Not So Good
I had a very bad day yesterday. The kind of bad where you can’t stop crying so you just cry and cry until you either can’t breathe or you throw up. I had an asthma attack.
It is one thing to have horribly negative, terrifying thoughts swimming in your head all day. It is another thing to realize that those thoughts are impacting those around you and jeopardizing the one thing — your marriage — that you thought was going well.
I am taking my antidepressants. I am seeing a therapist. I try not to dwell on how terrifically scared and sad I feel, but it is very, very hard to not think about miscarriage. I am sad for what I lost and what I might never have. I simultaneously feel like giving up and boldly striding forward. I am terrified to be pregnant again and terrified not to be pregnant. I do not trust statistics, luck, or the laws of the universe. I wish I could make some sense of this but instead I have this petrifying fear that things are not going to ever work out the way I want them to. Ever.
I am ready to adopt. I am ready to plunk down an obscene amount of money for a baby that some other woman — who ironically probably considered herself unlucky to be pregnant — birthed. I am ready to be a mom and I do not trust that I am going to get there biologically. I do not see it as “just” adopting; it is something that I am very committed to doing. The question is in the timing, as it is not sane to start the adoption process while actively trying to get pregnant. I am 32 and by waiting, even 2-3 years, I increase my risk of miscarriage just by virtue of being older. If I want to have any biological children, this is the time to do it.
I stared researching adoption days after my second miscarriage. It feels very right to me. However, I do not want to stop trying to have my own biological baby. I want both.
I knew I was ready for a baby because I felt a hole or an emptiness in myself without one. The miscarriages seemed to rip that hole even larger, leaving it raw and exposed. The emptiness seems to follow me in everything I do and everywhere I go. I do not think this is an emptiness that is filled by antidepressants or therapy visits; it is filled with a child.
I have two sets of papers sitting next to me: the adoption information and preliminary forms for Korea and the information packet from the RE. We go to the RE this afternoon, but I do not have high hopes. Anything short of “I can guarantee you a healthy baby” is not going to be good enough to quell my anxiety and pessimism.
I start aikido tonight. Perhaps a little Japanese martial-art training is just what I need. At least I will not be surrounded by a bunch of happy, glowing pregnant women, which is usually the case at yoga. I am hoping to be blissfully in the company of those who rarely, if ever, think of babies: pimply teenage boys.
Update: And just because life is oh-so-fair, I now how colitis-y symptoms starting. It could be emotional fallout from yesterday, but I am not taking any chances. I started back on Colazal and Asacol, bringing my pill total up to 48 a day, if anyone aside from me is counting. I just can’t bear to have to delay trying to conceive because my colitis is flaring, not to mention that colits flares suck big time. I would rather swallow all the extra pills just to be extra sure it stays under control.
Update #2: Guess what arrived in the mail today? Well, Satan’s henchmen were hard at work, publishing yet another issue of Enfamil: Family Beginnings and making sure that it arrived on schedule in my mailbox. Inside are important articles that every depressed/anxious woman who just had two miscarriages needs to read: “See What I Can Do!” (um, live more than I few weeks?); “Finding the Perfect Babysitter” (… “For Your Animals While You Are Having Your D&C”); “Let The Games Begin” (… you mean like going to a specialist to find out what the hell is wrong?). My personal favorite, however, has got to be the closing essay, filed under “One Parent’s Thoughts” and subtitled “Extreme Makeover: From Party Animal to Proud Papa — A Changed Man Tells His Story.” If you are not lucky enough to be on Satan’s mailing list, here is just the last sentence of the last paragraph of the essay. “Our makeover transformed us from a couple to a family, a prize worth every minute of lost sleep, a gift I cherish every day. Of course, a new wardrobe would have been a nice bonus, too, but I’m already counting my blessings.” Need I say more?