so I’m not perfect…

I was out for a run with Muppet and came across a lemonade stand- some neighborhood kids raising money for cancer. I was running by at just the right time, with several families approaching the stand. When the kids asked if I wanted lemonade, I regretfully said I didn’t have any money, but I’ll try to come back when I was done with my run.  Just as I was about to take off, I saw you there. My smile brightened with recognition- a fellow professional in my field and a someone who chose my practice for care.  You have a son a few years older than Felix and I was reminded seeing you there that you live in my town! Since I”m not attending births and you work in a different practice, I haven’t seen you in a while- in the past I crossed paths with other OB professionals on the labor floor, a place I don’t often visit these days. Seeing you with your son, gave me pause. We should be friends, I thought.

I stopped and chatted with you, saying hi to your husband and letting your son pet Muppet.  I learned your son had some developmental delays, something I hadn’t known before.  I straight up blurted out- “I need local mommy friends,” a truth so prevalent lately. I find it a little hard to make mommy friends easily… something I’ll elaborate in another post…but since you’re in my professional community, I’m pretty sure you know my story. You know I’ve lost a baby.

You given me your number and tell me how you have a good group of local moms who get together every now and then. You warn me that the moment you say you’re in the OB field, everyone likes to tell you their birth story.  I laugh in total understanding. You roll your eyes and we talk briefly about yours- how you tried so very very hard for a vaginal birth but it just wasn’t in the cards despite everyone’s best efforts. I could see how frustrated you could get hearing other’s stories especially when you felt frustrated with your own. It’s like hearing how someone has a beautiful birth when yours was traumatic. It hurts a little.

And then I blurted out something I wish I hadn’t.  “Well did you hear about Felix’s birth story? How I didn’t make it to the hospital?” You smiled and laughed a little, telling me how you read it in the paper.

I realized shortly after I said it, that I did exactly what you had just said was hard. I told you my birth story. I’m sorry.

I wanted to tell you, that I often blurt out Felix’s story because I can’t so very easily with Mabel’s because no one likes a story that ends with a baby dying. Blurting out his story makes me feel a bit like a normal person. I wanted to tell you that Felix’s birth story is a tribute to Mabel, because there is no way he would have come so fast had he not been my second child. I wanted to tell you that when I learned your son had some delays, I felt a small kinship with you because Mabel would have had delays too and I imagine parenting a child with special needs is especially hard, but it’s just what you do, isn’t it? I wanted to tell you I shared Felix’s story with you because I assumed you knew about Mabel.

In that brief exchange we had, I am reminded that I am not perfect and sometimes says things I wish I hadn’t. It was a good reminder that others do the same and to give them a little leeway.

Have you ever said something you regretted? Do you hold yourself to a high standard of always saying the right thing?

So lucky

I took Muppet to a new vet- one a little closer and smaller, looking for a more personal (and cheaper?) experience than the VCA where we usually go. Right next to the vet was a groomer, so we popped in to ask about prices. As we stood in front of the counter, one of the groomers came around to look at her for a proper estimate. She saw Felix in the carrier and cooed a bit, asking a common question,

“Is he your first?”

“My second,” I answered easily.

“What is your first? A boy or a girl?”

“ I had a daughter,” I replied trying to put a little emphasis on the past tense. I seem to think people will pick up on it, but I have to find someone who actually does.

“Oh my gosh, you are SO lucky! I have two boys- but look at you, you got one of each! You are just so lucky!”

I almost told her.

But I didn’t.

I am so lucky. I am lucky to have Felix. I am lucky to have met Mabel- to have been given 36 weeks with her, to have gone into labor on my own, to have the precious skin to skin time I had hoped for, to have her born living, to have had her declare to us very clearly that there was nothing we could do to save her, that we could hold her as she died peacefully in our arms. Yes I am lucky in many ways, but not the way the groomer meant. I have my boy. I had my girl.

