Marin

She taught us how to love. Whatever the purpose of her short life, she gave us that. No moments taken for granted in our own lives. The fear of losing is real. Loss is real and unbearable. And what's left? Wondering, wishing, regretting.... What is the purpose? Why would so small a person be brought onto the earth just to live and die? Why should they have to live through this torture? Is it better to have known her at all, just to lose her? What is the purpose. The purpose is love. To know love and to appreciate love and to move forward with a different love in your heart. The love that was lost. Better to have loved and lost.... And what's next? Hope? Why? Sadness. Abundant. Resilience. Necessary. Impossible? Maybe. Survival. More practical. Marin's life, as short and precious as it has been, is not for naught. She taught them love.  She taught us how to exist in love. Keep moving forward................

Rest in peace beautiful girl. Oma Judy is yours now. 

On Being A "Mother"

September 19, 2013

I never envisioned myself as a mother.  I never dreamed of being a mommy or felt any attachment to that concept.  Oddly, I’ve spent three years as a mother and only just realized this fact.  I recognize that I am a mother, cognitively.  Emotionally, I’m not sure what it’s supposed to feel like.  I think I maybe felt like a mother to Addy before Joseph was born—that feeling of overwhelming and all-consuming love—I think that’s the feeling that would equal “mother.”  But it went away when I had Joseph.  Instead of my heart growing, it went cold.  I’ve spent the last month trying to reconnect and rediscover the pleasure of being a mother.  It’s been nearly impossible.  I know I love my children.  I know I’m responsible for them and that I would do anything for them.  But to identify myself, appreciatively, as the incessant “mommy” that I’m labeled as by this small person, there’s a disconnect.  I don’t love being called “mommy.”  I realize that’s the most appropriate thing for my children to call me, but I don’t think of myself with that word.  I can’t remember if I ever did.  Maybe it’s because I can only associate that word with my own (lack of) mother.  I’m sure I’ll need to explore that topic some other time.

I think all this is closely related to my anxiety.  Until last weekend, on my own with the 2 kids (and the dog, and her fleas), I had absolutely no concept that I could actually handle my own children.  I had been faking it, with a constant sinking putrid feeling in the pit of my stomach, but not connecting myself with any of it.  By the end of the weekend I felt so good about myself.  So confident!  So connected to my parenting abilities!  I suddenly realized that I have spent 3 years raising an amazing (if challenging) child who most people enjoy and think is cool so I must be doing something right.  And I have done this “baby” thing before, though I don’t think I really enjoyed it that much the first time around.  I think I eventually started enjoying it.  I don’t know when, but I’m definitely holding out for the enjoyment factor.  Right now, I still feel like I’m in survival mode.  I have sneak peeks of pleasure, but nothing lasting and tangible enough to make me 100% sure I understand why people have (multiple) children.

I’m not sad anymore, and I’m not particularly anxious anymore.  I know I’m on the “upswing” from where I’ve been.  However, I am definitely coming into many realizations about myself, being a parent, and how these massive choices I’ve made are going to stay with me forever.  I can’t ever go back to a carefree life of my own.  There are moments each day that I still long for that life.  I’d like to point out moments where I feel gratitude and adoration for parenthood, but I can’t at this point.  I’m still partly faking it, but at least it’s getting easier…

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Renewal (Still in Progress)

September 4, 2013

For the third day in a row, I feel GOOD.  Not just ok.  GOOD.  GREAT even, in moments.  On Sunday after Vanessa and Gretchen left, and Luke was “late” cooking dinner, I had a moment of weakness, then marched back into the kitchen, babe-in-arms, and apologized to Luke.  After that, the lamb he cooked me tasted so GOOD.  I felt like I could breathe again.  The night went well and in the morning I felt GOOD.  Barely a trace of nausea and any small waves of nausea quickly turned into adrenaline and a straightening of the spine, a deeper breath, and a small smile.  My body has decided to cope with this now.  Hopefully my brain will continue to follow suit.

