your love & encouragement. You rock too! xxxx h
ps so glad other people could see the elephant too.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Nope
Not even a shadow of a second line. Official blood test is tomorrow, so I really should hold off on the gnashing of teeth until then.
And this... ?
This is the rock I found for Z's little garden. I went rock-selecting last week at a landscape gardening supplies place, and as I wandered around the piles of slate and mountains of gravel I liked this one because I saw it as a little elephant shape - trunk down to the left, and feet standing strong.
It's about a foot and a bit long, and maybe a foot tall. Just big and round enough to hug, but too heavy to hold in your arms. Woo hoo - so I can freak the neighbours out by hugging the rock in my front yard on a regular basis. We're getting it engraved with Z's name and her birth/death date.
And this... ?
It's about a foot and a bit long, and maybe a foot tall. Just big and round enough to hug, but too heavy to hold in your arms. Woo hoo - so I can freak the neighbours out by hugging the rock in my front yard on a regular basis. We're getting it engraved with Z's name and her birth/death date.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Frozen
The lab promised to send me a letter telling me whether any of the other 8 embryos made it to blastocyst stage in order to be frozen. When it hadn't arrived after a week, I was worried that perhaps none of them had survived long enough to freeze. So yesterday, I made the call, and asked the nurses to tell me - two six-day embryos frozen! Whatever else happens with this cycle, I'm taking that as excellent news. Lovely procrastinating little embryos.
As for this one - the one transferred last week? I have a blood test Friday to see if it is planning to stick around. Now that it is only two days away, I can feel a magnetic force pulling me forward in time - I just want to skip ahead, to get that phone call from the lab. But only if it is good news! As for peeing on a stick - we'll see how far my patience lasts. If I tested tomorrow, that would be 15 dpo, so there'd be a decent chance it would be accurate. Meanwhile, I'm trying to breathe in the sunshine.
As for this one - the one transferred last week? I have a blood test Friday to see if it is planning to stick around. Now that it is only two days away, I can feel a magnetic force pulling me forward in time - I just want to skip ahead, to get that phone call from the lab. But only if it is good news! As for peeing on a stick - we'll see how far my patience lasts. If I tested tomorrow, that would be 15 dpo, so there'd be a decent chance it would be accurate. Meanwhile, I'm trying to breathe in the sunshine.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Back in the game
Apologies for blog silence - I'm here, but just not feeling terribly verbal.
I think this photo kind of sums up the mood - whimsical old (slightly rusty) grater with a wonky handle and a goofy grin in the sunshine through the kitchen window.
"Why yes, my handle might fall off at any moment, and yet small things, such as the smile-like turn of my cheese-slicer, still lighten my heart". I'm a bit scared to jinx it by writing too much about it, though it's still punctuated with little bits of grief. Yesterday I found El Prima's goodbye card from her work, with everyone's good wishes about our 'bundle of joy' etc. I had a cry in the aluminium shed, then stepped out into the sun, cuddled the dogs for a bit under the plum tree, and started preparing our tomato patch for this spring / summer.
In other news, we had our embryo transfer today. One lovely looking blastocyst was welcomed into the hopefully friendly environment of my uterus. Make yourself at home, sweetcheeks.
This is our first go with a 5 day transfer (the others have all been 2 day embryos) so who knows whether that will make any difference. Our doctor explained to us that he was very pleased that 11 of the 13 eggs fertilised (yay, go wonder eggs!) but disappointed that of the 9 that kept growing, only one made it to blastocyst stage by day 5 (alas, poor embryos, I'm sure you're trying your best. Aren't you?). We'll find out tomorrow whether any of the others developed enough to be frozen. I suggested to our doctor that maybe the others were just 'late developers' - indeed my grandad hadn't grown to his adult height until he was 19, so there's probably a family tendency there. That and procrastination, either of which are quite valid explanations, if not very scientific. Meanwhile, we've transferred the little blastocyst that could.
So, we're back in the slightly less than 2 week wait, and I'm back to humming my favourite little "who knows who knows" song. Blood test 9 Sept. And hope? Don't mind if I do! I think I'm just going to go ahead and hope this time, as there's no point pretending this doesn't matter to me. Fingers crossed.
I think this photo kind of sums up the mood - whimsical old (slightly rusty) grater with a wonky handle and a goofy grin in the sunshine through the kitchen window.
In other news, we had our embryo transfer today. One lovely looking blastocyst was welcomed into the hopefully friendly environment of my uterus. Make yourself at home, sweetcheeks.
This is our first go with a 5 day transfer (the others have all been 2 day embryos) so who knows whether that will make any difference. Our doctor explained to us that he was very pleased that 11 of the 13 eggs fertilised (yay, go wonder eggs!) but disappointed that of the 9 that kept growing, only one made it to blastocyst stage by day 5 (alas, poor embryos, I'm sure you're trying your best. Aren't you?). We'll find out tomorrow whether any of the others developed enough to be frozen. I suggested to our doctor that maybe the others were just 'late developers' - indeed my grandad hadn't grown to his adult height until he was 19, so there's probably a family tendency there. That and procrastination, either of which are quite valid explanations, if not very scientific. Meanwhile, we've transferred the little blastocyst that could.
