Eyes Wide Shut

I can't say I was an optimist before Maddy died. However, despite my cynical and sarcastic streak, I was not a full-blown pessimist either. Cautious optimist? Realist? Hard to even remember. I will say at this point though, I tend to fall on the glass nearing empty side. Color me experienced, or jaded, or knowledgeable, but I do know now exactly how that glass can get drained in the blink of an eye.

For a few months after Maddy died, in addition to everything else grief threw at me, I experienced severe anxiety issues regarding my husband and daughter. I suppose it's not remotely unusual for someone in my position to fear losing the rest of my family, but I just wasn't quite ready for the graphic nature of these day-mares. I'd cling to my husband, not wanting him to get in the car for work in the morning, and then approach hyperventilation imagining him in a horrific accident. And the vision didn't stop there -- now that I know what the interior of an intensive care unit is like, I could easily envision him, with his eyes closed, hooked to this monitor and that ventilator and what drips would be going through the IV, and how his color might look . . . it was all a bit too real. The same was true for Bella. It wasn't simply fearing that she'd run into the street, it was the entire scenario from start (car hitting, sound, body flying, sound when body lands) to finish in the most minute of detail.

While the visions have let up considerably for Mr. ABF (stops typing to find wood to knock), they still occasionally abound for Bella. Most traumatic for me are household accidents of an obscenely freakish nature -- falling off her bed and breaking her neck, tipping back in her chair and smashing her skull, that sort of thing. Every other word out of my mouth is "Be Careful." And not in a paranoid mom kind of way, but in a desperate, can't-lose-my-one-last-ray-of-light kind of way. Last Saturday, Bella had raging pink eye. Sunday night, at 2 a.m., I was awakened by her screaming in fright "Mommy, I can't open my eye!" I cradled her head, put a warm washcloth to her swollen lid, and suddenly my heart stopped and my eyes flooded with tears. She was Maddy, Maddy was her. A struggling girl without the ability to open her eye, her mom gently dabbing her lid, willing them open. It was a flashback of the worst sort, and it took a fair amount of brain lecturing heart to convince the latter that Bella's white matter would not liquefy overnight. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the night curled up right next to her, not sleeping through my nightmares. I certainly was not there for her sake.

Meg got me thinking about the New Year, and the adage in the deadbabymomma-verse that "it certainly can't get any worse." But sadly, I know it can. I know now exactly what can happen when you least expect it. I know the universe can fuck you over no matter how careful you are, and despite everything you do to prepare yourself. I know that medical science is incredibly advanced, and yet royally lagging in certain aspects. I know what's it's like to sleep in a hospital chair. I know what it's like to watch a human die, in my arms. I know now that those we like to think we can count on for support in good times may very well not be able to handle the bad, and may abandon the duct-taped lifeboat for the Cruise Ship with nary a wave goodbye. I would like to think that I've reached the bottom of this particular cesspool, but recent events have proven that this isn't necessarily the case.

I don't wish anymore. I don't dream anymore. I've given up hoping for anything. I like to say I don't have a horizon, nothing to look at off at in the future. There's nothing I really want there anyway, and any such dreams would likely end in futility. I would like to think that '08 couldn't get any worse, but I'm certainly not putting any bets on that. It damn well could. Let's just use any scintilla of hope I have left and hope it doesn't and leave it at that.

Christmas, Live Blog

6:45: Bella awakes. Let the games begin!

7:10: As a preface to this entry, Mr. ABF finally wrote an email to the asshats. It was so mature, and honest, and straightforward -- as one of my friends who got a gander of it said, it left nothing between the lines. It was also loving, welcoming them back into our lives (and Bella's, most importantly). They have yet to respond, I'm sure thinking we have "cut them out" or some such. Let's see if they call this morning. As of now, no call.

7:15: Bella bursts into tears (well, not really, but did become a little forlorn on the phone with a g'rent) because live pony is not under tree, despite mom's repeated (and I do mean repeated) warnings that Santa does not bring live animals. Still no call from the asshats.

7:30: Break for coffee so I may thoroughly enjoy the Onion world atlas.

7:36: Bella seems to be enjoying her sustainable bamboo unleaded gifts. But not nearly as much as the bullshit bought from Target (we caved on 2-3 items that she specifically asked Santa for). Damn.

7:41: Just realized we do not have music on. In fact, we have not played Christmas music all month. And people, we own at least 30 Christmas CD's from the wild to the classical. Just seems . . . . pointless.

8:10: I decide reading the Times is infinitely less depressing than watching Bella open presents by herself. Still no call from the asshats.

8:31: Mr. ABF gets a bit annoyed that I am chattering to myself about QEII on YouTube rather than paying attention to the wrapping paper pile growing under my tree. Sigh. Open a sweater. Return to story.

8:47: Mr. ABF discovers live blog and pre-empts entertainment (and possible betting fun) by calling the asshats himself. Killjoy. They don't answer. Duh! Game still on.

9:01: Florida relatives call. Not the asshats.

9:20: complete opening lovely stemless martini glasses from Mr. ABF. Point out that they would be stunning with a berry/cream dessert in them. He rolls his eyes.

9:21: Realize bottoms of said glasses could hold a copious amount of blue-cheese stuffed olives. He's right. I don't know what I was thinking.

9:30: Presents opened. Dog 3, Presents 0. Ah well. At least the dog enjoys sustainable bamboo. Whoever had 9:30 for the asshats, you're out.

9:30-1:30, play with toys. Bella returns to bamboo stuff and really seems to enjoy it. In fact, she really seems to enjoy everything. Phew. Read book.

2:30: Head to recently re-connected relatives with the baby for dinner. No, really. Because I'm a sadist. Of the nth magnitude. Begin to seriously doubt this decision in the car. Thankfully on road where it's easy to pull over and throw up. But dude, if baby shows up at the table with a "Baby's First Christmas" bib, you will see pot-roast fly.

3:11: Arrive, looking v. much forward to discussion with cousin who has had two miscarriages, two failed IVF's, and whose husband just announced he's leaving her. She jumps into chocolates, so I think we're golden discussing the Worst Christmas on Record. Except she's really into the chocolate and doesn't have a historical bone in her body so she's really not interested in ruminating over possibilities of worse Christmases involving wartime or pestilence. Plan self on couch to watch Bella open another round of presents.

3:34: Is is just me, or do you feel people give your children things that they feel you deprive them of as parents? Bella is opening an extraordinary amount of pink commercial crap. I had told this particular branch of the family that dress up clothes would be most welcome, and while I have nothing against a princess outfit in the mix, I guess I think kids would also like the opportunity to dress up as pirates and firemen. They, it turns out, do not, and have given her no less than 4 princess outfits replete with high heels, and one very pink ballet outfit (she doesn't do ballet), which I am pleased to announce to everyone that the shoes are too small. I clearly have been suppressing my daughter's inner princess this year. Fucking dead baby.

3:37: NEWSFLASH: Bella is ALREADY BORED with princess and other commercial crap, and wanders off to play on the Wii with her Dad! THAT'S my girl! Breathe sigh of relief.

4:14: Distant relative, but now my BFF, turns on NBA game. Yesssssssss.

6:02: Mom of baby asks if the asshats have called, I give her the "what do YOU think" stare. She then launches into diatribe against other relatives of Mr. ABF's side. Good news: She and husband have been our strongest, smartest, most loyal and understanding supporters. Bad News: They've had to be because the rest of the in-laws have apparently gone batfuck crazy. I'll spare you details, but Mom of Baby actually at one point put her hand up to interrupt a relative and said, "excuse me, but all I'm hearing is you you you. This isn't YOUR tragedy. It's THEIR tragedy. And YOU need to support THEM." That was in addition to pointing out that certain delusions wouldn't have come true even if Maddy had lived. I probably didn't need to hear this I realize because now I'm really upset. Wonder if I should go find cousin with the chocolate.

8:00: Head home with trunk full of product placement, and one extremely cool gift from the people with baby. (Figures.) Another evening of "hide the baby," but again, it seemed to work. Sinuses are f'ng killing me.

8:31: Because Bella fell asleep for 20 minutes in the car, according to the Bella exponential sleep deprivation calculator, this means she will be up an additional two hours now. Mr. ABF tries to call the asshats again. They don't pick up. He leaves a Merry Christmas message. Boy, I'll say.

Neighbors

We found our current neighborhood rather by accident. Having chosen to move back into this general region "for family" (you just snorted coffee up your nose, didn't you), we then set about looking for great old houses. We moved here from the 'burbs where you didn't talk to your neighbors unless it was prearranged. If you needed a saw, or an egg, or emergency babysitting, you called a contractor, or hopped in your car and went to home depot or the store. And you dragged your kid with you or rearranged your schedule. I used the paths around my house to walk my dog and run, but I rarely saw anyone other than the dogwalkers. Part of what attracted to me to this place was simply driving around and seeing people outside running, walking, walking their dogs, pushing strollers, checking out yard sales, half-jogging to the train. And after we signed the documents and I went online to check out what on earth we had just done, I found our new home referred to as one of the best, tight-knit, most fun, party-lovin', oldest, closest neighborhoods in the region.

We moved into a house where the previous owners wore the neighborhood mantle well: we'll just call them the "Fun Bobby's" (a la Friends), and we were, for months, "The people who moved into the Fun Bobby's House." We rolled our eyes. Wondered if we would ever fit in and be accepted for who we were. Even the kids wouldn't let me forget how cool Young Fun Bobby's Room was, or the fact that they had a cotton candy machine at Young Fun Bobby's birthday. But hey, we were boring. Mr. ABF shuffled off to work, and I putzed around monitoring contractors and trying to lay low during a rather stressful pregnancy. Not to say people weren't nice: within hours of moving here, people were walking up with cookies, and scraps of paper with all their relevant contact information on it. One neighbor brought us an enormous bag filled with food from her favorite local shops, and included business cards of said shops. Another neighbor handmade a slate sign with a cat on it that says "Welcome." I have never, ever felt welcome in a home before. I remember once heading out to take Max for a walk with Bella and arriving home 30 minutes later with six children, three parents, another dog, and a Guinea pig in tow all headed to our swing set.

