grief

Untitled Post because I just don’t know…

/ autumncircles / 3 Comments

I have always wanted to be a mom, to have babies. When I was a little girl, I used to dream of getting married and having four babies – two boys and two girls. I had some names picked out like Christopher Richard and Anastasia. My sister and I used to pretend we were having babies (i.e., in “labor” – when you’re about six or so, who knew it wouldn’t be “fun?”) with our Baby Tenderlove dolls. It is one of the few memories I have from our house in San Antonio.

Even  my dreams of being a famous actress came in second to being the world’s greatest, most loving and ultimately cool Mom. I would imagine myself onstage accepting my Tony Award and looking down at my children in the front row, dedicating the award to them, telling them how much I loved them and was so glad they were my true life.

The greatest part of that dream has come true – I am a Mom. I have two beautifully amazing children – one boy, one girl – about nineteen months apart. They are currently nine and eight. As far as being the penultimate parent? Well, you’ll have to ask my kids about that (but not today, as I am a bit grumpy). And, no, there is no Tony Award in my near future. (still holding out hope to work that in someday…)

Why am I writing this? Good question. I don’t know other than why do I write about anything here but to wrench out some meaning behind feelings, dreams and/or occurrences in my life. And hormones. I may have written a few times about those. ;0)

I have been having dreams lately about being pregnant again. Just last night I dreamed of myself with a full, round belly excited at the prospect of another child. One of those surreal dreams where I could almost touch the stretched, smooth surface and feel the baby moving inside. I was also heating cinnamon rolls and lettuce via a refrigerator toaster oven while my entire extended family gathered around a large table. It was an odd dream.

Odd especially because – not sure why it matters, but feel the need to state it – I am 41. I haven’t tried to get pregnant for, well, about nine years now. My husband had the v-snip about four years ago to ensure our family size maintained its status quo. I agreed to and even had to legally sign-off on that decision way back then. Getting pregnant again has long been out of the picture for me.

And, oh yea, one other thing – I had a hysterectomy about a year and half ago. I may still have my ovaries, but due to the fact that it was on its way to falling out and I needed other reconstructive surgery to repair damage during childbirth, I have no uterus for a womb. My tubes have been shut off to any egg deliveries and there is no cervix to dilate. In short (which, I know, is not possible for me), I am no longer a physically functioning instrument of human reproduction.

There. I’ve said it.

Then why the dreams? Why the twinge of heartache when I feel whatever eggs I have left being expunged into the empty cavern where my uterus used to be? Am I doubting a decision that is irreversible? The time for that was nearly two years ago. Could it be that I fear my track record so far as a Mom and would like a do over? Is it grief – still? If so, how does one properly grieve a uterus? Should I have kept it and buried it under a budding tree as a way for it to continue it’s sole purpose of supporting fetal development?

I have actually wondered what happened to it. I was, of course, under general anesthesia and have no freaking clue what went on after I was wheeled into the operating room other than to comment about all the massive amount of stuff they had in there. I felt so calm that day, so sure it was all going to be all right.

And it is.

Mostly.

My body is different – feels different. I have residual pain from one of the other surgeries they performed that day which doesn’t help matters and can get debilitating if I am not careful. Though, it is nice not having to worry about when I can go swimming or plan a vacation around a 28-day cycle.

And yet…(think long pause – like the one in Aliens where Sigourney Weaver’s cigarette ash was two inches long…)

So, now that I’ve reached the end of the blog arc, what’s my usual conclusion that I can pull into my psyche all wrapped up in a curly-q bow in order to move forward and find some peace about my withdrawn uterus?

Unfortunately, all I’ve come up with is this haiku.

Altered instrument ~
What life can I produce now?
Spring winds move the trees.

Some questions evoke strange reponses

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It was a simple question – “Do you use a pet sitter?”

I wanted to quip back in a humorous way but couldn’t figure out a clever remark that wouldn’t sound crass or make the questioner feel bad about asking. Our dog died about six years ago and there was no way my friend could have known that so some smart ass retort like, “Yes, we have found that dirt and lots of it keeps our Yeti in the backyard safe and sound.” It would have just come out crass and insensitive. And probably a bit confusing.

Instead, I told her that Yeti had passed quite a while ago and the only remaining pets in the house – Xander the Hermit Crab and Stripes the Betta fish – didn’t require any kind of sitting service.

It did bring back the memory of the day Yeti died, though. Oddly enough, I had just been thinking about her last night and all that happened that day.

Her full name was Yeti Cadesha Jones although we are never sure why – at some point we just started calling her that. The best we can figure, Yeti was a cross between a lab and a greyhound. She was black and barrel chested like a small lab but had the signature torso curve of a greyhound. She was very sweet and about ten years old. She’d been having trouble making it outside when time to go to the bathroom, so we had to move her out there.

It was the First of March and it had been an unusually cold February for Texas. Our kids were still very young – ages two and a half and not quite one – and I had just put them down for a nap. My husband had left to visit some friends and I went out to feed Yeti. I opened the back door and called for her but she didn’t come. I stepped outside, put food in her dish and kept calling. I went and checked her igloo to see if maybe she hadn’t heard me, but she wasn’t in there. My next thought was that she had somehow gotten out of the yard again but the gate was closed.

As I searched around the backyard, I was beginning to get a pit in my stomach. We don’t have a big backyard and it’s not like we have any trees or places to hide out there either. But she’d found a place. I saw her curled up on the side of the shed, in between it and the fence. At first, I felt relief that she was here. I called her name again and she didn’t move. I went up to her and put my hand on her rump to shake her but ended up screaming the kind of panic scream that only comes in moments like this.

I screamed louder and shook her harder but she was cold and stiff. She must have been gone for a while but I hadn’t been out to check on her yet this particular morning. My screams turned to cries of “no” and “please God” but she couldn’t hear me anymore.

I called my husband but he had forgotten to take his phone. She was much too heavy for me to try to move her from where she had crawled. I called another dear friend who just sat on the phone with me while I cried and waited for my husband to come home. I brought Yeti’s blanket over to her, covered her up and sat next to her until I heard my husband’s truck pull up. I couldn’t leave her outside alone, not like this.

I broke down as I told my husband and his face had the incredulous look of “what the hell?” mixed with a pain as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He was the one who brought Yeti home ten years before and asked if we could keep her – she was really his dog. This was going to be very difficult for him, too. The rest of the day happened so very fast.

Later, after we’d been able to bury her in her favorite spot in the backyard, my husband told me to look up at the sky. Wave after wave after wave of black birds were flying overhead. There must have been hundreds of them and they kept flying over our house.

The greyhound in Yeti had made her a runner and this was, to us, our sign that she was flying free no longer hemmed in by our small, fenced backyard. No matter how sad we were, she was telling us it was okay.

It was a sight and a moment I will never forget.