Mortality

One of us is in trouble. The blogger behind Just Making It Up is a mother of two, Asher and Maya, and she's in the ICU in a medically induced coma. Apparently she has a perforated bowel, although I don't know any more details, and has a just better than 50/50 chance of surviving. I hope that's changed by now.

Mary from Them's My Sentiments cued me in on her blog and asked that we stop by Just Making It Up and leave supportive comments.

I know I don't even need to ask....

Blunt and Blue

This is the final chapter of my Baby Chase series. If you haven't read the earlier posts, I've linked Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, and Part V for your reading pleasure.

Cleaning out the drawers in my desk this morning, I found my diary. I've neglected my poor diary since my children, and my blogs, were born. The last entries relate to my unsuccessful pregnancies. They were all so full of hope. Every single one. And then they end before Hollis. Because by the time I became pregnant with Hollis I was afraid to jinx myself by writing down my hope, by making it real.

In my last post I wrapped everything up with a nice little bow, didn't I?

The truth is, in my rush to get to the happy ending, I left out everything that was messy and indistinct. I left out the parts where I cried. I left out the parts where T became frustrated with my inability to leave our losses behind me and unable to understand my obsession with knowing as much information as possible. I left out the parts where I was hormonal and mercurial and weepy and timid and scared and angry and confident, all at the same time.

It's easier to leave out the mess, isn't it? To state that we had "decided" not to do IVF. To say that a little vacation made it happen. (Is there anything more annoying than hearing that?) In reality, it really wasn't like that at all. It certainly wasn't that easy. It was hard.

Everything was hard.

Sometimes it was hard to get up in the morning, to brush my teeth, to breathe.

Only by looking back through time can I blur the edges of what happened and what I felt and the fear.

Let's talk about the fear.

The cycle that worked? I didn't expect it to work. I just needed to be trying. I needed to have that 2 week wait to look forward to. I measured my life in small conception-related increments. It was my way of taking it day by day. I charted and temped. At the right time, I peed on sticks. I went to the doctor. I started over again.

When I found out I was pregnant in January of 2007 I was not expecting it. Not at all. I'd had the world's longest cycle, coupled with the plane stress, and at that point I wasn't on Clomid or doing injectables. We were flying solo.

My first beta was great. My progesterone was not. It was 13. If you recall from my earlier posts, my doctor liked to see a 20 with the first beta. So I started taking progesterone, even though there is no consensus in the medical community that progesterone actually helps maintain a pregnancy if it's started after a positive pregnancy test. But I took it anyway.

At 7 weeks, we saw a heartbeat.

It was the first time we'd ever seen a beating heart in my belly.

I finally got a grainy black and white ultrasound image to take home.

My heart flipped. Then landed with a thud. The baby was small for its gestational age. I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It came in the form of a positive prenatal screen. T was in Florida. My doctor's office called and told me I had to come in that day for an amnio. My test results had given me a 1 in 31 chance of Down Syndrome. I called T and shared the news. We made our decision very quickly. I would have the test.

There is a back story here, but it is one that's not really mine to tell. You see, our nephew has Down Syndrome. Perhaps our decision was made easier by the fact that our nephew, S, is the sweetest most wonderful boy to have blessed the family. Perhaps our decision was made easier by watching K and J with their son, by seeing the love and joy he brought to their lives. Personally, I think our decision was made long before I had a positive AFP. It was made when I held S for the first time and smelled his precious little baby smell.

But why have the amnio if you didn't intend to "terminate," you ask?

Because there are a whole host of complications that usually accompany the birth of such a child. S had to be airlifted to a hospital half way across the state, leaving his terrified parents behind. Even I, 1500 miles away was completely terrified. We weren't going to let that happen. S's parents and doctors had no way of knowing. J's prenatal screening had been negative. But we had the power to know. And so we would.

I had the amnio that afternoon, with a nurse holding my hand for support. Then I drove myself home and slept. And waited an agonizing 10 days for the results.

Everything was fine. We were having a boy.

And for the first time, at 20 weeks, I let myself believe that we were actually having a baby.

Then came the gestational diabetes, the insulin shots, the twice weekly ultrasounds and biophysical profiles, the early disintegration of the placenta, the oligohydramnios, the intra-uterine growth retardation diagnosis and, finally, the emergency c-section. And there I go again, glossing over the fear.

The end result was completely worth it. Every agonizing, wonderful moment.

For this.*


and this


That's not to say that holding a baby healed all my wounds. It didn't. But the pain, once sharp and green, with time, became blunt and muted blue. An ache in my chest for what might have been, rather than despair for what might not be.

I still think of them, the children that weren't. Their names are written in the back of my diary, written when I was irrationally holding onto hope for each of them.

I watch Hollis and Holden thrusting through life and it's hard to regret my path to motherhood. How could I regret what brought me my boys? But still, I'll never forget.




"What about Holden?" you ask. Holden will get a post all his own....

*Sorry about that bit of gore in the background in the OR picture. I blurred it with Photo Shop, but just try to avoid clicking on the photo to enlarge, m'kay?

