You Don't Really Wanna Mess With Me Tonight

(Okay, so it's a song by Pink, who I am currently loathing, but that line is empowering).

I had SUCH a shitty day on Thursday. In addition to getting two more announcements about people being pregnant and having to fake joy for others (please people, STOP telling us), I had to have the post-D&C check-up appointment -- which was emotional for me and Dr. J for a whole host of obvious reasons. Then I had to inquire with the office manager at my doctor's office about what I can only refer to as "the insurance issue" having to do with the Explanation of Benefits (EOB) received in the mail from my insurance company. While it was comforting to learn that the doctor's office was appalled, and assured me that the hospital would NEVER permit such a classification on my EOB, and thus my beef was with the insurance company . . . I know I have a huge phucking fight with UPMC looming on the horizon. One for which I doubt I have the strength, let alone time, and yet I know MUST be done. I have never been one to pursue a path of least resistance, and always stand up for both myself and principles, yet as worn out emotionally, mentally, psychological, and physically as I am . . . I know that I will have to deal with this in a timely matter.

I have long been diagnosed with low blood pressure. Seriously. In fact, after the D & C at the hospital we were about to get in the elevator to leave when I began to black out because it was only 65/43, and I had to be rushed back into the surgical recovery room so anesthesiologist could give me something to "perk me up." It took an hour to get me up to 73/55. So, anyhoo, at the Ob/Gyn office on Thursday & after discussing "the insurance issue," they checked my blood pressure and it was up, WAY up. Gee, I wonder why?

Back to matters at hand.

Look out UPMC, "I am about to go to war." And UPMC, I assure you that you do NOT want to take me on. If I have to get every Pro-Life organization in the USA, the Pittsburgh Catholic Newspaper, and the Vatican (which I have learned has OVERSIGHT on the pending merger of Mercy Hospital into the UPMC system) . . . I will do just that. Because I don't give a shit if it's what the "medical billing code" UPMC went with, I will NOT allow the billing code of "Missed Abortion, Comp Surgical" to be on my insurance history.

I did NOT have an abortion. I would NOT have an abortion. Mercy Hospital does NOT perform abortions. My Ob/Gyn practice will NOT perform abortions.

It was a baby. She stopped growing. She died in my body. I had to have a D & C. Women often have D & C's even when they have NOT been pregnant. Does this mean THEY had an abortion? Hell no! Then why the phuck does it say it on mine?!

It's bad enough dealing with the INCREDIBLY STUPID AND INSENSITIVE BULLSHIT THINGS people have said to myself and Dr. J over the past couple of years. And trust me when I say it continual happens. NOW, we get the "insult to injury" from UPMC! WTF?!

The only thing that wound up saving me on Thursday night was my dear (and aforementioned) "Hamster." We've been good friends since 8th grade, ever since what she and I refer to as "The Gumby and Pokey Incident." But it's amazing how our friendship has deepened over the past few years. Even more amazing . . . she is due with her first baby in July. It hardly makes sense that the friend who it would seem it would be most difficult to talk with about how much pain and struggle I am going through, would actually be the friend who comforts me the most . . . who validates my feelings, who makes me feel not quite-so-insane, who assures me that INDEED, I am not being overly sensitive -- rather I am truly running into assholes and idiots every time I turn around!

I sometimes wonder what the heck she is getting out of useless me, but I think I caught a glimpse of it as we talked late into the night on Thursday, as my Hamster has been unable to sleep normally due to her growing body (she is teeny-tiny, and feels like she has swallowed a beach ball). As she we talked about how nervous sonograms make her (she's had to have more than the usual number, due to some medical issues she has), strategies for her to avoid the breast-feeding nazis, her anxiety about the scheduled Caesarean, how scared she is about the pain afterwards . . . I found myself easily and genuinely comforting her, supporting her, cheering her on, helping her brainstorm and role-play, assuring HER that she is NOT crazy, and that she is entitled to be scared, anxious, apprehensive, and so on.

And I meant every single word.

Here we were, supporting and comforting each other, despite our very different situations. Confessing our deepest fears, our head-shaking frustrations, our most secret pain -- the kind that only comes out late in the night, between two people who can truly connect.

Hamster is a mathematician. And we were talking about how some of the percentiles the doctors tell her at each sonogram make her nervous. I pointed out it's an occupational hazard for her, since she deals in numbers to make her living. Then I gave her, and me, an equation to ponder . . . . She is due in July. . . . We will be adopting a little girl who will be approximately 15-20 months old, when we get her in about 14-18 months from now. So our kids will be . . . about the same age . . . um, playdate, anyone?!

