Promises

I think what Mr. T was trying to say was that I was entitled to whine. I bet (although Mr. T wouldn't, and that's another story). He's fine at communicating, but I'm perhaps not always good at listening. And he's probably not wrong. But I think I'm too good at whining as it is.

I whined a lot this weekend. About how my back hurt, a headache, how I was doing something for others and no one was doing anything for me. I whined about what we didn't get done, I whined about a meeting, I just whined. Nothing was good.

I whined about everything but what I don't want to whine about.

What's the point? Really. Whining is not going to change anything. It won't make any difference. What is, is. And perhaps more than that, it hurts to poke that area. It hurts that I keep losing what I want so much. It hurts that other women get pregnant and stay pregnant. It hurts that babies are born addicted to drugs. It's hard to find God in this place. He just doesn't seem to be here.

He settles the barren woman in her home as a happy mother of children.

I'll save you the trouble, I've looked it up in about 15 different translations. They all more or less say the same thing. Psalm 113, verse 9 says that God is going to make me the happy mother of children. (I'm the mother of a child, but I'm not exactly happy about how that turned out.)

Now, I know I've read that psalm before. I've read it a lot, I suspect. I've read the psalms a lot in the last 2 or so years. Somehow, I've never seen that verse. I read it, caught my breath, read it again, and marked it. For the next few weeks, I kept finding myself returning to it. For someone as terrible at remembering the chapter and verse of well, anything, I remember it.

And for a little bit, I thought I understood the meaning. And then, all at once, I was back to walking by faith, and not by sight. This is hard. For every woman who waited for her baby, I can find another who waited, and never did get her child. I can hold up women who waited and lost, or waited and never did get a child. For every Sarah, for every Rachel, there is another woman, who 'chose' to live without children. I am not so foolish as to blindly believe that eventually a baby will turn up in the midst of the tomato patch (Mrs. Spit really hates cabbage). I know that some stories don't ever have a happy ending.

I'll read the verse again tonight, tomorrow night, other nights. And I'll hold it up. I want to believe it. I really do. I want to believe that somehow, in all this mess, this blood, this fear and hurt and anger, somehow another baby will find its way not just to my uterus, but home in our arms as well.

And I half-way do. Half of the time I totally believe it, and half of the time I do not believe it at all. And maybe that's ok. There's a verse for that too.
************

And thank you for reaching out. Thanks for telling me that you were with me. In the end, the bleeding has mostly stopped, I am feeling better, if a bit sad and a bit angry and a bit confused. I will manage for a while, and then I will thrive.

It is not

It is not the sheer physicality of another miscarriage that's distressing me. It's not all this damn blood and the wincing pain and the hormone induced emotional crash. I cry, but tears of frustration and rage as much as sorrow. Probably, if I am honest, more frustration and rage. All of this is but a nuisance. It's not pleasant and I could do without it, but that's not the thing of it, at least for me.

Perhaps another way.

There were many deaths in Gabriel's death. There was the death of the child we called Gabriel. There was a little boy with ten fingers and ten toes, a head full of hair, and the crooked Pearce ring finger on his left hand, he was here, on this earth, with us, and then he was gone. And that was sudden and shocking and horrible.

And there was the death of children, which came all at once and slowly. It came all at once with the diagnosis of pre-eclampsia and all of those wretched stats, and it has come slowly, as we have had failed cycle after failed cycle. As we have been pregnant enough to know, but never pregnant for long enough to tell anyone. Death as the inevitable comes screeching into present day. Another dead baby. Five if you were counting.

On Sunday I was vomiting in the Safeway parking lot, pleased as punch, because this is normal for me. I was, excited, happy, hopeful. And now, I am angry and embarrassed. Furious with myself, that I allowed my hopes to be raised, frustrated that I came up with a stupid little plan to tell people I was pregnant, and now I am only slightly crazy, wondering if my body deceived me. I was so sure, had such a sense that this was going to go well, and now, it was all for naught. I have caught myself, since waking up in the puddle of blood, telling myself that I am not pregnant anymore. I was, and I am not. In the same way that Auden told us to stop all the clocks, I cancel appointment plans, waving that nothing came to anything anymore.

