Sea Turtle Mother

It's Friday afternoon, and I'm feel a little less raw than I've been in the past few days. Like I mentioned in my previous post... I literally felt as if I'd fallen in that Sand Pit in the Winnie the Pooh Story...only, a big part of me didn't want to try to get out again. An even bigger part of me didn't think I could. On Monday, I decided that I was going to stop eating until I felt some kind of answer emerge, I am not a religious person, though I've always been deeply connected to my spiritual self, and I know that people have fasted for spiritual reasons with what they consider success. I decided I'd try it. I didn't eat anything. I drank water, and it wasn't hard to maintain that pattern because ,frankly, I was too sad to be hungry. I fed my family, and did not feed myself. I know it seems really extreme, but my pain was really extreme too.

I've been thinking about sea turtles a lot lately, they have really helped me over the past few months to find some peace that has been really driving my life lately, but I fell anyway. It was sudden, and terrible, and I almost lost my grip on everything I hold dear...but when I hit the very bottom of despair, I found them waiting for me again. Patiently. And I knew this wasn't just something to share with a few friends...it was something to share with everyone.

Sea turtles lay these big abundant nests that are chock full of eggs. Most of the eggs never have a chance to hatch, because they are eaten by predators. Of the little sea turtles that DO hatch, most of them are eaten as they try to make it to the sea...and the ones that make it to the sea, are also greeted with enthusiasm...by predators. But...some of them DO survive. Some of them live. And when they do...their life is never really fair. They are always at risk of being killed at some point, Even though they are completely peaceful creatures. These wonderful sea turtles, they float peacefully, without anxiety...even though their life isn't fair. Even though it will never be fair. They aren't afraid...they aren't brooding about how unfair their life really is. I've swam with these creatures, and they were like angels. Peaceful, gentle, welcoming. Real living angels of the sea. A lot of their babies die. Their life isn't fair. But...they swim on. They swim on with inner peace.

I'm a sea turtle mother. Not all of my babies get to live. My life isn't fair. But...I'm reaching for inner peace. I want to float in peace. I want to keep swimming in this big sea of life.

Life isn't fair. I don't have to like that my babies died. I never have to like that. But I do have to keep swimming. I do need to find inner peace. That's what the sea turtles have for me, and I'm going to try to follow their example. I broke my fast this afternoon. Four days of fasting....four days of being lost in the deep dark caverns of pain....

I'm still swimming...I didn't drown. Maybe, when and if that sandpit appears again...I'll be able to stumble around it instead of falling flat on my face,Maybe I will, as sweet Liz suggested, throw some sand in to make the pit less deep (very wise I must say Liz!) but if I DO fall, I'll try to remember to call the sea turtles to help me get back out. Because, they are waiting. They are my friends, my spirit guides...I am one of them. Sara...The sea turtle mother.

Falling down...AGAIN.

"They were having a rest in a small sand-pit on the top of the forest. Pooh was getting tired of that sand-pit, and suspected it of following them about, because whichever direction they started in, they always ended up at it, and each time, as it came through the mist at them, Rabbit said triumphantly, "Now I know where we are!" and Pooh said sadly, "So do I," and Piglet said nothing...

"Well," said Rabbit, after a long silence in which nobody thanked him for the nice walk they were having, "we'd better get on, I suppose. Which way shall we try?"




I'm sitting here wondering how it happens so fast. It comes out of nowhere, and a smile a moment before sits frozen in shock, until it fades, and crumbles into despair. One tiny little chink to the Achilles heel of my soul and I'm in the dark, without the will the climb out of it ever again.

Because, really....what is the point?

Why keep TRYING if I always just end up HERE in this blackness?

I feel like the story of Winnie the Poo...when he goes around with Rabbit and Piglet, and all of a sudden, they realize that they keep coming back to the same sandpit. I used to think that was really funny...I remember the pictures in the story book...the expressions on their cartoon faces...it made me laugh. I remember watching the movie on video tape over and over again with my sweet little Hamilton who adored Poo Bear. I watched it to be with my little one, but, I also loved that story. I laughed every time...even as a mother.

But now...I keep coming back to that sandpit. I keep falling in it unexpectedly, even though I KNOW it was there before. I start looking up, noticing the blue sky, and butterflies flitting about...I start to believe in fairies again...I start to believe I'm going to be o.k....and then...WHAM SPLAT CRASH!!!!! I'm in the fucking sand pit again. And...I don't think it's funny. I don't see the humor in it, though I am pretty sure that LIFE is laughing at how easily I trip. "Oh look...there she goes again! Isn't it FUNNY when she falls in it AGAIN! HA HA HAHAHA !"

So, while I'm sitting in here, feeling the gritty sensation of sand in my teeth from doing a face plant suddenly, I just feel like crying forever.

I don't want to cry about getting stuck in the sand pit any more. I'm just HERE. In the fucking sand pit. I can't keep trying to get out of it. Looking at the blue sky just trips me up. Trying to believe in fairies isn't working for me. My companions in life might find a way out of this stupid hundred acre wood if they would just LEAVE ME IN THE GOD DAMNED PIT!!!!!!!!

It's too hard to keep finding myself back here. It's too hard to realize it's happened. Again.

Maybe if I just...give UP....I can just accept that this is my life. In a sand pit.

