I don't mean to sounds like a bitch, but I'm calling to see if there is a reason my baby died. Do you think you could stop putting me off and get me some damn answers?
OK...vent done...I'm calm now. :o)
I called the doctor at 2pm. The first reason was to get the birth control pill prescription I forgot when we were there last week.
The second reason was to get the results of the diabetes screen I did last week at my six week checkup. Surprise, surprise...all normal...no diabetes for me...not even what they would call pre-diabetic.
The third reason...Is the final autopsy report in? We'll have to call you back. I waited two hours and got no phone call back, so I called them again. The nurse tells me she put the file in the doctor's office and she'll call me back when she can...she's busy today.
I asked, "Is there some reason the doctor has to tell me and you can't?"
The nurse, who obviously couldn't remember the reason I called in the first place, said, "Well the doctor is going to have to approve your prescription."
"Uh...yeah...I'm well aware of that. But is the final autopsy report in yet?"
"Oh, well that I'm waiting to receive."
"So it's done?"
"I'm waiting to see what they fax me, I called pathology and asked them to fax it, but I believe it's the final report. If you don't hear back from us by about 11am tomorrow, give us a call back. Like I said, Dr. S is very busy today with patients."
Now I really don't mean to sound bitchy...I realize my baby is dead and all...so patients with living babies still to deal with should be a priority...but do you think you could give me something here?!?! I have to call YOU? OVER AND OVER? until I get some answers? And you don't even know if what they're faxing you is what I'm looking for? So what exactly did you ask them when you called pathology? It seems a simple question...is the final autopsy report prepared yet? How could you NOT know what they are faxing you?
I think this cinches it...I'm finding a new doctor. This place sucks.
Maybe the vent isn't over...cause I'm still feeling pissed off.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Sam is sick
He's got some intestinal/stomach bug that is a real treat.
I hate it when I can't make him feel better.
I hate it when I can't make him feel better.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Welcome to the world Baby Quinn
My friend Misty had her baby boy today. She had a long and very difficult pregnancy with multiple hospitalizations. At 3 o'clock they started pitocin. At 5:23 Quinnen Robert came out after one push. 7lb 3-1/2 ounces, 19 inches, BROWN hair (her other two have red hair). Both of them are GREAT.
Congratulations Misty & Frank & Chance & Abby
Welcome to the world Baby Quinn!
I'm so happy, sad, jealous, angry...you name it...it's all rolled into one.
Congratulations Misty & Frank & Chance & Abby
Welcome to the world Baby Quinn!
I'm so happy, sad, jealous, angry...you name it...it's all rolled into one.
Why did you say that?
Since Alex died, I have replayed several conversations in my head repeatedly. I'm sure it has something to do with the guilt complex I've got going on. So I'm hoping that by giving them a voice "out loud" here, they will go away and leave me alone.
------------------------------------------
After Sam was born, our neighbor never came over to wish us congratulations. We saw her several months later and she explained that she saw my hospital admission and discharge in the newspaper, but no mention of a baby, so she didn't want to say anything because she thought something might have gone wrong, but she wasn't sure. I laughed. I actually laughed at the thought.
------------------------------------------
While listening to Sam scream from the living room for over an hour one night (some two year old temper tantrum), Steve and I were in the bedroom and I looked at him and said, "Yeah, let's have two. Who thought that was a good idea?"
------------------------------------------
My response to the nurse asking, "Feeling the baby move?"
"uh...yeah...and he kicks HARD."
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Several times at work in response to, "How are you feeling?"
I said, "So great, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."
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Walking to the car after work one day, a colleague shouted across the parking lot, "Girl, when ARE you due? You're huge!"
I laughed, "I know, I know."
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Sittng in the doctor's office waiting room the morning we found out Alex was gone, this very blonde lady sitting two chairs away smiled at me and said, "When are you due."
I quietly said, "June 9th."
She cheerfully quipped back, "It's not long now."
If she only knew.
------------------------------------------
To calm my co-worker's fears about pregnancy and childbirth I said, "Don't worry about it...you'll be FINE."
How arrogant.
------------------------------------------
God help me, I will watch what I say from now on.
------------------------------------------
After Sam was born, our neighbor never came over to wish us congratulations. We saw her several months later and she explained that she saw my hospital admission and discharge in the newspaper, but no mention of a baby, so she didn't want to say anything because she thought something might have gone wrong, but she wasn't sure. I laughed. I actually laughed at the thought.
------------------------------------------
While listening to Sam scream from the living room for over an hour one night (some two year old temper tantrum), Steve and I were in the bedroom and I looked at him and said, "Yeah, let's have two. Who thought that was a good idea?"
------------------------------------------
My response to the nurse asking, "Feeling the baby move?"
"uh...yeah...and he kicks HARD."
------------------------------------------
Several times at work in response to, "How are you feeling?"
I said, "So great, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."
------------------------------------------
Walking to the car after work one day, a colleague shouted across the parking lot, "Girl, when ARE you due? You're huge!"
I laughed, "I know, I know."
------------------------------------------
Sittng in the doctor's office waiting room the morning we found out Alex was gone, this very blonde lady sitting two chairs away smiled at me and said, "When are you due."
I quietly said, "June 9th."
She cheerfully quipped back, "It's not long now."
If she only knew.
------------------------------------------
To calm my co-worker's fears about pregnancy and childbirth I said, "Don't worry about it...you'll be FINE."
How arrogant.
------------------------------------------
God help me, I will watch what I say from now on.
My Great-Aunt Rose Died
She passed away peacefully.
She was 89 years old.
She was my mom's Godmother.
She threw a mean Christmas party.
I haven't seen her in years. I think the last time was some time before Steve and I were married, and we've been married for almost eleven years now. So I haven't seen her in more than a decade. There are a lot of complicating factors in my family that explain why I haven't seen Aunt Rose in such a long time. None of which are really relevant now.
All of my memories of Aunt Rose are from when I was a child, save for that last visit when I was in my late teens or early twenties. And they are all centered around our yearly Christmas celebration. I remember the layout of her house. I remember a fireplace in the living room that was too warm for the room. I remember the plastic slipcover on the sofa. I remember this ceramic Christmas tree that was so typically cheesey and Polish that I simply loved it. I remember Aunt Rose in the kitchen with all the women in the family, creating a feast that could feed five families. There's something about Polish women who lived through the Depression (at least in my family)...They LOVE to feed their families. I remember the dining room table filled with all sorts of wonderful dishes. The house smelled like ham and turkey, Chanel No. 5 and Aqua Net. I remember Aunt Rose's voice as she told stories and laughed in that loud Polish voice that I have obviously inherited from that side of my family.
