A Mixed Bag

So I should probably start with an update from my last post–I celebrated my one-year stomaversary on October 17th. I did not get a cake, but we were on “vacation” in my midwestern¬† hometown so we could enjoy fall weather (since it’s still hot in the south) and so I could handle some business with my parents’ estate/my inheritance. We enjoyed ourselves–I caught up with my old friends, and BG played with their kids and had a ball. We took our labrador and he enjoyed going to “puppy camp” (doggy daycare) a couple times and every morning we’d bring him scrambled eggs from breakfast (we stayed at a Staybridge Suites hotel as it allows pets and it provided breakfast, which was delicious). I enjoyed going to my old favorite restaurants to get yummy gluten-free specialties. And really, we’d love to move back there at some point because it’s a lovely town.

But there was some bad stuff too.

At the 9th hour of our 13 hour drive, I received word that my dear girlfriend had passed away of complications with her cancer. I knew she was terminal, but she had been just fine the day before and no one expected this. I was heartbroken that I didn’t get to see her one last time. I did join her husband and some friends to celebrate her life, but they were all drunk and disorderly (which is why I love them) and I had Mr. MLACS and BG with me so we didn’t stay long, as they were heading towards a collective breakdown. I didn’t make it to her official memorial and I know some of the crew found that offensive. But funerals are for the living. Jen knew I loved her. And I reached out to her husband to support him. I cried for her–she was a beautiful person.

Then, my sister was (as per usual) a giant passive-aggressive, manipulative pain-in-the-ass. She never misses an opportunity to make my life difficult and piss me off, then play the victim when I call her on her sh*t. She likes feeling like she has some power over me. It’s pathetic. And I’m sure our estate lawyer needed a drink after dealing with our quarrels last week–he will be so glad to be rid of us. I don’t envy him. We have one item left in the trust and then it will be dissolved and we won’t have to “work together” anymore as co-trustees.

And then, we took a 2hr trip to a nearby city to do fun stuff with BG in the afternoon and have dinner with a dear friend in the evening. But while we were riding the train at the zoo…

Mr. MLACS was shocked by his defibrillator.

He was sitting in the seat in front of me so I didn’t see his face, but I heard a loud crack and saw him fly back in his seat–I knew instantly that he’d been shocked…but I thought it was static electricity or a loose wire on the train…it didn’t even occur to me it was his ICD (pacemaker/defibrillator device implanted on his heart). He was in shock but he didn’t lose consciousness. I figured out what had happened and a wave of panic started in the pit of my stomach but BG was right next to me so I couldn’t react. I stayed eerily calm (which is how I am in these situations–I become automated). No one else knew anything was wrong and since Mr. MLACS was conscious I didn’t feel the need to call for help–I mean what could anyone do? I didn’t know what to do–the cardiologist never gave me any instructions.

So I sat there in shock, rubbing his back until we got off the train. Mr. MLACS was not feeling well but he could walk. We had promised BG to get her something at the gift shop and it was about to close so we ran in there and suddenly I knew I had to call his cardiologist and figure out what to do next. So I did that, and they said take him to an emergency room to be looked at. And I had to make a choice–go directly to an ER in the city *or* drive the 2hrs back to my hometown where the hospital has his previous records from his initial heart failure and drop him at the ER and take BG back to the hotel (because ER’s are no place for children or pregnant women). So I chose option 2 and just tried to stay calm. Mr. MLACS was floored. And blaming himself–asking “What did I do wrong?” It was heartbreaking.

So luckily BG fell asleep on the ride and I didnt have to explain why we were dropping Mr. MLACS at the hospital. While he got checked out, I started googling…and now I am PISSED at his cardiologist. Because *this guy* acted like the goal was for Mr. MLACS not yo have any more episodes. But from what I read, even the youngest and healthiest individuals with an ICD are shocked *1-2 times per year on average*. Mr. MLACS has been shocked twice this year, and both times we thought it was a crisis situation and that it wasn’t supposed to happen and I blamed myself–maybe he is too stressed and he needs less expectations and responsibilities, while Mr. MLACS agonizes over what he did wrong.

