Love, Lindsey

Features

I wish that Facebook had a way to block baby pictures -- everytime I sign on lately, I'm assaulted. Punched in the stomach. Short of de-friending everyone, I should do what?

Chemistry

    So the result of trying for baby #2 during my first postpartum cycle ended in a "chemical pregnancy." A chemical pregnancy is when an embryo is created, implants in your uterus long enough to start making those home pregnancy tests turn positive, and then all is lost. An early miscarriage. Saturday night found Marc and I very excited at that dark second line on the pregnancy test. I had been testing early and we had been seeing faint lines, but Saturday night's test was the clincher. I was so excited that I could barely sleep that night, but the next morning was not kind. I chart my temperature, and my temperature had taken a nose dive overnight -- not good. Then I was greeted to the faintest line ever on a pregnancy test, and red on the toilet paper. So it started, and I'm sitting here on Monday with heavy bleeding and cramping. My temperature has remained low this morning, so that pretty much settles that. I am not as upset as I thought I would be. There were a few tears yesterday, but what happened in April really seems to overshadow everything else. So a few tears, Marc and I hugging in bed, disappointed.

    Chemical pregnancies are very common, most women have them without ever knowing, believing that they're having their normal period. But home pregnancy tests are so sensitive today that you can't find out if you're pregnancy so early. Anyway, we've tried to find the rainbow in this situation, which I find given our current place in life is always trying to slink off and cower in a corner because even rainbows want no part in our seemingly bad luck. We decided that hey, my body is working -- I ovulated and can get pregnant. So onward we go.

Busy Work

    I have often found that the frequency and difficulty level of my cooking has a steady correlation to my stress level -- and not inversely so, as I imagine it is with most people. If it gives you any insight into the current state of my mind, today was seemingly entirely devoted to cooking. Cooking for breakfast? Butter would not suffice, so I did in fact wake up first thing this morning when I was struck with the mission of finding lard. I called butcher shops, grocery stores, and finally ended up on the line with a dutch market run by Mennonites that delivered the verbal relief that I needed to hear -- yes they had lard! I drove over and I imagine that it turned out to be a good thing, I immediately felt relaxed and enjoyed the market -- the fresh cheese shop, the expansive butcher counters lined with freshly killed chickens, cooler cases of exotic cuts of meat (or what would be, to a novice cook perhaps). Signs that read "we make our own cream and butter!" I headed straight to the butcher counter to claim my prize, as when I called, the owner hinted that they were running low -- the market is only open Thursday, Friday, and Saturday and by Saturday there usually is no lard left. I admired the tall shelves of canned goods, groaning under the strain of a seemingly endless array of various pickled vegetables, and more types of jams and jellies than I could count. I picked up some Amish dinner rolls for later, and of course bought one of their soft pretzels -- a fantastic breakfast indeed. I have no idea how the Amish make such fabulous soft pretzels -- sure I know that Auntie Ann was a Mennonite, but the pretzels at this market blow those mall pretzels out of the water. These pretzels are soft, tender, yet crispy and buttery on the outside -- so much so that in fact the secret ingredient to that pretzel's goodness was streaming down my fingers as I ate, forming golden pools of fat on the wrapping paper. I imagine that it's likely liquid crack cocaine, because within 5 minutes or so I was seriously contemplating going back for a second. Gluttony!

    I came home and made brunch for Marc, country ham with those soft Amish rolls, complete with the ham gravy and liberal amounts of softened country butter and peach jam. Let me tell you that if you watched Marc eat, you might imagine that he was starved as a child -- he inhales his food wordlessly and you might otherwise have no clue that he enjoyed his food, save a satisfied smile once the last bite has been taken. But this morning he ate slowly and for once, I finished my meal before him. "Is it all right?" I asked. "I'm savoring it!" he said and laughed, and it was funny to watch him finish that ham. I am pretty sure that country ham rates as one of his top five foods. The afternoon was spent dividing out corn meal, various types of flour, putting away jars and rearranging the kitchen. My co-worker gave me two beautiful tomatoes straight from his garden and I had to think about how to do them justice. Good quality tomatoes are well served by simply slicing them and serving them sprinkled with salt and pepper, but tonight I decided that a more special technique was in order. I cut the tomatoes into thick slices, and lined them up on parchment paper in a roasting pan. I tossed 10 or so unpeeled garlic cloves into the mixed, drizzled everything with olive oil, sprinkled with salt and pepper, and put everything into the oven at 225 degrees. They won't be done for another two hours -- they roast for three! But the result is well worth it -- crispy in spots, juicy in others -- the tomato flavor is so concentrated and you would never believe how flavorful a tomato can be. I think that I'll let them cool tonight (after popping one into my mouth!) and use them on pizza tomorrow. The slow roasted garlic softens and can be squeezed out of the peel. It is phenomenal spread over bread, but will also be good on the homemade pizza tomorrow.