And then the shit hit the fan. We'd only lived here roughly 6 months when Maddy died. The entire neighborhood had followed my pregnancy, even the anonymous dog walkers. We were soooo not the Fun Bobby's anymore. In my old neighborhood, as nice as they were, I can imagine one friend actually coming in to talk to me. Maybe a couple casseroles left at my door (in disposable containers so I wouldn't have to face them to return anything). But since no one talked anyway, this would be rather easy to contain. Not here. Within hours, the doorbell was ringing. People were coming over (in a few instances, together, as couples, or families) delivering hot chicken dinners with mashed potatoes, chocolate cakes, more letters with phone numbers. The neighbor across the street came over and practically took Bella home with her so we'd understand it was ok to do this, at a moment's notice, whenever we needed. For the first month, she kindly had Bella over so we could attend the therapist's together. To this day, Bella STILL wants to go over to Ms. C's house, "for a playdate." One neighbor dedicated a church service to Maddy. A dogwalker rang my bell one day, and explained that she had lived in Greece and wanted me to have a tear jar. And since she couldn't find one, she made one for me. And she didn't know my name, just my dog's, but she asked what my daughter's name was -- so she could think of her. They respected my silence, they nodded when I told them I felt like crap, and a few of them even continued to ask how I was really doing, months later. They hug, they kiss. One grieved with me, as her brother died right around the time that Maddy did. They continued to invite us to events, and expressed nothing short of glee when I finally started accepting invitations. We're back into the incestuous social fabric of this neighborhood that does everything together: looking after each-other's kids, playing poker monthly, dogsitting, fish-sitting, book club, spontaneous brunches and dinners and cocktails. When I had to face Bella's birthday and our anniversary, the thought of sitting alone in my house was suicidal. So, I invited over the entire neighborhood, and we drank champagne and ate cake until early in the morning.

Once a month, the neighborhood gets together for cocktails on a Friday evening. The host house provides booze, everyone else brings noshes. And little did we know when we signed the contract, for 20+ years the Christmas party was held in our house. We did last year's, when I was eight months pregnant and had only lived here 5 months, and people were astounded. And last night we did it again, complete with the ghost of Christmas past that I knew everyone was thinking of when they saw me putting down champagne. We gamely decorated in anticipation for this year's, which I didn't really mind because it forced me to make the house look nice, and I know my toddler appreciates that. And frankly, of anyone, these are the people that I'd like to do something for, for Christmas.

Last night, 70+ people came over in waves. All were kind, all were appreciative. By 1:00 a.m. when they left, most were a bit inebriated. A few people commented that they can't believe I do this party "on top of" the usual Christmas nonsense. To the few that I knew well, I informed them that this year, this WAS the Christmas nonsense. This was it. And today it starts coming down, and getting packed away for another year, and I'm officially moving on. Tuesday will just be a Tuesday where my husband doesn't drive to the office, and my toddler opens gifts. My neighbors got me through another death-versary-iday, and for that I am most grateful. Maddy would've loved this place.

And a Craptastic New Year!

Yes, your eyes do not deceive you: those are indeed, "Merry Motherfucking Christmas!" cards. If only they sold Reindeer Roadkill stamps, I might've taken the plunge with these or some of my own making:

Hope your new year isn't nearly as shitty as our last!

Joy! (Not!)

Peace on Earth . . . at least, to everyone else but us.

From our family (minus one) to yours, hope your holidays aren't emotionally fraught

Here comes Santa Claus, and hey, is that a glass of bourbon in his hand? And why is he crying?

Baby's First Dead Christmas [photo card, of course. Hmm, which to use: Maddy alive on respirator, or Maddy recently deceased?]


Friends and Family:

Wow, can you believe 2007 is almost over? Time for the banal generic holiday message that informs you how ridiculously cute, intelligent, witty, well traveled, and dead our children are! Let's get started!

We were most blessed this year to welcome into our family our beautiful new daughter, Bella's little sister, Maddy. Who then up and died. Whoops! Looks like we guessed wrong on last year's holiday cards, eh? Our bad.

So, um, lessee, February-March-April-May-June-July-August-September-October
-November were pretty much spent crying, going to therapy, checking out antidepressants (they work! I did get out of bed! Just don't ask me to remember you or where you live or who YOUR kids are, because I don't remember any of that like I don't remember what I ate for breakfast), going to therapy, staring at a pile of hospital crap related to our dead daughter, crying some more, trying to lose baby weight without a baby (totally fun!), trying to socialize without feeling like the Deadbabymommy in the room, more therapy, blogging about dead daughter, wondering what to do with ashes of dead daughter. Oh, and in July we went to the beach for a week.

Bella continues to astound us. Despite the fact that her mother was completely emotionally checked out, she managed to become potty trained. And while other children are learning about, oh, seasons, animals, and manners, Bella mastered the subject of death! Her giftedness on the subject really knows no bounds. We can't wait until she surprises her teachers and school chums with the information that her sister is d-e-a-d, dead! She started school in fall, which I'm sure is as much a relief to her as it is to me, and I finally have time to exercise again and try and lose this fucking weight. (Don't get excited, I ramped up too quickly, blew my plantar fascia, and am only now losing the weight that I lost, and then gained back.) She is cute though. And alive!

Tash's job was trying extremely hard to remain upright, not let Bella stick her unattended fingers into light sockets, and not to turn into an alcoholic drug-addicted trash heap (so far so good! Phew!). Mr. ABF's work has been stressful, unsupportive, and chaotic and that's without having to grieve as well. Fingers crossed for a bonus, y'all!

We'd send you a picture of the family, but couldn't decide how to decorate Maddy's box of ashes or who would hold it, so we gave up -- use your imaginations.

Hope your year wasn't as shit-tacular, and as for 2008, we can only hope it doesn't get any worse.

Us.

[handwritten comments:] The pictures of your kids? Wow! They're so big! They totally look like they came home from the hospital! And grew up! And are still alive! And when you said "Happy and Healthy," you were being facetious, right?

Clarity

The babies in Mr. ABF's family came at the end of summer. Mr. ABF, who had been doing rather well all things considered up to this point, took a self-imposed break from his family, close and extended. A month or so into the silence, he received a phone call from a mediator relative, speaking the "concerns" of others, who told Mr. ABF that perhaps he should "quit moping, suck it up, and get over it." Mr. ABF nicely told him he was grieving, not moping, and he'd deal with it on his own sweet time, thankyouverymuch. (There might have been a few more swear words in there.) The overall message came through loud and clear: according to a number of family members, six months was really time enough to mourn a child, and now it was high time to return to happyville where people danced and rejoiced in the streets about live babies and bought them copious amounts of Carters.

Days after this conversation, Mr. ABF received a text message from the mom of one of the babies, and arguably the closest relative (and spouse) we had cut out, both emotionally and geographically. She informed Mr. ABF that mediator relative of the rude phone call did not speak for her, and we should take our time. Mr. ABF wrote back something about reconnecting, and she shot back: "It's not reconnecting. You will never have to 'reconnect' with us. It will always just be hello." We knew these two, and baby, would be patient, kind, and have our backs even in our silence.

Last Sunday after the other side of Mr. ABF's family stood us up at Maddy's memorial service, I had an epiphany: I thought we had a supportive oasis in them, but I realize now the only thing going for the asshats was that they didn't have children. On the other hand, the relatives with baby would have gone to the service with us. In driving snow. We could've told them that space was limited, and they would have gone anyway, walked to the top of the parking garage, and lit candles there. And so I decided: Baby be damned, we need them. We need the support. Mr. ABF needs the support. Right now, it's more important that we be around people who give a shit. I told him to call them.

And yesterday they came for dinner. My last full conversation with them was February 18: they were in the car on the way to deliver dinner to Bella and the caretakers, and I told them we were removing Maddy's life support. When I came home that night, I simply asked them where Bella was, went upstairs, and that was the last I saw of them until yesterday when they entered my house, now with their son. It was a bit familiar, and a bit awkward, and a bit sad. There were the proverbial laughter and tears, and at times one intermingled with the other. They tried desperately (and at times, rather comically) hard to shove the baby in a corner and not discuss him (which actually worked fairly well seeing as he slept a lot of the time), I desperately tried to peek at him occasionally, gauging my nausea, and had Bella run and pull a toy out of the outgrown toybox for him.

The dagger in the heart came when I was making salad for dinner. I opened my refrigerator and there, on the middle shelf between the milk and peanut butter, was a baby bottle. And the entire six days came flooding back in a millisecond. All I could see were the tiny, yellow-topped plastic, carefully labeled bottles of breastmilk waiting to be transported to the hospital. And the memory of opening the freezer a few days after Maddy's death and finding a couple of bottles tucked in there that were summarily washed down the drain and forgotten until yesterday. And the never-before-thought wonder if any baby had been able to take advantage of the milk I had donated. And the abysmal realization that I will in all likelihood never feed another baby again.

It sucked horribly. It hurt like hell. But we'll see them again, the rellies with the baby. I'm not sure about the asshats. We're trying to work our way through that landmine as I'm sure they have no clue they did anything wrong, or that we're remotely perturbed about last Sunday. I'm fairly sure they think they're doing us some sort of favor by not calling and "interfering" with our "private time" or whatever the hell.

This time of year is just so magical, isn't it.

Don't Look Now . . .