But the truth is, that his heart randomly malfunctions. The ER found nothing in his bloodwork. Nothing in his EKG. Nothing in his x-ray. His heartrate was perfectly normal (he was sitting peacefully on the train) and for no apparent reason he went into V-fib (a dangerous arrythmia). His heartrate went from 60bpm to 324bpm in an instant, his ICD device shocked him once on the lowest setting, and his heartrate returned to 60bpm as if nothing had even happened.

There was nothing we could do to prevent it. There is nothing we can do to stop it from happening again at this point. Mr. MLACS is dilligently losing weight so he can qualify for a surgery that will try to pinpoint the part of his heart that malfunctions to cause the arrythmia and have it ablazed (burnt so it quits wreaking havoc). But there are no guarantees.

I take solace in statistics–he is statistically likely to survive 10 more years. He could live decades–he’s young and most of the people with ICD’s are 60+ years old, so they skew the statistics. But I hate that we have to live in fear of the next “episode”. I hate how much pain/frustration/anxiety/guilt it causes Mr. MLACS. I hate that I need to teach BG how to dial 911 as soon as possible. I hate that I worry when he is alone with her or when he puts her on his shoulders–that she could be traumatized by witnessing an event or hurt because he fell while carrying her. I hate that I worry about Mr. MLACS driving and that I really don’t want him driving our girls–could I ever forgive myself if I allowed it and something happened to my babies while he was driving?

This is a heavy burden. All this fear.

But we have to keep living. We can’t let fear dictate our lives. Yes, we have to be dilligent and cautious, but we don’t have to be consumed by fear.

So I exhale and keep going.

XOXO,

MLACS

 

 

 

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Another Loss. More Grief.

My (maternal) Grandma Margaret passed away last week.

I am so DONE.

Now at 38 years OLD (I feel ancient) I have lost both my parents and all of my grandparents. I’ve nearly lost my husband, *twice*. I’ve lost my colon. I’ve lost my house to a fire. I’ve lost babies to miscarriage.

Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind.

My life is defined by grief and loss, grief and loss, and more grief…and loss.

I’m now paranoid that ALL the bad things are going to happen. Any scenario my anxiety-riddled brain comes up with seems plausible. I’m struggling to live in the moment while also steeling myself for the next bad thing to happen. Will my husband drop dead? Will he be home alone with 3yr old BG? Will I be lulled into a false sense of security, on a mundane trip to Target, and return home to a hysterical child and unresponsive husband??? Will it be my beloved labrador retriever? Will he develop cancer or kidney failure? Or God forbid…if anything happens to BG…I would swiftly take my own life.

I don’t like living in fear. I do the f*ing EFT tapping therapy to try to stay mentally and physically healthy. But about the time I begin to move on from one tragedy, the next one strikes. It’s like tidal waves of tragedy keep trying to drown me and I keep kicking to the surface but about the time the water calms, another wave hits.

Metaphorically speaking I feel about as desperate as Tom Hanks in the movie Cast Away.

And I have nobody to talk to about it, except you–my internet friends.

XOXO,

MLACS

Grief, Anxiety and Depression (and what I’m doing to heal)

I don’t know where to begin. I’ve been spiraling since my dad died.

I was just starting to get traction in my life after several years of of tumult. My health declining and autoimmune issues usurping my life and finances. Infertility and miscarriages. Mr. MLACS’s heart failure when I was 32 weeks pregnant. Being a new mother and deeply feeling the loss/void of my own beloved mother. Coping with Mr. MLACS being gone for work for weeks at a time. Overwhelming PPA (postpartum anxiety) and coming to terms with cutting off our toxic family members, including my dad (it took 2 years of weekly therapy and a lot of processing). Finally buying our first home–our dream home–only to have it burn down as we were packing to move. Moving to a very depressed area of Louisiana after the Great Flood of 2016, where I knew no one and felt like I didn’t belong.

