Randomly I’ll come across of photos of me pregnant. Not the typical ones I see all the time, but like on Facebook there are some photos of me from my baby shower.

At first I react with surprize and confusion. Did I really look like that? Did I really have that big belly that I envy my co-worker so much for?

Soon as the surprize ebbs I feel sad it’s gone. I look with a heavy heart, remembering days past… trying to pull up the memories of how it actually felt, and feeling disappointed that they are fuzzier now, harder to remember.

But then… then I smile. I had it once – it really is possible. And I will get to experience it all again.

And I feel hope.

I am frustrated and depressed, as are probably 95% of Americans (the rest are clueless). I can’t tell you if the financial bail-out is a necessary thing. I’m not a financial advisor, I don’t understand most of it. I can tell you that I – and a whole lot of my friends and family – are pissed off that it’s come to this. Whether or not this bailout happens – needed or not – the situation is bad and it’s getting worse. I watch the news with a sinking feeling.

I’m furthermore pissed that the news media, as always, just seems to be sensationalising things and making people paranoid. I work at a bank now, did I mention that? Yeah. Most banks are just fine. Stocks suck, mortgage companies are causing havoc, but most consumer banks are just sitting back and watching. But people are all nervous and panicking now.

I am really kind of confused about the new plan to increase the Federal Deposit Insurance (FDIC) limits from $100k to $250k per person. Okay, in theory this sounds like a good way to calm people down and protect them. But, umm, just last week I saw on the news about how people are concerned that there isn’t enough money in this fund to cover everyone’s insured deposits if some more banks should fail…. so they’re going to increase the limit and, what, conjure more money out of thin air?? (As my husband pointed out, apparently they can conjure money out of thin air, a la $700 billion.)

Plus? Whether or not this bailout money is necessary to stop the markets from collapsing completely, I want to hear some talk on how to prevent this from happening again. Hello, next time let’s catch it before it becomes this serious, okay? No more bailouts, yes? Not sure how to do it – like I said, I sure as hell am not a financial advisor. But could someone please start coming up with a plan on how to fix the problem, instead of handing over some cash and making Timmy promise he’ll never do it again?

And they’re going to do all of this while cutting taxes. (You did see the new proposal?) Right. I think they’re all morons at this point. Can anyone do simple arithmatic? Logic? Anyone?

I know there have been worse times. There have been wars, the depression. But it’s slowly dawning on me that we’re in a war, heading straight to a recession, and I’m really wondering how this time in history is going to be looked back on. And I’m pretty pissed to be living it.

I’m just pissed in general, I think. I think the Daily Show (which, by the way, was hysterical – if you favor that kind of humor) had it about right when it called it a giant clusterfuck.

Last week, while out on business with my boss from the cat sanctuary, someone ran up to us a bit frantically. She had found a litter of kittens in her yard, young kittens, no mom in sight. So of course we took them. My boss estimated them to be about 4 weeks old. They would eat a bit of canned food so they don’t require to be bottle fed for certain, but they’re not exactly gobbling down the food either.

Today at work I decided to go into the room to see them. Immediately after I stepped in and closed the door two kittens threw themselves at my feet, mewling quite loudly for a tiny little thing. The other two weren’t far behind. They crowded around my legs, voicing their desperation and upset. I knelt down. All four piled onto my lap. I leaned forward, hovering over them protectively, my arms encircling the writhing furry mass of kittens. Two of them rooted around my chest looking for a mama-kitten nipple. My shirt was rather disappointing, but they didn’t let that show.

I just want to take care of them. I want to bring them home and bottle feed them, curl up with them and make them feel safe. Such little creatures. They need someone to take care of them… and I need someone to take care of.

I wish I could have stayed longer. Maybe tomorrow I’ll sit in there for longer. I wish I could take them home to care for them, but that’s not an option.

I stood to leave and the boldest two kept lunging for my feet as I moved away, clinging to the warmth and mother-like comfort. It tugged at my heart to leave.

