416 Days

It has been 416 days since my life changed forever... since I really went off the deep end... since my heart broke into a million pieces and left me feeling empty and alone. It has been 416 days.

Just 416 days ago, I woke up in the morning and, just like every other morning, made a bee-line to the bathroom to pee. This is part of my morning ritual, and considering that I was 14 weeks pregnant at the time, it was a very important part. I opened my eyes, swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood on my swollen feet. I immediately felt it. I felt the gush of blood running down my half-numb legs. I felt the warm flood of life-giving liquid trailing behind me as I ran to the bathroom. I turned on the light to discover the crimson pool around my feet. Trying not to panic, I calmly called to Mr.T to bring me my phone so that I could alert my doctor. It has been 416 days since I thought that my pregnancy with my 5th child was going to be complicated with placenta previa and the accompanying bleeding. Just like my 1st pregnancy. It has been 416 days since I was proven wrong.

My mother went to the doctor with me. I told Mr.T that I would call him at work and let him know what was going on as soon as I was done with my appointment. I would be able to inform him of how low the placenta was laying in my uterus and how much bed rest would be required this time around. It has been 416 days since I thought it was nothing serious. The doctor checked for a heartbeat. He checked again. He checked for a 3rd time, and we both thought that we heard it, ever-so-faintly in the background. I was sent to the hospital a few blocks away for an ultrasound to confirm that all was well. It has been 416 days since all was not well. It has been 416 days since I saw the image on the screen. The image of my dead, unborn baby. It has been 416 days since I sat in that little room with my mother and screamed and cried and begged the tech to check again.

I was given instructions to go home and wait. Wait for the contractions... for the birth. So, I went home and I waited.

It has been 416 days since I waited. I waited until 7pm, when the contractions started coming harder and closer together. I breathed and bled and cried and waited. Around 10pm, my water broke. My mother and I retreated to the master bathroom while Mr.T got the 4 kids in bed. It was in my master bathroom that it happened... in a violent blur of pain and heartache and blood and confusion, I gave birth. I'll never forget how tiny and perfect that baby was. I held him (I say him because even though it was too soon to determine gender, my heart had told me that it was a boy from the day I found out I was pregnant) in the palm of my hand and cried for him. It has been 416 days since I held my dead baby and cried for him and for me. I apologized over and over and over and over again. I didn't know what else to do.

It has been 416 days since I gave birth in the bathtub... since I did as instructed by my doctor and 'caught whatever I could in ziploc bags' to take to the office the next day... since I was taken to the hospital in the middle of the night because the bleeding would not stop... since my mother put her hand on me and prayed out loud for me to 'please not die'... since I died a little bit despite her prayers.

It has been 417 days since I buried my dead baby under my favorite tree. No words were said. Not one single word. My daughters were too upset to be present, so it was just me, Mr.T, and G. Just us and a tiny little baby, in a tiny little box.

The days, weeks, months that followed are a blur to me now. I grieved. I raged. I blamed. I made decisions that will haunt me for the rest of my life. Sometimes the pain was so great that it clouded my judgment. It gave me a false sense of entitlement. I allowed the pain to take over.

It has been 416 days since my mental health began to deteriorate... since it turned into something so much bigger than me... since I first saw those black creatures flying at my head, when nothing was actually there... since I first saw people in places where there were no people... since I lost my mind and was too afraid to tell anyone...

It took me 416 days to decide that I can't be silent any longer. I hurt. I cry. I see things that aren't really there. I take medicine to make me "normal". I live in constant fear of being diagnosed with schizophrenia or bipolar disorder or one of the other mental illnesses passed down through my family's DNA. Even worse, I fear that I will pass it on to my children.

It has been 416 days since my life changed forever...

It has been 416 days.