It is not, for a moment that the rug was pulled out from me. This is more fundamental than that. It is questions of what I can trust, what I can believe. What is real and true. Was there ever a rug?

It seems to me it is perhaps this: Gabriel's death was a knife buried in our back. It was a sudden, horrific accident. Pain like that is fast and rare. Another miscarriage is another slice in my arm, a fourth gash in a year and a half. It drips blood to be sure, but slowly. It's easily bandaged up. It is a wholly different thing than a traumatic accident. I bleed, I get over it. It is not a large thing, and I tell people that I am fine, except.

Eventually, you lose the same amount of blood, either way.

Courage

The Christmas after Gabe died, my best friend bought me the Willow Tree Angel of Courage.I suspect that she intended to buy me one of the pregnant ones, and I think she settled on Courage, mostly because there is no angel of dead baby (But Susan Lordi, if you are listening).

Courage was more apropos than I expected.

If I had to tell you what you need to cope with the death of a child, courage would top the list. Actually, I think it's the only thing on the list. All the other things, love, hope, laughter, a sense of humour, they are predicated on courage. It takes courage to have hope, it takes courage to laugh in the face of tragedy, it takes courage to get out of bed in the morning. It takes courage to live when part of you is dead.

One of my co-workers is pregnant. I knew her due date before she did. When she was trying to figure out when she would be due, I knew when she got pregnant. She's a bit earlier, by perhaps 2 weeks, which is really nothing in the world of pregnancy. But I could tell her when she was due, when her trimesters ended, about when she would feel movement. I could promise with some authority that she would feel better in September. And it is hard to believe that it is 2 years and not me.

My manager asked me, after her announcement, if I was ok. "That must have been hard for you."

And I suppose she's right. And not. Almost 8 years ago, they told us that if we could have a baby, if, the process would be long and costly, and difficult. And Mr. Spit and I were ok with not having kids. No, ok isn't right. We mostly accepted it. Decisions like that aren't accepted clearly or easily. Sometimes we would stand and face not having kids, and sometimes we would talk about when we have children.

And then there was a new protocol, and we decided to try. And Gabe was conceived. And it was all so easy. And then it wasn't any more.

And we are kind of in that place now, not sure what to do. Not sure if we want back on the horse, and how much time we want to spend. We debate. A year of trying. Not pregnant. But, 3 miscarriages, so something's working well. High risk pregnancy. We go back and forth.

And all of this went through my mind, as I balance career choices and wants and where I am and where I so desperately want to be, and where I thought I would be. And I think about hard.

And then I can see her, with her arms outstretched.

Courage.

Found Time

I am sitting here at my computer, and I should really be outside. I will write until my coffee maker beeps at me, telling me my decaf is done, and then I will sit in my chair and watch the changing of the light. I will find time. I will live in found time.

It is easy to call it lost time, this summer that should have been something else. In October of last year, we remembered how easy it was on Chlomid to conceive Gabriel, the first cycle. And we did not imagine that it would be hard. So hard, this time. And that cycle was a bust, and we waited on the next, which was also a bust, and more busts and more back to back to back drugs and pokes and prods, and living in increments and finally the last 2, breaking my heart and ending in such early miscarriages I was left with a used pregnancy test that literally showed half a plus sign. Out of breath, out of heart, out of will, out of time.

And last fall, in late September, as I put my garden to bed, savored my sweet peas that are so wonderful in their new garden bed, I grieved a bit, thinking that I would not be able to garden this summer. Thinking that in my 5th year, when things were getting easy, I would not have my garden. And the grief was not just for my garden, but so for me as well. That unlike other DBM's, I will get sick again, this could happen again, and bed rest is a forgone conclusion. I was, to be quite honest, pouting about my hard life, just a bit. I pouted a bit, wondering if I would be on bed rest, holding on to a baby at the hospital, or grieving another child not with us.

