Frozen With Fear

Posted by Anonymous.

I am a mother. A blissfully happy mother to an amazing, brilliant, beautiful boy.

But I am also infertile. I was lucky enough to get a diagnosis quickly—after only a year. Premature ovarian failure. My eggs were shot at age 29. At that point I had undergone a laparoscopy and a single IVF cycle with my own eggs. The reproductive endocrinologist recommended donor eggs. He listed the likelihood of success of another IVF cycle with my eggs (5%), and the chance of miscarriage if I did conceive (greater than 50%) and the risk of chromosomal abnormalities if I didn’t miscarry (greater than 50%), and the right decision was clear and, well, easy.

Yes, I grieved the loss of a genetic child. I still do, sometimes. I’m sad that my son will not be able to go to my family’s ancestral home and recognize his nose the in the portraits on the wall. I’m angry that having a baby was such an emotionally difficult, lengthy, and frightfully expensive process for me, when it is free—and often accidental!—for most people. But the very fact of my son eases those pains. Now that he is here, I cannot imagine having had any other baby, and the pain, the anger, of infertility, has faded. Sometimes I think about how miserable I was during my first year of trying to conceive, and how I was consumed with jealousy of pregnant women and new mothers during the two years that followed, years that I had to wait in order to save enough money to try donor egg IVF. Years that one friend after another got—surprise!—pregnant. But now that’s in the past, and I am someone to be envied. I am a mother. I was pregnant. Those experiences are no longer out of my reach.

But the pregnancy! Infertility laid the groundwork of fear before I got pregnant, and my pregnancy built that fear into a monolithic tower. From the beginning, I qualified every statement about my pregnancy with an “if.” IF this pregnancy continues. IF I actually have a baby. IF my baby survives. I didn’t call to schedule a childbirth class until after they were all booked up, because I was so uncertain that I would actually need one. I didn’t plan for the baby the way other women do, because the last thing I wanted was to come home to a house full of baby stuff after losing the pregnancy. I couldn’t believe that he would actually be born, full term (barely) and healthy.

I started bleeding at 5 weeks. From 5 weeks through 15 weeks, I had regular episodes of heavy bleeding. Really heavy bleeding; heavier than any period I’ve ever had. Then, after a few weeks of blessed relief from the bleeding, I started having contractions. Regular ones, 7 minutes apart, that sent me to L&D first at 22 weeks, then again at 24 weeks. “Yes, those are real contractions,” they told me at the hospital. “You should lie down and drink lots of water.” “If they get closer together, 5 minutes apart or less, we’ll think about putting you on terbutaline.” Cervical ultrasounds, fetal fibronectin tests, contraction and fetal heartrate monitors. Intermittent bedrest. The first time I went to L&D, the security guard asked if I was in labor. “I certainly hope not,” I said. Did I really look like I was ready to deliver? I was barely showing!

So for the second half of my pregnancy, I listened to my contractions. Even walking for a few minutes could set them off. Here comes a contraction . . . here’s another one, 6 minutes later . . . and 6 minutes again. Every day. Lie down, drink water, time the contractions. Do I need to go to the hospital? Are these contractions causing cervical change? Am I in labor? What are the chances, at 24 weeks 3 days, that my baby will survive if he is delivered today? That he’ll be disabled? At 26 weeks 6 days?

I spent a lot of time working from home, lying on the couch. I breathed huge sighs of relief as I hit the milestones. 28 weeks. 30 weeks. 32 weeks. 34 weeks. By 36 weeks I was convinced that all the worry was for naught and that I would go overdue. So I was ridiculously surprised by his birth at 37 weeks exactly. It was fine. He was fine. I was (mostly) fine. Normal labor experience, just a few annoying complications for me afterward. All fine.

And he was here. And I was happy. And everything was OK.

And it was, for a while.

Now he’s 15 months old. People are asking when I’m going to have another. I wonder that, too. How could I not want another? The first is so delicious! Sometimes I convince myself that I don’t want another, that my family is complete, that I am happy with things just as they are. But the fact that I get viscerally upset when my husband expresses reservations about having a second tells me otherwise. I do want another baby. I want another baby.

