This Anniversary

Thirteen years ago today I became Mrs. Dickinson. I stood before a pastor and vowed that I would cleave to this man, my friend, until death us do part. I meant every word I said.

I still do.

I know it's cliche to say it, but the truth is I am amazed we're at 13 years. Where did it all go? We've had our ups, our downs, goods and bads; life has a way of wriggling into the cracks in the fortress you thought you built so well, doesn't it? What I love about our marriage is that the bad times and struggles drive us closer together rather than further apart. He is honestly my best friend; of course I need to lean on him when the going gets rough, and I consider it an honor that he feels the same for me.

We understand each other.

Of our 13 anniversaries thus far, we've had an eclectic variety of celebrations. We planned get aways for a few of them, but that was before kids, when there was extra money to be found in the budget to allow that. Since the girls have completed our family, we've included them on our day, making them a part of the celebration of it. We choose a fancy restaurant and all get dolled up for it. They know to be on their very best-of-the-bestest behavior, and off we go. Maybe it's not the uber romantic anniversaries of the past, but there is something sweet about celebrating a marriage that has created 2 precious people with those 2 people.

There was the year we moved on our anniversary. That just plain sucked, I must honestly say. I don't remember how it worked out that we planned such an undertaking on that special day, but it did. Never again. Ever.

This year we're in the midst of a crisis with one of our before-children cats, Zoe. She was diagnosed with diabetes last week and has been struggling since then. This is the topic of a whole other entry, Say It Ain't So, Zo. We've watched her continue to ebb and flow with the disease, desperately trying to figure out what treatment we could honestly afford. After much research, our decision today...TODAY...has been to put her down. Of course, it's Sunday and our vet is closed, and naturally tomorrow is the 4th Of July....leaving Tuesday as the Date.

I hate this choice, which was really not much of a choice to make at all, really. But she's not herself. She's weak, struggling to even get up the stairs. She's stuck down the basement all day and in the bathroom at night, unable to roam freely with her sister-cats because of accidents she's having. Looking in her eyes is like looking at someone who has fought a long hard battle and is ready to let go, but can't. She's so tired. So deeply, deeply, inhumanely tired.

And so it came to pass that I've spent the better part of our anniversary sobbing over the weakened form of our previously vigorous cat, (when, by the way, I had formerly decided NOT to shed any more tears over this), agonizing over a decision which feels more like some murderous plot, and feeling completely wracked with guilt over the whole entire thing.

Well, happy anniversary to us.

It's one of those times to cleave; and so I do. Dan is my friend, my comfort, my support, my encourager. He's standing beside me, attempting to calm his slightly neurotic wife, assuring me that this will be the best choice for our cat, and that we can get through it together.

Just like we always have.

Together.

As in, not alone.

I like that.

A lot.

Today is a day to celebrate that. Our togetherness in the good times and in the bad; to draw close when the choices are plenty and easy, and when they are few and hard.

Together.

In that sense, it is a Happy Anniversary after all.

Memories of Splits

I recently read the happy news of a friend who is expecting triplets. Triplets! Hooray! Reading his blog about how they found out they needed to upgrade to the triplet stroller brought misty memories for me in terms of my own Discovery Appointment. I think we've all had a moment of daydreaming of what the might be like, wondering how we'd find out, what the doctor would say, if it would be a surprise.....

Could it really be 7 years ago already? How is that possible when I feel like I just left that shocking appointment...

I didn't expect to be pregnant. At all. Due to Poly Cystic Ovarian Disease, my doctor had squashed any dreams of spontaneous conception for me. (Ever get a phone call from your doc telling you it was okay to "engage in sexual relations? It's just as sexy as you'd dream it could be). We had just gone through our first 6 months of unsuccessful treatment and were taking a much needed breather before starting the more intense Injectables phase of our pregnancy plan.

That's when I started to feel kinda funny.

But I couldn't be. Could I? I mean, I wasn't supposed to be. Was I?

March 18, 2004: I woke up and took that first pregancy test. Positve. I stared at it in disbelief. How is it that we had just dug ourselves $5,000 in debt when I had just achieved it without meds? For free?

My doctor was equally leary of my proclaimation of pregnancy and hauled me in for a blood test. Several nerve-wracking hours later they called to tell me "I was very pregnant" and "could I please come in immediately for an ultrasound". Very pregnant? What did that mean, exactly? I didn't know there were gradations of it, like hues of colors. It sounded odd.

First thing the the next morning found me in the office again, undergoing a very in depth (and uncomfortable) internal ultrasound. I was too nervous to look at the screen, but in all honesty that little grain of rice seemed non-human to me. It just sat there at 6 weeks. But my doctor was interested in something, hemming and hawing over what he wasn't seeing.