A Black and White Clock

6:48 am

She sat slouching in the hard plastic chair, the nausea rolling in her stomach and burning her throat. He sat beside her, scratching away at the clipboard, asking occasional questions, "When was that last D&C?" "Is your name hyphenated on your health insurance card?" "What year were you born again? Never mind. I can figure it out."

She answered with brevity, staring at the black and white clock on the wall wondering, inanely, "Why do all institutions everywhere have that same black and white clock?"

7:21 am

She heard her name, the first name stumbled over, the last name butchered as always, "Mister Stephan ___." She stood up, moved toward the indifferent woman in the faded green scrubs who couldn't be bothered to acknowledge the mistaken gender. She remembered, hesitated, looked back at him.

"He'll need to stay there for now. We'll bring him back later."

"Oh no, it's OK. He's going to work. He'll be back to get me later."

Green scrubs looked at her with kinder eyes and turned to lead her inside.

The rows of curtained cubicles, tubes, and beeping machines were frightening. As she followed the green scrubs through the room, she saw some of the patients were asleep. "Or maybe unconscious," she thought, before pushing the thought from her mind. At her blue curtained cell, she listened to perfunctory instructions regarding her clothes, jewelry, hospital gown.

The smell was cold, antiseptic, with a whiff of plastic.

"Do you need a pad?" the green scrubs asked.

Startled, she looked up, questioning.

"Are you bleeding?"

"No, um, no. No bleeding."

She carefully folded her red sweatsuit, gray shirt, panties, and bra. Comfortable clothing, as if it would help. She packed her comfort away in the brown grocery bag with her name labeled in thick, black magic marker. She donned the tissue thin gown and sat on the edge of the bed, covered her legs with the blanket and waited, staring at the clock on the wall.

7:48 am

Green scrubs flung the curtain aside and began efficiently preparing for an IV.

"Lie down on the bed."

The sting was quick, but it burned.

Left alone, she wrapped her arms around chest, careful not to hit the bandage on her arm. She saw the goosebumps and realized she was shivering. Her feet and hands were ice cold.

7:56 am.

Again, she stared at the ubiquitous clock on the wall opposite her curtained rectangle.

Dr. M came, the sight of his familiar face flooding her with unexpected relief. All too quickly he was gone. She watched him at the nurses station in the middle of the pre-op room, joking with the nurses and greeting doctors with small talk. As if this were any other day.

8:02 am

"Hi. I'm Dr. A. I'll be the anesthesiologist for your procedure."

"Why does everyone here call it a procedure?" she wondered. "Is it easier than remembering to insert the name of each surgery while he goes through his spiel 8 times a day?"

"Are you all right?"

"What? Oh, yes, what was that?"

"Can you tell me why you're having this procedure today?"

"Is he checking to see if I'm lucid? Or just making sure I'm not slipping in an optional procedure?" she thought.

"Missed miscarriage. Blighted ovum," she said out loud.

Dr. A left and again she was alone, with a dozen people in sight.

"Missed miscarriage," she thought. "Blighted ovum." Counting the syllables in each word, tapping them repeatedly into the arm of the bed, creating a comforting rhythm with the sterile words.

8:04 am

He appeared in the doorway, following green scrubs.

She simply said, "You're here."

"I couldn't leave."

"I'm glad," she sighed and closed her eyes, her cold hand in his warm fingers.

8:12 am

They wheeled her out of the room and into an operating room. The lights hurt her eyes. Now she was scared.

It was cold. She shivered. Unseen hands piled warmed blankets on her. There was a burning in her arm.

"Count backwards from ten for me."

"Ten, niiiinnnne...."


For everyone who's had to have this procedure and for everyone who has ever dreamed of a miracle they couldn't have. For DD and Julie and Kate and Emily and Jenny and Casey and Joker and Bill (and Mrs. Gunfighter) and Rony and Country Dew and Paula and Lauren and Slouching Mom and Kate and Joanne. And for Bon. Oh, dear Bon. I'm so sorry.

*************
This is part IV of my Baby Chase series. You can read Part I, Part II and Part III if you'd like to get up to speed.

'Tis the Season ... To Be Depressed

This is Part III of my Baby Chase series where I talk about all the fun times T and I had trying to have a baby. And by "fun" I mean not so fun. You can read Part I and Part II to catch up.

When we left off, I had decided that I wanted to have a baby. T said he wanted to think about it for a few months. Well, those of you who know me IRL know that once I make up my mind, things are happening now. Not in 3 or 4 months. So I basically steam rolled over my husband who was simply trying to be the voice of reason, knowing my impetuous ways.

I saw my OB for a pre-conception consultation and he told me we could start trying as soon as I finished my cycle of birth control pills. Dr. G said there was no increased risk of miscarriage the month after stopping the pill, which was my first question considering my history. Dr. G did add a caveat. He said if, "you're the type who will blame yourself if something goes wrong," then you should wait a few months before trying.

Nice foreshadowing, Dr. G.

I got knocked up the very first month we tried. I dutifully waited until day 28 of my cycle and took a test. That's when I was introduced to the gray areas of home pregnancy test results.

