For much of 2017, I saw a therapist who specialized in loss and pregnancy after loss. She was a loss mom herself, and it was helpful. By the start of 2018, I was in a place that wasn't great, but also wouldn't be improved by therapy. I'm an introspective person, I was already engaging in about as many self-care activities as I planned to, and there wasn't much new that a therapist could help with. I stopped going in January.
As we're approaching the DINK/donor decision, I felt that it would be beneficial to talk through my thoughts with someone removed from the choice. I feel like I have a very good grasp on the situation, the perspectives I'm bringing to it, the reasons behind them, and my choice points. That said, it would be nice to run that past someone to see if there's anything I've overlooked. I sent a text to my therapist in June to see if I could schedule with her. I never received a response.
Figuring that perhaps the silence was because it had been ~6 months since our last visit, I called the office. At first the woman on the other line told me that my therapist does her own scheduling, and I noted I'd tried that approach. After a few minutes, the woman informed me "Oh, she's in Germany for a year."
Germany. I guess that explains the radio silence. Her picture is still on the practice's website. She still shows up with my insurance. I half wonder if "Germany" is the code the practice uses when they have a loss/infertility patient whose therapist is visibly pregnant or on maternity leave. It's probably far less painful for the patient to hear 'Oh, your therapist is in Germany", than "Oh, you know how all your babies are dead and you can't seem to change that? Yeah, your therapist is happily pregnant and/or nursing her perfect, healthy newborn right now. Would you like to schedule with one of her colleagues who's old enough to no longer take trips to Germany?"
Now I'm hoping for some robust international travel of my own! Moreover, I'm hoping that if my therapist did want a second (living) baby, she's enjoying one now, be that in Germany or in Minnesota.
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 11, 2018
Friday, October 27, 2017
Past and Future
Today marks two weeks until surgery. Only a few days until my next biopsy. If all goes well, it's less than 30 days until I'm cycling again. I am suspicious that getting pregnant again is going to be somewhere between 'a lot more difficult' and 'impossible'. Why? Because even though I took estrogen this cycle, my period was 2 days of what could barely be classified as more than spotting. I'm worried my lining is totally and irrecoverably shot.
I am oddly zen about it all. Yes, the surgery is unnecessary if my lining 'can't get it up' as it were. But since we won't know about my lining until we cycle, and I absolutely will not cycle without the surgery, well, it all falls into the category of 'it will be what it will be.'
Tuesday was three months since we lost Quinn. The twins' first birthday is coming up. I don't feel right calling it a birthday, but there isn't another term I like better. Others just feel too cutesy (angelversary) or too harsh (stillbirthday). Let's just say that it's almost a year since we met and lost them. In some ways, it seems like it was yesterday. In other ways I can tell that I'm doing better than I was, even a month ago. I am having fewer bad days. The seasonal triggers produce moments or hours of memories and pain, not days. While medical stuff is on my mind a lot, when I think about my babies it's with love and longing, not the overwhelming grief I've felt recently. The only thing that makes me not zen is remembering that Quinn should have been born, at term, a month from now. Remembering that breaks my heart in a completely un-zen-like fashion.
At this moment, with the future still unknown, I'm ready to move forward even if moving forward doesn't bring us another pregnancy. I think that's the zen talking. I hope I can hang on to this zen in the coming months.
I am oddly zen about it all. Yes, the surgery is unnecessary if my lining 'can't get it up' as it were. But since we won't know about my lining until we cycle, and I absolutely will not cycle without the surgery, well, it all falls into the category of 'it will be what it will be.'
Tuesday was three months since we lost Quinn. The twins' first birthday is coming up. I don't feel right calling it a birthday, but there isn't another term I like better. Others just feel too cutesy (angelversary) or too harsh (stillbirthday). Let's just say that it's almost a year since we met and lost them. In some ways, it seems like it was yesterday. In other ways I can tell that I'm doing better than I was, even a month ago. I am having fewer bad days. The seasonal triggers produce moments or hours of memories and pain, not days. While medical stuff is on my mind a lot, when I think about my babies it's with love and longing, not the overwhelming grief I've felt recently. The only thing that makes me not zen is remembering that Quinn should have been born, at term, a month from now. Remembering that breaks my heart in a completely un-zen-like fashion.
At this moment, with the future still unknown, I'm ready to move forward even if moving forward doesn't bring us another pregnancy. I think that's the zen talking. I hope I can hang on to this zen in the coming months.
