August 26, 2008
Make the Pain Go Away
For the past few weeks, I’ve been tired. Exhausted really. My husband jokes that it’s all those sleepless nights, months of insomnia, catching up with me.
Migraines come and go every other day or so. Aspirin, or Exedrin? Neither helps. Instead I find myself crawling into bed, in the darkness of my bedroom, a sleep mask over my eyes so that not even a pin-prick of light can sneak past the barrier I’ve created.
I lay down in the pitch black, crying tears of pain. My temples throb. It hurts to cough, sneeze and take deep breaths.
Noise disturbs me. Frustrates me. Makes me contemplate jumping out the window. The nausea is unbearable.
Why do I have to suffer these headaches?
It might be my body’s way of slowing me down. Like the yellow of a stoplight. Caution! Slow down! Start taking care of yourself!
It’s true. I’ve been taking care of the needs of everyone else, before my own.
Before my father’s accident, I was eating right, exercising and losing weight. I made time for me. Then stress caused me to fall back into my old habits of eating crappy food on the run and barely exercising. I’ve gained half the weight back that I lost.
In the beginning, my motives for losing weight and being healthy were a little backwards, but I did learn to put myself on my to-do list. Instead of worrying about buying school clothes for Dawson or keeping the house clean so Doug wouldn’t be crabby, or running errands for my mother, I learned to make myself happy and do things I loved to do.
Once Dad came home, life seemed to settle down a bit. Dad is doing well, recovering nicely. I’m so happy that he’s finally out of the hospital. But along with that sense of relief, came the migraines from hell.
They are terrible. I don’t even have the ambition to do anything productive these days. I’m constantly rubbing my head and squeezing my eyes tightly. I’m always on the verge of throwing up. Please, dear God, make it go away. Make the pain go away.
August 4, 2008
Part II, The Wound Is Healing
If you haven’t yet read the first part of this series, please click here to do so.
I remember the feeling as though it is surfacing right now at this very moment. The thrill of knowing that I was pregnant, if only because a 5-inch plastic stick said so, was so surreal and yet so exciting. Even after calling Doug and sharing the news with a few people, staring at those two pink lines brought joy to my heart.
Several moments later a fit of panic filled my body. What if this test was wrong? What if I jumped the gun and told too many people? What if I jinxed myself? What if I wake up tomorrow and this is all a terrible dream? A nightmare?
It was nearly impossible to finish my shift at my job (Note to self: never take a pregnancy test at work), the combination of happiness and terror was making me anxious as well as sick to my stomach. When I got home that night, my husband wasn’t as happy for us as I wished him to be. Looking back on that night, I understand he was being cautious. He didn’t want to get his hopes up. He had to be strong for both of us, just in case “something bad happened”. He was afraid to breathe and I was afraid to admit I felt the same way.
Why can’t I fucking enjoy this? I’ve waited so long and here I sit, sleepless and full of anxiety? Why can’t I be a normal pregnant woman?
The next morning I made an appointment with my ob/gyn, or his nurse actually. She scheduled me that morning to come in for a blood test, as well as another urine test. The procedure itself was quick, but waiting for the results was torture. I returned home at 10 a.m., had breakfast, threw it up (it had to have been the nerves) and waited. And waited some more. At 2:30 that afternoon the lab called with my results on behalf of my doctor’s office.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Tuszke. Your test results are positive for pregnancy. Please hold the line for Dr. J’s office. He’ll need to see you in four weeks.”
The feelings of disbelief returned and my face drained of color. Doug was sitting on the couch and he asked, “Is everything okay? Are you alright?”
“I’m pregnant. I’m truly, really pregnant!”
“Are you sure? Maybe your urine is fucked up. Are they sure you’re really pregnant?”
“It would be a cruel, sick joke to play on a someone who wasn’t, don’t you think?”
I believe my husband was just as astonished as I was. That was the day he bacame a father. That was the day he had another person to love and care about. Another person to provide for. He was happy, but afraid of the unknown. Before our baby was born he had never held another child. Not even his niece. Doug was just trying to navigate his own emotions, as well as be supportive for me.