Me: "T, is that a line or am I imagining things?"
T: "I don't see anything. Did you follow the directions?"
Me (smacking T in the head with the box): "Look, here in the bright light. Do you see it?"
T: "Ummmm... I think so."

After a few days of some positive and some negative tests (I think I went through at least 4 or 5 tests a day, an early sign of my developing home pregnancy test addiction), I went to my OB/Gyn. Well, Dr. G was going through a break up with his partners. The office was in chaos. I had to wait 75 minutes for a pregnancy test. Which, because they did a urine test, was negative. I asked for a blood test. The staff said "wait a week and test again." Um, I. don't. think. so.

I got a new doctor. They got me in the next day. By this time, by my calculations, I was 21 DPO (days past ovulation). A home pregnancy test should be positive by 14 DPO and a blood test will pick up HCG earlier than that.

The test was positive. My HCG was 63. For the uninitiated, the average HCG at 21 DPO is 1061, with a typical range of 324-4130. They had me in 2 days later for another beta and a progesterone level check. My second beta doubled nicely, so I thought I was safe. I didn't know it at the time, but my progesterone level for that pregnancy never got above 7. Again for those of you who luckily have no idea what I'm talking about, a good progesterone level in the course of your normal menstrual cycle is between 2 and 28. It gets much higher during pregnancy. My doctor later told me he generally likes to see at least a 20 with the first beta. Mine was a 7.

I had my first ultrasound, by my calculations, at about 26 DPO (5 weeks, 5 days). A transvaginal ultrasound conducted with the all-seeing-dildo-wand, put me at 4 weeks, 2 days. They told me I must have had my dates wrong. There was a gestational sac, but they wanted me back in a week for another ultrasound. I did not get a grainy, black and white ultrasound picture to take home, although I desperately wanted one, like all the happy women I saw leaving the office.

Dr. M gave me many warnings about calling if I had bleeding, abdominal pain, or pain (oddly) in my shoulder. A few minutes on Google later that day told me he was worried about a possible ectopic pregnancy if my dates were right.

I spent the next week on Google. I basically couldn't do much else except type in various search terms such as "small sac, gestational age" and "low hcg 21 dpo."

At my next appointment (almost 7 week by my dates, 5 weeks, 2 days by theirs), we again saw a gestational sac, and possibly fetal poles, but it measured 4 weeks, 6 days. Not a good sign, but Dr. M told me we would wait until I should be 8 1/2 weeks, do another ultrasound, and then we would know whether or not the pregnancy was viable if we saw a fetus and a heartbeat.

Any guesses on what we saw?

No heartbeat.

I finally had a D&C at 10 weeks (after several more mentally excruciating ultrasounds) when my body showed no sign of fixing the situation on its own. I had no bleeding at all, but lots of morning sickness. Morning sickness is usually a good sign of a health pregnancy. Ah, the irony.

I scheduled my D&C for July 3rd, rationalizing that I could take the 4th of July off from work (a Friday) without guilt and then be back in the office by the weekend.

After all, I didn't want to inconvenience anyone.

To be continued....

************
Welcome to Day 9 of Wil Wheaton watch. Feel free to stop over at his blog and remind him that I'm still here. Waiting. Patiently.

************
I just heard some horrible news that adds some perspective to my post above. A little girl in my son's pre-school class is in Boston right now having exploratory brain surgery for a tumor in the center of her brain. Apparently our local children's hospital can't do anything for her.

She's 3 years old.

The Baby Chase - Part II

One of my best friends called me last night to tell me that she's pregnant. (Congrats, M! Love you!) We spent almost 2 hours on the phone catching up and talking about babies and motherhood. Hopefully, I didn't overwhelm poor M, but these flood gates opened and I just couldn't stop talking. I really try hard not to bore my childless friends to death with kid and baby talk. So all this stuff we'd never talked about was suddenly fair game!

After we'd been on the phone about an hour, M and I started discussing how each of us had decided it was time to have children. M and her husband J had been adamant for a long time that they weren't going to have kids. T and I had been nearly as adamant. In fact, last night M reminded me of the list T and I once started - 101 reasons not to have kids. Every time we saw a toddler in the throws of a tantrum in Target, we'd turn to one another and say "231," or whatever number we were up to. What had started out as 101 reasons, ballooned up to almost 600 before we stopped keeping track.

It's not as if T and I had never discussed children before. We had. Many times. We weren't really adamant that we didn't want children either. We just knew that we didn't want them now.

When we got married, T was pretty clear that he wanted children eventually. I was on the fence, but told him I could be convinced eventually. As long as he didn't immediately expect me to warp into Susie homemaker and begin darning his socks. We decided we'd discuss it when he hit 30. When T did hit 30, it was the Summer before my last year of law school. We put off the discussion. But that fall, something unexpected happened.

I got pregnant. Equally unexpected was my reaction when I saw those 2 lines on the pregnancy test. I expected to cry, feel overwhelmed and basically freaked out. But as I told T the news, I realized I was smiling through my tears.

The pregnancy did not end well. But T and I weren't ready yet anyway, we told ourselves. If anything, that unexpected and ill timed pregnancy made something very clear for both of us. We did want children. Despite our protestations to family and friends, T and I both very much wanted children.

