My morning on Wednesday. DH is down to 123 pounds (he looks skeletal), so I woke up early to make him breakfast. Eggs. He likes eggs. And I promptly knocked the entire damn carton on the floor, breaking all but two eggs. I bawled, cried, and almost threw up I was so upset. He came charging (well, shuffling) into the kitchen thinking my knee was messed up only to find me sobbing hysterically holding broken egg shells.

As I was sharing this funny story with my group of homeroom students, one student was commiserating with me on the bad morning and said, “Man, what fetus did you kill?” referring to my shitty 2013. My jaw dropped. Yes. Let me repeat that for emphasis. A student asked me what fetus I killed in order to “earn” the bad luck that keeps happening to me. I know he was trying to be funny in his quirky sense of humor, but I am SO glad that I took an anxiety pill that morning. Thank God he doesn’t read Cosmo online (or the national news)!

I forgot my phone at home, but DH was going to his neurologist that morning so I told him to email me he got out. He did and told me that his doctor was worried. Worried enough to admit him to the hospital for another round of IVIG treatments. So, DH is back in the hospital until Sunday, most likely. He is suffering from a relapse, and his neurologist sent him back. His dx has now been upgraded to CIDP. I don’t know if it changes much right now, except we are trying to figure out long-term management now. It’s a little depressing. I guess the good news is that they are taking care of it. He’s not being ignored, and his neurologist is pretty aggressive. Also, he gets to come home over the weekend, so I’m happy. And, his boss seems happy, too. I’m been terrified that he’s going to get fired, and I thought this would be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Luckily, that doesn’t seem to be the case.

What I thought was my meniscus tearing isn’t. My xrays came back clean (which was expected), and I got the results of my MRI today. CLEAN AS A WHISTLE. I was convinced that they mixed my results up with someone else’s. Seriously. The doctor didn’t really have an answer for it – he suggested maybe my hamstrings. That sounded like bullshit to me – Locking knees don’t happen because of hamstrings, and when I got home, I couldn’t find any evidence to support it. Until I just searched “locked knees.” There it was, nestled in between pages and pages of torn menisci: the popliteus muscle. So, maybe it wasn’t all bullshit after all. No surgery! A solution!

I’m still suffering a little anxiety (terrified that I’m going to lose my job), but I think that as shitty things stop happening to me, the less paranoid I’ll become. I hope.

So here’s the plan:

  • Wait until my knee stops hurting and start doing specific exercises for it (depending on how much physical therapy costs)
  • Get DH home on Sunday and make sure he eats Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, supplemented with snacks, smoothies, and Boost.
  • Get through final exams.

All baby making has been put on hold since DH still has massively painful erections (thanks, nerve pain). But I think that topic deserves a post all its own.


One Year


I never know what day to count as my “angelversary”*. Do I use the date that she died or the date of the evacuation? I think for me, the most traumatic day was the day she died.┬áSo I guess I’m a few days late for this entry, but whatever.

Up until December 26th, I had been stuck in the past. I kept thinking “This time last year, I was…” Happy. Pregnant. Planning a nursery. Choosing a name for my baby girl. All those things that a happy pregnant woman does. I know it was masochistic to keep revisiting, but I couldn’t help it.

On the 26th, the anniversary of our DX, DH and I sat around in the morning, remembering what happened that day and what we remembered. It was sad, loving, and powerful. And that was it. I didn’t dwell, didn’t take an anxiety pill, and spent the rest of the day normal.

I can’t believe it.

New Year’s found me a little sad, but we ended up with a special toast to 2013: we flushed the toilet. I seriously pooped in the toilet and flushed it at midnight.

toastYes, we have champagne and two cats helping us flush. I felt it was appropriate, seeing that 2013 was the shittiest of years. You flush turds, so that’s what I did.

January 2nd was the day her heartbeat stopped, but it was also the day that DH went back to work (from home) after months of being on disability. I didn’t really have time to dwell Thursday. Friday, I went out with my MIL and did a little shopping, so again, I didn’t have much time to reflect. I do find it a little odd that of all the tv shows I could be watching, I find myself back on Kitchen Nightmares, my go-to baby-free entertainment after the procedure.

So here I am. I don’t remember too much from last year, but I do know that I never thought I’d be this… healthy. This strong.

But you know what. I hate being strong.

footprintsThis is what I was left with last year. Tiny footprints. It took the nurse a long time because of the clubbed feet, and this is probably the best prints out of the batch that we have.

I struggled with whether or not to post this picture, because this is so private to me. This is all I will ever have of a child, of my daughter. It still hurts to look at. I don’t think it will ever NOT hurt.

I can’t share on Facebook. Too many people. Too many stupid comments. I don’t want to be reminded with every “like” or comment. It was hard enough when I (DH) made the FB announcement that we lost her.

The footprints remind me that I really, truly was pregnant. That I just didn’t make it up.

* I hate the word “angelversary”, but so many people use it that it just happens. I don’t like referring to my daughter as an angel, either.

P.S. There is a theatre that is spotlighting women’s work, specifically on motherhood, and I was thinking of submitting something. A poem? A monologue? A dialogue between my ego and Id? I don’t know. I’m thinking of sending the producer and asking her what she thinks, but I don’t want to commit to anything that I won’t be able to handle.