I decided to play. I decided:

I was going to make the best of this summer. I was, as much as possible not going to mourn what I wasn't doing, being: I was going to celebrate what I can do. I was going to sit in my backyard, drink pomtini's and weed. I was going to stain my deck and rip out my front veranda, and repave my front walk. I was going to stand on my front porch and watch the fireworks from the Ex, every night, and I was going to sit in my back yard and listen to the merlin chatter at me. I was going to dead head, and wander around with a cup of coffee, and see what grew during the day. I was going to tell the Madonna lily to pick up it's socks, and be impressed by the lilies.

That was what I was going to do.

And the setting sun outside my kitchen window, as I write this, tells me that summer is drawing to a close. Not completely, we have at least another month, more likely 6 weeks, but the bloom is quite literally off the rose.

I still don't know what we will do. I have another 8 months until I can see the next specialist. But . . .

My coffee maker has beeped, and I am going to get my book, and I am going outside, and the book will sit on my lap, the knitting on the side table, and I shall simply stare, not idle, merely finding time.

I'd like to scream

Really, I'd like to scream.

I packed up at least some of my maternity clothes today, to give to a co-worker. And I'm glad that's she's expecting. That's not what makes me want to scream.

But, I've told a few people today, that I was going to give her some of my clothes. And no one has said a word.

I went into those boxes, and I picked up and folded again. I picked up the shirt I wore to the hospital, when Gabe was born. I packed up my favourite maternity shirt, red and tan polka-dots. I packed up the first maternity shirt I bought. I packed up a few things I never even got to wear. I packed up my hopes and dreams. I packed up the best time of my life, and tomorrow I'm carrying them into work.

And no one has even noticed that this might be a bit hard.

ED: I have to confess, it's not the lack of reaction on the part of my co-workers that bothers me. It was a few friends and my mother, that I told last night, and they just carried on with their conversations. I don't think that most of my co-workers would understand. My friends? My mother?

Reason and Boxes

The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.
- Blaise Pascal

My pregnant life is in 3 boxes - Rubbermaid totes - in my basement. And there are a lot of reasons that I don't go into the basement - it's dank and damp and smelly and the concrete is falling apart and one of the dogs has developed an unfortunate habit of using the basement as a rainy day bathroom, and well, really, I've never liked our basement. Frankly, I've never been a fan of basements at all.

But, as I was flipping my winter wardrobe to my summer one, there were a few maternity things in the bottom drawer. I bought them last October, in the sure and confident knowledge that if Chlomid had worked on the first round last time, there was no reason it wouldn't work that quickly again. Right? Right.

I folded a few t-shirts, some capri's, a dress and another pair of jeans up, and I stuffed them into the Rubbermaid tote in the basement. And I stepped back, and realized that I could get rid of these boxes. Somewhere there was a teen aged mum who needed clothes to accommodate her growing body. Someone somewhere needs these things. I have no need of them.

My head says to find the address for the school for unwed mothers, haul the boxes out to the car, and get rid of them. Not because I am shoving pain out of the house, but because there is someone, somewhere who needs what I have, and I can help them, and it is, simply, selfish to hold on to things I will not use. My head says these things, in a reasoned and calm manner.

And my heart? My heart says - not yet.

You Can't Divide by Zero

I was at the ripe old age of 20 before I figured out that you couldn't divide by zero. I was, in fact, taking my second Math 114 (Calculus) class. A friend was tutoring me, we were sitting in the pub, and I was completing questions. I got to the end of a particularly tricky one, turned my notebook around and announced the answer was something like 2.68. She looked at me strangely, and looked at my work, and then looked up.

"You can't divide by zero".

This was, I will admit, news to me. Astonishing, I know. Honestly, I had made it through 12 years of grade school and I did not know this. I don't think it will ever really make sense to me, that you can't divide by zero, but there you have it: incontrovertible mathematical fact.

We have just finished our fourth medicated cycle, and still no luck. We have done chlomid and blood tests and an HSG. We've analyzed sperm and blood work, changed hypertensives. We've added metformin, increased the metformin, peed on sticks, and the very bottom line is, I'm still not pregnant. There's no good reason for this, I'm ovulating, the sperm is good, my uterus is reasonably hospitable (the pre-e thing aside). I'm not pregnant. Truthfully, we didn't think that getting pregnant would be a problem. We expected to be heading into the danger zone in a pregnancy at this time, not still struggling.

