Skip

I am afraid that returning to work will make it seem like my babies were just a skip in the record.  Songs playing in predetermined order and then, oops, dust on the needle, glad it wasn't something that would have ruined the record.  My babies are the record, the needle, and the song, anything that plays from now on exists within the skip.

I am trying to figure out something that my wife and I could do this summer, like a vacation, but without the expectations that go along with that word.  A vacation is what happy people do or people at least trying to be happy.  Who can say where we'll mentally be in June but I'm confident it won't be vacation happy.  How do you plan a vacation from within the skip?

We actually talked to a travel agent even though we don't have a lot to spend.  We cannot figure it out and heard they will now plan small trips.  We made her tear up at work.  We realized in the moment that we needed to say that we lost our children b/c we have to be somewhere without a lot of children and joyous children sounds.  Probably not something that every walk-in says with our level of urgency.  Days later we went to see a jeweler because I would really like to have a ring to represent my babies.  I want something tangible and unique that I can touch constantly.  R had met the jeweler before and really liked him so we checked to make sure he had time and went to his studio/store.  In describing what we wanted of course we said we had lost both our children.  He had greeted us jovially until we said why we were there.  It immediately looked like someone had punched him in the gut and he began crying.

There is something I appreciate in these emotional responses, a feeling of connectivity and community.   At the same time I also feel guilt, for revealing the skip to an unsuspecting, caring person.  It seems like we should be wearing a signal, mourning attire or the sign they put on our door in the hospital.  Something to warn people because there are a lot of people at my work and a whole lotta people on vacation.

Half-pops, landfills and mucous

I have become super conscious of the divide between exterior and interior.  Obviously this is related to my external body and the breach that occurred when my cervix dilated, the mucous plug fell out, S's amniotic sac bulged and an infection developed (there is also the possibility that the infection preceded everything else, I just don't believe that is what happened).  Ultimately the difference between interior and exterior, between life and death, was made of mucous.  Aside from wondering about the idiocy of having mucous as the protective barrier for my tiny, perfect babies; I have also been thinking about interior and exterior as a myth, the reality is permeability.

Our neighbor's delinquent bother and sister-in-law ran over our property and destroyed many planting  and building supplies.  The snow fell while we were joyously pregnant and in Puerto Rico so the crushed pile remained buried until we returned home from the hospital, minus two.  A couple weeks ago my wife rented a truck and took everything to the county landfill.  Although I can't lift anything of substantial weight, I rode along.  I had only ever been to the small dump in my rural home town as a child, this landfill was nothing like that.  The dump was just a big hole located down a dirt road, just like you find on "Alice's Restaurant." The landfill is an industry.  It took quite a while for R to empty the truck, while she worked I googled.  I learned that modern landfills are predicated on the belief that garbage, and the toxic byproducts, can be sealed in plastic.  There are all sorts of technical protective measures, off-gassing, ponds to catch rain water run off, compaction of the trash into "cells," but ultimately our entire waste system relies on impermeability between an interior and an exterior.

R had created a "snack pack" kit for me to help me keep my caloric intake up to ensure the health of our children.  A new addition that I did not get to eat before the birth of our babies was "Half-pops," which are basically my favorite part of a serving of popcorn.  I ate some last night, well I ate a whole bag because apparently I never want to fit into my pants.  My friend google revealed that half-pops can be made at home if I first soak the kernels in a brine for four days to break down the barrier that protects the seed from the world at large.  Popcorn is created when the heat from the pan and oil is so great that it breaks the seal as the corn pops -- if the seal is broken before the heat then half-pops result.

The boundary between inside and out, popcorn and half-pops, clean water and pollution, life and death is dissolvable with a little salt, a puncture or an incompetent cervix.  Suddenly half-pops don't sound like the best idea.  I want to believe in the permanence of protective barriers.

Back to work?

I had three choices, return to work the third week in March full time, return to work in April - but with no vacation possible for the whole summer when my wife has a break or return to work half time beginning yesterday.  I chose to return half time beginning yesterday.  It sucks.  I know I am so fortunate: I've been able to stay out of work for a month (after a month in the hospital), I have options and most significantly, I am returning remotely for these first two weeks back.  My supervisor has been very supportive and is letting me work on projects rather than the daily grind for these first two weeks.  He did mention that I could come to work for specific meetings as needed--he obviously has not read my blog and has no idea that I will be showing up in maternity pajama bottoms as I have no pants.

I have also realized how much I relay on my time spent reading other blogs and forums throughout the day.  Spending four hours yesterday working made me feel anxious.  Not only has the world seemed to miss that the two most important people ever are missing and mistakenly gone on with their every day lives and complaints, interacting with work emails is about the loneliest thing I've ever done after weeks of only reading in the company of women who've had similar losses.  The Compassionate Friends, MISS Foundation, Stirrup Queens associated blogs, and abbyloopers are my daily companions and I am so grateful for them.