But I've been meme'd. (Sounds gross, doesn't it.) Actually, I always thought it was pronounced "ME ME," as in, "LOOK AT ME ME ME! ME! SELF PROMOTE, ME!" but apparently that's not the case. Interestingly enough, Wiki makes the analogy that a meme propagates "the way in which a gene propagates from one organism to another as a unit of genetic information and of biological evolution." So if someone has put ME in charge of this, all we can say is, uh oh. Anyway, rather thankful to have something to put up because my kid is a bit barfy (ahem) leaving me no time to do anything creative or constructive or otherwise snarky. I will in all likelihood screw this thing up and meme someone who already has been, so let me know, and I'll try and adjust on the fly accordingly. So here we go.

I've been meme'd by WhichBox (Which, is an amazing blog title, btw. Just saying). Lovely to think of me, thank you very much.

1. I'm Tash, aka ABF, or Awful But Functioning, my about me page is here, but also in full view on the side. I began this blog rather selfishly to just get some emo out because I'm sure my husband, daughter, therapist, dogs, cats, walls, and interior of my cranium are getting rather bored of the whole thing. And lo, I actually made a few friends in the process, and I'm forever grateful that I get to bounce my ideas off such smart, humorous, and equally blue people. Y'all make my day.

2. Um, I guess I'd like to be listed as a mom/family blogger? If mom = "a bit checked out, still not entirely finding unadulterated joy in my live child," and family = "Family, rather f'd up at the mo." I suppose it's better than "Health" ("Comma, Mental") (or, help us all, "Health, comma, genetics"). All things considered I'd love to be listed under sports, but that's just not happening right now, is it.

3. I've been blogging since the second week in September, just 3.5 months ago. My kid went to school, I ditched my meds, I began running again (briefly, until I messed up my foot royally), and started a blog. A flurry of self-help, if you will. I am truly, truly impressed by those with loss blogs who blog almost immediately, like, within the first 3 months. I NEVER could have done that. It really took me until September (7 months after Maddy's death) to have anything coherent to say.

4. Tagging others. I'm going to play a bit fast and loose with the "Mom/Family" title here. For starts, in my opinion (F*&K-us on the fam.bly be damned), if you're in a loving relationship with another person and live together under one roof, you qualify. Even nicer if you have pets, but I don't discriminate that way. And if you've given birth to a baby you're a mom in my book, even if the baby -- for the sake of argument, just to be hypothetical here -- died. And so my first tag is Stitched Up for the 2nd Time, who I like reading because I love how she weaves her feelings about her yoga practice into her life both practically and spiritually (Damn, do I need to start that up again), love/hate reading about her feelings about her lost son, Harvey, and plus she's in Europe. And I love reading about somewhere else. Because that's just cool. My second slightly slippery entree is Searching at Searching4Hope. Who would like to start a "family." But let's be serious here: on her job as a NICU nurse she is more a mom than many. For poor kids like Green, whose crack-addicted mother gave birth to him early and then left him at the hospital to die, Searching is the only mom this kid ever knew. Then there are the kids who are so bad off, they really need 5 moms, and she steps in and becomes mom #2. And damn, is she good at her job, at being a mom. Lastly, sadly a new blog for me because I wish I had been reading it all along -- I find myself reading and saying, "I could've written that!" is Mrs. G. at Broken Heart Diaries.

And now for the small print legalese:
*******************
BlogHer Me and Mine Meme 100 directions:

1.) State the name of your blog, your real name or your online name, and link to your "about me" page.
2.) Say you want to be profiled on BlogHer as a family blogger and link back to this Me and Mine 100 original post, here.
3.) Tell how long you've been blogging.
4.) Pass this meme on to three other bloggers that you think should be profiled/interviewed, and ask them to do the meme. (Kindly link to the bloggers you select.)

Flames

Yesterday may have been the first time in this nonsense that the anticipation was worse than the event. (Usually the anticipation is bad and the event/holiday/-iversary supersedes my expectations and is fucking miserable.) But I was helped here in no small measure by a couple of Mr. ABF's family members who called us early yesterday morning to say that -- after accepting our invitation 2 months ago to attend the memorial service, and knowing full well it was held outside in December, and there were space limitations and so we could only take 6 people including ourselves -- they would not be attending last night.

Because it might rain.

And so, Mr. ABF was left without family representation because his fucking jackhole lousy bastard sorry excuse for humans incompassionate, unfeeling, ungrateful emotionally vapid inconsiderate relatives couldn't find their umbrellas and warm socks handle emotion -- theirs or his -- and waited until the last minute to tell him. Ironically or not, the other side of his family was confabbing a few miles away, and I knew someone there would want to come and be with him/us, but we didn't want to pressure and guilt them at the last minute. We wanted (call us crazy) people to come who actually wanted to be there. To remember their relative, Maddy. To support us.

My breakdown came earlier in the day in the car, on the way home from grocery shopping. I thought seriously about calling someone from Mr. ABF's family, and changed my mind. I got the sad and angry part out then, the part about missing my daughter and having to do it alone, and by last night realized that I was Mr. ABF's support, and acted accordingly.

Right as we got to the hospital, despite the throng exiting the parking garage, I ran into another mom I knew from a support group. So I rather immediately felt at home, where the elephant disintegrated, and no one was pointing at me in hushed whispers. Bella behaved marvelously, and deciding her glowstick was "for babies" she opted for a real candle. She spent some time standing up luminaria that had fallen in the wind and then slalomed through them. We listened for Maddy's name, and my momfriend's son's name, and the litany of other babies and children. Whereas last April I would've been horrified, last night I was somewhat pleasantly surprised to see people mourning children who had died as long ago as the year I was born. I don't want to be debilitated that long, but I would like to remember that long.

The weather was crisp, cold, overcast, but no rain.

My scraps were safely ensconced in a ziplock, tucked in my breast pocket. And they did help. Everyone helped. I came home, put them in a bowl on my entry hall table, and lit a candle next to them. I'll probably do this a few more nights until the Christmas whatnot and the bill pile defeat the shrine for space. But I've decided I'm going to do this again, carry everyone's weight and memories with my own. I'm still livid about these relatives. If this is how they treat the dead and the living, I want no part of them and I'm not going to jump through hoops to connect with them, especially this month. I'm just sorry that the support we assumed to possess appears to have been built on smoke and mirrors.

At the service, Children's Hospital handed out books with pictures of children and, if their parents wished, a message, or poem, or song for their children. A dissertation could be written on these submissions: they can be classified quickly into "you're now with God/Jesus/Allah" letters; bad, and (surprisingly) good lyrics and poetry, both borrowed and self-composed; straight letters of despondency (one with the word WHY studded throughout in capital letters); and even a few poignant missives in hip hop - ese ("U'R missed"). We submitted the following:

Maddy,

You weren't just wanted, you were already here: you were a sister, a daughter, a pet owner. You were loved. You were read to, shown photos of your entire extended family, lectured to about where your ancestors came from and how your parents met. Your sister gave you a Valentine, and thanks to a lovely NICU nurse, you gave her one too. You left us footprints, handprints, a lock of hair, and some grainy pictures taken by thoughtful staff in poorly lit environments. You put up with your mother's sobbing, and your father's thoughtful silence. You never met your sister, but she knows you -- she can locate you instantly in a crowd of baby pictures, and she never seems to mind the number of tubes and wires around you. She pronounces your name perfectly, makes pages for your memory book, and waters your tree. In your short time here, you taught us that even the littlest among us have the strength of giants, and that every day on this earth is precious. You are a memory, a future lost, a chasm in our hearts, and a canyon in our identity as parents. You were only here six days, but you will with us forever, as you should have been from the first place. We love and miss you so much.

Mommy, Daddy, and Bella

Scraps

On Sunday night, I will attend a candlelight service at Children's Hospital, sponsored by Compassionate Friends, in memory of Children who have died. Needless to say, I've been dreading it. We never had a memorial service for Maddy -- we were too dazed, in shock, and in such different states of grief that we couldn't reconcile anything. And so nothing happened. And so, in April, when Children's Hospital held their biannual service for children who have died within the last 6 months, we felt compelled to go. It was awful. It was held in an auditorium, and the air was so thick with grief that my toddler burst into tears immediately upon entering the room without anything happening yet and not really knowing what was going on. It was claustrophobic and oppressive. A stranger had to come sit with me when Mr. ABF left with Bella to play with balloons. Which was lovely of her, but to think I looked to be in a state to need such companionship . . . .well. There was no catharsis, or closure, or "honoring her memory," or anything. It was just a fucking wretched couple of hours and left me feeling like I had been hit by a car. For a week.

So what possessed us to go to this upcoming one, I have no idea. Probably guilt that we STILL haven't done anything on our own for Maddy, so thank goodness these things pop up that we can attend and assuage ourselves for a few hours. People I know who have attended both say this one is much, much better -- that although sad, it's somehow uplifting to be outside, under the sky in the cold weather, looking out over the sea of candlelight. They claim instead of the enclosed room with the circling green cloud of bereavement, the emotions seem to have space to drift upwards. I really hope they're right, because my anxiety level about this is increasing by the hour. I realized my face hurt, and it's because I'm clenching my jaw.