But I don’t want another pregnancy. Well, I kind of want a “do-over,” a normal pregnancy experience, but I don’t think it’s really possible for me to have pregnancy without fear. A couple of months ago I had a moment where I thought the impossible had happened and I was pregnant, naturally. I wasn’t happy. Instead, I had an honest-to-god panic attack. Racing heart, nausea, panting, sweating, shaking, the works. My husband: “wow, you really don’t want to be pregnant right now!” Me: “Duh.”

I feel melodramatic even saying this, but my therapist says I have pregnancy PTSD. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Even though everything turned out fine. The very fact of my fear has traumatized me. And that is why I still find pregnancy announcements upsetting. Even from my very good friends. Those reactions made me feel guilty enough when I was waiting to become a mother, but now it’s even worse. How can I begrudge people the experiences that I’ve already had? How come I can’t just be happy for my friends? Why do I react physically to pregnancy announcements, shaking and feeling sick? Why do they leave me feeling unsettled for days afterward? I am just so sick of pregnancy being such a thing for me. I want to just not care anymore. Been there, done that.

Adoption isn’t an option for me for a number of reasons. So that leaves another pregnancy, if I really want another child. I can even face the idea of another donor egg IVF cycle. I’m not thrilled about it; not looking forward to finding a donor, to making all those appointments, to injecting myself in the ass every day for 10 weeks if I’m lucky enough to get pregnant again. But I can do it. I’m not even—may the gods forgive me—that worried about getting pregnant. I think I probably can get pregnant again, with enough perseverance.

But what I can’t face, can’t even really think about without starting to panic, is actually being pregnant. The day-to-day worry about whether I will lose the pregnancy, whether my water will break early, whether I will go into preterm labor. It lasts a long time, pregnancy. Or at least one hopes it will. It stretched out before me like an eternity, even when I felt like I must have already completed 24 months of gestation. And I don’t know if I can face that eternity again.

But I want another baby.

So here I am. Lucky. Unlucky. And frozen with fear.

A Common Problem

Posted By Anonymous.

I suffer an involuntary pang of jealously at every pregnant woman I see. Of course I’m jealous of the stay at home wife with a six-figure earning husband who has an decorator design the baby room and gets mommy massages and has her prenatal yoga class before her appointment with the midwife at the private birthing center, not that I know any of those in real life. I’m also jealous of the young unwed mothers in the grocery store with their pimply baby-daddies dragging sullenly behind, of the cute girl I used to like until she married some ugly “godly” dude and went crazy and moved to the Middle East to live in a mud hut, and of the friend who can’t afford the two kids she has with her good-for-nothing husband and who deliberately got pregnant again on welfare. I don’t envy these people’s lifestyles, I am really grateful for my own husband over any of theirs, and I don’t want to be them, but why do they get to have kids and I don’t? Don’t bother telling me the problems and stress that their ill-timed pregnancies will bring, don’t tell me how smart it is to wait until you are financially stable to have children, don’t give me statistics about how waiting a few years can make all the difference. I want babies. I am really getting obsessed with this, experiencing feelings of longing and anger several times a day as I think about or see pregnant women or moms with young kids.

My husband wants to have children, and more than just one or two, or I wouldn’t have married him. But he wants to wait until we are more financially secure (i.e. have a house, not just renting) before we do. I understand the wisdom in that. He wants to have some time to ourselves (we’ve been married a year and a half), to be free to sleep in on weekends, to be able to buy tools and furniture and such, and have two incomes. I understand the wisdom in that. These are good things, and a lot of that does stop or at least slow down when you have kids. His thoughts make sense and his plan is designed to bring us and our children the best. But I don’t care, because I want them now. In addition, my PCOS could make getting pregnant take longer, so I worry that waiting even a few years will impair my fertility and reduce our chances of having our own. If that happens, I will be mad. Like marriage counseling mad. I’ve told him all this.

Bottom line, I don’t trust my husband and I don’t trust God to give me good things. I’m so selfish, but if I don’t try to fulfill my desires, who will?

In A Heartbeat

Posted by Anonymous.

"I'm sorry...we can't find a heartbeat."

Those words still bring tears to my eyes. It's been six days and I feel that lump in the throat when I read that sentence. It's the one that you try so hard to swallow down, but it seems like nothing can make it go away. Nothing but hot tears streaming uncontrollably down your cold cheeks.