I'm one of those dogs you may have read about. The ones that taught psychologists about the effects of depression. The ones that stopped trying to avoid the shocks. They just sat in a corner, whimpering. They had learned that there was no point in trying to get away anymore. They had learned that they would be shocked...no matter what they did. It's called learned helplessness. And...I've learned it. I get it now. Life is never going to stop pushing me into the sandpit. ever.

At least, if I stay here....I'll know where I am. At least...if I stay here...I can't fall IN again.

Maybe I can outsmart life if I just stop TRYING to get away from the pit.

Apparently, it's where I'm supposed to be. Why else would life keep pushing me into it?

My husband. My sweet husband. The man I love so desperately. He keeps trying to coax me out. His hand is outstretched and he's hoping I'll grab it. He wants me to keep on walking with him. He figures that as long as we walk together, one step at a time...even if the sand pit shows up again (and it WILL), that we'll be o.k.

But I'm not so sure about that.

Because I'm just in the sandpit whimpering.

I don't want to grab his hand because I'm afraid of bringing him back to this spot. I'm afraid life will push anyone near me in with me. I want him to back away slowly...and just leave me in the sand pit. I want him to get as far away as he can go. AWAY from the sand pit that has claimed me as it's prisoner.

I don't seem to care about finding a way out anymore. The sand pit will find me if I try to get away. It will find me no matter how happy I get to be in one moment. It will find me no matter whose hand I'm holding. Or how tight I'm holding it.

I'm pretty sure that blue skies will still shine for everyone else if I stay here.

I'm not going anywhere. I'm just here. In the pit. I'll sit here, and if my kids need something, I'll try to get it for them. When my husband needs dinner, I'll make it for him. But...inside...I'm in the sand pit. I'm not coming out. And I'm not going to eat another bite until I understand why I keep getting pushed in here. I read this morning that a person can survive for about 45 days without food...and that's only if they are thin. I'm 257 pounds at this point. I think I can hang around until I get some fucking answers from this life. Until I get something CLEAR from the universe I'm not going to keep sustaining myself with food that just sticks to my ass making my burden of existence heavier and heavier. I want ANSWERS NOW!!!! and if I don't get them--

well. then, that is my answer. And here I will sit. In the pit. While everyone else moves on...out of the forest...safe from the pit...and safe from me.

A gift of open hearts

Have I ever mentioned how much I love my husband?

I probably have...but....even so, it just seems appropriate to express it again. I love my husband beyond my body's capacity for love. I sometimes feel that I might burst at the seams from the immensity of feeling that fills me when I think of him.

When he isn't home, I find myself remembering the first time he opened the door, and I saw him there. It was his eyes. Blue, warm, smiley eyes. Eyes that drank me in, and knew me in a glance. I think of his hands...strong, smooth, capable hands. I think of his smile...his wisdom...his grace...his humor. I hear his musical genius, and his strong voice. I, admittedly, think of the strong lines of his athletic body and how it carries him, like an eagle, through his life.

This is a man that helps others in pain. A man that nourishes others. Plays with his children. Cherishes me.

This is a man that spends early morning moments before the sun rises in prayerful contemplation, and communion, with his twin spirit sons, Simon and Alexander in order to begin his day with them. In order to find his center, so that he can help comb out the tangles of other peoples minds...including mine.

This special man, author, therapist, artist, dancer, musician, athlete, shaman, intuitive healer...has been holding my hand...my fragmented broken self...with love for 15 years.

He has loved me without question. He has been supportive, and nurturing. He has never judged me for being plump, emotional, internally doubtful. No....he just loves me.

He sees me.

This weekend, we took a walk, and then, went to the mall to get a fruit smoothy to share. We were walking by a jewelry store when he suddenly pulled me inside.

"I've been wanting to get you this..." he said with a smile. He pointed at a circle filled with united hearts. Two big ones, and two smaller ones. "You see...it looks just like the card I made you when we lost Simon and Alexander. It is you, me and Simon and Alexander....and..it's ALSO our five living sons...all of it, in one wholeness within the wholeness....Do you like it?"

I nodded...and held him close.

I've been wearing it ever since.

You know, I've been really sad. I'll probably be sad on some level forever. But right now...at this moment...I feel really very lucky. I have such a loving,tender man to share my life with. Our living children are amazingly dear, I have such wonderful dear doggies to cuddle...and Simon and Alexander...they can't hold my hands...but they will always hold my heart.

Signs of trauma manifesto

It is missing.

It's not REALLY a big deal, but...it IS missing nonetheless.

No...it's not my purse, or my tiny wallet with keys attached, or my coat, shoes, or favorite pair of yoga pants. It's not the tootsie pop that I claimed as my own the day before I found out my pregnant belly was a tomb. It's not my cell phone...or a purple dog leash, or the card that entitles me to a free loaf of bread at the local bakery.

No. It's simply my "Griz card". The card that allows me unlimited, free access to the city bus because I am a student at the University of Montana.

Like I told you, it's not really a big deal.

It's just a dumb card with my face on it.

The only reason I mention it at all is that I've had to replace it several times in the past 10 months. I've had to replace it four times in fact. After having had the original card for four YEARS prior to that...I've lost the replacements four times in the past 10 months.

Each time, the picture looking back it me reminds me that I am a very different person than I was 10 months ago. Before my womb became a tomb. The replacement pictures look sad. Bloated. Tired. Old.

It doesn't look like I remember looking.

I keep wishing I could find the original one. The one with the smile, and sparkly eyes free from dark circles. The one where I didn't know my children could die. Not REALLY die. It was an abstract concept. Something that happened to other people...in other countries....for other reasons.

