PostMortem

It's 5:30 a.m., J. and LilCherie is asleep and Bubba is spending the
weekend at my sister's, so I'm up reading blogs. I read this post by charmedgirl and thought, wow, she's really going to try again so soon! Then I realized that it's been six months since she had P@ige, and thought about how six months after I lost my daughter, I had already failed one IUI and seven months later, I would be pregnant with my son.

Then I read this post by C. It's so raw, and so full of longing that it made my heart ache in such a familiar way. Being there came rushing back to me, and made me consider being here.

"We got so lucky with Bubba," I said to J. today in the car on the way to the antique show. "I always feel weird saying we got lucky."

"Me too," J. says. "I always feel like I'm tempting fate to take him away."

"Oh wow," I say. "I always feel like, 'how can I even say I'm lucky when one of my kids is dead?'"

At the antique show, I saw a family Bible inscribed with the names of twins, Louis and Victoria, born on the 25th of a long-ago September. Louis lived 10 days; Victoria lived 15 years. Someone lived long enough after they died to write it in the book.

"Hey, come over here," J. motions to me. I come over to look and he points out a postcard-sized black-and-white postmortem photograph of a little boy, probably about five years old, resplendent in his best knickers and jacket and laid out on the family bed.

The photos "were life-affirming rather than creepy and macabre, as most people think of them today," said Jack Kabrud, director and curator of the Hennepin History Museum. Its exhibit on the topic is called "A Semblance of Life: The Art and Culture of the Post Mortem Photograph," with about 50 photos from the 1850s to as late as the 1940s.

"These photos were the final gift to the survivors," Kabrud said. "It was something they could hold."

The Art of the Postmortem Photo
by Peg Meier
The Minneapolis Star Tribune, Nov. 4, 2005

Later, at home, I walk down the hall and then stop for a moment.
Something's bothering me, what is it? Oh, the door to Bubba's room is closed. How long that door stayed closed, waiting for hope.

I open it part of the way, until it feels less dangerous.

Still crazy after all these years

Like many people, when I think of therapy, I generally think of dredging up the old shit that's dragging me down, exploring it, airing it out, coming to peace with it, and then moving on to the next piece of shit. My therapist, however, believes that it is better to just dump the old shit without giving it any more energy. Just jettison it, wipe the slate clean, and move forward. My therapist counsels from a Sufi perspective. Generally, I like this and it speaks to me more than any other therapy model has--but this idea of just getting rid of the shit without digging into it is hard for me to figure out.

I have a natural urge to really get in there, but only when the time is right. Which is why I've been putting off delving into some of the more traumatic stuff in my life--because I never feel like the time is right. On one hand, I think maybe my therapist is right--what will reliving it do? On the other hand, I feel like until it is dealt with in some way, it just sits inside of me, stewing around, and bubbling up in other ways that seem totally unrelated but aren't, and the only way to rid myself of it is to get it out there.

My emotional memory is caught in limbo. I am afraid of going back into the darkness, but I can't seem to find the light either. There's some kind of comfort in the idea of telling other people your story. Maybe I long for the sympathy; I have been known to enjoy my share of that. I think what bothers me the most about my hidden pain is that it is hidden. It bothers me, somehow, that people can't look at me and know what I have been through. I mean Hope, of course, but also the depression, the vulva issues, the other surgeries, the way it's scarred me inside, the way it's affected everything. I don't especially want special treatment--I just want people to know, for some reason. Maybe it's because I feel like so many health care professionals denied my pain, both physical and emotional, at different points in my medical past. Maybe it's because of society's emphasis on "getting over it" and "moving on," or even society's preoccupation with "being happy" (and the associated pressure that goes along with that). Maybe I resent the fact that people think I'm "fine" now, or count me among the "normal" people, when inside I still identify myself as someone who is broken in many ways.

The next logical thought is the old, "Maybe I enjoy being a victim." But I don't think that's a fair statement (feel free to weigh in here). I think maybe I just want recognition or acknowledgment (in what way, I don't know) for what I've gone through, and that doesn't come very often in this world, and especially not years after the fact.

It's odd because after Hope died, I tried so hard to just fit in with the world around me even though I felt so alien...and now, sometimes, I wish there was some kind of special mark that just arises on your cheek or something after you've been through the loss of a child. Like a medal of honor, of survival. A lot of us would have that mark, and that in itself would be comforting in a way. Terribly sad, yes, but comforting. To know that we are not so unusual.

Maybe that's what my problem is--that I still feel like a freak after five years, and I'm sick of the shame of it, the way I always have to think about it when someone asks how many kids I have, the way my heart beats a little bit faster whenever I know I am going to mention her name and the way my stomach drops in self-disappointment when I decide not to, the way I use her memory to punish people who seem to have forgotten. I shame myself by going around and around with her memory, telling myself that tomorrow will be the day when I really try to start talking to Bubba about his sister but knowing that I won't because it's just too hard to explain and then realizing that he is growing up not having a clue about her.

My god, it will five years this June since I lost my daughter. Five years. Having her and losing her was the defining moment of my life, even more so than having my son. I don't know what that means about me, or whether it's good or bad, but it just is.

I'm Wearing My Grumpy Pants

I am seriously grumpy today. I called in to work because I just couldn't face it. I'm counting on the assumption that if my absences become termination-worthy, someone will warn me and then I will have to start hauling my ass in even when I'm emotionally in the shitter.

I'm not sure exactly what it is. I think it's partly Christmas fallout. I woke up yesterday morning in good spirits, actually, and we had a fine present-opening with Bubba. with only a little bit of disappointment about the fact that my husband hadn't gotten me anything at all. I kind of expected it because he never has any money, but I figured maybe he could have found a little token something just so I'd have a present to open. It was a little bit sad when I gave J. the books I'd bought him, and the calendar with Bubba's picture and handprints that we'd made for him, and then Bubba said "Where's your present, Mommy?" and I had to say "I don't think I have one, honey." Sigh. J. said, "Mommy's going to get her present later. That's how it works sometimes." Yeah right. I don't even want the THING, whatever it is, I really just wanted to have something to open. Next year I'll buy myself a present to have under the tree, I guess.

Anyway, the plan was to do our little family Christmas and then head back to my parents' house (about an hour's drive) for the big family Christmas. There weren't any deadlines we had to meet, or so I thought--I just figured as long as we were back before noon things would be good. We all got cleaned up and loaded the car and dragged Bubba away from his V-Smile and were just about to get in the car at 10 a.m. when my sister called.

"Where are you?" was the first thing out of her mouth.
"Well, we're still at home," I said.
"Are you frickin' kidding me?" she says, and I didn't detect any kind of joking tone.
"Well, we had to do our Christmas here first," I said.
"Yeah, but Bubba gets up at 6 a.m. so you should have had plenty of time by now!" she says.
"Bubba didn't get up until 8:30," I reply. "We're just about ready to get in the car."
"Okay...well, Mom says the turkey will be done by noon. But don't speed to get here."