Talking about it has helped a lot, so I figure the best way to get past all of this is to write about it. So here is my story.

I had a miscarriage.

That was last week. This story begins several years ago. My husband asked me about two years ago if I was ready for kids because he "didn't want to be an old dad." (I'm 27 now and he's 28) But I wasn't ready.

Last year, we celebrated our 3 year wedding anniversary and I told him over a candlelit dinner that I wanted to have children. We'd paid off our credit cards, we both had stable jobs and we owned our own home. I felt like the timing was finally right in my life. He was excited and surprised to say the least.

A few months later I got off of the pill. At first, my periods were a slight disappointment, but there was "always next month." After four months of failure I convinced myself I was pregnant. Turned out it was just a stressful month and my cycle was irregular. I cried the night my period started. I started to lose hope. I couldn't understand why this wasn't happening as quickly as I wanted it to. I wanted this so badly.

We decided to get away from it all and take a long weekend in Vegas. One of my best friends and her husband met us there. I had cramping in the airport on the way there. I figured my period was starting again, so I didn't think much of it. After three days in Vegas, my friend convinced me to take a pregnancy test.

It was positive.

And so was the one after that.

I cried, I shook, I was absolutely in shock. I was so happy, so elated. So scared. I was in utter bliss after that moment. My dream--our dream, had finally come true.

As soon as we got back home I started to feel sick and have severe cramping. I cramped so badly I woke up in the middle of the night unable to breathe or even cry. I called the doctor and she suggested I have my blood tested. My hormones were "a little on the low side." So at six weeks, she prescribed some hormones for me to take.

At eight weeks I had my first ultrasound. The ultrasound technician turned off all of the lights in the room. The only thing turned on was the monitor hanging on the wall. The room was consumed with the sound of the pounding of that little heart. "There's your baby" she told me cheerfully. It was so surreal. It was so wonderful. It was terrifying. I really did have this little baby growing inside of me.

I heard the heart beat. I saw the heart beat. It was a little slow and since I've researched everything to death I automatically recognized that there was a problem.

Later the doctor mentioned it to me in passing. She suggested I take another blood test and come back in two weeks to monitor the heart rate. She also mentioned the baby was only measuring 7 1/2 weeks. But she didn't seem alarmed. If anything she seemed optimistic. She was my personal cheerleader.

The next day I got the call I was dreading. My hormone levels were still too low. I found out that at 6 weeks my progesterone was only at 15 and should've been at 20. At 8 weeks, my progesterone was still at 15...that was with my intake of hormone supplements. It should've been at 25...on my own. The nurse told me to increase my hormone supplements some more.

As soon as I hung up the phone I burst into tears. For the first time in this pregnancy, I was really terrified for my baby. I was so scared. I was so utterly helpless.

The following weeks consisted of me trying to be even healthier, going for walks with my dogs, eating more fruits. I did everything I could to make this baby healthy. I took my hormones, my pre-natal vitamins and I avoided anything that I had read anywhere could possibly be harmful.

At 10 weeks I went into my precautionary ultrasound. My heart raced and I felt more nervous than I had ever been in my life. I had a different ultrasound technician, she seemed confused as to why I was there. I explained the low heart rate to her. So she began the ultrasound.

Silence overpowered the room. Then I saw the baby. I was so relieved to see it. The technician asked me a second time how far along I was.

"10 weeks."

"This baby is only 7 1/2 weeks along."

Someone please wake me up.

She left to get the doctor to "get a second opinion." The ultrasound technician who does ultrasounds all day long. The woman who earns her living looking at fetuses and listening to their tiny hearts beat was getting a second opinion...

I laid on the cold table begging myself to keep it together. Begging and willing myself not to cry.

She came back in without a doctor, but had a small teddy bear in her hand. I thought to myself, please tell me they don't give you a teddy bear to console you for the loss of your child. That's when I recognized it as a breast cancer bear.

"Look what someone gave me in the hallway. I had breast cancer five years ago." She went through and told me about her very personal and private fight with cancer.

That's when I was positive my baby was dead.

Why else would a complete stranger tell me these events of her life, other than to offer me hope and perspective. Yes it's a horrible thing, but hey, it's not cancer.