So, we're back in the slightly less than 2 week wait, and I'm back to humming my favourite little "who knows who knows" song. Blood test 9 Sept. And hope? Don't mind if I do! I think I'm just going to go ahead and hope this time, as there's no point pretending this doesn't matter to me. Fingers crossed.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Things that are lifting my heart today
1. This:
Spring is inexorably on its way. The hairy tree roots down in this hole of mine are starting to come to life.
2. You lot.
3. El Prima sending me pictures of camellia trees bursting into flower like popcorn.
4. An afternoon with P and baby A yesterday - I love that in the one visit I can bounce around my current ideas for the conference paper I am writing with P, *and* practice my baby vocabulary and silly faces with A. ("Ah-goo!" or "Lal!" are my favourites at the moment)
5. The sheer revoltingness of the herbal mixture I am drinking twice a day from my naturopath, along with her confidence that I probably don't need her help to get pregnant anyway. We've had to cancel the next cycle because my work travel next week would have collided with egg pick-up, so this foul-tasting mixture at least lets me feel like something is happening until we start again in mid-August.
6. The tale of Custard the Dragon, and the fact that a friend who knows how much I love this poem just sent me a photo proving that Dulux have named one of their paints "Cowardly Custard".
Spring is inexorably on its way. The hairy tree roots down in this hole of mine are starting to come to life.
2. You lot.
3. El Prima sending me pictures of camellia trees bursting into flower like popcorn.
4. An afternoon with P and baby A yesterday - I love that in the one visit I can bounce around my current ideas for the conference paper I am writing with P, *and* practice my baby vocabulary and silly faces with A. ("Ah-goo!" or "Lal!" are my favourites at the moment)
5. The sheer revoltingness of the herbal mixture I am drinking twice a day from my naturopath, along with her confidence that I probably don't need her help to get pregnant anyway. We've had to cancel the next cycle because my work travel next week would have collided with egg pick-up, so this foul-tasting mixture at least lets me feel like something is happening until we start again in mid-August.
6. The tale of Custard the Dragon, and the fact that a friend who knows how much I love this poem just sent me a photo proving that Dulux have named one of their paints "Cowardly Custard".
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Dirt 101
There's a special art to running through crowded city streets. Speed up, sideways step, watch for a gap. My heart expands to knock at my ribs and nearly bowl over the people in my path, until I'm all heart - messy, beating, puffing and suddenly seeing all these messy human hearts around me. A woman sees me running towards her and fear blanks across her face briefly - she looks wildly behind me, her own steps a little quicker. I have a good reason to run - I don't want to be late for my osteo appointment, but I feel like I've just woken, as though my blood is reaching cells that have been slowly greying.
Things have been really grey lately. Everything is a big effort. I'm kind of embarrassed to write about it because this kind of sadness is dull. I bore myself. It's as though I'm stuck at the bottom of a big hole in the ground. Poem by poem, I'm digging myself out, and I know from the voices of loved ones which way is up, but I can't really pretend to be anywhere else at the moment. I have to make reluctant friends with this situation.
Things have been really grey lately. Everything is a big effort. I'm kind of embarrassed to write about it because this kind of sadness is dull. I bore myself. It's as though I'm stuck at the bottom of a big hole in the ground. Poem by poem, I'm digging myself out, and I know from the voices of loved ones which way is up, but I can't really pretend to be anywhere else at the moment. I have to make reluctant friends with this situation.
(Image from here)
So what are you trying to tell me, deep dark hole? To stop dreaming of the stars (and one particularly bright little star)? That my little slow-crafted words will come to nothing? That I am one and the same as the slippery grey-black clay on every side of me? Come on, hole, teach me your lesson and then we can be done. I'm not going to be bullied into silence and self-pity. Enough of that.
I'm not at all prejudiced against holes in the ground - in fact, my daughter lives in one, as do many of my favourite trees, earthworms and root vegetables. If dirt is my destiny, then bring it on, dirt. Show me your microbes, let me remember what dirt smells like, and the grit of it between my fingers.
Time moves slowly under the earth. Things are hidden, processes work slowly but powerfully. Minerals are crushed, underground rivers carved, liquids percolate drip by drip, continental plates grind past one another millimeter by millimeter - all monumental changes occurring at a pace measured in centuries rather than minutes. What else is down here? Things unwanted or forgotten, buried and mourned - so many things lost and wasted which are slowly being turned back into the earth itself. Nothing goes away down here, but is slowly transformed, releasing water and nutrients to feed patient tree roots, or our lawn. This is where rivers are born. Nothing flashy or spectacular, just cold humble earth.
Dear hole in the ground, that's what I'd like - some of that persistence - slow elemental momentum. The ability to slowly work through this sad stuff with earthworms and use it to grow something good.
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