The next four weeks were filled with sore breasts and morning sickness. There was one week that I was so ill I thought I was going to do harm to the baby because I couldn’t stop vomiting. I cried for days about the fear of having a miscarriage. I couldn’t bear to think about such atrocities, and yet the thoughts consumed my mind for months.
I had an early ultrasound and was ecstatic to see the baby’s beating heart on the fetal monitor, but my axiety was high and I wasn’t able to calm down until I heard my little one’s heartbeat on the doppler at 11 weeks.
Every doctor’s appointment was filled with anxiety of the possible bad news I might be told. Nothing was ever wrong (thanks be to God), yet I felt as though I was swimming near a dam and constantly pulled under the current of emotions. I remember Dr. J ordering me to relax because high stress levels wasn’t good for my health or the health of my child. I desperately tried to relax, even forced myself to take it easy, but it seemed to make matters worse.
At seven months pregnant I was diagnosed with pregnancy induced hypertension, or pre-eclampsia and was sentenced to bedrest. It wasn’t because I was eating terribly or not exercising, hell I ate so well and walked Murphy (our dog) everyday. Sometimes we’d walk one or two miles. The combination of work related stress and pregnancy anxiety caused my blood pressure to sky rocket.
Hearing the doctor’s words tossed me over the edge in a barrell of despair. Financially, we coldn’t afford bedrest for as long as my doctor suggested. After a week of it, I tried to go back to work only to be sent home because I passed out at my desk. I spent the last 11 weeks of my pregnancy at home trying to grow my baby to full term. At 38 weeks I was induced because the protein count in my urine was too high.
Dawson Douglas Tuszke was born on September 16, 2004, nineteen days early. He weighed 7 lbs., 8 oz., and as the doctor placed him in my arms the feelings of relief washed over me. My baby was here. He was healthy, and beautiful and mine.
To this day, I struggle with the emotional impact this child has on my life. He’s my world. He’s the air that I breathe and I love him more than I can ever describe in a blog post. So much of motherhood is about the way I feel when I look at my little boy. If I close my eyes and think hard enough I can still feel the joy and pain of his birth, and I wouldn’t trade that in for anything on this Earth.
My post-partum days were a blur. The reality of what motherhood entailed controlled me. Nursing, diaper changing, crying over anything and nothing all the same time; it was a sky dive without a parachute at times. I put on that happy face to hide the insanity boiling over inside me. It wasn’t PPD, it was anxiety. The fear of the “something bad” was enough to make me want to hide under the covers.
And then the image of what my body looked like, post childbirth, haunted me. I wasn’t angry, more shocked. I was navigating the stormy seas of first time motherhood. I was the captain of my own destiny and that of my son’s, at least until he was eighteen. I was blissfully happy and emotionally bankrupt. I didn’t understand how this was possible.
After six months of doctor’s supervision and “outdoor therapy” (also known as three mile walks and serotonin supplements) my life was getting back to normal. Not pre-baby normal, but I was able to control my emotions better and able to raise my child in a healthy, happy environment.
As Dawson grew older, I learned to enjoy the stages and milestones of his development and I couldn’t wait to have another baby. Financially, we weren’t ready due to the long months of bedrest, but then in August of 2005, when Dawson was 11 months old, I suffered what the doctors think was a miscarriage.
I didn’t know I was pregnant until I started bleeding. The clotting, the cramps, the emotional chaos were frightening. I didn’t understand any of what was happening. My period wasn’t technically late, because I hadn’t gotten one since Dawson was born.
I went to the doctor who ordered bloodwork. The results came several days later.
“Based on the test results, we think you had a miscarriage. There were low hGg levels indicating pregnancy, and the spontaneous bleeding and clotting support that diagnosis.”