Saturday, September 2, 2017
Quinn's Birth Story
Earlier I wrote about Alexis and Zoe’s birth. Given the similarity in circumstances with Quinn’s pregnancy, I was very worried that her delivery would be similar. Fortunately, it was a night and day difference.
Monday the 24th, I went in for my routine antepartum ultrasound. I knew we’d be getting bad news, because I’d been leaking so much more fluid. I think the u/s showed that she still had some fluid, but it also showed that her feet and cord were fully engaged in the birth canal. She was breech with her little legs crossed. We knew then that it was over.
The doctors and residents came in for rounds about an hour later and told us what we were expecting – that I was in labor and she’d be born in the next day or two. The doctor, who was the most compassionate of those we had met, said delivery would probably be very fast. She told us they’d move us over to L&D when we were ready, but there was no rush.
We let our family know. While DH’s mom was in town, my dad and step mom had left for a few days because they’d had a friend who was visiting them at their home. They changed their flights to get back as soon as they could, but that was Tuesday the 25th.
I got up, for the first time in three weeks, and got a long, long shower. After that, we let the nurses know we were ready to go to L&D. A room opened up and we were moved somewhere between 11 and 12. I was having relatively painless contractions every 10 minutes or so. I knew I was contracting only because I could feel my belly get firm, but there was no pain. When I was up and walking around, I felt pressure and cramping in my back, but nothing that would actually be pain.
We stayed in the L&D room for about 2 hours, with the nurses checking in, but our doctor never came. Eventually we learned that once we moved to L&D, the perinatologist was no longer allowed to see us, so one of the hospital staff doctors would deliver Quinn. We politely but adamantly expressed dismay over that. A month earlier I’d asked who would deliver us when we were transferred to the university hospital where my OB doesn’t practice, and I was told perinatology would. I didn’t want a complete stranger who didn’t know my history of hemorrhage there. We said this, and the nurse left.
About an hour later, the amazing perinatologist, Dr. Y., came in. She checked me using the ultrasound, and Quinn was engaged further with no fluid left, but not quite far enough out yet. Dr. Y told me to try walking for an hour. If we could get Quinn to deliver without further intervention, Dr. Y would break hospital rules to be the one to deliver, along with an OB resident. I walked for an hour, and Dr. Y and the resident came back. They used the ultrasound to see what was happening as I pushed, and guided me. It was amazingly calm and peaceful, and almost entirely pain-free. After a half dozen pushes or so, I could feel Quinn start to move. After another few pushes, she was out. Someone checked and confirmed Quinn was alive.
Dr. Y asked if we wanted to hold Quinn and then suggested we do delayed cord clamping to maximize our time with her. They wrapped her up and gave her to me, and holding her was so utterly amazing. She was tiny, but I could feel her move in my arms. That was the most wonderful, precious thing I’ve ever felt. The nurses got my MIL from the waiting room, so she could come in and see Quinn while she was still alive.
Eventually they cut the cord and gave Quinn to us. She was such a fighter that she was still alive. They also started me on Pitocin as the placenta hadn’t delivered. We just held our daughter and let the doctors do their thing, and eventually the placenta did deliver. After about an hour and a quarter, the nurse checked Quinn’s heartbeat and she was gone. They took her, wrapped her up in a new blanket, and gave her back to us so we could spend more time with her. It wasn’t enough. It could never have been enough.
I am so grateful for such a calm, peaceful experience. I am so grateful for the time we got with Quinn, and that Quinn got to meet one of her grandmas. I am so grateful that this delivery went smoothly, and Dr. Y was willing to stay with us. During a day of utter heartbreak, those things were rays of light. Afterward, they let me go back to spend the night in my old room in Antepartum, and I was discharged the next morning.
The nurses took pictures of Quinn after she left our room, including the one above. I didn't find this picture until yesterday. It's funny because when she was born, I recall thinking that she didn't really look like anyone in our families. Seeing her in this photo, I realized she is the spitting image of my maternal grandmother. That is grandma's chin and nose, no doubt about it. I'm hoping that they're together somewhere now, and grandma is giving Quinn all the love and snuggles that I can't give her in person.
