2008 a year without hope?

Before I describe what saying goodbye to 2008 is like, I have to reflect on what I thought about saying goodbye to 2007. So here is my entry, a little over a month after I lost my son:

2007 was the year of Hope. I had more hopes and dreams than ever
before in my life. I'm no stranger to disappointed hopes. I've seen
them crumble many times. But I've never questioned my ability to hope
again afterwards (okay, maybe after the 2004 elections, something about 4 more
years of Bush). But when Myles died, I've never seen my hopes
and dreams so completely anihilated. The feeling of it was like watching
those hopes, not just dashed to pieces; but beaten to a pulp, then ground into
the dirt, then shit on. And much of my recent existential
quandaries now revolve around even trying to justify the will to
hope. Emotionally, I don't have it in me anymore. Logically,
I can't see a reason why I ever dared to hope in the first place given my
beliefs.

Although I may appear a cynic, its always been my biggest con.
I'm a poser. Deep down, I've always been a hopeful person, even to
the point of naivete. If anyone asks, I say that I'm sure the worst will
happen, but in my mind I always hold out hope for the best.
I can think to so many moments in my life where I've been so filled with hope
and excitement, it was like my heart could burst. And last year
was filled to the brim with that heart-bursting hope. I just forced
myself to believe that everything would work out, all would fall into
place, and for so much of the year it really appeared it would.

So, saying goodbye to 2007 is quite a sad affair for me. I'm not just
saying goodbye to my son again (which I went and did today, and I will continue
to do for as long as it takes to set in). It's like I'm saying goodbye to
that piece of me that dared to hope. It's like I'm saying goodbye to hope
itself. I've already mourned so much, but now I mourn even for the New
Year. I've always loved the New Year. So much more
than xmas. Why? No, its not the drugs and parties you
fucking smart alec. It was that sense of hope! Hope that
maybe, just maybe, the next year would be better than the last. And this
year, I don't fucking have it. I feel like there is nothing for me in
2008.

Fuckmas

So I've been operating on the assumption that everyone just wanted me to be THERE for Christmas. Nothing more nothing less. I wasn't told I had to be sociable, play games, take pictures, etc., etc. And I didn't expect that I would have to. At every christmas I've been to (My mom's and my Dad's, they're long time divorced) I've done what I could. Sometimes that means I disappear; at my Mom's I came and layed down for a couple hours after the presents were unwrapped. I didn't eat with them. At my dad's I did similar (didn't want to sit and eat and chat with everybody) and there I hid out downstairs where the kids were playing hide and seek.

Was I morose? Yes. Unsociable? Yes. Did I talk or smile? here and there. I thanked them for their gifts, in fact, I was thanking my step mom before I left, and everybody else (my dad, sis, bro, sil, and 5 kids) all went outside. As I thank her, she just looks at me and says, "You need to get some help." I say 'what?' surprised but unshaken. Then she starts yelling at me, "YOU NEED TO GET SOME HELP, YOU DIDN'T TALK TO ANYBODY HERE." I disagreed, I most certainly did chat with my dad while he fried the turkey, my bro and sis, just most of it was one on one, private talks. And no, I never did talk to her because I generally don't like her.

I told her she was being rude, and she had no right to say that to me. She yelled at me that she cared about me and loved me (who YELLS such things?). I just walked away and muttered to her that she couldn't love me, she doesn't even KNOW me. At this point I'm opening the front door and she is following me, yelling(?!) If it had been any other day, I might have argued with her, but instead, i'm just as zombified by the whole weird confrontation as I've been all day. I open the front door, and she shouts out after me:

"You don't even deserve to have your daughter."

All of my REAL family looks over confused and surprised, who was just yelling?! I said very matter of factly as I got in my car that that was just step mom telling me I don't deserve my daughter. After which I promptly left with my sis and the kids.

All I can say is I'm not telling my mom because she would tear her a new one, and it would create rifts where there needn't be. I'm not worried about my dad, we had nice discussions about my divorce, my depression, whether or not to file for bankruptcy. We've actually talked a lot. So I'm just hoping she feels like an idiot. I'm not going to grace her 'opinion' with a response, she's not worth it to me. I just can't believe someone could be soooo cruel.

FYI, by 'help' she means religion. Her and my Dad think my problem is I 'haven't heard the good news!' (barf). What they don't understand is that everytime they bring it up, they might as well be telling me that if I were religious, none of this would've happened. This is my punishment. And if losing Myles wasn't a punishment, my anguish and difficulties in handling this is due to my lack of appropriate religiopioid. Ugh, my dad, in his gentle kind way, kept saying the word 'forget'. I have to forget. I have to forget? IIII have to forget?!

I will never forget!!!

Child Grief

My daughter has been talking about Myles more and more lately. Wait, first let me start by saying I've really been getting a kick out of how little my child thinks I know. I ask her who are the smartest people she knows? They're all cousins and friends from school, none over the age of 12. Who are the smartest adults? Her grandma's and grandpa's. Daddy and Mommy rank dead last, lol. So when I tell her to say 'fell' instead of 'falled' she completely argues with me. My parents think I'm getting what I deserve, lol, and they're right.

But it kind of took on a new meaning tonight, it really broke my heart. She was saying her ribs hurt, and asked why she had them and I explain they protect her lungs and heart. So she had a question about if a heart breaks, and I told her about cpr, and doctors fixing hearts, but that sometimes, people might die. And she said, 'Is that what happened to Myles?' And I don't know that, but I do know his heart stopped beating for some reason, so I was wavering. To reassure her, I said, "Simone his heart just stopped, and he didn't hurt, he was completely happy and loved, it didn't hurt him.'

And she said, "Mom, you finally figured it out." Getting more and more excited, as if I said something revolutionary. Then she said she missed Myles and started crying, she asked how old he would be now, how big. Then she stopped, as if this is the first time she ever asked it, "okay, Mom, but WHY did HIS heart stop beating?" and I had to say, 'I don't know, nobody knows'. And for the first time, she says, "but you have been alive for how long, and you're supposed to know all of this stuff, why don't you know that?"

And it occurs to me, no wonder she doesn't believe me, or believe in me, I couldn't even save her brother! Parents are gods I thought, and I know she still thinks I'm the greatest mom in the world, but deep down she knows I don't know everything, I can't stop everything, I can't protect her always, because that is how the world works.

She just wants me to have another baby, and I'm so dead set against it. She brings it up at least twice a week. And she'll say, but mom, if you had another baby, maybe it wouldn't die. And I said, maybe not, but it could, there's nothing we can do about that. And she's like, 'well, maybe we shouldn't have played with Myles so much.' And for the first time she said, "Mom, did [i]I[/i] play with him too much?"

I assured her, no, she didn't do anything wrong, we all did everything right. And even when you do everything right, there are no guarantees. Life just isn't fair.


Oh, I feel so terrible my poor dear has had to grow up so fast. How hard it is to watch her grow and for her to come up with new questions, new sources of pain from her loss. And I guess as she gets older, we'll revisit this discussion many many more times. It's just so hard to see the cruel world reveal itself even more as she develops and understands and can think about things more.

Perspective

A long time ago, my best friend made these compilation cd's from the 80's and 90's when we were in Middle School and went to teen dances. Well, I pulled them out, and what a walk through memory lane. Some songs have struck home harder now, than they did when I thought they said it all. 'Long December' by the counting crows is one example. 'Losing My Religion' and 'Everybody hurts' by REM. Although I was never a fan of this band or this song, it had me in tears:



He said of lot things I think I needed to hear. What I can appreciate about his pleas to his friend are his promise of understanding, sympathy, but assurance that the past (not Myles, but everything I've fucked up since losing Myles) can be left behind, along with the lies I've been living.

The suicidal ideation has passed for the most part. It's tempting, but inadequate. I have a suicide letter I'll post. I read it today when I was sitting on the toilet (don't ask) and it said everything I wanted to say, so I was surprised. It still wasn't enough though, you can never say enough, as you have all pointed out. Everyone would walk away from my death, wounded as badly or worse than when we lost Myles. Everyone except me, I guess.

I've been reading through old blogs. Actually I went back to the beginning after I got an email from a new atheist reader and a new November 2008 addition to our sad club of child loss.

I guess what I've read has really revealed many things at this moment. First, my typos are much worse the more in the pit I am. The alcohol was the worst answer to my terrible days. No matter how many rules I created, it still managed to engulf me, though I thought I was immune.

Having the bipolar diagnosis makes more sense than I'd like to admit. Bipolar isn't inherently bad however, as my Psychiatrist said today (and as I've read) many very creative successful people have bipolar. The times of mania, prior to losing Myles were actually times of high productivity, I was supermom, supergrad student, super housewife. I juggled 50 things, seemlessly, and now I look back, and I could only be manic to believe that I could do all those things, and then actually find that 'crazy' energy to actually pull them off.

So the deep depression after losing Myles lead to a much more volatile mania, the two extremes became much more extreme than they had in my life up until that point. Though I would argue in my adolescents that I was definitely on this teeter totter of periods of deep depression, then manic episodes accompanied by major risk taking. On days I felt 'good' it wasn't the real 'good', it was the scary 'good'. The kind of feeling that makes you act impulsively, so sure of yourself in an instant. But at the time, sure of what? Sure of nothing except my life had no meaning anymore, my values were not so valuable, I was invincible to alcohol, invincible to grief, all of which is utter bullshit. It's a very powerful feeling, indifference, don't let anyone fool you. It's so much easier to not care anymore.

