Return of the Blog

My kids are pretty fucking amazing.

I mean, I know your kids are pretty cool too, but seriously, my kids? Total rockstars.

Now sure, I realize that feeling is probably some kind of genetic response to insure I actually take care of my kids, and that every sane parent feels that way (and certainly even some of the insane ones). This of course is not uncommon knowledge. The fact that parents loooOOOooove their kids is pretty well documented throughout the course of history. Excluding that Abraham guy. Man, what a douchebag. (and if that story didn't make you scratch your head a bit when you first heard it, well, God wants you buy some magic beans. Fortunately, I have some! leave your banking information in the comments section)

So yeah, everyone knows parents love their kids, but the issue is how many non-parents understand it? It pains me to ask that question, because there is nothing that screams "asshole" to me more than a parent who avoids a conversation about their parenting with some variation of "you couldn't understand unless you have kids". The one that really gets me is "you'll understand when your kids are older". Recently, however, I've been starting to see the nugget of legitimacy in the middle of that steaming pile of avoidance.

For instance, we recently had CPS called on us. Yes, really. It was total B.S. and was ruled to be an unfounded claim. Get the story in all its hilarity at the link above. When I told my boss I needed to go home to deal with this and meet with the CPS worker, it was pretty clear I was only getting to leave because he knew he couldn't not let me go. Sure, I know its a hassle, but CPS is serious shit man!

A more pertinent example involves my wife, Jess. More specifically, my wife's psychologist. In diagnosing her with post-traumatic stress, he stated in fairly direct terms, that it was completely abnormal to still be thinking of Joel on a daily basis close to two years after his death. (Again, you can get the full details at her blog) Now sure, my wife was there for a reason, but am I crazy for thinking that it's ridiculous to suggest we shouldn't still be thinking of Joel?

Yeah, we realize days of intense sadness shouldn't be the norm, and they aren't by any means, but NOT think of him? We do kinda have two walking, talking reminders running around this place. It should be no surprise that every milestone we celebrate for Jules and Blair is accompanied by the reality that we will never celebrate these things for Joel.

I mean, he is our son. We have pictures. His ashes, clothes and blanket sit in our bedroom. We keep a lock of his hair (seriously, dude had some thick, curly hair). We do not deny or ignore him; we accept and celebrate our lost son. Our loss is a fact of our lives. His death and the experiences surrounding it quite literally changed our lives. To not think of him, I believe, would be insane. I think most people could "understand" that. Not like we expect you to completely empathize, or that we should never have to explain or explore how we're feeling. But yeah, I think its understandable.

So here we are, heading into his second birthday. Tomorrow marks two years he since we were told Joel had died. It would be two more days before he was born. I've probably said it a million times at this point (but hey, its a blog reboot, so I can repeat some things), I know how difficult those days were for me, and though I was right there the whole time, I couldn't begin to imagine what it must've been like for Jess.

So if we're little off, here at the end of May, you'll have to forgive us. Maybe let us know you "understand", or give a smile (or a bottle of booze).

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N ow, lets talk about YOU. If you're new here, go play in the archives. There's plenty more about the wonders of being a DB Daddy. And some funny too! (honestly, if you want the funny, start with The Quest, cause my balls are hilarious) With any luck I'll get back in the habit of updating more often. Probably with shorter entries and varied subject matter. As for now, my lil rockstars are demanding an audience.

This little light of mine

Shakespeare told us that conscience makes cowards of us all -- fear of what comes after death makes us stay and suffer those oft-mentioned slings and arrows of life.

Joel does not know that fear. He has dreamt in the warmth of the womb and moved on to dream the dreams that we can never share.


I found this, today, in a notebook I tried to keep all sorts of thoughts in, particularly those occurring in the days and weeks immediately following Joel's death.

Originally, it was the notebook I used to try and brainstorm jokes and bits for that pipe dream day where I try and do stand-up. Honestly, the material was pretty crappy.

But I made a promise to... the air, I made a promise that I would try and be more productive in my life; that I would do stuff. And that is what lead me back to that notebook tonight, and to my own words -- well, my theft of and blending with Shakespeare's words (but what does his dead ass care?)-- my words that gave me some level of comfort. I went back to look at those unfortunately useless jokes because I'm going to do something.