Monday the 24th, I went in for my routine antepartum ultrasound. I knew we’d be getting bad news, because I’d been leaking so much more fluid. I think the u/s showed that she still had some fluid, but it also showed that her feet and cord were fully engaged in the birth canal. She was breech with her little legs crossed. We knew then that it was over.
The doctors and residents came in for rounds about an hour later and told us what we were expecting – that I was in labor and she’d be born in the next day or two. The doctor, who was the most compassionate of those we had met, said delivery would probably be very fast. She told us they’d move us over to L&D when we were ready, but there was no rush.
We let our family know. While DH’s mom was in town, my dad and step mom had left for a few days because they’d had a friend who was visiting them at their home. They changed their flights to get back as soon as they could, but that was Tuesday the 25th.
I got up, for the first time in three weeks, and got a long, long shower. After that, we let the nurses know we were ready to go to L&D. A room opened up and we were moved somewhere between 11 and 12. I was having relatively painless contractions every 10 minutes or so. I knew I was contracting only because I could feel my belly get firm, but there was no pain. When I was up and walking around, I felt pressure and cramping in my back, but nothing that would actually be pain.
We stayed in the L&D room for about 2 hours, with the nurses checking in, but our doctor never came. Eventually we learned that once we moved to L&D, the perinatologist was no longer allowed to see us, so one of the hospital staff doctors would deliver Quinn. We politely but adamantly expressed dismay over that. A month earlier I’d asked who would deliver us when we were transferred to the university hospital where my OB doesn’t practice, and I was told perinatology would. I didn’t want a complete stranger who didn’t know my history of hemorrhage there. We said this, and the nurse left.
About an hour later, the amazing perinatologist, Dr. Y., came in. She checked me using the ultrasound, and Quinn was engaged further with no fluid left, but not quite far enough out yet. Dr. Y told me to try walking for an hour. If we could get Quinn to deliver without further intervention, Dr. Y would break hospital rules to be the one to deliver, along with an OB resident. I walked for an hour, and Dr. Y and the resident came back. They used the ultrasound to see what was happening as I pushed, and guided me. It was amazingly calm and peaceful, and almost entirely pain-free. After a half dozen pushes or so, I could feel Quinn start to move. After another few pushes, she was out. Someone checked and confirmed Quinn was alive.
Dr. Y asked if we wanted to hold Quinn and then suggested we do delayed cord clamping to maximize our time with her. They wrapped her up and gave her to me, and holding her was so utterly amazing. She was tiny, but I could feel her move in my arms. That was the most wonderful, precious thing I’ve ever felt. The nurses got my MIL from the waiting room, so she could come in and see Quinn while she was still alive.
Eventually they cut the cord and gave Quinn to us. She was such a fighter that she was still alive. They also started me on Pitocin as the placenta hadn’t delivered. We just held our daughter and let the doctors do their thing, and eventually the placenta did deliver. After about an hour and a quarter, the nurse checked Quinn’s heartbeat and she was gone. They took her, wrapped her up in a new blanket, and gave her back to us so we could spend more time with her. It wasn’t enough. It could never have been enough.
I am so grateful for such a calm, peaceful experience. I am so grateful for the time we got with Quinn, and that Quinn got to meet one of her grandmas. I am so grateful that this delivery went smoothly, and Dr. Y was willing to stay with us. During a day of utter heartbreak, those things were rays of light. Afterward, they let me go back to spend the night in my old room in Antepartum, and I was discharged the next morning.
The nurses took pictures of Quinn after she left our room, including the one above. I didn't find this picture until yesterday. It's funny because when she was born, I recall thinking that she didn't really look like anyone in our families. Seeing her in this photo, I realized she is the spitting image of my maternal grandmother. That is grandma's chin and nose, no doubt about it. I'm hoping that they're together somewhere now, and grandma is giving Quinn all the love and snuggles that I can't give her in person.
Monday, August 7, 2017
Is Hope Enough?
During the three weeks I spent in antenatal at the hospital, there was a weekly 'group' session for inpatient moms, facilitated by one of the social workers. I was fortunate enough to meet some great ladies, one of whom I'm still in contact with, and to whom I wish a very long, very boring stay.
The social worker asked us during one group session how things were going, that is, how were we feeling emotionally. How could we describe our stay? In my case, the answer was: terror, punctuated by hope. Honestly, every single time I had to get up to use the restroom there was fear. With my cervix open, I knew I could have a complete rupture at any time, and straining at all to use the toilet was likely to cause that. I also had several bleeding episodes when up to use the toilet, and those brought on sheer terror. Yet every time I felt Quinn move, every time her heartbeat was still perfect and my temperature was still normal, there was hope. Every morning that we woke up and got to add another day to the whiteboard with her gestational age, there was hope.
