Just an update, if you care to know

I went to the doctor yesterday for my follow-up visit. I should have known it wouldn’t be great news when one nurse came out and told me the doctor was running 40 minutes behind and would I like to reschedule?, followed by the other nurse who told me the doctor really wanted to talk to me about my results and would I mind hanging around?

So an hour and 15 minutes after my scheduled appointment, I got the news. Pathology (who knew they did pathology tests on this sort of thing? Not me.) showed I had a partial molar pregnancy. Apparently, this means two sperm fertilized the egg at the same time, so I was growing an embryo that was doomed from the start – too many chromosomes, not a chance in hell of ever making it. This was strangely comforting. An answer is an answer, after all, and now my dear dear husband is more convinced than ever that his sperm are indeed AMAZING. I mean, how else could TWO of them have done the job? (God bless his ability to make me laugh at my lowest times.)

Here’s what comes next: weekly blood draws until my hcg (the pregnancy) hormone goes down to zero and stays at zero for three weeks in a row. This could take anywhere from 2-8 weeks. Yippee. Here’s what can go right (for the sake of being positive): in a few weeks, the hcg is gone. Two full cycles after that, we can try for another baby. Here’s what can go wrong at this stage (because let’s face it, that’s who I am): my hcg levels can plateau out, never reach zero, or even rise. That’s because the molar part of the whole mess can actually grow back. It can grow like cancer until it invades other organs and could quite possibly, for lack of a more official medical term, fuck my shit up. If those levels don’t do what they are supposed to do, I have chemotherapy. That’s right, chemo. I just hope my hundred-dollar hair doesn’t fall out.

And in a recent, and very exciting (NOT) development, this morning I started passing tissue and bleeding heavily – more than a full WEEK after I stopped. Do you know what it’s like to look at those clumps and know what it was? To wonder which part of what that is? If you do, I’m very very sorry. If you don’t, I hope you never ever ever ever do.

So. Here is my most powerful thought: When the FUCK will this end? I mean, seriously??!!? I would like to move on, thankyouverymuch. I don’t want to even go to the bathroom. I would prefer NOT to have blood drawn every week – and really, who has time for that? I got those orders on Wednesday and I will not get there until tomorrow. I don’t want a weekly reminder of what went wrong. I don’t want to have to entertain the idea of pumping my body full of killer chemicals.

Lest I be accused of feeling ungrateful, I would like to point out that I have two perfectly healthy and beautiful and wonderful children, for whom I am so thankful. I am married to the most supportive, giving, and understand man to ever walk the planet (I shudder to think what my ex would have done here). I know I am lucky to have good health insurance to help defray these costs. I am alive. I am working. I am generally happy. I KNOW that these things are good. But they won’t give that baby a chance to live. They won’t allow me to go back in time and only let one sperm fertilize that ill-fated egg.

So there it is. This blog, that started as a place for me to bitch about stupid kids, has become a place for me to talk about what might possibly be the most confounding and deeply personal thing to ever happen to me. I have had less trouble making peace with the death of my own mother. So that “all because” has taken on a whole new meaning for me… and I want to thank all of you who have taken the time to remind me that the world only continues on all because of the kindness of the human heart.

Wow, I am a bitch

I am not writing this to be flip. Or funny. Or sarcastic. Or ironic. I am just so damn frustrated and sad and annoyed. So if I offend, I do apologize. Heaven knows I haven’t ever censored myself here, and I’m not starting now. Besides, it’s mine.

I thank God that I have never had to deal with infertility. There is no way I could have faced months and months (even years) of disappointment. The people I know who have done that truly have my sincere admiration and awe. Because I. Am. Pissed.

I hate hate hate what happened to us. I cannot STAND seeing ultrasound pictures on the knot. I see our neighbor’s friend who is pregnant and I’m jealous. When I see babies, I want to cry. I watched Breaking Bad tonight and the wife is hugely knocked up and I was sad. I swing quickly between depressed and enraged. It’s just not fair.

I am perfectly aware that life is not fair. We don’t always get what we want. But I can’t help but wonder what exactly we did to deserve this. What rule did I break? Was it that extra ride on Space Mountain? I’m not superstitious enough to believe that I’m being punished for some terrible past deed, but I can’t help but wonder, “what did I do?” I know that I have to trust that there was a medical reason for what happened, that my body knew better than I did, but I take a daily venture into the land of “Damn-I-am-finally-reaping-what-I-sowed” and I hate it.

How do I make peace with this? How do I see the pregnant teachers at school without feeling like I will never breathe fully again? How do I look at that GOD DAMN Disney World onesie we looked so hard for without instantly tearing up? Do I throw away the ultrasound picture from when our baby had a heartbeat? Do I stop listening to songs that make me cry? How do I try again in a couple of months without the paranoia that something terrible will happen? What if it does?