I will fail. This is practically guaranteed. But I've got promises to keep.


On October 15th, I'll be shining a light for Joel and all the other babies that never got a chance to dodge those slings and arrows. I hope you will join us, and if you have a baby you had to say goodbye to too soon, I will be thinking of you, whether we know each other or not.



A few days later, I'll try this thing I'm talking about. I'll let you know how it goes.

Restless Spirit

I'll just be honest here: I've spent what I feel like is a whole helluva lot of time helping Jules sleep. He is a restless kid, always has been.

In the hospital, just hours into the light and the pollution, his eyes held focus on everything. It was the general comment from all his onlookers: "he's so...aware." Aware. Always noticing things going on, even when all he could do was wake up or squirm in response. Noise he never seemed to mind (except our voices or the animals), but light, commotion; these things stirred him.

He never slept in the car; he was either content or cried. And by cried I mean wailed; torturous cries that made you think something horrible was happening back there. He was persistent in these cries. Unrelenting and inconsolable; no pacifiers, no bottles, no songs or rubs: just get me the fuck out. It was this way until past his fist birthday, really.

A sleep schedule? Only in the past few months have we established something resembling a sleep schedule. On average he takes an hour to bed down without being held and rocked. He tends to just keep going: tapping fingers, rubbing legs, fiddling with his hair (many a late, late night I've wanted to shave that pretty little head) or, my favorite, just sitting straight up as I do my best Splinter Cell out of the room, even after he fails to respond after I raise his arm the third time, and THEN slowly count to 60 to make sure he is out cold.

Before he was a person -- you know, back when he was just a squirming mass of cute and chub, sucking in as much formula and information as possible -- getting him to sleep required this ridiculous amount of stimulation: patting, rubbing, walking, bouncing. I developed what I came to call my Rastafarian dance; this long-strided bounce paired with deep toned humming of song while patting and rubbing my easily bored offspring. It was the only thing that ever would get him to sleep in less than 20 minutes. Seriously, he could be dead tired, and still to this day, when the lights go out for bed, he's awake.

On average -- even now, with his willingness to go to bed, and a two storybook a night habit -- he takes about an hour to get to sleep. I don't mind it. It has certainly become easier. And he's sweet about it all.

He still hates the state of being asleep though -- or maybe its the state of grogginess that he hates: if he moves towards conciousness at all, he becomes pretty upset (something else we've slowly worked on). He'll cry out, or lumber into the hall, "Daddy hol' me". Yeah, its pretty damned heart melting.

Thing is, this is all preface. This is not what I wanted to write about. I wanted to write about tonight's storm. One of those classic, summer night, thunder and lightning extravaganzas. Rumbles as if Great Cthulhu were rising and flashes so bright you can't help but to get the feeling stepping into their light would reveal some truth of the soul. Yes, the kind of storm that makes you get all crazy on adjective porn.

Whatever it is in me that wants to stand in the rain felt especially strong tonight. Like there were layers of filth that needed not only to be washed off, but burned away in the blinding spark of that summer lightning. I guess you could say there's something a bit wild to it; something primal.

"Daddy hol' me"

and like that, I don't need the lightning, or the thunder, or that swell of ancient Viking spirit to reveal any truth to me. The dirts still there, perhaps somethings buried inside, but for now, I'm good. Very good.

Guess that's what 'Daddy' is all about.

ah, dammit! Cut that out!

No one ever told me that being in the DB club makes you an asshole to your next kid.

Every time he is sleeping quietly for more than five minutes, I poke him.

"Hey. pssst, hey. You alive?"

"bluurgle *squeeak* aaahh"

"YAY!"

(yes, babies sound like tires deflating in mud.)

Ask a DB Dad: Why does God have big, clumsy feet?

**Note: I've been dancing around getting this written for what seems like an eternity, my apologies to any of you who may have been waiting for it.

Sometimes the "grace of God" ain't so graceful...

off topic observation: usage of the word ain't to create a playful tone. Is that indirectly mocking those that use ain't in normal speech?

which reminds me that I need to re-teach some students that in (or just n) is not the correct spelling of and.

moving on...

