My Street Rep

This week has been rough - physically, emotionally. I like to heat a massage stone and lay it on my abdomen when I have bad cramping (although it didn't help yesterday - see another post). Sometimes I prop the stone at my waistband. On Thursday I was feeling pretty terrible, and when I picked Olivia up, I told her as much. She asked me if I was going to put a rock in my pants. I said, "yes, I may put a stone on my belly."

Well, my rephrasing didn't seem to affect her perception. Friday she came home from school and told me that she told her friends that when mommy gets sick, she puts rocks in her pants. "what did you say?" I asked her in disbelief. "I told them not to laugh, it's true." "Who did you tell?" "My friends Morgan and Anastasia." And so now, I am the woman who puts rocks in her pants when her belly is sick.

How Am I Doing? It "Depends."

I scarred my daughter (and myself) for life twice today. We broke the Sabbath. It's true. Olivia was outraged, yelling, "We do NOT go to Target on SUNDAY!" But this was an emergency. I had to go to Target to get - ahem - supplies. The regular stuff wasn't going to cut it. Call me crazy, but I'm treating this miscarriage like it's an earth-quake-sized natural disaster. I might be going overboard. But let's just say I spent some good time in the adult diaper aisle surveying my options. Olivia was completely confused as to WHY I was looking at diapers and asked me so - repeatedly. I don't remember my answers, but they were less than satisfactory. In the end, I did not buy adult diapers. But the linen guards (to protect my memory foam mattress), were Depends brand and took up 3/4 of my basket. They were obvious. Oh. So. Obvious.

And what happens when you have Depends in your basket? You bump into someone you know. Because nothing is more awkward than meeting a fellow Sabbath-breaking, male ward member in Target when you have DEPENDS in your basket. And I don't even have a close elderly family member to blame it on.

This is NOT to say, however, that I'm embarrassed by my miscarriage. I'm not embarrassed about it. (Yes, the Depends are embarrassing, but that's because they're typically for incontinent 70 yr olds). No, miscarriage is common. And the truth is, I want a break. I want an excuse. Today when I was getting bombarded with 10,000 requests for this, that, the other thing, I finally broke down and said, "listen. I don't want to think about these things right now. I take a month off. No criticism. I'm miscarrying a baby right now."

And they left me alone! It was wonderful. I know many people are sheepish about it. Some people are private. Sometimes it's too painful to talk about (*K.A.). I get it. I'm sorry if it makes people uncomfortable to think that women lose babies. Maybe because this implies that the woman yes, had sex, and is now losing the baby in a very menstrual-like way (albeit the menstruation from hell). But here's the thing: 50% of the world (or thereabouts) is female. Close to 100% of people (test-tube babies excluded), are the result of sex. These are every-day issues. So miscarriage is not a dirty, terrible secret. - It's a painful, crappy part of life, and by golly, if it means that I can have an excuse to say no to a musical number, missionary dinner, silent auction, service project, this week, I'm TAKING IT!

The Gospel According to Liv

We've had all of the traditional lessons. We read from the Book of Mormon. We read from the Bible. The gospel education around here is intentional. I want Liv to learn the stories of Jesus. We've also discussed the Word of Wisdom, though not in depth. But for some reason, Liv has a fixation on alcohol. Today when reading of Judas' betrayal of Jesus, Liv was convinced it was because he drank alcohol. I assured her it was not. Going through Trader Joe's she stares at the liquor aisle with wide eyes and says to me, "Mom, that's AL-CO-HOL, and not the medicine fixing kind." So how do I do this? How to I keep her on the straight and narrow (because let's face it: there are a lot of down sides to booze) without making her into a walking judge of morality based on breathalyzer results? I guess that's just what kids do, huh? I did. But my grandfather should have listened, I tell you. He would have said the same thing. In fact, he did. With a Yuengling in his hand. Love you, Poppop.

And the answer is No. Or Yes.

The answer is yes, I'm 10 weeks pregnant. The answer is no, it's not viable. It all started with the ultrasound, which weirdly enough, I predicted the outcome before the appointment. I spent hours agonizing over missed miscarriages (miscarriages with no symptoms), so when the doctor found a 5- week-old sac with no baby inside (had been absorbed back into the abyss of my monstrously large uterus), I cracked a joke and didn't shed a single tear. I knew it. I just knew it. I knew it when they handed me the booklet at my first prenatal appointment. I said to the nurse, "why are you giving me this? I'm only 8 weeks. I could miscarry." She told me to think positive. I knew it when I bought the maternity pants that I cannot find the receipt for. I knew it, and I still signed up for that stupid prenatal yoga class for $80, that I don't have the energy to cancel. Maybe I'll have Rob do it.

Over the weekend I fretted over whether it was, indeed, a true miscarriage, or whether the baby was hiding out away from the cameras. It's happened. But the hormones kept slipping, and the follow-up ultrasound was no better. Now I'm starting to see physical signs of miscarriage, including the loss of the nausea, spotting, etc. And so I have my answer.

To be honest, I'm okay. So far. Maybe it's the crazy before the crash, a-la-Charlie Sheen, but, I'm okay. I have shed a couple tears, mostly because the hubby is on a business trip and I'm tired and frustrated. I don't want to help Liv with her homework, and I don't want to wash the dishes. I've wanted to get to the temple, but think I should avoid so much white. White and miscarriage don't mix well. I stayed home today to ride out the storm, the brunt of which did not come. And so I wait, just knowing, that I'm going to fall over in agonizing pain during my immigration interview next week, while my clients and the immigration officer look on in horror - because that would be my luck.