The gynecologist, will of course send me to an RE, after a suitable wait (this is Canada after all). And then, maybe, I guess, we could move on to IUI's. And it's not wrong to move on to IUI's, but in my heart of hearts, I think I might be done. I am tired, beyond tired. I am weary. I'm not ready to move on to something else, but I can't stay here any longer.

I have, for years, argued with Mr. Spit about why dividing by zero should give you a real number. And my odd logic doesn't matter. You can't divide by zero. Incontrovertible mathematical fact, and I've argued about it. Only me.

So, I come back. The ride of infertility is a long one, with many exit points. The problem is, none of them seem to be clearly marked. Perhaps we ride around and around, and for some of us, I think maybe we fall off in exhaustion at some point. Certainly, I'm falling off in exhaustion. I am done with the tears and the chaos and the hurt. The payoff just isn't worth it.

I think I might have had more fortitude, were it not for pre-eclampsia. But, it does seem to me, when the pregnancy will be so hard, well, some of it needs to be easy. And none of it is. And I am tired. I am tired of giving my all to get pregnant, knowing that I'll be giving my all to stay pregnant. Knowing how hard this is right now, and it isn't all that hard, at least not compared to what it's going to be.

And at some point in the last few weeks, without knowing all the answers, without understanding, at some point, I could hear God asking "Do you trust me? Do you trust me even if you never had another child? Do you trust me if the only child I ever give you sits in an urn on your shelf? Do you trust me even then?", and a more gentle "Are you ready to be done now? To lay down this dream of a child of your own?"

I didn't want to believe what God was asking me. I didn't want to believe that he was really asking me. I wanted to believe it was really more of a hypothetical question. I wanted to believe that this wasn't me. After all, I look around, and there are lots of people with children. God doesn't seem to be asking them if they would still love him with no children. The question for them is, at best, hypothetical.

But out on my porch, that afternoon, the question wasn't hypothetical. The question was real, and it demanded an answer. I took a deep breath and I said yes. I said that I didn't know how I would do it, I don't have that much strength, but with God's help, yes, I would trust, even with no children. It was then that I realized I didn't have to stay on this ride anymore. It was then I realized that I could be done now.

I don't know where to go from here. After all, for 2 years now, I have been pregnant, grieving my son, or trying to get pregnant. I don't know what to do with all the spare time. I don't know how to give up the life of tears, chlomid, going from hopeful to hopeless every 33 days. I don't know what to do now that I can find a new job, start volunteering again, move into my craft room permanently. I've thought, spoken, dreamed of being pregnant, and I just can't do it any longer. I'm done. We're done.

I believe that you can divide by zero, even if I know my belief to be false.

I do know this. When we know something for long enough, belief comes. I know this: belief can be fickle, I can believe what I want, it is what I know to be true that matters.

You can't divide by zero. You just can't. And I am done. Gabriel may well be our only child.

****
I know that many of you will think we are giving up to soon, that we should not give up so easily, that we should adopt. If adoption was the answer for you, I am thankful. Right now Mr. Spit and I need to grieve that we may never again hold a child of our making, that we will never see our child in our home. We need some time to sit with this sorrow before we can look ahead.

Going off the weed

I have had a long standing relationship with DuMaurier. Longer than my marriage, longer than all my present friendships, longer than my relationship with hair colour. DuMaurier, you might say, is one of my oldest companions.

I have been smoking for over half my life. I know, it boggles the mind. Especially because I don't look like the type of person that smokes. I know I must not look like this person, because frequently people tell me so. In an incredulous tone of voice, with a look of wonder about them, they say "You smoke? I would have never guessed it about you".

And I'm never quite sure what to tell them. You see, I can't tell them why I started. I could, I suppose, point to a cousin who smoked. I could perhaps tell them I thought it was cool. I could have pointed to a teacher who assured me I would start. (In grade 6. His confidence was touching). I could point to my mother, who was a smoker for many years.

I could point to all of these things. I could tell you I started because of them. I could place blame, but really, why? The fact remains, I don't know why I started to smoke.