    Cooking is one of the few things that provides me pleasure right now, and it also serves to keep me extremely busy -- when I cook I must focus completely on the task at hand, and all of the worries crowding the rest of my life tend to soften around the edges, easing and shrinking back as I work. The rest of my life is falling into a usual pattern of work, and more work -- at least I love my job. Right now Marc and I are just waiting... am I pregnant? Only time will tell. Until then, I'll be cooking.

False Alarm

False alarm from two weeks ago -- I did not ovulate.  My tests got dark, but not completely positive -- and then they lightened right back up. Last night they started getting dark and then today -- wham, totally positive. In fact, today I took 4 ovulation tests -- one First Response at 7 am (dark, but not a positive), a  First Response  and a ClearBlueEasy at 11 am, both of which were strong positives. Then this evening I got another positive FR anddddd... a positive DIGITAL CBE test -- complete with a smiley face. I have always hated that ovulation test -- even though the fact that it's digital makes the test easy to read, no lines to interpret -- that makes the results that much more glaring. At least with your typical ovulation test, you always get two lines -- and you get to decide if the test line is just as dark, or darker than the control line. This provides endless entertainment and agonizing, running around the house to hold the test under various light sources, and occasionally consulting with my marital set of second eyes. Then Marc and I have lengthy discussions about how, well it looks close, and aren't those lines very similiar in color? Perhaps I am ovulating. Even when I know that the directions clearly state how dark the lines need to be. With a digital test however -- if you are ovulating, you get a nice smiley face staring at you -- and my what a happy face that is to see! When you're not ovulating, you get a big fat empty circle, a reminder  that you are possibly BARREN and at the very least, you're not ovulating in the next day or so.

So this afternoon, I got the smiley face. Oh, what a happy face that is to see! Anyway, so 12 days ago my body geared up to ovulate... and then didn't. Pretty common because stress will delay ovulation -- what a surprise. So I left work early today to go home and relax, and told Marc that I would be doing no cleaning or cooking of any sort tonight. Only relaxing! The same will apply to tomorrow! Even with a positive ovulation test, it's possible not to ovulate -- so I'll hopefully be confirming with a temperature shift in the next couple of days.

Everything is marked in dates for me now -- in two days, it will be one year since we found out that I was pregnant with Natalie -- one of the best days of my life. Tomorrow, it will be 19 weeks since I had her. I miss my baby.

One Year and Seventeen Weeks

Today I was thinking about dates -- for the past seventeen weeks, every Tuesday is recognized as that day -- it's been X many weeks since I had Natalie. But as Marc and I are now trying for baby number two, tomorrow marks a special day for two reasons -- tomorrow is the day that we conceived Natalie last year. The exact day. And it just so happens that I'm ovulating tomorrow. What are the chances? Could we have a rainbow baby conceived on the same day as Natalie? I hate to get my hopes up, but I do believe in signs. We are hoping.

Actual Better Days

    In terms of my mental state, while nowhere near where I'd like it to be, the last few days have been a major improvement over last week. I know that two weeks ago I was taking synthetic hormones which I think was only amplifying my emotions by several orders of magnitude. Then last week I was taking clomid which also gets your hormones in a twist -- you could definitely say that I was fragile. I was definitely dancing on the line of what I know to be full blown depression, a place that I've been twice but have always climbed out of thanks to medication and good support. This time however, the idea that I would need any sort of intervention only further antagonized me because I will not take medication this time because Marc and I are trying for baby number two. I was a wreck. Being around the house has been difficult, the fact that her room smells so NEW infuriates me. Every day or so I go into her room and I feel so endlessly sad that I smell the new paint, the freshly laundered clothes, see the pristine mattress. This overwhelming feeling in my gut that something is so, so terribly wrong.

    What else shocks me? When I catch a glimpse of her face in a picture, I recognize pieces of my memory slipping away... her face in a photo seems further away, more distant, more like a dream. This is perhaps one of the most awful things for me. The thought that I am forgetting, that her face is a novelty to study because I can't remember it as sharply as I did months ago. I catch myself sometimes feeling surprised at her features, some detail that I missed, and the anger that I feel with myself is overwhelming. The anger with myself is something that I genuinely do not know how to fix. It's not as easy as "forgive yourself." In my experience, it just doesn't work that way. Go ahead and tell yourself that it's not your fault, but if you honestly believe that it is, somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind, no sense of ease will prevail. In my case the guilt isn't that hard to find either, so you can imagine that there is no self forgiveness in the near future. To be honest, most of me doesn't want to forgive myself. Who would forgive the person that is responsible for the death of their child? I certainly don't want to so it's pretty unfortunate that the person I hold most responsible is myself. Isn't it sad that I consider a day like this to be an actual better day, and these are still the thoughts that run through my head? You should see the bad days.

    What is keeping us sane? The excitement and fear of planning for baby number two. A baby who is so much loved before he or she is even born. On both the good days and bad days, this is what gets us through. There is some part of us that still has hope for the future.