Whether it was the probiotic I started a few days before, the talk therapy, consecutive days with mommy friends and venting, a settling of hormones, or just the passage of time, I went from my worst moment to feeling like a revelation of myself again.  I looked into Joseph’s eyes and felt as though I was seeing him for the first time.  Touched, moved to tears for a very appropriate and loving emotion.  Playing with Addy because I wanted to and because it FELT GOOD not out of a feeling of obligation or responsibility, but because it was making me happy.  And in making me happy, I felt her become happier.  No more Sad Mommy.  And if Sad Mommy comes back, I have to shelve-it or take a moment alone—she doesn’t need to experience that.  It’s not her job to provide comfort to me.  When the tears are gone and the only trace on my face is a smile, then I can reach for her. 

I have a renewed sense of confidence, and though I still get little waves of anxiety, not accompanied by nausea, and no crying for 3 days, I think I’m going to be fine.  No, I KNOW I’m going to be fine.

A Postpartum Journaling Effort

August 9, 2013

            So I decided that the best thing to do when I can’t control my thoughts, to the point where they are interfering with my body functioning, is to write, like in the good old days.  Since having Addy, I have all but stopped writing completely and I think that’s tragic, but logical.  Our lives since her have been documented in photographs.

            This whole 2 children thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  I realize Joseph is only 5 weeks old and we have a helluva long way to go before we reap the “benefit” of having multiple children, but this is crazier than I could have imagined.  And it’s not even the baby that’s crazy.  He’s pretty much perfect (even the doctor thinks so).  It’s ME that’s grossly imperfect, on so many levels.

            Let’s start with the boobs.  In the first 3 days of the child’s life, mommy was laid up feeling like she’d been hit by a truck, aka, mastitis.  Talk about feeling like a bad parent on top of feeling awful!  I loved him the instant he was born, which was different than Addy, but those first days at home were tainted by the boob issues.  Even after antibiotics, I still felt like crap.  Thank God for all the help from Luke, Mum, and Dad. Then, hallelujah, I felt human again!  For like, a week.  Then the impending departure of Mum and Dad took over and the nausea and lethargy came creeping back.  I tried to feign enthusiasm for basic things, but when I could barely stomach a smoothie, cracking a smile was exhausting.  I had no idea at the time what was wrong, but started feeling very paranoid about the boobs again, since some ducts had gotten plugged since the antibiotics ran out.  I took care of that, so I couldn’t figure out why I felt so awful.

            Then it hit me.  The moment Mum and Dad walked out the door, I felt like I could take a breath all my own.  I felt a sense of independence I hadn’t felt in 5 weeks.  Granted, Addy was sick, and I had her plus a 3 week old baby all to myself for a few hours in the night, but I realized my “illness” had been related to the huge transition of Mum and Dad leaving.  That night was awful.  The baby took 2 hours to get to sleep.  Halfway through that the sickie poltergeist made her appearance, ready for meds.  And me still drained and ill-ish, dealing with them both at the same time.  Finally the baby got to sleep and Luke arrived with (goddess) Laura in tow.  I gave her the biggest hug ever.  We all went to bed and hoped for the best…

            Starting shortly after I got Joseph back down from his early feed (4am-ish), Addy began her cavorting.  Every 15 minutes from about 4:30am until time to get up (6:30ish), she crept back into our room or the hallway.  So needless to say, it was the most sleepless night I’ve had since my one-nighter in the hospital.

            The next day, I felt like a big turd but there were 2 children to care for (Addy, still sick, couldn’t go to school).  The nausea came back and Laura and I tried to figure out why.  Once I realized that every wave of nausea was accompanied by butterflies and a feeling of nervous dread, I decided to call this “Postpartum Anxiety” which is actually a thing.  I texted my lactation consultant friend about a boob issue, and mentioned it.  She shared with me some of her own struggle with postpartum depression and how important it is to get treatment.  She told me my ginger tea can also help with anxiety.  I also kept recalling the wise words of my NP who said, “Make yourself eat, even if you’re nauseous.” Eventually, after a couple of days, the feeling of anxiety dissipated, the nausea dissipated, and I started to enjoy my life again.  For a minute.