But, oh, I know why I kept it up. It was my one, tiny rebellion, in a life of conformity. It was my out. A thing I did for me. It was a throw back to, what I jokingly call 'signs of a misspent youth', along with my intimate knowledge of the smells of several illicit street drugs, and still early morning air, as you wonder if you will get arrested.

It is my connection with someone I used to be. And I am not that person anymore. I have no desire to be that person. Indeed, I am the person phoning the police at 3 am, knowing full well what those children are doing outside my home. And knowing, that indeed, they are but children, in the bodies of adults, thinking they are adults, with the minds of scared, confused adolescents. It is perhaps a vice that suggests that yes, I survived this too.

And I loved smoking. I loved the act of pulling a cigarette out of a new pack - my constant companion for the next two or so days. I loved lighting cigarettes, waving them around, exhaling, the feel of cigarette smoke entering my lungs. It was a pleasant burn. (The cough and the tightness in my chest each morning seemed but a small price to pay)

And I quit last March. With very little fanfare, and to be honest, very little pain. A few weeks of withdrawal. I quit to move on to another phase in my life - that of parent. I did not want to be that mother who smoked. And I appreciated the freedom, and in an age of $10 a package cigarettes, I appreciated the extra money. In an age where smokers are the very devil themselves, I appreciated the lack of hassle. On minus 40 days, I didn't mind not being out there. On days when it rained, on blazing hot days, I didn't mind. The interesting thing was, I didn't miss it. I had a plan, I was on a roll. I actually quit about 3 months before I had to. Unfortunately, I'm about 3 weeks past when I needed to quit, this time.

I contemplated picking it up again the day I came home from the hospital without Gabriel. But I persevered. I could still see myself as a parent, someday. Perhaps I actually saw myself of a parent, albeit one of an urn.

I managed until the day I met with the Chief of Perinatology, to discuss Gabriel's pathology report. And I cannot say that she was so cruel, she drove me to it. She was, in fact, compassion itself. I suppose I could point to the onslaught of Mother's Day, Father's Day, the 6 month anniversary, the friend who had the brand new baby. But really, that wasn't it.

I came out of the Royal Alex, and I lost my perception of being a parent, ever again. I can no longer believe that a baby will emerge from me, other than still, already gone. I cannot believe, in the face of the risk of recurrence, I cannot believe that smoking will matter. What difference can it possibly make if I smoke or not, when my body seems destined to kill my babies? When my pregnancy will be spent waiting for the pre-eclampsia cascade to start again.

I am off the weed again. I already miss it.

I didn't think that I would be cool enough

To have 2 blogs.

But, Mr. Spit and I wanted a blog that we could use to stay in touch with people as we went through a second pregnancy. (no, I'm not pregnant yet!)

We wanted a place where we could post what hospital room I was in, and when would be a good time to visit and what was happening and that sort of thing.

And I wanted to leave this blog to give me space to write about grief and knitting and gardening and grammar.

So, because we've started the process, Mr. Spit and I have started a new blog. If you are a loyal reader - it's invite only, so if you would like to be included, send me an e-mail, and I'll add you.

That's Nice

Did I ever tell you the official Lucy Baker School Joke?

Well. Sit right down and let me tell you. You'll have to imagine my really bad imitation of a southern drawl.

There were two southern ladies rocking away on the front veranda of a big old Southern House. Let's call them Savannah and Shelby.

The Savannah looked at Shelby and said, "When I had my first baby, my husband bought me a big old diamond ring."

Shelby said, "That's nice."

Savannah said "And when I had my second baby, why my husband, he bought me a whole new wardrobe!".

And Shelby said, "That's nice."

Savannah carried on, "When I had my third baby, he bought me a trip around the world."

And Shelby said, "That's nice."

Savannah finally looked at Shelby and said, "And what did Macon do for you?"

Shelby looked up, "He sent me to charm school".

"Charm School! Whatever did he do a thing like that for?" Savannah asked.

Shelby smiled. "So I could learn to say 'That's nice' instead of f-you!"

******

Lately, when I talk about getting pregnant again, people ask if I'm going to use Chlomid again. Especially if they know about the miscarriage. Why not, they ask, try to get pregnant on your own this time?