But most of all, I remember that even though we only saw her once a year, Aunt Rose ALWAYS knew what was going on with us. She didn't have to ask what we were doing in school, because she always knew. She always asked pointed questions about the school play we were doing, or how our Christmas concert went. I suspect there was some sort of Bermuda-triangle type communication system going on there...Mom to Grandma to Aunt Rose. But however it happened, she made us feel like we weren't once-a-year family...but year-round family. She always welcomed us into her home with a smile and a hug that could squeeze the suffing right out of you.
In our last visit with Aunt Rose, I remember those childhood memories rushing back to me as we sat on that sofa with the plastic slipcover. The house was dark and there was no fire in the fireplace. There was no food on the table, no ceramic Christmas tree, no laughter in the kitchen. The house smelled...empty. I remember wondering if I had imagined it all. And then Aunt Rose met us at the door with a huge smile and that hug the welcomed us. She didn't know all about us anymore, but she was still interested...and interesting.
I understand that Aunt Rose had gotten frail in these last few years. I'm sorry I didn't go to see her at least once so she could meet my family. I know she would have scared Steve to death, much like my Grandma does. There's something about us loud Polish women I don't think he'll ever quite "get." But I'm glad too. I still have those Christmas party memories to hold onto. I can still see and hear Aunt Rose laughing and loud...and full of life.
She was 89 years old.
She was my mom's Godmother.
She threw a mean Christmas party.
I haven't seen her in years. I think the last time was some time before Steve and I were married, and we've been married for almost eleven years now. So I haven't seen her in more than a decade. There are a lot of complicating factors in my family that explain why I haven't seen Aunt Rose in such a long time. None of which are really relevant now.
All of my memories of Aunt Rose are from when I was a child, save for that last visit when I was in my late teens or early twenties. And they are all centered around our yearly Christmas celebration. I remember the layout of her house. I remember a fireplace in the living room that was too warm for the room. I remember the plastic slipcover on the sofa. I remember this ceramic Christmas tree that was so typically cheesey and Polish that I simply loved it. I remember Aunt Rose in the kitchen with all the women in the family, creating a feast that could feed five families. There's something about Polish women who lived through the Depression (at least in my family)...They LOVE to feed their families. I remember the dining room table filled with all sorts of wonderful dishes. The house smelled like ham and turkey, Chanel No. 5 and Aqua Net. I remember Aunt Rose's voice as she told stories and laughed in that loud Polish voice that I have obviously inherited from that side of my family.
But most of all, I remember that even though we only saw her once a year, Aunt Rose ALWAYS knew what was going on with us. She didn't have to ask what we were doing in school, because she always knew. She always asked pointed questions about the school play we were doing, or how our Christmas concert went. I suspect there was some sort of Bermuda-triangle type communication system going on there...Mom to Grandma to Aunt Rose. But however it happened, she made us feel like we weren't once-a-year family...but year-round family. She always welcomed us into her home with a smile and a hug that could squeeze the suffing right out of you.
In our last visit with Aunt Rose, I remember those childhood memories rushing back to me as we sat on that sofa with the plastic slipcover. The house was dark and there was no fire in the fireplace. There was no food on the table, no ceramic Christmas tree, no laughter in the kitchen. The house smelled...empty. I remember wondering if I had imagined it all. And then Aunt Rose met us at the door with a huge smile and that hug the welcomed us. She didn't know all about us anymore, but she was still interested...and interesting.
I understand that Aunt Rose had gotten frail in these last few years. I'm sorry I didn't go to see her at least once so she could meet my family. I know she would have scared Steve to death, much like my Grandma does. There's something about us loud Polish women I don't think he'll ever quite "get." But I'm glad too. I still have those Christmas party memories to hold onto. I can still see and hear Aunt Rose laughing and loud...and full of life.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
This is making me crazy
Now I know how Steve feels when I tell him he can't just fix my problems...that he just needs to listen. I want to do something, anything, that will move me forward. I don't want to be told that time will ease the pain and I should just wait it out. I don't want to hear that it's different for everyone...how long it takes to heal even a little bit. I want some concrete answers. I want a plan of action. I don't want to be healed...I just want to know when I can look forward to feeling even a little bit better. Take your time. That's what you tell someone when you have no clue what else to tell them! How about some hope here?
Steve...I'm sorry I ever yelled at you for trying to fix my problems. This helplessness is awful.
Steve...I'm sorry I ever yelled at you for trying to fix my problems. This helplessness is awful.
Going Postal
The sadness is a given. Everyone expects that and is tolerant when I tear up over the littlest gesture of kindness. But what do I do with the anger? the hatred? the outright venom that I want to spew all over the freakin place?
There is this part of me that find great solace in being able to cry freely. I know I can close my office door and have a good sob when I need to. I now have Norman Rockwell's Four Freedoms hanging on my office wall to examine when I have to deal with a particularly difficult phone call. I'm learning to cope.
But then there is the part of me that wants to smash something. I want to kick and hit and bite (nobody in particular...just everyone I see). I want to throw things and tear up anything even remotely destructable. It's funny too because none of it is directed at myself. The experts say to watch for self-destructive behaviors when you're grieving. I have yet to hear of anyone warning about the possibility that I might want to go on a homicidal rampage. I guess that would be self-destructive in a way, but it's really just outwardly directed at the universe in general.
And I can't do it. My office is...well...my office...and I don't want to get fired. In my car, I need to maintain my senses in order to get safely to my destination. At home I have dogs, a child, and a husband who all need me to not lose control. It would probably frighten all of them if I went on a mad rampage. Heck, it frightens me.
I've read a couple of those self-help grief books and they suggest starting an exercise routine. Apparently the physical exertion helps to take the edge off. And since I still have 5 lbs baby weight to lose, on top of the 50 or so just plain fat pounds I should lose, I'm going to give it a try. I'm going to hate every step of it...but if it makes me feel less like running over the little old lady in the grocery store parking lot, it'll be worth it.
There is this part of me that find great solace in being able to cry freely. I know I can close my office door and have a good sob when I need to. I now have Norman Rockwell's Four Freedoms hanging on my office wall to examine when I have to deal with a particularly difficult phone call. I'm learning to cope.
But then there is the part of me that wants to smash something. I want to kick and hit and bite (nobody in particular...just everyone I see). I want to throw things and tear up anything even remotely destructable. It's funny too because none of it is directed at myself. The experts say to watch for self-destructive behaviors when you're grieving. I have yet to hear of anyone warning about the possibility that I might want to go on a homicidal rampage. I guess that would be self-destructive in a way, but it's really just outwardly directed at the universe in general.