Part of me would like to find myself, mentally, in the same place I was a few months after Myles death. Certainly miserable, but at least a clear miserable, not one hazed over by alcohol, drugs, and gardening (I was a MAD gardener, crazy). I had some insight then, insights that are even clearer to me now if I were to just write them out. Gifts from my Myles, secrets to this life that no one can know until it's 'too late' (but it's never too late). I so wanted to know these secrets in the months leading up to Myles death, if I had known them, maybe I would've cherished him more when I had him. But you can't go back. So I have to use those lessons now. It's not just Myles I need to appreciate, it's Simone, and my nieces and nephews, brother and sisters, Mom and Dad.

To commit suicide would be to not apply that knowledge Myles has given me, and that would be the biggest tragedy. Because his short life was not short of radiant, and full of so much meaning, I wouldn't change anything today. Because I know that if he had lived, there would still be no guarantee he'd be in my arms now, or forever. Same with Simone. So I've got to cherish what I have, and mourn what I don't have, but do it in away that isn't sooooo harmful to my own conception of self.

I thought the hardest days would be then, I didn't know that the hardest days were ahead. Now I know that you can never know whether they are in front of you or behind you. They are both, they were always both. Can you prepare for them? Not really. But you can accept that having a terrrrrrrible day, isn't the end of the world. For tomorrow maybe less terrible, the day after, perhaps one filled with meaning, peace, or healing (as was this Tuesday when I got Myles birth certificate).

So, I'm not a failure yet. I might have failed here or there in the past, succeeded too, and in the future, I'll add to both tallies. And if I take what my son's life has shown me, and I apply it, then that means I go on. No matter what, I must go on. Because I was given a gift, and it would be a terrible thing to waste. And killing myself would've been throwing that gift in the garbage, perhaps. And that's not fair to anyone. Suicide may not be 'selfish' but it certainly isn't just; to me, or Simone, or Myles, or anyone who loves me. It doesn't do justice to the meaning of my son's life, and that perhaps would've been the biggest tragedy. For if he lives on in our hearts, then a piece of him would've died with me. It wouldn't have been fair to him.

So, I will go on, I will continue becoming, and I will continue to try to find hope in the future, no matter how forlorn I may feel at the moment. For there is still time, time to err, and time to succeed.

Suicide is not selfish

Did I ask to be born? No. So here I am, and sadly I've placed another human being in this predicament and a second (though perhaps he had a choice in the matter, perhaps he made the smart one). I'm not going to feel bad about being indifferent to whether I live or die. Myles died. Life went on. The sun rose and set, fucksgiving and fuckmas came and went. Other children were brought kicking and screaming into this world by no choice of their own. To quote Camus: We get in the habit of living before we ever get in the habit of thinking. And thinking leads us to the absurd and that is: What is called a reason for living is also called an excellent reason for dying.

CAMUS:
We live on the future, "tomorrow," "later on," "when you have made your way," "you will understand when you are old enough." Such irrelevancies are wonderful enough, for, after all, it's a matter of dying.

[ . . . ]
Man admits that the stands at a certain point on on a curve that that he acknowledges having to travel to its end. He belongs to time, and by the horror that seizes him, he recognizes his worst enemy. Tomorrow, he was longing for tomorrow, whereas everything in him ought to reject it. The revolt of the flesh is absurd. (The myth of sisyphus).

Mania

What the fuck? The fuckers stole my computer after they did a room search. I'm not gonna lie or be ashamed, I tried really hard to kill myself and I was really bummed I didn't succeed (it's like, 'I can't even do THIS right!'). I had my suicide note all written, I just couldn't create anything sharp enough to cut deep enough, so really it was pretty pathetic. I just have about 20 scratches on my left arm. So they made me do 1:1 and that blew cuz I'm a loner and having somebody follow you around all day is really fucking annoying, I'm sure the feeling is mutual.

Now, I don't feel that way today, so please I won't let any of you respond with all the well meaning bullshit about how great I am. Cuz lots of great people kill themselves and in my view, it's their fucking perogative. I. Am. Mine. Sorry. My life.

Blah, blah, blah, I should be telling you how much better I feel and all that jazz, but I feel about the same except fucksgiving is over, a holiday i vow to never celebrate again. So I move to NP this weekend sometime, don't have a phone until then but if you myspace, I'll keep my computer on, and if you want to IM me, I'm at anarchist.mom@live.com. I'll add you and we can hang out before I semi-officially move.

Peace. And I want to do away with Fuckmas this year too, FYI. "Now go make me a turkey pot pie, bitch" - bender.

bipolar I

My therapist finally told me I have bipolar I (with mania), I broke my foot again, and I'm apparently a terrible wife (we are through), mother, and person. Guess I need to 'get with it', and 'toughen up' cuz if life is a test, I'm a fucking failure.


Oh yes, and I totally fucking snuck my computer in cuz these guys are fucking assholes, but I'm too sneaky for them, lol.

Childless Woman

The womb
Rattles its pod, the moon
Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.

My landscape is a hand with no lines,
The roads bunched to a knot,
The knot myself,

Myself the rose you acheive---
This body,
This ivory

Ungodly as a child's shriek.
Spiderlike, I spin mirrors,
Loyal to my image,

Uttering nothing but blood---
Taste it, dark red!
And my forest

My funeral,
And this hill and this
Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.

-Sylvia Plath

Fuck Thanksgiving.

I just couldn't do it. I couldn't. I can't pretend to be happy on that day. I can't be thankful on that day. I can't be around all my relatives, pregnant relatives, happy relatives. My dad was a complete jerk about it when I called him. "Get with it" he said. I'm so sick of his 'toughen up' attitude. I'm just going to treat tomorrow like any other day, take a bath, watch movies, and not think about turkey or family.

I don't think I'll ever be able to celebrate it again. My second favorite holiday, all the family, all the food, none of the gifts, one more thing to mourn.

I just want my Myles, how can I be thankful? I was so thankful last year, 37 weeks, my little turkey Myles was cooked.

MISSing Myles, wishing my family understood, but I don't think they ever will.

Myles' big day (I didn't crawl into a hole)

Technically, I birthed Myles on November 24, 2007, but we found out he was gone on the 23rd, maybe left us that very day. The 23rd always held special significance for me as I had experienced preterm labor, and November 23rd I was 37 weeks exact. It was my victory day. I made my space public for a short while and have been using it for a memorial site for him ( (as you may have seen). I'll change it back after Thanksgiving I think, another sad day, but i made it through the last one. Here's how the day went:

I thought I'd crawl in a hole these last few days, but my sister came down with her four kids (2,4,8,12) and of course Simone was there, and I have a small house, so I had a mad house. I ended up taking them all to the card store and letting them pick out what they think Myles would like, getting balloons and some party hats. They were a blessing (is there . Just what I needed to get the job done, with a smile, and some tears. My daughter of course told anyone who asked that we were celebrating her little brother's birthday, 'but he died'.

I added some pics and their in Myles slideshow. I just realized yesterday, I wanted a cake, and it did turn out nice. My sister and I sang the Rose, my 2 year old nephew popped Myles' balloon, but it was funny. The kids were so wise, and just said the right things. They're so innocent, they don't know enough about death to act all awkward and socially handicapped like adults do.

The day went well, but I'm glad this one is over. Now I have today, and tomorrow, all the rest of the days of my life living without my son to get through. I hope I find some healing days like I found this day in the future.

And btw, Thanks Heidi, you were amazing, just the person i needed. Wish mom coulda seen the balloon release, i saw you stopped by and put the ducks on Myles' stone. I love you so much, you're my best friend, even though I treat you like poop sometimes. I know you love me no matter what, and that means a lot to me.

November 16, 2007

I'm 36 weeks today, and I am happy and miserable and nervous and excited and anxious and crabby all at the same time. Today I just wanted to hold my little baby so bad, I can't wait.

Brandon's in the dog house because he laughed (with a weird sort of triumph) when I told him I thought that I could be getting stretch marks under my bellybutton, my tummy is still free of stretch marks. Then, we're laying in bed and he says, "I can't believe you're getting so big." I'm like, jeez thanks, and he says, "Well you were just so skinny, who knew you could get so big." Yeah, seriously, he said this. His excuse is he's just proud his boy's getting big. It's irritating. I'm not reveling in my girth goddamnit, why should he get to?! I can't be too mad though, he acts as if the bigger I get, the more accomplished we are as parents. It's almost (but not quite) cute. I wonder if he were the one this gigantic if he would feel near so proud?

I look over the past year and compare it to last. So many changes have happened, and I just want to go back, back, back and I just keep moving forward. But not forward really; sideways, up, down (down, down, down). My hearts still lost somewhere back there. I wish my son were here with me this Thanksgiving, I feel like there is some alternate reality out there somewhere where he is. And we're all together as a family and happy like it was supposed to be. I can see it so clearly. I pretend to hold my son in my arms, it's so hard not having him here I like to pretend he is. And I know not everything would be better or perfect if he were here, but my heart would be so much bigger. The daily joys of a child? Oh, little children are so much fun. I could use some of that kind of life. That fun, some of those frustrations, and silly worries. Part of me wants to be oblivious to the harshness of this life, but part of me couldn't trade in the knowledge I have now, at how precious this life is. I just want my son.

Countdown: two weeks

I've really fallen apart recently. One of my favorite movies is Donnie Darko (morbid I know) but I've just felt like what happened to him is happening to me. The past, present, and future, are all unrealized alternate realities due to some weird blip in the space time continuum, and yet there is this countdown, to the second, that will lead to self destruction. But for the better?