::

From the start my husband has encouraged me to stop obsessing over my cycle. I go through enough ups and downs normally, without adding the severe ups and downs of watching your cycle trail by, holding your breath, watching and hoping. So he kept encouraging me not to chart, not to stare at calendars, not to pay attention. “How do I do that?” I asked him. I found it impossible to not think about it, wonder about it.

The last two months have been different. I’ve seen the RE now, I have a plan. I have confirmation that my infertility is not just bad luck. I have a new job. I went on vacation. And I really haven’t thought about my cycle at all beyond wondering when we’ll start the IVF cycle. So when I realized I was going on vacation somewhere in the middle of my cycle I shrugged it off. When I saw some fertile CM I shrugged it off. I’ve been stressed and emotional lately, so there hasn’t been any kind of baby making going on. I didn’t care.

I mentioned it to Den offhand. “I think I ovulated,” with a shrug. No big deal, I wasn’t getting pregnant anyways. But he got quiet. A crease formed in his brow and he pursed his lips when he’s trying to get a grip on some emotion that he wished he wasn’t feeling. He was upset. He wanted a chance, he told me. The idea that this month we could have no chance at all was surprizingly hard for him.

I find it ironic in a sad way. He was the one encouraging me to stop holding on so tight – but he’s the one having trouble letting go.

::

I had my first appointment with a therapist today. A grief therapist. I went in with my guard up, ready to walk out if I was uncomfortable. I don’t want someone asking me how I feel about something – I know how I feel about it. I don’t want to feel judged, or misunderstood, or rushed. I don’t want someone telling me how to grieve, when most of the time I think I’m doing just fine.

But sometimes I’m really not doing fine. Sometimes I fall to pieces. This isn’t terribly surprizing… but when you consider my history of depression it does worry me. Especially since it’s my husband who tends to get the brunt of it. Oh there’s usually some justifiable trigger. I just over-react in a big way. I’m frustrated with it, and I think I just need some help navigating those holes when I fall in.

I notice that as time rolls onward I feel less sad, less despair, and more anger and jealousy. Both have always been there but the balance has shifted. The first few months were very selfish – and I don’t mean that in a bad way. I worried only about myself, about what I had lost, what I was missing. I frankly didn’t give a shit about anyone else unless it slapped me in the face. It took a lot to get me to really see things beyond my bubble. But now? That bubble is eroding. Now it’s about what other people have… and I do not. I feel very bitter. And I don’t like feeling this way.

I know it’s normal. But the pure grief was easier, in a way… a single mournful note. It was almost peaceful to feel that much sadness. Some days I couldn’t breathe, it was too heavy, but most of the time it was a weight that I could bear. I adjusted. But this, this anger? It’s here and gone in an instant. I have highs and lows and switch between them fleetingly. It leaves me breathless, confused, disoriented… and even more angry.

I honestly don’t know what therapy is going to help me figure out that I don’t already see for myself through my writing and self-reflection. But I’ve been doing this for 6 months and I need to try something different. I can’t do nothing.

Still feeling like I just got rolled down a hill inside a barrel of oil. Not sure how long this funk is going to last, really… just trying to keep my grip on things while it lingers. Sometimes that grip is just by a fingernail, you know? And I dream of packing my bags and running away back home, back to Canada, back to where life was simple and did not involve dead babies.

They say in your twenties you become an adult. It’s hard, they told me. Just wait until you have responsibilities… bills to pay, children to look after. Growing up isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, they said. If only they knew. That responsibility and hardship they warned of is still what I long for. Becoming an adult wasn’t supposed to be this.