Umm, I don't ovulate. I have, quite seriously, gone years without ovulating. My body is not good at it. It manages to get up the effort about once every three years. If you want reliability, buy a Maytag. My body, it requires assistance. It's the Alfa Romeo of bodies. Nice to look at, but it spends a lot of time in the shop. Reliable ovulation? Try the next woman.

I'm perplexed. What on earth is wrong with Chlomid? Why is the hell of trying to get pregnant naturally better? Do babies conceived with the aid of Chlomid have Serophene stamped on their forehead? Are they somehow handicapped for the rest of their life? "I'm sorry teacher, I can't speak a second language, my mum used Chlomid to get pregnant with me?" Do I get more points if I blindly try for three years, poking my ovaries and reading to them from Crossen's Synopsis of Gynaecology, trying to explain what they should be doing?

I don't have a problem with using Chlomid. Sure, I'd like to get pregnant without drugs or doctors or blood work. That would be exciting. But, umm, that's not my life. In my life, I use drugs to get pregnant. I want a baby. I'm extraordinarily fortunate, drugs get me pregnant. Let's do some simple math: Want to get pregnant = use Chlomid!

Would someone tell me: why the hell would I spend my life charting and praying and crossing my damn eyebrows to get pregnant "naturally"(1)? I don't have a problem using drugs. Hell, I'm a huge proponent of better living through chemistry. Chlomid worked for me! A next pregnancy is going to be a living hell for me, what with the whole pre-e/dead baby/trash kidneys, possibly have stroke thing. Tell me again, why I need to struggle to get pregnant in the first place?

My answer to the question, "Are you going to try on your own?"

Umm, "That's nice."

*****
(1)Mr. Spit would like you to know, it was, ahem, a natural conception. Yep, his part was all natural.

Fear

I understand now. What I was asking about, when I asked about what to say to those who only focus on a 70% chance of a baby living.

I understand. Behind the numbers, the scenario's, the low dose aspirin, the serial ultrasounds, the plans, I am really holding out my hands and saying:

I am frightened.

I am frightened. Will you hold my hand?

Will you hold my hand and tell me that you will stay with me? Walk with me?

We have learned that there are going to be those who will not hold our hand. Who would not come close to such sadness and sorrow and fear. Those who would insulate themselves from us, hide behind their children, their faith, sunshine and roses. They would not walk through the valley of the shadow of death with us. They would be on the cliffs above, saying "that must really suck." And perhaps, they would not realize that the sub-context of our conversations about statistics is about fear.

And I believe that God will be with me. He will understand my fear, he sobs with me. His rod and his staff, they do guide me and comfort me. I know His Son understands the feeling of being forsaken. But I need others, too.

What I am asking, when I tell people about the risks is this:

Will you hold my hand. Will you acknowledge our fear? Will you understand that I am frightened? I am frightened of days of worry, of constant concern that pre-eclampsia is starting again. Will you understand that there is nothing that can be done? There is no fix, no magic bullet, no cure. There is only waiting. And fear. And the comfort provided by those who sit with us. Who pray with us. Who bear this burden, with us.

Will you understand that I am frightened that I will die? Will you understand that I am frightened that I will have to leave Mr. Spit behind? Will you understand that my greatest joy has been to be his wife, and that I do not want to leave him? Will you understand that I am concerned that my life will be reduced to a few lines in the newspaper? Will you understand that I am concerned about all I have left to do, to be?

Will you understand that I am afraid that my world will fall to pieces? That in another instant, my life will be shattered, again? And Mr. Spit and I will be left to cradle another lifeless infant? We will be left to plan another funeral, plant another tree. Pack up nursery furniture. Acknowledge, with the death of another child, that our plans are over. Will you understand my sorrow at never again feeling my abdomen swell, never feeling the secret communication that is a baby kick?

Will you understand that we will give up dreams for children? Will you understand that we will never have a first day of school, never send a child to university, never be at our child's wedding? Will you understand, as we participate in those things for your children, that we grieve our own? Will you be with us as we wash and dress a child for the first and last time, again? Will you hold our hand as we pray the prayers of baptism over an infant who will never take the vows confirmation?