As I came to find out, my hormone levels were really high. Hence the "Really Pregnant" diagnosis. I have since learned this can mean one of 3 things: either I was a. further along than we thought, b. having multiples, or c. there was something wrong with the pregnancy.

Initial measurements correlated with my 6 week estimation, so we knew a. was ruled out. My doctor was now looking to answer b. Thing was, he could only find one sac. And only one baby inside that one sac. One baby. One sac. Couldn't be multiples. He kept mumbling this through the ultrasound: "There's only one sac here, and only one fetal pole", and I grew more and more annoyed at his apparent disregard to the fact that I was okay with that. One baby was fine with me. Heck, any baby was fine with me. Geesh doc, show some love. 

At the end of the scan, he retold me about the whole one sac/one baby thing (really annoyed by that point), and added that the heartbeat was much brighter than they expect to see at 6 weeks. "But that's probably a good thing". Wow, thanks for that encouragement. I left with a diagnosis sheet that had a single check mark on it: Fetal Abnormality.

I didn't realize it at the time, but my doctor was already writing this one off. This ultrasound was a test, and I had failed; I wasn't further along than expected and try as he might he couldn't find another sac or baby. Option C seemed to be the likely culprit. Something had gone wrong in the many divisions of cells.

He scheduled me for another ultrasound in 7 days. "Just to check". In the meantime (and since he already had a thought that we were facing problems), he suggested that I not tell anyone I was pregnant. He clearly did not know me. I told everyone who stood long enough to listen, and even a few people who didn't.

7 days later I marched back into the office, this time with Dan in tow. As with before, I found myself unable to look at the screen, afraid of what I'd see. Or what I wouldn't see. I was waiting for news, but there was silence. Both doctor and Dan were staring at the screen. The doctor, with a furrowed brown; Dan with an open mouth.

"What did I see before?" my doctor inquired.

"A.....baby?" was my meek response. Was this a trick question?

"Well, you're having twins."

Whoa.

 (Remember that extra bright heartbeat? It was baby B stacked against A.)

"Make that....(moving the scan around a bit)...identical twins."

Hot damn!

".....and....(there's more?)...It appears they may be conjoined."

Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.

The rest of the appointment was kinda a blur after that. Statistically, I wasn't having conjoined twins, my doctor assured us. But that scan. Looking at it, it sure was hard to tell for certain, and the fact that when one moved left, the other tugged that way too truly didn't set anyone's mind at ease. There were "things to consider", I was told by my now doom-and-gloom doctor.

This was not the way you would dream of being told about your multiples. I had only just found out about them, and now I faced losing them. I wasn't sure how to take it. Or what to think. To be happy? To be scared?

Both. Overwhelmingly, both.

Long story short (I think I've blogged about this before anyway), I was hooked up with a specialist who deals with obtuse pregnancies like this; we outliers who breed potentially connected kids. There were still more tense weeks ahead before our fears were put to rest, more scans of "not sure" before seeing a definite separate movement between them. But we did see it. Eventually. Turns out our kids decided to hold off on the whole egg-splitting thing until later in the "Splitting Phase".

Science Lesson!:
 If an egg is going to split, it will do so between days 8-12. If it splits on the early side, identical twins can have separate sacs and separate placentas, and appear to be fraternal on ultrasounds.
If they split on the later side, as ours did, they run the risk of being conjoined due to being too close together when the head/spinal cords/abdominal walls form. Ours weren't conjoined, but they are a really nifty side effect of being late splitters: Mirror Twins. They are symetrically opposite of each other.
 Coolio.

Of course, after the worry of "Were They Or Weren't They" was removed from the table, we were on to other twin issues that took up space in our Worry Jar. Lots of 'em. Keeping me planted firmly on the High Risk group.

It's hard to believe it all turned out, though. But it did. I have two (presently) sniffling, feverish  and truly delightful sprites dancing around me right now as proof. They're here. They're healthy.

 I give them props; they fought like hell to get here, running a gestational obstacle course worthy of any athlete.

It's all worth it. Every bit of it. And seeing their smiles everyday, I have to think they agree.



Shrinking The Fun

Hallelujah, the girls are finally at an age where we can proceed with a project and I don't feel like pulling my hair out. It's a blessed thing when they realize that every piece of the craft does not need to be thrown on the floor, smeared on their person or the table, or catapulted across the room.

Hooray for new phases!

In celebration of their new crafting trustworthiness, today we made Shrinky-Dinks.

Do you remember Shrinky-Dinks? I think the bulk of my childhood is wrapped around them, somehow. I simply cannot begin to explain how much I liked them.

Nor am I able to explain exactly why.