Creeping up on 7 months now. 7 months until the world crashed down. It’s true… time does bring some remarkable healing qualities. Death becomes a part of your vernacular. At first it was all so raw – it was real, but full of spikes, full of disbelief. Now those same thoughts, those same words, are so familiar it lacks the shock it once held. There will always be a heaviness… an aura of incredulity about it. But now it is just a part of my life. I get used to it – not just to the words, but to the idea of it. There is reluctant acceptance that occurs as time marches on. I sometimes find myself talking about something dead-baby related just as I would anything else. A casual mention of a memory like any other. Except it involves my dead son. Sometimes I catch myself and wonder what other people think. They have no frame of reference.

I see many pictures of stillborn babies, it doesn’t bother me much anymore.. I’ve stared at my own so much I look past the strangeness and scariness… the “other.” Yet I still avert my eyes when I drive past a dead squirrel on the road.

So homesick I could puke. I hate my life right now. I don’t have the house I want, I don’t have the family I want, I don’t have the job I went to school to get. I feel like a collosal failure. Not just that I had it and lost it… but that I never had it in the first place. I consistently fail to get there. I know I’m still young at 26 and have a long ways to go, but I would think at this point that at least I would be closer than this. I want to go home and curl up on my old bed and cry for a good long time… that’s what I want to do.

I am home. I am exhausted. I had a wonderful, wonderful time… I really wished I could have stayed longer. It was a scary travel, though… only I could get to the desk and be checking in for my flight only to be told that my passport is expired. EXPIRED. In March. Well shit, I was a little busy in March. But here I am, hyperventillating, being told sorry, they’re not going to let me on the plane. Luckily my green card and some begging and tears welling up let me on the plane, but ever tried flying on a plane wondering if you’re going to be turned around and sent home when you land? SUCKS. Thank the light, customs had no issues with it. They checked my green card and accompanying paperwork and waved me right on in. (Same on the way back.) I am now quite bitter at gate agents – who are just doing their job, yes – who freak me the fuck out when the customs agents have no issue. Gaahhhhh. No, Canada doesn’t require a passport to get in. Shouldn’t the travel agents know that? (They were clueless.) I think I aged about 20 years that day.

Flying over Toronto as we landed was such a heartwarming experience. Not as exciting as flying over Vancouver, where I’m from, but still. As I looked down and saw Canadian flags flying I felt a sort of peace come over me. I sure do miss Canada since I moved away. I was never a patriotic person, to say the least. Massachusetts, and the area in which I live, isn’t really all that different from where I grew up, in terms of day to day life. But there are little things I see in Canada – little, insignificant things – that scream “home” to me. Things like all street lights sitting on poles over intersections, instead of being suspended by wires like they are here.

I was visiting extended family that my parents are close to, but that I have met only once briefly, when I was a teenager. There were a lot of people to meet but quickly it became apparent that this was my family. I can’t even begin to describe the conversation I had with my cousin – we stayed up until 4am one night (much to our shock, when we went to bed and looked at the clock!) just talking about pregnancy and birthing and breastfeeding… and loss. It is so wonderful to connect with someone who feels the same way I do. The fact that she is family is even better. I am so sad that I didn’t connect with this side of the family sooner. I grew up feeling like an outcast, a weirdo… how different would it have been if I hadn’t felt so alone? (As a point of note, depression also runs in this side of the family – something I was not aware of until years after I myself was diagnosed. The one time this family member saw me it was in the midst of my worst depression and I set of alarm bells in her head.)

It was, of course, wonderful to see my parents and sit and talk. I stayed up late and got up early and tried to cram as much into four days as I possibly could. I feel very down now. I am feeling a little homesick. I am feeling frustrated beyond words with my crappy old I-wish-I-could-bulldoze-it house. I am tired, but haven’t been sleeping well. And I am really quite lonely. Returning to my life is depressing.

I will be on vacation for a few days and you probably won’t hear from me until I get back. I’m going to visit my parents! But only for a few days. They’re in Toronto for a cousin’s wedding (I’m missing the wedding) and mom paid for me to fly up there to see everyone! I’m so so so excited to be seeing my parents again – I haven’t seen my mom since Devin’s memorial in April, and my dad since Christmas.

