Goodbye Little Bean

WARNING! THIS POST IS LONG AND DEPRESSING. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
On March 21 of this year, I found out I was 5 weeks pregnant. A week and a half later and unbeknownst to the rest of my body, my little bean stopped growing and ceased to be alive. In my 9th week, I went for an ultrasound and watched the technician shake her head and frown as she looked in vain for movement and a heartbeat. I had had a miscarriage. 25% of pregnant women miscarry in the first trimester. It’s a known fact. It’s scientifically accepted. Unfortunately, I happened to be in the 25% - it’s not like it’s the first time something didn’t quite work out for me.

Funny thing is, from the moment the nurse told me I was definitely pregnant, although I was excited, what I felt the most was apprehension - a feeling of impending bad news. The feeling you get when your organic chem. professor asks you to stop by during office hours to discuss your progress. I mean, it could be something great, but it’s probably not.

So, I waited a whole day to tell my husband. I waited 2 days to tell my parents. I waited a week to tell a best friend. Then, I didn’t tell anybody else. Even as I shared the good news, everyone asked me, “Well, are you excited?” They weren’t asking to be polite. They were asking because my usually bubbly self was less than. Hubby was literally floating around the house everyday on clouds, he was so happy. I swore everyone to secrecy. I didn’t want anyone else to know – because I didn’t want to have to tell them bad news later. When my mom asked if she could share the news with the rest of the people at home who love me, I told her to only tell people that she won’t be uncomfortable telling them that something bad happened and there was no longer a baby. What kind of monster does that? Well, not a monster; but a person that has spent the last few years breathing and meditating; lying in corpse pose, or half lotus just being “aware” of her body. So, even though my brain (subconscious? psyche? inner-self?) new that something was not right, my body didn’t. I started fluffing up a bit in the hips and tummy. My breasts were tender. My uterus continued to expand. Yet, my mind is yelling at me “SOMETHING IS NOT RIGHT!” Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore! I called my midwife and bullied her into giving me the ultrasound a week earlier. I told her point blank that I felt something had gone wrong and it was killing me not to know.

I don’t feel bad about miscarrying. There was nothing that could be done to prevent it. I feel horrible about being such a downer and walking around the house in tears for 3 weeks because I “had a bad feeling”; while my husband was making plans on what kind of cute maternity outfits he was going to buy me. I feel even worse for not displaying any emotions when my fears were confirmed as I watched my big, strapping, hulk of a husband wilt and lose his composure at the news. I can’t help it; I had been mourning the loss of my baby for weeks already. Everyone thought I was just being wary because I’ve never been pregnant. I knew!

I’m pissed because my first positive pregnancy test, my first ultrasound, my first OB visit – all these things were WASTED on a baby that was never to be. I’m sad that my parents have to wait infinitely before their only daughter, who ain’t getting any younger by the way, will finally produce a grandchild for them to spoil. It breaks my heart that my husband, who was so visibly happy, excited and expectant had to sit next to me and listen for a tiny heartbeat that would never be.

The final insult was having to take an abortion pill to finally expel the remnants of a life from my uterus. The physical pain of it was almost too much to bear (even through the narcotics my midwife so graciously supplied), but the emotional trauma of expelling my dead baby will never be erased from my mind.

Crack addicts, stupid teenagers, welfare abusing baby-factories – these people get pregnant at the thought of unprotected sex. I, a responsible half of a financially stable, loving married couple, get a miscarriage. Ah, life. Of course, I realize that it wasn’t meant to be at this time for us. We will try again for as long as it takes. But, damn! Can a sista get a baby of her own?

Waving today...casseroles tomorrow

Today, as I eased my sexy Chevy into the parking lot, one of my neighbors waved at me as I passed.
I'd say they put the "I" in integration. :)

My Day At Olympic Sculpture Park

Say hello to my little friends

The newest addition to my stable

Another day with the Stepford Wives

A major part of my job is to go out into the community and talk to parents/teachers/moneybags about college preparedness, how to maximize resources on campus, STEM careers, and what-not.

Well, because of where I live, this often means the painful process of talking to "Stepford Wives". You know the ones, you saw the movie (not the remake, that was just plain dumb). These I-stay-at-home-and-redecorate-while-my-nanny-raises-the-kids types.

Today, I accompanied a local high school principal to a benefit lunch given by the head Stepford Wife herself to talk to her friends (all of whom have at least one child in middle school, heading to high school next year). Thank God I was there, because they would have eaten the poor man alive.

These women are extremely nice and interested in their kids, don't get me wrong. But, its always a little disconcerting to be in a room with 10s of women who each look like a different page from the Anne Klein catalogue. Add in the fake-baked skin and the blinding jewelry and its just a little intimidating. Plus, the look they have on their face when they talk to me, or listen to me talk is - awww, this poor woman - she has to work for a living. How sad.

No joke!

I wonder if living here for a long time will turn me into one of them.

At one point, the principal was explaining that because the cost of living in "Stepford" is so inflated, many of his brightest teachers have to live in Seattle and often leave the school to teach somewhere closer to home. Especially once they have children. I could tell by the look on their faces that they could not even comprehend such circumstances. One lady even raised her hand and asked, "But, isn't there something the district could do to help them? I can't imagine having to dictate where I work based on where I could afford to live!"

As her fellow Stepford Wives nodded their heads in agreement, and murmured sounds of disbelief, the principal slipped me a handwritten note that said, "These lunches - never again!"

The Problem With Integrating a Neighborhood

is that noone ever invites you to dinner.

We were so excited to find a neighborhood full of young, hip, professional 30-40 somethings. We envisioned developing casual relationships with our neighbors (our building is completely young married couples) and joining our dog-owning neighbors for dog walks to the park or around the lake.

Especially since I'm such a friendly person, and Figaro is a walking invitation to conversation - I imagined that as we walked around the 'hood and learned all the best spots for pee and poo that we would naturally run into other folks hanging about and at least be on speaking terms with people.

What has happened is that it took 2 months for people to stop wondering if we were trespassing and I only know the name of two of my neighbors. At this point, people do say hello and often stop and pet Figaro. I am determined to make the most out of this living situation because I love where we live so much.

Folks better look out for me this summer, cuz I'm going to start crashing patio barbecues with 6 packs of Sam Adams (or whatever they drink here - guess I need to figure that out). I am bound and determined to not be friendless in Seattle.

For those of you who have no idea of what this feels like, please imagine that you're the only whatever you are (man/woman/person of your ethnicity) that you see from 5pm to 8am. I have to restrain myself from hugging black people when I see them in Safeway (which is rare anyway).

What a beautiful site

I woke from a nap to find this view outside the window on Saturday afternoon. I love where I live!