The mommies will be having champagne as we recline in our lawn chairs, we assure you.

Dad, Meet Jesse. . . . Jesse, Meet My Dad!

Okay, so there are 5 of us all dialed into this crazy exchange of dating stories, which are both outrageous and highly entertaining: Me (code name: FireCracker), Adrian (ManHands), Kirsten (Chrissie/2.0), Dr. J (Doc), and Jesse (um, just Jesse?!).

Mainly, we live vicariously through Jesse's INSANE, often downright heinous, yet highly successful stories of bedding chicks. Usually these stories involve a mix of the serious consumption of booze, twisted logic, and a high degree of mental karate.

Dr. J and I believe Jesse has GOT to be my father's long lost son -- his antics just remind me of my Dad, back in his heyday. Only Jesse is even more brazen.

So my Dad came over this weekend to help Dr. J move a heavy piece of furniture from the basement to the kitchen. Dr. J had cooked a delicious assortment of brunch foods, and we three sat around chatting while chowing down.

We began relating some of the Jesse stories to Dad (a.k.a. "Big Bill"), and how Jesse had expressed his delight in some of my Dad's great lines and attitudes. Big Bill LOVED the stuff about Jesse defiling young Darci at a party with her boyfriend and family present, which caught Big Bill's attention and had him remarking "Whoa! I've never been THAT bold!" He loved it, though.

And THEN, Big Bill gave the following delicious anecdote (a monologue) . . . .

"I remember in my bachelor days, that would be in-between marriages when I was not quite so fat, I was driving that great black Lincoln, remember that car, honey (me)? And I would make sure I'd pull it up real slow in front of this one bar, so that everyone would see it out front, and the women would see me getting out of it. I'd walk in, and spot some woman sitting at the bar, all dolled up, alone. I'd get a drink, then try to strike up a conversation with her. They always would say they were just grabbing a drink after work, and try to make it sound accidental that I would happen upon them there, by themself. Yeah, right! I'd look them straight in the eye and say . . . 'Honey, c'mon, who you kidding? You're sitting here alone, drinking a $4 glass of wine -- who are you kidding? You tell your old man you were going to a tupperware party? Why don't we cut to the chase, and you just tell me what time you have to be home tonight?!' Man, those were the days."

WE WERE LAUGHING SO HARD IT HURT!!!!!!!!!!!

I was so proud -- yep, that's how MY DAD ROLLED!

Reaching for My Bootstraps

I don't really want to "move on," as they say. I mean WTF does that mean, anyway?! I will never get over what has happened, and part of me will always be broken. So I try to go through the motions, to make it through the day, I suppose. Maybe some part of my old routine will help me learn to keep living, and be open to joy again. But I know that I need to do different and new things right now, and am going to seek out those paths and experiences, too.

But first, back to matters of routine.

I sorta did and sorta didn't want to go back to the gym and start putting my wracked body together again. I have missed my hardcore workouts terribly (not to mention feeling proud of the results). But at the same time, resuming these workouts means acknowledging that something has changed inside of me -- confronting it, if you will, and trying to work through some of those feelings.

This was so painfully clear to me when I went to Dr. J's office yesterday, to have him adjust me. While he had me hooked up to the stim machine, I asked him to rub my shoulders (where I always carry my tension), and my legs too. He obliged, and a few minutes into it, I found myself crying . . . the realization that my body was in desperate need of receiving positive touch, and the endorphins that make you feel positive accordingly . . . I have been so thoroughly poked and prodded for the past couple of years, and then add the excruciating physical pain of recent, and it hit me that I need to get back to doing things that feel good.

Anyhoo, this brings me to the gym. I tried to go yesterday, but my heart wasn't in it, and my body felt sore (yes, "down there"). So I flaked out on going. But today I knew I just needed to go again -- to sweat, to exert, to push, to lose myself through a combination of some frenetic workout and pulsating music in my ears.

So I did.

And I was so glad I did. It felt wonderful. I was surprised that I still had the endurance to have a quality cardio workout. I was pleased that my muscle tone hadn't completely left me, as I was able to resume weightlifting (albeit at a lower level since I am still semi-medically restricted). It felt so good to have this part of myself back, something I remembered enjoying before.

Now while I have little doubt that will I be complaining of aches and pains tomorrow, it was good to be able to have the release today. And I was proud of myself for taking this step, at least in my mind, to put myself back together, even if just a tiny bit.

Lost

This is the hardest thing I have ever had to write. I know that I don't have to write about it, but to not do so feels like I am not honoring what has happened. So here goes . . . .