And then I had a thought. In my last comments, Whatthefu*k (well, formerly known as; now "Trying to have") asked about the service and it got me thinking: I have so many children to mourn now. In three short blogging months, I have come to know so many of you, and your lost babies. And so I decided out of nowhere that I'll put your babies' names on scraps of paper and carry them with me to the service on Sunday evening. On the one hand, this is increasing my load. I mean, it's tough enough mourning one baby, let alone a football squad worth, why throw more stones in the sack? And maybe I shouldn't distract myself from my own child and her brief life. Surely this is some (sub)conscious diversionary tactic. Focus, Tash. On the other hand, though, the thought of these scraps somehow disperses the load, makes it less intense, and thus easier to bear. Kinda like when two tiny, geriatric, professional piano movers can swiftly and easily move a grand across a room and out the door: they know exactly how to distribute the weight so that the lifting and moving is easy. (Watch a couple beefy guys with no clue try and move it, and you'll see what I mean.) When touching these names I'll know I'm not alone in my journey through hell. And though I don't believe in the afterlife, I'll also feel somewhat better that Maddy's experience wasn't singular, and she is not alone now in death -- literally.

Sunday night, in addition to my own child, I will be thinking of the brief and extraordinary lives of* Natan, Apollo, Artemis, A___, Nicolas, Matthew, Georgia, Mira, Ben, Harvey, Joseph, Lily, Amelia, Beatrice, Survivorgirl, Wade, Katie, Charlotte, M., Birdie, Paige, Georgia, Green, Charlotte M., and Peanut Diva.

If you have commented here, and I have overlooked yours (and for those with more than one, I may not have dipped back far enough into your archives to derive a name, please forgive me), please tell me -- that's what the comments are for. Tell me if you lurk and you'd like your child to be included. Tell me if you'd like me to remove your child's name or encrypt it to keep nosy family members away from your blog (hence my decision not to set up links for these). Tell me if you'd like me to use a nickname, or a real one instead of an initial. Tell me, please god, if I've spelled someone's name wrong. Tell me the names, and I will gladly, surely, solemnly, add a name to a scrap of paper to keep in my pocket and close to my heart.

* Edits to list will be made in Italics.

I'll tell you what to do with unpasteurized cheese

I keep thinking maybe, just maybe, I should try the baby thing. No, heavens, not HAVE one you sillies. Communicate, in person, face to face, with people who do. There are some holiday functions that would probably go a bit more smoothly were I to take a deep breath and take a plunge. How bad could it be, really? I've already done the hard stuff, right?

I'm at the gym today, on the bike because my foot is still fucked up, plugged into my iDevice and intently watching the TV set to Sportscenter. Penn loses to North Carolina. Tell me something I don't know. Yawn. Attention gravitates to the next screen, and thanks to grossly misspelled captioning I now see that Giada -- you know, Italian chef with the teeth? And the gauzy slightly porn cooking show? -- is on some morning show. And she's pregnant. And coming up after the break, she's going to discuss what in hell she can possibly eat in this condition. Talk about the accident I can't stop looking at. Thankfully Sportscenter in very timely fashion has some soccer highlights. But then THEY go to commercial. So I'm back watching Giada, to my own soundtrack, while she picks and grimaces her way through salmon, cheese, and (I'm not making this up) health bars marketed just for pregnant women. There really aren't enough health bars on the market right now, are there. And I start thinking to myself, you know, it just doesn't matter. I could've sat down to a jigger of bourbon and some soft imported very (deliciously) moldy Brie every night of my pregnancy, and it wouldn't have made a fucking whit of difference. I might as well have ingested PCB-laden salmon and flushed my iron pills down the toilet. At least then my memories as they were would be foggy blurry drunken reminiscences of tasty food. (Why oh why does ESPN have so many fucking commercials??) And then, the kicker: at the end of the segment, everyone walks onto the set to admire Giada petting her belly through her clearly expensive bespoke maternity wear, and they hand her a baby. I guess he was left over from the previous segment on . . . . I have no idea. But there she is holding the baby, and says, "So this is how it will end up!"

Yep, Giada, that's how it ends. IF THE BABY DOESN'T DIE!!!! I practically scream. In my head. Look around to make sure nothing came out. Phew, no one staring at me, no one calling security. But clearly, not so ready for the babies yet. Not so ready.

Dead (Kids of) Presidents

I'm observing the current presidential primary hoo-ha with both personal and political interest this year. Putting aside my political angle for a moment, I'm especially interested in the paths of three candidates (that I know of, please correct me if I've missed someone) that have lost children: Joe Biden, John Edwards, and Fred Thompson.

In 1972, when Joe Biden was 29 and had just been elected to the Senate for the first time, his wife, daughter, and two sons were involved in a horrific car accident the week before Christmas. His wife, Neilia, and infant daughter, Naomi, were killed, and his two young sons were severely injured. On April 4, 1996, John and Elizabeth Edwards were informed by a policeman who drove up to their house that their 16-year-old son, Wade, had been killed in a car accident. And in January 2002, Fred Thompson's adult daughter, Betsy (from his first marriage), died of an accidental overdose. Thompson actually made the decision to remove her from life support.

Politics aside, these three individuals jump out at me, and I comb their words and expressions for signs: I'm wondering, to put it bluntly, how are they doing? How do they cope with this loss? How do they possibly move on? Do they love and find happiness again?

Biden remarried and had another daughter. He also takes off on the day that his wife and daughter died off every year, irregardless of his schedule, and goes to the cemetery and to mass. When a Sunday morning talking-head asked Biden if this godforsaken day was a "defining moment" in his life, Biden responded no. It was his worst moment, certainly, but he did not want to be defined by it. I think of this line, and often wonder if I will always be defined as she who lost her baby, by me and by others.

John and Elizabeth went on to have two more children. I was particularly impressed that on what would've been Wade's 17th birthday, they went to the pool and bought ice cream for every child there in a rather party-like atmosphere. I'd love to think I could be that thoughtful and magnanimous to include other children in the memory of the death of my own. But certainly not this year. The Edwards are both known to say, emphatically, that they have 4 children, and include Wade in the tally. When Elizabeth announced her cancer recurrence earlier this year, and John decided to stay in the race, there was a frenzy of media debate: was this a good or bad thing? Was this done merely for political purposes? And I simply said: I cannot judge them for what they do, because they have lost a child. They get a pass. They have been through the worst hell imaginable, and I'm sure this situation doesn't reach that level (yet), so they can make the call and it will be the right one for them. To quote "Wag the Dog," "THIS? Is nothing." (For what it's worth, Elizabeth credits her friend in the computer for keeping her sane while grieving.)

I don't know a lot about Thompson's family history other than the dates; his daughter died in January, 2002, and that summer he married his current (second) wife and proceeded to have two more children. I don't know his relationship with his adult daughter at the time of her death, or her mental status, but in a lot of ways, it just doesn't matter. He was there at the end, she was his, and he made a decision no parent should ever have to make. It's hard enough bringing them into this world, we shouldn't be the ones left coordinating their exits. Having lived through this nightmare, Thompson -- in contrast to some naively inexperienced members of his political party -- believes end of life decisions such as these are issues best left to individuals, not politicians or governments. (Amen.)

As it happens, I'm also an American Historian. And so, I got to thinking about Presidents who had lost children. I'm normally not one for Presidential trivia, or Presidents in and of themselves for that matter. I typically don't gravitate toward biography, instead preferring the sweeping generalizations of the masses and the subgroups therein. And yet now that I've actually looked up the following (god bless the internet), I'm a wee bit curious to read up on some of these guys and their wives and their families and see how everyone fared. There are a lot of them -- dead kids, and presidents with. There was a time not too long ago, when children dying was -- how to say this -- commonplace. Disease happened. There weren't vaccines and NICUs and whatnot, and without antibiotics and even antibacterial soap lots of creepy shit happened. Think what you will of Coolidge (boy, I know I did) but he lost his 16-year-old son, while in the White house, to a case of blood poisoning caused by a simple blister. But, advancements being what they are, the number of losses earlier-on is a bit larger than those in the last century. Many of the infants and toddlers on this list died of cholera, diphtheria, typhoid, and numerous childhood maladies-- including early delivery and blood poisoning -- that are now extinct thanks to medical advancements. Many of the adult daughters on the list died of complications in childbirth (the leading cause of death of women until well into the 20th century). All men, somehow survived the losses (in some cases, many, and in one case, all) of their children, although some not for long.

I wasn't so into cross-checking that I determined who lost children before, during, and after their terms in office (although the during was somewhat obvious, so I labeled a few of those). But I have to think if you survive the loss of a child, you're pretty much set for anything life has to throw at you. I marvel that people can carry on, and stand in front of others without screaming from the rooftops. How did they grieve? Did loss shape these men? It was so hard for me to get out of my house, can you even imagine grieving in front of an entire country in the most personal of ways? I'm not one to gravitate toward the powerful white men in history, and yet this intrigued me. Here, without further ado, a list of Presidents who lost children during their lifetimes, and the children they lost. If nothing else, it will be interesting conversation at your next Deadbabymama cocktail party. What, you don't have those?

*****

(Note: List below updated 1/25/09)

John Adams: daughter, Susanna, age 2; Elizabeth, stillborn daughter; adult son, Charles, an alcoholic who died of cirrhosis at age 30.

Thomas Jefferson: Jane, one and a half years old; stillborn son; Lucy (I), 5 months old; Lucy (II), 2 years old; Mary, who died as an adult from complications from childbirth.

James Monroe: son, age 2.

John Q. Adams: adult son, of suicide; one year old daughter.

Martin Van Buren: adult son.

William Harry Harrison: 5 adult children, one child, age two (6 children total)

John Tyler: had 15 children in all (!), and lost three, two adults and one infant.

Zachary Taylor: 3 daughters: one 21, one 3, one 1.

Millard Fillmore: 22 year old daughter

Franklin Pierce: lost all three of his children -- one infant, one four year old, and his eleven-year-old son who was hit by a train.

Abraham Lincoln: three year old Edward, eleven-year-old Willie (while in office).

Andrew Johnson: two adult sons: one from a horse accident, and one from suicide.

Rutherford Hayes: 3 sons under the age of two

James Garfield: 3 year old daughter, 2 year old son.