I got off the phone, and I felt like my Christmas mood had just been deflated like a popped balloon. I took my anxiety meds and we got in the car. About 15 minutes into the drive we realized we'd forgotten blankie and puppy, two critical items for both the drive there and back and for any hope of a nap for Bubba, so we had to go back, thus making us even later. We still got home by 11:15 because yes, we did speed--although J. does that regardless.

By the time we'd gotten there I was pretty mellowed out from my pill, and things went fairly well for most of the day, other than Bubba not taking a nap and his incessant neediness, which I feel bad complaining about but jesus, it's tiring. I was also a little disgruntled about how our family Christmas has devolved over the past several years to opening presents, eating, and then my husband and both my nieces playing video games all afternoon. I sat there yesterday wishing we could do something where we could actually connect as a family rather than just be stuck watching them play a game. Oh well!

At about 5 p.m. Bubba falls asleep so I have to wake him up so there will be a chance of him sleeping at night. I was cuddling with him on the couch and we were talking about "the sunshine song" that he likes me to sing to him. It's the "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine" song. I started singing it to him when he was a baby, only I could never make the "please don't take my sunshine away" part come out of my mouth because it always reminded me of Hope and how she had been taken away from me, so I changed the words to "and I know you'll never go away."

I said in passing to my mom and sister that I had changed the words and I sang my version to them. My sister, in one of her typically intense outbursts, says "Oh my God! When I said I would love for my children to live with me forever you were the one who told me I had to let them go and now this is what you're singing to your son!" Like I was some kind of hypocrite or something. I actually sat in silence for a moment wondering if I really wanted to drop the dead baby bomb and then decided fuck it, I'm telling her and I hope she feels bad about it. So I said, "I sing it that way because after Bubba was born it always reminded me of how one of my kids had already died and I didn't want another one to be taken from me." Then I got up and went to the other room, and was explaining the whole incident to J. when she came in and apologized and of course started crying. Her apology was genuine and I let it all go, but I really, really wish she would realize that she is very harsh sometimes and that the things she lets fly out of her mouth can really be hurtful. I don't suppose she will ever change, it's who she is...but in spite of all my therapy and drugs I just can't let it roll over me all the time.

So that incident got me sort of focused on Hope and remembering that first Christmas without her. I think of her every day, and especially on holidays, and in fact J. and I had gone to the cemetery earlier in the day to visit his parents' graves and we stopped by the baby section and I remembered Hope while looking at the stones of other little ones who were gone. So it wasn't like it was a shock or anything to be thinking of her, but usually I can remember her peacefully, and that incident with my sister got me thinking about the pain instead.

We headed back home about an hour later, and I sullenly sat in the car until I fell asleep, then grumpily hauled myself into the house and just went straight to bed, leaving J. to entertain Bubba who was oddly still awake. And I woke up today feeling pretty much the same way I did when I fell asleep. Now I am looking around my house at the post-Christmas disaster and dealing with mood where I just don't know what the hell I feel like doing because really, I just don't feel like doing anything, and yet I also don't feel like doing nothing.

God, it sucks being an emotional mess.

So that was Christmas. Thank god it's over! Hope you all had good ones, or if not, I hope you'll blog about the drama so that I can feel some cameraderie with you all!

Anger, Part II

First, thanks to Nicole, Aurelia and Vixanne who commented on my last post. I appreciate your support and the thoughtfulness of the comments so much. I found myself thinking quite a bit today about Vixanne's question of why I lurk around on infertility/loss blogs and boards. I don't do much on the boards anymore--I broke my addiction to SHARE a few months ago--but I still can't help but search out and read people's personal stories of their journeys through loss.

Like Vixanne said, it is like picking at scab, and at first I couldn't come up with a good reason why I do it. As I thought about it though, I remembered the words my therapist has uttered so many times--"it's coming up for a reason; to be transformed." I think because I haven't been able to come to terms with the anger, because I haven't been able to transform it into anything positive, it needs to keep coming up, and I facilitate that by seeking out things that will do it for me. The problem is that I don't yet have the tools to transform it. That's what I hope I will gain from therapy and from my own internal reflection.

Vixanne commented that "I can't really imagine that it happened to me." I really have been feeling this way a lot lately. I look at Hope's photo on the bookcase and her little urn and it seems so surreal, so unreal. My life has changed in so many ways since that day in 2003. In the course of two years, I went from infertile to pregnant to grieving to infertile to pregnant to mother of a living child. I met Tingle and we walked together through some of the worst of our grief. I watched LilCherie's son grow into a little boy and stood by as she lost her dear grandma. I got close to divorcing my husband and am working on rebuilding our relationship. All of those events were (are) impacted in one way or another by my experience of having and losing Hope, a lot of them in positive ways--but it remains stunning that it was me who laid there in the hospital that day losing my child. Sometimes I feel like I am fighting against the part of me that tries to protect my psyche from damage, the part that wants to bury the trauma and not let me access it anymore. I need to be able to access it, not only because it's my daughter and I have a duty to her--not to dwell in a mire of pain, but to remember--but also because there are riches there that are mine if I am courageous enough to keep going back to get them.

Anger

Have you realized yet that I am kind of an angry person? I mean, not all the time, but often. Anger is a big part of my personality, my reaction to things. It's one of the main things I'm working on in therapy.

But I am angry right now, this minute, about losing my daughter, and about how I lost her.

The anger surrounding my daughter's death has been the single-most intense and lasting emotion from that time. Yes, I think, even greater than the love I feel for her, although it's hard to admit that. I know that the anger is so great because the love was/is so great, but it saddens me that this is the emotion that is still hanging in there.

It pops up rather unbidden. I lurk around a lot on infertility/loss blogs and sometimes that triggers it, but usually what triggers it even more is the story of the "miracle" that I didn't get to have. The 11-ounce baby who lived, the woman who actually got some treatment when she went into premature labor and now has her child.

I work for the major university in my state and that's where I went for care. I've written a bit before about it. I work in public relations for the health colleges here. From 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., I'm supposed to trumpet the amazing, cutting-edge research, education and clinical care that goes on at this university, and I do it, all with a bitter taste in my mouth, because I know the reality of this place. I know my reality of this place.

I know there are people who get their miracles here. Recently, through the course of my work, I became aware of this woman. She got her miracle (so far; she's still battling the cancer, of course). As I sat in our staff meeting I wondered...how is it that this woman from North Carolina can have a tumor half the size of a golfball on her cervix, end up here, and end up with a healthy baby, when I, an employee of this place, a PR person nonetheless, went in with a much more common complication of pregnancy and left with nothing but a bereavement envelope?

The whole truth of my experience here on June 9, 2003, is that I could have stayed at home. That is honestly the true amount of help I got from them. The only thing I got from this "cutting-edge" facility that I couldn't have gotten at home was two shots of Nubain.

If I had stayed at home I wouldn't have had to hear the minutes-old healthy babies crying in the rooms around me.