I didn’t cry at first. I didn’t feel anything. No emotion. I was numb. And then four days later the floodgates opened. I mourned for a child I didn’t even know. I couldn’t fathom what was happening and it spiraled into a depression. I couldn’t look at my son without crying. I couldn’t let my husband touch me without the fear of shattering into tiny little pieces in his arms. I didn’t understand the volume of my emotions and I couldn’t believe how badly it hurt. How could one person feel this horrible?
Several months later the questions began. Friends and family were constantly asking, “When are you going to have another baby?” It was infuriating. I felt like I was constantly on the defensive, justifying why we weren’t pregnant again. I made excuses, rather than admit my fertility trouble. Instead of facing the fact I had a miscarriage, I buried myself in a hole of denial.
I was spitting out the stock answers, all the time. We’re not ready yet. We’re happy with just Dawson right now. We can’t afford a second child. The timing isn’t right. Someday we’ll try again.
Then one day I had heard enough and hit my breaking point. I finally admitted my difficulty in getting pregnant. I used the word infertility out loud. And the person I told gave me a look of disbelief. This person was so uncomfortable with my confession that she laughed and said, “That can’t be true. You’ve got Dawson. It’s not impossible for you to get pregnant.”
I was heartbroken. I confided in someone and she didn’t take me seriously. Instead she made feel inadequate in a way that even now, more than two years later, I can’t describe. It was hard enough to say that I have fertility problems, but take away that reason and what would my excuse be? It was a mindfuck. I couldn’t wrap my head around what I was thinking or feeling so I continued to deny it. I remember actually repeating the words to myself, “Maybe nothing is wrong with me. Maybe it’s just mind over matter. Delusional, yes, but easier to deal with than the issue at hand.
I remember having a conversation with my mother and she kept nagging me about having a second child. I was so angry I yelled, “What do you want me to fucking do? Write a letter to my ovaries?” She replied, “No…I want you to write a letter to God.” As if it was that easy. And maybe it is that easy. But for me, it was the most difficult thing to cope with. It still is.
For the past year, Doug and I have been really trying to have another baby. Every late period, every negative pregnancy test, spins me into an emotional tornado of anger and grief and self-pity. Thankfully, I have found a doctor who listens to my concerns and things are looking up, but it’s not an easy road this time around either.
Naturally, when I heard that BlogHer was offering a panel on Infertility at the conference, I didn’t want to go. I wasn’t prepared emotionally and I didn’t know how I would react to the discussion. I had never revealed my story to anyone after my first attempt with a friend. Her reaction made me think that everyone would react the same way.
Naively, I didn’t even realize there were so many infertility bloggers out there until I began working with the BlogHer Ads Network. I knew there was the possiblity they existed, but I could never bring myself to Google them. I was scared. I was terrified. I didn’t want to be labeled as an IF blogger. I didn’t want to admit that I belonged in that group. Denial is more than a river in Egypt, as they say.
The truth is, I didn’t feel like I had the right to join that group because against all odds, I conceived a child and gave birth. I didn’t feel entitled to share my experience because so many women still yearn to have children of their own. On the contrary I didn’t feel like I fit in with the mothers who conceived easily because I was still struggling with my own infertility issues. It was a catch-22 and I didn’t know how to deal with it.
For so long I read those Infertility blogs and nodded silently from behind the safety of my computer screen. I felt comforted by the fact that I wasn’t alone, and I was perfectly okay with not joining the discussion. I wasn’t ready to jump from that airplane.
The stigma that our society places on infertile couples is absolutely horrible. We’re made to feel like second class citizens, simply because we have difficulty producing children. It’s shameful and unfair and it makes me angry. Often I feel as though the “mommy wars” are nothing compared to the war between fertile and infertile women. It shouldn’t have to be that way. We should be able to support each other. Because of that stigma, that the lives of infertile women are not relevant to motherhood issues, I was afraid to ever blog the struggles I experienced.
As the BlogHer conference grew nearer, I realized I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I would have to rip off the band-aid eventually, and when I did, I wanted to be with people like myself. I wanted to know that I was safe to feel the emotions without judgement.