Chester Arthur: 2 year old son

Grover Cleveland: twelve-year old Ruth, while in the white House.

President McKinley: lost both of his children: three year old Kate and infant Ida.

Theodore Roosevelt: twenty-year old son died during WWI.

Calvin Coolidge: sixteen-year-old son, while in the White House.

Franklin D. Roosevelt: infant son

Dwight Eisenhower: three-year-old son

John F. Kennedy: stillborn daughter; Patrick, two days old (while in office, and four months before the assassination of JFK)

Ronald Reagan: daughter, one day old

George H. W. Bush: three year old daughter

Meandering

Boys and Girls, time for another science post. Quiz to follow. I will try and use less "fucks" and more "alleles" just for Julia. Let's see how it goes.

Genetics Counselor called, and test results from August -- you know, the ones that were to take six weeks? -- are back. Everything is negative. Except for one interesting finding: Maddy's mitochondria were rather depleted. Mitochondria, as Wiki says in nice layman's terms, are the power plants for cells, and let's face it, if you don't have a lot, not much energy there to do things like, oh, produce white matter in your nervous system for starts. Mitochondrial Depletion diseases are usually classified when there is 70% depletion, and Maddy was 60%. But most kids with severe mitochondrial depletion are still alive (albeit barely, and maybe two years or so) so who's to say Maddy's wouldn't have been more depleted were she given more time?

Mitochondrial Depletion diseases are indeed autosomal recessive genetic problems, meaning should this be the answer, both Mr. ABF and I apparently carry a recessive gene that when combined that 1:4 time, makes a child whose metabolic system runs on empty. I should say here for the biologically astute that her mitochondria were perfectly formed, and nothing was wrong with them, there just weren't that many. That's important, because moms give individual mitochondria their genetic information, so it means I don't personally carry a mutated problem (and thus, should we decide to have another child, my eggs are just as fucked up as Mr. ABF's sperm, and thus still on the table, provided I still have eggs to put on a table).

Here's the deal: to date, science (you know, big guy? White Beard?) knows of 5 genes responsible for mitochondrial depletion. We agreed to check Maddy's information for these 5 to see if there are evident problems, and this should take 2 months (read: we might know by Memorial Day 2008). There are currently experimental studies on two additional genes, so if the 5 turn up negative, we will enroll in the studies and that will take a while (read: as long as it takes some overworked grad student to run gels for his/her adviser's grant while simultaneously grading a million Biology 101 papers, doing his/her own research for his/her long overdue thesis, and still making that killer party on Friday night. I'm thinking circa Memorial Day 2009).

This would be somewhat interesting news to have. If we knew exactly the gene that caused the train wreck, we could, hypothetically -- if pigs fly and RE's still agree to take me on as a patient, and my body responds to whatever they need to throw at it in it's now advanced age -- get pregnant again using our own genetic material. We could do PGD or CVS or Amnio and pinpoint that particular gene and see if the embryo is ok or en route to Deadsville. And act accordingly.

BUT (and there's always a but, isn't there?): this mitochondria depletion may just be a SYMPTOM and not the disease unto itself. That is to say, Maddy may have had some unknown (most likely genetic) mishap during gestation and her system opted to redirect it's energy to stave off another problem rather than spend time making mitochondria. In which case, all these tests will come back negative, and we'll be no further along the road to knowing than we are now.

But, for now, it's a visible path in the forest of overgrown genetic mistakes, and we've opted to take it. With our fantastically wonderful luck, it will in likelihood peter-out into a dead end. Although, frankly, I'm not sure what kind of luck it will be to find out our daughter succumbed to some insanely rare genetic mitochondrial depletion fuck up. (whoops. Can I cram "allele" in there somewhere?) Or what kind of luck landed us in this preeminent Children's Hospital that just so happens to specialize in metabolic disasters and knows exactly what to do and where to go to find answers. Good or bad? Better to know or not? Jury still out.

So we wait, but not so much sitting by the phone with baited breath. Not as if an "answer" will bring her back. But it will perhaps, depending on the timing, leave us with some options for reproducing again. And I guess that's something, provided they get around to running those gels before I'm 45.

Signs of Divine Intervention

I must admit that there are times this year I have truly believed in Karma and payback from former lives, and that in my past lifetime I must have been a serial killer of the worst sort. You know, killing extremely cute kittens and puppies with bows on. For food. Or something. I ponder the names Idi and Pol and wonder if there's any connection. Because who loses a child and then has to deal with the minutia of bad shit? Take, for example, a hellatious week in July that starts with an aunt nearly dying from falling off a horse to then have both family cars break down a total of three times, the last of which happened at the airport while trying to pick up family. And the car couldn't be jump started. While trying to plan not one but two parties that weekend. There have been karma breakdowns and demigods of misbehavior waving their wands since February: Drunk driver creaming fence. Neighborhood kid ruining freshly poured concrete. Oven door falling off (and I do mean off, onto the floor. Makes for easy cleaning, I'll say that.) I'm a runner (well, WAS a runner, trying to remember how) so once Bella hit school in September, I hit the trails in an effort to burn off some baby fat. And because in my former life I apparently tortured the kittens and puppies before turning them into a pie, my plantar fascia whigged out, and now I haven't run in about 5 weeks and have very much gained back any weight I dutifully burned off in September. Because why should this be easy or go according to plan?

And then, amongst the shit pile, are small tiny gems where I wonder if there is indeed a God, and s/he is keeping just a wee tiny eye out for me and my mental health. The college football season, which I normally pay close attention to, and normally is a big fat yawn following the script minus a game or two, is intriguing this fall beyond my wildest imagination. The vast array of Republican scandals this year has been nothing short of giggleworthy. And Mr. ABF informed me of the best news I've heard in a long, long time: one of my favorite fast-food restaurants is opening a store 10 minutes from my house. I may be in the shitpile, but now I've got good fries to keep me company. Or maybe I'm reading this wrong: without the running, and the fries, I could be accepting my new identity as a coronary patient. Time will tell.

Um, Thanks, I Guess

I know many of us have jack shit to be thankful for. Because if you're like me, you're thinking things along the lines of: I'm thankful my daughter died here, and not where we used to live. (No offense to where I used to live, which was perfectly lovely, but the family, neighborhood, and especially medical situation here is wayyyyyyyyy better.) I'm thankful she died in our arms and not hooked up to machines with doctors working on her. I'm thankful one of my two daughters is alive. And really, if that's what I'm reduced to giving thanks for, that's pretty grim and sad, no? No one should be in a position to make such positive sounding propositions out of a dungheap: I'm thankful the IED only took my one leg and one eye. I'm thankful the fire destroyed my house and everything I own, but not my family. I'm thankful for this tasteless but warm dinner, because it's far better than what I normally get seeing as I live under a bridge.

Perhaps this holiday is made for the downtrodden, as a chance to reexamine life and just be grateful for existence (although I'm sure for some, existence is not all it's cracked up to be). Maybe living through hell should make us grateful for life, or family, or something. Or maybe it's for the rest of humanity to just be grateful that they're not us. I'm not sure I'm feeling so big and magnanimous, mature and introspective this year. I think I'll take a pass on the meaning and significance and aim right for the crass aspects: stuffing, gravy, pie and football. But, I must sheepishly confess that I am a bit thankful that I decided to venture out and do this blog business, and have met a most supportive, interesting, smart, and funny group of deadbabymommas and supporters thereof to help keep me sane. Have a spoonful of something bad for you, on me.

Circle of Life

In what appears to be a "growing trend," someone scattered human remains (read: ashes, not, you know, limbs and hair and teeth) on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyworld forcing workers to shut down the creaky rowboats while they made sure it was just deadpeople detritus and not anthrax. And apparently they're not overly happy that it might be harmless ashes, because those gum up the works, and really throw the audio off in the "Yo Ho Yo Ho, A Pirate's Life for Me" portion of the trip. More so than the millions of plastic souvenir cups and mouse-ear beanies and cameras I'm sure they scoop out on a daily basis. Not to mention it puts a bit of a damper on the "Happiest Place on Earth!" slogan to know that funeral rituals are going on in the gondola next to yours.

George Smith! The doctors were unable to revive you after your coronary, and your family just took you off life support! What are you going to do now?

I'm going to Disneyworld!!!

But let's cut to the chase: who in their will has their dying sentiments expressed as "please cremate my remains, catch the next AirTran flight to Orlando, and sprinkle me throughout what used to be a somewhat scary but is now an excessively overmarketed Disney (tm) ride in a crowded park full of tourists and sugar-hyped children. To remember the occasion, I ask only that you purchase a plastic skull beer can holder with lighted eyes (batteries not included) at the gift shop on the way out"? I've heard of sprinkling ashes at the Grand Canyon, Yankee Stadium, the ocean, outer space, sunset views, and in the forest, but Disneyworld?

I shouldn't judge. This might have been someone's magic kingdom. Maybe there was a marriage proposal in the dark rowboat while faux bombs were dropping perilously close in the water. Or, perish the thought, maybe this was a child's dream to remain forever with the characters from his/her favorite movie. Now that I think of it, Maddy will never get to experience Disneyworld, or anything Disneyovermarketed (tm) -- maybe she'd appreciate spinning on the teacups for eternity?

As the writers are on strike, and with all due apologies to the picketing Letterman staff, I thought the grief community should pick up the slack and create a Top 10 Locations for Scattering Remains. I have started us off, please submit your ideas in the comments.

10. The Oval Office. Forgetting the logistics of getting your ashes in there, here is a permanent place of power to remain with in perpetuity! Think of the intellect! The intrigue! The scandal! The [expletive deleted]! The endless discussions about which tie to wear when meeting the prime minister of Fill-in-the-blank-istahn! The boring suited guys walking around talking into their wrists! The goddamn boring paperwork and endless requests for signatures! The schmoozing and the asskissing and the . . . Ok, maybe this isn't such a hot idea. Next.