Better Days

Today was not a good day. Yesterday was not a good day, and the two days before that were not good days. I did not go to work today. My hair has started to come out by the handful -- and speaking of hands,  mine have begun to shake when I hold anything. I've seen better days. I am trying so, so hard to hold on. I feel as though I'm hanging off of the side of a cliff, hands clawing, digging in, hanging on. I am trying so hard.

Distractions

    So far I've spent the entire day cooking, which is always a welcome distraction. I rose around 8 a.m. and started baking straight away -- I made two loaves of white bread -- one for baking straight away, another loaf destined for the freezer to be  baked later this week. While the bread was baking I started to prepare the marinade for bulgogi -- Korean barbecued beef. Marc and I both love the intense flavors and aromatic herbs involved in so many types of asian cuisine. The bulgogi marinade is flush with fresh ginger, garlic, grated korean pear, scallions -- all mixed into soy sauce, honey, sesame oil, and various spices. Ahhh. The thin slices of rib eye are marinated for as long as you can stand, and then grilled or cooked stove top depending on how thin the meat is. The result is delicious beef with a true depth of flavor -- savory, sweet, the whole nine yards. We'll serve it up with jasmine rice and end the meal with grilled pineapple skewers served with a sweet coconut milk dipping sauce. I remember the very first time Marc  and I decided to try grilled pineapple -- that very first recipe was not particularly detailed, to say the least. The particulars of the technique were lost on us, the computer scientist and first rate electrical engineer, and yes we mostly certaintly were trying to set an entire whole pineapple directly on the grill. We were puzzled. Wouldn't that take forever? That night we ended up with luke warm, cold in the middle pineapple that was still delicious because well, it's pineapple. But we learned that it's important to slice the pineapple before grilling  -- and now we do.

    Yesterday we discovered a new asian grocery store not 15 minutes from our house. We already live in an area with good Korean grocers but they're at least 35-40 minutes away, making them too out of the way for frequent trips. What's the draw of asian grocers? First, the produce. Safeway occasionally advertises 4 limes for $1? At All Green Market, I can get 8 limes for $1 any day of the week -- and up to 10-15 for $1 when they're on sale! Oranges are .20 cents a piece, bunches of cilantro for .50 cents, bunches of scallions 4 for $1. Ethnic groceries focus on cheap yet quality produce because that is a focus of their clientele. These asian grocers do not have fancy bakeries, cafe stations, or dazzling decorations -- their overhead is much lower and they pass the savings onto you. If you're facing a recipe with a seemingly exotic ingredient the asian grocers will more than likely stock them. Entire aisles of soy and fish sauces, chili paste and oils, rows of exotic rices and noodles. An entire length of an aisle devoted to various types of Ramen (not a favorite of mine, but definitely a favorite of Marc's.) If you think that the range of Ramen flavors run from chicken to shrimp, you are certainly missing out.

    So this morning while the bread dough rose and the bulgogi marinade was doing its thing, I sat at the kitchen table with the morning sun filtering in. I cruised online for recipes and treated myself to freshly brewed passion fruit iced tea and fresh sweet lichee fruit. I feel hopeful when I feel the tiniest hints of pleasure creeping back into my life.

The Things That We Do

    I don't have the heart to tell my acupuncturist that her steel needles and chinese herbs aren't the only trick up my sleeve. Oh no, when I get my period in the next few days it will be the result of modern day drugs. But I'll tell her that, alas, the acupuncture worked! Hormone pills, baby aspirin, ovulation drugs from Mexico... the things that we do. I have never been one to imagine that fate is lonely -- I'm more inclined to believe that fate is a follower that will happily take orders when obliged. Maybe that is what I have to tell myself. I can do this. I can change this outcome. I can change this story. I can win. I can make everything turn out OK. If I'm just smart enough, do enough, know enough, learn enough, work hard enough. I'm a fool who doesn't know any better. A fool that doesn't learn. A fool that can't live with the idea that sometimes there is not enough effort in the world to force your will onto a situation that can't be changed. Oh God, I try. We're trying. Every slip up is a crushing blow. If I can't remember where I put my cell phone, how can I take care of a living child? If I can't remember to give my dog her ear drops, how can I take care of a living child? If I couldn't save Natalie, do I deserve to be a mother? What kind of mother doesn't know that her baby is dying? What kind of mother doesn't know that her baby is dying? What kind of mother doesn't know that her baby is dying? Please don't comment.

Dear Natalie

Your Dad and I finally finished your room on Saturday before I left for Georgia. Your dad had already hung your pictures, but we finished putting up your shelves and I arranged your toys just so. The french poodle jack-in-the-box (tres chic!), the cloud-soft stuffed sheep with the pink nose. I sat in your room with your Dad and I held the first thing that I ever bought for you, a sheep lovey that is so, so soft. When I bought it I still thought that you were a boy, but I like to think that you would love it. Your great grandmother sent me a beautiful vase with a butterfly perched on the edge and I put that on your shelf with your toys and books. Your room is beautiful. I wish that you were here.

Love Always, Mommy