Two things recently have me thinking, hurting, yet peaceful. It is September; that time of year when things change. The weather begins to change, school starts, the leaves think about turning, and heartache, for many, returns. For me, it's the increased darkness--I do more thinking in the darkness. Summer nights are short, forgetful; blissfully so. The heartaches are not sharp or hard to deal with, and in fact, some I welcome, in a way. Those are the memories I need to keep me remembering who I am, what has helped to shape me, and what makes me grateful for the blessings in my life--some of which would not be possible without the bumps, stumbles and losses.
A dear friend of mine lost a beautiful baby girl in a past September. I had lost touch with her after high school, and didn't know of her loss until a few years after, but thanks to modern social networking, every September I am reminded, and find myself wishing that I could carry some of her pain for her. Instead, I remember. My niece was diagnosed with hypothyroidism this month. With the news, I was reminded of the combined relief and uncertainty that came with my own diagnosis, 18 years ago. These two women are linked in my present, and in my past.
At the time of my diagnosis, I was newly married, working at a job I really liked, and should have been happy. I felt like I must be happy, and yet I was moody, cranky, gaining weight, and secretly seeing someone. The someone I was seeing was a drowning woman in the lane next to me every time I swam laps at the pool. I knew she didn't really exist, because the first time I saw her, I stopped immediately to help until the lifeguard could get to her (I was a certified lifeguard, myself), and the lane was empty. I saw her again the next time I went, and after a while, I just expected her. I'd have said hello if I hadn't been working on rotary breathing. Who on earth could I possibly tell? Only crazy people see people who aren't there, right? The building, and the pool, were new--not even built on an area where there had been water, so she was clearly not a ghost. She was a figment, and I knew it. It wasn't until I went to the doctor for stomach pain, and was, months later finally diagnosed, that I learned that such visions are directly related to hypothyroidism; usually when left untreated for an extended time, but I've never been known for having 'the usual' symptoms of anything.
Almost immediately after starting my meds, I felt better, healthier, happier, peppier, though nervous about this condition that would require testing and medication for the rest of my life. The same condition that had caused my sister to have bald spots at my wedding. What if I lost all my hair? What if I gained even more weight? What if the drowning woman stayed? What if I couldn't have children? None of those things happened, and as a matter of fact, I became pregnant within a couple of months.
We were so excited! We told everyone right away. Why wait? This was what we had been waiting for, hoping for, and dreaming of. Guy was offered a job in Pennsylvania, we began preparing for a move, I began a diary to the baby, we had our first appointment with the doctor. Everything was wonderful.
Then, at 14 weeks, I started bleeding.
My friend, Amy, went with me to the ultrasound. The technician actually said to me, "What makes you think you were even pregnant? There is absolutely no sign of pregnancy here." Through my shock and tears, I tried to explain that the doctor had done all the tests, confirming......it was no use. Nothing, no amount of arguing, sadness, or pleading could bring back that little bitty life. My dear, sweet Amy called each of our family members to pass on the news. I sat right next to her, and she passed the phone to me after speaking to each of my 5 siblings and Guy's 7, and each of our parents. I could never thank her enough in three lifetimes. Fortunately, she knows.
Not knowing if the baby was a boy or a girl, we named the sweet memory Sandy, and managed the stress of the move by talking about what would have, could have been. Three months later, when I was pregnant with Jonathan, we were so overjoyed, we didn't foresee the emotional and painful moments to come. At three months--the time when "telling" is "safe"--we visited RI for Guy's brother's wedding. February. Sandy's due date. Ouch. Yet, in that visit, another relationship was restored--in a way, a gift from Sandy. Mother's Day that year, having the people we'd met in PA comment (constantly!!) on being 'almost a Mom' was harder than I ever would have imagined, and more of the same on Father's Day. Then, of course, that terrible realization in my 8th month that this baby could very well be born on the first anniversary of losing Sandy. I sobbed for hours, asking Guy how I would ever be able to love this baby for reasons completely unrelated to anything this baby could be. Jonathan arrived a week after that terrible anniversary, and all my fears were allayed.
All this time, I've known that Sandy is watching over this family. The doctor, at my appointment the day after the ultrasound, offered the clinical explanation that what I had "experienced" was a "hormonal pregnancy" related to the leveling off of my system when I started my medication. No sympathy at all, just the advice to try again in the future. We know better. I am the mother I am partly because of Sandy. Everything changed that August day, and I am, all these years later, at peace. I know that Sandy has guided me, and the boys, in making decisions. I know simply because it is what I believe. I also believe that Sandy was among the first to greet Dad in heaven, and I know that Dad has been telling stories to Sandy ever since they met. I sincerely hope Sandy and Brooke are friends, too.
In this, I find peace. I cannot carry Lynn's pain, nor can I share it completely, but I can relate in a way that makes me ache with her every September. I cannot anticipate how Anna's diagnosis will affect her, but I can help her navigate the first steps, and those she'll come across years from now. We are linked, forever, by our individual lives. And, though sometimes difficult, it is good.
No comments:
Post a Comment