I was describing how I felt at Thanksgiving last year to my therapist. Oh, how I longed for my Turkey, Myles. I would make jokes about him as a turkey in the oven keeping him in there to get good and cooked (he wanted to come early), and how he was going to be an 8 pound holiday turkey, and I'd sing him the Adam Sandler thanksgiving song and my daughter would laugh with glee and Myles would kick at the rucus.

I remember being so thankful and happy. I had made it through many weeks of bedrest, and on the Friday after Thanksgiving, I would be 37 weeks. TERM!!! A term pregnancy. My daughter was born at 35 weeks, so making it even further, that was such an accomplishment. I thought the worse had come and past. I was counting my chickens before they hatched (a really sad platitude if you think about it). As Elizabeth mcCracken put it, i thought he was a sure thing. I tempted fate, not aloud, but i was certainly cavalier.

Could I wait for 40 weeks?! NO! I wanted him then, that suited me. That friday, November 23rd. I couldn't wait. So I did everything I could to make the contractions that had accompanied me for those long weeks of bedrest work to finally get him HERE, in my arms, my holiday baby that I imagined falling in love with so many times.

It sounds so silly, and romantic isn't the word for it, but I had the weeks after his birth planned like you would have a romantic vacation planned. I didn't want to leave the bed for the first week (YES, AFTER 9 weeks of bed rest!!!). We were going to nurse and sleep and play and bond, attachment parenting heaven.

I was so thankful that week, but for the wrong things. I was thankful that bed rest was over. I was thankful to get up and cook and clean and impress, my first thanksgiving in my own home. I was thankful that my son would be here soon. I was not thankful that he was still in my womb. I wanted him out of my body. I was not thankful (never was thankful) for being pregnant. I was not thankful for that wonderful Thanksgiving day with him inside me, myself completely oblivious to the fact he had likely already passed. That night we watched the movie 'Knocked up' eerily when I first began to wonder when i last felt him.

Life in the fast lane, taking everything and everyone for granted. Thinking I deserved my son. Feeling so entitled and bitter for those weeks of bed rest, broken down into seconds ticking in my mind each day of worry and frustration and of complete vulnerability. It was, nevertheless, hopeful worry as in my mind it was completely assured he'd arrive safe and healthy. He was my light at the end of a long dark tunnel, my reward for what I perceived to be my own self sacrifice, when really it feels like I was punished for caprice and ungratefulness.

That clock ticking away then is as loud and clear today as it was this exact day last november. But everything is the opposite. There is no hope this time, only a deep sense of loss, shame, and failure. But the ticking is there, in the back of my mind, like the crocodile searching for Captain Hook.

Not yet morning in America

You will all have to forgive me, but I’m not celebrating yet. You see, he is President elect Obama. We have two months until he becomes President. And that scares the shit out of me. The negative campaign that capitalized on division and hatred has it’s true believers seething mad. Racist fascist right-wing fundamentalist assholes are waking up pissed off all over America and all over the world. So excuse me if I wait to cry and dance until inauguration day. I don’t think this President will make it. But that’s my life experience talking; calamity is around every corner in my world. I thought there was room in my heart for hope when it came to Obama, but I guess not. I’m just afraid this morning, and that makes me sad. No joy, not even in this.

Living liminally

The other day, I got an email from an editor wanting me to review a book on my blog (my semi-pseudonymous blog). They sent me a free copy, and Brandon was so proud of me. He knows I could be a book reviewer (generally speaking) in a heartbeat, but I was less excited because I knew exactly what this book was, and why they wanted ME to review it on MY blog. Of course, I had to get the book on Oct. 15th, Pregnancy and Infant loss awareness day (not Pregnancy loss, stillbirth, and infant loss you'll notice).

The book is called, "An exact replica of a figment of my imagination." It's about a woman's stillbirth and the subsequent pregnancy and birth of her 'rainbow baby' (the term us forsaken mums use to refer to a living child after a stillbirth).

So, you'd think I'd gobble it up like every study on preterm labor and stillbirth I've consumed in the last year. It's short, and beautifully bound in baby boy blue, a book the old me could've read it in a matter of hours. She was a voracious reader. But, instead, I read the first page and put it down. It hit too close to home, that day, this Fall, that dark humor. This woman is me. And, godsdamnit, I don't like me. I don't need to read me. I don't want to read me. I need to read about politics. I need to read about the weather. I live this book every day. How can I possibly read it?

So, my friend called me today, so excited, totally ignorant to the memoir that has been sitting on my table torturing me since I received it on Oct. 15th. She had to tell me they were reviewing a book on stillbirth on NPR (god(s) love her, lol). Here it is if you'd all like to hear the review (5min), it's good:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=96171637

So I don't know why I'm writing this blog. Mostly, because I've always liked the word liminal, and that's what this reviewer ended with, a ponderance on the word liminal. In the 11 months since I lost Myles, and really the months of bed rest before then, I didn't realize that I WAS fucking liminal. So I guess maybe now I've decided to finally pick up the baby blue book, this book about the full term stillbirth of a woman's beloved son, 'puddin', and just read the damn thing. Because as much as I know, I have lived, what's in it, if I can glean an insight from it, even a little one, maybe it's worth it. And I like the word liminal too.

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness day

We Miss You Myles 11/24/07

Though I believe that stillbirth should be in the title, Oct. 15th is a huge day to raise awareness about stillbirth. Too often, it's glossed over, forgotten or overshadowed as it is in the title. I'm feeling very sad today. There are just a lot of reminders, and I'll tell you, this time last year, I did not take note of this day. I couldn't have. How could I have known? I also just received my copy of "An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination," which I plan on writing about here. Anyway, if anyone is reading it and wants to have a 'book club' with it where we can read and discuss, let me know in the comments. I started to read it, and I put it down until this evening, because it was too real. Especially the use of dark humor. I think I'm really going to like this book.

Anyway, earlier today, I decided to post something on my myspace page and on here, and looked for videos on pregnancy and infant loss. Needless to say, they were all religious and/or had country music. Now, I feel like an asshole for complaining about it, mostly because I'm ignorant as to even how to make a video such as these (and I would love to do one for Myles), let alone know how to post that video online. I just thought that I would find a video, like a nice secular PSA, to post to my friends. So, because I could find absolutely nothing, I've posted the best video I could find, CSPAN, 20 years ago, 1988. Enjoy:

We will be lighting a candle at 7pm in honor of Myles and all of the beautiful babies gone too soon.

Saying goodbye to complacency

They say there is no wrong way to grieve, we all do what we have to do to survive, but I can tell you that I was doing it wrong. I began using alcohol, "responsibly", at first, but had it spiral out of control over the many months, slowly breaking my little rules that I set up to convince myself drinking wasn't a problem. By summer I was abusing alcohol, period. I managed to shield Simone from the brunt of it for a long time, but in the end, I was not being a good parent. I think that was the hardest part, and still is the hardest part now that I look back. She deserved better.

I'm happy to say that I've said goobye to alcohol for awhile and I don't think I've felt better for a very very long time. I realized that all I was doing was trying to escape from the pain. Whether it was my alcohol, my ipod, or my computer; I did not want to feel what I was feeling. After hitting rock bottom and almost committing suicide (I had convinced myself I was a terrible mother and Simone would be better without me, 'crazy' I know), I checked myself into the Psych ward at the hospital. It was my daughter's 5th birthday, and i think it will always be the single best gift I've ever given her.

Being there, where everything is done for you, where there are no responsibilities except getting better; I had to figure out very quickly what to do with myself without my distractions. No phone, no computer, no housework, no work, no childcare. It was soooooo hard. It's like I had to start all over and really question everything. But I learned that I can cope with the pain, it is bearable . . . barely.

. . .

So, here I am. I clawed my way out of the bottom of the pit. For months and months, I thought it was a bottomless pit, but I was wrong. I've stood at the bottom, it's the worst place you can be. I can't say I wish I had never been there, however. I think that knowing there is a bottom, having stood in the darkness, seeing no light above me, but knowing I could sink no further, grounded me in a way I never expected. One thing I came to realize there is how alienated my dh and I have gotten from each other. I realized during my four days at the hospital, that I would not be able to heal if I did not address the problems in our lives. I was wonder woman for so many years, I didn't even realize that i was trying to be everything to everyone. I needed boundaries, space, and a room of my own. Hence, the separation.
We haven't been happy for a long time, and I realize now that I was putting too much pressure on Myles. In the first few months, I would always cry for the longest time about how he was my 'savior', oh how my life needed that baby. In the pit, and over the last few weeks, I've really thought about what I was saying. How could I have so much riding on him, this tiny little innocent baby? He wouldn't have been my savior, everything would not be miraculously perfect if he were here. I see this realization as a gift from him, he WAS perfect, will always be perfect, but nothing else in this life is. I am so grateful to have had him in my life, he has given me the most precious gift in this world. He has helped me to realize that I do not have this life figured out, that it is much tougher than I ever realized, and that I can make mistakes but be better for them if I work hard enough? I will be forever indebted to my son.
. . .

Brandon and I started counseling a few weeks ago, and it has already started to help us reconnect. He has had chronic back pain for many years, and the separation and counseling has helped both of us realize that what I was doing with alcohol he has been doing with painkillers. Now that he has had no painkillers for over a week, he realizes he was not just numbing his back pain.

