Thorns...

I feel betrayed, lied to, and disappointed. And not for the reasons you would think. We have received amazing and tremendous support, encouragement, and prayers from most of our friends and our church. But there have been those with “I told you so” on the tips of their tongues. There have been Monday morning quarterbacks saying we should have waited longer, maybe it wasn’t a good idea, this is God’s way of telling us we made the wrong decision, etc. I’ve even actually been told I have nothing to be sad about….

And as hurtful as these comments are (and trust me they hurt like a bitch!) the worst part is these comments lead me to believe that all the support we felt from these people before we miscarried was fake. As if while they said “Congratulations” out loud, under their breaths they murmured things like “not a good idea” or “this will end badly.” I feel as if they were all placating us. And I hate to be placated, ask my husband.

In my head I know that the only opinions that matter are mine and Jason’s. The only one’s making the decision of what next are Jason and I, with God’s help and guidance. But people are born with the innate desire for their families support and approval. It hurts not to have it, and it hurts even more to think that I never had it, that it was mere placation…

I read a story yesterday about being thankful even for our thorns, not only the roses in our life. I’ve thought a lot about that story. I’m beginning to identify more thorns and trying to be thankful for them: for what they teach us and for what they make us appreciate. These thorns certainly hurt and they have made us rethink what we share with people, what types of reactions and comments we prefer to avoid, and who we can truly count on in both a sad situation as well as a joyous one. In the meantime, I pray that I am able to let the hurt go, work through the grief, and begin to heal.

As for what’s next: well, there are tests to be done, doctors to talk to, and a LOT of praying to be done before anything can be decided. But now, even when it has all been figured out, I’m not sure who we will share that with…

TESTING, TESTING, 1, 2, 3…

(warning: I was as vague as possible but this still may constitute TMI for some people)

It is our 5^th anniversary. Just wanted to get that out there for anyone who didn’t know, wanted to mark their calendar, or pick up a gift…

I took a test today: a test I completely expected to fail, a test was supposed to put off until Monday…but when I cried through an entire Yoga class today I thought I’d better do something. The test was positive. My first reactions: Shock, awe, elation, and panic, in that exact order.

I guess in order to explain those reactions I should provide some background first. I planned to test this past Monday or Tuesday, but I started cramping on Saturday and figured it was useless. When my little friend still had not shown up by Monday I started to wonder. Tuesday morning though my hopes were dashed by a color I did not want to see, so I assumed it was a bad month and tried to move on. But the color was not seen again that day….until Wednesday morning, another appearance, same assumption on my part. But the color did not show its face again that day either. This brings us to this morning and Yoga…

I was shocked the test was positive because I was not expecting it. I just thought my cycle had gone all Kaflooey on me (that is the technical term, btw). I was in awe of God’s wondrous ability to surprise us with answered prayers. I was elated that we were finally receiving the blessing we had been praying for for almost 2 years. I was panicked because, well, because it was not what I expected for good reason based on the aforementioned symptoms so how could it be and if it really was true then what are the chances of a horrible repeat? Did you catch that: how I praised God with one breath and turned right around and questioned him in the next? What kind of a Christian am I???

Needless to say it has been and continues to be a rough day, Jason and I agreed to keep this information close to the vest until we see a peanut with a heartbeat, but if you are reading this before mid-September than we didn’t do a very good job. Part of me doesn’t want to say it out loud for fear of being wrong or for all the explanations to follow if I am wrong. The other part of me wants to tell every single person I know and to ask for their prayers and kind word to get us through the next 3-4 weeks. I guess the date on this post will tell you what our decision was in the end. No matter the date, please keep us and our new little peanut in your prayers and ask God to give me the strength to keep myself from panicking, going crazy, losing my mind, or driving my husband to lose his!

Slipping...

I feel myself slipping…

I had a good 10 days: the gym, Jalie’s party, etc. But then all the good seemed to start falling away like the leaves at the change of seasons, and my mood began to slip from summer warmth to the crisp coolness of a fall evening. Now here I am 2 days later in the midst of a blizzard.

It has been over a month since I began clawing my way up from rock bottom. It seems just when I begin to gain some ground I start slipping back down again. I still have 11 days until my first therapy session. How can I make it? I feel disgusting. I’ve spent 3 weeks working my ass of at the gym and I feel fatter somehow, as if it is all for naught. I feel amazing when I first leave the gym, but then I get home and I see the mirror or the clothes that feel so small no matter what I do. I just want to live in baggy t-shirts and elastic waistbands. I want to eat chocolate lava cake and butter drenched lobster; I want to reclaim my ass divot! I’m just tired, so incredibly tired….