I am post-dating this entry so it won’t show up on the blog until I’m already there – just in case someone in my family reads this – because no one except my parents knows I’m showing up on their doorstep tomorrow morning! Won’t that be fun!

I can really use the vacation from life. I really wanted to leave my laptop at home, but unfortunately I had some issues come up with a web client so I need to take it with me in case they need me to do something while I’m there – which makes me grimmace, but you do what you have to do.

See you when I get back, all.

Overtired + stress + past babyloss = imminent mental breakdown.

On the verge of tears all day today. Stupid things going wrong, little issues, but me, I’m not holding up too well. Showed up at a birthday party just about ready to cry. Why? Dunno. When MIL asked me how I was doing I welled up and stammered something about how I haven’t been doing good this week.

Sucks.

Work is going well. I’m picking things up quickly and settling in, and I like being busy. Plus, compared to the hard physical labor I do at my other job, sitting at a computer typing all day seems like cake.

However, there is a lot of downtime. Even on “busy” days, there are periods where there are no customers. Some of them pull out books. Many of them start chatting, frequently baby things. I just want to keep busy. Just give me something to do so I don’t have to sit here with nothing to occupy my mind. Especially not when you’re talking about ultrasounds. Or how much the pregnant one has “popped”. I can’t stop looking… her belly is big. She’s right around when I lost Devin… maybe a little earlier (but is bigger than I was, IMO).

Today there was one of those downtimes and the other ladies start gathering. I glance over to see one of the coworkers came in on her day off… with her baby. Remember when I mentioned the baby boy that was born in February? Yeah, that one.

I averted my eyes, like usual. Felt my mouth tighten slightly. The kid got passed around from lady to lady and someone brought him down to my end. I smiled politely at the kid, my thoughts and emotions shielded, like every time I see a baby. But as I glanced up at the kid I suddenly felt like someone was sitting on my chest. It was like looking in a mirror, showing me what Devin should be right now. A smiling baby on someone’s hip, mischevious and inquisitive. I quietly and quickly left the room and just started gasping for air. I literally couldn’t breathe, my chest was so tight.

I remember walking back and forth in the break room thinking that this was the first time I really tried to hold in my grief. Here I am at work, with makeup on, and I just know if I start bawling it’s not going to stop. I cannot lose it right now. But in 6 months I have never not cried when I felt overwhelmed. I don’t cry a lot anymore, but when I have to I just curl up on the couch and bawl. It’s a horrible feeling to stifle it.

One of the ladies came back and asked if I was okay. I mentioned that it was hard, he was the same age my boy would be. She said, “Oh, I’m sorry… I didn’t think about that.” I didn’t really expect them to… I wasn’t very specific.

Now I can’t get the image out of my head, the image of my son as a live, healthy baby. It tears my heart in two.

Please, please universe. Give me another chance at this mom thing. Please give me something good to hold onto. Please give me another pregnancy and, this time, a healthy baby.

A bit more explanation in response to some of the comments:

No, I would have NO issues with condoms being passed out in school. That is not my goal, of course, but if you’re trying to make me realize that this idea of sex education can get too liberal for me you’re barking up the wrong tree. LOL I simply expect that my children in school will be taught basic anatomy and biology. I was taught how to take care of my body by exercising and eating well. Part of that is taking care of your sexual self by protecting yourself. Now MY children are going to get a much more in-depth sex eduation than I would expect in a public school. I am not going to shelter my children or make up nonsense – I hope to teach them about sex on the level that they can understand it for their age. I plan to be very matter-of-fact.

And I am quite saddened that people consider money to be the reason they don’t want good things to happen. If you don’t think it’s a good thing, well then that’s another issue and should be argued as such; but “it will cost me money” is a terrible reason to continue practices that are disrespectful, judgemental and discriminatory.