If I had stayed at home I wouldn't have had a nurse hand me a bedpan when I told her I thought I might be having the baby. "It's probably just a bowel movement," she said. "The only doctor here is in a c-section. These babies are so small, sometimes they just come out so fast that nobody can be here when it happens," she said.

If I had stayed at home I would have held my daughter during her 9 minutes of life, instead of being told there was no heartbeat. Two hours after her birth, when signing the birth and death certificate information for her, we saw that the birth and death times didn't match. That's how we found out she'd lived, if only for a few moments and if only by the most technical definition--a heartbeat. Apparently, it was not important enough for them to tell us. I can only hope they didn't lie to me when they told me a nurse held her the whole time. I can only hope she didn't live her few precious moments on this earth lying alone and naked on a cold metal counter.

If I had stayed at home, maybe, just maybe, when my contractions stopped at 2 p.m. that afternoon, they would have stayed gone for a week and a half more, and my cervix may have stopped opening for a week and a half more (like it did with my son), giving my daughter a chance at life, instead of being coerced into hurring up "the inevitable" with a drip of pitocin.

If I had stayed at home, an ignorant and arrogant nurse would not have told us that our child was a boy, in spite of our doubts and our repeated questions for confirmation. We would not have named our son, we would not have cremated our son (complete with a Star Wars t-shirt that was my husband's when he was little and a letter to "my sweet boy Jack William" that I tucked alongside her little body), we would not have dozens of cards in our child's scrapbook expressing sympathy for the loss of our son.

I am angry that I didn't get to see a licensed doctor for four hours after I came the hospital bleeding. I am angry that nobody did a damn thing to even try to save my daughter. I am angry that I didn't get any drugs to stop contractions, that I didn't get even an attempt at an emergency cerclage, that I didn't even get compassion from most of the people we dealt with that day. I was just another woman losing just another fetus. Just another day at the "premier" health care institution in my state.

How do I come to terms with this? Yes, I've made progress since that day. I've gotten very good at pushing it into a part of my brain and heart that I refuse to let myself access most of the time. I won't say the anger has diminished because I don't think it has; I think I've just gotten really good at burying it and staying away from the grave because I couldn't function otherwise. Feeling that anger could be a full-time job. A lifetime isn't long enough to feel all of it.

At home, I have a little treasure chest my father made for me when I was 12 or so. A year or so ago I cleared it out and filled it with the papers, medical records, and audio tapes I made from phone calls with my OB and the head of the OB/GYN department, things I gathered when I was consulting with lawyers. Every so often I am tempted to listen to them, but I instinctively know that I cannot endure the pain of them. I know hearing the endless suffering in my voice would unearth that grave full of seething rage that I have worked so hard to keep covered.

On our answering machine, we have three messages. They all begin the same way. "Um, Depressionista? Um...." And that's all I hear because both J. and I skip past them every time we're clearing it out. But we save them, and have saved them for almost four years. They're messages from my old OB, calling to tell me the results of the genetic tests we had done on Hope. I don't think they say much, other than "The results are in, please call me," and stuff like that. But neither one of us can bring ourselves to erase them. It somehow would feel like erasing our daughter. Those messages prove that she lived, and they prove that we forced a doctor to think about that for at least a few minutes.

I hope we show up in her dreams, my daughter and I.

I hope we show up in her nightmares.

Dear Abby: You Suck

Today I checked in on Aurelia's blog and found mention of an infuriating Dear Abby question and response today. I clicked over and ended up sending my own letter to Abby. I know Abby is a moron, but unfortunately a lot of other morons listen to her advice, so I felt compelled. I'm including it all here.

The offending letter and response:

DESK PHOTO OF STILLBORN BABY CREATES AWKWARD OFFICE ISSUE

DEAR ABBY: I am writing on behalf of my friends at work. We have a co-worker, "Madge," who had a stillborn baby last year. It was tragic. Our problem is, she keeps a photo of the deceased infant with its little eyes sewn shut on her desk in plain view, so that if we must interact with her (we have an open cubicle layout) we have to see it.

Is this appropriate? Ninety percent of the employees here are women. Most are appalled. Others say, "Well, it's all she has."

Madge is expecting again, and we are rooting for her and the baby. However, in addition to all this, she is mean and gossipy. Madge tells everyone what to do and how to do it -- which is not in her job description. I hope that when the baby arrives she will soften and not be so bitter. But, Abby, how on earth do we blow off that photo? -- APPALLED IN THE MIDWEST

DEAR APPALLED: While a person's desktop is usually private territory, I agree that the photograph you describe is inappropriate in an office environment. Because Madge feels the need to keep the picture of her stillborn baby close, it should be kept in her purse with other family photos, or in her desk drawer.

How very sad that poor woman must be. The person who should deal with this delicate problem is the boss or the supervisor.

And my response:

Dear Abby:
I was saddened by your response to "Appalled in the Midwest," whose coworker keeps a photo of her stillborn child on her desk. You advised that the photo is "inappropriate in an office environment" and that the coworker should keep the photo hidden.

I had a daughter who was born at 21 weeks gestation and lived for only nine minutes. I keep her photo on my desk at work alongside the photo of my subsequent, and thankfully healthy, son.

To "Appalled in the Midwest" and the other 90 percent of her coworkers who are "appalled," I say suck it up. Any awkwardness or distress they feel when looking at this photo pales in comparison to the devastating pain this woman has experienced and is still experiencing.

Perhaps rather than being concerned about how to "blow off that photo," Madge's coworker should direct her energies to understanding what it must take for Madge to just get up in the morning, let alone come to work with such insensitive coworkers.

One of the most distressing things about losing a child in pregnancy or infancy is the thought that people will forget that this child existed. Keeping photos or other reminders hidden adds to this distress and implies that there is something shameful about our dead children.

My daughter is not grotesque and is not shameful. If people aren't able to see the beauty of such innocent little lives when they look at our photos of them, then they are the ones who should be ashamed.

Furthermore, whether or not this woman is mean, gossipy or bitter is irrelevant. I sincerely hope the woman's current pregnancy is a success, but regardless of the outcome, some understanding, sensitivity and compassion from her coworkers would go a long way toward making Madge more agreeable at the office.

There are organizations that help educate the general public about the emotional effects of pregnancy and infant loss; one of the best is SHARE Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support, Inc. You can access information at their website, www.nationalshareoffice.com/ I suggest that "Appalled in the Midwest"— and you, Abby — start learning about how to really help those who have suffered the tragic loss of a child in pregnancy or shortly after.

Girls' Nights, lumps, and magical cupcakes

Time for an update. We got back from our trip to Cleveland without incident. It was a wonderful trip and I want to thank Tingle and her hubby again for hosting us. The week after visiting Tingle is always tough because the missing her is so fresh. I'm hoping we will be able to see each other much sooner than the six-month stretch we just finished.

The trip was noteworthy for the fact that J. and I did not argue at all. I'm not sure this has ever happened in the history of our relationship. I am really proud of both of us and especially amazed by the fact that it didn't even seem to be that difficult. It wasn't like I was actively forcing myself to be patient...it just seemed to happen. It's almost like J. and I are really making real, positive changes in our relationship!