rules to live by

The day I delivered S was also the day that I began receiving a large amount of magnesium sulfate.  Ultimately mag depressed my breathing and gave me pulmonary edema.  Through the many blood draws and Hep-Locks I was running out of places that anyone could draw blood or put in an iv.  Regular nurses would no longer even try because a failed attempt would ruin yet another location - anesthesiologists had failed attempts.  My reaction to the mag needed to be monitored.  After a failed draw attempt the lab was called and a tech was sent down to do the draw.  After his first failed attempt he secured a vein that produced actual blood, a small amount before it stopped flowing, but enough.  He left with the vial.  We waited for the results.  In case not everyone knows what the mag does other than feel like the worst flu/lyme's disease/paralysis/constant agony, it is intended to prevent contractions and save the life of G.  I wanted the mag, I did not want my test results to cause a lowering or removal of the mag.  I hated the mag and tricked myself into keeping the iv flowing by telling myself I just had to live through the next 5 minutes and then I would ask to lower the volume. I am sure my wife and my sister shared this mixed feeling as I needed 24 hour attention, ice packs on my head and chest, ice chips every 2 minutes or so along with heat and blankets on my feet and legs. So we are waiting for the results and the nurse comes in and tells us the lab won't perform the test because the lab tech mislabeled the vial.  He put S's name on my blood.  What.  At 20 weeks S was so incredibly small she did not have the ability to lose any blood.  Our doctor tried to get them to change the label, she tried to order the test under S's name. No go. The lab now knew it wasn't my blood and I was the one who needed the test.  They refused.  Sometimes it seems like we as people have an inability to look at the totality of a situation, we just focus on our tiny piece of the puzzle and make up or enforce the rules associated with that slice of the world.  Only 5% of pregnancy's result in the death of a baby after 14 weeks.  Only 2% of infants are effected by chorio.  Until that was my puzzle piece I could not comprehend the totality of all the possible outcomes.

Read my stress, I dare you.

We super bravely decided we would do three things outside the house yesterday. 1. try to find non-maternity clothes that would allow me to leave the house with a bit more ease. 2. Buy arugula from grocery store. 3. Buy face lotion from mall - trying to avoid full on acne.

We managed to purchase a few things that I will hopefully take out of the bag and actually wear. I only cried in the changing room briefly.  I avoided yelling about my babies at the employee who would only let us take 6 items in the dressing room at a time (I do know she's just doing her job, my rage just doesn't really care). The grocery store was non-eventful - it was a small store we never go to with therefore had minimal chance of seeing another human we know.  The mall.  We tried to find the entrance closest to the Clinique counter.  Made it inside, to the counter, avoided looking at infant and mom already at counter.  Gathered and purchased vital lotion.  Then the sales woman offered us a serum, a "smart serum" that could read what kind of stress our faces have experienced and repair it.  We both laughed/snorted.  As if. We took the samples.

Pimples and Pants

Focusing on the vast number of tiny white heads appearing on my forehead seems manageable when nothing else is.  Solving the problem of pants, maternity pants no longer stay up and pre-pregnancy pants are a looong time from fitting, does not.

So, the pimples.  I have never had acne, even in my teen years, pimples came along and went --singles sometimes doubles but nothing of note.  During the month I spent in the hospital fighting for both my babies and then just my son--days and days without showering or even touching water--my complexion stayed immaculate.  The multiple cerclages, mass doses of antibiotics, unimaginable stress and the magnesium sulfate coursing through my veins (making me unable to even raise my arms for days) had no impact on my skin.  About a week after loosing G and three weeks after loosing S, through the haze of my unbearable grief, I started noticing a patch of white heads.  At this point my milk had come in so showering was almost impossible, the challenge of keeping my breasts out of the water and the constant physical and emotional pain combined with the sadness that is showering alone after five months of having the constant company of my babies with me at all times exhausted all my energy.  I did not focus on this change in my skin. As the fog has receded the awful loneliness persists but life starts creeping in, when will I return to work?  How will I talk to *anyone* who hasn't been with me through this whole journey?  How will I have patience and compassion for anyone other than my wife -- i.e. anyone who hasn't lost our two precious babies?  The pimples are a safe subject of contemplation.  Are they from hormone changes?  The shift in my oil production as I move from showering every few days/once a week to every day?  How long will they last?  Am I creating scars by picking at them?

Pants are particularly difficult because to deal with them is to deal with my stomach, the part of my body that was full of perfect, healthy, active babies.  The part of my body that did not keep my babies safe.  The part of my body that signals to the world--I'm pregnant.  Shirts are no picnic but a big shirt stays on my body, unlike big pants.  Being pregnant with twins I had read that healthy weight gain was one of the most important, controllable factors to having healthy babies in our arms.  We focused on healthy snacks, on trying to gain between 1 and 1.5 lbs per week as recommended.  My wife crated a "snack pack" kit that contained a wide variety of snacks that I could choose from each day before heading off to work.  The leftover snacks are still waiting.  As recommended I gained a little over 20 lbs. My closet is full of borrowed and purchased maternity clothes while all of my pre-pregnancy clothes wrinkle in their giant tupperware bins.  We went to a discount clothing store yesterday.  The night before when my wife heard me say that I am struggling because I don't believe that I deserve to wear clothes that fit after my body failed our babies she determined that we had to change something.  We did get two fairly awkward but wearable pairs and several work appropriate shirts that semi-disguise my smaller but still seemingly pregnant belly.  But clothes are not designed to not look like maternity clothes and yet fit a maternity shaped body.  How long will I look pregnant?  When will I stop desperately wishing that I could still feel our babies moving inside me?  Will I ever stop feeling guilty that I let an infection enter the one space in the universe where they should have been safest?  Will I feel connected to my body again? Will there ever be pants that fit me?