This is just so damn stupid. I saw a heartbeat. I was almost 10 weeks. This shit just isn’t supposed to happen. The odds were in our favor. So what the hell? We are good parents. We can provide. We can raise a productive member of society. We have love to share. And now I feel bad for feeling bad, which doesn’t make much more sense. I think about all of those women out there who can’t even have one child when I already have two and I feel guilty, which is even bitchier. I know that I should be grateful for what I have, and I AM, I swear it. But…again…what the hell?

I suppose that asking “why?” is like asking for the secret of life. I know that no one can answer it. I just wish someone could. I wish I could find a reason that makes sense. None of it makes sense. I’m not even making sense.

Wine, how I have missed thee.

I’d love to tell you that I’m drinking again after a pretty long hiatus because Lent is over. Or because I’ve fallen off some sort of wagon. But the truth is this: until about 26 hours ago, I wasn’t drinking because I was 9.5 weeks pregnant.

For those of you who follow me from the nest, this might (or might not) be news to you. I sat on it pretty tightly. For those of you who follow me from my real life, I’d ask you not to post about this on facebook or anywhere else…we’re not even talking to our families about it and since my daughter is on facebook, she would probably be pretty upset, since we didn’t tell the kids about it. Thanks.

Here’s the story. We got a positive pg test on March 6th. Of course we were a bit surprised – it was just that one time (but that was the beginning of our life together, so I shouldn’t have been too surprised). Everything was going along swimmingly until April 10th. I had some bleeding. I went to the doctor. I got an ultrasound – saw the heartbeat! Felt better. Until the tech told me the embryo was measuring WAY behind what it should be. Okay. Deep breath. Doctor expresses “concern” about growth and the sub chorionic hemorrage I have. She prescribes progesterone and tells me to come back in a week for another ultrasound. Deeper breaths.

I pass the LONGEST week ever in a fog of raging hormones. I almost kill people for looking at me funnily. I vow to kill the person who thinks it’s a good idea for anyone to take progesterone. Even though a friend tells me to think positively, I cannot. I know this isn’t good.

Yesterday, Jesse and I went for the ultrasound. Right away, before the tech can say it, I see there is no heartbeat. The embryo is the same size it was a week ago. It’s over. I cry. Somehow I manage to finish within seconds and avoid those embarrassing gulping sobs. Doctor says I can wait and see or schedule a d & c. I choose to get it over with.

Last evening, I kiss my husband goodbye, lay myself down on a surgery table and go to sleep. When I wake up, the excitement of five has dwindled to the satisfaction of four. I cry a little more, but mostly I say awkward anesthesia-induced things about working out and how teachers and nurses are underpaid. I complain about being hungry, but I don’t eat anything much. I go home, take a percocet and realize the only pads I have in the house are the ones leftover from Ryan’s birth.

I wake up today and take the pills. I throw up on the side of the interstate in blowing rain because I forgot that my stomach hates pills without food. I lie to my oldest daughter about why I’m not feeling good and she says I should either a) throw up, b) poop or c) eat something. Instead I take her to a movie and then let her have friends over so she stays busy. I buy my youngest a Dora dvd so that she stays busy.

I ignore the phone because I just can’t deal with anyone else’s problems right now. I pour myself a glass of wine and grasp the reality of what drinking it means. A day ago, there was hope. There was excitement. There was a basement to finish. There were Disney World onesies to wash. There were bigger vehicles to look at. There were clothes to buy and names to pick.

Today there is a glass of wine.

So this is weird.

I have had a few bloggable moments in the last week or so, and all I feel compelled to talk about is my dream last night.

I was playing tennis. I couldn’t serve. So I took a lesson and then I could serve. So I served a lot. And then this morning, I woke up with a sore right shoulder.

I told you it was weird.

I promise I’ll be back to my humorous witty self soon, if anyone is checking. I’m just so damn tired and honestly, don’t feel compelled to share all there is to tell. At least not yet.

Not exactly the best way

Today I got an email from one of my advisors about my portfolio for my principal license which basically told me that a bunch of stuff was wrong. Sweet. I defend it next Tuesday. It’s not major stuff, but you know what? I worked my ass off on that thing, and I’m not doing it over. I will fix the verb tenses (yes. verb tenses.), and I will provide a better explanation of three things, but I’m done. It’s done.

I talked with my principal about this today – you know, since she’s my mentor and all – and she said, “They look bad if you fail. Do what you want. They only tell you this to see how much stress it takes to break you, so that when you’re behind this desk or any of the other desks out there, you can handle a higher level of stress before you rip someone’s frickin face off.”

:::insert my shocked-at-hearing-her-say-frickin face here:::

Why on earth is this a good way to do business? I don’t push my kids until they want to kill me so that they will learn. I don’t plan assignments or provide feedback that will make them feel like they’ve been dragged under a bus. It wouldn’t be effective. You know what it would do? It would make them hate my class, hate the subject, and hate the work. Hm. Weird.

I only have a few more hoops to jump through, and this is one of the biggest ones. So I will shut up and do it. And I will slug my way through two more classes and an independent study paper. Then I will sit back and laugh while I enjoy my $50/month raise for having a second master’s degree. Can’t wait for that…makes it all worth it.