On the downside, we did have an argument today, the first real argument we've had in quite ahile. It was about Girls' Nights, and it's still kind of going on--he's at a SuperBowl party now (ironic, isn't it?) but I know we will have to talk about it when he gets home. He tends to begrudge/guilt-trip me about Girls' Nights, sometimes I think it's just because he knows how important they are to me and that sometimes they're pretty much all I look forward to in my life. We'll see how it goes. I wrote out a point-by-point discussion guide to help us when he gets home.

In other news, tonight when I was reading Bubba a story I was stroking his head and felt a hard, pea-sized lump behind his right ear. He said "Ouch!" when I touched it. Of course my first thought was cancer and then I figured it was the universe punishing me because the other day there was this Kids With Cancer Radiothon thing on and I turned the channel because it made me so sad and then I thought "What if it was my kid with cancer and somebody just changed the channel because it was too much of a bummer for them" and I felt guilty.

Then I googled "toddler lump behind ear" and now I'm fairly certain it's probably a swollen lymph node but I'm still going to take him to the doctor anyway, especially since he just had tubes put in a couple weeks ago. I've already decided that should anything happen to Bubba (the phrase "should anything happen to Bubba" is my gentler version of "if he dies") I'm just killing myself, which is actually very comforting to me. It is, however, a real reason (of many) why I will not have another child. If I had more than one living child, and one of them died, I wouldn't be able to kill myself because of the other one. Anyway...nothing like the searing reminder that death can steal away your child at any moment to brighten up an evening. Jeez.

While we're on fun subjects, tomorrow I have to go have my first mammogram. My mother had breast cancer 15 years ago, had a radical mastectomy and thankfully has been okay since; because of my history I have to have the baseline on the younger side of the 35 to 40 realm. I'm not real anxious about it, but when I make that realization, I then become anxious about my lack of anxiety. Like the hammer always falls when you least expect it to, so I would be wise to expect something bad to show up because then I'm not tempting fate. Fate (or whatever) and I do not have a friendly relationship, so I'm always waiting for it to bite me in the butt (again).

Speaking of biting, our high temperature today was 0 degrees. Yes, zero degrees. The HIGH. Right now it is 10 degrees below zero, and the projected low tonight is 15 below. That's not wind chills, that's not "feels like" -- that's actual temperature, folks. My hubby always says that one of the things he likes about living in Iowa is that the temperature extremes, both in the summer and the winter, have the ability to kill you. I don't know why he likes that--maybe it makes him feel tough or something.

Speaking of hubby, he just came home and we discussed the 9-point Girls' Night list. He admitted that some of it was just the way I had cavalierly assumed that we would be doing G.N. next Saturday, and some of his issue is that I am pretty non-functional the next day because I've stayed up too late and then have to sleep all day. Unfortunately I can't argue with that point. The discussion was pretty calm, and he's going to explore the issue more with his therapist to see if there's something deeper. I'm cool with that. So anyway, maybe I'd better start taking a clonazepam at the end of Girls' Nights so I can get some sleep. Could you make a note of that, LilCherie? :-)

Speaking of LilCherie, just in case I forget to tell you, Tingle told me she LOVED your "Physical Manifestation" card, said she "would totally buy those to have on hand" and said you should print them and sell them. I wholeheartedly agree!

While I'm giving shout-outs to my peeps (hee hee) I just wanna say hi to Pioneer Girl. We just can't seem to get it together on the phone, but please know that I will make a point of trying to call you or answer my phone when you call this week, and that I hope you're doing okay!

Speaking of Pioneer Girl, I'd like to tell you about the "Pioneer Girl moment" I had today with my cupcakes. Bubba and I made cupcakes today as an "enriching activity" that helped assuage my guilt for letting him watch hours and hours of Thomas and Shrek. I was without the car so I had to make do with what I had on hand. I had everything I needed except enough powdered sugar for the icing. So...I got out the coffee grinder and ground up my granulated sugar and voila! I made my own freakin' powdered sugar. They are delicious! I tried a different icing recipe from my 1960s era Better Homes and Gardens cookbook that used brown sugar along with the regular icing ingredients, and it definitely lends a different flavor to the cakes. Unfortunately the color was a kind of pukey golden color, so I dumped in some blue food coloring which turned green when mixed in, and then sprinkled green and yellow crystal sugar on top. They look like magical leprechaun cupcakes. I'm pretty proud, can you tell? Bubba wanted one so bad that he actually acquiesced to my demand that he eat one, count it, ONE, noodle with tomato sauce.

That's about all I can muster up tonight...but I promise I'll come back if I have an inspirational moment. I've been bad about blogging lately, and bad about commenting on other people's blogs, but I'm going to try to remedy that this week. I think it must be the cold. I'm shutting down into survival mode which means I have to conserve the small bits of energy that would otherwise be expended on blogging so that I can maintain enough body heat to smoke three-quarters of a cigarette every 90 minutes in the frigid garage.

I am pathetic.

P.S. Sorry about all the parentheses in this post (it's just a parentheses kind of day).

Therapy Day

The weather is bitterly cold and I have antibiotic-induced crampy diarrhea. How are you today?

Actually, I'm in a pretty good mood, temperature and gut notwithstanding. I'm working through my fourth sinus infection since September and, coupled with the three weeks of bladder-infection/stent/IVP antibiotics, my bowels are really not up to the challenge. But in general, I feel remarkably better today than I did all last week.

I'm just getting back to work from my therapy appointment, which, as is often the case, starts out with the usual "things are going pretty well" conversation and concludes with deep revelations about my behavior. A few big ones from today's session are covered below.

•Perhaps the reason Bubba's behavior has been improving somewhat over the past week or so is because a) J. and I are getting along better so the general atmosphere in the house is less tense; b) I'm making a conscious effort to be calmer around him and sometimes succeeding; and c) we've actually been consistent in a few things, like making him eat dinner with us rather than watch TV while he eats. Sounds kinda obvious but it wasn't, to me.

•Today we discussed why I either freak out or immediately give in when it comes to Bubba. What it comes down to in both cases is my aversion to him crying. Ever since Bubba was born, I have had what I would call an overreaction to his crying. I know we are hardwired to react to a baby's cry, but my reactions could probably be called panic attacks. I never realized it was really that bad, you know, to give it the 'panic attack' label, but when my therapist asked me today to describe what happened/happens in my head when Bubba cries, she immediately said it sounded like a panic attack and once I thought about it, I had to agree. We discussed various possibilities for my reaction to Bubba's crying--maybe something from my own childhood?--but nothing really jumped forth until...suddenly I made what I think is an important connection.

