Personality/Pregnancy Differences April 6, 2009

Mogo & Charlie

Originally uploaded by MogosMama

I suppose it is a given that Mogo & Charlie are so different. I am not really sure why that surprises me. Their personalities are as different as their pregnancies were. I did not post often when I was PG with Charlie. This was mainly because I was trying not to dwell on the fear, I was trying to put only positive energy into the universe where pregnancy was involved but also because I knew that the thoughts floating in my brain were not the type to say out loud until well after the fact. Now that Charlie is 7 months old and passed the point where my PPD reared its ugly head with Mogo, I feel I can talk a little about it. I think I have escaped without falling into a black hole.

With Morrigan, my pregnancy was long. After multiple pregnancy losses and some complications requiring 5 months of bed rest, I was filled with anxiety but the post partum was far worse. In the beginning, all was well but slowly I developed a severe case of PPD. Wow, those were some of the darkest days of my life. It took over a year after giving birth to Mogo for me to feel somewhat “normal” again. Now, with Charlie, the pregnancy was normal with the exception of a little thing called Gestational Diabetes. Depression and anxiety showed up much earlier for Charlie’s pregnancy though, those very dark days were met with instant relief the minute she entered the world. Toward the end, I was going absolutely mad. The insomnia, the nightmares about dead babies, all were just so hard to handle. It was a 1 day at a time sort of thing, sometimes it was 1 minute at a time to get through it. I was so scared. I lived at the Labor & Delivery Triage – seriously the nurses knew me and tried hard not to roll their eyes. I had an open invitation to have Charlie’s heartbeat checked any hour of the day. Eventually, Charlie was taken early… for my sake, not hers. I simply could not last another day of not knowing if she would live. Despite the fact that she was perfect and growing beautifully, I was certain the longer she stayed in there the more danger she was in. I simply had to have that baby out – she would be safer in a NICU than in my belly as far as I was concerned. It was so irrational and I knew it was irrational, but it did not stop being true… in my mind anyways. My OB/GYN was awesome. She humored me, she understood, but she also helped to encourage me to hang in there as long as possible. In the end, she agreed that my mental state was not helping Charlie or my blood pressure and she agreed to take her early. I actually showed up at L&D and told them I intended to have my baby that day. No, I was not in labor but I was done and I was not leaving there without a baby. One look at my Old Man confirmed that no, I was not kidding.

You know… I am grateful Charlie was ok and that the only consequences of my impatience were a lazy suck and some formula supplementation. I got off easy. I can only imagine the guilt that would follow had she experienced any complications as a result of my insistence that she make her birth date 3 weeks too soon.

Since her birth, there has been no depression, no horrifying thoughts. The only pictures in my mind have been of bouncing babies and not babies bouncing (as in down the stairs). Charlie has been able to have a Mom that is present; a mom that is clear-headed and sane. She seems so innocent and so new to the world unlike her sister, who always seemed to have this very old soul. I am grateful that I am not experiencing PPD this time but I can’t help but feel like Mogo was cheated. When Mogo was born, I was elated. I had so much joy about her entry into this place that the love seemed to physically hurt. The fear was debilitating. It went so far beyond waking up and checking to see if she was breathing. My jaw would not unclench, my hands shook, and I became concerned that I would neglect her or hurt her. I did not think I was safe to be alone with my own daughter. I knew something was wrong but I thought if I told anyone, they would take her from me. It wasn’t until I decided I was nuts enough that maybe someone should take her from me that I spoke up. I avoided inpatient treatment by the skin of my arse. I was determined to nurse. The only reason they let me go home was because I had a good support system. Matt would leave for work and wonder what he would be coming home to. Sometimes I wonder if he will ever forgive me for that. I am not sure I could forgive it.

Granted, I got the help I needed. Mogo has continued to develop normally and we are bonded; I just can’t help but think that she was cheated out of something very important because her mom went crazy for the first year of her life. I wonder if when she is a woman and starting to think about having her own children, if she will understand when I tell her about what PPD looks like. I wonder if she will be angry with me or feel somehow less loved that I did not have the same problem with Charlie. It just doesn’t seem fair that Mogo has not been able to experience a carefree childhood. She has experienced so much in her little life. She is wise beyond her years. I don’t know if that is because of her experiences or if she arrived in the womb that way. I would like to think that perhaps she chose us because her spirit knew she could handle it. I’d like to think that I am not the reason my 6 year old talks to me like she is 40.