9. Le Bec Fin. Because otherwise how will you get a table?

8. Target. Instead of Disney, which let's face it is a bit space restrictive in terms of how much new marketing they can cram in there, go to mecca! Have your survivors sprinkle you around the store -- a bit in video, a bit in audio, a bit in electronics, a bit in toys, a wee sprinkle in housewares and clothing -- and keep up with pop culture and trends (not to mention the latest in leaded toys and world trade politics) FOR.E.VER. And I know you love it.

7. Starbucks. Because nothing says "heaven" like Grande non-fat no-sugar caramel latte.

6. Recycling Center. Go Green! Dump ashes in the plastic bottle bin and the adventuresome soul can indeed be reincarnated for another life! As a countertop! Shoes! Another plastic bottle! Or pour ashes into compost pile and return soul to the earth FOR REAL while ashes help propagate roses, azalea and a myriad of vegetables! (warning: for the faint of heart, this may border on cannibalism. Check with your local spiritual guidelines.)

5. "Over my dead body." Stick to principal. Jewelry not getting passed to someone? Bank account not going to that wretched family member? Stupd-ex-whoever showing up in your house? Insolent child eating ice cream BEOFRE dinner? Daughter wearing scandalously low-rise jeans out of the house? Scatter your remains at the place of your worry be it the jewelry box, bank lobby, front door threshold, freezer. Have family members confront the guilt literally, and we'll all keep our fingers crossed while you wait it out for an eternity. At least you'll have something to keep you occupied.

4. Your turn . . .

Deadbabymama Tunes

I thought I'd post a deadbabymama playlist replete with little audio clips and such, but while I can sort of figure out how to put clips in the post, I can't really find a definitive answer as to whether that's technically legal. Have I skirted the law? Crossed against the light? "Shared" a CD with someone? Not reported a slight overcharge here and there? Um, yeah. But being new to all this would hate to have some lawyers on my ass because I really don't have the time. Oh hell, who am I kidding, I really don't have the time to make little clips anyway, so I'll just try to send you somewhere that has them and THEY can deal with the lawyers, ok?

A bit of background that will probably bore you to tears and if you are already, I'm sorry, feel free to skip ahead. I started playing violin around 5 years of age and played "seriously" until I was 22. At that point, "working my way through graduate school" did not include busking. (I was in the Midwest. It would have been difficult 9 months out of the year, anyway.) I took out the fiddle for the occasional Handel "Messiah" at the holidays, and now I pull it out to show Bella that indeed, that little diddy on her electronic gizmo is in fact a real piece of music that sounds a bit better (usually, when someone has warmed up a bit and practiced) on a violin.

Contrary to popular belief, growing up around classical music does not preclude one from considering all other genres of music utter trash. (Just teen pop shlock.) I actually feel that my background has opened me up to accept pretty much any music with the caveat: it has to be good. So, if the rock/pop/rap/jazz/R&B/C&W/grunge/garage/folk/"world" song is "good," I'm game. Now, granted, some of these genres don't lend themselves so much to "good" -- C&W, I'm looking at you. But, with some appreciation of lyric, tone, complexity, and general interest, Patsy Cline not only makes the cut but is a favorite. There's much to learn about breath and phrasing and just good feelin' listening to some Patsy. You're probably thinking I played Mozart to Bella in the womb but Ha! The Outkast CD had just been released, so Bella is a "Hey Ya" and "I like the way you move" baby. She gravitates toward a good bass line.

To paraphrase Nick Hornby extremely liberally to the point of offense, I too believe that people's musical taste evolves as far as it will by age 17 and doesn't mature much thereafter. Not that you don't listen to different music (you do, right? RIGHT?) but that it has some connection to the stuff you liked when you were 17. (Hornby's theory may change with the ongoing American Idolization of "the single" (or god forbid, "the ringtone") replacing "the album.") I fall into this trend. Not to date myself here, but when I was 17 I was in the thick of Sting, Paul Simon, Peter Gabriel, Rush, and a plethora of 80s rock groups (Echo and the B'men, anyone?) so I tend toward the musically complex (I like a lot going on, especially in the percussion section), lush dense sound yet sophisticated, with some (but not always) interesting lyrics. Throw me something with an interesting beat and introduce an instrument I wouldn't otherwise expect and you'll have me in your palm.

Classical music is actually where I get picky. Things that are boring to play are boring to hear, and I would sooner sort my sock drawer with my eyelids pinned back than listen to Bolero or the Pachabel cannon. I've also pretty much had my life's fill of the Brandenburg concertos and the Beethoven Overtures and Vivaldi's Seasons, although sometimes I surprisingly find myself listening to them. I like the complex here too: Brahms, Sibelius, Brittan, Tchaikovsky, Bach. One thing I only realized recently is that I have NEVER really liked the slow stuff. I'm not sure if it was the actual pace of things (I'm a person that has to always be in motion -- has to be doing something while watching TV, walks around while brushing my teeth), or the underlying sentiment that I didn't have the maturity or life-experience to appreciate. Maybe I never got sad, and now it's a bit too close? I always appreciated the slow, found it "pretty" or "nice", but I was always looking ahead on the score through the second movements of seemingly endless Adagios and Largos and Lentos gleefully anticipating the Scherzos that followed. Interestingly, this sentiment bleeds into my "other" musical taste as well -- I turn the dial when slow and melancholy and angst come on, and aim for something with a little movement. Not to say I'm not a romantic: I love Scheherezade, Swan Lake, American in Paris, the Lalo violin concerto, as well as pretty much any rendition of "You Can Leave Your Hat On" and Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer" and the Beatles' "Michelle."

You can damn well believe that Clapton's "Tears in Heaven" and anything off Pink Floyd's "The Wall" will not make my current list (although if "Comfortably Numb" comes on, I'm probably not moving the dial). Not only are they slow, they're downers. I'm depressed, but I'm not up to pouring flaming hot molten lava into the wounds either. When I stopped to consider what my top few iDevice tunes were over the past few months and really dissected them, lyrics and all, I was actually a bit surprised to discover how upbeat some of them were. Aren't I cynical? Brokenhearted? Shaking an angry fist at the sky? Should I be listening to Nirvana? Eminem? Somebody's "Requiem?" Yeah, but I guess I have to locate that inner cynic I can dance to. There's an occasional slow down, but not a slow one per se.

1. Jonatha Brooke, "Careful What you Wish For" And I mean really, doesn't that just say everything? There's just something sad and angry in this that really speaks to me.

Relevant Lyrics:

Careful what you wish for, careful what you do
Even when you whisper, someone's listening to you
Careful what you wish for, careful what you say
Careful what you wish for, 'cuz it just might come true someday

Now that I have everything
I'm a puppet on a string
Someone's got the end and I'm unraveling
And here's the thing
I would throw it all away
If I could only hear you say,
"Baby I'll stay, baby I'll stay"

First I wished for money and a house on a hill
I had so many friends around me, but which ones were real?
Careful what you wish for, careful what you dream
'Cuz no matter what you wish for, it's never gonna be what you need

2. Jem, "It's Just a Ride" A little pop-y, and techno-y, a wee bit zen-y, and perhaps a bit too shallow of a message for my current state of affairs (because if this is the ride, I shoulda gotten off a lonnnnngggg time ago and blown up the car), and yet I can't stop listening to it. Why?

Life, it's ever so strange
It's so full of change
Think that you've worked it out
then BANG
Right out of the blue
Something happens to you
To throw you off course
and then you

Breakdown
Yeah you breakdown
Well don't you breakdown
Listen to me
Because

It's just a ride, it's just a ride
no need to run, no need to hide
It'll take you round and round
Sometimes you're up
sometimes you're down
It's just a ride, it's just a ride
don't be scared
don't hide your eyes
It may feel so real inside
but don't forget it's just a ride

3. Patty Griffith, "No Bad News" Bordering on the country genre here, with a smackeral of folk maybe, and yet timely message with a catchy tune. Get yer banjo right, and you can't go wrong. That and the trumpets. (Although the slimmed down acoustic version is pretty great too.) The one thing I do like about country is it's a rare genre that you can really grouse about life being in the shitter, knee deep in the gutter on Christmas, lamenting lost love with a plastic cup of Jack Daniels, to some wacky upbeat guitars, banjo, and harmonica. And make it work.

Don't bring me bad news, no bad news
I don't need none of your bad news today
You can't have my fear, I've got nothing to lose, can't have my fear
I'm not getting out of here alive anyway
And I don't need none of these things, I don't need none of these things
I've been handed
And the bird of peace is flying over, she's flying over and
Coming in for a landing

4. Modest Mouse, "Float On" (Sorry, that's actually a link to the video -- it's off their not-new album and therefore impossible to locate anywhere anymore.) It's happy lyrics (more or less) with an angst-ridden beat. I like it.

And we'll all float on alright
Already we'll all float on
Alright don't worry even if things end up a bit to heavy
we'll all float on alright
Already we'll all float on
Alright already we'll all float on
Ok don't worry we'll all float on


5. Peter Gabriel, Downside/Up (live). This was on my run mix before the disaster. And I never really paid a whole lot of attention to it, other than it was Peter Gabriel and I like him. So imagine my surprise when I ran for the first time post disaster and actually heard the lyrics. I'm sure he's referring to being in love, or a love affair gone bad (if I had few more moments I could pinpoint this on the PG timeline and know for sure), but all the lyrics are so pointedly appropriate, I could put the whole song here. But I won't.