Being in the unfortunate position of having a dead child, one quickly discovers that most people have no idea what to say to you. In that case, they turn to religion. Okay, so perhaps that is a gross generalization, but living in the upper portion of the Bible b elt it is a pretty good one. So let's keep in mind that I know a lot of what I am saying is based on generalization because otherwise I'm going to be here all day covering a gazillion bases.

It was what should have been Joel's first holiday season; obviously, we were a little down. You'll find holidays are just another part of the year where you spend extra time remembering your child, which just makes everyone else not remembering sting so much more. (for more on this subject, read every DB blog out there)

I was actually a little hopeful when we received a package, a gift for our first son, from a family member.

I'll save the family issues for now, but its worth noting that this family member has suffered a loss as well; a miscarriage. Of course, at the time, the family directive I received was to not speak of it. When news of Joel's death hit the wire, this person was one of the first to call and she offered to talk since she'd been through something similar. We really appreciated that, even though we never took her up on the offer; we just weren't ready to talk to someone just yet.

So yeah, the package. Included was a card; a religious card. Now I never received any Muslim words of comfort, or Jewish or Hindi (at least I don't think so...) so I can't say what kind of stuff they might say, but I know Christianity is always good for throwing out some quotes without a whole lot of thought for how they'll be read (how did it take me this long to get to my thesis??).

Of the card in question, it is long gone at the time I'm finally writing this, so an exact quote I cannot give. The basic idea, however, was letting the Lord take our earthly sorrows, although I occasionally remember it as "small, earthly troubles". Thing is, we only had one earthly sorrow, which we didn't find to be small at all, we certainly didn't consider it merely 'earthly', and, to be perfectly honest, we already had a bit of a bone to pick with the guy that was supposed to make it better!

I know what the sentiment was, but the words, they just weren't right. Kind of like, "you're child is in the arms of Jesus" Well thanks Jesus, but I'd prefer to be holding him; I'm not keen on strangers holding my baby, and no offense, but they didn't have a lot of Purell in Nazareth, so if you would be so kind...

"God works in mysterious ways" What? like Batman? Sorry, even Batman wouldn't kill my baby.

Now it isn't that I'm some angry Atheist or just mad at God or something. In fact, I understand and believe that religion can be quite a comfort. The thing is, religion is just like the rest of the world: it can be good or bad, depending on how you use it.

I certainly like to believe that everyone who misspoke or did something to add salt to our wound had the best of intentions. However, it is undeniable, and probably unavoidable, that there are a great and many things that occur once you enter the DB-parent club that send the message, "hurry up and get the fuck over it." Or there are the dismissive items, like the card in the gift. My apologies to Anonymous, but sometimes the thought just doesn't count; sometimes shitty gifts/words are just plain shitty.

Some of the people who comforted us most did not throw scripture at us, they simply "walked the walk" and acted like good Christians, which, believe it or not, is the same way a good Muslim, Jew, Hindi (...I think), or any other religion (Pastafarians included) would behave: they were nice to us. The real 'grace' came from the kindness of the people we were around. Those that found ways to comfort us and show their care sometimes by doing nothing more than acknowledging our pain and offering to be there, or just being respectful.

One may choose to believe that scripture is the absolute Word of God, and they have that right, but words are still words, with multiple definitions, connotations, interpretations and other -ations. So if you find yourself in the unenviable position of needing to comfort a grieving parent, maybe, just maybe, it is better to follow the instructions instead of trying to hand them out.

I got a bracelet

She did all the difficult stuff, so I'll just let her tell you. :)

Blair Owen Culver

Hungry Geller

Something very odd happened last May.

No, not my son dying in the womb, at a full 40 weeks, although that was a different and devastating occurrence.

No, not my family being... um... shitty. While also odd, it wasn't completely unexplained.

No, before all these things, I inexplicably lost 20 lbs. One day while I was vainly making faces in the mirror (also not an uncommon event), I noticed that I appeared to have increased in rugged handsomeness. I hopped on the scale, and much to my fast food eating surprise, I'd dropped 20 lbs!

Not long after this, we lost Joel.