I made a lady cry

Yesterday I took Muppet and Felix out for a walk. We have a path in our town (that connects to several nearby towns) converted from a railroad track to a walking path- perfect for a stroll, a bike ride or a jog. I went there frequently after Mabel died because they plowed two legs of it in the winter, so it was one of the few places I could get out and get some fresh air safely. I met many friends there for walks as the air warmed. I remember my achey pelvis after the first few walks. It’s also a place where I would eventually take Muppet when we first got her. I guess it’s a place where I take my babies- whether they be dead and I take them in memory or whther they be furbabies. Yesterday I took my first living baby along with my furbaby.

We had a nice walk, with some interaction based mainly around muppet. She’s such stinkin’ cute puppy, its hard for her not to attract attention. I kept Felix well covered by a blanket over the stroller so no one would really see him and spread their germy germs to his fragile immune system. As we neared the end of our walk, a friendly woman walking alone approached and asked politely if she could pet my dog. She got right down on the ground with Muppet and gave her all sorts of puppy-loving. Muppet makes friends easily and loves just about anyone who will pet her.

After a few minutes of pets and belly rubs, she asked, again politely, if she could see the baby. I lifted the blanket and she was just awed by his small size.

“Yeah, he’s 10 days old. This is our first trip out.”

“My, look at you- a baby AND a puppy!! Wow! Is he your first?” she asked innocently.

“My second,” I answered with a smile.

“So does he have a brother or sister at home?” It often amazes me how many ways this question can be worded but my answer can be very different depending on the wording. So far I try to answer honestly and answer the question how its asked- though I’ve learned sometimes it makes me feel like I’m lying by omission- but it seems the right way for now. The same question can be phrased in many ways- is your first a boy or a girl? How old is your first? Do you have a son or a daughter? How many kids do you have? So many variations Presented with the question worded this way by the woman on the path, I felt the need to explain.

“He had a sister, but she died last year.”

The friendly, almost unctuous smile quickly melted into a deep expression of sorrow. Tears immediately filled her eyes and she began to cry a bit in front of me.

“Oh, I am so so sorry,” she said- and her empathy was genuine. She seemed at a loss for words for a bit and kept muttering apologies over and over. I smiled in a way that I hoped appeared gracious and resisted the urge to comfort her with “it’s ok,” when we all know its not ok at all.

“Thank you” I said softly in a tone trying to comfort her.

“It…just …makes you…think about…what’s important. The things we stress about…Oh gosh,” she stammered through tears.

I was kind of in awe about this woman’s outward display of emotion. She exuded joy with my puppy and now sadness hearing about Mabel. In some ways it seemed a bit over the top from a stranger, but in other ways it seemed so genuine.

I decided to comfort her a bit with words that I have already learned seem to make people feel better.

“Yes, so we are especially grateful for him.”

We soon parted ways, but I was reminded of the many times I was asked in pregnancy about whether it was my first or not. Some of those innocent conversations led to the admission that my first baby died. Awkwardness still followed, like it did before I was visibly pregnant, but my large belly and now the little human in front of me gave me an out. I can now comment on how fortunate/grateful/happy I am to have Felix.

This is all true- but a part of me cringes saying this as well. It implies a happy ending, that I’m no longer sad because I have a new baby (not true); that I’m less sad now that I have a new baby (both true and not true). The idea that having another baby makes everything better. When my only child died, I was so hopeful for another, thinking it would make things easier- and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t. But it doesn’t change the fact that my baby died. I didn’t know when or if I’d get pregnant and if I’d stay pregnant and if that baby would be free of life limiting birth defects. What I needed to know then was that I’d be okay no matter what happened- whether I was fortunate to have a rainbow or not. We all know that not every story ends in a rainbow, and I feel like I want the world to know that too.

How old is YOUR baby?