All the strangers look like family
All the family looks so strange
The only constant I am sure of
Is this accelerating rate of change

Downside up, upside down
Take my weight off the ground
Falling deep in the sky
Slipping in the unknown



6. Queen Tribute Band, "Somebody to Love" Yes, the original Freddie Mercury (may he RIP) power ballad was pretty kick-ass too, but there's something about this a capella group set-up and the more upbeat tempo that I find rather endearing.

Each morning I get up I die a little
Can barely stand on my feet
Take a look in the mirror and cry
Lord what you're doing to me
I have spent all my years in believing you
But I just can't get no relief, Lord!
Somebody, somebody
Can anybody find me somebody to love?


7. Ben Harper, "Better Way" This is probably more a political statement for me than personal, but I appreciate the lyrics and damn if it ain't a good song too. Would love to hear an extended live version where the end drum stuff goes on for another ten minutes. I don't know how you can't help moving to this.

Reality is sharp
It cuts at me like a knife
Everyone i know
Is in the fight of their life

I believe in a better way!

Take your face out of your hands
And clear your eyes
You have a right to your dreams
And don't be denied

I believe in a better way!



8. Beethoven," Emperor" Piano Concerto, No. 5. (Scroll down beyond the discussion and you can hear all three movements.) Listening to classical music after February was really hard. Probably because there are no lyrics or music videos (the movie "Aria" and some Bugs Bunny cartoons notwithstanding), so you could just insert your own wretched thoughts into the piece. None of it helped. It was all awful. The first thing I reached for when I was ready was this. It's probably less to do with the piece itself, and more to do with the fact that I know it inside/out like a comfortable shoe. Every phrase, instrument entrance, pause, breath. This to me is my musical mashed potatoes, carton of Ben & Jerry's, and sweatpants. The last movement is pretty good, too.

I should probably also add Feist's "1234" with the following caveats: 1) I liked this back at the beginning of the year, before the commercials and overhype, 2) it's currently Bella's favorite song. She's memorized it all, and sings it on pitch and everything. Nothing like hearing your 3-year-old crooning, "Woah, oh oh, change in your heart." Good thing. Five Little Pumpkins was really starting to bug.

Nine Months

Julia had me thinking about the nine month marker, which I'll probably hit by the time I get around to posting this missive.

(And may I stop here and say holy hell, how do some of you find time to do this post-every-fucking-day-in-November-blog thang? I don't have time to shower every day! Can you even believe that Smitten is posting once a day? Smitten! Unbelievable. The world is chockablock with people who don't deserve to blog, and I think I'm one of them.)

Nine months is obviously the time one carries a child, although I must say to a former math-nut, the week/month thing always threw me for a loop. So, nine months of my life were essentially wasted (my current point of view) carrying a child that would die, and now I'm nine months out from "it." I thought I'd take a moment to list some changes I've noticed in my immediate surroundings during the last nine months. I'm not going to try and dissect these too awfully much, nor will I assign them into positive and negative columns because my brain would implode and you would probably get very tired of the redundancy. I'll skip the obvious stuff, like, you know, the fact that I don't have a second child anymore. So here, in a nutshell, are some things that have occurred since that wretched week in February:

* I'm off my antidepressants. The memory loss was making me more anxious than the grief. Not entirely sure that my short-term memory has returned though, leading me to believe that it was the grief. Shit.

* I've lost weight. But I still could stand to lose about 10-15 pounds.

* Bella is potty trained. Well, 99.8% potty trained. Enough that the occasional accident is confounding.

* We have a new Dog, Buddy. This is one of those "major life decisions you shouldn't do during the first year after losing a child" (and hey, is that an urban legend? Has anyone run across this advice in a professional setting, or is this one of those things they bandy about soap operas and it works it's way into popular culture?), but we couldn't resist. Neighbors were fostering a dog that had been in a horrible car accident (threw hip out, shattered leg) whose owner surrendered him at the emergency vet once he saw the bill. We had been thinking of another dog for our 8-year-old Max (saved from the DC animal shelter in '99), and in a state of numbness and "oh, what the hell," we took Buddy into our home in May. The dogs get along famously, Buddy loves Bella, and more importantly, Buddy woke me up and made me start noticing my other animals again. Suddenly, I started paying attention to Max and my two geriatric cats to make sure everyone knew there was enough love to go around. Hey, I have pets! They're pretty great! Even my daughter began playing with Max again, much to Max's dismay as he stares at me from under a blanket wearing a party hat. I can say in this instance, this significant change turned out to be a positive. Unless you count the fact that Buddy eats Bella's socks and has destroyed numerous members of the stuffed animal menagerie.

* Big things roll off my back like water off the hippo; the little things annoy the piss out of me and make me ballistic. Drunk driver runs into our fence at 2 a.m. and does thousands of dollars worth of damage? Hey, whatever. Shit happens. Good thing the dogs weren't out. Less than a year-old fruit-adorned laptop refuses to respect strong wireless internet connection on any browser? (Might I say, internet connection so strong that I'm considering blogging full of typos from my iPhone, and I'm pretty sure Bella updated her MySpace page using her toy oven.) My eyes start bugging out and the profanity starts flowing. Soiled Bella underpants and discovering I'm sans quarters at a parking meter can reduce me to tears lamenting my horrible luck and apparent former life as a serial killer; the fact that Buddy will need major hip surgery in the upcoming months or that our ancient house needs a new furnace is met with a nonchalant shrug. Big Bad Things now have a definite threshold. Little stuff could use some work.

* I finally cut my hair and waxed my brows.

* Bella is a pro at death. For a three-year old, she has it pretty much down, save for a few charming embellishments. I told her recently that my aunt had to put a horse down, and she met the news with a tragic face, a pitiful "ohhhh!", followed by, "we'll never see him again." No, we won't sweetie, we won't. (Profundity was followed by some stupid-ass remarks about bringing him back to life with a magic drum, which I think she picked up from a Diego episode? Curses, you, Dora. But really, I think she gets it.)

* I'm socializing again. Back in February I really thought I'd never speak to another human ever again, but here I am, attending my first book club meeting, looking forward to a neighborhood brunch on Sunday, already thinking about the annual neighborhood Christmas Party which, by tradition, takes place in our house (it was a contingent of the sale, little did we know). Well, socializing with everyone but those with babies. I haven't spoken to neighbor with baby since a week after Maddy's death (I believe my last words to her were "she died,") nor cousins who had baby this summer (last words to them were "Where's Bella?" as I walked into the house after returning from the hospital moments after Maddy died in our arms). For some reason the holidays are imposing this false deadline on me that maybe I should reestablish contact with them soon. Eh.

* I'm blogging. I feel a bit about blogging like I do about writing poetry (or like Billy Joel apparently does about writing music): It's only good if life is absolute shit. Live babies, requited love, perfect flan, and terrific outfits do not good, honest, and intriguing blogging (or songmaking) make. (We'll just call it the "Uptown Girl Phenomenon.") I never really delved into the deadbaby blogs when I was on the other side, unless someone I happened to be reading (Cecily) wound up there more or less in front of my eyes. For a time after Maddy died, I couldn't bear to read them -- they just hurt too much. And then I wanted to know how on earth they got through it, so I went back through Cecily's and Tertia's archives. And just kept reading. And here I am. Still not sure how I'll get through it. But go we must, eh?

* There's a box on my shelf in my family room that holds what I'm guessing is a few teaspoons full of ash. I often look at it, or pause to say something to it. When we went on vacation this summer, I transported the box to my aunt's so it wouldn't be alone. I have no idea what I'm going to do with it. A year ago, I thought people who kept urns/remains in their homes were just the creepiest people. And here I am, CreepyMama. I'm not sure whether I want all that remains of my younger daughter with me, or scattered to the wind somewhere lovely where she can float amongst trees or waves or kids playing soccer. It's been a helluva nine months. At times it feels like 9 minutes, and others it feels like 9 years.

Better Off

Maddy was alive from 4:45 p.m. Monday, 2/12/07, to 8:30ish p.m., 2/18/07. Six days. It's mostly a blurry roller coaster descent into hell, except for Tuesday night, which was the low point, Dante's lowest ring. Hard to believe there was a low point in this week, but in retrospect, I believe that was it. I cried all week, but Tuesday night is when the howling let loose.

Late afternoon/early evening, on Tuesday when Maddy was roughly 24 hrs. old, a neurologist sat down with us and told us that not only was our daughter blinded with glaucoma, but there were serious problems regarding her brain development. (Definite nomination for understatement of the year). How bad? Should she live (still a big question mark as of Tuesday), she would have severe brain damage.

When it comes to prenatal testing, I'm in the camp that likes to know. After a miscarriage and a lovely daughter, I can honestly say I have no idea what I would do if faced with a bad genetic report at 18 weeks of pregnancy, but I surely know that I would want to know. I would want to prepare myself and my family for whatever my ultimate choice was. I like walking into things eyes wide open, and I'm not one to give over to fate or chance or put up with what the universe deals me. So after a clean amnio and what I thought was a healthy pregnancy, the news that my daughter was severely brain damaged pulled the rug and reigning life paradigm out from under me.

And I panicked. Not so much a metaphor to say that my entire universe came crashing down around me -- on fire. My mind couldn't shut off the blender of disturbance: would my marriage survive? Would we have to modify our new house? Would we have to sell our new house to afford care? Would we go bankrupt? How would this impact our toddler? Would having a probably-hospitalized daughter suck an inordinate amount of parenting time and necessary financial resources away from Bella? Would we ever be able to travel again? Could I be a mom of two where one lived somewhere else? How would our extended family react? Would it be Bella the lovely one and, oh, her, yeah, sorry almost forgot? From personal to monetary and back again, I grew more nauseated by the idea by the minute. I began to contemplate the impractical and poetic: what if I just whisked Maddy away, under a cloak (well, cloak of our volvo) to somewhere cold and snowy, say, far northern Canada, and we lived out our lives in a fur-lined hut on the edge of a community who took pity on us and occasionally dropped off a basket of unknown meat? At least this way Mr. ABF and Bella could have some normalcy. And I cried. Doubled over and sobbed.