Becoming ill and spending the entirety of 2017 fighting for my life with no support, because I was too sick to even ask for it. Feeling useless and hopeless at times.

Finally embracing the idea of a total colectomy surgery–having a prosthetic colon for the rest of my life. Finally about to move into my dream home.

And being deathly ill and having my husband drop dead at work, revived…but I am haunted by the way he looked and smelled like death in the ER. The nurses hearing me sob in the bathroom next to his bed in the ICU, as I sat on the toilet bleeding, desperately needing to be admitted myself but terrified to have my surgery because I was afraid I might die and orphan my child. My precious BG and my precious dog so sad and scared despite my best efforts to spare them the grief I felt. My heart was broken into a million pieces.

But I overcame everything. I beat infertility and I have the most precious daughter. I overcame PPA and came to terms with severing ties with my father. Mr. MLACS got a new job where he would be home every night. Our dream home was repaired. My surgery went well and I don’t need to take any IBD medications–I am not “chronically ill” anymore. My husband has a pacemaker/defibrillator and has taken responsibility for his health and lost a lot of weight. We moved into our dream house and I even bought my dream furniture.

I was making a comeback with my fitness, going to Burn Boot Camp and Barre3 classes and I volunteered as the organizer for a local moms fitness group–I was transparent about my ostomy. I was living my truth. I felt brave. I felt bold. I felt powerful. I felt beautiful. I felt like I was going to crush my goals.

And then my dad died.

And after everything I’ve been through–what I’ve overcome–and the fact that he wasn’t even a very good dad, you wouldn’t expect *that* to be the “straw that broke the camel’s back”.

But it was. I have been depressed and anxious. I can’t focus. I can’t think straight. I’m constantly waiting for the next shoe to drop.

I feel alienated from people. Lonely. Broken.

I’m angry because I fought SO. HARD. through the rock-bottom pit of hell that was 2017…

I had just started to feel safe. I wasn’t obsessing over the past or worrying about the future. I was living. I was embracing life. I was open to possibilities. I was all *positive vibes*.

But now I’m struggling again.

Dealing with my parents’ estate is torture. They were smart–everything was deeded to the trust. Every property, vehicle, trailer and boat. Nothing going to probate. Take heed and for all my IF friends who are parents now, make a will and/or trust so your spouse and kid(s) are not screwed when you die.

But my sister and I have never gotten along and now we are co-trustees and must divide everything in half. Meanwhile, there are 20-something properties that need to be managed and bills that need to be paid. And we have to fix up and sell “the big house” (our family home) to settle debts so we can dissolve the trust. It’s daily stress. It’s a daily reminder that both my parents are dead and that I am going to die. And BG is not tolerant of me being on my phone talking or texting, etc. She relentlessly pesters me and then has meltdowns when I snap at her. I can barely force myself to think about or do any of the drudgery associated with the estate, and with BG agitating me I feel like I might lose my mind. I need to put her in preschool and I have her enrolled in one but it doesn’t start until the fall. And I do not even have the stomach to vet preschools right now. I am looking at summer camps but that’s a week here-and-there. Oh and I dread having to take BG back to the midwest with me *without Mr. MLACS* to deal with this estate BS. F*ing nightmare. That is a 12hr car ride easch way, which I cannot do alone so I’ll have to split into 2 says–that is 4 days of travel. Just shoot me.

But I’m rich now. So there’s that. Not a “one percent-er” or filthy rich–like mansion/servants, car and driver, private plane and NY fashion week rich. But like, I will have a monthly income from my trust and it is legacy wealth that I can pass on to BG.

I’d give it all to have my Mom back though.

To have both my parents back, because our family was functionally-dysfunctional until my Mom got sick, which brought out the worst in my dad.