            Now, every now and then I get a wave of anxiety, accompanied by the nausea, and with all the illness that has been in the household (Addy, then Luke, now Laura, and I’m just waiting my turn), no wonder I’ve felt stressed out.  I’ve felt like I somehow have to take care of everyone.  And as soon as the thought of, “Will everyone sleep tonight?” comes into my head, that old familiar dread comes back.  I constantly remind myself:

            --there will be sleep again someday

            --keep eating

            --I am ok

            --there are people here to help (when they’re not sick)

            --I don’t have to do this alone

            --I AM enough mother for both of them (that’s the big one)

            I’m in my head too much.  I don’t have enough other things to think about so I spend every minute scrutinizing what the baby is doing or how inadequate I feel for Addy, or how to juggle eating, sleeping, nursing (oh god all the nursing), and ME time.  I have wished for this period of time to be fast-forwarded, but I know it can’t be and I know I’ll look back and appreciate this soon enough.  Perhaps I’ll even feel proud and triumphant.  For now, I feel like I’m barely breathing.  Keeping my nose just above the water.  And waiting with those baited shallow breaths for the next time the baby wakes up…

            Another confession—I don’t know how long I’m going to last breastfeeding Joseph.  I was so proud of myself for making it one year with Addy that it feels like anything less for Joseph wouldn’t be fair; would be bad for him.  How selfish would I be to just give up?  Do I need to set a goal?  My goal with Addy with 6 months, but it never crossed my mind to give it up until my body eventually did it for me.  It’s very early to be having these thoughts, but when every other sentence I say to my daughter when he’s awake is, “Can you wait until I’m done feeding brother?”  or, “I can’t right now, I’m feeding brother.”  Or, “Please go ask Daddy, I’m feeding brother right now.”  UGH.  Commence tantrum.  Although she is getting WAY better at understanding this now and I’m getting way better at trying to pay more attention to her and offer more choices for while I’m feeding him (one can always watch the Lion King for the 100^th time while nursing after all).  I know she won’t hate me for the time I feel like I’m stolen from her, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hate myself just a little for not being enough me for everyone at the same time.  One blessing (of many, actually), is that Joseph is a killer nurser.  I just wish he’d speed it up a little!         Man that boy loves his boobies.  Yes, they are his right now, not mine. 

            With all the recent company, it makes sense that Luke (aka Jason Bourne), feels a little lost.  I think with Laura’s illness, he has been able to reclaim his role in the household and try his hand at managing children among many other things (sometimes all at the same time!).  I am the luckiest woman in the world to have him.  Without even thinking for a moment of himself, he leaps at the opportunity to “father” and “husband” us.  Every moment he is here I feel more at ease.  Unfortunately, every moment he is gone, the anxiety is tempted to return, though it doesn’t always!  I keep telling myself, when I feel good, I can handle anything!  And then I don’t feel good and I’m useless and get anxiety about getting anxiety.  It’s a seemingly endless cycle. 

            My mission is to keep talking about it to people who understand (aka Laura, Hilary, Denise, Noelle, Jenifer, oh the solidarity!) and write it down if for no other purpose than to get all the nastiness out of my poor little head.  And immediately, stop feeling sorry for myself.