Or, if things turn differently, will you be with us as we sit next to an isolette, willing bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh to just take another breath. And another? Will you understand our obsession with gaining grams of weight. In a long and hard journey through NICU, will you stay with us? Or will you forge on ahead? Will you celebrate the victory of a level 2 brain bleed, because it is not all that serious? Will you sit with us when the fear and the worry leave us breathless, and we do not think we can live another moment with our heart and soul breathing labouredly in an isolette, where we cannot keep it safe?

And if, if the worst happens, and our world shatters again? If we bury another child? If then, will you walk into that dark and sad place, and silently, slowly, gently, begin locating the pieces of our souls and hearts, and will you carefully stack them up? Will you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, will you hold us up, when we fall down? Will you sit with us when we cannot walk, and walk with us when we cannot run? Will you come and stay, and hold our hand? Will you sit and cry with us?

When you look at your own children, will you remember ours? Will you remember what was supposed to be? Will you understand that the sorrow of lost children is always with us? We are always aware of who is not here, that should be?

I am frightened. Behind statistics is fear.

Risk Management

I have struggled with how to write this post. I have thought about the issue from a multitude of different directions, and I still have 10 puddles of discrete thought, and no idea of how to collect these thoughts into one body of water. And I need some help.

1. In my professional life, I spend a large part of my time managing risk for the organization I work for. Managing risk is handled in a variety of different ways, through policy, through training staff to be aware of and address risks, through computer systems that flag certain things or don't let staff perform certain functions, through identification, through common sense. Much of what I do is about identifying a risk, quantifying it, and determining what, if anything, should be done about it.

2. How do we quantify risk? We use a measure of Probability (P), Impact (I) and Cost (C). In other words, we take the likelihood that this will happen (P), the impact to the organization (I) and then we try to figure out what it would cost the organization to fix it (C). Which turns the entire question into a number and a mathematical equation, that we can apply some certainty too. Part of the risk tolerance business is trending. Just getting a number doesn't help much. You need to compare the number against something. Options include doing nothing, using another solution, outsourcing the work to someone more experienced. That's how you take the risk number, and start getting somewhere with it.

3. What does the risk number actually mean? If I told you that there was a risk of 1 in 1800 that an asteroid would hit the earth and wipe out your entire country, you are very likely to shrug your shoulders and say 'oh well, gotta go sometime'. This is because while the I (wipe out your entire country) is very high, the probability (1 in 1800 chance each century) is very low. There are much more likely things to happen. If I told you that the probability that you would change jobs is very great, but in all likelihood you will make more money when you change jobs, you are also equally likely to shrug your shoulders. The P is great, but the I is likely low.

4. So, I come back to my conversation last night - where someone asked how likely it was that "it" would happen again. It, of course, meaning, will another baby die. 30% I answered. I have a 30% chance of developing pre-eclampsia between 23-26 weeks, before the threshold of "real" viability. Which means, a 30% chance of another baby dying. Invariably people respond that "oh, so a 70% chance of another baby living - that's good news, focus on that." And invariably, I want to scream.

5. Part of it is the numbers. I am 60 times more likely to loose a baby. The average woman has a 99.5 percent chance of being presented with a screaming, wiggling baby at the end of her labour. I have, at best a 70 percent chance, and that doesn't take into account the risks of a premature baby. You see, if we say the impact (I) is "dead baby", and my probability is much greater, it's just not something I can ignore.

6. So then, we might ask what the medical experts and I can do to reduce either the probability or the impact, or both. That's what you would usually do to manage risk. And the answer is: a whole lot of not much. Low Dose Aspirin, which might help, although there are no large studies. There are also no large studies about the risk of the drug to a foetus. Blood pressure medications, which don't halt the progression of the disease, but may buy some more time. Diuretics, which may help my kidneys. Magnesium Sulfate, which prevents seizures and saves lives. Serial ultrasounds, which will at least tell us if something is up. Putting me on bed rest. "We'll watch you very closely", the Doctor's say. And I have this wonderful and terrible image of roadrunner watching Wylie E. Coyote going over the cliff with the acme jet engine strapped to his back. Really, not a whole lot of things to do. And it's not that my doctor's are bad, it's just that truly, there isn't much they can do about a disease that they don't know how to cure, because they don't know what causes it.