But...anyway, the card...I've been looking everywhere for it; looking for any one of them in fact!

Here is what I found instead of my Griz card:

A receipt from the ultrasound office that said I'd paid for a video that they forgot to take. . .they told me we could do it "next time"...but there was never a next time to see my babies alive.

A bag filled with school papers and studies related to circumcision for a report I was supposed to do last Spring for my woman's studies class, a thick baby name book borrowed from my midwife, a homeopathic vial of morning sickness tablets, a half eaten box of ginger candy and my yellow binder filled with my pregnancy progress. It was the bag I carried from the bus, to my midwife's home....and then to the ultrasound office to confirm that my body was full of death, instead of life. There was a crumbled hardened tissue in the bag as well.

I found a purse filled with odds and ends from my hospital stay. Pamphlets about stillbirth. Papers that told me how I might feel as a reaction to losing a baby.

I discovered, under my bed, clothing that fit me 10 months ago...they had folded nicely under my thriving belly...and had made my butt look great! I hadn't looked for those jeans....because I knew they didn't fit--even though I am not pregnant.

I discovered in the crevices of the couch in my living room about a pound of popcorn, a handful of m&m's, about $10 in change and a list with possible baby names that my husband and I had laughed about...only 10 months ago.

I found my favorite hairbrush in an overnight bag...and a pair of blood soaked pants and a bloody shirt, hardened...crumbled....from the night that brought to light that not only had I lost one baby...but that two babies had called my body home, and that the 2nd had spent 6 weeks rotting inside of me until finally I began to hemorrhage and required that they take him out in pieces to save my life. It was the 2nd time I died in 6 weeks. I guess my husband had had other things on his mind besides trying to salvage the clothing I wore that night.

I found all my childbirth books. Stuffed into a bag. I'm sure my husband was trying to put them out of view.

I found my favorite lipstick that I last wore 10 months ago. It looked strange on this face that has gone without any embellishments...for 10 months. Why put it on if your just going to have to wipe it off when you cry. No...I only wear lip balm now....because breathing through my mouth cracks my lips...and my nose is usually swollen from crying...my eyes have raw marks at the corners. Every-time they heal a little....I lose it again.

I found a "bully stick" that I bought for Ferdinand when he first came home with us. Still in the bag that I put it in. For those of you who are in the dark about what exactly a bully stick IS...I'll spare you the details; but my puppies LOVE them in capital letters. I'd forgotten where it was--so I bought more.



I thought I had put my Griz card back in my wallet the last time I used it. I was taking the boys to Aikido.

It saves me a dollar every time I ride the bus. I have no memory of any other possibility. And in truth....it really doesn't matter. It's just a bus card, with a poorly taken picture of a sad woman.

It's just something I seem to keep losing.

It's only a reminder that I used to be a little more focused. A little less fat. A little more smiley. A bit less scattered.

It's just a card.

It's nothing compared to what I lost 10 months ago. Espesially when you consider the fact that no matter how many times I lose that card...I can always pay ten dollars to replace it.

There is nothing I can do to replace Simon and Alexander.

That's when you call it loss. When you can't replace what is missing. Ever.

Pure loss.

Forever.

That is the kind of loss that puts losing a plastic card into perspective. It's the kind of loss that explains WHY you lose other, more meaningless, things.

It's the kind of trauma that puts slippery slides where the foothold of your mind used to be.

And so you lose things. Meaningless things. Things that remind you of the real losses you've had.

The losses you can't replace, or find, no matter how hard you look.

A Valentines wish...

May the love you feel for your babies
both here and lost forever
be the glue that holds your life together
even with the rains crash in
even with the storm blows
even with fog obstructs your view
even when you lack strength to go on.

May the passion you feel for your lover
yesterday and tomorrow
be the twinkle in your eye
even when your arms are empty
even when your tears flow
even when you cannot breathe
even when you feel distant.

May the person you always dreamed of being
while you made mud pies, and ran barefoot with abandon
be the wind that holds you afloat
even when your heart is broken
even with all "could have beens"
even when the load is crushing
even with too much to bear.

May this day of love filled inspiration
With all it's glitter and poofy frill
Be more meaningful than a box of chocolates
because your heart deserves love
because your future deserves hope
because your present deserves warmth
because all healing starts with love.

Happy Valentines Day sweet mothers.
Happy Valentines Day sweet babies.
Happy Valentines Day to all the fathers.
Happy Valentines Day to brothers...sisters...
Happy Valentines Day.
A day of love.
for love.
because of love.

Happy Valentines Day.

Tribal Thunderbird Rescue

It's a little funny how life is. Funny strange....not funny ha ha. It's that same kind of funny that lifts you up in one moment, offering the potential for a smile...a feeling of confidence....and then throws you back out into the road right in front of a speeding mini van filled with car pooling soccer moms and their happy i-podded tweens leaving you twitching and flattened as car after car runs over you....

What IS this? This roller coaster ride....I've been on it so long I've stopped TRYING to contain my vomit! Out it comes....all over everyone around me....the ride doesn't stop...it just keeps on going, like there is some crazy laughing psycho that keeps stepping on the gas right as the ride starts to ease up....right as I think I get to get off the damn ride to wash off and ride something more gentle....like the kiddie planes or something. Maybe a nice happy log ride. Or....maybe....just eating some ice cream and watching a happy puppet show.