It's almost like we took turns bottoming out. It's so hard seeing him standing at the bottom of that pit this week. One of us has to be here for my daughter, and it's hard to think that for awhile, we might have been meeting her needs, but we weren't really 'there' for her. We were just getting by. Today, I am 'there' for her, and for him, and that feels really good.It's been overwhelming to see him crying everyday, I've never seen him cry like this. For the first time ever, having him say to me, "I need you. Please, help me." My Brandon never asks for help. And I've been staying the night back at our house to take care of him. I see our separation as short term because I still love him and I do not want a divorce. I may even want more children together someday. But I am committed to it through November and maybe longer, and I fully realize that it may end in divorce, and that divorce does not necessarily mean failure. I think an unhappy marriage is a bigger failure than any divorce. Complacency is the root of all evil. Anyway, even after only a month, I can already thank our separation for a new level of awareness in our marriage and in our parenting. It seemed like forever that we were just trading off babysitting, going through the motions, and now we are being more concerted in our effort to heal, not just ourselves, but our family.
. . .

Last night, I asked DH, where would we be if Myles had lived? And we both, for the first time acknowledged together that WE might be no better. We would have our darling son, and there is no doubt he would've brought so much joy to our world, anyone who knows us knows we both looooove babies sooooo much. But we wouldn't have this opportunity to stand back from our lives and truly question everything, to be able to really ask, "am I happy?" and to be strong enough to answer, "no", and take that knowledge and have the courage to change our lives for the better. Moving out was the hardest thing I've done, it's still not easy today, but I've realized anything worth doing is not going to be easy.

So here I am, a day away from 10 months without my Myles, exactly a year from the day i began my preterm labor and the long weeks of bed rest that did not culminate happily as I was so certain they would. The countdown has begun, and I have no doubt the next few months will be hard. But I do not think they will be my hardest. I can look back now and clearly see the worst months behind me, and that gives me hope that no matter how many good and bad days await in my future, that they will never be as bad as they have been.

I will survive.

Sorry I've been gone

I can't say no news is good news. However, I have stopped drinking and have never had a more clear objective view of my life. It's terrifying and liberating.

Tonight, I was invited to go to a dinner for an organization that does work to improve maternal fetal health. The focus of the dinner was prematurity. Now, I had my daughter at 35 weeks, and I went into preterm labor with my son at 28 weeks, and proceeded to be on bed rest until I lost him for no reason at 37 weeks at Thanksgiving. He had always been wonderful, I'd always, always say, "I never worry about Myles, he's a fighter," because he kicked me soooo much. I thought I had made it when I lost him. All those weeks worrying, sacrificing, putting up with mom, mil rotating to come help and stay with us. I thought it was the worst thing in the world, bed rest, the fear of him coming early and being in the NICU.

So I had to listen to a panel of parents whose children were sick and in the NICU, pretty freaking terrifying. But I could not, just could not bear to hear there stories, as amazing as I know they would've been to me 18 months ago. They were talking about family support, and care packages, and all this stuff they gave them. They only made cursory mention of bereavement, none of the parents on the panel had lost an infant, and there book had one page on infant loss. But on that one page, they talked about helping plan funeral services. And the packages they got were beautiful. (Which makes me all the more made when I see that they would turn away bags from anyone for anything!!! ).

Nobody would say the word death. They'd just allude to it, and then they would cry about how close their children came. All I could think about was Myles. It was torture. And I couldn't help but being angry with them. I've said to myself many times, if Myles had come early, he'd likely be here. But then I look at the statistics for a 28 weeker, and they have a worst chance of neonatal death (5%) than anyone has risk of stillbirth (1%). So I can't say the statistics were in our favor if he had come on Sept. 23rd.

So I actually envied them. And while I was doing it, I was thinking how awful I was. I almost had to get up and leave. Then, they had speakers on about infant loss. I'm thankful for the work they do. But why wasn't anyone talking about stillbirth?! They were more afraid to utter it, than the word death. Sigh. Why is fetal death so taboo?!

I've been gone for awhile. It's good to be back. This fall has been hard, Myles seems to always be on my mind lately. I was walking in Walgreens, and I looked up, and I saw Halloween stuff!!! And my mind transported me instantly back, and for a millisecond I felt like it was a year ago. How can minutes seem like hours, but the time has gone by in a blink of an eye? I've lost almost a whole year now.

One thing I can remember with such utter happiness, is that my mom was down before Halloween and we decided to paint a pumpkin on my big pregnant belly. And it fills me with such sadness that he is not here with us to go trick or treating. But I'm so thankful that I thought of doing that then (I was on bed rest already, but with hope, as I'd made it through October). I'm so grateful I have those memories of his first halloween, when he was my little pumpkin.MISSing Myles and all our precious little ones this Fall

How I fell apart

I'm trying to figure out why I had a 'nervous breakdown'. All I know is I hate the terms crazy and insane now, especially now that I realize I tell Simone she's 'driving me crazy'. My dad and I came up with the new term blonders (kind of like bonkers, but with a small dig at the blondies out there).

We had Simone's 5th birthday up there in the Psych ward; it was actually kind of special. Everyone had cake and ice cream and sang to her, and my honey took her to red lobster for supper afterwards (she is a shrimpaholic, not breaded shrimp either). Anyway, knowing that I might not make her b-day, or party, it was so much harder to admit myself, but I am now convinced I gave her the best gift I could give at the time.

So what does a nervous breakdown look like? I don't know. Ask B. All I know is how it felt, and that whatever it was, it was definitely a negative energy just radiating off of me; racing thoughts, the inability to stop crying, sleep, eat. Impulsvity is through the roof. Um. I think it's like watching a house you've built yourself crumble before your eyes.

So when 'your house' falls down like that, there is no logic. No thinking. Nothing is rational anymore. I realize now I had a panic attack Tuesday night and was deeply depressed by Wednesday morning. I was a danger to myself, I felt unable to care for Simone.

I wish I could describe it better. It's like taking the butterflies that are in your stomach, and turning up the volume from 1 to 100, instantly. Fight or flight, I'm not sure which one I did, but they are both the same response really. Whether you're running away or getting ready to duke it out, your heart and mind is racing miles a minute. Then you realize you have no idea where the predator is, I think because really the predator is you. There is no running away except maybe in death, which is extremely tempting. I'd like to think I chose to fight it out and I won. I think, though, that I won the battle, but am I still at war? Yes. To deny it is to go back to complacency.

Psychiatric Ward

I'm back from the Affective Disorders unit at the hospital (the Psych ward). The grief finally caught up with me I've been there since Wednesday and got discharged about an hour ago. I wish I could say I'm feeling better, but I just found out my cousin died. His mom is such a special lady, his kids are such beautiful kids, my heart is in pain for them. He was a wonderful father and son, please keep my family in NY in your thoughts.

Because I have a mental illness, I will write about my experiences, because of the stigma, I will write about my experiences, I feel it weighing on me. So, I will write, like I always do, my friends, and because you're my friends, you'll listen I hope.

I want to survive, I will survive. It's just soooooo hard when you feel so down about yourself that you think you're doing other's a favor. That's how backwards your thinking can get. It's scary having thoughts you can't control, it's the most frightening thing I've experienced. It really is mental illness, I can't describe it (but has that ever stopped me from trying? smile:).

I can be surrounded by people, and I just feel so alone. So utterly desperately alone. I feel abandoned by my husband, he just doesn't get it. 8 months on Thursday, jeez, when is the 24th? It's like my subconscious knows it, but the rest of me is on pause while the world moves on around me.

I get 'better' I get 'worse' I get really 'better' then I get really 'worse'. I just want to disappear. Why do I feel so alienated around my old family and friends? I think they're plotting against me. They don't like my drinking, blah, blah, blah, they worry because I've lost a lot of weight. I don't know what to say? I'm not hungry. Food does not bring me joy.

My self worth is shattered. My body killed my baby, somehow, someway, and someday I'll know. Well, it's either drink and sleep at 10 or be up til 3, and I prefer to take some ibuprofen and handle the hangover, then miss sleep, wake up late for work (which I eerily don't get hangovers anyway) and I haven't had any blackouts, I'm maintaining.

Oh, fuck me, I'm just defeated, and the thoughtless comments have only just begun. My mom is putting pressure on me to be 'stronger', everyone wants the 'old Trish', my dad asked me if I was going to have another baby. They STILL don'te get that I will never the be the good ole predictable, debatin', grinning, thriving woman I once was. That's not me, they don't get it. My husband says he doesn't know me anymore, and I'm like, "join the club". Hell, I'd like to be let in cause I don't know what I'm going to do half the time; how I'm going to react.

Oh, this has turned into the nightmare blog of the century. On a happy note, I axed down a cedar today for my Myles garden (sorry Leigh, I do want to comment but sometimes I can't) and it just brought out so much anger. Has anyone here used an axe, they're fantastic, but where gloves. Of course, now I've got this tree to move but that didn't occur to me as I cussed at it and pulled on it, and tore that sucker to the ground. But darn it, my butterfly bushes and snowball bush weren't getting enough sun!

On an angry note, there was another burial in baby land today, I just drive up knowing, saying 'no, no, no, not another' seeing the awning, getting angry as I get closer, so mad it has happened again. Just so mad, I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have that 15 foot cedar to chop down.

Okay, I am losing. Don't know if it's just life (my laptop died, my transmission went out, my cell phone got lost) and I DO feel like Dory off of 'finding Nemo'. I hate the new me as much as my family, don't know how much I loved the 'old me' even then. So I'm just like everyone else, except I get to worry about being worried about, yipee.

