True Grit : What Doesn't Kill Me Better Run

Part 2: A Series of Unfortunate Events

(Probably need to read Part 1 if you want to have any idea what's going on...)

I have struggled my whole life with accepting how others see me, and how I come across to other people. For the most part I'm okay with the loud, talkative impression that I give off, because that I cannot change. There is a different side of me that I wish I was better at controlling. I started this blog hoping that by sharing my faith in God, that I could help others who were maybe having a crisis in their faith, or maybe feeling empty, or somehow lost. But then this other part of my personality comes out and I'm afraid it takes away from what I'm trying to do. The side that has a temper, gets fired up about children's clothes (ahem...) maybe uses questionable language sometimes(never around the kids of course!), probably doesn't have the patience of a saint, and maybe doesn't exemplify the good Christian woman that I so badly want to be. Its a battle within myself, to be honest. Its who I am. But the Lord knows me, and He knows I'm not perfect, and He knows He made me this way. In the hardest of times, the darkest of places in life, my place of refuge, where I know I need to be, no matter how unbelievably bad things get, has been church. The worse each situation got, the more I craved being in mass. "Give it to God." Well, I would go and I would pray, and I would say "God, I have a lot to give you, I can feel the weight of it all making my knees buckle." But I wouldn't feel like God responded. Then I realized that I was doing all the talking. And I try so hard to stop talking and just listen. But that talkative side, well, its hard to shut her up sometimes.

"The church is a hospital for sinners, not a museum for saints."

WARNING: If you don't want to read details about a pregnancy loss, bleeding, etc., I suggest you either skip this post or skip ahead about 4 paragraphs. Seriously.

We found out on Monday that we lost the baby. I wish I could have stayed in bed with the blankets over my head. But, life can't stop because something awful is happening. The girls still needed to go to school, Adeline still needed to be cared for. As hard as it was, I had to go through the motions of every day life. At night when it was quiet, I wanted to sit down and have a glass of wine so bad. But there was still a baby inside me. It felt so disrespectful to drink as if the baby wasn't there any more. I wanted to be rip-roaring drunk. Black out drunk. Go away from the world drunk. But instead, I sat, stone cold sober. As drunk as I wanted to be, I knew the pain wouldn't go away. It wouldn't help anything. It wouldn't change my reality.

Every moment after was full of anxiety, fear, and confusion- When would this "labor" begin? Am I still "pregnant" even though the baby had died? I was still exhausted, and hungry, and nauseated- the feelings that just a few weeks ago gave me comfort are now constant reminders of what was happening. My first miscarriage, a "chemical pregnancy", was over almost as soon as it began. I found out I was pregnant and then within a week it was over. It was still heart wrenching, but the longer you are pregnant, the more excrutiating this becomes. The recovery from the first miscarriage was relatively simple, as it was much more of a heavy period, because it was so so early on. This? This was different. My body carried a baby for 11 weeks. I had already started putting on baby weight. I was preparing my mind and my body for what was to come. And I was terrified. By Wednesday of that week, I still had no signs of the "big event". I was spotting, and that was all. I prayed for it to begin. Well, I begged my body. I had conflicting emotions: I wanted so desperately to stay pregnant, but knowing that the soul of that baby was already gone, I wanted even more for it to be over, for my body to just have some mercy on me. Put me out of my misery, for crying out loud. I wanted to be able to grieve, I wanted to be able to start to move on. How do you move on from something that's not over? And I was mad, I felt cheated, and I felt like my body had failed. I stared at myself in the mirror, the slightest bump had already grown. It was tiny, but I could feel it. I ran my hand over it and felt so much sadness. Then I began to feel guilt. Overwhelming guilt. WHO THE HELL AM I? I HAVE three beautiful, healthy daughters. HOW GREEDY to ask for more. There are so many women who suffer so very much with infertility. How dare I? There are women who lose full term babies, this should be easier! Then why did it feel so agonizing? Why was my mind so full of guilt?

Yes, the cruel voice in my head was laying down guilt. Inner voices are mean sometimes.

Thursday started out the same- light spotting, no cramping. Then by around 4pm, things began to change. I started having some light cramping. I was tired, but as the hours went on, it became apparent what was happening. My body had obliged. After about 3 hours of increasingly painful cramps, they stopped. And then the bleeding began. It started out light, and then, as if a faucet was turned on, I began to get concerned. Clot after clot, getting bigger and bigger, golf ball sized and only getting bigger more frequent. I started to worry. "This doesn't seem normal..." I thought to myself. This is a lot of blood. I finally decided after going through several pads in a 20 minute span, to go ahead and call the doctor. The on call doctor said "I can't tell you how much bleeding is too much." Uh, thank you? I decided it was time to head to the ER. As soon as I started walking around the house and getting the girls ready for an impromptu slumber party at our best friends house next door, I felt the bleeding get heavier. And heavier. With every step, I could feel it pouring out. I was getting more and more light headed. By the time we got to the hospital (about a 10 minute ride), I could feel blood all over my pants. I started to panic. I'm not one to lose my cool- I'm generally level headed in emergency situations. But this was different. I felt like I was going into shock. They brought me back to triage as soon as I told them what was happening. I sat down, the nurse began to check my vital signs, and then asked me how far along I was. It hit me. I felt like I was hyperventilating. I couldn't calm down. "Almost 12 weeks" I choked, tears pouring down my face. "Okay, its okay sweetie, calm down." I can't calm down. I can't. Something is horribly wrong.