Mother Nature is Sort of a Bitch… February 12, 2008

OK well maybe I should not say that too loud, lest I piss her off further.

At the risk of over-sharing… today there was spotting… light, brownish, spotting accompanied with mild cramping and lots of panicking on my part. Needless to say, I was on the first bus to Docsville for an Ultrasound cause that’s how I roll.

So it seems we still have a strong heartbeat and I am having what they call a “Threatened Abortion” what sort of a term is that??? I mean I have heard the term before and it is right up there with “Spontaneous Aborter” or worse “Habitual Aborter” (of which I am I suppose). Really though, could we call those things something else? So they gave me the standard, “if it is going to happen we can’t stop it, yada, yada, yada” and “It’s natures way…” and the usual whatnot. I could write Threatened Abortion pamphlets in my sleep.  The bottom line is, it is a case of hurry up and wait.

I guess it is no different than yesterdays hurry up and wait but today it seems just a little more ominous. I think I just got too big for my britches and this must be Mother Nature’s way of taking me down a notch.

So if you please, send some good energy, some prayers, white light, some hope, send it my way would you please. I don’t have a lot right now and I could really use some.

I don’t even have a title for this one. December 5, 2007

By chance, I came across a blogging community that I had not bothered to look for before. I found myself on one of the “deadbaby blogs” today. There was this woman, she is my age and she recently lost her son. Her story and her words could be mine. Yep, I picked that scab today. I read and read until I was in tears. Reading her words, makes me see how far I have come. I remember those feelings that the world should come to a halt because mine certainly had. I felt hopeless and broken. I remember brief periods of laughter followed by guilt for forgetting about him for even a second. The physical ache of my arms being empty.

2 years ago today, I was in this womans shoes. I was having her thoughts. It is strange to see your craziest thoughts written on someone else’s blog. I still think of him every day but it is fleeting. He is never far from my mind but he does not consume it. I can live again. My heart still aches, and on occasion I still go in to the “Aidan box” to smell his blood stained cap. I think I have sniffed the sweet baby smell right out of it.

If she were to read this, she might think I am being trite when I say that it indeed gets different. I am not sure it really ever gets better but it definately gets different. I can do different.

Not your typical Birthday Blog Post… September 24, 2007

Disclaimer: This could be disturbing to those who have lost children to miscarriage, have weak stomachs, or who otherwise don’t want to hear about dead babies. This is my way of processing my angst without subjecting people to it in person – I am so thoughtful. I would like to say I care if it bothers you but I really don’t so this is your warning. If you can’t handle this subject matter, you should probably pack your things and go. I’ll wait…

9/20/07 – Double Edged Sword September 24, 2007

September is a double edged sword.

The month of my birth,
the month of hers,
and the month he was born still,
and the month that part of me died.

September to me means loss and gain. It is bittersweet.

So it is fitting that the weather has turned a blustery cold. Fall was always my favorite time of year. The smell of autumn in the air would always start to fill my nostrils around August. As a child it meant my Birthday, school starting, the smell of people’s fire places burning in the air and of Halloween and candy corn – sweet things. Later it became about waiting for her. It became about the memories of bringing her home, of fumbling with diapers and curling up on the couch to nurse her under a blanket. It meant smelling her baby sweetness mixed with that familiar autumn smell.

I have always loved the blustery wind, the sprinkles in the morning as the marine layer mist hit my face. Man, I used to love this weather – it invigorated me gave me a feeling of life and energy. Now it gives me sweet pain; pain that is the only connection to him that I have left of him; the only thing that makes him seem real to me now. Those smells of fall now bring me body memories of the time I spent waiting for his arrival, and the time spent mourning his loss. Now, as the wind hits my face all I really feel is the cold sting of tears hanging out behind my eyelids. It burns. I am angry that his death ever had to overshadow the celebration of Mogo’s birth. I am angry that no matter how happy I try to be as we celebrate her life, all I can think about is that he died – there will be no parties to celebrate his turning another year older. He will always be that 2 lb little boy – never aging. He will never blow out his candles, he will never talk back with a genetic smart ass wit; he will never get to scream with delight at the presents that should be waiting for him. He will always be my something missing.