Still, I can't remember exactly when my biological clock started ticking. I think it was a gradual progression. When my college roommate had a baby and I saw the pictures of her infant I thought I heard a soft "tick tock." I immediately clamped my mind shut and went on with the business of living and making money.

Then I heard that my sister-in-law and brother-in-law were expecting a baby. This time the "tick tock" was unmistakable. But whenever I found myself day dreaming about babies, I began singing to myself, humming, or doing anything I could to redirect my thoughts. It's a great way to stave off the inevitable cognitive dissonance.

My best friend from high school announced she was pregnant.

"Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock."

It was too loud to ignore this time.

So I brought up the subject with T.

T and I have very different decision making processes. I make decisions pretty quickly and once I've settled on a solution, it's hard to change my mind. T, on the other hand, likes to mull things over. I call it procrastination, but he calls it "weighing his options."

I told T I wanted a baby.

T said, "Let me think about it for a few months."

Pre-Hollis me, with my first baby, Sir Hillary

To be continued....

**************
I've decided to keep harassing Wil Wheaton until he comments on my blog. If you have a Typepad account, feel free to go over to Wil's blog and pimp me out tell him how nice I am and how he should acknowledge my existence and make my year. I'm not subtle, am I?

The Baby Chase - Part I

I'm recycling this post I originally published on January 12, 2007 under the title "The Opposite of Fertility is Infertility." Casey recently wrote about her issues with infertility and I've been following DD's trials and tribulations closely, afraid to breathe the wrong way or whisper any hope for her in fear of jinxing her.

The one period of my life and one area of emotion I've thus steadfastly avoided writing about is my Miscarriage Era. It's time to rip the band aid off of that wound, so I'm going to write a bit more about my quest for a baby over the next few weeks. (Damn NaBloPoMo!) So here's a refresher and some background:

Fertility is the ability of people or animals to produce healthy offspring in abundance, and of the earth to bear fruit. In the English language, the term was originally applied only to females, but increasingly is applied to males as well, as common understanding of reproductive mechanisms increases and the importance of the male role is better known. The opposite of fertility is infertility.
- Wikipedia

In the past, on this blog, I have alluded to the fact that T and I did not have an easy time of it when we were trying to make a baby. I had many miscarriages. D&Cs were necessary. I had painful and invasive tests.

I'm not really sure how to describe my feelings during the Trying To Have A Baby time period. I was depressed, yes. But I was also scared. Scared to death that I would never have the one thing I hadn't really realized I wanted until it was perhaps too late. Scared that my husband would blame me. Even more scared that it really was my fault. Every time I got pregnant, we would wait for the other shoe to drop and the pregnancy to end. All the coping mechanisms in the world couldn't help me through that.

The problems we were having were made more difficult because we couldn't really talk about them. Well, some very good friends understood that I needed someone to listen, be there for me, and not act like my life was exactly the same as it had always been. But I can't even count those friends on one hand. Most people who knew (and many did not), simply ignored the problem. Pretended I'd never been pregnant, pretended we'd never lost anything. Unfortunately there were also people who felt the need to talk about it and who made me feel worse.

Don't get me wrong, I truly believe that anyone who has ever spoken to me about my lost pregnancies was very well intentioned. But I'm sure you can understand how frustrating it is, having experienced so many losses, to hear even well intentioned people attempt to console us by saying, "if you just relax it will happen," or, my personal favorite, "at least it wasn't a real baby yet." As if that made our loss less real as well.

We were incredibly lucky. In January of 2004, I got pregnant again. (That's a story for another post!) Once again, my beta was low, my progesterone was horrible, and I could tell by the look on my doctor's face that he thought we were going to lose another one. But he smiled bravely, and I smiled cautiously back, playing the role of the optimistic mother-to-be patient.

When we saw the heartbeat at 7 weeks, we cautiously informed close family. At 13 weeks, we told the world, but I still couldn't get excited. At 20 weeks, my tests came back with an extremely increased risk of Down Syndrome. When the amnio results came back a week later - a normal baby boy - I cried. And then I finally bought something for the baby. For Hollis.

I can't even tell you how much Hollis has changed my life or how lucky and special and blessed I feel to have him. And when Hollis was 5 1/2 months old, we discovered that I was pregnant again. Although the first words out of my husbands mouth were "Oh, fuck," when we had a moment to get over the shock, we were thrilled. But still, I waited for the other shoe to drop. I felt as if I'd snuck a pregnancy in and someone or something was going to take it away. Despite all of my paranoia, in January of 2006, Holden joined our family, turned our lives upside down again, and made us feel doubly blessed.

After what we've been through, you'd think that I would just know what to say to a woman who has been dubbed infertile. But I don't. A couple we know has been trying for many years to have a baby. They've undergone IVF, miscarriages, and several late term pregnancy losses, including the loss of one set of twins. But B, the woman of the pair, has always been optimistic. (Part of it is her personality. She's always bubbly and welcoming, the kind of person you really want to know.) Well, they had one frozen egg left and they were going to try one last time. Even knowing the odds for a frozen IVF cycle, I couldn't help but be convinced by her optimism. But just before Christmas, we heard that their cycle was unsuccessful. No baby.