After Hope died, there were many, many things that would hurt--seeing babies out in public, seeing pregnant women, hearing people talk about their kids--but the number one thing that would cut me to my core for months and months afterward was the sound of a baby's cry, especially a newborn. It hurt so deeply I would usually need to leave the situation if I heard it, even if it meant boxing up our food at a restaurant or leaving a gathering early, and this continued up until Bubba was born. Bubba's cries, obviously, were different, but as I've described above, difficult in a different way. Both situations induced in me a panicky flight response. I still have some exploration to do on this connection, but it seems obvious to me now that the difficulties are related. I plan to do some healing energy work on this issue.

•Revelation Number Three: Maybe, just maybe, it would be good to ask J. for help before I'm ready to have a complete meltdown. For instance....on Sunday Bubba had had too much juice (because I didn't want to say no and then have him cry) and he had a total all over the floor and the slipcover on the couch diarrhea blowout. The moment I discovered this probably would have been a good time to alert J. calmly that, in the words of my friend Pioneer Girl's husband, "we had a situation." But I thought I could handle it, and why wake up J. who is finally getting some rest, etc.

Fast-forward to trying to wrestle a screaming shit-covered toddler into a bath he doesn't want while feces moulder in the living room and down the front of my shirt, and it becomes pretty apparent that this is not going to lead to a happy ending. Sure, I ended up calling for help....by saying "J.!!! I NEED SOME HELP! HE'S FRUSTRATING THE HELL OUT OF ME!" Perhaps it would be better to ask earlier and in a way that isn't humiliating or hurtful to my son. Yeah, he's only two, but wouldn't it be nicer for him (and J.) to hear a cheerful "Your turn!" or a polite "Could you take over for awhile?" Yep.

•Finally, I was relating the bathroom struggle and happened to mention to my therapist in passing that sometimes getting Bubba from the tub to his room is a pain in the ass because once, a long time ago, Bubba slipped on the bathroom floor and scared himself more than anything else, and now he refuses to walk on it after his bath. So for the last, oh, six months or so we've been picking him up and carrying him to his bedroom. My therapist suggested we put a long rug in there so that Bubba could feel safe walking in the bathroom. Is this brilliant or what??? Can you believe I never, not one time, considered putting a rug down???? Jesus.

We covered all this in an hour. She's worth every penny she charges.

Confessions

I have a long list of blogs that I look at quite frequently and others where I just pop in from time to time. All are by women, and most of them are women who have faced tragedy and/or exceptional challenges — women who have lost babies or children, have or have had cancer, have children with special needs. I go to these blogs to lend support if I can, to remind myself of what I've been through or what I could be going through, to learn about what other people are faced with.

Today I went to a blog of someone I don't quite know how to categorize: she and I worked at our college newspaper together for a year and chatted but weren't what I would call friends; later she ended up working for the same institution I do, doing the same thing but in a different, "sister" office. So every once in awhile we would have work interactions but not frequently.

In October 2004, she gave birth to a son at 24 weeks gestation due to preeclampsia. He lived for almost three months before finally succumbing to an infection. Today, they have another son who is almost a year old. She has a blog for him, too, and they look so incredibly happy.

I went back to the posts she and her husband put up shortly before and after their son's death. I thought about the memorial service I attended for him, and how I had pledged to her and to myself that I would be there for her--that I would check on her and see how she was doing. I called her a few times, and sent her a few emails, but that was about it. I don't know why I didn't do more. I wish I had. At the time, Bubba was four months old. I had what I thought was postpartum depression but now I wonder. I wonder because I often still feel the same way I did then, and Bubba is well over two years old now. I felt awkward because I had a new baby and she'd lost hers; I worried that Bubba would cry when I was on the phone with her and she'd hear it; I thought it might be more hurt than help to talk to someone who was "through it" already while she was just starting. And maybe all those things are true; I'll likely never know.

Reading her posts from almost two years ago brought back all the anguish I felt when I lost Hope. It feels like dark, heavy, stifling blanket of grief coming down on top of me all over again--but I do it because I need to remember. She feels so far away from me now.

This year I forgot to hang her little hat on the Christmas tree. I bought the present that we donate every year in her memory at the very last possible minute. Earlier this year, I moved her box with all of her little things in it from "the baby room," which had become Bubba's room, to my own room. Each month, each year, seems more removed from that time of my life. I barely remember being pregnant with her, and some details from my pregnancy with her and my pregnancy with Bubba blend together and I can't quite remember what happened when. I can hardly remember holding her, and my only real memory of her face is now found only in photographs.

The grief, the searing, horrific grief and pain of losing her remains easy to access if not express. I won't and can't break down at any moment thinking about it, but I can feel it, deep in the pit of my stomach, the ache of emptiness, the ache of too much quiet, the physical need to hold her and the knowledge that I never would again.

I have regrets that haunt me. I have moved beyond the thoughts of "if only I'd gone to the hospital sooner" and forgiven myself for those kinds of regrets because I know I did the very best I possibly could with the information I had. But I regret not having a memorial service. I regret not having an obituary. I regret not calling in my entire family to see and hold her. I regret not taking more photos, not holding her longer. I regret not doing something, anything, beyond what I did to hold the hospital accountable. I understand now why a lawsuit probably would have caused more pain than vindication and probably would have been unsuccessful anyway; but why didn't I go back and see the bitch who is the head of the ob/gyn department and demand that she listen to me and answer my questions? Why didn't I write that letter to the CEO of the hospital? Why didn't I try to do something to make sure other people got better care, to make sure other people's babies might live while my daughter died?

Next June it will be four years since Hope was born and died. If I'd kept her in my uterus for just one and a half more weeks, she might be here now, and I'd have a three-year-old. When I had Bubba, my cervix started dilating at 3o weeks, with the cerclage still in. Once it fell out, I dilated to 8 cm and stayed that way for a week, and could probably have stayed that way a few days longer had I accepted the terbutaline shots they wanted to give me (I refused because I felt sure my baby was safer outside of me than in). What if I had refused to be induced with Hope? What if I had laid there still and waited for whatever outcome there might be? Why didn't I refuse it and insist, insist, that they give me some tocolytics to stop the contractions I started having? Why didn't they insist on that before chalking me and my baby up as a lost cause?

There are days when I feel that Hope's birth and death--her life--have enriched my life and taught me important lessons. There are other days, like today, when I feel that there was no greater purpose, no greater meaning. She was my baby and my baby alone, and she died, and it was tragic and painful, and I'm the only one who experienced the full force of that pain. It didn't make my subsequent pregnancy "a miracle" -- it made it heartwrenchingly frightening. It didn't make me a better mother -- it made me a bitter mother.

Last night I almost smacked my son. After a long and trying evening of Bubba's "challenging" behavior and my short-temper, we were trying to put him to bed, and the evening battle began. He completely overreacted and resisted every action involved in going to bed--putting the book away, rocking, laying down in the dark. He finally went into hysterics when I took away the dinosaur book that was distracting him from going to sleep. It was beyond my capabilities to deal with it. I would have left him in his room to cry but he wouldn't stay there, and we have no way to keep him in unless we lock the door, which I refuse to do. I yelled at him, ragefully. Then I left the room and told J. to take over, literally grabbing handfuls of my hair and holding my head in my hands. I sat on the couch and cried as J. calmed Bubba down, Mr. Patient Parent, SuperDad to the rescue again.