I will remember how resigned we were. Then I remember how surprised we were less than24 hours later.

I will remember how we cried, and thanked God, and asked him to watch over us.

I will remember how excited Lori was, and how Jay took the credit. And how we credited Dozen cupcakes as being the secret ingredient.

I will remember how nervous we were about waiting for the numbers. And how euphoric we were at how good, how high, how positive they were, both times.

I will remember Sandi being speechless when I told her, how she cried tears of happpiness for us.

I will remember plotting to tell my Mom, and how she hugged me so tightly when when finally did.

I will remember feeling that maybe, just maybe, our luck had changed, and that this would finally be our year.

I remember thinking that Christmas would be so much more special, and not hurt this year, like it did last year.

I remember Kirsten's constant reassurance, and laughing about how "everything will be punctuated by a nervous swipe." I remember thinking it I was insane, but being glad I could share the experience with her, 3000 miles away.

I remember how good it felt to have the anger, the frustration, and the sadness finally begin to fade away, and maybe this time for good.

I remember realizing that it only takes one.

I remember the excitement and joy on the face of the guy I thought I'd wind up marrying, when I told him the news. How happy he was for me, and how happy I was for him, and how much I liked meeting his wife. And how happy I was to be married to my husband instead.

Then I remember trying to quell my fears about the ultrasound. And I remember trying to shrug off those nerves, and trying to draw upon my long-advocated advice of "just fake confidence" when I climbed up on that table.

Then I only sorta remember getting the bad news that she was too tiny. And I barely remember my husband helping me to the car, whimpering "this can't be happening again" along the way. But I remember waiting, the whole car ride home, to wake up from this nightmare.

And I remember our doctor trying to be supportive, but getting us prepared mentally, at the same time. And my husband taking these phone calls because I just couldn't.

And I remember trying to be positive, through the fear. And going to work the next day, in order to keep myself busy.

And I remember how scared I was, when the cramping started. And how I knew. I knew. I knew. I didn't want to know. But I knew.

I remember the doctor's office immediately springing into action, taking me seriously, putting a doctor on right away, helping me to come up with a plan, should the worst happen.

And I sorta remember driving to the office to do more bloodwork, and telling myself I had to keep the tears out of my eyes, so I didn't crash and kill us both, just in case there still was a chance.

I remember us going home, and how the cramping got worse. And how when we looked at each other, I saw the tears in my husband's eyes.

And I remember him kissing my tummy, as we tried to say goodbye to her, but knowing it might be the last moment we were a family, together. And I know I will always rememebr it as the most beautiful, and most tragic, moment of my life. Ever.

I remember the three of us laying in bed, holding on to each other, caressing her through my body, whispering to her, and to each other, as the sun went down.

I remember all of the endless praying, reminiscent of last time this happened, in which I made all sorts of deals with God, if he would just spare her, if he would just come through for us, for her. I remember our wonderful priest telling me it wasn't my fault, that I didn't cause it through any action or inaction, and that sometimes God steps in when they are too sick or too tiny to make it on their own.

I remember the test results the following morning, confirming the worst. I don't remember all that much from that day, just that the physical pain got worse, wracking my body. I know that I took one of my husband's leftover percocets to get through the night. I remember wanting the pain to subside, but yet knowing that when it would be over, she would be gone from me, forever.

I remember my father, never prone to emotion, jumping up to embrace me when I walked into the room, and holding me as these awful sobs escaped from my mouth. And how he stroked me head.

I remember that the people at the hospital were so kind, so sympathetic, so supportive. The OB's from our practice, the nurses, the anesthesiologist, all were so amazing. How we were glad to hear that they would be able to do some tests on her, and maybe, just maybe, give us some answers as the the painful "Why, again?" that hangs out there. I remember how the process seemed almost cathartic, and brought me some peace.

I remember thinking that I can't go on, and that I don't want to. I remember telling my husband this, and how it scares him to hear those words from me, but knowing I would have to go on, for him. Just as he needs to go on, for me.

I remember being shocked, even distrubed, by the sounds the I make when I start to sob, and thinking that they must be unique to grief so deep.

I remember being cognizant, repeatedly, just how strong my husband is, and how that would surprise most people. And how I hate that he is my soft landing from the highest of falls, but am constantly aware of how much I need him to be that for me. He helps me to remember that she is not in pain, that she is with God, and that she is happy.

I remember it all. I am not trying to forget. I couldn't. I won't. It's just so gutwrenchingly hard to remember it all at once. And I just wish it wouldn't hurt, forever.