But no. I get to be Velcroed to the damn roller coaster.
Against my will.
For all time.

At some point, I came to the conclusion that if there IS a hell. . .It is a roller coaster ride that you can NOT get off of. It is a scary, screaming, roundabout that convinces you that if you don't die on it.....you will at least wish you could pass out until it was over. A crap your pants kind of ride. A "Daddy, Daddy!!! PLEASE tell the man to STOP!!" ride.

What's really funny (see above definition of "funny") is that I seem to BE the crazy psycho that keeps stepping on the gas.

Or at least...that is what my husband thinks.

Because, this morning....

He told me that if I don't stop being such an asshole to his wife, that he is going to have to start being mean to me.

HUH?!

He told me that he won't tolerate me saying mean things about his wife anymore.
He told me that what I keep saying about his wife is total crap.

He told me to knock it off...and the look in his eyes was FIERCE!

He said that it's o.k. if I am sad forever. Hell...he expects that I will NEVER stop being sad about losing our twins. He also said if I think I can go on being so awful to his wife...saying horrible things about her...that he will NOT put up with it...and I will have to deal with her husband. Because NO ONE talks about his wife that way.

Are you confused yet?

The roller coaster ride came to a screeching halt.

I stepped off it, with tears in my eyes. Shaking. I left the bitch who had been saying I was worthless...that I killed my babies with my body...that I wasn't a good mother...that I didn't deserve joy...or life....

I left her there with her jaw open...I could feel her clawing at me...trying to pull me back into the ride.

But he held me in his arms. Held me strong and secure. With all the love that has ever been since the dawn of time.

He told me he was getting a tattoo.

Of a tribal American Thunder bird.

Getting some control over life...

It is amazing what a little control can do for your affect. The sky looks bluer, the air feels warmer, cookies smell better and dogs seem fluffier. Of course...all that could simply be that spring is about to...well...spring! But seriously...that can't really be it, because I am in Montana, where winter prevails until at least April...sometimes even June. No....it's the control that's doing it. That is the only answer to this feeling.

Control.

Over what? Well....it may sound silly...but...it is control..over my dogs.

This afternoon, I finally was able to have the dog trainer I've been talking to since early January come out to my house. She had been on vacation, and then I had some schedule issues, and then she did.....and then she went to a dog show...and then.....

she came. SHE CAME!

She walked in with the embodiment of confidence. (the complete opposite of the me I am lately...) She took control of the crazy chaos that has been taking its toll, and she straightened it out....and handed that order back to me, and showed me how to keep it.

Sounds pretty simplistic...but, in one hour, that is exactly what she did. My furry fur balls went from trying to kill each other in the living room, to passively sleeping next to each other in the exact same living room. (side note: though Ferdi and Felix play outside nicely, go on walks nicely, and are sweet to each other in general...they go INSANE in the house, and it is SERIOUSLY vicious, and quite scary. So...I have been keeping them apart in the house to ensure no one gets bit....but that really felt like only a temporary solution to a very volatile problem.

My new trainer explained very kindly that Ferdinand seems to think that he needs to take care of me...protect me. (I wonder why.....oh yeah...because I'm a total mess.)
and that this feeling of protection has created some serious anxiety. He feels that Felix, when he's in the house, is a threat because Felix DID attack him over food when he was still in a starvation state from his old owners neglect. He equates Felix with danger in the house...and attacks him...to protect ME.

After 45 minutes of working with these two smart pups together, Maryelle had given me complete control over two dogs that were NOT even thinking about fighting.

I wanted to cry...but this time...it wasn't because I was sad.

Obviously, this is something we need to really keep tight in the house. The whole semblance of control could be wiped out with a lazy attitude. I have to stay on top of it. I have to be the boss.

I have to be the pack leader.

and that....will require some inner strength.

The thing that helps me believe that I can do it is that they are my twins. They are worth it.

and so am I.

Maryelle will come back next Monday....to check on my progress with them.

I have the tools....I understand what to do....now, I just need to do it.

It feels good to have some control over something.

It makes me feel that there is light up ahead.

What a nice feeling....maybe spring will come early after all.

chocolate, treadmills and puppies

What do these things have in common? Well...for me, they are all sources of endorphin release. Well....maybe not the treadmill in and of itself, but, walking is a source, and hence, a treadmill simulating walking can fit into that category as well.

So first....chocolate.

As most women know, chocolate is the source of all things happy. Studies show that women that eat chocolate at least once a week will live longer than their non-chocolate eating friends. Downside? Eating chocolate as a source of happiness will also lead to increased butt size and all around overall increase in mass period, which does NOT make one happy.




Next....treadmills.

Due to increased butt size caused by the chocolate that was eaten to try to enjoy a happiness that has been elusive at best since the loss of my sweet twins, Simon and Alexander...I walk a lot. I walk with my sheepdog pups every day. But, as I also have to use a computer for my freelance work, and the online classes I am taking in an effort to "stay in the loop" (including one called "Grief Loss and Bereavement".)I ALSO sit a lot. Too much in fact. Not only do I sit around for work and school...but I sit around helping my kids with homeschooling, and then I sit around with my husband exchanging foot massages while he talks about his day, and I cry about mine.

So, I started looking for ways to walk while working. The resulting effect was that I found the Treadmill computer desk. I called the company and told them I wanted to know if they would barter with me for my writing service with my home business "Butterfly Reflections". They agreed, and this is what they are sending me in exchange for my talent with words....