When we knew I was going to deliver, I tried to tell myself that at least I wouldn't have to live with the terror any more. That's the bright side of the worst happening, right: at least you don't have to be scared that the worst might happen anymore. For the record, that is an awfully shitty bright side.
To be fair, looking back at my entire pregnancy with Quinn, there was a lot of fear. The two weeks leading up to our first ultrasound were so rough that I started seeing a therapist who specializes in perinatal loss and infertility. The fear leading up to the NIPT results was bad as well. There was also a lot of joy. Feeling her move was so amazing. Looking forward to our lives with her was joyous. Loving her brought joy.
As I think about the future, and try to decide if this is the end of the road for us, this weighs on me. Can I survive the emotional roller coaster that is fertility treatments? Can I survive (hopefully) 9 months of fear? If we get pregnant again, I will have a cerclage of some type. If things went wrong again, could I live in the hospital with the kind of fear I had hanging over me, knowing the cerlage could rip out (TVC) or my uterus could rupture (TAC) and I could lose the baby? Basically, it comes down to a decision: is the hope worth everything that accompanies it: fear, potential heartbreak, potential loss, and all the surgeries, fertility treatments and costs associated to even have a chance at hope? I don't know yet, the heartbreak and the fear are still too fresh.
The social worker asked us during one group session how things were going, that is, how were we feeling emotionally. How could we describe our stay? In my case, the answer was: terror, punctuated by hope. Honestly, every single time I had to get up to use the restroom there was fear. With my cervix open, I knew I could have a complete rupture at any time, and straining at all to use the toilet was likely to cause that. I also had several bleeding episodes when up to use the toilet, and those brought on sheer terror. Yet every time I felt Quinn move, every time her heartbeat was still perfect and my temperature was still normal, there was hope. Every morning that we woke up and got to add another day to the whiteboard with her gestational age, there was hope.
When we knew I was going to deliver, I tried to tell myself that at least I wouldn't have to live with the terror any more. That's the bright side of the worst happening, right: at least you don't have to be scared that the worst might happen anymore. For the record, that is an awfully shitty bright side.
To be fair, looking back at my entire pregnancy with Quinn, there was a lot of fear. The two weeks leading up to our first ultrasound were so rough that I started seeing a therapist who specializes in perinatal loss and infertility. The fear leading up to the NIPT results was bad as well. There was also a lot of joy. Feeling her move was so amazing. Looking forward to our lives with her was joyous. Loving her brought joy.
As I think about the future, and try to decide if this is the end of the road for us, this weighs on me. Can I survive the emotional roller coaster that is fertility treatments? Can I survive (hopefully) 9 months of fear? If we get pregnant again, I will have a cerclage of some type. If things went wrong again, could I live in the hospital with the kind of fear I had hanging over me, knowing the cerlage could rip out (TVC) or my uterus could rupture (TAC) and I could lose the baby? Basically, it comes down to a decision: is the hope worth everything that accompanies it: fear, potential heartbreak, potential loss, and all the surgeries, fertility treatments and costs associated to even have a chance at hope? I don't know yet, the heartbreak and the fear are still too fresh.
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
Quinn Hope
Here is a photo of Quinn, with a small piece of the elephant blanket I tied for her while in the hospital. We kept that piece of her blanket with her.
Earlier this summer we went up to the Boundary Waters to scatter some of Alexis and Zoe's ashes. We stayed at a B&B called the Blue Heron - the same B&B we were at when we were first pregnant with them. As we drove home from the hospital, and came around the lake closest to our house, there was a blue heron in the water. I've never seen one in "our" lake before. It gave me peace, that Alexis and Zoe were telling us they've got Quinn and will take care of her. The next morning, while sitting in my bedroom, I heard the call of a pair of loons passing by. When we were at the B&B, we saw two pairs of loons from the dining room window, and we heard their calls repeatedly. It's really unusual to have two pairs so close together, so it was an amazing sight. Once again, hearing that call at our home, so far from Ely, gave me a clear sense that our girls wanted us to know they are together. I will hang on to that.
I love you Quinn. I love you Alexis and Zoe.
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