7. I come back to those words, "a 70 percent chance the baby won't die". And I have heard this from so many people. Now, some of them are the "sunshine and roses" brigade, any disturbing news upsets them, so they focus on the positive. I have to confess, I'm generally speaking, a focus on the positive kind of person. Up until the moment that they told me that they had to induce me, I was positive, I held on to Gabriel living. I would rather dwell on the good than the bad. But in this case, the risk is higher, and the bad, well it's just so very bad, and it's a bad I know so excruciatingly well.

8. Now, I want to take their heads, and beat them around a bit. I want to tell them, if you think a 70 percent survival rate is so wonderful, you take a look at the three people you love most, and tell me which one you think should die. And I will happily tell you that "hey, at least the other two lived!". Because these odds, they totally suck. Totally, absolutely, completely.

9. And I don't know why their optimism bothers me. Obviously Mr. Spit and I have looked at the odds, and we are willing to try again. Obviously we are hopeful for that screaming baby. I don't think we are blindly stupid, ignoring the risks. But we are obviously hopeful that this time it's our turn to win on the giant roulette wheel of life. (In which your odds are 35:1)

10. But please, and this is the help part of the question if you are still with me. What do I say to people who only talk about the 70%? How do I communicate how concerned we are about the 30%. How do I communicate that my risk is way higher? Should I even do that? I don't want a medal for getting pregnant, I don't want to be told I'm brave, but I do want everyone to know it won't be easy, and it may not turn out as planned? I need people to understand that everything is not "ok", and it may not turn out well, and I have a much higher risk of it not turning out well.

Am I loosing my mind for expecting, hoping, wanting people to understand this?

Tomorrow is Always Fresh

It is one of those magical nights we get here on the prairies. Where, so far north of the equator the day lasts forever. We make up for our hours of darkness. We buried Gabriel on the shortest day of the year. And now, it is the longest day. It is that time of day, on this the longest day, that photographers call the magic hour. And I am sitting on my front porch. Thinking. Praying.

The ice cream truck is cruising our neighbourhood, and he has stopped to sell ice cream to a group of children and their parents. It is late, but school is out, and you can tell that these children have moved to a summer bedtime. They are gathered around the truck, and the truck music is playing Greensleeves. And I am mesmerized by their happiness and the sadness in the lyrics. I am struck by the laughter and joy of small children, and the sorrow of a man who wishes a woman would love him. I am held by the thoughts of a baby who should be asleep upstairs in his cradle. I am captivated by sorrow. I am remembering the last verse, in which he sets his love free.

Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,

To God I pray to prosper thee,

For I am still thy lover true,

Come once again and love me.

And I look away, tears burning in my eyes, to the school, and I see the sunset instead. I see how the red brick has turned pink. I see the golden light from this magic hour, I see the trees that my neighbours' father planted in 1920, when he was a student there. I see the windows of the classrooms stripped bare of decorations, waiting for next year's children to decorate them. I see the silence of a building, waiting for the voices and the energy of children to fill it. And I see the loneliness of my own soul. The sadness for tiny Gabriel, who could not stay for long, who will always be our first son, bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh. And I see the hope for another child, one who can stay with us.

And in the golden light, with children laughing and picking out ice cream, I can see that tomorrow is another day. A fresh day. Golden sunset drawing to a close, and clouds are lightening, and dusk will be here, I can see that there is a future. I smell roses on my bush, I can see that we are resilient. Strong. Faithful. Hopeful. We will believe in hope, in joy, in beauty and in truth.

I take a deep breath, and I proclaim to myself, in a golden world, in a world that is filled to the brim with sorrow, and with joy, in a world that children laugh, in this world, in all of my worlds, I am ready.


I am ready to start again, to try again. To start with a conception at sunset, and to wait through the long and dark hours of the night, to pray for a baby's cry at sunrise.

Amen.