What is it about coloring, cutting, baking, and observing that could possibly be so exciting? It doesn't seem like very much, but somehow it endlessly amazed me.

I'd color; always careful to do my best. I'd cut; aware of each line and curve. I'd bake; face pressed against the little window on the oven, waiting for that miraculous moment when my creations would begin the magic dance of curling, bending, and shrinking.

It all happened so fast! You'd have to be right there to witness it. Blink and it would be over.

Smurfs. Rainbow Brite. He-Man. Transformers. Scooby Doo. All colored and shrunk out of obligation and whim.

I, being the youngest (and only girl), always got stuck with the ones no one wanted. The uncool He-Man dude. Thelma. Brainy Smurf. A Decepticon. But Rainbow Brite was all mine.  I took my time coloring each form and baking them one at a time, hoping to make the joy last.

Then of course came the dilemma of what to do with these now shrunken, slightly useless, not quite so much fun items. I remember they came with a few stands to put them in , so I recall shuffling them about on a table, creating some manner of play with them. And then.......well.....who knows. I came across Rainbow Brite not too long ago, shoved in some forgotten box I'd opened. My memories were stirred.

Thus our project today.

The girls dutifully colored their forms; now on paper that you have trace out yourself on the shrinking paper. (Gone are the days of branded Shrinky-Dinks, and aren't we the poorer for it?) I did the honor of cutting, partly due to the difficulty of cutting the paper, but mostly out of the selfish desire to relive my youth. Cookie sheet in the oven, we waited for the magic to start, faces pressed against the oven window. Well, face pressed against the window. The girls were not nearly as excited as I was about what was going to occur, and had skipped away, returning only in response to my squeals of girlish delight and calls of, "They're shrinking! They're shrinking!" (I'm not proud of my zealous response, nor am I ashamed. I also jump and clap at the mere sight of a Hot Air Balloon. Love me despite the faults.)

I may have gotten more out of today's craft than they did. That's okay. There is something indescribably perfect about sharing something cherished from my childhood with them. Even if all they ever do is roll their eyes and think I'm slightly mental, I'm sharing a piece of myself with them. Reaching out from across the span of time,  from my childhood to theirs. They may never latch onto any of it, but the connection is made and the circle made full when we do it together.

Infertility & Little Old Me

March 18th has special meaning for me. Very special. 7 years ago on this date I found out I was pregnant. It's a day I personally celebrate with almost as much joy as my girls' actual birthday. (Not quite, but almost).I still have the tests, framed and on display, and I still remember that moment of reading that first positive test. Perhaps that seems odd, but the truth is, it's a miracle that it even happened.

I didn't plan on motherhood, really. My childhood play involved creating construction- paper text books (always MATH, my worst subject, of all things), and dressing Barbie up in her most work friendly fashion garb. Even my pretend kitchen dished out bagged lunches for all my invisible working-woman customers. It's not that I didn't like kids, it was more that I thought I'd be a great career woman instead. (NOT that one can't be both).

Flash forward a dozen years and something changed. At some point my husband and I went from thinking, "Whew!" every month to "Why aren't we preggers yet?" After 2 uneventful years of "Trying", we sucked it up and went to a doctor to figure it out.

Walking into a fertility specialist appointment for the first time can be a jarring event. I felt completely broken inside, so much a failure. It seemed like every female around me was at some stage of gestation; many of whom were muttering things like, "Gosh! We weren't even TRYING! Can you believe it?" or "Not again. Ugh. I hate this." And  then there was us: in some odd procreational limbo; unable to move forward or to understand why we were stuck.

Several appointments and too many "mildly uncomfortable-to-downright painful" tests later, we had our answer. Poly cystic Ovarian Syndrome. Ahhh, yes. There it is folks. My ovaries were filled with cysts and I was shooting out testerone at a downright manly rate. Try googling PCOS or PCOD and you'll find a nifty list of side effects that includes excess facial hair. I was in despair at the thought that I was going to morph into a bearded lady.

(I didn't).

While it was nice to have a name to put to the problem, it didn't bring much comfort. PCOS is notoriously tricky to treat; working well on certain meds and not even trying to abate on others. Given my own levels, my doctor put my odds of conceiving "without intervention" at about 5%. Minds geared for the battle ahead, we were ready to fight.

We were so hopeful as we began the regimen; it felt encouraging to be finally doing something. I took hormone pills that made me see fire and want to smack every person I saw in the face; I went to weekly ultrasounds to determine just how much (or how little) my stubborn ovaries were responding; and we "celebrated" the viable follicles with a nasty shot in my derriere to force ovulation. Sounds fun, right?