Then my cheerleader came in. She checked the ultrasound again. The picture this time was very clear. The baby had not grown. The baby had no heart beat. My baby was gone.

"Are you alone here today?"

"Yes."

That's when she told me the words that I would've done anything not to hear.

I burst into uncontrollable sobs. I lost all of my self-control. I became a blubbering mess. I was so embarrassed. I was ashamed. I couldn't think straight at all.

They led me to another room to sob in silence for a few minutes. All I wanted to do was leave. I wanted to run out of there crying. I wanted to crawl into my bed and sob until I couldn't breathe anymore. I wanted to erase all of this.

But I sat in that room. I sat in that room and tried to compose myself. I was halfway there, when the doctor came in to discuss my "options."

Wait for it to happen, or make it happen.

I decided for the surgery. I wanted to put this all behind me. I wanted to forget. I wanted to pretend like nothing ever happened.

But it did happen.

The rest of that day I spent telling the people I love and care about the most that I had lost my precious gift. The thing I wanted so badly was gone forever. Each time I told someone it became more real to me. It forced me to accept this undeniable truth. And no matter how much I was consoled about "next time it'll work out" it'll never bring this baby back.

I kept trying to remain logical about it...It wasn't meant to be...It was for the best...Something was wrong with it...It was still early in the pregnancy...It could've been worse...

All of these things help, but not enough. The questions that flew through my mind that weekend were overwhelming. I went from complete sorrow to utter rage. Why did this happen to us? We are good people! What did I do wrong?! Why me? What did I do to deserve this? Why do I have to be a statistic? I don't care that it happens to 1 in 4 women. Why me? Why us? WHY?!

Then I began to feel contempt and jealousy for any pregnant woman or woman carrying a baby. She's not taking care of it. She's not a good mother. I could do so much better. This isn't fair. It isn't right. She doesn't deserve that baby.

Yes. I thought those things. I felt those things. I said those things. I spewed hatred for anyone who had what I lost. People who knew nothing of my situation. People blissfully unaware. People who had the most amazing gift of all.

I hated myself for thinking those thoughts. I hated the person I was becoming.

My dad used to say "it takes a significant emotional event to change a person." Those words rang through my ears as I contemplated whether or not I was to change. And what would I change into? A hateful, barren woman who avoided children at all costs? That's not who I want to be. I love kids and I always have. I've felt nothing but joy for parents-to-be.

My family and friends have tried their best to offer their help. Everyone has different ways of helping and all of them in their own way have helped me immensely whether they realize it or not.

My husband has been nothing but supportive these past few days. My personal comedian and entertainer. He's done everything he could to lift my spirits and help me get past this. I worry about him. He doesn't really talk about it, but I know he's trying to get through this just as I am. I don't know if I could've made it through this without him. He's been my rock. Even as I relapsed this past weekend into sobs of anger and sorrow he was there for me. Consoling me every step of the way. I've always known it, but this experience has shown me that we truly can get through anything together. We are an inseparable team.

I had my D&C a few days later. The medical term sounds so much nicer than what it really is. So much nice than "removing my dead baby from my womb." My D&C. I was scared and I was nervous. Without going into too much detail, I was put under full anesthesia and felt nothing but some cramps afterward. When I woke up my first thought was "it's done" and a tear filled my eye. But I quickly remembered where I was, and pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind. I was released the same day and brought home to rest.

Going back to work was nerve wrecking. I didn't think it would be. But the night before I hardly slept a wink. I was so worried about the stares, the thoughts. The looks of pity. I didn't want that. I just want to put it behind me. It was nothing like I pictured. I was accepted back to work just as I had been before. Nothing was mentioned. Nothing was said. It was just as I had requested and for that I'm unbelievably gracious.

I hope someday my dream will come true. But it doesn't change the fact that this baby is gone. What happens in Vegas, apparently does stay in Vegas. Because I will never hear my baby cry or hold it in my arms.

And I can never bring it back again. Ever. It's gone.

Expecting, Definitely

Posted by Anonymous (Anonymous of this post, which was submitted in August. What follows is her update on the decision she made, and where she is now.)

I'm not exactly single. I have a tiny Baby I'm carrying around wherever I go. I'm now two people. I have two hearts. Two brains. Two bouts of the hiccups at once. I'm never alone anymore.