Once I regained my appetite, I found solace in food. And once we were both ready and willing to go out in public again, it was food and drink...and drink... and occasionally another drink. Honestly, it had been two or three years since I had really drank, so I'd expected my tolerance to have fallen. I have to say that fortunately, it had not (my wife may disagree with this).

As you may guess, the magical 20 lbs came right back. It was as if my psychic-belly had foreseen a need for emotional eating on the horizon. So this year, as May 26-28 lay on the horizon, I started making an effort to lose a little weight. I don't think I was consciously prepping for these dates, but I certainly felt an urge to lose a bit (not that it isn't needed anyway).

The point of this entry? I really want a pizza. A greasy, cheesy pizza that I can gorge on while working my shadow into a permanent design on the couch. Maybe some Doritos too.

Yes, Wife, I know. Pizza is on the 'no-no' list this pregnancy. Which leads to one more reason I'm excited for Blair to get here. :)

Daddy Moment

One year ago, yesterday, May 26th, we found out that Joel, our son, would never cry to us for comfort, never stare into our souls with wide, wondering eyes, never squeeze our fingers with his small, searching grasp; our son, still cradled lovingly in my wife's womb, had died.

I remember thinking of him as a rambunctious child. He seemed to make it a point to startle his mother with oddly-timed and placed kicks and pinches in utero. I remember her crying out in the bath one night; Joel had apparently dropkicked her spleen. She was laughing; I was enamored, watching the water tremor, and even splash a little, from the force of his kicks. That night we knew we had one special little man on the way.

After he was born, one year ago tomorrow, May 28th, still and beautiful, with a head of hair you wouldn't believe; perfect in every way but the most important, I accompanied one of the nurses to take his picture. It was my one moment where I got to do a real "parent thing": adjusting his little cap, tucking his blanket up around him - just grooming him for his perfect portrait. (It HAD to be perfect)

Thank you, Joel, for the comforts and joys you've brought us; the way you've touched our souls and forever left your print on our hearts.

Happy Birthday, little bud.

...and here we are.

Two minutes until the day I've dreaded for months. A day that is a complete mystery to me. I don't know what I will feel, or how I will react to anything.

Not surprisingly, fate has piled up an extra helping of 'every day life' with a career fair at work (at which I will speak on my brief career in radio) and the first meeting of what I had thought was an online class...an hour down the road.

So I have plenty to do on this day; plenty to keep me busy while my heart and my mind are focused on the one year mark.

Smokescreen

Introspection wears thin and I find myself just wanting to slip further and further into distraction.

The one year mark is fast approaching and as of right now I think my plan is to crawl up into this patch of brush in the backyard, into this spot where the branches and the briers form a little cave. I'll just curl up there in the leaves and the dirt and just...be.

Maybe, there in my little Dagobah, I'll face down whatever it is that has me feeling much more comfortable in the emotional ambiguity of Internet time-wasters and news stories.

That, however, would be quite unfair to my wife, so maybe instead I'll set that camo tarp on fire.

Ask a DB Dad (or "Dear Weirdo..."

Allright, I figure it's been long enough since the last post, and since that last one was certainly me grasping at straws (and I realized that the promised zombie talk just ain't gonna work...least not yet), I've been thinking of some worth-while topics. So considering the origins of this here bloggy blog, and the fact that most of the DB parent support/advice I found, while awesomely helpful, inspirational and comforting, rarely touched on the dead-baby daddy side of things, I thought maybe I'd try and give some insights, or at least open up some discussion, into this DB dad experience.

Now before I go off yakking, and before someone logs on here thinking I'm some kind of expert, let me lay out what will probably be the general disclaimer for any of these "Ask a DB Dad" posts.

If there is such a thing as an expert on being the parent of a dead baby, it certainly ain't me. I'm not even a year into this journey yet and I'm certainly still looking for answers myself. I have, however, seen, read, heard and experienced a few things that I feel might be worth sharing with those unfortunate enough to join this club.

Everyone's experience is different. We've all come to this place different paths, in different ways: no one "knows exactly how you feel". Be it that your loss came as a miscarriage, stillbirth, or the loss of a child after their birth, everyone seems to feel that pain in their own way.