Mogo on the other hand will get to blow out her candles and scream with delight at the presents she will undoubtedly get and she will play with her cousins who will be screaming right along with her. She will run around on strong 5 year old legs. She will wear her pretty pink Birthday dress and she will know she is loved. She will undoubtedly feel that blustery wind on her cheeks and she will feel invigorated and full of life. I sometimes wonder if he hangs around and lets her do that living for him. I wonder if he feels it too.

Wiggling my Nose for my Imaginary Friend June 26, 2007

I live to read blogs. I have completely changed my web surfing habits because of my introduction to blogs. I have a few comfort blogs that I check everyday like a soap opera or something. Thing is, unlike a soap these are real people going through real stuff and they have real lives – I am pretty sure of that since well, I write one too and I am pretty sure I am real (well, mostly).

So now I have all sorts of friends inside my computer that I have never met or talked to but I know them intimately. I root for these people, I cry for them, and I cuss like a sailor on their behalf. I don’t know if they eat their boogers while driving or if they had a Raggedy Ann doll when they were little but the anonymous feeling of intimacy I get from reading their blogs makes me venture a guess (no, not about the booger eating) as to who they are. It is so strange to me that I could feel this bond with folks I have not ever met.

That said (and get ready because I am going to rant now)…

I was reading one of my comfort blogs today and I am crying and cussing like a sailor. The world is just not fair. I know – I know my Mama done told me that life is not fair but damn does it have to be SO VERY UN-fair? Not only is it unfair but it is almost as if the Universe targets specific people for repeated tragedy and pain. Julia over at “Here be Hippogriffs” (and here too) has a similar problem as I do, she has no problem getting PG, it is the staying PG that alludes her. She has a basic understanding about the cause though and has been doing IVF and whatnot to try and conceive (again, it seems she has a little boy around Mogo’s age I am thinking of proposing a betrothal actually.) She is currently PG with twins and just found out that one may have a translocation. I am not sure which chromosome but I do know that I hate the word translocation and I do not know this woman from Adam (whoever Adam is) but I know PG Loss and I know about translocations of those pesky chromosomes and well, FUCK. That’s all there really is to say… Fuck, bugger, bloody hell, JC on a Pogo Stick. This particular translocation debacle is only slightly more fucked because she is PG with twins and that just makes it that much more complicated. I just want to wiggle my nose and make it better for her, for us, for all of us who deal with this sort of loss but I am just not that kind of witch.

BTW… I know that in the grand scheme of things there is more happening in the world than pregnancy loss and neo-natal death. I know I am blessed and charmed and I am so grateful for my sweet Mogo (why do I have to make that disclaimer?) I get all that. I know that children are starving in
Indonesia and about a bazillion other places (including just down the street). There is strife in the world, there is pain, and there is injustice. Yes I get it, I get it but here? In my little corner of the world, in my heart, this is the thing that I can’t get out of my head. Why? Why her? Why me? Why does this happen? I consider myself a fairly spiritual person and I can usually see the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel but I still have to ask it – What is the fucking purpose of these losses for these women, for these families?

So say a prayer, light a candle, hug a tree, send some love, what ever you do when you hear about crazy fucked up situations or don’t but that is what I am going to do for my imaginary friend Julia and her little fetbryos.

Edited 8/2/07 to add: Apparently Ms. Julie and her twins are doing well and no translocations have been found. It was premature cynicism. I am breathing a sigh of relief for her. It also makes me painfully aware of what a roller coaster pregnancy can be after such loss. I am sure if I ever conceive again, I will be a mess until the whole pregnancy is over. I can’t wait.

I am sort of an asshole. June 13, 2007

Disclaimer: To those who consider themselves my friends, please know that I love you despite my rantings. I just know I have been pretty miserable to be around.

I would like to think that I am a good friend. I just don’t think that is true. I think it was true once but frankly, I have just not been that interested in friendship. Is that horrible? I love my friends. I want to hear how they are doing. I want to shoot the shit or giggle ridiculously about what ever craziness is going on in our lives. That said I have grown to hate the telephone. I don’t want to give up time with Mogo to go out and do anything on the nights that I do have a sitter (which is rare) and I don’t want to have to be nice to anyone for an extended period of time. I just don’t really want to participate in being a friend these days. I feel like I am just now coming out of a very dark place. In some ways I feel great. I have had so much energy, I have been on the ball work wise and Old Man & I have been doing famously. In other ways, I am still in that funk. Meds help. I am not sure any of this will ever completely go away though.