I’d give anything to be one big happy family.

I want peace in my life again. I want to feel like everything is going to be ok.

I am doing EFT tapping and trying to take care of myself, even though I don’t feel like showering or brushing my teeth or going to yoga or doing laundry or vacuming or anything. I’m sort of dead inside–dormant is a better word–I was starting to blossom but now I am dormant like a bulb in the winter. And I hate it.

So I am trying to claw my way out of this depression. I’m weak. I’m scared. I’m vulnerable. I’m confused. I’m frustrated. I’m emotionally drained. I’m distraught. I’m burdened. I’m defensive. I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m apathetic. I’m literally tied in knots and seeing a new chiropractor to try to unclench and untwist my poor body.

But I haven’t given up hope yet. And I’m trying to get better.

XOXO,

MLACS

 

Earth to Earth, Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust ūüíĒ

Last Thursday morning, Mr. MLACS woke me up around 4am to tell me my sister had tried to call me five times since 3am. I knew it was going to be bad news. Both my maternal Grandma and my Father had been in the hospital–but both were supposed to be recovering.

My Father died.

It was surreal. I sat on the floor of my bedroom closet so as not to wake up BG, who was sleeping in our bed. I didn’t cry, I just listened to my sister talk. He had prostate cancer (I knew this) but it was not very serious so they had not been treating it. However, they did a biopsy on it a few weeks ago and punctured his urethra in the process, which caused an infection. Once they realized their mistake, they then gave him the *wrong antibiotics*. As it turns out he had an E. Coli infection, and so the wrong antibiotics made it much worse. When they finally realized they had f*cked up royally, they admitted him to the VA hospital. He was so sick he didn’t even tell anyone he was going. My sister tracked him down, and visited him. He seemed ok. Nurses checked him at 2am–he was fine–they returned at 2:38am and found him dead on the floor…asphyxiated…

While it looks like gross negligence, I feel in my heart that he chose his moment and it was his time. His quality of life was not good. He was 69, morbidly obese with limited mobility, living alone, on the rocks with his girlfriend, and spent a lot of time watching tv and eating junk food. He was social on occassion, but far less than usual. He couldn’t see or hear well, and he couldn’t walk up or down stairs. A lot of his friends said they were surprised he was gone, that they had just seen him. But anyone with any common sense could see that he was declining and had a host of health issues/risk factors.

It would have been 4 years this month, since I had spoken to him. Except…

When Mr. MLACS collapsed and nearly died and I was having my colectomy in October, he sent my sister to my side, offering to pay her expenses, telling her to go and help me. An act of love and compassion.

I has sworn I’d never speak to him again. He was dead to me. He had caused me So. Much. Pain. during my Mom’s illness (which I forgave him) and then again years later during my battle with infertillity and loss. He was a crap father when I was young and proved incapable of having a healthy adult relationship. So I was done. The final straw was my child was born and we lived 15 minutes from him and he never even tried to contact me or see her. We moved to the South when she was 18 months old–by then I was so angry and hurt I vowed he’d never lay eyes on her. I threatened to cut off my sister if she so much as mentioned him.

But she had let me know he wanted to make peace with me, and then he financed her trip to help me this past October. So, I decided to call him and thank him in November. That was the last time I spoke to him. We communicated through my sister and I gave her permission to show him pictures of BG and keep him up to date on my little family. I was still very hesitant to reach out to him. I didn’t have the energy to forge a new relationship with him–I was struggling to heal from my surgery and Mr. MLACS’s cardiac arrest and moving into our house and being a wife and mother, etc. My sister did warn me that she didn’t think he’d be around much longer, but I was not going to be guilted or rushed.

And while yes, I wish things had been different, I don’t regret being distant from him. It wasn’t my job to make him happy at my own expense. It wasn’t my obligation to serve my daughter up so he could have his “grandpa experience” before he died. And I’m glad my kid was spared grief and loss.