I'm also not exactly single in that other sense, either. Baby's father (the one who got me into this blessed mess) and I are holding hands at the doctor's office and having dinner with his parents and mine. But I'm still living in my house (the one I bought nine months ago. In fact, I made the offer the day of our first date) while he lives 56 kilometers away. That's down a secondary highway, even further from the Capital than me.

I've always been independent to a fault, and I still find it hard to behave as if this isn't entirely my responsibility. I told him The News about six hours after I wrote that first post, and he smiled! Anyway, I'm not worried about him. While we're not living together or sharing bills, I'm sure this part of this new family will work itself out.

Baby, on the other hand, is a different story. Some anonymous writer commented on my last post, "Chances are better that you'll regret the baby you didn't have [more] than the one you did." This is precisely the thought I'm clinging to - rather, it's the truth I'm holding out for.

I've always wanted children. Babies! I figured that once I started, I would never want to stop having them. I love pregnant bellies and breastfeeding and carrying little squirmy toddlers and all of that. My biggest fear was, until now, that I might not be able to have children of my own. As prepared as I thought I was, nothing prepared me for actually being pregnant. Who knew stretch marks came on with such a vengeance? Who knew morning sickness felt like being carsick, ALL DAY. Who knew women often suffer from depression during pregnancy? Who knew the "glow" is nothing more than the facial manifestation of terror?

But I know if I just get though these next 5 and a half months, the reward will be worth it all. I'm trying my darnedest not to panic about money. Babies don't' cost much - it's the unnecessary paraphernalia that really adds up. Sure, I could afford it now, but maternity benefits are somewhat... lacking. But I'm trying not to panic - panic leads to tears and hyperventilating and sleepless nights. (As if the heavy breasts and multiple trips to the toilet aren't wrecking enough havoc.)

I haven't even thought about what people think. It's a small town, as I said. Not everyone knows everyone else, but a lot of people know me thanks to the nature of my job. It seems that babies transcend all that unwed-mother garbage. Everybody is just delighted at the prospect of a baby.

Obviously I decided to keep the baby. I didn't really have a choice - I wouldn't have made it through the two weeks I needed to get an abortion without falling in love with the tiny apple seed and planning the rest of our lives.

It's an adjustment, this getting used to life as a parent. Everything I wanted to do Some Day now comes with a pretty big string attached. Go back to school? Sure, but I'd have to move and pay the bills with a baby in tow. Hike the Long Range Mountains? Yes, but I'll have to wait til the baby is weaned and arrange for my parents to babysit for a week. Cycle across the country? As soon as Baby is old enough to ride with me. A second trip to China? As long as I go soon, before Baby turns 2 and I can't afford the airfare anymore. Speed skate at the 2014 Winter Olympics? That last one may be a tad ambitious. But it's a whole new world. I'm looking forward to it.

Expecting, Maybe.

Posted by Anonymous.

I just found out I’m pregnant. I’m 25. I’m employed by a company that offers maternity benefits. I’m a homeowner.

I’m also single and broke. And I live in a very, very small town.

My doctor’s appointment is tomorrow morning, but the three home pregnancy sticks in my desk drawer – each proudly sporting their own pictorial interpretation of hCG – two bars, a plus sign and a thoughtfully bilingual “Pregnant/Enceinte,” – tell me what I’ve known since my nipples began begging for a cool cloth and my legs couldn’t shake that itchy-from-the-inside out feeling.

Five weeks, by my count.

Two more until I can hit up the Morgentaler clinic.

Maybe.

Because when I watched that first stick form one line, then two, it was all I could do to keep the smile off my face.

Babies Having Babies

Posted by Anonymous.

So I might have to warn some of the mothers who read this....you might not want to and I'm sure that what I am about to say might offend some people but I don't know where else to say what I need to say.

I know a dozen or more people who got pregnant out of wedlock and yes I'm going to be judgmental and say that bothers me. Several of these people say its because they "could not afford birth control" well the last time I checked a box of condoms for about 3 was about $4 maybe even less than that. Oh and planned parenthood will give them to you for free!!! You can also get the pill for a 90 day supply at some drug stores for $10....wow that must be so expensive. But yet these same people can afford $1,000 a month town houses and the latest video game systems.....but who cares about trying to prevent pregnancy.