*It’s not a life or death situation.  It’s just a crying baby.*

August 22, 2013

            So I finally cried this morning.  Unfortunately it wasn’t for any particular reason.  I was a little on edge this morning but then all of a sudden I was crying.  I guess I was thinking about (and recently troubled by) the fact that I don’t think I have really felt much of anything these past 7 weeks except physical misery.  I don’t remember the last time I felt actual happiness, aside from the moment Joseph was placed in my arms.  I have been so dominated by feeling physically horrible that I haven’t let myself enjoy any of this.  I feel like I’m just going through the motions of motherhood—breastfeeding, sitting with Addy, making sure everyone has eaten, perhaps even playing a little with them, but there’s no joy in any of it.  Where has my happiness gone?  Sure I made a list of things I enjoy, but I don’t know that I’m feeling any true pleasure with any of it (it’s all trivial anyways).  I think I’m spending every moment anticipating the next instead of relishing what’s happening right this minute.  I enjoyed our impromptu dance party the other night.  I started feeling like I was myself again.  But ever nagged by “when will the baby wake up?” and “will I eat before he wakes up?” and “how late will Addy go to bed tonight?” In my very rational brain, I know these things will all be FINE.  No one is hurt by a later bedtime.  Luke is completely willing to deal with a crying baby so I can eat.  So WHY do I become dominated by these thoughts when I’m supposed to be experiencing something lovely and beautiful.  Last night too—Addy was on my lap (which she rarely ever is) and I was going through the motions of smelling her and kissing her and touching her soft skin, hoping to elicit ANY kind of emotion.  But nothing.  Except wondering when dinner would be ready and whether the baby would wake up (which he did and “miraculously” he sat in the swing while we ate).  How come I can’t enjoy my daughter?  Where’s the overwhelming feeling of love I used to feel just looking at her amazing face?  I spent my pregnancy worrying I wouldn’t have enough love for both of them, and now I feel like I have no love at all.  Good.  I’m crying.  Is feeling sadness better than feeling nothing?  Do I need to remember what it feels like at all to feel anything before I can find a place of feeling joy?

            And then I try to convince myself I’m fine.  That I’m strong enough to get over these stupid trivial issues/worries.  But am I?  Luke says I have been emotional.  I don’t think I have.  I think I’ve felt like general crap and not been a happy person because of it.  Is that why I’m sad today?  I haven’t felt sad until today.  I’ve felt anxious and nervous and worried and ill, but never sad.  I think I’m shocked by my realization that I’m thinking about the past 7 weeks and wondering where the hell I’ve been????  Where is the wonder and awe of getting to know my precious baby boy?  Where is the complete fulfillment and pride at seeing Addy so passionate about having Baby Brother read stories with her? 

            Maybe I’m coming down off having company and someone to talk to ALL the time.  Maybe I’m lonely.  Luke thinks I’m working myself up and that I have enjoyed things these past 7 weeks.  He says it’s still hormonal.  He says I’ve never been depressed.  I said I know I’ve never been anxious like that or depressed so this is all very unfamiliar to me.  I don’t know anymore what’s normal because I haven’t felt “normal” in so very long.  And normal is definitely different now.

            In my life, I have felt happiest and most comfortable with myself when dancing and exercising.  I did that today and it was nice but I didn’t really feel different or better afterwards.  How much endorphins do I need to get back to that happy place?  My body seems fine with it all now.  It’s my brain that’s fucked up.  I’m starting to understand and appreciate my dad’s struggle now.  Anxiety is a beast. Depression is like a never-ending downpour in the middle of the night.  Or a bad dream you can’t wake up from.  I’ve witnessed it, but never felt it like this.  Just writing about it and acknowledging it makes me feel better.

            And now to be positive.  I’ve identified the problem.  Now for some solutions.

--BE PRESENT in every moment.  Stop evil thoughts the moment they start and focus on what’s happening NOW.

--Cry when I feel like crying.

--Laugh more.  Find carefree moments.

--EXERCISE as much as possible.  Even if it’s going for a brisk walk with the baby Bjorned.

--Be proud of what you have survived and accomplished.  Adelaide is an astounding child.  Joseph is on his way to the same status.  I gave birth naturally to 2 children.  My little body produced these gorgeous creatures.  And look at my body now!!!  Like my yoga mantra—my body is amazing, look what my body can do.

--Put on makeup.  Wear clothes that make me feel happy, even if it means buying more.

--Leave the house.  Be with people.  Invite people over.  Talk to people.  People are good.

--Have things set up to look forward to (see above).

--Try to accomplish something every day (clean something, file something, sort something, wash something) but don’t freak out if it doesn’t happen or get finished.