As you know, I lost my dear departed Mother to breast/lung cancer in 2009. So I am an “adult orphan”. I miss her every day. She was amazing. She had a home daycare and LOVED kids…

I loaded up Mr. MLACS, BG, and our labrador retriever and drove all day Thursday, stopped for a few hours of sleep, and arrived just in time to meet my sister at the cemetary to pay for the portion of his burial not covered. In the process, I purchased the 2 cemetery plots next to my mother, where Mr. MLACS and I can be buried someday (hopefully many years from now, but God only knows).

We are staying at my family home and it’s both comforting and sorrowful. So many good memories of when we were a happy family before my Mom’s diagnosis in 2006 (albeit dysfunctional in our own way). When I see my daughter coloring at the same table where the daycare kids used to sit, and opening the gate to the downstairs where the daycare kids used to play…it’s just so unfair that she never got to be a grandma to BG. It breaks my heart. And she was the glue that held our family together, so if she was here I wouldn’t have fallen out with my father. We could have been one big happy family…

**I had to break down and cry here**

I grieve what might have been, but will never be.

And despite our differences, my dad was a pretty cool guy. He was a lame dad, but a pretty awesome person. My sister and I were under a tremendous amount of pressure to memorialize him and bury him with proper ceremony. He had literally been preparing us for his death since we were 12 years old. He was a successful business man and local bluegrass musician who lived and died in his hometown, so people were watching–most especially, the man himself, I was sure.

He thought it was best for person to be buried within 3 days of their death, so visitation was Sunday. I had a sitter for BG because 1. This was no place for a toddler, and 2. My Dad never met her so it felt wrong for any of his friends and family to meet her. Yet everyone asked me where she was, wtf?! Everyone knew we were estranged and it made the visitation uncomfortable for me, but I hung in there. I looked and acted dignified, as did my sister. It was sad and bittersweet to watch the memorial slideshow of all our happy moments as a family. They played one of his bluegrass cd’s he made of him singing and playing guitar…

Then finally the funeral was yesterday (Monday). Of course we have not had much sleep and not slept well, and poor BG woke up at 3am coughing so hard she vomited and burning up with fever. I had to send Mr. MLACS to get tylenol for her. I somehow managed to pull myself together and look nice for the funeral. I hated to leave BG with a sitter when she was not feeling well.

The service opened with his bluegrass buddies playing “Amazing Grace”–of course I cried. The pastor spoke and then I stood up and tearfully read what I had written at 3am when I was up with BG:

“My Dad was a passionate man. Passionate about life, and love. He was a man of leisure, and he had many pleasures. He enjoyed good company, and he was excellent company.