“How old is your first?”  another question that keeps coming up.  This time (at the dog park again- I take my furbaby there almost daily) it was from an older woman making very nice small talk.  I know her only as Luna’s mom.  Luna is an older, somewhat toothless dog that has an affinity for puppies.  Luna and her mom are regulars, as Muppet and I have become.  It’s funny because our talk usually centers around our dogs or the weather, but on that day it ventured into family life.

“She would have been fourte…fifteen months,” I stumbled.  She was so appropriately sympathetic- not ignoring the odd tense I used, responding how hard this pregnancy must be.  I think the responses from the slightly older generation have often been most gentle- I’m unsure if it’s a maturity thing or a generational thing.

But I was horrified.  I can tell you exactly how old my puppy is, but I stumbled over the age of my daughter.  I was brought back to a month after Mabel was born and the seamstress asked how old the baby was, after spying my post-baby pooch and first asking incorrectly if I was pregnant.  I stumbled then too and was horrified that I could say off the tip of my tongue how many weeks old my baby would have been.  On this day at the dog park, I was thrown right back there, making me feel like a bad mom.  I know I am not- and it was just a passing feeling, one that was totally self imposed, but do you ever feel that way?  How old would your baby have been?

A memorial day BBQ

I went to a BBQ this weekend at a friend’s. It was great- I needed some friend time, since Chris was away visiting his brother for the weekend and had lots of unused burgers and sausages that needed to be eaten. I debated bringing Muppet with me- I had asked my friend if I could, because it was an outdoor affair and I felt like I hadn’t spent enough time with her that day. But she can be a handful and I wasn’t sure I wanted the responsibility of watching her every move or causing trouble at someone else’s house (she is still a puppy and gets into all sorts of puppy mischief). In the end, I’m glad I did.

The BBQ was small- a couple generations- friends and some of their parents. I liked the mix of it. Muppet was a hit among the parents, which made me feel good. I needed the down time sitting in a chair with friends. Food was delish- extra so, because someone else cooked it! And a couple hours into the party, some friends came with their five week old newborn. I knew they were coming- the host had given me a heads up (which I so very appreciated) and so I tried to mentally prepare. I’ve been trying to face some situations more head on, less avoidance, though my feelings are still the same in these scenarios as they were a year ago- I can just control my emotions more. And I recognize I can’t avoid forever. I still think my feelings are valid, but now that it’s been over a year, I know that others might not understand why it hurts to see newbors or kids Mabel’s age.

It’s harder with friends and family, actually. Stranger babies are easier to see and forget, but I care about my friends and family- I care about their babies. So seeing them is actually harder, balancing my care and my sorrow.

IT was how I expected- there was no dangling the baby in front of my face, pretending that I had never buried my own baby. They were subtle, but they were also new parents, proud of the baby they had made. The older generation was smitten, practically arguing over whose turn it was to hold the baby. They asked questions to the new mom about sleeping and when she was returning to work.

I sat politely through it, my heart aching because I couldn’t help but think about how I didn’t get that with Mabel. How badly I wanted that simple interaction, those simple questions. How maddeningly unfair it was that I had a baby but didn’t get todo any of the normal baby/new mommy stuff. It felt like it never happened, which hurts even more! I wasn’t angry at the new family, I was simply jealous and reminded of the hurt. It really hurt. I felt so so cheated.

I think one friend might have recognized this a little- she pulled me into conversation when everyone else’s talk started to focus on the baby. I was so grateful for that, whether she did so knowingly or not. So we talked about non-baby things, while I reached down and petted my puppy, happy she was there with me.

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I stayed for more than enough time after, but was the first to leave, tired from a busy day and too much emotion.

Have you felt cheated lately?