--Be in the sun.

--Pet/cuddle Hazel.

--Look at all the pictures I’ve taken of the children in the last 7 weeks and remember those days/moments with fondness, even if I barfed that morning or couldn’t eat anything—at least I had the presence and desire to take pictures.

--Stop pretending like what I’ve been through was easy in any way.  Like Noelle said—it’s hard and it’s normal to have these thoughts, anxieties, feelings.

--And if I still feel sad by the time I go back to my OB in 2 weeks, I WILL ask for help.

NOW GO.  Begin again.

9-1-13

There is nothing poetic about this sadness.  There is nothing cathartic about this crying.  I cannot do it alone.  I want to raise a compassionate child but having her say, “Mommy is sad,” every day is not the way to do that.  This is beyond hormones and stomachaches and headaches.  This is “life-ache.”  Only moments each day feel ok.  Maybe even good for a moment.  But the morning is awful.  Every morning, the cold sweat feeling, light-headedness of wondering if I’ll be able to eat.  If I’ll be able to smile or laugh.  If I’ll be able to care for my children, or myself.

I’m thinking about my mother today.  Thinking about her Depression.  I remember she couldn’t get out of bed and she lost so much weight.  I remember as a child making her toast and bringing it to her in bed because I didn’t know how else to help her.  She was a Sad Mommy for a while (probably longer than I knew, and longer than I remember) but then she got better.  She got help.  I’m getting help.  I’m not dealing with this alone because I cannot be a Sad Mommy.  I miss myself.  I want ME back.  It’s ok to miss my Mother right now, but I want to use that as motivation, not to pull me down.  This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  I feel like I’m carrying the weight of everything on me and all I want to do is run away.  But I don’t want to be alone.  Because if I’m alone I think it will only get worse.

I have to let the beautiful moments overtake me, not the sadness or anxiety.  I recognize the beautiful moments still.  I have to fake it for Addy’s sake.  For my sake.  I have to recall yesterday’s joke and crack it again and make her laugh.  Mommy is funny, not sad.  Fake it til you make it.  Stay engaged.  Don’t detach.  Don’t remove.  Don’t go back to bed.  Stay present.

Joseph's Birth Story

Joseph Reid Quirk’s Arduous Arrival

After spending a week sweating in 100+ degree heat and 39-40 weeks pregnant, on the boy’s due date (July 3), I had one final prenatal appointment.  Not-my-usual-nurse-practitioner broke the news that we would go ahead and schedule an induction for one week later, in case I needed it.  When she left the room, I started crying.  She prescribed sex, walking, and the Preggo Pizza from Skippolini’s.  Well, I did one of the 3, at the mall, with Noelle.

That night, through my requested Mexican food dinner, I was having Braxton Hicks every 6 minutes.  The child had been moving viciously all afternoon, making the heat even more uncomfortable.  Those BH didn’t turn into anything, so we watched a movie (Liam Neeson’s The Grey).  I went to bed having a feeling that something was going to happen in the night but I didn’t tell anyone.

Around 12:30, I started recognizing painful contractions.  Looking at the clock, they appeared to vary between 10-12 minutes apart but they were already very painful.  I went to the bathroom and a big blob of something came out.  I called L&D and after being on hold for an eternity (not ok people!) the girl assured me (rudely) that my water had not broken and to call again when my contractions were 5 minutes apart for an hour.  After a few hours of contractions 10 minutes apart, Luke woke up and I told him I was having contractions but they were very painful and different than with Addy.  He got me a damp cloth which was a savior.  He also put a towel on the bed under me.  Just in case.  Around 5am, I started noticing the contractions coming a bit closer together, varying from 7-9 minutes apart.  At this point I was moaning and really struggling through them because they were all back labor.  It felt like my lower back and pelvis were being ripped apart.  Nothing like with Addy.  Nothing like menstrual cramps.  Nothing like I’ve ever felt before or had any preparation for.  Any time I got out of bed, I would have a contraction, regardless of whether I had just had one.  Luke started timing the contractions and they were averaging 7 minutes apart but still varied.  Around 6am I said, “We need to go.  This is not ok.  We need to go.”  So he woke up Mum so she could shower.  As he tried to get in the shower I blasted into the bathroom, dry heaving, and made it in time to barf in the toilet (sort of).  He was taken aback, but proceeded with his shower.  I crawled out of the bathroom where Mum greeted me and assured me Addy was being looked after by Papa.  Some how I got to standing and, with Mum’s support, retrieved the necessary belongings to go with us to the hospital.