But it leads into my next post very nicely: money, and this idea that what’s mine is mine and should stay mine and to hell with the rest of it. Now I know the majority of you, dear readers, are good, compassionate people. Most of you are here because you either struggle with infertility or loss. Most of us have reached out a hand to help others, or wished that we could in some way ease the burden of another. This blogland is a small microcosm of the world, a thriving community… and one that seems to encourage connection, at that.

So it makes me very sad when I step out into the real world and realize that most communities aren’t like that. Oh, people will donate their $10 to a non-profit and call it a year. Maybe they donate more and pat themselves on the back. But I’m talking about something more fundamental here.

I have heard on the TV over the last several days how both candidates plan to lower taxes. This sounds very good for the household. I know it’s what people want to hear, especially with the economy how it is, how many of us are struggling. I understand that. Hell, I wasn’t complaining when we got that $1200 check in the mail earlier this year.

But I’ve been thinking a lot today about taxes and why we pay them. We give a portion of each paycheck to the government – to a “pool” – from which we pay for things that we all expect in our daily lives… things like roads, schools, hospitals. And, you know, I’m not all that upset at having to pay for things like that. I certainly don’t like to see some of my money never reach my bank account, sure. But I live here in this country. I am paying money to this country, for all the benefits I receive. So when I see schools struggling on cut budgets I wonder, where is that money going to come from? If the government keeps getting less in, how are they supposed to fund things that we all want, like teachers? I think I’d like to put in a few extra dollars every week to ensure that my future children get the best schooling. I’m okay with that.

Which brings me to health care. Yes, universal health care… that dirty word in the United States that scares half the population to death. Now let me explain something to you: I’m from Canada. I moved here to the United States. I used to have universal health care. No, it wasn’t perfect… there are flaws in Canada’s system same as down here. But you know, it was awefully nice not to worry about how I’m going to pay to get my broken bone set. If I was ill and needed medical care I would go to my doctor – or a walk-in clinic, where the lines were a bit longer – and give them my health care card. And then I’d see a doctor, where they would (hopefully) tell me what I needed to do to get better. They’d proscribe antibiotics or schedule me for something, and then I would leave. And I would never get a bill. Not once in that process of getting my health taken care of was I required to prove that I had money. I could have walked in with a dollar to my name, having just been fired from a job, and I could have surgery done.

It all comes down to money, though, doesn’t it. And, funny thing, most of the people I’ve talked to who are against universal health care have very good health insurance programs through their very nice jobs. I wonder what they’d say if they lost that job and that insurance and their child became ill and they had to pay $10,000 worth of hospital bills. It happens – too frequently, in fact. And it’s not okay.

Canada’s system is far from perfect, but they don’t pay that much more taxes than we do here in the United States. And if they do, people aren’t complaining about their health care coverage. Go ahead, travel to Canada. Ask some people about their health care. See what they say. See if they mind paying. In my life I haven’t heard anyone in Canada who thinks it’s a bad idea. (Which isn’t to say they don’t exist, I’m sure they do – I just haven’t run across any and by far the majority think America’s system of if you don’t have the cash you don’t get the care is just incredibly backasswards.)

To me it all comes down to that fundamental issue of helping others. Nobody that I know wants to go to the hospital. They go if they need something – if they are sick, if they are suffering. To me, universal coverage is making sure that, no matter who you are, no matter what crappy set of circumstances life has given you, at least we, the community, will step in and make sure you are healthy and taken care of. It is the modern world’s version of people stopping by to make sure the doctor gets bread and cheese and meat while he is tending the sick. Everyone feeds the doctor, so the doctor can be seeing patients rather than farming. When you are healthy, you feed the doctor; when you are sick, he treats you.

I know I can be an extremely selfish person at the best of times. (My husband actually asks me before using my computer, I have freaked out at him before. *ahem*) I don’t like people touching my things, I don’t like people telling me what to do, I don’t like people getting in my business. But if someone is sick and hurting, that’s something else entirely.

I’ll chip in my money for you… because maybe next time it will be me.