He was lighthearted, but soulful. He had a lot of corny jokes and anecdotes, but he would also wax poetic for hours, sharing his philosophies on life–he was deep. His definition of success, was happiness. And he was a happy, jovial man. If you asked him how he was, one of his standard replies was “I’m effervescing, my bubbles are all the way to the top!” He had a generous nature, and enjoyed treating people. He was always there for a friend in need, without expecting anything in return. He was diplomatic, and underneath his airy fascade, he was a very intelligent man. He appreciated his mentors and was himself, a mentor to a great many people. He liked to say “Those who can DO, can’t teach”, and he considered himself a “do’er”, but ironically, he was also a very good teacher. He would be proud to be remembered as a renaissance man–a man of many talents. Most prominently, a musician. The best time of his life was when he was living out of his car, playing music on the road with my mom by his side. He spoke wistfully of this part of his life where he had his passion–music–his freedom, and his soul mate. There are pitifully few people in this world that can say their dreams were realized, but my father was one of the lucky ones. He ticked every box on his “bucket list”, and more.
And that’s how he wants to be remembered. As a man of substance, who had an abundance of joy and shared it with the people around him. He is gone, but could never be forgotten.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. May he rest in peace.”
My sister said it was perfect and I’d said everything she’d wanted to say. Others agreed it was a good homage to him. My sister spoke, as did his best friend. The service closed with the bluegrass band playing “I’ll Fly Away” and we all sang along. It was just as he would have wanted.
And now we have the monumental task of dealing with the estate. My father was a smart business man and he left us a lot of properties. He was well organized, but it’s still a lot to deal with. I don’t feel like dealing with it, but I must. To his credit, Mr. MLACS has been invaluable in this process. I simply couldn’t do it without him.
Now I’m more terrified than ever that I’ll lose Mr. MLACS. He’s doing well but I’ve nearly lost him twice in the last 3 years, so it’s not just me being paranoid.
I love my hometown and want to be here to sort through the estate with my sister, but I long for my house in the South. Being here at my family’s home was precious for a couple of days but it is physically unconfortable (the guest beds suck) and emotionally draining–now it feels cumbersome. I’m completely exhausted. I’m overwhelmed. And both myself and BG are out of sorts and miss our “routine”. We have to interview and hire an estate lawyer tomorrow, and a few other things, but then I intend to leave on Thursday. I have been planning BG’s 3rd birthday party on her actual bday next Sunday, complete with a bouncy housw and goodie bags, etc. And I want to take a break from grieving and celebrate my greatest gift, my baby girl ‚̧

 

Resurrection

Screenshot_2017-12-31-22-43-35

“As the legend goes, when the Phoenix resurrects from the flames, she is even more beautiful than before”–Danielle LaPorte

In 2017…I lost my house to a fire, my health to Crohn’s disease (and subsequently my colon to a colectomy, my hair to Stelara, and my mind to Prednisone), and last–but certainly not least–I lost my husband to a SCA (sudden cardiac arrest).

Luckily, I got them all back.

My house has been repaired, my health recovered, and my husband resurrected.

And I lived through it all, with as much grace and courage and dignity as I could muster.

I have scars, both inside and out.

But I feel so proud of myself.

So at peace with myself.

Strong. Confident. Determined.

I have walked through the flames.

I will rise from these ashes.

More beautiful than before–not in vain–but rather, a beauty of essence. Of spirit. Of soul.

In 2018, I will emerge, radiant.

XOXO,

MLACS

 

Nope.

Today is 12dpo, I took a FRER this morning…do I really need to tell you how that turned out? Nope. I haven’t even cried–but I bet I will when AF arrives–if it’s anything like last month I will be glued to the couch with my heating pad.

This opens up a whole new can of worms. Do I stick to my idea to take off January to re-group? Cuz now I don’t want to take a break. I feel desperate to just get this (trying to conceive)¬†over with¬†already. And I don’t have the option of trying naturally, because Mr. MLACS’s schedule has changed and we physically will not be here during my fertile window–I don’t like the idea of not trying at all. Plus, I’ve been doing acupuncture with the lovely Star, and maybe it’s starting to work…but I can’t afford to keep doing this for months on end so since I’ve already invested in this treatment I don’t want to “pause” it in January (and backslide) and then “resume” in February or March–that seems counterproductive. What if the Remicade is the reason I haven’t conceived these last 5 months? My last infusion was October 24th and I was due for another one in December–which I declined–and I’ve managed to keep my Ulcerative Colitis in remission without it…I can’t take this for granted…next month or the month after that I could find myself VERY sick again, and my docs are always impressing upon me that it’s important for me to be in remission while TTC. There’s a lot of reasons to push forward and do an IUI in January.

Although, I would definitely like to change my protocol–I want MORE follicles, and I believe the way to accomplish this is to dispense with the Femara altogether and begin Bravelle CD3, with a healthy dose at 150iu, in the hopes of recruiting more follicles to begin with. Then, I’d like to trigger no later than CD14 (preferably CD12 but that’s probably not realistic for me). And I want to do a double IUI with Mr.¬†MLACS’s “spermcicles” (frozen sperm) since we won’t be able to have sex.

