Natural killer cell test results

No spike.

Whew.

I feel like I did the after Brody's skull surgery when they said he was out and safe in recovery. Like a load is literally lifted from my shoulders and I get tingles running up and down my arms.

I meant to do this last time - here's a link to NK cells and what they are (scroll down). Here's a discussion of pretty much all of my immune issues related to pregnancy.

Next test is in a month. Then, after 28 weeks, the placenta and baby should be strong enough that any spikes in NK activity will not harm him.

I'm 23 weeks tomorrow.

I cried when I read the comments to the last post. And when two friends emailed me their own comments, I smiled and wanted to hug everyone.

What I really wanted to write after the last post, and reading that quote, and remembering the fierce confidence of my little-girl, grinning, pig-tailed self, was this: Fuck it. I'm having this baby.

An Embarrassment of Riches

This will be the title of a book I'm writing, hopefully. Because really. This is ridiculous.




You each, you women, have warmed my heart and made me overflow with gratitude with your donations. I just . . . you are not the ones I meant to donate to the cause enfant, but you did, and I'm pretty sure you are not wealthy and I'm pretty sure you have bills just like me, and I've never even met you in person. And yet. . . .



and yet and yet and yet, you clicked that button and gave a substantial amount of money to me, a virtual friend.



And you know what it has taught me? That even if Brody never has a brother or a sister, he will have a family of his heart, as I do here. What wondrous women you all are. How can I be alone when I have all of you? Thank you thank you thank you.



Now for the rest of it.



April 30 - intake appointment at the ob/gyn. But NO ULTRASOUND.

May 4 - next ultrasound.

May 11 -  we leave for France.

This was the thought flow in my head yesterday:

I need another check NOW, NOW, NOW! How can I get it? How can I get it? What could I tell them? I called and she said I couldn't absolutely couldn't get an ultrasound on Friday. WTF? What do I do? What can I do to make them give me an ultrasound? I don't think there's a heartbeat anymore. I want to know now if there's no heartbeat. What can I do? What can I do? I should just assume there is no heartbeat. We'll find that out on Tuesday, May 4. . . . ok ok ok ok. . . . I have no time at work to schedule a D&C between May 4 and the day we leave, May 11. Hmmm. . . . ok ok, think think think.....If I stop the progesterone May 4, I'll probably start miscarrying on May 7, oh lovely, just in time for Mother's Day and my mom's visit, but I'd rather have a natural miscarriage rather than a D&C, because I don't want to have general anesthetic. Well, if I miscarry in France, that will ruin the vacation. But last time it just hurt really bad during two nights, then it was fine. I'll be fine. Should we cancel the trip? This is crazy to go when I'm miscarrying isnt' it? Ah, jeez, on that long flight while miscarrying? Shit shit shit. I need another check now now NOW.

And then .. . . . my head imploded a little bit. And then this was my thought flow:

What the hell are you thinking, Chris? My God, I am having the same control issues I’ve always had. I don't even know if there's still a heartbeat or not and I am planning how and where to miscarry? That's sick. But I don't "feel" pregnant. But I didn't "feel" pregnant last Tuesday either. It's like I haven't learned anything in the years between 2004 and 2010. Life happens. Death happens. Miscarriages happen. I control zero of it. I cannot bend a doctor's office scheduler to my will. They aren't going to give me an ultrasound til the 4th. It's a week. If the worst has happened, so be it. I will be okay. WE will be okay. No matter what, I have Jeremy and Brody, and my friends, and our family, and we are blessed in ways uncountable. We'll be alright, and we will have the trip of our lives in two weeks no matter what. No.Matter.What.

So that's where I am right now.

I'm just so tired of trying to control this. It feels like trying to climb a 100 foot high wall with only my fingernails. I'm tired of living in an angst-filled limbo. I'm tired of worrying, and wondering, and waiting and worrying. I'm tired of putting my life on hold and becoming obsessed with trying to do something that isn't my job to do.

Just like it's not my job to figure out whether another ash cloud will prevent us from going to, or returning from, France, it is also not my job to obsessively fixate on whether there is still a heartbeat. There was last week. Since then, I've done all that is within my power to keep her in there, and I will continue to do all within my power to keep her healthy. Shots, meds, tests.... but I am going to stop trying to unsuccessfully do the other stuff.

I'm done. I'm giving it up. I hope.

It is maddening, madness, trying to control what I really cannot. What I'm not supposed to control. I control when I take these meds and how often I shower. I control what speed my car goes; I control what clothes Brody wears.

I'm not supposed to control miscarriages and volcanos. I'm supposed to hope, and to pray, for the best outcome.

When I think about the things in my daily life that seep into me and make me anxious, it is the things I cannot control. Other people's opinions, whether Brody's kidney will keep functioning, whether he will have good friends in school, what the judge will rule, what the jury will say, what the clients will think, what the doctor will say, what the genetics will be, what the review will say, what the witness will testify. . . .