Not faking it

At the dog park, a tall man stood next to me dressed in fatigues.  Because the dog park is such a friendly place, we chatted and I learned about his dog- name, breed, age, rescue.  He told me how he was a supply officer for the army- things like that come up when dogs are prancing on you with muddy paws and we talk about what we wear to the dog park.  We exchanged tricks we were working on with our pooches.
He was laughing a bit one time when I scolded my pup “Muppet, off!” I shouted as she jumped excitedly on a new human arrival to the park.
“I love that name Muppet! it suits her.” he chuckled.
“Sure does, ” I replied.
“I have a 17 month old at home and she just is getting into the Muppets.  WE put them on the tv and her face just lights up.”  He laughs at the image in his head and tries to imitate her expression.
I gave a weak smile.  I’m not proud of not really faking it then, but I just wasn’t in the mood.  Being at the dog park, I feel a little like a parent.  THat’s how we refer to each other- Muppet’s mom, Rosie’s dad, etc.  We don’t actually learn each others names.  We talk in ways I imagine parents of living children talking.   So we he brought a real live child into the conversation, reminding me that my bay was a furbaby, not the toddler kind she would have been, I kind of shut down. I hope I didn’t seem rude
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I was at the lunch table at work, happily chatting away with my staff.  I don’t always get a lunch break- let alone a lunch break that I can enjoy with my coworkers.  I’m often sitting at my desk eating as I chart or grabbing bites between patients and phone calls if it was a really busy day.  As I ate we small talked, I heard a secretary give a little squeal outside the lunch room.
“Look who I found in the lobby!” she sang.
Behind her was a man holding a 8 month old baby.  The son and husband of a coworker who was pregnant when I was and had her baby a few months after me.  She got to bring her baby home.
She has been very tactful around me- as most of my staff has.  I’m very grateful for that.  They also didn’t come into the lunchroom.  Those who wanted to see the baby got up and went out.  I sat and finished my lunch and scrolled through facebook.
Again, not proud of not faking it.
I know in both these circumstances I didn’t do or say anything especially rude, but it was my lack of response that was a response in itself.  I hope I didn’t seem rude.
Have you had any situations like this, where you felt your inaction made a statement?

March of Dimes

I was a bit nervous as I approached the park. Chris was called into work last minute on a Sunday, so it was just me and Muppet. I had never done the March of Dimes before. Strange, I suppose, when you think of my line of work. One would think that I might be a yearly walker, especially because the labor and birth unit at my hospital puts together a team annually. Honestly I probably wouldn’t have gone this year either, with my walk attention and fundraising efforts elsewhere, but the L&B team decided to walk this year in memory of Mabel. I was so touched. They had shirts made- orange for my karate carrot- with her name and a little carrot on the back.

Even though it was an honor to have my daughter the focus of their team efforts, I was still nervous because it was the March of Dimes. My first thought is of all the preemies who make it out of the NICU- the success stories.   The “sung” heroes- the poster children for why giving to the March of Dimes matters. See what your money can do, it saved this baby’s life. My baby was one of the unsung heroes- one who never saw outside the wires and beeping of a NICU room. But she was her own success. We knew she might not (likely not) graduate from the NICU, but we got what we had hoped for. When we were told our baby had a likely life limiting diagnosis, my hopes for her changed. Once hoping she would simply be a high functioning child with Down Syndrome who needed no surgery, the preterm oligohydramnios diagnosis changed my hopes- I hoped that she would survive pregnancy so I could meet her in person; I hoped she wouldn’t suffer; I hoped her case would be clear, so we wouldn’t have to make any extremely difficult decisions; I hoped she wouldn’t die alone. My hopes were met- she lived, which was her own making! Mabel’s NICU team helped with the other hopes- giving her pain medication so she wouldn’t suffer and keeping us informed about her prognosis so we could make those “simple” difficult decisions. The NICU couldn’t save her- her body wasn’t meant for this world with its current technology- but it gave us control, comfort and memories. Though Mabel didn’t survive, she is still a poster child for the NICU- exactly why people should donate to the March of Dimes, so that some day, a baby like Mabel would have a chance.

Did any of you participate in the March of Dimes? Or other walks/fundraisers/awareness events?

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