I feel so alone, but surrounded by TOO many people who love me TOO much.
MISSing my son TERRIBLY, today, and always. I love you, Myles.

Can I rant about women's health issues?!

I mean, this is my research, so most of my ranting takes place in a confined academic setting where I can't actually 'rant' more like humbly share my opinion in 10 to 15 second intervals. I'm finding this all overlapping with my freakishly fucked up life and I'm just in the need to write a rant that covers the gamut of what I do each fucking day.

This morning, I woke up to this article:
http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1823096,00.html?cnn=yes
Now, Cochrane reviews are the BOMB. And I know women who have had many benign biopsies that are fucking painful.

So, as a society, we're all obsessively individualistic. In the health world? Yep, it's all on US (me and you), ladies and gents. So as a public health person, there is nothing that pisses me off more than this individualistic view on health aimed at changing our individual behaviors and SHIFTING responsibility, guilt, blame, and shame on us.

What does this relate to, oh let me think . . . KICK COUNTS . Yes, you know, that magical solution to stillbirth. For the record, fuck kick counts. Yep. That's right. I would never tell anyone to do them, I didn't do them, and they wouldn't have done shit for me. So I'm not carrying that baggage for the public health community any fucking more. What else does this relate to, BED REST, CERCLAGES, FETAL MONITORING on low-risk pregnancies, pap smears (which are only really needed every three years if that!).

You know what else? Fuck self breast exams, I don't fucking do them, I NEVER have, and I HAVE FELT GUILTY. NOT ANY MORE!!!!

Fuck it all, because at this point, I don't think there is anything in women's health that is EVIDENCE BASED, it's all a bunch of fucking bullshit. And I'm tired of carrying this individualistic bucket of water around for the public health community and for the peace of mind of doctors who don't miss a wink of sleep over recommending stupid spoonfed BULLSHIT about CHOICES.

So, here is my message to the public health community, and this is my goal as a reasearcher, as a woman, as a mother to a daughter; get the fuck off our backs and start working on the motherfucking institutional and socioeconomic causes OF BREAST CANCER, CERVICAL CANCER, and STILLBIRTH and PREMATURE LABOR. Because there are studies, a fucking ton of them if you ever wanted to pick up a Soc of health journal or gender and health book written by sociologists that indicate this shit is societal. We are organizing our society in a way that HURTS WOMEN'S HEALTH. And, because we live longer, but have more disabilities (yes, took a comprehensive exam on this issue), it's in our societies economic interests to FUCKING DO IT.

Thank you. Had to get that off my chest this morning before I go talk about this bullshit all day at work with a big grin on my face being a yes girl to all the psychologists and MALE MD's who think they know what the fuck they're doing.

Wisdom from my Simone

I'm drying my tears, I can't tell if I'm crying because I'm happy or sad, has anyone felt that way before? I had to share this discussion before we leave town today.

Simone watches NOGGIN, which is like channel 36 here, and it doesn't have commercials and it's for preschoolers, blah, blah, blah. Well, in between shows they have these series' that teach and help kids learn, and one they introduced recently was Babu (a preschooler) and his pregnant mommy. It's very cute, the family is cute, the narrator talks with happy music in the background as the Babu helps is pregnant mom. Under most circumstances, it's fuckin' adorable. It's something I would've been all over last summer, showing Simone how she was just like the little boy on tv.

This summer, I see it, and I'm annoyed. I do my best to not have a reaction because I don't want Simone to know my aversion to this stuff, but she knows. Well today we saw the snippet (in between shows, I'm folding laundry, Simone's coloring) where the mom brings baby home and they talk about their cultural traditions, and how 'now he's a big brother' (as if he wasn't when his mom was pg, just a peeve) and I take a short breath and just leave the room. I'm cleaning so I didn't think Simone would notice. Well, she's more astute than I give her credit for. I come back five minutes later (I'd forgotten the commercial, the whole point of walking away) but then Simone says:

Simone: Mom, does watching Babu and the baby remind you of Myles?

Me: Yes (I say gently), does it remind you of Myles?

Simone: Yes

Me: What does it make you think of ?(I'm preparing for something really depressing, like I think, about him not being here, and us not bringing him home. You know, things I think when I see those commercials). Instead:

Simone: It makes me think about when Myles was in your tummy and we would sing to him and he'd kick me with his little foot, laughing the whole time.

Me: (surprised, joyous, stupored) yeah, he made us so happy didn't he?
Simone: Mom, maybe you and dad need to write that down, you know, like on a list, so you don't forget it.

She's so amazing, and so right, I see those commercials and all I think of is the bad, but good old Simone, this whole time when she's zombified watching this scenario on tv she's so familiar with, she's remembering how much fun we had. Why can't I be more like her. One more time, Simone takes my breath away, just like the day she was born, you know?

I missed my first 24th, but I didn't

The sixth month mark was so big, and June went by (in a good way to an extent) like one of those commercials where everything is moving in fast motion all around you. May was so horrid. And now I feel guilty because I forgot my baby. I was actually there on his day briefly, swinging by his grave like I like to do, I did have a 'bad' day, I was just down.

Ah, retrospect, how did I know? I knew I was missing something, missing my son who should be with me 24/7, giggling. Missing his day. How could I?

Seven months old, I should be trying sweet potatoes and solids and . . . I don't like the new me either, the new me is a slacker who is apathetic, indifferent, why can't the best be brought out in me? Instead, the anger and frustration.MISSing Myles, today, and every 24th and every other day of the month too, god damn it.

People talk to me about days, weeks, months, next week, last week, they're all so jumbled up. I've resorted to a calendar and frequent calls and emails reconfirming appointments I can't keep straight, I kept it all in my head before, and I can't do it now. Now that I've forgotten my little man's day, it makes me mad. That time has moved on around me. That I have moved with it, I just want to go back. It's like I'm moving further away from him. And all I want is to be close to him again. Every day, that would be my wish.

Time moving forward hurts, taking these steps through grief, so tricky, nothing is positive, everything is both, negative and positive. Painful and powerful, beautiful and cruel.

I'm missing that I missed Myles' day, missing that grief that I had always anticipated before, honored, acknowledged. I hope he would forgive me and maybe be happy though it breaks my heart. I would be happy for my mother, you know?

I drove to the cemetary today, a string of events has now led me down this different path of grief, one not so fresh, but old, and always there, but underneath even the happiness and joy sometimes.

I wrote my letter to him and him to me. It was good, I wrote it on butterfly paper given to me as a gift from an old garage sale, so precious. I wrote a letter from me to Myles and Myles to me, and left them there. It was good to do and I thank Joanne for suggesting it. My views are very naturalistic, and tonight I watched the fireflies.

Another mothers poem really made me try to rethink it all a few weeks back, and I felt myself moving on but it wasn't until I missed that day (the 24th, 7 months) I knew I had actually transitioned. We always yearn for the old and familar eh? The old grief I knew intimately.

This poem (about 6 weeks ago) made me think and notice everything about nature differently, that Myles is just not 'there' at the cemetary, that he is everywhere and in every beautiful thing I see. I'll repost:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there, I do not sleep,

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the sparkle on the snow,

I am the sun, on ripened grain,

I am the gentle summers rain,

And when you wake in mourning’s hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush... of quiet birds in circled flight,

I am the Moon and Stars at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,I am not here, I did not die.

I wrote it on the back of his tattered picture I keep in my back pock. In retrospect, it was his message to me when I wrote it on there that day last week.

And I've been learning gardening, and appreciating nature, and the cycle of life. It just hurts to 'move on' to change my hair, and to be changed (the new me is very different), and to find so much has changed, but everything is still the same (same house, same dogs, same family, same jobs) and we were a hous in anticipation of so much change . . . change that never happened like we'd anticipated but CHANGE nonetheless.

We got change all right.

A tornado swirled through my life and left everything in it's place but nothing untouched.

My Menses

Clockwork. Never skipped a period (except for pg), after Simone, I breastfed for 2.5 years, got mine back on month 12 and it was the same from there after.

30 days. 30 days give or take, but 30 days.

Now? Well, I waited 18 weeks to get a menstrual cycle, unheard of by all the moms I know who've experienced stillbirth.

Then, that one was so heavy I woke up in the middle of the night with blood all over my pj's, even though I was wearing some super duper night pad more akin to a diaper.

Then I spotted on days 15-18. They I waited until day 42 for the next one. Same as the first, heavy flow, spotting on or around those days, then it took 36 days this time.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME???

Why does everyone tell me it's fucking stress too. Don't tell me about stress. I'm a stressed person generally and I've gone through many periods of my life where my stress load was off the charts. Yeah, yeah, yeah, this is 'different', fuck that.

I'm not going to sit around and poo poo myself anymore, and I certainly don't want these MOFO doctors to do it to me either.

My shitlist of doctors, I'll never see Dr. D again which basically means I'm fucked when it comes to my next pg as I'm high risk.