And I can't do it. My office is...well...my office...and I don't want to get fired. In my car, I need to maintain my senses in order to get safely to my destination. At home I have dogs, a child, and a husband who all need me to not lose control. It would probably frighten all of them if I went on a mad rampage. Heck, it frightens me.
I've read a couple of those self-help grief books and they suggest starting an exercise routine. Apparently the physical exertion helps to take the edge off. And since I still have 5 lbs baby weight to lose, on top of the 50 or so just plain fat pounds I should lose, I'm going to give it a try. I'm going to hate every step of it...but if it makes me feel less like running over the little old lady in the grocery store parking lot, it'll be worth it.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Do you believe in signs?
I believe in signs. I always have. And today I NEED to believe in them.
I was having a particularly rough day so I decided to go out to the cemetery and water Alex's flowers. I said, "I love you Alex," turned to leave, and saw the most amazing green hummingbird hovering under the tree my car was parked nearest to. It stopped me dead in my tracks as it hung there in mid-air for a few seconds and the flitted off across the field and into the woods.
Thank you Alex...I love you.
I was having a particularly rough day so I decided to go out to the cemetery and water Alex's flowers. I said, "I love you Alex," turned to leave, and saw the most amazing green hummingbird hovering under the tree my car was parked nearest to. It stopped me dead in my tracks as it hung there in mid-air for a few seconds and the flitted off across the field and into the woods. Thank you Alex...I love you.
Do you pray?
I've never thought of myself as a particularly spiritual person. I tried church when I was still in middle/high school but fell out of the practice. Then I tried attending again in college a few times. And while I immensely enjoyed the experience, I couldn't drag myself out of bed on Sunday mornings after a week of late night studying (I had a tough course load and was a nerd).
But I have always prayed. But I've come to realize that I've always prayed the juvenile prayers everyone has for special "favors" from God. I pray when I want something. Why? Where in the world did I get the concept that I could ask God to deliver a puppy, an "A" on a test, or a successful surgery for my grandmother? And where did I get the notion that if God doesn't answer my prayers, it must be for some divine plan? He has his reasons?
I've been doing a lot of praying lately. But I know I can't have what I truly want. I know there will be no miracles and no happy ending. And now I'm wondering what I'm really praying for. If I pray that God takes care of my Alex in heaven, I'm asking for a favor. And if I pray that we find some answers as to why this happened, I'm expecting something. Even if I pray for just the strength to get through...to put the pieces of my life back together again...I'm asking for handouts. Surely, God is tired of hearing from me with all my "I wants and gimmes."
So what do I pray for? Why bother?
Someone suggested I pray a prayer of thanks. Instead of asking for more blessings, raise up my voice to thank God for those blessings I already have. Normally, this would sound like a great idea. But right now it just really ticks me off. So maybe I shouldn't be praying at all. Instead of adding my voice of constant want and need to the already overcrowded heavenly pipeline, I should just be silent for a while and listen. Maybe it's just not necessary to pray if you can't think of anything to say beyond, "Please give me..." The "thank yous" will probably come back some day. But for right now I just don't have them in me.
But I have always prayed. But I've come to realize that I've always prayed the juvenile prayers everyone has for special "favors" from God. I pray when I want something. Why? Where in the world did I get the concept that I could ask God to deliver a puppy, an "A" on a test, or a successful surgery for my grandmother? And where did I get the notion that if God doesn't answer my prayers, it must be for some divine plan? He has his reasons?
I've been doing a lot of praying lately. But I know I can't have what I truly want. I know there will be no miracles and no happy ending. And now I'm wondering what I'm really praying for. If I pray that God takes care of my Alex in heaven, I'm asking for a favor. And if I pray that we find some answers as to why this happened, I'm expecting something. Even if I pray for just the strength to get through...to put the pieces of my life back together again...I'm asking for handouts. Surely, God is tired of hearing from me with all my "I wants and gimmes."
So what do I pray for? Why bother?
Someone suggested I pray a prayer of thanks. Instead of asking for more blessings, raise up my voice to thank God for those blessings I already have. Normally, this would sound like a great idea. But right now it just really ticks me off. So maybe I shouldn't be praying at all. Instead of adding my voice of constant want and need to the already overcrowded heavenly pipeline, I should just be silent for a while and listen. Maybe it's just not necessary to pray if you can't think of anything to say beyond, "Please give me..." The "thank yous" will probably come back some day. But for right now I just don't have them in me.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Update on the trim
Well...the trim is up. The furniture has been moved. Most everything on my panic attack list has now been taken care of.
And the "baby's room"...Alex's room...now all "put together"...sits unoccupied.
And the "baby's room"...Alex's room...now all "put together"...sits unoccupied.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Who am I?
I don't know who to be.
And I'm tired of people either (1) telling me who I should be; or (2) simply expecting I'm going to be the same person I was before Alex died.
I am different.
I am tired and angry and sad.
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Today we went to the cemetery and put out little stars and stripes pinwheels for the baby graves. Some of them obviously are not visited often, if at all. There is this one, off by itself, that called out to me and was the inspiration for this particular decorating episode. Little Andrew Huitt. Born in 1927. Died in 1928. There are no decorations and there is no family buried nearby. I wonder if anyone ever speaks his name out loud anymore.
There are other stones there to mark the graves of babies. Some don't even have first names. Some only have "Baby" and a last name. No indication of whether the baby was a boy or a girl. No story shared about how that child's parents came to bury them in that place.
While we were there, Steve said this was a good idea and that he hopes that some day, years from now, someone will remember our Alex in the same way. I do too.
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We picked up our Sam's third birthday pictures. They're gorgeous.
Wanna see them?
Off to scan them in...
And I'm tired of people either (1) telling me who I should be; or (2) simply expecting I'm going to be the same person I was before Alex died.
I am different.
I am tired and angry and sad.
------------------------------------------
Today we went to the cemetery and put out little stars and stripes pinwheels for the baby graves. Some of them obviously are not visited often, if at all. There is this one, off by itself, that called out to me and was the inspiration for this particular decorating episode. Little Andrew Huitt. Born in 1927. Died in 1928. There are no decorations and there is no family buried nearby. I wonder if anyone ever speaks his name out loud anymore.
There are other stones there to mark the graves of babies. Some don't even have first names. Some only have "Baby" and a last name. No indication of whether the baby was a boy or a girl. No story shared about how that child's parents came to bury them in that place.
While we were there, Steve said this was a good idea and that he hopes that some day, years from now, someone will remember our Alex in the same way. I do too.