The fact is, Bubba wouldn't have let me hold him and comfort him. I've read things about how for the first year, a baby's whole world is his mother--but that wasn't the case for Bubba, because to a large degree, I didn't want to have anything to do with him. And last night, I didn't want to have anything to do with him, and the feeling was mutual. "Why on earth did we do this?" I asked J., and not in one of those exasperated-but-bemused ways but as a serious question. I could not think of one good reason to have a child. I still really can't, to tell you the truth.

Before J. took Bubba back into the bedroom, he said, "Go give your mama a hug and tell her you love her." And Bubba came over, hugged me, said "Luh you" and laid his head on my leg. And I couldn't even bring myself to say I love you back. I patted his head and sent him on his way with a goodnight.

I am a shitty mother. The universe was trying to tell me that when it showed me that I could not naturally conceive a child, when it took Hope away from me, when it proved to me that I could not naturally carry a child. I should have listened, but I was too busy trying, trying, trying to have a child. So focused on it that I never really thought about what it might be like. So sure that it would never happen for me that the only thoughts I was capable of were thoughts of envy and bitterness toward everyone who had managed to pop one out. I never got any further than that. I never got beyond the "having a baby" part to the "raising a child" part.

If it wasn't for the time in which I live, I would have had no choice but to listen to those signs from the universe. I don't understand why we were given Bubba and other people, like Tingle and her husband, who really would be good parents, still struggle.

I love the ghost of a child who will never be here, who will never require discipline, diaper changes, or effort of any sort, and I dread the work and pain and worry and frustration involved in raising my living child. How much more ungrateful can a person be? It frightens me to think about this, to admit this, because it's almost like an invitation to the universe to steal Bubba from me like it did Hope. And yet, I could hardly blame it if it did. Bubba doesn't deserve to have me as a mother--and I don't deserve to have a child.

Reminders

There's a two-and-a-half month old baby squalling down the hall from my office right now. Her mother works in an office near mine and is having childcare issues so her daughter is here with her today.

The sound of a small baby crying makes my insides start swirling in a confusing mess of emotions. Since I had Bubba, and with the passage of time, the sound is no longer like an ice cream scooper eviscerating my guts the way it was during my time between Hope's death and Bubba's birth. However, there's still a twinge there that hurts, along with an emotion I can't quite place but that I would term "muted delight."

I can't completely let go of the bitterness I feel toward people who came by their children easily. I can't quite excuse the thoughtlessness of someone who brings their baby to work without realizing what kind of heartbreak and pain they could be causing someone who has lost a child, had a miscarriage, or is infertile. I feel this way even though I've brought Bubba to work myself--albeit for short, very occasional visits, not for entire days like the woman down the hall. When I did make visits such as that, I often felt ill at ease, like I was playacting, starring as "the naive joyous perfect mother!" and was still aware that my visit could potentially be painful so I usually kept the whole thing as low key and short as possible.

This causes some consternation within me because I do feel like workplaces should be supportive of families--but I don't think that bringing the child to work is the answer. How about allowing someone to work from home (whether or not they have a child, for that matter)? Better yet, how about a real system of employer/government subsidized, affordable, decent, reliable childcare?

I remember so well how there were virtually no "safe" places for me to be after losing Hope. Even work was rife with pregnancy announcements, baby shower notices and baby-talk, but at least it didn't usually involve having to actually see or hear a brand-new infant. For people like me, I honestly believe that bringing a new baby to work can make the workplace just as "hostile" as sexual discrimination can. Maybe it just doesn't affect enough people.

Today, as I listen to that baby cry, I realize that no matter how old I get, and no matter how much time passes, it will always be a reminder of what I didn't hear when Hope was born--and what I did hear when Bubba came into this world.

Anniversary

In honor of the anniversary of our daughter's birth and death, I'm posting a poem I wrote five days after losing her.

*****
June 14, 2003

It’s the dead of night
Or the hour before dawn.
Five days ago I woke up about now,
About to find out you were leaving us.
I think I knew right away
But I didn’t give up hope till later—
Giving up hope was hard, but not as hard as giving up you.
My arms have never felt so cold,
Aching for you.
My eyes burn from the tears that don’t stop coming.
But my breasts are warm.
Still prepared to feed you,
My broken, faulty body is in fact the last to give up.
I don’t mind being awake right now, although
I’ve never felt so tired—
Be cause this is our time together.
In another world, on another day,
A day that should have been,
I’d be nursing you now.
Exhausted, my sleepy eyes would
Drink you in as you drank me in.
Together we would sit through the night,
Fulfilling our need for each other until we both would sleep again,
Happy and full.
Instead I have to close my eyes to see you,
And open my heart through this pain to feel
The love you’ve brought me.
I promise you that I will see your beautiful gifts to me
Even if it hurts to look for them.
Instead of me nurturing you to help you grow,
You will and are nurturing me,
Feeding my heart with a love I never knew,
And never will forget.
And I will grow, not stunt under this,
And that will be my gift to you.
You’ll never know what you’ve given to me in your short little life,
But my hope is that someday,
Another little life will live on,
And that life will be all the richer for what you’ve shown me.
****

Love you Hope.
-Mommy

Response from University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics....and my response back

I received this in the mail yesterday.


March 21, 2006

Ms. Depressionista
Patient Drive
Potato City, Ohidoa

Dear Ms. Depressionista,

As a follow-up to your recent correspondence, your account and customer service contacts have been reviewed. I do apologize for the frustration you have experienced while resolving the billing for your visits in 2003. Your feedback has helped us identify where additional training is needed to reach our goal of superior customer service.

Per our customer service notes, the letter you had requested confirming your current patient responsibility balance of $0 was sent on 3/9/06. Your 1/31/06 and 3/3/06 billing statements included patient responsibility from your 6/23/03 date of service which has been adjusted due to untimely billing.

We appreciate your time in notifying us of the service difficulties you have encountered. If you have further questions, please feel free to contact me at (xxx) xxx-xxxx.

Sincerely,
Mr. Director, Patient Financial Services

cc: Ms. CEO and Director
Mr. Director of Payment Processing


My Response

March 23, 2006

Mr. Director, Patient Financial Services
University of We Know We Killed Your Kid
But You Still Owe Us Money Hospitals and Clinics
Slaughterhouse Drive
Potato City, Ohidoa

Mr. Director,

I received your letter yesterday regarding my recent correspondence about my account.

I understand that my account has been adjusted due to untimely billing. However, although the customer service notes may indicate that a letter was sent confirming my current patient responsibility balance of $0, I have not received such a letter. I would appreciate getting a copy of this letter since it says in my record that one was sent.

However, my request, which I communicated to the billing clerks I spoke with during the week of March 6 and again on March 13, as well as to you, Ms. CEO and Director, and Mr. Director of Payment Processing, is NOT a letter stating my current patient responsibility balance.