I think it's healthy to hope for outcomes, but why do I spend my energy on worrying about them? What the hell is that about? What purpose does it serve? None.

So I'm done. Or I hope I'm done.

I give up.

I have no idea how these next two weeks before our trip will go. (Duh, you say. But to me, it’s a revelation). But whatever happens, I will be okay. I have Jeremy and Brody and friends. . . I have friends on facebook that I’ve known for decades that have posted the nicest messages to me. I have you, I have my sisters, and my mom. And whatever happens, it is an adventure. Perhaps one I do not want to experience, but one I am determined will teach me things I need to know.

The man who said this is probably a bit of a charlatan. But I like the quote anyway. “Control is never achieved when sought after directly. It is the surprising outcome of letting go.”

Here’s hoping.

Is this growth? Or narcissism?

In a state of elation and confusion, I posted not only yesterday's post, but a status update on facebook.

Worlds colliding a little bit.

My husband was a bit shocked that I did. "Aren't you waiting the 3 months?" Apparently not. A friend who has known me for over 30 years was also surprised I posted a blog about the pregnancy. 

They have good reason for shock. In 2004, I didn't even tell my sisters about my miscarriages. Or most of my friends. Eventually I did. It was after the third one. We were supposed to go to a family reunion out of state. We were going to be the only couple without children. I told my husband that there was no way I could face them and just to tell them everything. I didn't care anymore. I needed to escape.

Now, five years later, I'm writing about this pregnancy on the internet. Repeatedly. And I know a lot of people I have lunch with read this blog. Why this change?

Before this latest happening, a few months ago I was talking with a friend who is also going through fertility issues. She talked about not understanding why she was so reticent to talk to others about what she was going through. She really struggled with why she could not talk about it, and after much soul-searching, she concluded that it was because she felt shame.

Shame about infertility. Shame about miscarriages.

I still remember it because, I think, I felt the same shame.

The definition: painful emotion caused by a strong sense of guilt, embarrassment, unworthiness, or disgrace.

Yes, yes, yes and yes.

Huh.

Intellectually I know I "shouldn't" feel shame. In my heart, I don't want to feel shame, and I don't want others going through something similar to feel it either. But I  think I still might feel that way. A little bit, at least. Every thought that if it wasn't for me, Brody would have a sibling already, and Jeremy would have more children....I think those thoughts are based in shame.

And I think to try to decrease that feeling, I'm writing about it. A lot.

I hope this isn't narcissism, though. Definition: Person full of egoism and pride; One who shows extreme love and admiration for oneself. Dear God, I do not want to be that person.

Also,  I think it's time I was honest. For a long while I was different versions of myself with different people, and my whole real self with just a few. I think I should be my whole real self wherever, and whenever, I want to be. And my whole real self is pregnant, with a pretty high risk of miscarriage. Why not be that person? Granted, I don't reveal that to most of the people I work with, or strangers on the street.

I know a lot of you, I know everyone on facebook. Why not tell?

And let's face it, if this pregnancy ends, I'm going to need . . . . something, and probably in the form of some kind of support.

If I had appendicitis or broke my leg, I'd tell. So why not this? This which is more important than most anything, and has the potential to affect me for the rest of my life. . .

For the record, though, I feel incredibly off-balance trying to be my whole real self with every set of friends and acquaintances.

What do you say.....

I had a very wonderful time with my friends at bookclub last night. I tried my first rose wine (that wasn't Boone's Farm) and we sampled spumoni cheesecake (better than you think) and warmed baklava (as good as you imagine) for dessert.

One member of our bookclub was absent because she just suffered an ectopic pregnancy, her 3rd miscarriage after two years of trying. In short, we - her friends - are wondering what to do for her as she and her husband grieve this loss and try to move forward.

I can only say, given my history of recurrent miscarriage, what not to say to someone who has suffered a pregnancy loss. And over the course of 4 miscarriages, these were all said to me:

“It was meant to be.” Why not say this? Because it does not help. Do not say it.

“You can always try again.” Why not say this? Because she will never have this baby. And that is the baby she wants and grieves. Or, maybe she is unable to try again.

“At least you know you can get pregnant.” Why not say this? Because getting pregnant did not result in anything but heartbreak and loss.

“It wasn’t really a baby.” Why not say this? Because no matter how early, or what the woman’s belief system of when life is conceived, the loss is real. The heartbreak is real. And this statement is an insult to the love and grief felt by the woman. That grief is not diminished by thinking or knowing that there was a problem with the baby, nor by the idea that there was not yet a baby. Yes, I know intellectually that losing a 2 year old child is much more devastating than losing a 4 month pregnancy. But the point is this: in that moment, the grief gripping that woman for the loss of that pregnancy doesn't give a shit. Heartbreak is heartbreak. I remember having this very conversation in my own head and thinking, well, at least if I lost a child, I would have known what it was to have a child. See what I mean about grief?