The difficulty of doing nothing...

I’ve spent so many years doing what is expected of me or what I believe is expected of me. It’s what I am good at: it keeps me on track, keeps me motivated, and gets me out of bed every morning. I would go to the gym four days a week for a total of about 8 hours. I would go to school two days a week. I would help out in Jalie’s class on Fridays, go grocery shopping every other Monday, and go to church on Sunday. I had to get up, I had to keep moving, I always had somewhere to be. However this fact irritates my husband. He has been on me for the past year to do what I want and screw what everyone else thinks. So I tried it this week…BAD IDEA.

This miscarriage wasn’t just a huge emotional and physical blow. Over the last four months, that schedule that got me out of bed has been hacked to bits. I haven’t been to the gym in weeks. I just took an incomplete in my favorite class. I haven’t been in my daughter’s classroom for more than 10 minutes. Everything seemed to be falling apart. I no longer had my precious schedule to keep me going. My husband thought this would be the perfect time for me to stop worrying about my schedule and what I felt like I had to do, the perfect time to just do “what Jakota wants!” Well, what does anyone in the midst of a major depression want to do? NOTHING.

Yup, for the last week I’ve done nothing. Well, not exactly. I’ve done as little as humanly possible. I stopped getting up in the morning to help get the kids ready for school. I wore mostly pajamas or loose non-descript clothes. I pulled my hair back right out of the shower and didn’t put on a drop of makeup. I left the house only for appointments that could not be canceled. I created a permanent divot in my couch; it’s the exact shape of my ass. And I watched almost every episode of the 10 seasons of JAG. And guess what? It made me feel worse.

Jason insists this is normal; I needed time to grieve and recover, etc. For most people this may be true, but unfortunately for my well-meaning and very loving husband, not for me. His good intentions blew up in his face this morning when I dragged my lazy ass out of bed and got in the shower before 10 am. He asked why I was in the shower so early. I rewarded his well-meaning question with 20 minutes of snapping, yelling, accusing, and basic bitching. Poor guy…

Basically, I cannot do what I want to do right now because I am depressed and what I want to do is nothing but do nothing makes me more depressed. Confused? I just have to do what I think I’m supposed to do otherwise my ingrained Catholic guilt (you can convert all you want but it never seems to go away) drives me insane. So I’ve decided from now on I am going through the motions: getting out of bed, going where I’m supposed to go, doing what I am supposed to do, and spending limited time in my ass divot. I’m sure it will miss me!

The day after yesterday

You’d think I’d feel better today…

The D&C was yesterday. I had to be at the hospital by 6 am, but had to take an antibacterial shower first and leave my house with no lotion on my skin, no conditioner or product in my hair, no carmex, and no deodorant! This is what I refer to as pre-surgery torture. Once I was admitted, I was dressed appropriately in my beautiful gown (complete with vacuum-bag-like hole for heating tube), hair accessory (of the netted variety), and stylish footwear (with no-slip bottoms). BTW I have had nothing to eat or drink since the previous night. So when they checked my hands for the IV all the veins were too small from dehydration. My wonderful nurse proceeded to shove a giant catheter in my forearm while repeating “I’m so sorry” every time I said “OW!” They wheeled me in, placed me on a small table (still not sure how my wide hips fit on something so decidedly un-wide!), and the anesthesiologist said he would give me something to help me relax. That was 7:40. Last thing I remember. I came to at 8:50 and it was done…

Jason had to go to work so my mom stayed with me and the kids: great for the kids, not so great for me. But that is a completely different blog… Needless to say I probably did more than I should have after coming home from surgery. So today my throat hurts, my neck is achy as hell, and my abdomen is unbelievably sore. I’m off all the good drugs and I feel like ass. Can I say that here? I hope so, ‘cause I just did! I’m physically now as screwed up as I have felt mentally for the last 4 months. I haven’t even had a chance to contemplate my mental state or the effect this procedure has had on it.

Here is what I do know: I cannot take a bath, go swimming, or have sex for 2 weeks. So of course I really want to take a bath right now! That’s all I’ve got, seriously. I want a bath and I feel like ass. Now what?