It was not a pretty moment for me personally to think this was how I reacted to the health forecast for my own child. For the first few weeks after Maddy's death I felt great shame about Tuesday evening, but came to the conclusion that it was purely an evolutionary, self-defense mechanism on my part. When life hands you an oncoming vehicle, one's reaction is to curl in the fetal position and protect the family. And that's what I did.

A few hours after howling at the moon, and pumping, and falling asleep for 45 minutes, I limped back to the NICU and held Maddy. I honestly can't remember what I was thinking while holding her (everything? nothing?), but by going back and taking her up, I can honestly say that I reasserted myself as her mother. No matter what the future held. I was not happy (there are actually a few photos of us that night, the saddest I have probably ever been in my lifetime), I was not resolved by any stretch of the imagination to deal with any of this (surely still thinking of the easiest way to get up the east coast through Canada -- do I stick to 95? 83?), but deep down I knew I had to get used to a new paradigm, and Maddy was it. And all I understood, all I knew how to do at that moment, was hold her. I assume this was probably an evolutionary instinct as well, that when life presents you offspring, you desperately cling to them and attempt to ward off the lions. And so I did until well after 3 a.m. Tuesday night/Wednesday morning when I finally couldn't keep myself upright any longer and fell asleep for a rough few hours.

I woke up somewhere around 6 a.m. Wednesday morning, Valentine's Day, and turned on the pump to the early early morning news, watching the near-blizzard conditions outside my hospital window. A NICU doctor walked in as was typical when I was naked from the waist up and plugged into the wall, sat down in the chair next to my bed, and told me that around 5 a.m. -- not long after I had left her -- Maddy had a seizure that stopped her heart. They did CPR, pumped her full of drugs, and had her breathing again on a respirator. And right then and there, in that room, in those few seconds, before I had a chance to find some measure of peace in the "my daughter is severely brain-damaged" plateau, the paradigm shifted again: I asked at what point we had to think about how much interference was too much, and he looked me straight in the eye and said "I think we're there now." From that second forward, I wanted whatever was best for Maddy -- not me, not her sister, but her. And if it meant pulling her off her equipment so she could finally rest and stop fighting, than so be it.

As badly as Mr. ABF beats himself up for his panic attack on Tuesday evening (he apparently hyperventilated trying to get Bella to fall asleep, and stayed up until the wee hours online, tracking down the best rated institutions for blind, deaf, and otherwise handicapped children), he arrived at the hospital moments after the NICU doctor left my room, with a totebag of books. On Tuesday, after delivering us a world of devastation, the neurologist told us there was little anyone could do, but: if anything in Maddy's brain was functioning, reading to her would be the best exercise and medicine to try and work any connections that may remain in her poor little head. Her father, after defending himself and his family, showed up ready to be Maddy's father to the best of his ability. And was told that he probably would not have this chance: we were now in a place where we had to think about Maddy's comfort, her pain level, her dignity, and her death. Mr. ABF sobbed, picked up his tote bag, and went and started reading to Maddy.

More than one person told us in the weeks following that "This was for the best." And frankly, I had to agree: for us and for Maddy. It was too much to see her suffer, and I don't want to contemplate what was going on in herself with what little nerve connection she had. But as a grieving parent, I deserve the right to change my mind on this, and I have -- multiple times, sometimes within the same day, or same blogpost. It was not for the best that she died, just as it was not for the best that she was born with a medically impossible set of issues. Babies aren't better off dead, they're better off with their parents. I'm certainly not better off with a dead daughter. I'm a bitter little pill who still can't taste or find joy. There are times I honestly wish I had one more week with her -- one more week to just rub her fuzzy head and read, even if she just lay there, and caused us all sorts of babysitting hell running to and from the hospital. One more book. One more story. One more hold. I can't possibly be better off with my daughter in a box on a shelf.

Or am I? When I dream about Maddy being here, she's healthy. She's a wide, blue-eyed child, who can see me and her dogs and the sky. She can walk, run, see, talk, love, breathe, eat, and be. And I know this is pure fantasy: were she to have lived longer than her 6 days she would've been confined to a bed, a tube, a pump, and drugs drugs drugs for however much longer she had on this earth. Were she still here I would not have had the time to sew Bella's Halloween costume, let alone potty train her, take her to the beach this summer, throw her a birthday party, or just be there for her as her mom should. I would not have time to attend therapy (which I certainly would've needed were Maddy to have lived), write a blog, exercise, or sit by the fire with my husband after an insufferably long no-nap, temper-tantrum filled day. In all likelihood we would not be waking up in our beautiful old house, in our wonderfully supportive neighborhood, wistfully looking at the Blue Atlas Cedar in the yard while contemplating how to renovate the kitchen. The fact is, I don't know if I'm better off or not. There are times that I wonder if Maddy's "gift" as it were was dying when she did. Perhaps Maddy gave us the clear, unmistakable signal that it was time, so we could begin to rebuild as soon as possible, no matter how unspeakably hard that rebuilding might be.

I know parents who had children who were very sick, uncommunicative and essentially brain dead for quite some time before their deaths. Parents who lived at Children's Hospital for years. To a one, they all said they'd do it all over again if given the chance. I'm not sure whether I'm cursed to have only had six days, or lucky.

Who is It?

Well! Turns out blogging CAN be beneficial! And lower cholesterol! I'm sure there's a weight-loss gimmick hidden here somewhere, or maybe money to be earned at home! But wait, there's more! Turns out just by writing that freakin' last little piece on my reproductive plate of spaghetti, and reading through your most edifying comments, I discovered (lo) that when I cut through the underbrush I have essentially 3 options when it comes to expanding my family:

1) Cut my losses, pack it up, move on. (Strangely appealing, this one.)

2) Adopt. (Entire scores of blogs on the travails of this, will leave for another time.)

3) Try again of my own uterine accord.

Item (3) contains the following three (well, two) sub-options:

A) Use our own stuff: go on met'n whilst shootin' up the prog'one, and GO FOR IT! Um, not. Niobe, I too am not a gambler when it comes to dead babies. Miscarriages are one thing, but dead kids after 41 weeks? Not so much, thanks. With you here. It would get ridiculously fascinating though, were they to unearth Maddy's issue and come back and say "AHA! It's gene [biological-gobbledigok]!" Because what would we do then? Cruise forward a few times hoping we could get by CVS at week 11? (Do I even have a "few more times" within me?) Move right to IVF/PGD even though it's expensive and not entirely skewed toward a sunny outcome and the picture becomes even less sunny (apparently, according to recent studies) if PGD is thrown in the mix? Would that we could sift through these. But I'm 'fraid not. (A) is out. That leaves us with

B) Use donor egg

C) Use donor sperm

So! Like many of you insightful readers (really, I'm feeling like such a Grief-Poser here that I didn't think of this myself) my therapist also suggests that I "try on" a few options for size in my mind's eye, and project myself into the future by a decade and fantasize about what it would be like to be tall, thin, busty, driving a hybrid BMW 6-series convertible, er, AND TO BE A mother of one, mother of two but one totally unrelated, mother of two but one somehow related. You get the point. So far this is excruciating difficult. When I was on a certain antidepressant that starts with a Z I ran a little experiment (shhhhhh) and tried to contemplate suicide to see what my mind and the drugs would do. No worries please, this was never an option for me -- not even why I went on antidepressants in the first place -- and I actually had to think through some methods via favorite TV programs because I'm just that removed from this particular time zone. Anyway, I was fascinated to see that the drugs (I guess) sllllooowwwwed down my thoughts to the point that by the time I should have been visualizing turning on the car in my enclosed garage I was so bored with the process that I had already leaped umpteen degrees away wondering what to have for dinner, or what color scheme I should use in my flower beds. I bring this up because, strangely, I'm having the exact same problem here trying to visualize me as a mom circa 2017, and no, no drugs involved any more. I try for the life of me to project myself in the future with more children (or not) and my brain just comes to a screeching halt, and suddenly I'm wondering whether I should get brown boots or black this winter, and just how to go about trading in my used station wagon.

I'm wondering if this means, like Megan and Kate described, that I don't have hunger. Or thirst. Or pretty much any food-like or further-mothering interest whatsoever. Back after my miscarriage in '02 when I was a total reproductive novice, I had the hunger. I researched and googled and message board-ed to the end of the earth and finally crashed through the door of the RE's office and said "hey, as fast as you can dude. Bring it on." And when I was ready for child #2, I had that thirst again -- not like we can get pregnant by accident here -- so I drove back to the RE and re-upped, and re-tested, and re-biopsied, and re-whatevered and got pregnant with Maddy. But now? Nothing. I haven't even called my RE to tell him how this all turned out. (He's in another state now, so I don't feel quite so guilty or shitty about this as I probably should. Not like he's getting the call again.) I haven't googled anything about egg or sperm donation. Or adoption, for that matter. I'm really very stuck.

So, the question becomes, am I stuck because I'm grieving (coming up on nine months here) or am I stuck because this is it, my gut is sending me a message to close down the shop and turn off the lights? I try desperately hard not to second guess my grief. It is what it is, and I think I do a reasonably good job of letting myself pass through it. But it's very hard now to try and figure out what is what in my poor fried head: is it the grief talking, or me?

Postscript: I'm sporting a rather big lot of bandaids on my thumb for some wacky nail issue, and hence I've made an embarrassment of myself on a number of your comment sections. I apologize. If my imac actually could run through the "Preview" comment option without spewing smoke and starting to gurgle, I'd do it. Many apologies.