After a series of ultrasounds, examinations and blood work, it was determined that I was in fact bleeding entirely too much, and I had much more to go. The bleeding I had experienced was only the beginning. My uterus was still "full". They said if they sent me home, I would be back within hours and likely in need of a blood transfusion. I needed to go in for a D and C. Like, now. Sad that the last time I had surgery was when I was 11 and had my tonsils removed. I kissed Chris, and within minutes was wheeled back into the OR. My mind was blank. I was stunned. They said I might feel a tingling going up my arm, and once I felt that I'd fall asleep. They were right.

I woke up in recovery, overcome, again, with conflicting emotions. Now that everything was over, I could move on, right? Yeah, but now I felt something new. I felt empty. And I never anticipated that. My belly was still just a little swollen, I was a little sore, but overall I felt okay. They said everything went fine and that they would be discharging me with a prescription for pain medicine. It was 2 am. We headed home, Chris helped me out of the car and into bed.

Within a few days I was up and basically back to "normal" whatever the heck that was. Physically I was fine. Emotionally I was an absolute wreck. I couldn't understand that we had been through so much. I couldn't stop. Trauma had a grip on me and this time it wasn't letting go. I was sucked into a world where all I could think of was what I was missing. My mind was filled with daydreams of the baby we would never have. I cried. A lot. I talked with one of my very best friends who had suffered several miscarriages. Talking with someone so close to me who had been through it before was instrumental in my mental recovery. It was normal to feel overwhelming sadness. It was normal to cry. Whatever I was feeling was normal. It was important to actually grieve. Even more surprising was that I could expect to be angry. And I was.

A week later we headed back to Louisiana for Thanksgiving. It was a wonderful vacation with the girls, my family, and I even got to see some friends and squeeze in a few photo shoots. I felt refreshed. I was able to spend time with my parents, Chris got to see his wonderful grandfather, and Chris and I even got to sneak away for an incredible date night. Going home for a few days was exactly what we needed. I felt so much better than before we left. I was healing. I wasn't crying every day anymore.

We got home Sunday night.

Tuesday morning around 4 am I woke up to an excrutiating stomach ache. I tossed and turned for a few hours. When I woke up around 6:20, my whole abdomen felt tender, but the pain was radiating from my lower right quadrant. I knew right away it was my appendix. It was textbook pain. After throwing up a few times I called Chris and for what seemed like the 100th time in the last two months, to tell him I needed him. He came home, we packed the kids up (it was before school even started) and headed to the ER. Again. I hobbled out of the car and down the hallway to the ER registration desk. Chris stayed in the car with the kids because really, who wants to take 3 kids into an ER during flu season? Yeah, no. I'm a big girl. I can take it! Ha!

A few minutes later, I had an IV and was resting after a dose of morphine. Still in pain, still uncomfortable, but I felt better than before. A CT and yet another ultrasound, it was confirmed- appendicitis, oh and a massive hemorrhagic cyst on my right ovary that I get to deal with later. Yay. I call Chris and tell him I'll be heading back to surgery to remove my appendix. He brings the girls to school, and heads back to the hospital in time to give me another pre-emergency-surgery goodbye kiss. Doesn't get easier that's for sure. A night spent in the hospital and the next day my parents arrived to help. Thank God for help. They stayed a few days until I was up on my feet more. We were so very grateful.

As we had so many times before, we settled back into a routine. Within a few days of my parents leaving, I was up and out, taking the kids to school, even Christmas shopping. GET. BACK. TO. NORMAL.