------------------------------------------
We picked up our Sam's third birthday pictures. They're gorgeous.
Wanna see them?
Off to scan them in...
Friday, June 24, 2005
I've been thinking about this...
Your comments were duly noted. And please don't think I'm on the verge of a breakdown. I am quite comfortable with the idea that I followed medical advice during my pregnancy. And I know I did everything I should have done according to that medical advice. And I've been thinking about it and I really can't even say the doctors should have known something was off.
I had an ultrasound January 26th at 18 weeks and his size was right on track for June 9th delivery. She said everything looked exactly as it should. I had a blood test on February 21st, no GD. I had another blood test on April 1st, no GD. My next u/s was scheduled for May 26, fifteen days after Alex was already gone. Something obviously went horribly wrong between April 1st and May 11th, as far as his size. There is no denying that fact. Even if we discount his weight...he was 20 freaking inches long at 35 weeks, 5 days! He topped all the charts. He would have been a pro basketball player by the time he was born if he had lived.
I have speculations about what went wrong, but I'm not a doctor (though I'm beginning to wonder if I know just as much as they do). Whether Alex's size ultimately killed him or not, remains to be seen...I know that. But it does me no good to hide my head and pretend it didn't happen, or that my body didn't play some role in making it happen. If I decide to have another baby, this will be valuable information that could save his/her life. I have to face that reality.
Sure, I can't help but wonder if there was anything I could have done to change the outcome. I think about, "what if I had done this, or not done that?" What if I had requested a blood sugar monitor to be on the safe side (I had it with my first child, so maybe I should have considered it odd that I didn't have it this time)? What if I had insisted on another u/s sooner? What if I had talked about how unusually hard Alex was kicking me? What if I hadn't eaten the Easter candy? What if I had gone to see the doctor sooner about my sinus infection and asked about how it might affect my blood glucose? What if I had been doing recorded kick counts and not been lulled into a sense that everything was ok as long as I felt him "regularly?"
But as Steve says, hindsight is 20/20. It's not going to bring Alex back. So we move forward with whatever information we have.
I appreciate everyone's concern for my mental well-being. And I appreciate the idea that there could be some other explanation for Alex's death. BUT...even if there is another explanation for his passing, I still have to address the size issue. Sure, maybe he didn't die because he was so big...but he was still big. That is something that points to an obvious problem within my body. I can't pretend otherwise.
I had an ultrasound January 26th at 18 weeks and his size was right on track for June 9th delivery. She said everything looked exactly as it should. I had a blood test on February 21st, no GD. I had another blood test on April 1st, no GD. My next u/s was scheduled for May 26, fifteen days after Alex was already gone. Something obviously went horribly wrong between April 1st and May 11th, as far as his size. There is no denying that fact. Even if we discount his weight...he was 20 freaking inches long at 35 weeks, 5 days! He topped all the charts. He would have been a pro basketball player by the time he was born if he had lived.
I have speculations about what went wrong, but I'm not a doctor (though I'm beginning to wonder if I know just as much as they do). Whether Alex's size ultimately killed him or not, remains to be seen...I know that. But it does me no good to hide my head and pretend it didn't happen, or that my body didn't play some role in making it happen. If I decide to have another baby, this will be valuable information that could save his/her life. I have to face that reality.
Sure, I can't help but wonder if there was anything I could have done to change the outcome. I think about, "what if I had done this, or not done that?" What if I had requested a blood sugar monitor to be on the safe side (I had it with my first child, so maybe I should have considered it odd that I didn't have it this time)? What if I had insisted on another u/s sooner? What if I had talked about how unusually hard Alex was kicking me? What if I hadn't eaten the Easter candy? What if I had gone to see the doctor sooner about my sinus infection and asked about how it might affect my blood glucose? What if I had been doing recorded kick counts and not been lulled into a sense that everything was ok as long as I felt him "regularly?"
But as Steve says, hindsight is 20/20. It's not going to bring Alex back. So we move forward with whatever information we have.
I appreciate everyone's concern for my mental well-being. And I appreciate the idea that there could be some other explanation for Alex's death. BUT...even if there is another explanation for his passing, I still have to address the size issue. Sure, maybe he didn't die because he was so big...but he was still big. That is something that points to an obvious problem within my body. I can't pretend otherwise.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
And the answer is...
...there is no answer. So in the absence of an answer, we're guessing it was my fault. Sort of.
I have sooo much blog material, I just might have to make this one in parts.
I called the Doctor's office yesterday to confirm that they would, indeed, have the autopsy results to go over with us. No sense in Steve taking off work if we weren't going to have the mental breakdown that would require his attendance. First, the nurse, Margie (lovely woman), told me that my doctor is on vacation this week. Huh? OK...so who am I seeing? Dr. B...a wonderful doctor who held my hand and helped counsel us through the labor process with Alex--whose name I can not spell because it's Polish and requires at least a couple z's that I can't remember where to place. So, ok, I'll see Dr. B. Will the autopsy results be there? Yes, I was told.
So we got to the doctor's office today. The receptionist checked me in and attempted to collect the required $15 copay for a regular visit. I told her this was a postpartum checkup and she got that chipper little look on her face that people get when they think they're dealing with a new mommy. She said, "Oh...postpartum...I'll change that then." She crossed off the need for the $15 copay and gave me that happy smile that said she obviously had NO idea why I was there. I could have thrown up on her.
Then we got into the exam room and Margie did the obligatory blood pressure check and game of 20 questions. She dutifully noted all the answers in my file and scurried off. While we waited, Steve and I complained to one another that we wished they would leave the file in the room while we were waiting so at least we could snoop through it. Instead, we were left to sit there in silence and contemplate what the doctor was going to tell us.
After what seemed like an incredibly long wait, but I'm sure was only a few minutes, Dr. B. bounced into the exam room, big smile on his face.
"Hi guys, how are you today?"
No response from us...confused looks to on another and small shrugs that indicated we were so-so.
"So what's going on with you?" he happily asked.
It hit me in that moment...this man had no clue who we were or why we were there.
"Um...not much," I replied, a bit at a loss for words.
"I think we may have met once before," he half asked with a questioning look on his face, growing at least a little bit uncomfortable with the situation.
I finally decided to let him off the hook, "Uh, yeah, in the hospital six weeks ago...our baby was stillborn."
Lightbulb on!
He turned and looked quickly at my file. Then turned back and said, "Oh, yes, I remember, you were there for such a long time. How are you doing now?"
OH MY FREAKING HELL!!!
"Well, I've stopped sobbing uncontrollably, so that's progress, right?" I asked.
