Posts Tagged ‘miscarriage’

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As I stated last year, I’m not big on New Year’s Resolutions.  I think they’re generally committed to under duress, or worse yet, under the influence of eggnog and sugar.  And since no judge in the world would be able to hold you accountable for any contracts drafted by the pen of Captain Morgan or Sara Lee, you’re really sort of left in a lurch, with nobody to answer to but your own sorry self.

2010 has been a difficult year sucked ass.  Between my nutso autoimmune disease and my pregnancy losses, my body has had more attention than I generally like for it to have.  And I have found no shortage of people who are chock-full of tips, hints and general advice.  There are only so many times that one person can say, “Yes, that might work.”  Or, “That’s one idea.”  Or, “Sure, give me his card.”  Or, “Please step away from me, kind sir.”

So with that being said (and with nothing more than oatmeal and a possibly-lethal amount of coffee in my system), I have decided to make a December 5th Resolution.  Starting right this minute, anybody who attempts to offer advice about my body¹ will be met with a loud chirping noise, followed by a flick between the eyes, followed by a kick in the ass.

So hear ye!  Hear ye!  Whether you are a friend or a foe; a doctor or a salesperson; a pirate, a poet or a pauper, consider yourself warned.  The non-existent suggestion box is officially closed for business, locked, chained and cast into the deepest depths of the Pacific Ocean.  Got it?  Chirp, flick, kick.  Or maybe flick, chirp, kick.  Or, depending on the obnoxiousness of the advice-giver, kick, kick, flick, flick, kick, chirp.  We’ll see.  The possibilities are endless.  The world is my oyster.  And I prefer my oysters served without a side of shitty advice.²

¹ ie: What my body does or doesn’t do; is or isn’t capable of; does or doesn’t look like; should or shouldn’t behave like, etc…

² Okay, I’m actually allergic to shellfish but let’s just pretend I’m not for the sake of bad analogies.

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Several months ago, my husband and I unearthed my CD collection, which had been in storage for over a year, and I spent a day listening to songs and albums (are they still called albums?!) which I hadn’t heard in too long.  Since my stillbirth in June, I had replayed a bit of the Tori Amos song “Spark” in my head, from her “miscarriage album”, From the Choirgirl Hotel.  She’s convinced she could hold back a glacier.  But she couldn’t keep baby alive… I found that song and played it on repeat, over and over and over and over again.  And then I moved on to “Playboy Mommy.” Then the baby came before I found the magic how to keep her happy… I’ll say it loud here by your grave.  Those angels can’t ever take my place… And then my paranoia began.  I’m superstitious.  I found out in September that I was pregnant again.  I was happy to have another little bean growing in my belly but anybody who has lost a baby knows that the word “excitement” does not come into play in a subsequent pregnancy.  Fear, dread, worry, hope, hope, hope, hope, hope…

People always say that all you need to do to get pregnant and sustain a healthy pregnancy is to relax.  “Just relax and everything will be fine.”  “A friend of mine had tried to get pregnant for 6 years and once she finally relaxed and quit trying, she got pregnant with twins!”  “Your body knows what it’s doing.  Relax.”  “What are the chances that something bad could happen again?  Don’t borrow trouble.”  Guess what?  There’s not enough chamomile tea, aromatherapy bath salts or benzodiazepines on this planet to allow for relaxation during a pregnancy after a loss.  But alas, I stowed my Tori Amos albums away for fear that all that miscarriage talk, all of that looking back instead of forward, might keep me from being able to adequately relax.  I drank my pregnancy tea and slept on my left side.  I kept my hot laptop battery away from my belly and I crossed streets to avoid second-hand smoke.  I took my prenatal vitamins and I stayed far away from lunch meats, soft cheeses and alcohol.  I did everything right.  But I still lost my baby.

If anybody’s keeping score, my three pregnancies have yielded one living child.  I don’t need Rain Man to tell me that those odds are pretty shitty.  Yes, it would seem that the dealer’s got an ace in the hole, but I’m not easily discouraged in the face of being dealt a terrifically dismal hand.  In fact, I have plans of blowing up the fucking casino.

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