That being said, there are plenty of blogs and boards out there where DB parents can share. But if you are a DB dad, you'll find that most of these places are populated with the mothers of our children, and as welcoming as they are, and as much as we feel the same pain, the experience just isn't quite the same.

no shit? really? Okay, so I know its kind of obvious, but it's something to keep in mind as you go out there in search of support and, more importantly, as you support yo' baby's mama. As caught up as I was in my own feelings after Joel died, I did have to kind of remind myself that my wife might not simultaneously feel the same things I felt. Just the same, we certainly might not deal with it the same way.

Well, okay, we kinda did: housework distractions, gallows humor, and lots of reading/writing. The big thing was that we let it be okay to emote: and thats probably the one thing these Mommas are so good at that I suggest the DB daddies adopt: let yourself be emotional, at least a bit. This is a big thing with lots of big emotions in play, and yes, that DB Momma needs you to be strong and manly and all those things, but she also needs to know it's okay for her to share all her emotions with you.

Now I'm working off the idea that in this situation you and momma are on good terms or at least maintain some kind of relationship. If not, I'm certainly not judging, because, well hey, some women can't be lived with...or maybe you're the one who couldn't be lived with, but thats totally something for you and your therapist (or lawyer) to work out.

As easy as it might be, and as much of a natural reaction as it might be to simply shut down and block it all out, sitting in the basement playing X-box for three days straight with an ever growing pile of empty Dorito bags surrounding you isn't going to be the best way to handle things. (God, that does sound like heaven though...)

Same thing goes for completely remodeling your house. Or building a Camaro....from scratch. Being productive and doing stuff is a GOOD thing, but don't delve so far in that you shut off the other half of the parent equation. Yes, from the moment that pregnancy test came up positive, she's been getting tons more attention than you, and now that tragedy has struck she is still most likely the focus of most of the love and support from others (it's just natural dude, it's nothing against you, it's just the same thing as how they don't throw baby showers for dads...we just go out drinking), she needs to know she's going through this with you. Amazingly, you'll find that it makes things a little easier to process for yourself as well.

Now ladies, you aren't off the hook either, that DB Daddy needs the same thing, but be careful not to act interested in his 62-hour X-box marathon: we totally take that as permission for an additional 24 hours.

Venus, Mars, etc. etc., yeah, men and women are gonna deal with this differently, just like every individual will; but at the end of the day, you've gotta recognize that as individual as you are, as solitary as your story is, you're still not alone. Those emotions you've got driving you crazy right now, that you don't know what to do with, they aren't unheard of, they aren't taboos. 'Dealing' with it is not the same as 'ignoring' it.

So if you can't find anywhere else, use the anonymity of the Internet and toss me a comment or a question. If not, keep coming back. Now that we've set the stage, we can get into more dad-specific posts (I would've said Dad-centric, but thats taken...and worth clicking).

Support:

babylossdirectory.blogspot.com

wvinfantloss.blogspot.com

completely casual

damn...I said I'd post more this new year.

double-damn: I said I'd try and drop some of the melancholy.

ah-ha! I never said anything about not being cynical! *whew* and what a relief that is, because if I'm going to try and get back to occasionally-somewhat-amusing, as opposed to just-plain-blah, then the cynicism is going to hit the roof. A boy's gotta vent somewhere folks, and this is all I've got (which is a pretty sad state of affairs, especially when you consider the fact that I think of this as a little, empty arena in my head [issues I tell ya, issues...] )

Just me, up at a podium looking out over a sea of red, plush chairs with maybe four or five "me"s sitting there, bored to death, wondering when I'm going to get around to the stories about being beaten up by deeply disturbed women in the buff.

Well, flying in the face of my "resolution to be more cynical", I have to post about something nice.

We all know the co-workers and acquaintances that, no matter what the situation, always find the wrong thing to say. Among the DB parents, that trend seems to be amplified. Not that we say the wrong thing, necessarily, but we do tend to be on the receiving end of thoughtless, or downright uncaring, comments.