Attending their annual Christmas party, I couldn't help but notice that B looked like a caricature of herself. B with a smiley party mask on her face. Her smile was a bit forced, her laugh brittle, and I could tell that she was hurting. Stupidly, we brought our boys to the party. We were told they were welcome, but I should have known better. I felt as if I was parading my fertility under her nose while she was stuck with, well, the opposite.

Due to the large crowd and two very fast and small boys, I didn't have a chance to simply walk up to the hostess and bring up such a festive subject. But when I went to say good bye and thank her for the party, I saw the mask drop. Another (very pregnant) friend was giving her a hug and I saw all the naked pain on her face and the tears in her eyes just for a moment. And then the mask was back.

So I still haven't said anything to B. I still haven't called her up and told her how sorry I am or had her over for dinner and a chat. I have no idea why, despite how horrible it made me feel when people simply ignored my pain, I can't simply say something. It's as if some part of me thinks that she won't want condolences from me, mother of an "accident" and his older brother. I know that's not the case, however, and seeing my thoughts here in writing has made me realize that. I just hope it's not to late to tell her how sorry I am for her loss, her very real loss.

Follow up: I think my friend is now, if not OK, accepting how things are. And yes, I have told her how sorry I am. Oh, and that is actually an ultrasound of Holden, not Hollis. I didn't have one of Hollis scanned in and I really like the 4-D picture of Holden. It looks just like him now!

I'm Such A GEEK!

I'm practically running around the house doing cartwheels because our meeting/conference call with Elizabeth Edwards has a write up by Tracy Joan on the Daily Kos website. She mentions the new MOMocrats site too. (Have you checked it out yet? Why the hell not?)

My completely embarrassing story about my kids screaming in the background while I was on the phone with Elizabeth Edwards has been quoted for all the world to see. I'm tickled pink.

I'm such a geek!

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On a more serious note, a fellow blogger needs our help. The lovely Jenn from Serving the Queens recently lost a family member in Iraq, Sgt. Matthew Blaskowski.

Jenn has put up a card of sorts, online for Matt's parents, Terry and Cheryl Blaskowski and they'd like to get as many "signatures" as possible before the funeral on Thursday. Please go over and send them your good thoughts. (No anti-war messages will be posted. They don't need that right now.)

Thanks for your help, my bloggy friends.

I Was An 80 Year Old Grandmother In Another Life

Edited to add a bonus prize!

I normally put blog blasts and all things reviewish onto my review site. But this post contains some kitsch so horrible, I had to put these up on my main site to satisfy my lifetime goal of utterly humiliating myself. Well, at least until I put up the naked pictures.... Totally kidding. Don't run away!

Earlier this week, I mentioned on my other blog that I did a major closet purge this weekend after reading Nina Garcia's advice in The Little Black Book of Style. (You can read my review of the book here as well.) Because there isn't much left in my closet that's shameful and horrifying, I tackled another problematic area: my jewelry box.

You see, I have inherited the pack rat gene. I find it hard to part with jewelry, no matter how old, tacky, or tarnished something may be.

Check out these fabulous holdovers from the 80's:


At least I hope they were purchased in the 80's. If not, the 90's were worse than I remember. I have no idea why they're still in my jewelry box. Did I honestly think I would ever wear them again? HELL NO!

Check out the shame of this scrunchie I had in my drawer. That's right, I said scrunchie. Carrie Bradshaw would slap me senseless if she saw this:

Those are gold metal links. I thought I was so keeeewl!
I saved the piece de resistance for last. Throughout high school, college, and, I'm ashamed to admit, beyond, I collected pins. The only common thread I can see in these pins is that they are all big, tacky, and make me want to slap my 20 year old self silly and scream "WHAT THE FRIGGIN HELL WERE YOU THINKING????"

Oh and did I mention that the telephone rings, the ferris wheel turns, and the kitty cats with the umbrella play Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head? Does that make this any better? Yeah, I didn't think so.

Clearly I was an 80 year old grandmother in my past life. I thought about keeping those fabulous pins for a few seconds thinking maybe I could wear them as some sort of ironic statement, but I know I can't pull that off. People would just think I was clueless.

Now when you've all stopped pointing and laughing, I want to see your tacky jewelry. C'mon! Let's see it. I can't be the only one....

***If you show me your tacky jewelry or something else you've been holding on to for waaaay too long, I'll send you one of those bad boys you see up there! The first to post is the first to win. I'll keep giving them away until I run out! Just email me at lawyermama at gmail dot com.***

This blog blast is brought to you by The Little Black Book of Style and PBN.

My Heart Is Breaking

When I started my blog, it was with the idea that it would be an online journal of sorts. A message to my sons about them, me, our family and our lives. Not always the mundane details, but the emotions, the thoughts, the sensations that we so easily forget. The things that aren't necessarily translated into a baby book.