Did you ever think they considered how much a kid would cost? Probably not, I mean what could a little unprotected sex hurt, right?!?!?

My parents have also never been fans of unprotected pregnancy but they are also pro-life.....I know if I ever got pregnant out of wedlock I would quietly take care of the problem and never tell them. That's my own choice and I don't want to get into that, different topic and too many opinions there. But just today my mom informed me that a family friend who is 23, still in college, working an unpaid internship and has no medical insurance is guess what, pregnant. This is her bosses daughter, who I used to be very close with, almost like sisters. I was angry when my mom told me because I know that this girl is smarter than that, but her parents are excited for her and so is my mother. Her and the father will be living with her parents and I can almost guarantee they will take care of the baby, since she and baby daddy are still in college and jobless.

My mother, the person who would throw me out on the street if I EVER told her that I was knocked up - she is excited for this girl. I just wanted to scream.....I just cannot fathom how people think this is okay....maybe I am too old fashioned but I am also careful. In my life I have had 2 pregnancy scares and in one case took the Plan B pill just to be safe. I have been on the pill since I was 14 and I wasn't even sexually active then.

I'm tired of pretending to feel sorry for them when I know how easy it is to not get yourself into that situation. I know for some people things work out but for most they don't. Its much easier for one of the parents to get out of the situation when there is no legal marriage. Not planning for things almost always means there is little to no money to help raise that child either, so there goes my tax dollars into their WICK and Welfare checks.

I don't plan on attending her shower or calling her to tell her a fake "congratulations." I can't keep letting myself feel sorry for people like that. I cannot fathom how a person could be excited to be in that situation. My mother tells me not to pass judgment but that girl is not her daughter and if the tables were turned I'd be living in a homeless shelter. I've watched many of my cousins do the same thing, I've seen them fight for child support, work dead end jobs and one of them even had her 4 children put into foster care.

I don't know if its wrong or what to feel like this but it just makes me sick inside. I just hope and pray it never happens to me but if it ever does I know what to do and I know what would be right in my heart. Maybe there is something wrong with the way that I feel but I do know how else I am supposed to feel. How can I react to situations like this without feeling the way that I do.

Signed,

Too many babies and shot gun weddings

The Post-Partum Week From Hell

Posted by Anonymous.

The last four weeks of my pregnancy were hellish. First, my doctor almost killed me and my unborn son by administering an anemia treatment to which I had a severe allergic reaction.

I could barely walk by the end, and when my doctor told me she wanted to deliver me five days early, I issued no protest.

Now I'm wishing I could turn back the clock.

It isn't the baby - he is as sweet as pie, some nights even sleeping for six hours at a stretch. He wakes twice at the most. The blessing of birthing an almost 10-pounder. I earned some good karma while waddling around with his big noggin pressing on my cervix.

But this week? This week after the birth?

Is from HELL.

First, every in-law I have descended on me, with my FIL and MIL doing their level best to divert my husband's attention from me and our new baby. Their 30-year-old divorce feud spills over into every family event, culminating this time in a call from my MIL to my husband the day after I came home from the hospital, summoning him to her hotel room so she and her husband could interrogate my husband as to his "feelings' about the divorce.

IT WAS 34 YEARS AGO. GET OVER IT ALREADY.

Then my brother found me on Twitter and made his way to my blog. This is such a bad, bad thing. Such a very very bad bad thing. He and his wife now have the goods on me - my mother doesn't know about my blog, and my brother - and especially his wife - hate my mother.

There is little to deter him from using my blog as a weapon against my mom - or me, for that matter - should one of them get in a snit about something.

And I don't want to hurt my mom. I never told her about my blog, because at the beginning it was a place for me to vent and grieve in private anonymity. Not even my husband reads it, giving me free reign to write honestly about my inner life.

A freedom now curtailed.

I am stifled by the idea of their eyes on my words. I'm tentative, where once I was fearless.

What do I do? Clear out my archives of precious words and tell her? Or wait, crouched in defensive position, to have the bomb dropped for me?

How do I explain it?