What I would like is a letter from the University of We Know We Killed Your Kid
But You Still Owe Us Money Hospitals and Clinics stating that I do not currently, and will not ever, owe anything to UI Hospitals and Clinics for the year 2003. As I stated in my previous letter, I have been told many times that my account balance for 2003 is $0, only to have another bill for that time sent to my home. I would like something in writing stating that I will never owe the hospital anything from 2003, so that I may show it to billing clerks in the future when yet another bill from 2003 arrives.

I hope this is clear. If you have questions, please do not hesitate to write me another letter. At this point, I prefer all correspondence to take place in writing rather than over the telephone so that I may keep a record of it.

Sincerely,

Depressionista
Patient Drive
Potato City, Ohidoa

cc: Ms. CEO and Director
Mr. Director of the Payment Processing Center

The Letter I AM Going to Send

March 14, 2006

Ms. Director and CEO
University of We Know We Killed Your Kid But You Still Owe Us Money Hospitals and Clinics
Slaughterhouse Drive
Potato City, Ohidoa

Ms. Director and CEO

I am writing about a recent billing issue that I am trying to resolve with University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics. In case you need to look it up, my account number is xxxxx, my name is Depressionista, my birth date is xx-xx-xxxx and I live on Patient Drive, Ohidoa.

In February 2006, I received a bill for $147.28, the majority of which (about $138) was from a D&C I had on June 23, 2003, after the mid-pregnancy loss of my daughter at your institution due to incompetent cervix.

During this traumatic event in my life, my care at University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics was botched from beginning to end. To list just a few examples: nothing was done to stop my labor; I was misdiagnosed by a resident and almost sent home without a pelvic exam; no high-risk obstetrician saw me for four hours after I’d come to the hospital bleeding; the obstetrician told me my child was dead when really she had a heartbeat for nine minutes, during which time a nurse held the child instead of giving her to me; the nurse told me we’d had a boy and then, two weeks later, genetic tests revealed our child was a girl; and finally, placental tissue was left in my uterus, causing me to hemorrhage two weeks later, thus, the visit to University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics on June 23, 2003 for an emergency D&C.

After I regained my health, I received bill after bill from University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics for charges relating to the birth and death of my daughter and the D&C incident two weeks later. I even received a $900 bill for “nursery charges” even though my daughter spent all 9 minutes of her life being held by someone, and then went straight from my arms to the funeral home. This charge, after repeated calls and contact with patient representatives, was eventually written off.

On April 21, 2004 I personally came to the University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics business office and told the clerk, “I would like to pay ALL of my medical bills from 2003 and this incident in my life, because I don’t ever want to get another bill for this again.” After writing out a check for $1,323.32 (see enclosure) I thought I was finished.

Until Friday, March 5, 2006, that is. After two automated calls to my home that resulted in dead air when I picked up the phone, I hit *69 on my phone to find out where the calls were coming from. It turns out it was University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics billing services with a “courtesy reminder” of the $147.28 I have outstanding in my account. When asked what it was for, it turned out that, as I said before, all but $10.50 was from that D&C performed almost three years ago.


When I challenged this bill, the billing clerks took it under consideration and talked to a supervisor. When I called back during the week of March 6, I was told the charges had been adjusted so that my balance is now $0. I asked at that time that the billing office mail me a letter to confirm that I no longer owe anything from 2003, specifically the incidents on June 9, 2003 and June 23, 2003, or any visits relating to those dates of service.

On Saturday, March 11, I received another “past due” bill from University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics for these exact charges.

On Monday, March 13, I received a voice mail from “Rochelle” in the business office telling me she was unable to provide me with such a letter. When I called back the number she gave me (the general 1-866 number, not a direct line) I got a clerk who could not tell me why this was impossible. I am now waiting for her to call me back to explain why I cannot get this letter.

I am sick and tired of being reminded by University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics about this extremely painful time in my life. I am sick of being reminded of University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics' incompetence in everything from patient care to billing. I am tired of receiving bills for things classified as “abortion services” for a daughter I deeply wanted and miss every day.

I do not want to spend any more of my energy or time trying to get this resolved. I have been told many times before that my account balance from this time in my life is $0, only to get another bill one year later, two years later, three years later. I want it in writing that I am done with 2003. Three years is enough time for the University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics to figure out its charges. I feel that further charges or communication from University of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics about any treatment in 2003 will be harassment.

I am sending this letter certified mail to make sure someone receives it. Since I’m not sure who to send it to, because the billing office “couldn’t give me a name, only an address” for billing disputes, I am sending copies to anyone I can think of who might have interest or influence in this matter.

I would appreciate any and all responses to this letter that are appropriate, but mostly, I just want a letter that says I have paid all charges from 2003 and will not be billed for anything from that year ever again.

Sincerely,

Depressionista

Cc:
Mr. Director, Payment Processing Center
Mr. Senior Assistant Director, Business Office/Administration

The letter I'd like to write but won't

Today the phone rang at 9 a.m., and when I picked it up, there was that "click, click--nothing" that you get when telemarketers are cold-calling you. Nothing unusual. Half an hour later, while my kid is sleeping, it happens again, so this time, I *69 it to see who it was. I got a 1-866 number so I called it and found that it was the business offices at University of We Know We Killed Your Kid But You Still Owe Us Money Hospitals and Clinics.

***Sidenote--I actually work for this slaughterhouse, if peripherally: I do public relations for the medical college associated with it. I don't want to be specific since it is my employer...but let's just say it's one of the "biggest teaching hospitals in the country" located in a state that's often confused with the one that grows potatoes.***

Anyway, I don't want to get too in depth here into my experience at U of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics because it would just take too damn long, but the crux of the matter is that on JUNE 9, 2003 (this is an important date) when I was pregnant with my daughter and came in bleeding at 21.5 weeks of pregnancy, they did absolutely nothing for me and in fact hastened the premature birth of my daughter, and left part of the placenta in which caused me to hemorrhage and have to have a D&C two weeks later, and told us our daughter was a boy until two weeks after her birth, then continued to harass me with bills for things like a "nursery charge" even though she lived only for nine minutes and never saw the inside of a nursery, or letters asking me and my healthy baby to participate in a study about postpartum depression (somehow they never quite got it that she was dead, okay?) etc., ad infinitum.

After nearly a year of unending bills, at the beginning of 2004, I went personally to the business office of U of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics with my checkbook and said, "Tell me everything I owe, because I'm paying it now and I never want to get another bill for this event ever again." I forked over more than a thousand bucks and, silly me, thought I was done with it.

Back to today. Turns out, "Mr. Ricki" on the other end of the phone says, that I still owe U of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics $138 for the D&C I had on June 23, 2003. Mind you, the first inkling I had that this was even out there was a bill I received three weeks ago for something I thought was already paid. I asked Mr. Ricki if there was someone to whom I might complain about this bill, and he said they don't have a name they can give me, but instead gave me a P.O. box number to address a dispute letter to.

So....here's the letter I'd like to write.