But along the way I found all of you, the people who read my writing, who actually keep coming back to read about my lack of grace, moments of despair, and of joy. I started reading your blogs in return. And somewhere along the way, you all became very important to me. I care about you, I care about your lives. I hurt when you hurt. I laugh when you laugh. I cry when you cry.

I'm scared when you're scared.

Today, one of you, one of you I've grown to care about, posted something scary. So this afternoon I find myself sitting in my office with the door closed, crying. Because I'm scared for her and for her beautiful girls.

Now, I will pull myself together and offer her my support and my positive thoughts. Jenn, I'm listening. I'm not a praying person, but I will pray, in my own way, for you.

If you have a moment, please go offer Jenn your support. Thanks.

Steal This Post Because Cancer Sucks

Edited to add stuff at the bottom.

You've probably heard about Why Mommy's IBC diagnosis by now. Well, she's asked us all to steal some of her posts to educate people about the particularly insidious form of breast cancer that she has. I had heard of IBC but knew very little about it when Why Mommy was diagnosed. Her diagnosis hit me hard. She's 34 years old, like me. She has two small boys, like me. She could be me. I could be her. Cancer can strike anyone. So read on and feel free to steal her post as well. I know she'd want you to:

We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?

I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.

Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.

Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.

There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.

Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.

You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer.

*************
I also have a guest post up at And the Pursuit of Happiness today. Ms. Sunshine, Sonia, asked me to share some random stuff about the Commonwealth of Virginia and I've happily complied. Feel free to stop by and say hello.

You all know by now that I'm heading off to BlogHer tonight. I'm bringing my laptop and I will try my hand at live blogging if at all possible. I just don't want to make any promises because technology accidents happen. And they always seem to happen to me.

But, as promised, here is what my magnets look like:


(Notice how I strategically placed letters over my double chin. I'm so crafty.)

See you next week!

**************
Edited to add:

My good friend, L, who wrote this fabulous guest post for me last week, has finally bitten the bullet and started her own blog. Thanks for encouraging her to get started, folks. And go visit her while I'm gone:

Not Exactly A Princess

A Six Month Anniversary Present

A little over six months ago, two of my favorite bloggers had a wedding. A very special, socially just wedding, with lots of lovely socially just posts as gifts. I have to admit that, up until news of the proposal and engagement began circulating the Blogosphere, I hadn't yet gotten to know the blogs of these two very special women. I wondered, "Who is this Mad person? And why is her baby wearing a hat?" and "Wow! This Jen person has had an amazing life. How could I ever have anything meaningful to say to her?" And through the union of these two amazing bloggers, the Just Posts were born. After the wedding, I began furtively lurking on both of their blogs and greedily read every Just Post nominee. After awhile I began commenting. And now, I consider both of them part of my community. Or should I say, I consider myself a part of their community? Because theirs is a utopian community - intelligent, supportive, and socially aware. A community I wish I could find outside of the Blogosphere.

Now, six months later, it's time to pony up an anniversary gift. Earlier this week, in honor of the six month anniversary of the Just Post Roundtable, both Jen and Mad had some riveting posts about orphans created by the AIDS epidemic in Africa. Please read them. The statistics are staggering. Mad writes:

"There are 8 million children in Canada. There are 13 million AIDS orphans in Africa." In the time it has taken me to write a handful of social justice posts over these last 6 months that number has steadily risen. It is expected to reach 18 million by 2010. The children of almost two Canadas are being raised without parents at all. Many of these children are HIV-positive themsleves. It's too much too even imagine, isn't it? I try to get my head around it but I simply can't.

18 million orphaned children. Just think about that for a moment.

Does that number horrify you as much as it horrified me? Then read on.

In the way that magnificent women do, Jen and Mad are trying to do something to alleviate suffering, rather than just writing about it. In honor of the Just Post Roundtable, they're on a mission to raise money for the cause. Jen points us to an American non-profit organization called Open Arms. Open Arms runs a home for orphaned children on the Eastern Cape. The people of Open Arms keep the children in the community, hire workers from the community, and try to make a difference.

Here are some more statistics from the Open Arms website:

• On average,600 people die from AIDS each day in South Africa;
• 21.5% of the entire South African population is living with HIV. This is among the highest infection rates in the world;
• The HIV prevalence rate among pregnant women is currently estimated at 27.9% nationally and 27.1% in the Eastern Cape;
• 250 babies are born HIV positive each day in South Africa;
• Average household income in the Eastern Cape is $1,300 per year, or 7,800 rand per year. The provincial unemployment rate is 32%;
• Because of the prevalence of HIV/AIDS, the average life expectancy in South Africa is expected to drop to 36.5 years by 2010. It was 68.5 years before AIDS.

Mad also points us to the Stephen Lewis Foundation, a Canadian foundation raising money for a similar cause.

In honor of the Just Post Roundtable, in honor of Jen and Mad and all women everywhere who try to make a difference, I ask you to make a donation to one of these organizations if you can. If you do donate to Open Arms, please put Just Posts in the space for Company Name, so that Jen and Mad can track how much we've raised. And if you'd like, feel free to write about this on your own blog and let Jen or Mad know about it before the June 10th announcement of the May Just Posts. If you can't donate, then give your time to your community and to people less fortunate in any way you can. Let's give these ladies a hell of an anniversary present.