I fully expect to reduce the size of my butt, enjoy the natural calming effects of endorphin release caused by walking, and have hopes that this desk will not only make me healthier...but happier too. I expect that my recent diagnosis of the heart condition known as "long QT" will be quelled due to the natural reduction in stress that walking brings on, and that overall...I will feel better at the end of the day when I know that instead of sitting for hours on end...I was walking instead.

Regardless of the effects, it will at least be a more interesting way to write.

This brings me to the last item on the list, but by far the most important one. Puppies.

Puppies of such furry warmth and lovable sweetness, only a person of steel hearted coldness could resist their charm. Adorable sweet faces punctuated by black noses and only the occasional flash of a sparkling eye under all that fur. They romp gleefully on our walks, enjoying the snow and slipping around like two bear cubs in the woods. They make me smile and they lick away my tears. They trot ahead, insuring that the path is safe for me to travel...and though I am not happy about the size of my own butt at this time....I certainly do love to watch theirs!



Yes....these are butts that would make anybody smile.

Runaway tears

My nervous system is shot.

A few days ago I was watching Ferdinand sleep after romping wildly with Felix in the yard. He was exhausted and plopped down with an audible "Ooomph", just like a tuckered out toddler. He pulled his Barney doll in close to him, wrapped his big paw around it and fell asleep. I just sat quietly on the couch in awe of his sweetness. Downstairs, I could hear Felix continuing his Tigger like romp....that puppy has more energy than he knows what to do with, or more accurately...more energy than I know what to do with.

In any case....I whispered to my husband to get his camera...it was a moment I didn't want to forget. We took the shot....and that is what you see above. My baby sleeping with one of his favorite toys. His Barney. Actually....once upon a time, it was my 19, almost 20 year olds Barney. It had been long forgotten, and one day, Ferdinand found it in the garage, and claimed it. My eldest didn't mind...in fact, he is mortified that he EVER adored Barney with the passion that only a four year old can. There was a time when that young man with the carefully styled hair and Model features would ONLY wear purple...and that included underwear.

In any case, I was smiling at my puppy...sweet Ferdinand the cuddle muffin....

and suddenly...as I often do....I began to cry.

and cry.

and cry.

My poor husband. I swear he doesn't know if I'm coming or going anymore. I was laughing about how sweet and lovely our darling baby pup is...and then, I was sobbing.

I can't explain it.

I don't understand it.

I don't enjoy it.

And....I can't stop it.

My thoughts began the whirlpool effect that is the result of trauma...a blur negativity, pain, anger, grief and core level lowliness. There I was, where only moments ago I'd been laughing....in a state of terrible despair that I couldn't understand, or explain.

It just was.

It was as if my emotions have to flood over me at a certain fill level...no matter how I think I am feeling. Because, always...at the core of my self...my innermost heart...is that feeling of terrible loss.

So, I could be laughing...enjoying myself...and if, at that moment, The fill level reaches it's peak....I'm going to suddenly find my laughing turning into sobbing. For no reason.

No...I take that back. There IS a reason. It's just not a CURRENT reason.

My nerves are shot.

Even the stress of laughter adds to the fill level.

I'm sick of runaway tears. Tears that come without provocation. Tears that interrupt the intimacy of my family. Tears that only make me feel more helpless. More alone.

I'm sick of runaway thoughts. Thoughts that tell me I don't deserve my husband. Thoughts that tell me my kids would be better off without me. Thoughts that tell me I'm not worth the effort.

It all brings to mind the Dementors of Harry Potter's magical world where I suddenly feel as if I'll never be cheerful again. I suddenly am in my worst nightmare...where mothers scream in pain over the death of their babies. Where husbands have had enough. Where someone loses their mind under the weight that the universe piles on top of them. The shit storm of life in it's fury.


Looking back...I simply see a picture of a warm sleepy puppy holding his Barney doll with all the tenderness of a young child blissfully asleep. It makes me smile again; but I still wonder....why the tears? When will the grief get me again? Unexpected? Unprovoked?

How can I find a safe place within. Where is my patronus charm to keep the dementors away? Harry Potter had to believe it was within himself in order to conjure it.

Maybe I just have to do the same thing.

Believe.

The dead baby card.

Yesterday I was walking with my husband and our two sheepdog pups Ferdinand and Felix. I was trying to explain that for me....the idea of never having another baby feels like the worst thing I can imagine. Even though, I can't think of a single sane reason to just...."DO it." We have four little boys at home. My eldest is trying out life on his own. We never have anything in savings. Each month is paycheck to paycheck. We can pay our bills, and feed our family, and our pets...but...if anything was to happen??? AGAIN??? we'd be screwed.

So...I was explaining that for me, the last image I have of childbirth is holding my dead baby...dieing, and getting to be with him....waiting a month...dieing again...and finding out I had a twin.

I have dead baby dreams every night.

I lay in bed sobbing silently to avoid waking my husband.

And yet...I am also aware that the world around me thought that pregnancy was "over the top". Only acceptable because it was "an accident". And on that note...why would I want ANOTHER when the children I lost were "an accident" to begin with.