Dear P.O. Box 530459238:

First, let me thank you for calling me twice and hanging up, forcing me to call you back and wait on hold to find out I owe U of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics $138 for the D&C I had almost THREE FUCKING YEARS ago to remove placental tissue that was left in my uterus after your asshole physician staff misdiagnosed my pregnancy complication, did nothing to stop my labor and in fact talked me into taking drugs to hasten it, then told me my daughter was a boy, then told me she was dead when really she lived her only nine minutes of life in the arms of a stranger instead of the arms of her mother where she should have been.

While I'm writing, I'd also like to thank you for the diligent follow-up care I received, from the prenatal classes coordinator who called me the day after I lost my daughter wondering when I was going to pay the fee, to the head of the OB/GYN department who sagely counseled me to "move on," "forget about it," and to seek psychiatric care for my "anger issues" over her staff's incompetence. Oh, yes, I'd also like to give a special shout-out to the U of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics medical records department, who took so long to get a copy of my medical records to my lawyer that the medical expert I had hired to SUE YOUR ASS actually DIED FROM NATURAL CAUSES before he could even see them.

I'm so glad I got the opportunity to speak with you today, because due to the recent lack of bills for "nursery charges," the absence of the numerous calls from your postpartum depression research staff wondering how me and my baby were doing, and the fact that nobody from the U of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics insurance department has called me recently wondering why I haven't yet had my daughter vaccinated, I had almost managed to bury the deep, murderous rage I feel toward your institution with its shriveled up shells-of-human-beings for doctors, crusty-crotched department heads and automaton nurses.

In fact, I had buried it so deeply that just last week I took my 17-month-old child, yes, my second child, the one I conceived, carried and birthed AFTER the incident for which I am still being billed, to the U of WKWKYKBYSOUM Hospitals and Clinics orthopedics department for a consultation last week. I was even planning to avail myself of other services at your institution until I heard from you today, reminding me to NEVER SET FOOT IN YOUR FUCKING SHITTY-ASS, RUNDOWN "HOSPITAL" again.

Back to the business at hand, I just have a few questions for you about this bill. Is there any sort of statute of limitations for how long you may continue to bill me for this event in my life? Just so I can be prepared, is there a possibility that when I'm 78 and 25 years out from my hysterectomy that I might still be receiving bills from my D&C in June 2003? Would it be advisable for me to set up a trust fund in my will in case a bill surfaces sometime around the turn of the next century? Will my heirs be responsible for continuing to "settle" this debt every three years or so until the end of time?

I hope you will be able to answer my questions in a letter, although I'm not quite sure how a P.O. Box writes letters, or for that matter, handles "disputes." All I can say is that it's going to suck to be you, Mr. or Mrs. P.O. Box 530459238, because I suppose to a P.O. Box, this letter will be a hard ass-fucking that will TEAR YOU UP, motherfucker.

Now go on and try to squeeze the next dime out of somebody else who isn't as smart or as angry or as able or as healthy as I am, because my fist is closed tight and ready to do business.

Sincerely,
Depressionista

Training bras and Easter dresses

Tonight I had to run into K-Mart for some diapers. It was a "surgical strike" trip as we call them, a "get in, get out as fast as you can" emergency run. Bubba and J. were waiting in the car and it was getting perilously close to Bubba's supposed bedtime (he actually stayed up until 9 p.m. tonight...surprise!)

Anyway, I'm cruising through the baby section to get to the diapers and I see little pink Easter dresses hanging on the racks at the front of the section. Even in my haste I stopped for a moment and looked before heading to the checkout counter.

Later, as I was thinking about the moment, it struck me as odd how the yearly commercial ritual of the Easter dress has become a moment that brings me to my daughter, my little girl I lost in 2003 (see "My life in a long nutshell" post if you're confused).

When I first lost Hope, I had no idea of all the things that would remind me of her. The first year, in fact, nearly everything did. It was either a commercial on TV featuring a little baby girl or a pregnant woman selling cocoa butter cream for stretch marks, or the "stroller brigade" at the mall. If it didn't remind me of Hope, it reminded me of Hope's absence. The empty house, the Christmas without a little baby for us to fuss over, the empty yellow room that was supposed to be her nursery.

Over time, many of those reminders dropped away, or if not disappeared, have moved to a different part of my emotional landscape. The commercials and the stroller brigade I now look at and remember the agony they caused me just a couple of years ago, but I don't really feel it now. Our house is now loud with Bubba's squeals, laughter and crying, and the yellow room is now my son's nursery. Little reminders of Hope have been placed in that room deliberately, but they do not sadden me--the room is a joyful place where I hold my son and tell him about his sister.

For some reason, though, many moments of deeply missing my daughter, while simultaneously connecting with her in a more loving, wistful way, happen in department stores. I remember particularly one day, just before Bubba was born, going to JC Penney's. It was a moment unto itself because I was finally feeling positive enough about the pregnancy--literally a few weeks before he was born--to be able to buy anything for him. J. and I went together. As we were moving toward the infants' section, we had to go through the older kids' section. Suddenly I was standing in front of a whole wall of training bras. A sea of flat white triangles connected by the thinnest of elastic bands loomed before me. The little bras were so innocently sweet that it hurt, and all I could think of was that I would never be taking Hope to get her first one. I cried openly in the store, then went on and got a few things for Bubba. But that moment stuck with me, and whenever I see that section, I think of her.

The Easter dresses have become a similar reminder. Even though the dresses come at the same time of year, every year, they somehow still always surprise me. I will just be doing odd shopping and then see the pink or purple or foamy green spun-sugar fluff of dresses floating in the little girls' section. The first year, it blindsided me much like the training bras. I fingered the soft fabric with tears coming down my face, thinking of all the beautiful things I would have bought for Hope to wear, how cute she would have been in them. Since that first year, the pain has eased, but those dresses still cut to my heart like a symbol of all she would have been, all she should have been, all I should have had with my daughter. And, to be completely honest, now that I have a son who will most likely be our only living child, those dresses remind me of all the "girl stuff" that I will never have the chance to do with my own child.

I know I am lucky to have my son--losing Hope has made me all the more aware of that. I laugh when I hear him already making car noises at 17 months, and I love how enamored he is already with his boy parts. I still manage to find him adorable little outfits that, for the most part, don't have sports symbols emblazoned all over them (although that means he does have a lot of construction-themed clothes in his dresser), and I do think he is the cutest little boy in the world.

But the Easter dresses can't help but remind me of what was lost on that June evening, and remind me of how much I always will love my little girl who never got to take a breath in this world. I think when I am old and gray and hobbling down the department store aisle for my Ben-Gay and Depends, I will still stumble upon those Easter dresses and think of my daughter, who lives on in my heart if nowhere else. And for that, I love those Easter dresses.

This post is inspired by and dedicated to my coworker, whose 16-year-old son tragically committed suicide last night. I can only imagine how many reminders will loom before her after having had 16 years to love and experience her son. I hope with all my heart that someday, she will find at least some of them comforting.