Nervous laughter all around.
Let's just say the rest of the exam was routine. I don't need to share those details...and I'm sure you don't really want them.
Dr. B. excused himself and said he's like to talk with us in his office...because he's, "sure we have some questions" for him.
We headed over to his office where he was sitting at his desk reading (perhaps for the first time?) what we thought was the autopsy report. WELL...it was only the preliminary autopsy report. Do you know what they put in the preliminary autopsy report? They look at the baby, the placenta and the umbilical cord and write down what they see.
So here's what we got...
Big baby...9lbs 1oz at 35 weeks 5 days (delivery).
No obvious problems other than large size and infection of placenta.
Infection of placenta could have been because of breaking the water and subsequent exams, etc. Infection could have been there before the water was broken, though unlikely because I exhibited no signs of infection until after my water was broken.
So most likely...big baby...uncontrolled gestational diabetes.
Ummmm...Question:
I was tested THREE times. I ate reasonably well according to the gestational diabetes diet. How could I have had gestational diabetes without it showing on even one of those tests? And IF I had it, why was he so big if I was eating healthy?
Answer:
We don't know.
Question:
Will it happen again?
Answer:
We don't know. What we can do is monitor any subsequent pregnancy differently (more) in order to address any problems before they become problems (serial ultrasounds, weekly non-stress tests, recorded kick count exercises, gestational diabetes diet and blood monitoring).
Question:
If the THREE blood test I took showed no gestational diabetes...what good would monitoring do?
Answer:
Well we really don't know if it WAS gestational diabetes, but that's what we can assume from the size of the baby. (notice how he didn't really answer my question?)
Do you notice a theme here? We don't know ANYTHING!
At one point he said to Steve, "Your son was perfectly normal in every way." Uh, yeah, except he was dead! Paging Dr. Clue!
The "positives" to come out of this wasted time today...
We would be considered high risk if we choose to have another baby. We can take our information to a perinatologist for a consult in that case and he can tell us if there is any further special care we should undertake to make sure the next baby comes out alive. We went to the lab to have blood drawn for a fasting blood sugar level and an A1C (I think that's right), to determine if there is an underlying diabetes problem with me. Ummm...hello...THREE tests...nothing. What ARE we looking for? "Well, they'll most likely come back normal." So if I'm normal...why is my baby dead?!?!?!?!
And I'm not a betting person, but I'm not so sure I'm willing to bet that the mystery gestational diabetes, undetectable by all blood tests known to doctors, wouldn't result in another dead baby. That just doesn't seem like a winning bet to me...for some reason.
Steve wants to wait for the final autopsy report before jumping to conclusions (despite the Dr.'s apparent lack of a problem in doing so himself).
OK...I'll give you until the final autopsy report. But then we're both going to have to admit that it was my fault. It wasn't something I did intentionally, and I did what I was supposed to do...so it's not really MY fault as much as it is my body's fault. This, however, does not make me feel all that much better. I did what I was supposed to do...I DID have the perfect pregnancy...and I got a dead baby.
So what guarantees am I going to get for next time? I'm guessing that all the additional monitoring would catch any problems early and we could discuss options at that point. This thought makes me a bit sick to my stomach too, because it essentially says that had I had better monitoring this time, Alex could have lived.
Quite honestly, I feel like they're telling me, "Thanks for playing, please hit reset and try again." They don't seem to realize this isn't a video game. They don't realize that I can't just gamble on, "sometimes these things just happen." Another dead baby could possibly destroy me mentally. And I personally think we owe it to Alex to find out why he didn't get a chance at his own life.
"I don't know" just doesn't seem adequate for any of it.
And next time...maybe somebody could actually KNOW why I'm at the office? Is that too much to ask?
I have sooo much blog material, I just might have to make this one in parts.
I called the Doctor's office yesterday to confirm that they would, indeed, have the autopsy results to go over with us. No sense in Steve taking off work if we weren't going to have the mental breakdown that would require his attendance. First, the nurse, Margie (lovely woman), told me that my doctor is on vacation this week. Huh? OK...so who am I seeing? Dr. B...a wonderful doctor who held my hand and helped counsel us through the labor process with Alex--whose name I can not spell because it's Polish and requires at least a couple z's that I can't remember where to place. So, ok, I'll see Dr. B. Will the autopsy results be there? Yes, I was told.
So we got to the doctor's office today. The receptionist checked me in and attempted to collect the required $15 copay for a regular visit. I told her this was a postpartum checkup and she got that chipper little look on her face that people get when they think they're dealing with a new mommy. She said, "Oh...postpartum...I'll change that then." She crossed off the need for the $15 copay and gave me that happy smile that said she obviously had NO idea why I was there. I could have thrown up on her.
Then we got into the exam room and Margie did the obligatory blood pressure check and game of 20 questions. She dutifully noted all the answers in my file and scurried off. While we waited, Steve and I complained to one another that we wished they would leave the file in the room while we were waiting so at least we could snoop through it. Instead, we were left to sit there in silence and contemplate what the doctor was going to tell us.
After what seemed like an incredibly long wait, but I'm sure was only a few minutes, Dr. B. bounced into the exam room, big smile on his face.
"Hi guys, how are you today?"
No response from us...confused looks to on another and small shrugs that indicated we were so-so.
"So what's going on with you?" he happily asked.
It hit me in that moment...this man had no clue who we were or why we were there.
"Um...not much," I replied, a bit at a loss for words.
"I think we may have met once before," he half asked with a questioning look on his face, growing at least a little bit uncomfortable with the situation.
I finally decided to let him off the hook, "Uh, yeah, in the hospital six weeks ago...our baby was stillborn."
Lightbulb on!
He turned and looked quickly at my file. Then turned back and said, "Oh, yes, I remember, you were there for such a long time. How are you doing now?"
OH MY FREAKING HELL!!!
"Well, I've stopped sobbing uncontrollably, so that's progress, right?" I asked.
Nervous laughter all around.
Let's just say the rest of the exam was routine. I don't need to share those details...and I'm sure you don't really want them.
Dr. B. excused himself and said he's like to talk with us in his office...because he's, "sure we have some questions" for him.
We headed over to his office where he was sitting at his desk reading (perhaps for the first time?) what we thought was the autopsy report. WELL...it was only the preliminary autopsy report. Do you know what they put in the preliminary autopsy report? They look at the baby, the placenta and the umbilical cord and write down what they see.
So here's what we got...
Big baby...9lbs 1oz at 35 weeks 5 days (delivery).
No obvious problems other than large size and infection of placenta.