Thankfully not the case for myself, at least when it has come to friends and co-workers. The other day, however, something very small, yet meaningful happened. A co-worker was telling me how she'd enjoyed my FB status, chuckled aloud and then had that awkward moment we've all experienced: explaining something thats "Internet-funny" to someone that is, you know, actually in your physical presence and not a party of your humorours little digital exchange.

To give context, when we found out that Piccadilly is indeed another boy, I posted my 'baby making materials' for sale, guaranteed to make a boy! (Get it while its hot!) ha ha, ho ho, hee hee haw haw As she explained to me how she had explained the situation to her mother, not the situation, but the context of my post and the sarcasm involved, she said something very simple that, honestly, made my heart swell.

She said, "...this is their third child, and it is their third boy."

That was it. Conversation moved on, joking continued and we all went about avoiding work. Things were as they should be; I had three sons.

Joel was acknowledged, not as a sad memory, not in response to my woe-is-me blogging, or a ho-hum FB status; it didn't come from a friend that has been close to my pain, or even a fellow DB'er. He was acknowledged simply as my son in the most casual of exchanges.

It was a glimpse of normal, of being out of the shadow, a glimpse of a world where I don't have to remind people that he was real.

I know I'll never get there from here, but I'll always be thankful for the peek.

Thanks Ashley.

Two Years

So this is a bit late, but I've been busy enjoying my little man, and waiting for this fog in my head to clear out. ( I suppose I could give more reasons for not posting, but lets not get into minutia. )

TWO YEARS! I look at him and I can't even begin to believe that it has been two years, and at the same time it feels like it has been an absolute eternity. So much has happened in just this little spurt of time since Jules was born.

So much that I worry sometimes that we don't give him the attention he deserves because we are so caught up in everything else. Then I look around and realize how much we spoil him, and how much he smiles and laughs; our little, bright, center of the universe running and spinning and jumping and laughing all over the place.

Happy Birthday Booger, you make it all worthwhile.

time

6 months.

Happy Birthday, Joel. We love you and miss you.

Thanks alot...

I've talked in that past about how I find myself living in some strange, alternate reality. A place where everything is very, very familiar, yet absolutely nothing is the same. A shadow of the world I once knew; the world I grew up in.

I am not thankful that I have to live here...

but I am thankful that in all this shadow, the bright spots are much more vibrant.

With so much going wrong, and still through all the fallout, pain and strife, we've found so many friends still there, supporting us and comforting us, moving from friends to family. Real family.

To my extended in-laws: thank you for ... everything.

To those who've been with us from before the darkness, to those we've found in it, the classmates, the co-workers, the message-boarders and "the club": thank you all for being our family, our strength and our light.

Angry letters (in mass) work

An update.

The following day (Friday) after my wife's call for angry letters, she received a phone call from the hospital in question. This...guy, whom my wife had previously left messages for over the past couple months, and sent a letter to (all of which was ignored), with a lawyer present, finally explained why they could charge for the autopsy, and said that they would overnight a proper bill to us so we could contact our insurance (which they did).

What he couldn't explain, however, was why we were ignored. And really that was our big issue, we paid without question because we didn't really care about the money. We -- well, I say we, but all credit goes to my wife honestly. Most of this took place while I was at work, and even without that, well, she's the one that knows how to get shit done. So, my wife raised such a fuss over all of this because no one would simply talk to her and help her out or explain what was going on. All we wanted was a piece of paper with a medical code on it.

My wife and I both understand the torture of work-related paperwork, so I think we can relate to having trouble finding something, or putting together a previously non-existent piece of paperwork. We aren't the only people to have trouble with hospital bureaucracy, and surely we aren't the first to complain, so I find it hard to understand why people can't just do their job. Simple as "oh, we messed that up? Here, let me fix that for you." Which, come to think of it, is what we got...5 months late.

Never simple...

First, the good news: Picadilly, our 3rd child, is doing well. Measuring a little under what we'd thought, but looking good. So HOORAY for that, because after a week of cramping and spotting, well, we feared the worst.

Now, the "It's never simple, Charlie Brown" (or "AAAAARRRGH!") news:

The doctor dumped my wife. Why? Because, if we are to take things at face value, we're skeptical. So lets go back through the timeline and figure up what is going on here, as best we can.