I didn’t realize how quickly those floodgates would open. I was a sobbing mess; hysterical, angry, frustrated, sad and emotionally worn out. It took several long moments of quiet sobs before I could bring myself to open my mouth. But when I did, it all spilled forth and these women (and men) understood.
They understood. They got me and they didn’t judge me. They wrapped their arms around me and welcomed me into the safety of their hearts and I am forever grateful. I will never forget that feeling of relief. The “wow…this is what I was missing…” feeling, was such an epiphany for me. The heaviness rolled off my shoulders and I was finally able to stand up straight. I was finally able to say, “I suffer from infertility.”
I can finally say I’m Dana, and I belong here.
I no longer feel empty because I found support from those who have walked in my shoes.
For the first time, I feel whole. For the first time, I am able to blog this and share my story with all of you. I’ve made many attempts, but never in great detail.
My struggle is nowhere near being over, but I finally have the courage to move forward and continue fighting this battle for the good.
This post (and this one) wasn’t easy for me to write, but I did it. I put it out there, and I must send my sincerest thanks to Pamela (Coming2Terms), Lori (Weebles Wobblog), Monica (Rantings of a Creole Princess), Melissa (Stirrup Queens), Cecily (Uppercase Woman), Rachel (Fertility Stories), and several other amazing men and women who approached me (and regretfully I have forgotten their names, but never their sentiments). From the bottom of my heart, I thank you kindly for your support and your compassion. Your words mean so much to me and I shall hold them in my heart for the rest of my life. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
And to Jenny, who came over to hug me after the panel, I must thank you (and the rest of the amazing BlogHers) for giving me the opportunity to work with you — for if I hadn’t, I may never have gotten up the courage to meet the wonderful men and women who struggle with infertility as well.
You are all my people, and I puffy heart you. Every one of you.
Ramblings of an Insomniac
Okay…it’s official. I’m an insomniac. For the last three weeks I’ve been unable to fall asleep at a reasonable hour. My mind is filled with to-do lists, and all the things that need to get done or delegated are constantly hovering over me. By the time I’m ready to go to bed, I’m too worked up from worry.
It’s 12:42 a.m. and I’m wide awake. I suppose the fact that somewhere in my neighborhood someone is either lighting firecrackers or shooting a pistol doesn’t help. I’m serious. I keep hearing several “bangs” that really, truly sound like gunshots. Doug says they’re fireworks, but fireworks make rapid pops. These are distinct, single bullet-like blasts that are freaking me out.
I suppose my anxiety and fear that a crime is occurring as I blog this, just proves to you that I’m losing my grip on reality or whatever. I don’t know what else to tell you, I’ve been in such a mood — a funk, rather — and I can’t seem to crawl out of it.
Geez Louise! Another “gunshot”. This is freaking me out! Do I call the cops? But what if it’s nothing? What if it really is a firework. Like a bottle rocket? They make one loud bang, right?
In other insomniac news, I’ve been working out at the gym for 12 days and I’ve been eating healthy foods, in addition to taking my medications, and the good news? I’ve lost 9.2 pounds. I have one of those digital scales and I love it so.
I didn’t exercise today (Sunday) because I needed a break from the elliptical, and I sort of went through a withdrawal. But I didn’t want to over use it and grow bored. Plus, I needed to clean the house a little. I’d been neglecting it since before I left for the BlogHer conference.
Okay. Another “gunshot” and now a car alarm is going off. Seriously, what in the world is going on out there? I’d close my windows, but it’s kind of humid in Dante’s Inferno, Wisconsin. I need that light breeze to keep me from sweating profusely.
Gunshot. Seriously. I’m calling the police. This is nuts. Those are not fireworks. What the hell?
Just a few moments ago, I finished writing Part II of my infertility saga. I’d publish it, but it needs tweaking. Too many uncontrolled, raw emotions plastered across the blog. If you haven’t read Part I yet, I encourage you to do so. It highlights the start of this frustrating journey.
Okay, I’m turning out the lights and going to bed. I don’t want the crazies to know I called the Woo-Woos.
Goodnight!
Posted by Dana
12:52 am •
Bedlam •