Infection of placenta could have been because of breaking the water and subsequent exams, etc. Infection could have been there before the water was broken, though unlikely because I exhibited no signs of infection until after my water was broken.
So most likely...big baby...uncontrolled gestational diabetes.
Ummmm...Question:
I was tested THREE times. I ate reasonably well according to the gestational diabetes diet. How could I have had gestational diabetes without it showing on even one of those tests? And IF I had it, why was he so big if I was eating healthy?
Answer:
We don't know.
Question:
Will it happen again?
Answer:
We don't know. What we can do is monitor any subsequent pregnancy differently (more) in order to address any problems before they become problems (serial ultrasounds, weekly non-stress tests, recorded kick count exercises, gestational diabetes diet and blood monitoring).
Question:
If the THREE blood test I took showed no gestational diabetes...what good would monitoring do?
Answer:
Well we really don't know if it WAS gestational diabetes, but that's what we can assume from the size of the baby. (notice how he didn't really answer my question?)
Do you notice a theme here? We don't know ANYTHING!
At one point he said to Steve, "Your son was perfectly normal in every way." Uh, yeah, except he was dead! Paging Dr. Clue!
The "positives" to come out of this wasted time today...
We would be considered high risk if we choose to have another baby. We can take our information to a perinatologist for a consult in that case and he can tell us if there is any further special care we should undertake to make sure the next baby comes out alive. We went to the lab to have blood drawn for a fasting blood sugar level and an A1C (I think that's right), to determine if there is an underlying diabetes problem with me. Ummm...hello...THREE tests...nothing. What ARE we looking for? "Well, they'll most likely come back normal." So if I'm normal...why is my baby dead?!?!?!?!
And I'm not a betting person, but I'm not so sure I'm willing to bet that the mystery gestational diabetes, undetectable by all blood tests known to doctors, wouldn't result in another dead baby. That just doesn't seem like a winning bet to me...for some reason.
Steve wants to wait for the final autopsy report before jumping to conclusions (despite the Dr.'s apparent lack of a problem in doing so himself).
OK...I'll give you until the final autopsy report. But then we're both going to have to admit that it was my fault. It wasn't something I did intentionally, and I did what I was supposed to do...so it's not really MY fault as much as it is my body's fault. This, however, does not make me feel all that much better. I did what I was supposed to do...I DID have the perfect pregnancy...and I got a dead baby.
So what guarantees am I going to get for next time? I'm guessing that all the additional monitoring would catch any problems early and we could discuss options at that point. This thought makes me a bit sick to my stomach too, because it essentially says that had I had better monitoring this time, Alex could have lived.
Quite honestly, I feel like they're telling me, "Thanks for playing, please hit reset and try again." They don't seem to realize this isn't a video game. They don't realize that I can't just gamble on, "sometimes these things just happen." Another dead baby could possibly destroy me mentally. And I personally think we owe it to Alex to find out why he didn't get a chance at his own life.
"I don't know" just doesn't seem adequate for any of it.
And next time...maybe somebody could actually KNOW why I'm at the office? Is that too much to ask?
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Cereal and the three-year-old
I bought Sam some Finding Nemo cereal. It's not bad cereal, if you don't count the marshmallows. Of course, that's the only thing he eats is the marshmallows. lol
I could die
I don't know why this realization hit me this morning, or what it means, but it felt like something I needed to blog about. First, let's back up a few steps...
Last night I had this flash of insane need to find the onesie I bought for Alex with the green frogs on it. I have no idea what brought it on, but I asked Steve to run down to the basement to find it for me. Our basement is quite the disaster these days with boxes, carseats, strollers, and the like, once sitting upstairs all cleaned up and ready to go for baby #2, now hastily thrown down there to be hidden so I didn't have to look at them. So as you can imagine, my little freak out was actually a feat of epic proportions for my poor husband. He looked and looked and looked. I knew the box the darn thing was in and it just wasn't in the basement. I could see him, frantically searching, ready to break into tears himself because he couldn't provide the aforementioned onesie.
I, for some reason, had one niggling thought that maybe the missing box was upstairs with the crib. So I ventured up there on my own, did indeed find the box with the onesie right on top, and high-tailed it out of there before having a complete meltdown. The nursery is far from done. In fact it still sits in exactly the same condition as it did the day before Alex died. I think it is that unfinished setup that upsets me. But I digress. I came downstairs with the onesie in hand and told Steve it was upstairs. His reaction? "Thank God." See...I TOLD you he was upset.
Anyway...during our search for the wayward onesie, I found a blanket I had also bought for Alex. It's green and has a cute little giraffe and the word, "Baby," quilted onto it. It's so soft, and it's brand new, and I had to pull it out of the box to have with me. Don't ask me why...Alex never even saw the stupid thing. But I'm apparently suffering some sort of weird mental break, so I had to have it. I put it on top of my wardrobe with the stuffed dog (like the one I bought for Alex that was buried with him).
Oy! This is taking a long time to tell...but I'm thinking all these pieces are important somehow.
This morning I got to sleep in because it's my day off with Sam. I woke up early because I have a headache. Which reminds me, I have to go take some Advil. Be right back...
OK. Headache disposal in progress.
So this morning, I'm lying awake in bed contemplating the meaning of the universe when my eyes come to rest on that blankie and stuffed doggie. I start thinking of Alex buried in the cemetery with his doggie and a blankie I crocheted for him. Then I get to thinking about the other babies in the cemetery and how they are all sort of buried in a couple of groups, but Alex is off by himself because we chose to buy three plots together...a family plot, if you will.
Then it hit me! I could die!
Here I am, trying to work past this grief and learn to cope in everyday life. I'm planning on buying books to learn about stillbirth so I can make an informed decision about whether I want to try to have another baby. I'm looking around for better job opportunities. I'm thinking about Sam starting school in a couple years. But there is no guarantee that I will get to do ANY of that. My headstone could have another sixty, thirty, or two years on it. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. (I've often used that phrase before and never really contemplated what it meant.) That spot in Mount Pleasant Cemetery is waiting for me...whenever. And there is no way to tell when I will end up there.
I'm a bit shaken by this thought. I have done a lot of things in my 33 years that I am glad I did. But there is so much more to do. As I've said many times before to friends and family...I want my life to be gloriously full of committments and responsibilities and complications. But there are two thoughts I'm left with if I choose a life like that. First, if I die tomorrow, will I be able to say that my life was full enough? Or will people look at my life and say, "It's a shame she never got to......(whatever).......before she died"? And second, if I die tomorrow, will my gloriously full life cause undue complication for those who love me? Have I faced up to my real adult responsibilities and provided for my family's future?