After 6 unsuccessful and draining months on that treatment, we were told we would have to move on to the next tier of treatment: the injectibles. I was game for it, but as anyone who's walked that path can tell you, it takes serious dedication and commitment. More appointments, precise schedules, and tons of follow ups that are worked at the clinic's schedule, not the patent's. We decided we would do it, but would hold off till the summer when I would be off work and have the ability to commit. We went along for the next few months in a holding pattern; however, both of us were silently relieved to have a break from the appointments, the pills (oh-thank-you-Lord-no-more-pills!), and phone calls from the doctor informing me that my levels were acceptable to "engage in physical relations with hopes of conception" (although that was always super romantic").

So you can see why I was amazed as I stared at the test indicating that somehow, beyond all reason, without any help, it had happened. I called my doctor that very morning and he was wary to believe it, reminding me of the low odds and telling me not to get to excited. Not get excited? No way in HELL that was happening. I was elated. They did a blood test and confirmed it. I was pregnant. I thought that my doctor would be too; he had put so much time into orchestrating the event for so long, even if the attempts hadn't worked. Instead he said, "I don't know how this happened. You shouldn't be pregnant."

Thanks, doc. God had other plans.

I was in bliss.

2 weeks later we found out that our single miracle had split into 2 miracles, further dumbfounding my still unbelieving doctor.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

I know so many people who are struggling with infertility now or who have in the past. My heart hurts for them each as they walk this journey. Compared to many of them, we've had it easy. We conceived. Against all odds. Somehow. (By God's amazing grace).

I'm not ashamed to say that we were infertile. That I have PCOS. It doesn't define me, but it's played a part in who I am. Since pregnancy, many of my symptoms have been well managed. And (thankfully), I still haven't become a bearded wonder and am hoping in earnest I never do.

Every moment with these two "inconceivables" is filled with joy for me. True heartfelt joy. Because I know the hurt of want, the pain of empty arms, and the true promise of hope.

And I am grateful.

Two Plus Two Equals Poo. (A Memory of a saga...and a drama)

Every now and again, I feel the need to look back on the journey we've completed so far with the girls. So much as changed that it's hard to recognize those two little sprites in the faces of our Big Girls now. But they're still there, peeking out at endearing (and usually frustrating) moments. Here is a memory my mind pulled up today. They were about 2 years old at the time.

 Ashlyn & Caedance were enjoying some much needed playtime in the family room. They had invented a game where they would pull off the cushions of the Big Chair and pile them on the floor, stand on the chair and then fling themselves onto the pile with a heartfelt squeal of "WEE!" They could do it for hours and not get tired of it.

On this particular day, I took advantage of their preoccupation and was tackling cleaning duty in the kitchen. After a few minutes, it occurred to me that I should probably check on them...you know..just in case. Walking into the family room, the first thing that stopped me was the mess around Caedance's mouth. What was that? Mental images were passing quickly through my mind; a mental "Mom Check" for what that smeared mess could be. Lunch? No. Candy? No.

My eyes then shifted to the chair they had been playing on. It too was splotched with the same stuff. WHY would the mess be there too? What could she have gotten into? More Mom Check. Crayons? (No, they'd lost crayon privileges due to a Picasso incident that had happened a few days previously). What could it be?

Finally my nose tuned into the drama. And I smelled it. Poop. Who pooped? Then, I got it. Belatedly putting the pieces together. A light bulb. Oh!......Ohhhhhhhh. Two and two equals poo, my friends. I then noticed the lovely mess coming out of Caedance's diaper and leaking all over her shirt, her hands, my furniture. (I didn't want to even THINK about the mess on her face, so I'm just letting that one go).

"Mi-Nommy, I poop". Ya think?

"Yes dear. So I see." (and smell...oh...yuck).

The clean up on her was extensive. And gross. But after a lot of wipes and a slathering of lotion, she was

a-okay again. Clothes were whisked away to be scalded in hot water with lots of baking soda added in.

Then I moved on to the furniture. Oh...my furniture. Poop. Who would ever guess that the stuff is so very much like glue and paint at the same time? It was reluctant to leave the fabric to which it was clinging, and it tried to dye the upholstery there as well. It took elbow grease, shoulder grease, and probably knee grease to get it "cleaned". Although, despite my best efforts, there were still ever-so-faint marks on it.

And so that was the drama. For that particular day. I remember Caedance being tickled pink because she was allowed to run around in her "diddies" (diaper), which was her preferred state of attire at that age. She scuttled around happily, free, and (one would imagine) feeling a bit lighter. And I found myself thinking about inventing a new type of "Training Pants" that were literally pants with feet attached (and possibly suspenders) so that little "events" like this ceased to occur.

And for the furniture......

As soon as they were officially potty trained, we chucked those pieces and purchased a new set for the family room. Microfiber.