The failure of IUI #2 is particularly frustrating because I got pregnant twice naturally in 2013, but since then I’ve done 2¬†rounds of Clomid and 2 IUI’s with Femara + Bravelle and NOTHING…it’s been 5 cycles since my last pregnancy (one natural¬†cycle in-between Clomid and starting IUI’s). WHY? Is it the Remicade (that I started as I was having my chemical pregnancy at the end of July ’13)? Is it that my body hates the hormones and I’ll never get pregnant on medicated cycles? Is it stress? Are we TRYING too hard–do we “just need a vacation”?!!!¬† Is it Dr. Angel’s IUI protocol?? Is monitoring every day bad? Did we “miss” the egg by not having sex post-trigger¬†and then doing the IUI post-ovulation? Is he making poor use of my preciou$ injectable meds? Is there something else…an infection in my uterus? Could I benefit¬†from dexamethasone to further quiet my immune system? I’m gluten-free but do I need to quit dairy and grains? Do I need to eat pineapple core? I don’t even know where to begin…

This is getting expensive. Mr. MLACS is getting tired of the roller coaster too and he’s not sure he wants to do an IUI in January, but he says he just “wants to see me happy”. I don’t even know what will make me happy right now. I need a shower–I’m sitting here in clothes I’ve worn for 3 days with bed-head and I feel like a troll. Maybe I’m just so sick of doing my due diligence (taking meds day and night, etc.) that I’m subconsciously rebelling by not taking care of my other needs. That’d be redundant.

I worry about things…like “Myrtle’s” upcoming bachelorette party and the bridal shower I’m supposed to throw and then her damn wedding in April. I don’t want to go to the bachelorette party–I despise her when she’s drunk, the weather is awful, and I don’t want to spend the money, but it’s coming up mid-January and I don’t know what to say to get out of it. She point-blank asked me in front of a room full of people at her family’s Christmas gathering “SO HOW’S THE BABY MAKING GOING?” To which I, after a pause, calmly replied “Nothing to speak about”–let her wonder–she doesn’t even CARE she’s only asking to be nosey and because she wanted to see if I’d be weaseling out of her upcoming hen party or not fitting into the bridesmaid dress. I refuse to speak to her about any of what’s been going on with me–I still haven’t mentioned that my Grandma has cancer (though that may be my excuse for skipping the hen party). I don’t mind throwing the shower, but this means I’m going to need to start planning it for mid-March. And the wedding…but I wish I wasn’t in it. She doesn’t have a big budget, but she has enough, and for some reason she has decided that–instead of hiring someone–she wants her wedding party and guests to clean up the venue post-reception? I think that is ridiculous, but I’ve already been ‘snapped at’ for telling her not to¬†pair black opaque tights with her navy blue eyelet lace sundresses for the bridesmaids, so I won’t be making any more suggestions. Uhg. Why do I worry about this BS? And “Myrtle” really wasn’t the point of this post. But…it’s sort of relevant because I was thinking “I’d be right at 16 weeks when the wedding rolls around” and now…I won’t. I may be zero weeks when the wedding rolls around, and I need to accept that instead of feeling panicked about it.

I conceived January 19, 2013, and after my 7w2d miscarriage, I never thought I would be here a year later, with no pregnancy and no baby. I may have feared it, but I never believed it would happen.