I would like to say that I am all better after our son died. I have certainly made great strides. I’m not better, just more functional. Hey functional is a blessing. I like functional. Functional = not loosing my job. There are those who have insinuated that I ought to be over it. That this experience should not still impact me as it does. I am here to say that I will never be over it; I will only achieve greater levels of functionality over time. This experience may not define me but it makes up who I am. In the categories of my life, “Dead Babies” is right at the top of the list right above Mother, Wife, Ex-Wife, Admin, Short, and Green Eyes etc… The Dead Baby” category has not always been at the top of the list it may have been about four down just above ex-wife until Aidan died. I fully expect as time passes that it will fall down quite a few notches on that list but for now, it is #1.

I am very different than I was before my first pregnancy loss and I am 10 xs different than who I was September of 2005. I am more cynical, I am less likely to take anyone’s shit (or perceived shit anyway) and I am more likely to tell you to take a flying leap. That is why I have been avoiding people. I don’t want to be an asshole. The fact is I am an exposed nerve. I wish it weren’t true but I am.

Occasionally on-line you will run across a list of things you shouldn’t say to someone who has lost a child or who is dealing with infertility. The list is a mile long. I can think of a bazillion things you should never say to me. However, notice that there is no list of what people should say to someone experiencing this sort of thing. There is a reason for that. It is because Nothing you could say would be right… ever. You cannot win! Julia over at Redbook’s Infertility Diaries was touching on this a bit today. There are things you could say to me now that you couldn’t say to me 3 days/weeks/months after Aidan died and there are things now that I have no sense of humor about that in 3-6 months might not bother me in the least. There is no way to tell. What I really need is psychic friends but I think that Dionne Warwick is probably busy and while the majority of my friends are fairly intuitive, I am not sure they can read my mind (If I am wrong about that I will just say I am sorry now for the things I have thought!). That is the only way that anyone would ever be able to win with me. Otherwise it is a crap shoot. The only person who can really get away with anything is my Old Man and that is because well – he loves me warts and all.

So as they say in those 12 step programs… it’s about progress, not perfection. I am working on it. In the mean time, if I don’t return your calls right away just know it is probably better that way. I love you and I will call you when I know I am not an asshole.

Mother’s Day Wishes May 13, 2007

This is a bitter-sweet day for me; as it seems to be every year. I am so grateful to have my sweet Mogo and so very sad that I did not get the chance to know my other little ones. I am done trying to sort it all out. Deserves just don’t have anything to do with what happens in the world. So this is the best I can do today…To all the Moms out there, To the good ones, the ones who could use a little work, those with live children, those who’s children have died, the ones who have only ever experienced the pregnancy part, the ones who haven’t bothered to know who their children are or where they are for that matter, to those who have given children up so they could have a better life, and to those who have found them and given them loving homes.To the young ones, the old ones, the dead ones, the ones who are way too young to know what they are doing and to those who swear they know everything.We are all Mom’s and we all have such a huge impact on the world whether we know it or not.

Happy Mothers Day to us all!

Love, Beth

Mommy to:
Morrigan – Born 9/16/02 (4 years old)
An Angel – miscarried 9/16/06
Aidan – Born Still 9/22/05
An Angel – Ectopic 8/19/99
Chelsea – Miscarried 2/19/97

What makes a Woman? April 11, 2007

Does loosing a portion of your girl anatomy make you any less of a woman? Does it matter? Is it totally absurd to identify your self worth through your vagina? It seems to me that I have been measuring my self-worth through my vagina most of my life. Whether it was based on who I was sleeping with (when I was much younger), to whether or not I could successfully make a baby, I have found all sorts of ways that my identity wrapped around the girlie parts. I have even been known to go a little off my rocker when my cycle is not in sync.