Don't fucking tell me the second time you've met me that my stress level is high and then argue with me because I'm crying because MY SON DIED. I'm not crying because I'm being irrational, nothing you've said has made me cry, you're not that important to me doc. I cry because I love and miss my son, and if when I speak of him and I cry, it doesn't mean my fucking brain has shut off or that now I need treated like a mental patient. I have a psychiatrist and psychologist, I want a OB/GYN to sit and talk to me and answer my questions and speak to me like I know what or how the pituitary, hypathalomus, Follicles and their associated hormones work. I do. I just need some help

I hate doctors

I do. I will be one next year. But I'll be a research doctor, I'm the one who comes up with the statistics everyone else is SUPPOSED to go by. Of course, nothing in a doctors office is hardly ever evidence based, and you better bet if its a drug you're receiving from your OB/GYN it has not been FDA approved for pregnant women. Basically, me and you are the guinea pigs. And they wonder, hmmmmm, why is maternal mortality rising. What causes 50% of stillbirth and 50% of SIDS births a year. Some magic freaking charm?!!!!!!

So help me, if I ever go through pregnancy again, I am not telling anyone, I'm getting a doppler and I'm just going with the flow. Because all these mofo doctors base everything off of is the trend (pharmaceuticals, hitech machines that don't tell you shit) and NOT WOMEN.

Okay, I''ll give more detail about this rant, but I've bawled for two days now, and I just want to know why. Why did I know there was something wrong? Why do these tests keep coming up borderline? Why, why, why? There are no answers, even to why I have a 42 day menstrual cycle with spotting when half my goddamn life I'd have periods like fucking clockwork.

Do they really want me to believe that everything (and oh, could I make a list) that EVERYTHING is unrelated. Fucking bullshit. And don't tell me, 'chances are', because that was my whole last pregnancy, me telling myself, 'chances, everything is fine, I'm overreacting'. Well guess what? I wasn't. I knew. And I didn't know how or what or why or even imagine I'd ever lose my baby. But I knew there was something wrong. And I'll be damned if I don't pay attention to what I believe are warning signs now.

I just hate being pooh, poohed. Talk to me like a fucking colleague because I do research in the development and reproductive health. Don't fucking listen to me like I'm 'hysterical' (as in hysterectomy, as in emotional, as in angry) because I want to theorize about what might be going on based on the in depth calendar I have of my menses.

Fucking bastard. Sorry. Didn't realize how pissed I was until just this moment.

Menstruation; I'm for the 13 month calendar

hopefully the title filtered out those of you who don't care to hear my TMI blogs. If not, this isn't one, or it is. Toughen up and figure it out wusses. LOL. I am crazy.

I've become more naturalistic in my worldview, gardening, for example, and it's been my release (especially the axe and these horrid bushes out front). Well, here are some really neat facts about women and menstruation. (on re-reading these first two sentences have much to do with one another).

We've used natural family planning since Simone was born, which was completely predictable. I didn't know what I had until it was gone (ain't that everyone's life story? fuck.) Of course now I'm dealing with complete unpredictableness, and I can't figure out why despite OCD bordline searches for obscure articles that result in me being obsessed with chimeraism (women carry their fetuses DNA for sometimes up to 27 years, and fetuses carry their mothers, and they think it might have to do with autoimmune disorders).

Why!!!??? Why can't my body be normal and menstruate?!! (Where is that axe, that B accused me of swinging like a bat, Heidi, LOL. My chopping 'form' has gotten better). Shouldn't I get a 'life is easy' pass now that Myles is gone? I don't think I should ever have to put up with anyone's shit again, ask B, and especially not my own god damn body.

Blah, so now I think my body is dysfunctional (to say the least). I know many women have experienced this feeling, trying to conceive, or who have experienced miscarriage or pregnancy loss, like me. It's more than annoying.

Anyway, the whole point of this post was to share THIS site that (I'm linking and quoting) which cheered me up. Hope others are empowered by it too, Guys and gals :) Sorry about the bitchfest.

From the site: http://www.fwhc.org/health/moon.htm

Moon Time

Throughout all cultures, the magic of creation resides in the blood women gave forth in apparent harmony with the moon, and which sometimes stayed inside to create a baby. This blood was regarded with reverence: it had mysterious magical powers, was inexplicably shed without pain, and was wholly foreign to male experience. Early menstrual rites were perhaps the first expression of human culture.

Native American (Lakota):
"Follow your Grandmother Moon. Her illuminating cycles will transform your spirit." Begin with the Grandmother Moon at her brightest and most open. This is a time of outward activity and high energy. Sleep where the moonlight touches you. Walk outside where there are no artificial lights. Feel joy and creativity. As the Grandmother begins to cover her face, begin to withdraw into a quieter, less social place. Move to that inward place that is more about "being" than "doing." In the dark of the moon, when bleeding, the veil between you and the Great Mystery is the thinnest. Be receptive to visions, insights, intuitions. Go to a quiet separate place such as a Moon Lodge. Later, come out of the dark, a woman with a cleansed body. As the moon returns, come back out into the world, carrying your vision.

Customs and Traditions
Indians of South American said all humans were made of "moon blood" in the beginning.
In Mesopotamia, the Great Goddess created people out of clay and infused them with her blood of life. She taught women to form clay dolls and smear them with menstrual blood. Adam translates as bloody clay.

In Hindu theory, as the Great Mother created the earth, solid matter coalesced into a clot with a crust. Women use this same method to produce new life.
The Greeks believed the wisdom of man or god was centered in his blood which came from his mother.

Egyptian pharaohs became divine by ingesting the blood of Isis called sa. Its hieroglyphic sign was the same as the sign of the vulva, a yonic loop like the one on the ankh, RFLMAO
From the 8th to the 11th centuries, Christian churches refused communion to menstruating women.

In ancient societies, menstrual blood carried authority, transmitting lineage of the clan or tribe.
Among the Ashanti, girl children are more prized than boys because a girl is the carrier of the blood.
Chinese sages called menstrual blood the essence of Mother Earth, the yin principle giving life to all things.

Some African tribes believed that menstrual blood kept in a covered pot for nine months had the power to turn itself into a baby.

Easter eggs, classic womb-symbols, were dyed red and laid on graves to strengthen the dead. freaky

A born-again ceremony from Australia showed the Aborigines linked rebirth with blood of the womb.

Post-menopausal women were often the wisest because they retained their "wise blood." In the 17th century these old women were constantly persecuted for witch craft because their menstrual blood remained in their veins.

Calendars:
The Roman Goddess of measurement, numbers, calendars, and record-keeping; derived from the Moon-goddess as the inventor of numerical systems; measurer of time.
It has been shown that calendar consciousness developed first in women because their natural body rhythms corresponded to observations of the moon. Chinese women established a lunar calendar 3000 years ago. Mayan women understood the great Maya calendar was based on menstrual cycles. Romans called the calculation of time menstruation, meaning knowledge of the menses. In Gaelic, menstruation and calendar are the same word.

The lunar calendar's thirteen 28-day months had four 7-day weeks, marking the new, waxing, full, and waning moons. Thirteen months is 364 days. Pagan traditions describe an annual cycle as a 13 months and a day. Even today, Easter is the first Sunday after the first full moon after the spring equinox. The 13 month calendar also led to pagan reverence for the number 13 and the Christian attempts to demolish it. Generally, the ancient symbols of matriarchy were the night, moon and 13. Patriarchy (under Christianity) honored the day, the sun and 12.

Irrational thoughts and deep anger.

This was a conversation I was having online and it summed it perfectly.

Sometimes our heads think things, or thoughts pop in, or better described, feelings, or images. We can't control that. I bet I could name something every single day that has made me ashamed to have thought. Whether it is instantaneous or years later. What matters is what you do. You're not going to follow through and wish them the worst every single day, or sabatoge them or go out of your way.

Case in point, I will admit that within the last week I have contemplated many things anybody who knows me would be aghast at. Luckily I have a therapist who I can be honest with and say, 'I've had these thoughts and they bother me and sometimes scare me.' My most irrational thought and feeling that has occurred and reoccurred to me; my step sister in law (my dad's stepDIL, my stepmom's DIL) is now pg with her 3rd pregnancy, due in DECEMBER.

And you don't know how angry that makes me at them.

At the world. But especially at THEM.

I WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE A XMAS BABY. ME. I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE THE ONE ARRIVING VICTORIOUSLY, HOME FOR CHRISTMAS WITH MY NEW BABY. I'M SO ANGRY AND HURT. This past Christmas no one once mentioned Myles when I was with them. It was the elephant the room and I felt contagious. Luckily I was still in shock at the time, but in hindsight, I can believe nobody just said, 'he Trish, I'm so sorry that happened to you'. I've had a lot of friends do it and be wonderful, but my son is dead less than a month and his name wasn't mentioned in that hous.

I don't wish them ill will, I've actually liked them, they're fun to talk to. That's the kicker, THEY ARE PERFECT and my Dad likes them better than me sometimes I think because I'm some liberal atheist. And they're like such conformists.

So what thought keeps running through my head? THEY STOLE MY BABY! That's how I feel, when I told my sistder that day, I just broke down and said, "they stole my baby" in sobs. And I'm sure they didn't do it on purpose, go out of there planning a December baby, and I'm sure they weren't thinking, they should stop ttc in March/April so they don't ruin every Xmas for me from here on out. I dread next Christmas with all my heart.

I'm so angry about this, even now, right this second, even though I know it's completely irrational. All I think is 'they stole my baby'.

My epiphany

I haven't had a religious epiphany from losing my son. When my grandmother said he was in the arms of Jesus, I said 'he's at peace', and that was it.

Weeks since then, I realized part of deconstructing me (see last blog about imperfection) was trying to remember again what it felt to really be joyous. What things really bring me joy, and which don't. I found joy in nothing for many months; not eating, not sleeping, not even Simones shenanigans.