What Next?

Melt downs, Virginia Tech, and....

What's next?

Well, we just found out that B., my brother, is going to Iraq later this year. I knew that ditching all that guilt was going to bite me in the ass.



Edited to add this LINK for your reading pleasure.

The Worry That Never Ends

There's something morbid that I've been thinking about lately and it really bothers me.

Let me give you some background first - I've always been pretty realistic negative. When I was younger, I found that being negative was a great way to keep myself from being overly disappointed about a test score or my performance in a swim meet. Before the test, event, date, or whatever, I'd simply imagine the very worst happening. In my daydream I'd get an F on my Calculus test, I'd come in dead last in the 100 yard breaststroke with half the school watching, or I'd throw up all over my date for the Homecoming dance. Then, if I got anything less than what I really expected of myself - an A, 1st place, and being a fabulous dating companion - I'd think well, hell, it could have been much worse. And I somehow thought that thinking the worst would actually make it easier if it ever really happened. Of course, it never did.

I still do this. The night before an important hearing, meeting, or trial, I'll picture myself falling flat on my face, forgetting how to speak (let alone doing it in a persuasive manner), or making an ass of myself in front of a judge, colleagues, a client, or all three at once! For the record, I've only forgotten how to speak in court once (one of my first times) for about 10 minutes 10 seconds. It felt like an eternity but it was by no means as bad as I had imagined it.

But I also imagine the worst in ways that I wish I didn't. I sometimes imagine horrible things happening to the people I love most. T dies in a fiery car wreck when I'm a bit worried that he's late getting home. My parents, flying across the country to see us, plummet to their deaths in a freak airline disaster caused by a domestic terrorist who has concocted some way to bring the plane down with 2 ounces of bottled water and a nail file. And the worst - I drive over the high rise bridge near my house, am hit by an oncoming car, pushed off the bridge, and we plummet down to the surface of the water. Then, if I happen to be conscious in the daydream, I try futilely to figure out how to get 2 children under 3 out of their car seats and swim us to the surface before we all drown. My own horrible little Sophie's Choice.

Now don't worry, there's really no reason to call the Crisis Suicide Hot Line or anything. I don't dwell overly on these horrid little tableaus. In fact, they flash through my mind in 30 seconds or so and I mentally stomp them into ashes. I'm not quite ready for the psych ward, or even a nice Xanax prescription. I just worry about the people I love. I can't really imagine anything happening to them, especially my children, or how I would react. It's astounding how much scarier the outside world becomes once you become a parent, isn't it? I think that my horrid daydreams are a reaction to that. A way to try to prepare myself for the worst and somehow make it easier if it happens. Of course, we all know that it never really will.

So now that I've dumped my neuroses onto the Internet, I need to sneak upstairs and kiss my little boys. I truly am blessed.


On a completely unrelated topic, I have this nifty little monitoring service called Google Analytics. I've actually posted about it here before. Not only does it tell me interesting things like key words picked up by search engines, it also tracks daily visitors by such features as specific geographical location and domain name. So if, say, someone from my past felt it necessary to obsessively check my blog several times a day, I would know about it. I'm just saying.

Conflict of Conscience

I generally try to avoid blogging about my job, other than in the most general terms. I don't want to run the risk of insulting people with whom I work and negotiate on a daily basis. But something tragic happened to the family of a lawyer with whom I work recently and it's really made me think.

On November 11, 2006, Elisabeth Kelly King Reilly, was shot during a robbery at an upscale shopping center in Virginia Beach. According to witnesses, she had handed over her belongings to the robber and both Kelly and her robber had turned to leave when the robber turned and shot Kelly in the back. Kelly died at the hospital later that evening. She was 25 years old and a newlywed - she had been married for only four months.

People in the area are in an uproar. Because of the tragic nature of the crime, because of the circumstances, and because it might have been avoided. You see, the suspect, 19 year old Christopher Hagans, had quite a criminal history and was out on bail when Kelly was murdered. The judge did not have Christopher Hagan's criminal history before him when he released him on bail. Of course lots of finger pointing is now happening, with prosecutors claiming they don't have the man hours or the money to do a background check before every hearing. I'm sure the issue will be debated in the area for years to come, but that's not really what I'm writing about. You see, Christopher Hagans, who has been arrested and charged in Kelly's murder, is almost certain to face the death penalty if convicted. The fact is that a death sentence in Virginia really is a death sentence - Virginia executes more people than any other state except Texas.