The reason for all this mental masturbation is that my girlie procedure is fast approaching; a little too fast for my taste. It has been brought to my attention that I have way too much invested in my girlie parts. I have always equated my womanhood to being a Mom, even before I had Mogo. I had lost 2 pregnancies before she arrived and 2 more since. My reproductive history has consistently been associated with a feeling of failure. My body has let me down repeatedly on the baby making front. I didn’t even do the pregnancy with Mogo very well. I sort of suck at it actually. Apparently, I did not produce enough amniotic fluid so she was all squished in there like a sardine. They thought it was due to Cystic Fibrosis or to kidney failure; my blood pressure was through the roof, and I spent 5 months on bed rest waiting it all out. I was sure she would never come to be. How could I call myself a woman if I could not do that right? The longer I was pregnant, the more I was convinced the safest place for her was in some incubator in the NICU. I was sure that those doctors and nurses could nourish her and keep her safe way better than I could. I was positive that the longer she stayed inside, the more apt she was to meet her demise. And, here she is, 4.5 years old and gorgeous. She made it. No Cystic Fibrosis, no kidney failure, no cord accident or chromosome anomaly. She was just 7 lbs, 4 oz. of bouncing baby girl. She was perfect. Thank the Gods.

OK sorry for the tangent. I know all of this is flawed thinking. There are plenty of feminine and successful Women/Goddesses who do not have children for whatever reason, or do not wish to. I do not think of them as being anything but the wonderful women they are. In fact, most are down right sexy! So why do I think it about me? Why are my girlie parts such a big part of my identity? Even if I can still get pg after this surgery, if I loose a tube, or ovary, or both; I am afraid I will feel somehow less than whole. There is even a bit of fear that my dear husband will agree with me. All of a sudden I am a jealous mess. I have never really been the jealous type. I think it might just have something to do with the procedure that is pending. I can justify just about anything but I really have to admit that I have been on high alert, my ears are perked up, and I am ready to pee on my husband at any moment so as to mark my territory. (Poor, poor Badger, he really can’t win these days.)

So what makes a woman? What other things make a woman feminine?

Down Came the Rain March 29, 2007

You really must forgive me but I have been re-hashing all sorts of inner drama lately. I have no boundaries and I am a firm believer in TMI so here I am giving it to you.

I got a wild hair up my arse and purchased a sack full of books at our Church Used Book Store. Let me just tell you Unitarians have the best taste in reading material. Selections range from Kipling to the most recent Oprah pick. It is even better than the library because there is no time limit to how long you can keep them, they are only a dollar, and I can give them right back to be sold again! (Sorry I got a little carried away – I love buying books as much as shoes)

So, I grabbed a copy of Brook Shield’s book “Down Came the Rain” along with 4 other titles. I have surgery coming up and I figured I ought to stock pile the reading material since I will be out of work for 4-6 weeks. This freakin book has completely taken me back to a place I had hoped not to re-live. I have been in a bit of a funk actually since I started it. I started it on Monday night and had it finished by Tuesday night. I am still sort of reeling that I identified with it so much. I am glad I read it. Not because it was some stroke of literary genius but because this woman with huge eyebrows was able to put into words exactly what I dealt with post partum with my daughter. It was as if I had Brooke Shields lurking in the deepest recesses of my brain (Ok that is sort of scary). It was kind of freaky actually. I was having ah-ha moments at the turn of every page. I found myself reading excerpts to my Badger in an attempt to get him to finally understand something I could never quite explain to him fully. The dynamic she talked about with her Husband was also very similar. I too had this feeling that somewhere in all that Post Partum Depression I had lost some of my Husbands respect and or trust. I still wonder if it will ever truly return or if every time I burst into tears he will think I am starting to loose it again.

My Daughter is 4 years old now and I STILL wonder if my reactions to some things are because of the PPD or simply because I am a Mom. To hear another woman describe so intimately the thoughts and craziness that I experienced was so very strange and so very necessary. See, no one really talks about PPD; just like no one really talks about miscarriage. It was not until my first miscarriage that I even considered just how complex the recipe is to make a baby. I certainly never expected after 2 losses, to give birth to a beautiful little girl and then feel so unconnected to her. During that time, I never expected to ever feel connected to her let alone be as crazy about her as I am now. Our hormones play some demented games with us. As women we really have to get to a place where these topics are no longer taboo. Miscarriage and PPD are private and can be very scary. Maybe if we all were a little less private about it, it would not seem so scary. I was comforted to hear those words from my head written like that on a page.