But it all finally came down to the question: what do I want from this world in the short term? If you could live your last day, and you knew it, what would you do?
Well, what I realized is that I've come to a more naturalistic worldview. Not Wiccan (sp?) but just the cruelty and beauty of what life is. Every day should be a good day to die, and I put that quote on my profile only days before Myles died. I took it off, felt like an asshole, but I still believe it even though I can't accept the fact that he should have at least died in my arms if I was going to have to say goodbye forever.

So the other day, I layed in the sun, just plopped down on my front deck and soaked in the rays, and I was happy. And I've been thinking about planting a garden, I've been moving perennials, putting some rocks up, and I'm just learning, but its challenging and fascinating and the suns rays feel like Myles. I like to think his energy is apart of them.

So I guess what I find faith in is the cycle of life. People call people tree huggers, but have any of you hugged a tree? I have. It was terrific. And I'm going to plant a tree that I have for Myles, and I'm going to plant whatever I can for him in the next few weeks. Because he was here and just as quick he was gone, and he was just as much a part of the cycle of life that I am or you are. I told my daughter a loooong time ago that everything that lives must die. I remind her of it if she asks. But not in a dreary way, more like an adventure. I tell her if everyone lived forever, life wouldn't be so special. It would have neither beauty nor cruelty, and that in the grand scheme, we are pretty lucky to find ourselves here, in a finite world. And I think Myles was even fortunate, to live, even such a short life, with love, and laughter, and singing, and talk always revolving around him. He kicked my sister in the head, and punched or kicked at least every other person dear to me.

Maybe living and dying in the womb is so not so bad after all. No hunger, I like to think no pain, just a warm embrace and a slow awareness of the voices and sounds around you. And he was a part of our family, he heard not just our laughter, but our arguments, Simone's tantrums, and my stress. All the while he was warm and nurtured, and growing and learning, and he will never know the sadness we feel that he is gone. I'm glad for that. All he knew was contentment and wonder, and maybe that's not so bad?

He felt love, but never grief. Maybe it's selfish to wish him with me instead, maybe he had felt the best life had to offer, hopefully not the worst.

Hope

We could all use a little bit of hope, and I thought this picture was beautiful.
Of course, I think she should be pg, or have a child in her arms, but the musical instrument is symbolic of that. The hope of creating something so beautifule you close your eyes and feel like you're on top of the world.

Simone knows too much

No, I'm not talking about life and death, I'm talking about sex. So I told you all how one day in the car, with the utmoust sincerity and very resolutely, Simone said that NEXT time, she wants to see us MAKE the baby. This kid's seen it all when it comes to carrying and birthing babies, so it was only a natural request. Well, B and I got a good laugh and told her we didn't think so; luckily that's the last we've heard of that one.

NOW, Holly Disco (our Christmas kitty that we've been so thankful for) is in . . . heat. I don't know how it happened, not even technically. I don't mind admitting I know very little about a cat's reproductive system. Disco's still so little! She's my little kitten, damnit. I've never had a cat that has gone into heat.

Anyway, So I was clueless when I heard her meowing at 7am yesterday morning. This cat doesn't say much (B's never heard her meow) I thought she was trapped somewhere. When I actually got up (930ish, hehe) I went looking for her to make sure she wasn't locked in a room somewhere. She was just chillin' under the table by then, so I wondered why she was meowing but, oh well.

Then last night, I noticed her ass up in the air. Her tail is off to the side and she's purring at everybody's feet. And when I say everybody, I mean both the dogs who are just trying to nap, poor things. Usually, she's way too cool for the dogs (as all cats are), she has certainly never layed down beside them and in front of them purring and putting her ass in their face. So it dawned on me. Shit. She was supposed to get fixed last week and we forgot, we would've done it just in time, too. She has an appt. this next Monday, but Monday is a long ways a way.
So I wondered how this topic would be broached with Simone and I decided, as most parents do about most things, avoid the subject at all cost. I managed okay, Simone seemed oblivious most of the evening. At bed time, Simone was coloring on the bed (and jumping on it, and being crazysleepyrotten) I walk in to suddenly find her with kitty on the bed and kitty's purring and Simone is so excited that kitty is giving her so much attention.

Simone: Mommy, kitty's acting funny. (she's says quizzically and with a giggle.)

Me: I know, now get her off my bed. (I say very authoritatively)

Simone: Why Mom? she likes me. (she says sadly)

Usually Disco runs from Simone if she hasn't already been trapped by the death grip. And she's was just petting her back and Holly was purring away.

Me: I know honey (I say sympathetically). Now, get her off MY bed.
Ugh, the phone rings. As I'm on the phone, I watch her pet kitty, and I'm unnerved by the fact this cat is standing on my bed. Just as I get off the phone she grabbed kitty's tail (kitty immediately raises her ass straight in the air) and then Simone laughs and tickles Disco's ass with the end of her own tail, to kitty's obvious delight. Simone thought it was hilarious (and it kind of was in a really disturbing way because I've never seen a cat act that way either) but I took action, I wanted that cat away from my daughter and off my goddamn bed.

I shoo the cat off (basically yell at her in a gruff voice and clap my hands). And of course, yay, Simone and I get another opportunity to talk about boys and girls and pee-pee's and how girls carry and feed babies, etc., etc. And then I break it to her, Disco is growing up and she wants to make babies and that's why we're getting her 'fixed'.

She was so excited, her eyes lit up, "oh please please please please please can we let her have babies, Mommy?! Please." So I start describing dog and cat overpopulation ad nauseam, and she knows all about rescuing animals and finding homes for them. She seems to understand, and she laughs it up and when I tell her if Sam and Nanna*, weren't fixed, they'd have had lots of babies by now. She giggles with glee and talks about how cute they'd be, and at the thought of all those puppies. It's like 4 yo heaven.

Anyway, it was the kind of conversation I was not expecting yesterday, or to have with my four year old. I'm okay with her knowing lots about babies development and the birthing part, but when it comes to making babies, I don't want my kid being the only kid in her Kindergarten class next year who knows how babies are made.

I was long-winded and boring enough to get around it this time, once again. Close call, big sigh of relief. Suddenly, at the end of our conversation, she says, very matter of factly, "Well, if Disco wants to, even after she is fixed, she CAN get married and NOT have any babies. Isn't that right, Mama?"

I smile and say, "Yes, that's right." She looks very happy about that. My little feminist.

*Nanna is our nickname for Elli Mae as Ellie brings us about a dozen of Simone's toys and things a day when she wants attention, like she's cleaning up after her. Simone get's pissed at Ellie about this (probably because if no one takes these items from her she chews them all to shit) so I thought if I called her Nanna, like on Petar Pan, she might not hate Ellie so much. It's kind of working too by the way

I am literally beating myself up.

I've had a lot of self loathing issues, just no reason to care any more. You go from this place in pg where you are all about health and peace, vitamins, and minerals, and I was on bedrest for so long. And I do get resentful at the end of pg's, just so much self-sacrifice. I'm a selfish person, I feel like an ungrateful person. I feel so much guilt over that resentment and loss of autonomy at the end but I was waiting for my savior, my Myles, to rescue me. He was the light at the end of such a long tunnel.

And so now, I've mentioned I've gone from health nut to a depressed, anxious, PTSD, burgeoning alcoholic. The other night I got drunk (DD was sleeping but DH who doesn't drink so witnessed it all). I fell at some point (okay DH says on more than one occassion) and I woke up with bruises all over and of course, deep in the pit, not just over myles but with the shame and embarrassment that accompanies abusing alcohol. I'm 27 for godsake, I know better.

Today I was so mad at myself when I realized I missed my dearest friends b-day on Thursday (her 10th b-day, this sweet girl who is like my daughter who moved to NV two and a half years ago to my families heartache). I was just so freaking mad that my mind can't remember the simplest freaking things anymore. So, out of complete disgust with myself I just threw on some clothes and went outside and did yard work. And it was frantic, non-stop two hours, pulling up these perennials I hate (mud up to my wrists), cutting down these prickly bushes I've always hated, removing this huge branch from this ice storm from a winter storm, now I'm covered not just in bruises but in scratches (stupid me, I was wearing shorts and a tank top).

And in the background, and why I started this post, I haven't shared too much but I didn't get my period for 18 weeks (after I lost Myles). I was SO excited to get AF after 18 weeks. I waited and waited and we tested and tested (HSG's, genetic, hormonal, etc. looking at laproscopy) and I finally got it and here I am midcycle and I'M SPOTTING.

I have never spotted between periods, never had implantation spotting from two (pg's l/c DD, and DS Myles). Never, in 14 years of normal AF, half those years (seven) I was not on any contraception (either I was not sexually active) or my DH and I used natural family planning for the four years between Simone and Myles, and now I'm spotting? Seriously, maybe I don't have the most 'regular' periods (ranging between 29-31 days, so it's not always clockwork) but I know when I ovulate dammit. And here I am, day 15 thru 18 of my cycle and I've spotted EVERY DAY. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

AM I DEFICIENT?????

I just want to be pg so bad. No, let me rephrase that. I just want a BABY, sooo bad. The pg I could go without. Just a sweet warm baby to nurse, and hold sleeping on my chest, and to see smile, and teeth, and yes night awakenings, and stress, I WANT IT ALL. and I know I have to deal with all of my 'issues' which I am with professionals, but come on!

And when I go out and try to do the old stress relieving things (GARDENING), they send me into panic attacks. 6 weeks after I lost Myles I went to the gym, and after 45 minutes I left there, shaking, and angry, and with Myles all over my brain. And here I am, finally cleaned up from backbreaking labor in the yard, sobbing about another MISSters dog, and I'm shaking, and frantic looking up everything there is about spotting.