Why would I want to add more chaos to a chaotic life. Why would I crave my life coming to a standstill with the abundant need that IS life with a new baby? Why would I ask my sweet husband to add MORE to his life? Why would I want to take the risk of it happening ALL OVER AGAIN???

and most importantly...how could I be so selfish as to desire to bring a baby into this body that is filled with anxiety chemicals that would be potentially harmful to a forming nervous system? How could I promise that baby a safe, gentle place to grow when I am a complete psychological disaster?

I can't.

and yet....my heart WANTS a different ending. My heart is screaming to hold a little baby that is alive and pink and wonderfully wonderful!

But...it's not rational at all.

Not even a little bit.

My husband admits that though there's the part that would be open to it if it happened....isn't willing to really TRY for that...because like I said...It wouldn't be rational AT ALL.

Today, I had to talk with a bill collector. I have a fair amount of those you see...because I am over loaded with debt from the past two years of craziness that has been our life. My eldest was almost killed 2 1/2 years ago, and the bills sucked up everything we had. Then....we had this horrible loss....dead babies...mommy almost dieing twice...and WANTING to die in the months following. The bills became completely more than we could do.

So...we didn't.

But...I've been working in the past few months which is really helping. Freelancing helped us pay for Christmas. My father helped us with our only car. Freelancing continues to pay...and so, I have a chunk of money that was ear-marked to paying bills off...if possible. I had $14,000 in debt. I began to call them all. One by one. The first one felt impossible...I explained, pleaded and even cried. Feeling so helpless because they wouldn't budge on the amount...even though most of it is late fees and fines. A thickly Indian sounding voice stayed firm and instructed me not to cry. Told me to get a drink of water and call again when I wasn't crying. He told me that he understood how I felt...that lots of people have bills they can't pay.

"You understand how I feel? Tell me...have you ever held your dead baby in your arms? Have you ever done that?"

"no ma'am...no..I haven't done that thanks to God."

"Then...you do not know how I feel. You have no idea what I've been through."

He asked me to hold.

He came back and offered me a huge settlement...one that I could pay.

I called the next one...and instead of being prideful and simply saying I'd had "medical expenses"...I told them the truth...the bare terrible truth.
Every single debtor reduced my debt to about 30 cents or less on the dollar.

I had $5000 dollars to pay the entire lot of bills...$5000 to pay $14,000.

I have $171 left. All the bills are paid. And I feel like a jerk....because I played the dead baby card...and won.

I don't deserve to have another baby.

I don't have any debt (with the exception of my mortgage and student loans)...but...I wish I did. I wish I had debt...because having to explain why I was in the shape I am in to dozens of strangers who now get to dream about dead babies...about what that would be like....well....it makes me hang my head in shame and cry.

Because...no one should have to think about it. Ignorance is bliss...and I just stole it from people I don't even know. People...who didn't need to know. People who will go to bed tonight knowing that dead babies still happen. And that it could happen to them.

anytime.

What a gift....

What an amazing gift....

I've been scrambling today. Not in a literal sense, because really, in a literal sense, I've been STUCK. But...on an emotional sense, I've been scrambling.

Some days are a lot more difficult than others, for no apparent reason really. Maybe the moon is involved...maybe it's just an understandable cycle. But, whatever it is...it's real. It's there. But...it's also invisible.

No one see's it. No one really wants to.

I make it through each day. I put the smile on when I add my only makeup source...lip gloss. No sense in anything else being painted on as it would only smear with the tears that WILL come in private moments. My children don't need to see me crying. again. My husband doesn't need to know that I still cry every single day. It would make him sad too...and then...it would be worse.

No. I'm not back to being me. Will I ever be ME again?

Who the hell IS "ME" anyway???

Soooo....I've been here, busying myself with writing work, research, getting ready for a university class called "Grief, Loss, and Bereavement"...in the hopes that it might help me discover at least some MENTAL understanding of the cataclysmic disaster that was once my heart. I've been meaning to take a walk with the sheepies all day...and I WILL. But...I still haven't.

Anyway...the main point...is that I was given a huge gift today from Aloha Remembered. They took a photo of my twins names on the beach of Oahu. This beach is very special to me. I spent two weeks of my life there...and it changed me. I dreamed in my pregnancy that I would teach my baby to swim in those buoyant seas..one day.

But...knowing they are there...in spirit...forever. Well...it cheers this aching heart a little. Made me smile. And cry.

Aren't they beautiful??

Can't you just see them smiling?

I can.

and it warms my entire being.

"you have to be strong..."

I've been reading "be the pack leader" by Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer.

I've been reading it because my sheepies keep fighting.

and I hate it.

They play and romp like two happy bears outside. No problems...just fun and games.

But....every now and then, they fight like BEARS.

and it is really scary.

I never REALLY know who starts it, or why. Sometimes it seems like food is the issue...or a coveted toy....or just...SPACE. Sometimes it seems like one of them is just trying to be the one on top, the dominant one. They don't fight with our pug, or our basset...or anyone else. No snapping at kids...no growling at me. It's just each other.

And...only sometimes. but...when it happens, it is terrifying.

This morning, it was over the leash. I broke it up. Then, it was over who got to go first through the gate. I broke that up too...and solved the bickering by going first myself. So there.

Then, it was over who got the first drink.

Are you kidding me??

So....back to the book. What does good ol' Cesar have to say??

It's my fault.