I'm sad to admit right now that the answers to both questions is no.
I have not lived a life that is full enough. There are so many things I have wanted to do with my life that I haven't done because of fear. I'm afraid of risk and change and all that fun stuff that comes with a gloriously full life. I have played it relatively safe. Sure, I have built a pretty full life...but if I look deep down and am really honest, I have to admit that there are still things left to do.
I have not provided for a future for my family. I have no life insurance. I have no funeral arrangements. I don't even have a will and I'm a freakin attorney! And if, God forbid, Steve AND I die, I have made no provisions for Sam. I need to start planning for a real future that includes the possibility of death...instead of this dream I've been living in all this time.
I don't want to leave this world with just unused onesies and blankies.
Last night I had this flash of insane need to find the onesie I bought for Alex with the green frogs on it. I have no idea what brought it on, but I asked Steve to run down to the basement to find it for me. Our basement is quite the disaster these days with boxes, carseats, strollers, and the like, once sitting upstairs all cleaned up and ready to go for baby #2, now hastily thrown down there to be hidden so I didn't have to look at them. So as you can imagine, my little freak out was actually a feat of epic proportions for my poor husband. He looked and looked and looked. I knew the box the darn thing was in and it just wasn't in the basement. I could see him, frantically searching, ready to break into tears himself because he couldn't provide the aforementioned onesie.
I, for some reason, had one niggling thought that maybe the missing box was upstairs with the crib. So I ventured up there on my own, did indeed find the box with the onesie right on top, and high-tailed it out of there before having a complete meltdown. The nursery is far from done. In fact it still sits in exactly the same condition as it did the day before Alex died. I think it is that unfinished setup that upsets me. But I digress. I came downstairs with the onesie in hand and told Steve it was upstairs. His reaction? "Thank God." See...I TOLD you he was upset.
Anyway...during our search for the wayward onesie, I found a blanket I had also bought for Alex. It's green and has a cute little giraffe and the word, "Baby," quilted onto it. It's so soft, and it's brand new, and I had to pull it out of the box to have with me. Don't ask me why...Alex never even saw the stupid thing. But I'm apparently suffering some sort of weird mental break, so I had to have it. I put it on top of my wardrobe with the stuffed dog (like the one I bought for Alex that was buried with him).
Oy! This is taking a long time to tell...but I'm thinking all these pieces are important somehow.
This morning I got to sleep in because it's my day off with Sam. I woke up early because I have a headache. Which reminds me, I have to go take some Advil. Be right back...
OK. Headache disposal in progress.
So this morning, I'm lying awake in bed contemplating the meaning of the universe when my eyes come to rest on that blankie and stuffed doggie. I start thinking of Alex buried in the cemetery with his doggie and a blankie I crocheted for him. Then I get to thinking about the other babies in the cemetery and how they are all sort of buried in a couple of groups, but Alex is off by himself because we chose to buy three plots together...a family plot, if you will.
Then it hit me! I could die!
Here I am, trying to work past this grief and learn to cope in everyday life. I'm planning on buying books to learn about stillbirth so I can make an informed decision about whether I want to try to have another baby. I'm looking around for better job opportunities. I'm thinking about Sam starting school in a couple years. But there is no guarantee that I will get to do ANY of that. My headstone could have another sixty, thirty, or two years on it. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. (I've often used that phrase before and never really contemplated what it meant.) That spot in Mount Pleasant Cemetery is waiting for me...whenever. And there is no way to tell when I will end up there.
I'm a bit shaken by this thought. I have done a lot of things in my 33 years that I am glad I did. But there is so much more to do. As I've said many times before to friends and family...I want my life to be gloriously full of committments and responsibilities and complications. But there are two thoughts I'm left with if I choose a life like that. First, if I die tomorrow, will I be able to say that my life was full enough? Or will people look at my life and say, "It's a shame she never got to......(whatever).......before she died"? And second, if I die tomorrow, will my gloriously full life cause undue complication for those who love me? Have I faced up to my real adult responsibilities and provided for my family's future?
I'm sad to admit right now that the answers to both questions is no.
I have not lived a life that is full enough. There are so many things I have wanted to do with my life that I haven't done because of fear. I'm afraid of risk and change and all that fun stuff that comes with a gloriously full life. I have played it relatively safe. Sure, I have built a pretty full life...but if I look deep down and am really honest, I have to admit that there are still things left to do.
I have not provided for a future for my family. I have no life insurance. I have no funeral arrangements. I don't even have a will and I'm a freakin attorney! And if, God forbid, Steve AND I die, I have made no provisions for Sam. I need to start planning for a real future that includes the possibility of death...instead of this dream I've been living in all this time.
I don't want to leave this world with just unused onesies and blankies.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Why?
I'm not ashamed to admit I have been a member of a message board since I first thought I was pregnant with Sam way back in 2001. I have grown to know the ladies on their like they were extended family. We celebrate with each other, pray for each other, and mourn for each other. I love them like sisters.
Since Alex died I have been unable to post more than a couple of messages on that board (congratulations for friends who have had babies). I find something very annoying about posting about cleaning my house or fixing dinner right now...my issue, I know.
But today I was checking our "calendar" to see when a particular friend's toddler would celebrate his third birthday. I scrolled through the birthday list, which has now been updated to include births that occurred after our Due In June 2002 babies. This includes all babies born in 2003, 2004, and now 2005. 42 babies born since our last June 2002 baby was born. If you scroll through the pages and pages of birthdays, you come to a section at the end..."Our Angels." Alex is alone in that section. I'm touched that they would remember us in that way.
But now I can't stop crying.
All those happy birthdays...Why our Alex?
Since Alex died I have been unable to post more than a couple of messages on that board (congratulations for friends who have had babies). I find something very annoying about posting about cleaning my house or fixing dinner right now...my issue, I know.
But today I was checking our "calendar" to see when a particular friend's toddler would celebrate his third birthday. I scrolled through the birthday list, which has now been updated to include births that occurred after our Due In June 2002 babies. This includes all babies born in 2003, 2004, and now 2005. 42 babies born since our last June 2002 baby was born. If you scroll through the pages and pages of birthdays, you come to a section at the end..."Our Angels." Alex is alone in that section. I'm touched that they would remember us in that way.
But now I can't stop crying.
All those happy birthdays...Why our Alex?
More customer service stories
I just had the most ridiculous telephone conversation with the receptionist at our large animal vet's office. Dr. Emily (yes, they call her Dr. Emily rather than Dr. Miller...welcome to Little House on the Prairie) is going to vaccinate our horses this afternoon, did we want the straight tetanus or the one with eastern-western?