9 days after my appendectomy, steri strips still on my incisions, still slowwwwlyyy getting up out of my chair, I decide that I need to get out of the house for a little bit, and that I want to go back to the store to return a few Christmas presents. Chris gets home early from work and I spot my opportunity. I tell him that I really want to go return these few things, and I should only be a little bit. He says "Okay, be careful!" Success! I'm freeee! I'm going to wander around Target for hours! I might even get coffee! Yay me! Its about 5:30 in the afternoon, but its winter, so its pretty much already dark. I live in a nice neighborhood. Its safe. People are always walking around, walking their dogs, kids are skateboarding. Its busy. The street is busy with people coming home from work. There's actually traffic! I get in my suburban, put it in reverse (the doors automatically lock, thank you Chevy!), and I wait for the cars to pass. Finally I'm clear to pull out of my driveway. I start to reverse, but then I see in my side view mirror, a man walking relatively quickly across the yard across the street. "What is this guy doing?" I thought... He comes across the street, and I assume he's going to turn onto the side walk and keep walking. He seems to be in a hurry. Hmm... But no, he crosses the street, crosses the side walk and heads straight in between my truck and Chris'. I'm startled and annoyed. I mean, hello, can you not tell that I am making an escape to Target?! I have things to do, chief! Whatever it is he wants, I'd like to tell him "No" and get on my way. I'm not interested in helping anyone by myself in the dark. I've seen "The First 48" and "I Survived" enough times to know that people are nuts and you don't get out of your car at night to help anyone when you're alone. I crack the window. "Yeah?" I'm clearly annoyed already. Then, the jackhole pulls his coat up over his face and screams "GET OUT OF THE CAR".

Surely, he did not just tell me to get out of my car.
"What?!"
"GET OUT OF THE F----- CAR!"
Oh, okay this is happening. Okay, here we go.

I tried in an instant to remember what it was that I always said I'd do in this situation. I always yell at the tv... "WHY DID YOU GET OUT OF YOUR CAR YOU CRAZY WOMAN?!" I LAY on the car horn, hoping to draw some attention. He starts banging on the window and trying to open the door. I realize relatively quickly that laying on the horn will take forever, and then it dawns on me.
I'm in a car. A SUBURBAN. I'm already in reverse. I don't care what this guy is screaming at me. I have to comply for him to be in control. And speaking of control, I haven't had any control over CRAP for the last 6 months. I am in control of this situation. I refuse to be this idiot's victim. My dad has drilled into my head since I was a child that you never ever get out of your car. And if you can RUN THEM OVER.

I slam my foot down onto the gas and reverse away from him. In an instant, he's in front of my car. In front. I assume he wanted to car jack me, but what if he wanted more? What if I got out and he tried to beat the crap out of me? What if I got out and he forced me back into the car and kidnapped me? WHAT IF ANYTHING. He intended to do harm to me in one way or another, I was in fear for my life.

Up until this point I suggest you do exactly what I did. DON'T EVER GET OUT OF THE CAR. HELLLLOOOO YOU ARE IN A CAR. You automatically win! DRIVE AWAY. Even if there is a gun in your face. You assume nice man with the gun pointed at you is just going to steal your car. Nice man might not be a nice man. He might intend to kill you the second you open your door. STAY IN YOUR CAR.

Don't judge me for what I did next. I was petrified, my mind frozen in "fight or flight". I have always had the tendency to focus on "fight." I was angry. I was scared. And I was not giving up control.

I put the car into drive and floored it towards him. He dodges the front end.
I reverse, spin the wheel to face him again, and floor it. He dodges again.
A third time, I gun it towards him, tires screeching. He finally takes off running back to where he came from. And I peel out of my driveway to make the block.

I call Chris (I have no doubt he's getting a little tired of all of these emergencies I keep calling him with)and tell him we need to call 911. Like now.
The police arrive, I give my description and shortly after, they apprehend someone a few blocks away who fits my description. I'm able to identify him, and within a few minutes, the entire ordeal is over. I was shaking, I was screaming and I was FURIOUS. The next day we had our alarm installed.

Trauma.
You've tried so many times, but you'll never take me. I'm stronger than you. I know far too well how blessed I am, how lucky I am, and how much I have. There are days where you creep in. You remind me of the awful times we've had in the last few months. You put me in a terrible mood, and you make me feel sorry for myself. Sometimes I find myself in tears for no reason. Some days I see pregnancy announcements and its like a punch in the stomach. But those days are happening less and less. This is a process for me. A decision that I make every single day to move on. Its hard, I can't say its not hard. Sometimes, I feel the weight of stress pushing hard on my back. I feel anxiety pulling between my shoulders. I see the guy's face at my car window, yelling at me to get out. I see the fire outside my bedroom window. I feel the knot in the pit of my stomach when I found out we had lost the baby. And so, I pray. (I'm learning to listen more and talk a little less.) And before too long, I feel the warmth of happiness again. I remember that I am so lucky- I have a roof over my head, food on my table, three beautiful healthy girls and an incredible husband (who is also healing and recovering well from our ridiculous last few months) to share my life with. Maybe one day we'll see those two pink lines again. For every blessing in my life, I am so very thankful. Like it or not, life goes on. Everyone goes through hard times. Don't let them define you. When I think about this past year, I want to think about when we took our girls to Disney World, birthdays, vacations, summer time and all the smiles and cuddles and fun we had. The traumatic times will not win. There was too much beauty, and joy and happiness. And there was love. SO much love.

And lastly.