Oh, and just after that, my husband decided we should finally, after six years of marriage, combine our bank accounts. Let's just say we have very different ideas when it comes to finances. And that was the last vestige of freedom I had - my own checking account.

As a woman who gave up all her independence to stay home and raise children, the few dollars I earn from my writing gave me a sense that I am not totally reliant on my husband.

And now I am.

I had hoped to avoid anti-depressants this time around. But major life changes are my biggest triggers. How about a series of stressful life-changing events?

Please pass the Lexapro.

Missing My Mom

Posted by Anonymous

For better or worse, my mother has always been my best friend. She's always that first phone call I want to make when there's something wonderful or something terrible. She is the first shoulder I run to cry on and more often the person who gently - or not so gently - kicks me in the pants and tells me to get over it.

I was never the little girl who dreamed about her wedding day. I always dreamed of the day I would have my first child. I imagined running over to her house and telling her the great news, asking her to come for ultrasounds, exciting shopping trips and nursery decorating sessions, and most of all, having her in the waiting room, third in line to greet the new arrival.

Of course, life never goes as planned. We live a continent apart. I had to deliver the exciting news over the phone and could only hope that the timing would work for her to be here. A few weeks after my announcement my grandmother had her first "incident". You see, my grandmother is an alcoholic. While it was a bit of a shock to find that college keggers smelled just like grandma, my life was pretty untouched by her drinking. Except where it touched my mother. Which was every where and in every way. And while that's not the point of this, it needs to be repeated that this woman made my mother's childhood and quite a bit of her adulthood unbearable. So I found myself pregnant, far away from family, and my mother's distraction was just beginning.

"Mom, I was diagnosed with Gestational Diabetes, I'm freaking out."

-"Your grandmother fell again."

"Mom, I have low-lying placenta, they want to monitor me closely."

-"Your grandmother is calling me 20 times a day."

"Mom, I have gained 75 lbs, I'm miserable."

-"Your grandmother hasn't called me in a week."

"Mom, I have this rash, it's called PUPPS and it's an allergy to being pregnant and I look like a leper."

-"Your grandmother fired the aid."

"Mom, my feet are so swollen I can't walk and they tell me I have this thing called pre-eclampsia."

-"I think we need to put your grandmother in a home."

When I had to go into an emergency induction to have my first son, she did her best to get out here and she arrived a few days after he was born. When she left, I cried. Possibly harder than I ever had in my life. I wanted her to be there with me and guide me through all these new things. I grieved, selfishly, for all that she had missed during my pregnancy. And most of all, I was heartbroken for my son who I knew would miss out on so much with the distance between us. I knew I would lose her to my grandmother again when she got home.

And I did.

By the time I was pregnant with my second son, I again had hope that she would be there. This time home with my older son waiting for the new baby to come home. My pregnancy was far less eventful and she was still just as preoccupied with my grandmother. By this time, grandmother was being moved to an assisted living facility and people were finally listening to my mother about her drinking problems. My grandmother generally hid her drinking well, but it finally caught up with her in the form of "alcohol induced dementia", which means that she now has an excuse when she pretends to forget some of the more awful things she has done. I fully believe that at this point, most people would just walk away. I know I would have. My husband says he would have made me. There is no love lost on either end of the relationship and sometimes I think you need to sever ties with people who are just plain poisonous. But my mother is a God-fearing woman and takes her commandments to heart. She will honor her mother till the end. So she started a regimen of every-other-day visits while spending the off days preparing a long-neglected home for sale.

With my due date at hand, my mother arrived. But again, when does life EVER go as planned? As my due date passed, her departure date arrived. We joked the night before she was to leave that I would have the baby that day. Still, I was surprised to wake up in labor at 3am. At 8am the next morning I was in full swing active labor and my husband and son were in the car taking my mother to the airport. I was fighting contractions, sobbing and making her empty bed. My son was born a few hours later.

I know I'm being selfish. But Goddamnit, having a baby is the time in your life you want your own mommy the most. I feel ripped off. I feel like all the aspects of my pregnancies and births that she missed are somehow less real, the memories less tangible for having not been shared. We'd like more children, and we want to wait a few years, but don't think it's a coincidence if my grandmother dies first. I'd like to say all of this to her, but my mother is a hard woman and would just get defensive and tell me to stop whining. So I'll tell you instead.