I've hinted about my conflicted feelings about the death penalty before, but I guess I'll explain a bit more now. Until my mid-20's I really had no strong feelings about the death penalty. If asked for my view, I would have told you I didn't really have one. But when I entered law school I was forced to actually think rationally about the death penalty and examine my personal views. I educated myself on the issue and my conclusion was that the death penalty was applied irrationally, irregularly, and along racial lines. What's more, you don't have to be a "liberal" to realize that it costs a lot of money to have prisoners on death row with years of automatic appeals. And I have to admit that there is something a touch barbaric about keeping a man in a cage for 20 years before finally hauling him off and executing him for a crime committed years before. Now there's no need to flame me if you disagree with my views. I know all of the arguments for and against the death penalty. Trust me, there's no need to educate me on the matter. What it comes down to, for me, is whether the risk of executing even one innocent person is worth the price, both in terms of money, revenge, and "justice." I don't think it is. Now that I have children, however, my thoughts on the death penalty have become more conflicted. Let me just say that if anyone hurt one of my children, I. would. kill. them. Or at least I would want to. How do I rationalize this feeling? I have no idea. I haven't even tried. I've never really been forced into a situation where my principles would be challenged and I hope to god I never am.

Unfortunately, a partner in my firm is now in this unthinkable situation. Kelly Reilly was his cousin. And my co-worker, we'll call him Lawyer X, is an ardent critic of the death penalty. In fact, Lawyer X frequently represents prisoners in their death row appeals pro bono. Lawyer X has also been quite outspoken about his feelings in the media, locally and nationally. Lawyer X has had clients executed and he has witnessed them first hand. I honestly don't know how he does it. Setting aside the crimes for which Lawyer X's clients have been convicted, I don't know how he puts himself personally and professionally in such a losing position. I know that I could not handle the emotional pain and the responsibility of literally holding someone's life in my hands. Lawyer X is not a criminal defense attorney, but he has convictions and he has trained himself to use his exceptional legal abilities to support those convictions. I admire that.

But in a cruel twist of fate, Lawyer X and his family are about to go through a death penalty case from the other side of the aisle. And I am afraid to ask him about it. I'm afraid to ask him if his personal convictions have changed now that a dear family member has been cruelly murdered. In another world, a parallel world where Kelly Reilly is still alive, Lawyer X might have represented Christopher Hagans. So what does Lawyer X do now? I have no idea, and I suspect that neither does he.

More About Eugene

NPR recently ran a story about Alaska's 172nd Stryker Brigade and interviewed Melissa Alex, the wife of the first soldier killed in the Brigade, Eugene Alex. I thought I would post this follow up story because, as I wrote in September, Eugene was a good friend of my brother's. I felt horror and so much sadness for his family when I heard the news of his death, but I also felt relieved that I had never received such horrible news about any of my loved ones. This isn't the first story NPR has done about the 172nd and the effect the war has had on their families, so I'm glad to hear that they're coming how now.

Notice Anything Wrong With This Picture?

Mistake?

Yeah, suuuuuuuure it was.

It Was a Beautiful Day

9/11 was a beautiful, cloudless day, wasn't it?

I was at work when the first plane hit. The conference room TV was on CNN and I remember thinking that it was a horrible accident. Then the second plane hit as we watched. That's when I realized that it wasn't an accident. And when the towers fell I was horrified and scared.

When the Pentagon was hit my panic became more immediate - I had worked at the Pentagon for the Department of the Army while I was in law school. I had friends and former co-workers in that building. T somehow managed to get through to me at work and told me that he was going in to the Navy Yard (he is a Naval Intelligence reservist). I left work and went to a friend's home so I wouldn't be alone. T later told me that he drove past the smoking Pentagon and people were stopped on the side of the interstate, just watching in horror.

I did not yet have children on September 11, 2001. In fact, T and I weren't even considering it yet at that time. But I do remember wondering how we could bring a child into this world - a world where planes fell from the sky. But we got over our fear and then we became determined to live our lives. Less than two years later, we decided we were ready for a baby. Three years after 9/11, on September 16, 2004, my oldest son came into the world screaming. On September 19th, T and I brought him home from the hospital.

It was a beautiful, cloudless day...just like 9/11.

Did Katie Look Fat?

It was a big day in broadcast journalism yesterday. Katie Couric made history in her debut as the first woman solo news anchor. I have to admit that I only saw portions of the broadcast. I did not watch the entire 30 minutes. It was certainly a different format for the evening news and yes, it was a little light on actual news. But what concerns me more are the reactions from the pundits today.

Someone please explain to me why it is necessary to comment about what Ms. Couric was wearing? Tom Shales, had this to say - "Couric, who began the newscast standing up and promoting what was to come, oddly wore a white blazer over a black top and skirt, the blazer buttoned in such a way as to make her look chubby, bursting at the button, which we know she isn't." Please, Tom, stick to writing your column and leave fashion to, well, anyone who has purchased new eyewear since 1986. The Associated Press was a little more restrained, but still felt it necessary to include this comment, "As the end credits rolled, Couric, wearing a white jacket over a black shirt and skirt, was leaning against the edge of her desk, showing her famous legs."

Again, why is this necessary? Yes, she's a woman. Get over it! I can't recall anyone ever even mentioning Dan Rather's legs - at least not in connection with his broadcast. I don't remember any comments about Bob Schieffer's red tie making him look fat either. Why is this somehow relevant when a woman takes over the anchor desk? It certainly says a lot about how our society really views women, doesn't it? Katie Couric may be a highly accomplished interviewer and now one of the most powerful women in the broadcast news industry, but, according to the critics, at the end of the day she's still a chick in a skirt with great legs and a jacket that makes her look fat.