After Joel's death, we both had quite a bit of bloodwork done to determine if there were any genetic risks for any further pregnancies. We took said results to a High-Risk Specialist in Charleston, WV. In looking over the results and all of Jess' charts and records, he determined that there was no genetic disorder or blood disorder for us to worry about. He said that we would automatically be considered "high risk" but not high enough to be seen by a specialist, just additional monitoring during the pregnancy, and probably a planned induction.

Now, she does have one mutation, but it is one that is only a problem when paired with another mutation. If she had both, she would have to be on a daily injected blood thinner. Still, High Risk Specialist says no biggie, probably no need for injections, but he wouldn't be seeing us so it would be up to the doctor that does.

This was, of course, before we even tried getting pregnant. Flashforward a few months and Jess heads to this new doctor who is loosely associated with the hospital we've had our problems with, but it is a self-contained office, so we're happy and hopeful. Initially all is well, blah blah blah.

Today we go in for the ultrasound and are very pleased to find out that our Picadilly is alive and well. Afterwards we met with the doctor, who was pretty nice and well-spoken and impressively open about his thought process (not used to that with guys in lab coats). He brought up his concerns about the mutation and the need for blood-thinners, expressing that he wants to do everything possible to make sure we take home a baby. Well, okay. Us too.

He explains that he consulted with the local High Risk Specialist about this. Uh-oh. See, we went to Charleston because the local guy is the same one that told us Joel had two kidneys when in fact he only had one. Naturally, we're a bit skeptical of dealing with that doctor.

So anyway, Uh-Oh Specialist says use the blood-thinners. Well, okay, we're fine with that. You know, better to err on the side of caution. Conversation over? Nah, the doc still isn't sure that the blood thinner would be okay, even though he really trusts Uh-Oh Specialist. So, his feeling is that we should go and meet with Uh-Oh Specialist.

Uh-Oh.

Yeah, we turned down that opportunity, which confused the doc, and we finally had to tell him the most basic version of our interaction with Dr. Uh-Oh. The solution? we go back to the Charleston High Risk Specialist...you know, the one who already said Jess isn't high risk and that he saw no need to see her. When they tried to set up an appointment, the OK Specialist said they needed records first and would determine if Jess needs to see a high-risk specialist. See where we're going here?

So we found ourselves looking for yet another OB because, well, we were skeptical. I suppose I understand the doctor's issue. Obviously he intended to give Jess additional care and keep a close eye on the baby. Unfortunately, if any issues came up, he would be consulting with Dr. Uh-Oh, and inevitably, Dr. Uh-Oh would want to see Jess.

Of course, since Jess' last visit, all the doctors associated with the office we were at today were 'searched' on her blog by someone at the 'Corporate Health Hospital'... I'll let your mind run with that as it will.

Bumps in the night

5 Months.

A lot can happen in 5 months. I would know. I mean, a lot has happened in the last 5 months.

We certainly tried to keep ourselves occupied at first, just to keep moving through the days. If anything, we've been spending a lot of times focusing on things we can control; taking back our lives, I suppose. Working on our home, visiting friends, spending time with family, going back to school, and even making time for ourselves. Still, none of it makes Joel's death any easier. There is still the unnoticeable empty space: where nothing was before, but something should be now.

The baby swing in the back room, fully assembled, but never used. So we worked on doing what we can to see that it does get used.

Thing is, as time has gone on, life has started doing its thing again, and we've started running into things we can't control. Little bumps, big bumps, bumps from the past: we've got bumps.


Tomorrow we go for the first ultrasound of Picadilly...and I'm pretty sure we are both scared to death. ... and all the bumps aren't helping.

Odd timing (The Quest part 8)

So this upcoming week, October 15th to be exact, is the Awareness week/day/month for our "club": for all of us who have lost an infant, be it a stillbirth, miscarriage, or any other infant death. If you didn't click on the link above, go ahead and do it now, or plan to later. My wife put together quite the statement/blog about it. I had actually planned to just re-post it over here, but as it would happen, a strange thing happened on my way to get my back shaved.