I'm not a strong pack leader...so they are fighting over who gets to be the one in charge. They are the same age, same size, same sex. With the pug and basset, there is no issue. They know they are smaller, weaker...no problem. With the sheepie brothers....it's a problem. Ferdinand was here first. He's all around top dog. But, he's not REALLY sure about it anymore. At least...not sure enough to feel at ease about it. Felix is a happy go lucky ruffian. sweet as cherry pie, and in need of major rules. We adore them both. They are like brothers....different in so many ways....and similar too. They love each other...and they also fight.

My husband reminds me that it might have been like this with twins too....that we would have been exhausted from the demand that caring for twins would have been. And that...really...it's o.k..even though it is so hard.

Ceasar says that I have to be a strong pack leader....but...

I'm not strong right now.

My dogs feel it.

I'm anxious most of the time.

My dogs feel it.

Why can't we always just be as happy as we are when it's all working like well greased cogs? When we are in the motion of walking the walk....and loving the moment...why can't it always be like that? Why can't it always be the way it is when they are getting along. When I think to myself...yeah...this is perfectly lovely. This is going to work.

I have to be strong...

but the whole reason I have a service dog (Ferdinand) is that I am NOT strong.

I have to be strong...

but the reason I was swept by the idea of having twin puppies is that I am blown away by grief.

I'm told things will get better.

But right now...

I'm in the dog house.

Because I feel anything but strong.

A house full of testosterone

My son's sat at the table with melancholy silence this morning as I gave them breakfast.

After a few moments of assessment, to determine if they were simply tired and groggy, or actually down in the dumps, I opted for some questioning... "What's up guys...why the sober faces?"

My 11 year old Sammy looked up at me and said in a dark voice "Today is Felix's last day as a real boy."

HUHHHHHH?!!!

I tried to hold back a smile....o.k...I'll be honest...the fact that I didn't start whooping with laughter was a SERIOUS accomplishment.

"Baby...Felix is going to be neutered, but he'll still be a boy!"

"yeah. He'll have a penis...but his balls will be gone. He'll be half a boy."

Wow.

He continued "He was the only dog we had that was still a real boy. All the others are sort of....not."

WOW.

I started to explain WHY Felix needs to be neutered. The fact that the fighting we've had to deal with is all about testosterone. The fact that he will feel sad if he can't breed...and that we AREN'T wanting to breed him. The fact that he might try to run away to sow his wild oats (lots of snickers from around the table). The fact that other in tact dogs would be more aggressive to him...The fact that he will be healthier....

and then...from the 13 year old Hamilton "Yeah mom...but...it just kind of HURTS to think about it. You wouldn't understand that part of it. You are ball-less."

Huh????

O.k...I can accept that line. I don't REALLY get it. I don't REALLY know what it is like to be equip with testicles. No...that's one thing I do not know a thing about from the inside.

They had cheered up a bit though...and were starting to enjoy their homemade egg "Mc Muffins" and orange juice. A few minutes later they were laughing over their dungeons and dragons characters while working on their math books. Testicles temporarily forgotten for the time being.

I started thinking about the interesting phenomenon that occurs in men who own male dogs that need to be neutered. It's really a....sensitive...topic. I thought about how interesting it was that even my 6 year old seemed disconcerted over the concept that ones balls could be removed.

My only concern about it is that Felix be o.k.. I want him to emerge from this surgery healthy and happy. I'd like him to be free from the testosterone that is causing him so many problems in his relationships. He's a wonderful pup! So sweet! So darling...BUT...there have been fights in this home ever since the beginning, and of course, I am blaming testosterone. I don't want aggression in my home. I can't take the stress of it. So off "they" will come!

I reminded my boys that they never need fear being chopped like that in hopes that it would comfort them some.

My 8 year old said "Mom...it's called empathy...remember?"

wow.

sarcasm AND a vibrant vocabulary.

I smiled. "Thanks for the tip baby."

and then, they all started shrieking and laughing. I turned around to see our pug eagerly licking a happily moaning Oliver the Basset Hounds shlong...and Felix trying to hump Winston the pug while he did this, while Ferdinand lay in the corner in apparent disgust trying to ignore the porn scene before him.

"Good luck with your expectations for neutering mom. It doesn't seem to have worked for Winston and Oliver."

I groaned. "Well...at least they aren't fighting though."

"Yeah...Winston's more of a lover than a fighter."

Gack.


Many giggles followed. Many. Boys will be boys.

Yes...they certainly will.

No trace of you...

A warm room...friendly faces...and machines. Machines that investigated every corner of my heart. Every pulse and beat tracked with remarkable equipment, and a watchful eye. Ferdinand, soft, large and furry resting nearby in his service vest. There was my heart. I could see it...I could hear it...there it was.

No scar tissue. No damage. No problem. A long QT beat which I've probably had all my life, yes...but an actual heart problem, no.

Of course, that is all really good news. Great news in fact...news that anyone would be thrilled to hear. My heart is healthy. Perfectly normal.

So, as I drove away from the cardiologist office I initially had a smile on my face as I thought about how lovely everyone was to me...how kind and supportive. I thought about how much I liked all of them. How I wished we could be friends in "real life". I was grateful for their gentleness, and their understanding...their reassurance that my heart was great. As I thought about my wonderful, strong heart...I started to feel it again. Clenching in my chest...pounding again...the signs of stress that I feel so often. I found myself crying. Again.

WHY is my heart just perfectly dandy?! How is it possible that there is no trace of the pain and suffering I've seen? Why isn't there some sort of evidence of the ripping and bleeding that I've been through? Shouldn't my heart have some trace of the loss it has been drowning in?