Friday, September 25, 2009 | Labels: , , | 15 Comments  

My love story

We've all heard a million sappy, romantic stories about how a perfect girl meets a perfect boy in a perfect setting. Stories filled with stolen glances across crowded dance floors... suddenly, the world stops spinning and the band starts playing, and *POOF* a perfect couple is born. You and I both know that these stories are bullshit, but still we listen. We listen, we imagine, we dream that WE are that girl and HE is that boy and that one day WE just may be that perfect couple. That story could be about US...

My hubs, Mr. T, and I have tons of history. We met a LONG time ago (more than 20 years now), but our story will not make you dream or imagine. Couldn't be further from it. At best, our story will make you glad that it isn't your story.

Let me take you back to Mrs. Huff's 3rd grade class. It was the beginning of the school year. I can still smell the crayons, the Elmer's glue...those God-awful automatic air fresheners in the restrooms with the half-sized toilets and sinks. I can see the horrible turquoise stone-wash denim skirt. It had a big zipper up the back, which I thought was awesome and made me look like a rock star. I remember the white shirt with the huge aqua tiger head on the front... still stiff because I had just removed the tags that very morning. And my bangs, OH my bangs. They were huge...they were puffy...they were bullet-proof. To this day, I wonder how any mother could let her child go out of the house looking that way! In those days, I was chubby, I had buck-teeth, and I wore disgusting perfumes like "Electric Youth" and "Exclamation!".

I hated being the new kid. My family had just moved to town a few weeks before, which left me friendless and alone. No one wants to be the new kid, but there I was...nervous as all hell. If I could have crawled under the carpet and died, I would have stayed there forever. (Or until someone complained about the smell.)

Then I saw him...*cue violin music and slow-motion*

He had a "preppy mullet" (if such a thing actually exists) with little curls at the back. He was bronze and sun-kissed from spending the past 3 months in the tiny town's one and only swimming pool. And his bone structure? Girls would kill for those cheekbones! He was dreamy and I was in love.

I got my seat assignment from the teacher. The desks were divided into groups of four; each of which had been arranged into a cluster. Each desk also had a name tag, laminated and carefully taped into place. I found my name, sat down, and started to put away my supplies. Then I happened to notice the name directly across from me......"Mr. T". That beautiful boy would be sitting less than 3 feet away from me?!? I hoped the Earth would open up and swallow me whole. I sat, staring at my shoes. I think I stopped breathing.

People who know me, know that I'm not fun to be around when I'm nervous. First, I start to sweat. I don't mean the "glowing" kind like most girls do. I mean disgustingly-huge-sweat-rings-even-with-prescription-strength-deodorant sweating. Next, I start to shake. Or, more accurately, convulse. I start to feel like I can't breathe, and worst of all are the butterflies. Not the sweet, fluttery ones, either. I'm telling you, my butterflies are like angry mutant kung-fu vigilantes.

On this day in the 3rd grade, they were worse than ever before. While the teacher is explaining class rules and procedures and expectations, I start to feel it.

First, it was like a headache...winding up my spine, leaving chills along the way in my belly and neck and ears. It went from there to my temples to throb and grow. I was miserable, but didn't say a word, for fear of making myself look like an even bigger loser.

So, I sat. I endured. I started to spin. And then? I puked.

I puked on myself, I puked on Mr.T...I sprayed the floor, our desks, and anything else within a 6 foot radius. The classroom was dead silent at first, but quickly filled with sounds of 20 disgusted 3rd graders desperately trying to get as far from my mess as possible. I was mortified and crying.

To sum it up, the janitor was called, the vomit was mopped, I was deemed an outcast, and was quite certain that the tan boy with the chiseled jaw and cheekbones would never speak to me...

I couldn't have been more wrong.

While the other kids made cruel jokes and tortured me over this "incident", Mr.T never mentioned it once. We became great friends. We talked. We dated. We married. We reproduced.

I'm glad our story isn't roses and candlelight. Our story is big bangs, bad clothes, rank perfume, and throw-up...

It's the most beautiful love story I know....

Saturday, September 05, 2009 | Labels: , | 12 Comments  

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