(Yes, I have unfortunately developed the back hair that I have often mocked...now I tease it...with a pick)


We'd just spent a marvelous weekend at the George Washington Hotel in Winchester, Virginia, a beautiful and cozy colonial town, where we enjoyed our friends' wedding as well as some horseback riding. ( If that sentence sounds a bit pompous, it should, but it was that fun AND classy of a weekend) In many ways, we had looked forward to this weekend away from home as a reprieve: a chance to stop and not think so much on our troubles, and just enjoy ourselves a bit. Just a week or two ago, we had been very focused on our Quest and had faced some hard truths about just how much I'd recovered from the reversal. According to my own microscopic examination, as well as that of a local lab, I was completely spermless (only so many sperm metaphors I can go through...).

After 400 miles on the road, there was a great need for bathroom utilization. On a whim, my wife decided to use one of the test strips she had bought (in bulk). I got in the shower, where she had finally conceded to help me out with that damned back hair, and as I lathered up she started freaking out. I assumed there was a spider or something...

nope, just a line. a faint, but very obvious line -- and trust me, we've seen enough negative tests to know what a line doesn't look like.

(
(15 minutes later)

Yep...still lines...


(...another 35)

Tried two more: more lines.

(...one hour and a half...)
Yeah, so we're still in shock and I don't even know what to post here.


WOOOOOOO MUDDA' FUCKIN' HOOOOO!!!!!!


Now I know it's early, and TRUST ME I know we have plenty to worry about...but this is really great. :)


Now, back to the "odd timing". First, today is October 11th, my father's birthday. Wait, don't say "awwww". I mean, if you've read this whole blog, you know things aren't cool there. But somehow I still take it to mean something that we found out on his birthday. I mean, he made it pretty clear through his absence of inquiry that he didn't care about Joel, so quite honestly, we have no interest in giving him the opportunity to care for this pregnancy. So we found out on his birthday, AND went horseback riding... I guess take it as an extra "fuck you" to him (not that I like to associate hateful terms with birthdays, pregnancies, or horses, but he brought this on himself)


Another coincidence of time that occurred to me is that this is also the week of my truly best friend's son's birthday (he'll be a great big ONE this week. very awesome!) He and his wife also experienced a loss before this little cutie came along, which I suppose makes the date all the more meaningful (and coincidental). Now I don't know what they think of all this, and I'm certaionly not wanting to put anything on them, so to speak, and its their perogative to deal with those ideas and feelings as they wish. But what I can say for sure is this: I'm very happy and honored to have received this most exciting news in the same week as their son's birthday.

So it would appear that The Quest will now take on a new form (I'm tired of talking about sperm anyway...) as we keep a very close eye on this pregnancy.

oh, and there are STILL lines.

and I never got my back shaved...

Impotence

Dictionary.com, because I'm too lazy to get out a book...and looking around, I see that I don't actually own a dictionary hmph ... Dictionary.com defines Impotence as such:

im⋅po⋅tence

  /ˈɪmpətəns/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [im-puh-tuhns] –noun

1.	the condition or quality of being impotent; weakness.

2.	chronic inability to attain or sustain an erection for the performance of a sexual act.

3.	sterility, esp. in the male.

Generally, the idea of impotence, as I've perceived it at least, is the inability of a man to, well, be a man. Not just being unable to create life, but being unable to protect, to care for his wife, to provide for his family, you know, to be a man. ( save the commentary on gender stereotypes for another day)


Knowing your son is gone and never even having the opportunity to do something, to protect him, to save him... well, that is beyond impotence. It is far beyond being a man. It is the indescribable feeling of being snatched up by a piece of your soul and feeling it's thin substance pinched between two awful claws of fate, leaving you dangling in the wind as that piece, that small but important piece, rips away, and all you can do is fall.

Waking up back on the ground, the change isn't always obvious. I mean, you constantly feel the absence, but the things around you, your interactions, seem roughly the same. But then there's the impotence, the kind that there is no procedure to reverse.

Watching the wife you cannot comfort, knowing her pain, but not really knowing her pain...standing in a doorway, watching her in her pajamas, moving with grace and beauty and heartache and pain.

You want to hold her, to help her, to take away her despair... and all you can do is stand because what comfort can you truly offer?


complete and utter impotence.