Looking at my body....there is no sign of my twins. My heart is wonderful and strong. There isn't anything that says they were here at one time. Nothing that can be seen even with the sensitive scanning equipment that measured each beat of my heart.

Simon and Alexander are simply ashes soaking into the dust in a wooded gully where twin pines sway in the wind. They are the sore corners of my eyes that have been burned by saline tears and rubbing. They are the palpitations that are simply stress related, but not caused by damage. They are the lump in my throat as I try to smile to tell the world I'm normal. They are purple and yellow flowers. Memories.

There is no trace. They are invisible.

Part of me is asking why it is that my heart doesn't look like scrap metal at this point. Part of me is wondering why that smiling, friendly young man with his ultrasound device didn't discover fragments of a heart inside of me. Part of me is screaming that it just seems completely wrong that my heart is still beating.

And yet...here I am. I am alive. Healthy. In tact.

The shards of who I was are invisible to all the faces around me. I am standing here in a sea of life...and I continue to swim.

No one sees the broken parts..because, like my lost babies...they are invisible. There is no evidence of what WAS.

This acute pain that I feel each day... is caused by something intangible... untraceable... elusive.

I'm told that one day, I will stop crying so much. One day, I will feel more whole. Hell...with stress reduction, my heart will even stop hurting in time!

Part of me is looking forward to that time...and the other part? well...honestly, the other part of me feels that it would be a crime to let the invisible part of my loss fade away into the wind. Because, without that...there is no trace.

No trace.

fragmented me.

I asked for one thing of 2010. That it would be gentle in order to allow for healing. No big resolutions. No requests for winning the lottery. No super powers.

Just....that it would be gentle.

So on Monday night,as I lay on a bed in triage in the emergency room....I really felt stepped on by life.

We had been watching a movie...."The Dark Night". Not my kind of flick as I am more of an Anne of Green Gables or Romantic comedy kind of girl...but I was enjoying it with my family in spite of the psycho joker and violence. I was not in any way feeling anxious. I was actually feeling rather peaceful as my husband rubbed my feet while we watched. However, I was also starting to become aware of heart beats that I could feel jumping out of my chest, and an increasing inability to breathe. No pain....just....THUMP THUMP THUMP....skip....THUMPTHUMPTHUMP...skip POUND THUMP POUND thump....

I started to feel lightheaded and a little sick to my stomach..."Is this what having a heart attack feels like?" "How much grief can a heart last through?" "Am I dying?" I looked at my husband and explained that my heart was acting up....and that I needed to go to ER now.

I hated seeing that look on his face....the look I've seen so many times in the past several months....fear, shock, the need to act...NOW.

I hated knowing that my children knew we were going to ER....where I almost died last May.

But...off we went.

Half way to the hospital, my husband declared that he felt I was having a panic attack, not a heart attack.

He was right.

My heart was groovy...except for a slightly longer QT beat. My heart was fine. Yeah. just great....

It's my nerves that are shot apparently.

My nerves, which are so blasted by the shit storm of my life's events that they finally wig out without any provocation at all. My nerves, which are the messengers to my entire body are now sending panic signals even when I am at ease.

I am now, as I type, covered in little pads and wires because I am being monitored for 24 hours to check out my looong heart beat which has most likely been there since I had scarlet fever as a child. No big deal...and yet...here I am covered in wires. They gave me an anxiety reliever with the promise that I'd take it....and they reallllllly were insistent after I said I didn't like to take drugs. Told me to relax when I got home, and then...they hook my up to all this shit that I have to sleep in, and I can't get it wet.

So, no bath to relax. No yoga because I can't bend in all these wires. No sex because I look like an alien AND they informed me that they "would be able to tell if we had sex because they are tracking my heart...." No massage because I am covered in wires...and oh...no sleep, because as I mentioned...I am F-ing covered in WIRES.

Yeah...go home an relax.

Nothing is wrong. We just want to monitor you, and x ray you, and ultrasound you and have you take really addictive pills.

But...your just fine Sara.

I have a really wonderful friend who has become like a brother to me. He really gets stress...anxiety....life pain that rips you and leaves you twitching on the ground in agony. He knows what it feels like to want to pelt yourself through a glass window. Not to die....but just...to DO it. He gets that feeling.

He tells me I am worth taking care of. That I need to put myself first. That my body is screaming at me to PUT MYSELF FIRST.....

he's right.

and yet....I look at my sons....my sweet husband...my pets....my work...my friends.

I look at these reasons that I exist at all. And it is right then and there that I know that putting myself first sounds really nice....really important...

but...

I'll always find a reason to not do it.

Because I'm in too much pain to be strong for myself.

It makes me happy to cuddle a child...to make dinner for my family....to brush my dogs....to provide an experience for the kids....to clean my house....

I don't want to be gone when Ty is home. I already miss him too much.

I don't want to make my kids give up anything else...they've already missed out on so much.

I can't stand to take a bigger piece of the pie when my pie slice is already HUGE from all the "mommy is a freaky crybaby" stuff that just IS because I just AM.

My friend...he's really right. I need to take care of me. More than I am. Because the care I'm giving is apparently not enough. If it was.....my body wouldn't be telling me I am having a heart attack when I am really just.......anxious beyond my comprehension. I am broken.

and my body can't take any more.

I am broken...

but...maybe...I can be more active about my healing.

maybe...I don't have to be broken forever.

maybe...I can smile INSIDE too.