I'm sorry this is such a long rant. I JUST WANT A BABY SO BAD. SO BAD. I LOVE BABIES SO MUCH. But I know I'm in no shape (mentally or physically) and it hurts. But at least, AT LEAST, my body could go back to normal so that I know that when we're ready, WE CAN TTC. This uncertainty is driving me bonkers.

'Visiting' Myles III

So tonight I bought two of those tiny little alcohol bottles, drank them and went to Myles grave. The only person I've told this is my Mom, but I've thought multiple times of just digging him up and holding him one more time. My mom is so great, she said she felt the same when her Dad died. I got him some beautiful windchimes and decided to go get so different colored floweres because these blue roses have been there since we buried him (so I don't want to change them) but . . . blue roses? What looks more fake than blue roses? There is no such thing.

I sat there this time and talked. I talked to him like he could hear me. What am I doing? I don't think he can here me, is it just an attempt to find closure in our social by verbalizing what I would say to him if I could?

It felt good. I'm not sure if it was the drinking or just the babbling like when I'm typing. Next time I should bring my laptop. I did a pg journal for Simone but my myspace blog seemed to do just that for Myles. But it wasn't in the first person, you know? It was all about me, and how excited we were, or how tired I was, or whatever blissfully pregnant women rant and rave about (good and bad).

With Simone, it was to her. It's about 20 pages. And I just told her things like I was talking to her, not an adult. I even joked one time that Myles' diary was my blog but I couldn't let him read it until he was older because I cussed too much. In Simone's I just tell her like I am talking to a child. And I suppose, when I talked to 'Myles' today, telling him all the things that excited me about him and our future together. How I knew he would be a challenge, but I thought in the stubborn toddler in a restaurant or rebellious teen challenge. NOT A CHALLENGE LIKE THIS.

I read a quote the other day that grief is the price of love. And that made me scared to love. I know we've discussed it before, but, to me (IMNSHO) love is what makes the world go round, not money. To pay such a cruel price? Could I wish my daughter weren't here, just so I never have to go through the pain of losing her? No. So it's worth it. But I've never paid this price, I love my son so much, so much. And this intense grief I feel this moment is a testament to that, but oh, what a burden. Life is beautiful and cruel.

'Visiting' Myles II

Why do we come to grave sites, us atheists? I don't know why people who believe our loved ones are 'watching over us, can here or see, send us signs'. I can't put myself in that persons shoes, the thought of it bothers me on multiple levels. All I can do is ask myself why do I go to grave sites, and honestly I've never had one to visit. I've always visited cemeteries, actually loved old cemeteries.

Even when I was a believer I used to visit cemeteries. As a child I visited my grandfathers grave, haven't for a long time, but I never knew him. Still, I used to cry, and would tomorrow for the pain it causes my mom to be without her father for almost 30 years.

As a preteens, we visited them when we were causing trouble. I'd lay down, imagining myself the whole time as completely parallel to the lifeless body beneath me. Silly. Of course I still believed back then, and we used to believe that maybe something could happen, and we were scared. Scared of the supernatural. A feeling I haven't had for a long time.

As and adult, my sister and I, and even Simone and I once when I was pregnant with Myles, would walk along, read the names and ages and imagine the families and the tragedies of their lives. I especially like historic cemeteries, I live about 7 or 8 blocks from one and it is filled with so much history. That's where I ultimately decided to bury him.

My parents suggested my home town. My DH has always been adamant about that the fact that he wanted to be cremated, and I always wanted be buried in this obscure cemetery in sand hills where my great, great, great, and great grandparents have been buried, my grandma and grandpa too, my dad probably too. It's peaceful in the sand hills, standing in an ocean of grass, not a things in sight.

Yesterday I went to visit Myles. At first I think I did it for Simone. One day it had snowed and I couldn't find it, and I found him and with my bare fingers red from the freezing snow, I would clean off and clear off and manage his grave. Take care of 'him'. I don't believe he knows I'm there. I don't think 'he' is there. His body is buried there.

Why do I go there, for peace. To get away, and cry, and think about Myles and 'care' for my son, still so motherly. I like bringing things there, making it looked beautiful and cared for. So everyone who might see would know he would've been cared for tenderly had he lived. And tenderly I sit there, and cry, and I'm around these old trees, and whatever weather whithers that day.

It's nice to escape there. I don't like to go with other people. I will. I just don't 'get' anything out of it. Which is interesting to think about as what do I 'get' when I do go there? I'llm

Alcohol

4/16/04
Alcohol
I'm an alcoholic. Am I an alcoholic? How did it begin? With two drinks every night for the first month. Simone and I packed our days full of things that I didn't get to do with her when I was on bed rest. And I felt she had been SO cheated. And we went here and walked there, anywhere you could think of we went. And I said 'screw school work' I did what my 6 hour assistantship required of me, and that was it. And that's how it was for a month or two, some really bad days, but really good days (roller skating, bowling) too. I was so bitter on bed rest. Outward appearance, rosy, inward feeling, irritation, impatience, bitter at DH for not picking up more slack, for his excuses. I felt like, as if I wasn't put out enough by this whole thing, that he couldn't handle it without my mom and his mom up here for 6 weeks.

So when Myles died, I was in shock, and I started using alcohol right away. Haven't drank much since DD was born, you can't when you're pg, limited with bf, but I've never been an alcoholic. In those early days I was catatonic, I didn't want to leave my house sometimes. But getting over those hurdles, seemingly meaningless but like mountains for me; going to Simone's preschool, taking her to dance, going to my school, and it was stressful and exhausting. I was a bitch everyday when I got home.

Anyway, the one thing I looked forward to was alcohol. A drink while making dinner, in my own world, listening to political podcasts on my ipod. Not thinking, just mindless stuff, doing the dishes. Sometimes a friend would call and SURPRISE I was in the mood to talk, even make jokes and in the darkest hours pour out my soul and cry like I never would sober.

The hardest I've cried to anybody is when I've been drunk. And because I put off talking about Myles at the hospital (except for the pragmatic stuff, my sister and I are like Navy Seals in crisis mode when something happens. We take charge (weddings, funerals, any emergency (she's an ER nurse)). And in the hospital after talking to Myles, I kept it on the light side. I don't think I cried in front of anybody. Certainly not on purpose, they'd catch me crying all those wonderful nurses.

I have this ability to shut my brain off. It's my bodies way of compensating for the information/emotion overload. In the hospital, my mother was out of her mind with grief, and I didn't want any of it. I was sad. I was quiet I was contemplative. I was on really good drugs. And then everyone left. I smoked a cigarette the second we dropped Simone off at her friends house we could go make funeral arrangements. Even there, I didn't know what was expected of me and my DH had NO opinion. My family did, they had lots of suggestions where he could be buried, but I wanted him close. He is only a few blocks away in Wyuka, I could walk there at Midnight and sit and cry. I'm glad I chose burial, the cemetary has been a peaceful place to me.
And that's where the complexity comes in I guess.

Because the drinking to become intoxicated happened on a 'bad day' catatonic left the house, bought one of those 2dollar little alcohol bottles and some Whiskey (I usually drink mixed drinks). I went to the cemetary. Drank that little bottle down, and went and sat in front of his grave where I always sit.

I've got dirty knees from it today even actually, they had just put his sod down an it was a muddy mess. My chistmas card is gone that I wrote him. I will miss that. I liked the outside, “Peace, Miracles, Hopes, Dreams, Love” and of course all the holiday rubbish and merry Christmas son.

After that day I started to drink to get drunk. I started thinking that drinking all that pop wasn't good so I would just have a shot of whiskey or my new favorite drink that I found at the liquor store that day, black cherry rum. And I think that is where the numbing came in. These last few weeks, I have been probably legally drunk at midnight. But I'm happy, bopping around, doing laundry, cleaning the house, thinking of things to do to the house. Everyone's asleep and I get my own time. Before the wee hours, when I've had a couple shots and B or Simone come to help clean up or make dinner, I'm goofy, we play, I'm more relaxed.

Then the hangovers began. The long nights of insomnia, my refusal to take alprazolam if I'd been drinking. The culmination of it all was two nights ago. B worked late, Simone and I went to the park at 4ish, and I picked up some of that rum at the time. We played at the park, she road her bike, got some takeout, we went home, and went on to finish the bottle of rum by midnight. I don't remember anything. I have bruises on my knees I feel like I'm 19 again. Brandon was home and witness, Simone was asleep early that night luckily. I spent most of the time bawling to my Dad and Best friend (Allyson's mom from Las Vegas) about how disappointed I was in them. Or, not that, but I finally told them what I needed from them. What sucks is I don't even remember now. So they were monumental conversations that I have virtually no recollections of.

So. I'm not drinking anymore. Just decided to quit. I”m humiliated and back to the self deprecation. I had a good day today at first, but anxiey-ed out by late afternoon and went to see Myles and put up some new decorations, butterfly wind chimes (muddy knees). And now here I am crying. I came home, made dinner, worked in the yard, and I feel like I'm on edge. I feel the TMJ in my jaw. I feel the pit in my stomach. I feel disinterested in everything. And do you know what I want? A beer. I have eaten nothing today. I've drank two diet cokes, and sip of sprite ( a few calories). I'm not hungry. At least drinking made me hungry when it was all said and done (at midnight).

This is it, as honest as it gets.