And so I’ll leave you with the ‘Serenity Prayer’–one which you’re probably all familiar with, but if you haven’t prayed it in awhile (as I haven’t) now may be the time. XO

God-Grant-me-the

2013 Can Suck It (Take 2)

I just wrote the longest, bitchiest post I could possibly imagine. And I published it. And then I decided to un-publish it, because it’s slightly funny but mostly just insanely bitchy and I’m not doing you any favors by sharing it with you. So, it’s gone. But it was basically talking about how crappy 2013 was, and that is worth mentioning so I’ll list the offences of 2013:

1. Miscarriage: Feb. 25th, 2013. It was not a “missed miscarriage”. The bleeding started but an ultrasound revealed an embryo that measured within a couple of days of anticipated conception, with a heartbeat of 160bpm, at 7w2d. Yet (after a visit to the ER that night confirmed no heartbeat), it was dismissed as a statistic by my OBGYN, I was given Misoprostol to ensure complete ‘evacuation’, and told to give it a month and try again. Then I went on to have a chemical pregnancy¬†on August 2nd, 2013¬†(there was a sac and if FELT worse than my prior miscarriage).

2. Chronic Illness: Ulcerative Colitis has worsened 10 fold this year. Post-miscarriage it was revealed that I have several other problems, including:

  • Hypothyroid (may very well have caused my miscarriage)
  • Lichen Sclerosus (an autoimmune disorder that causes the skin in my genital area to atrophy–it’s painful)
  • Elevated ANA’s (anti-nuclear antibodies–an indicator of Lupus)
  • Elevated NK cells (natural killer cells, which play a delicate role in implantation)

3. Horrible doctors (totally unsupportive and incompetent–when I was most fragile post-miscarriage)

4. Marital issues I’ve written about some of it in the past–it’s not easy to have marital problems on top of all this other bullsh*t in a town where you don’t know very many people and you’re scared sh*tless that you might be really, really sick. Oh, and you’re¬†blaming your body for killing your seemingly perfect embryo and feeling desperate to figure things out to protect future pregnancies, while your husband tells you that¬†you’re overreacting and wasting money. Things are different now, but they really couldn’t have been much worse for awhile.

5. Moving But not knowing exactly when or where. Mr. MLACS hated, absolutely HATED his last project. And he thought he’d get promoted to an upcoming project (a domestic job), but that did not manifest–he got dealt a lot of sh*tty hands this year. We decided to “abandon ship” and started looking at other companies, but no one could give us a solid offer with the pay he should command. We had to make a lot of hard decisions and in the end he chose to stay with his company and do a job in Canada (commuting), and we moved back to my hometown. But this process began in April ’13 and we did not know where we were going until August, then we moved abruptly in September. STRESSFUL. And for most of the summer I just felt frozen–I was watching life moving on around me while my own life was suspended in wait.

6. Finances Just when we think everything is going to be fine, something pops up. It causes us to fight and it caused me a lot of anguish on top of the other stuff I was dealing with. Part of it is medical bills, which is a bitter pill to swallow–first you have a medical crisis, then you find yourself in debt over it, often with no resolution. And I didn’t work–I went back to school to become a nurse and most recently I’ve been obsessed and single-minded about having a baby (which is getting expensive as well).

After our (practically immaculate) first conception in January 2013, I couldn’t have predicted that I’d be sitting here–not only childless–but not even pregnant a year later. I don’t think anybody would’ve predicted this–my doctors kept patting me on the back and sending me home until a couple months ago when I met Dr. Angel and we started IUI’s with injectables. I couldn’t have predicted any of¬†what happened this past year. I was in a strange city trying to transition into a new phase of my life (motherhood), trying to build my (difficult) relationship with my husband, trying to forge my way to a new career (nursing), and trying to figure out WTF was happening to me and how to deal with it– all while fighting chronic illness and multiple miscarriages. I don’t know what I expected, but I was not prepared for what happened. I’m still traumatized. And, in fact, I think that I have gotten worse recently (in no small part due to the IUI hormones)–I’m fighting feelings of anxiety, anger, depression, sadness, insecurity, indifference, irritability…I’m quick to anger and I have NO FILTER (hence why I 86’d my initial “2013 Can Suck It” post). I don’t know if 2014 is going to see the resolution of the above listed grievances that I have against 2013. I could really use something to look forward to, but I don’t have anything. Yet…