“Well, at least you’re okay.” Why not say this? Because she doesn’t feel “okay.” She feels tormented mentally and emotionally and physically.

“It was just a miscarriage. Get over it, already!” I have to admit, I thought this at one time. Before it happened to me. The reason not to express this sentiment is that, in addition to just being rude, it invalidates the grief the woman is suffering. And if you want to help, you want to validate the loss, and help her to process it.

“Shouldn’t you be over this by now?” A milder variation of the above statement. Everyone grieves differently. Some people need more time and space than others. There is no wrong way to grieve. If you detect signs of depression, urge her to see a grief counsellor.

“At least it was early, before you really got attached to it.” Why not say this? Because she is attached. Hence, grief. Any woman who has ever been pregnant, and wanted the pregnancy, will tell you that within the first week of knowing about the pregnancy, she has imagined holding that baby in her arms, what time of year that will be, who the baby will look like and put her hand on her stomach. There is a primordial connection between a mother and child, and it starts in the womb.

“God had a reason for this.” Why not say this? Because why would God have a reason for ending a pregnancy? It is illogical. It is hurtful. And, even if you believe it to be true, it will not help the woman grieving.

“This is because you…” or “If only you hadn’t…” Why not say this? Because chances are, she already blames herself. At one point or another, every one of us blames ourselves for losing a pregnancy. In my case, I blamed the fact that I went up to altitude at Rocky Mountain National Park. It’s nonsensical. Don’t rub salt in the wound.

Do not discuss any information you have regarding child abuse, the crack whore who is having her 5th child, your own miscarriage(s) or stories describing the triumph of fertility against long odds. Even though we all think about those things. Why? Because the woman does not want to hear it. Discussing these things will, in turn, make her angry, enraged, resentful and pissed off.

What others can you think of to add to the list? (I enabled anonymous comments).

Now, of course, is the more difficult question: What do you say? The truth is, there is nothing anyone can say or do to stop the pain of a pregnancy loss. But what I found most painful about grieving the loss was that hardly anyone really understood it, acknowledged it, validated it. So I suppose that what you say is whatever you can to comfort the woman, and her partner.

Examples of what to say:

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“You don’t deserve this.”

Or just complete honesty: "I don't know what to say, except I'm sorry, and I love you."

And one more nugget of wisdom I have learned over the years....

Instead of saying, "What can I do?" or "Let me know if you need anything," (which I have said many times in my life), just do something. Anything, really.

This applies to anyone in crisis: medical, financial, emotional.... just do the thing. People in crisis do not have the ability or energy or whatever to organize and ask for what they need. Plus they probably feel guilty about it.

Again, we are not going to fix the problem anyway. So what I have learned is best, having been both the person in crisis and the friend not knowing what the hell to do, is just do....something.

Bring the dinner, send the flowers, buy the wine, mow the lawn, send the chocolate, show up with stupid magazines, mail a card, order the gift card, write the email. Or call. Just call and if you get voicemail, because they are screening no doubt, tell them you are thinking about them. Tell them you love them, you are praying for them, you are hoping their hopes, you want to buy them lunch, just something to express that you are there, and they are not alone.

And if they don't call or write you back? You call or write them again. Not in a stalker-esque manner, but just to let them know that they - the person grieving or in crisis - are not alone.

Because when it comes down to it, isn't that what counts the most? Ensuring that your loved ones know that they are not alone, through all the pain, which you can't cure anyway, and through all the joy, because it multiplies when celebrated together, is really the most and the best that we can hope to receive.

Henri Rouwen, a Dutch Catholic priest and writer, said it best (this is this quote's second appearance in less than a year on this blog):

When we honestly ask ourselves

which person in our lives mean the most to us,

we often find that it is those who,

instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures,

have chosen rather to share our pain and

touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.

The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion,

who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement,

who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing

and face with us the reality of our powerlessness,

that is a friend who cares.

And it does not matter if you do not know the person that well. Some of the most poignant moments I experienced after Brody was born and we were waiting and terrified were from virtual strangers, the friends of friends, the friends of sisters, who reached out to me, via email or a card in the mail. Sure, you probably don't want to do the whole "I love you" thing to them, but you get the idea.

Finally, one wonderful service that the March of Dimes has is to send out a free, (yes, really free) bereavement packet for the loss of a pregnancy from conception to one month after birth. The March of Dimes explains:

When a baby dies, a bit of hope dies too, a bit of our dream breaks away, a bit of our future is erased before ever being written. Besides the physical loss, there is an emotional loss and a loss of all that a new life promises. This is true whether the baby died as a newborn or before birth due to miscarriage, stillbirth, or other reasons. Society has been slow to recognize that the impact on the parents can be the same, regardless of when the loss occurred. Parents' grief over a miscarriage is as valid and real as their grief over the loss of a full-term baby.

You can order the bereavement materials for yourself or for someone else. Click here.