Finally we got in the van, me with my water and damp cloth.  On the drive to Kaiser, my contractions came closer together (about 4 minutes, according to Mum) and were extremely painful.  Between contractions I apologized for being so noisy.  We got to Kaiser, got to the second floor, and when a lady came out to greet us, I was having a contraction and all I heard her say was, “We need a bed!”  In Triage I checked out at 7-8cm and 90% effaced so it’s a DARN good thing we left home when we did.  The Kiwi Triage nurse drove me in the bed to an L&D room where a nurse (Jennifer) and midwife (with the most beautiful eyes and freckly face and radiant smile) were waiting and smiling at me.  They were like angels because I was so happy to be there.  They got me into the bed, hooked up the stupid antibiotic IV, and I proceeded with contractions.  I was in transition at that point, and nothing anyone did could ease the excruciation of this back labor.  We tried different positions, massage, etc., but each was more painful than the last.  Finally they asked if I felt like pushing (when I was standing next to the bed with my head resting on pillows on the bed, my favorite prenatal pose), and I said maybe, so they put a pillow under me on the floor.  Somehow I ended up back in the bed and the new midwife/drill sergeant (shift-change=Christiana) wanted me to try a different position on the bed (kneeling facing the back of the bed with my arms up.  She thought I might like to push in this position.  Very nice and midwifey of her, but no.  I was so shaky and tired from laboring all night and being so hot and dehydrated for so long that I couldn’t stay like that for long.  I got into a more traditional position for pushing and they broke my water.  Shortly after, I was complete and they wanted me to push when I was ready.  I really relied on Luke’s counting and Mum and Luke helping hold my legs.  I wanted to do it the same as with Addy—the same “choreography.”  I pushed for about 15 minutes, not for one second thinking I could possibly finish this, and then I hear people saying, there’s the head (or something), and the nurse talking in my ear, telling me I can do this, to breathe, to use my energy for pushing instead of screaming, to listen to the midwife when she said to stop pushing so I didn’t tear.  I heeded her as best I could and out came my baby.  They put him on me immediately and I just sobbed, “My baby, my baby!” and kissed his dark hair.  He was so beautiful and I couldn’t believe it was done.  I just held him and looked at him while other people did who-knows-what.  I vaguely recall Luke cutting the cord and Joseph crying a bit, but mostly just his warm skin on my chest and his little breathing and his little beating heart and oh-my-god how grateful I was that that ridiculous labor was over and my little person was finally with me on the outside.

The midwife talked to me a bit, but was mostly focused on what mu placenta was going to do.  She offered some prodding to help it get a move on, but it stayed put.  She used a catheter to try to create space for it to come down, but that was just painful and didn’t work.  She decided to stitch me up first to give it time to come on its own.  Getting stitches was painful this time, though I’m not sure why because it was lesser tearing than with Addy.  After 30 minutes, my placenta still hadn’t come out, and the midwife got called to deliver another baby so she sent in the OB.  A lovely small young woman came in and worked her magic with her hands and out came the placenta (thank goodness nothing more invasive was needed), but they gave me pitocin to prevent bleeding (fine, whatever).

When all this was done, they gave me back Joseph and I fed him.  He was a champ from the get-go.  A serious boob-man.  That’s my boy.  That’s my love.

Born at 8:34am on Thursday July 4, 2013 after about 8 hours of total, natural labor.  He was 8lb 5 oz and 21 inches long (whoa!).

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