Having had the horses for a little over a year now, and no real idea what this woman was talking about, I asked, "Ummm...what's the difference?" I was, of course, thinking she would tell me a bit about the illness creating the need for this eastern-western addition to the tetanus vaccine. Nope.
She responds with, I kid you not, "Well, one has eastern-western added to it, rather than just straight tetanus."
I reply with the equally idiotic, "OK...but what IS eastern-western?"
Silence. Shuffling of papers.
"Ummm..."
You have got to be kidding me?!?! I'm supposed to decide whether to give my horse a vaccine and you can't even tell me what it is?
I say, rather calmly (I was proud of myself), "I've only had the horses a year and I didn't get that vaccine last year...what does the doctor recomment?"
More silence. More shuffling of papers.
"Well, it's really up to you."
At this point I'm smiling and trying not to laugh hysterically into the phone.
I decided against the added vaccine...I wonder why.
For those that are wondering, Eastern is Eastern Equine Zncephalomyelitis, a virus commonly referred to as sleeping sickness. Western is Western Equine Encephalomyelitis, its closely related cousin virus. There is also Venezuelan equine encephalitis...another cousin.
Who needs a vet when you have the internet?
Having had the horses for a little over a year now, and no real idea what this woman was talking about, I asked, "Ummm...what's the difference?" I was, of course, thinking she would tell me a bit about the illness creating the need for this eastern-western addition to the tetanus vaccine. Nope.
She responds with, I kid you not, "Well, one has eastern-western added to it, rather than just straight tetanus."
I reply with the equally idiotic, "OK...but what IS eastern-western?"
Silence. Shuffling of papers.
"Ummm..."
You have got to be kidding me?!?! I'm supposed to decide whether to give my horse a vaccine and you can't even tell me what it is?
I say, rather calmly (I was proud of myself), "I've only had the horses a year and I didn't get that vaccine last year...what does the doctor recomment?"
More silence. More shuffling of papers.
"Well, it's really up to you."
At this point I'm smiling and trying not to laugh hysterically into the phone.
I decided against the added vaccine...I wonder why.
For those that are wondering, Eastern is Eastern Equine Zncephalomyelitis, a virus commonly referred to as sleeping sickness. Western is Western Equine Encephalomyelitis, its closely related cousin virus. There is also Venezuelan equine encephalitis...another cousin.
Who needs a vet when you have the internet?
Am I supposed to?
I feel like...
-there are things I'm supposed to say and do that I'm just not saying and doing.
-everyone is waiting for me to either fall completely apart or go on like nothing has changed.
-I'm not supposed to be able to string two words together to form a coherent sentence or I'm supposed to be the same old Catherine.
-(to borrow a phrase from someone) there is an invisible sign around my neck that says, "My baby died."
-I'm supposed to find God, or lose God completely...this in-between place I'm at isn't acceptable.
-if I cry or if I smile, I'm doing something wrong.
-I feel like everyone is watching me and judging how I grieve.
Has my grief turned to paranoia? Is this the first step toward all-out mental illness?
Yesterday I heard that the guy in the office next door to mine flew to Vegas and married a girl 20 years his junior. This is his fourth marriage. Everyone was gossiping and had some pretty nasty things to say. I couldn't stomach it, so I said, "I just don't know what to say," and walked away. I think what I was really wondering is, "What do you all say about me when I'm not around?" I mean, really...whose business is it except for him and his new wife? I think I will send them a congratulations and best wishes card.
Did I mention that I "highlighted" my hair and it looks like crap? I think this is one of the reasons they tell you not to make any drastic life decisions or changes for the first year of the grieving process. lol eh...it will grow out...or I'll color it a different color!
-there are things I'm supposed to say and do that I'm just not saying and doing.
-everyone is waiting for me to either fall completely apart or go on like nothing has changed.
-I'm not supposed to be able to string two words together to form a coherent sentence or I'm supposed to be the same old Catherine.
-(to borrow a phrase from someone) there is an invisible sign around my neck that says, "My baby died."
-I'm supposed to find God, or lose God completely...this in-between place I'm at isn't acceptable.
-if I cry or if I smile, I'm doing something wrong.
-I feel like everyone is watching me and judging how I grieve.
Has my grief turned to paranoia? Is this the first step toward all-out mental illness?
Yesterday I heard that the guy in the office next door to mine flew to Vegas and married a girl 20 years his junior. This is his fourth marriage. Everyone was gossiping and had some pretty nasty things to say. I couldn't stomach it, so I said, "I just don't know what to say," and walked away. I think what I was really wondering is, "What do you all say about me when I'm not around?" I mean, really...whose business is it except for him and his new wife? I think I will send them a congratulations and best wishes card.
Did I mention that I "highlighted" my hair and it looks like crap? I think this is one of the reasons they tell you not to make any drastic life decisions or changes for the first year of the grieving process. lol eh...it will grow out...or I'll color it a different color!
Monday, June 20, 2005
It was bound to happen
For the first time since I've been back to work I walked in on two of the women in my office obviously talking about me. I heard, "When she's feeling better," and then that deafening silence that says, "Can you please leave the room so we can finish our conversation about your sad existence?" These are two women who have yet to acknowledge me beyond a polite, "Hello," and some official office business conversation, despite the fact that we previously shared pregnancy talk and were quite friendly (one gave birth about three months ago one (who I've previously blogged about) is due to give birth in a month). I suppose I've become the walking billboard for everything they fear, and I really shouldn't blame them for not acknowledging me or my loss...I guess.
And it's not that I'm naive enough to think people don't gossip about me at the office...but to openly talk about me where I could walk in on it is a bit much...especially since you haven't talked TO me in three weeks. I mean, come on, you have offices with doors! Go in one of them and close the door...I promise I won't care.
I wanted to break down and sob right there, but instead I just lowered my head, scurried about my business, and walked out the door.
Unluckily, one of them was headed out at the same time and I had to endure that awkward walk to the parking lot where she struggled for something to say. "I get to sleep in tomorrow," she chirped too happily. Do I give a sh!t? Nope.
And it's not that I'm naive enough to think people don't gossip about me at the office...but to openly talk about me where I could walk in on it is a bit much...especially since you haven't talked TO me in three weeks. I mean, come on, you have offices with doors! Go in one of them and close the door...I promise I won't care.
I wanted to break down and sob right there, but instead I just lowered my head, scurried about my business, and walked out the door.
Unluckily, one of them was headed out at the same time and I had to endure that awkward walk to the parking lot where she struggled for something to say. "I get to sleep in tomorrow," she chirped too happily. Do I give a sh!t? Nope.
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