Doctor's Verdict

This morning was our long awaited appointment with my MFM. I was looking forward to it, anxious to hear our prospects for the future.

Basically, I have a 66% chance of having some sort of hypertension problem in our next pregnancy. I have a 30+% chance of developing severe preeclampsia in the second trimester again, which, would ultimately give us the same fate as we had with Charlotte. Heartbreak, no baby. Or a severely premature baby, if we're lucky.

So, 1 in 3. Pretty shitty odds, if you ask me.

I wasn't surprised, based on what I've read and from stories from others who've had a similar ordeal. Still, it's hard to hear.

The chipper resident came in first, whom I had never met, listing off the characteristics of our pregnancy with Charlotte, in way too happy a tone. I didn't need to hear that. I was there, I remember what happened. I hated hearing it in such a clinical description, with all the emotion, tears and feeling removed, just a trail of facts remaining.

It was so much more than what's listed on the chart.

My MFM was much better; she remembers, she was there for the whole thing. At the time she cried with me, held my hand. Today she was encouraging, but there are so many unknowns. So much that medicine still has to learn. We still have no answers, really.

I mean, we know why she died. Prematurity, growth restriction. We know my hypertension lead to all of that. But there's no way to fix it, it seems.

She said the main thing we can do is take a baby aspirin and calcium from the very beginning next time. I didn't start those this time until about 15 weeks, when the problem was evident. Dr said there's been some evidence that starting from the very beginning can help. I hope so. Controlling my blood pressure with meds helps me, but doesn't take away the effects the hypertension has on the baby. How frustrating.

I mentioned heparin. My OBGYN said at my post-op in June that might be an option. This Dr didn't think it would be necessary. She said my risk for blood clots would still be lower than 2% and it wouldn't be needed. I'm going to ask the other doctors. When we try again, I need to know that I'm doing everything I can possibly do.

So, now I'm being referred to a hematologist. Dr #5 added to the mix.

I asked if there's anything I can do now. She suggested losing some weight, getting down to a BMI of 25. I'm trying! I've been picture perfect with my eating and exercising 5 or 6 days a week. It's not budging. I'm over 30 lbs away from that goal and it's slow slow going. I've been up and down the same two pounds for about 6 or 7 weeks now. Another frustration.

So, we think, even after all this doom and gloom, that we will try again. After Christmas, while I'm at the university. I think that will be ok.

It's all just so complicated.

Comraderie

I've been MIA. This has been a busy week; well, not so much busy as people-filled, with hardly a minute of privacy. This morning I'm finally alone, and have been looking forward to writing.

Here we are. This past week I've been host to an old friend, galloping around the city like tourists, doing all the little things we're known for here but that no one who lives here actually does. We've window-shopped, ate at flagship restaurants, walked historic neighbourhoods. Enjoyed the city. A nice retreat from the routine of living here, allowing us to see the familiar surroundings in a new light.

I had fun. I had moments of happiness, even. But yet it was still tainted. For a few moments here or there I could slip into another psyche- allowing myself to get excited over a beauitful raw silk purse at a downtown store or a delicious special at the cafe. In a way, I felt like an imposter in my own body. I would snap back to reality, where a nice purse is irrelevant, and I'm not hungry for the daily special. My baby is dead.

On Friday night another friend invited us to a beach for a bonfire, with her sister and two nieces, 7 and 10. I say "beach" in the strictest definition- no sand in sight, but the rocky shoreline is perfect for a bonfire. M and I headed down at dusk, to find them, fire blazing, amongst the other families with the same idea. M went to work adjusting the fire for maximum effectiveness, eagerly taking the traditional male role amongst all the girls. We all chatted. The little girls were running around, finding starfish and interesting rocks, demanding we host impromtu singing competitions and requesting to bake cookies the following day. They were sweet.

The sister is also a babylostmama, although I don't know the details. As well as I thought I knew this family, I never knew anything of this until Charlotte. I know the lost baby was a boy, in between the two girls. I found myself at ease with her even though I haven't seen her in years, There was a sense of knowing between the two of us, even though deadbabies was not a topic of conversation.

As the little girls chased each other up and down the beach, she was quick to call them back. The ocean, the fires, too many imminent dangers.

I can never just let them run, she said. I worry too much. I don't know if it's because.....

Her voice trailed off. I knew what she was thinking. I nodded in agreement. I wouldn't be able to either.

As dusk grew to dark and the beach was dotted with dozens of fires from cliff to cliff, the warm breeze (a true rarity here!) was comforting. I could have stayed there forever. It was the first time, in a long long time, that I felt like me. Not the put-a-smile-on-my-face-so-everyone-else-will-be-comfortable me, but really me.

I liked it.

Special Days are Not So Special

Well, I did it.

Yesterday M and I went to visit our baby friends. He had contemplated going for a while; yesterday when he mentioned it I was feeling strong, and said I would go too.

This was after I got home from church, where the much-dreaded first baptism took place. I was warned in advance; I had a substitute all lined up should I be too emotional. I wanted to get it over with. It's part of my job, I couldn't refuse to play for baptisms forever. I wanted to do it in the summer, when the organ and choir loft were mine and mine alone; I didn't want the inaugural baptism to be when the choir comes back after Labour Day, with twenty pairs of eyes fixed on me, wondering about my reaction.

So I did it. And it was ok.

It was a little boy, which made it easier. He was, maybe 3 or 4 months old. I tried to think about something else during the pouring of the water and the responses. When it was time to play the little baptismal song I pushed through it, tried to focus on the notes on the page, not the tune or the words.

The congregation sang, Oh, Ayden did you know, that you are very special.....

I tried not to remember Charlotte's funeral, where we sang the same song.

Oh, Charlotte did you know, that you are very special....

I made it through. I did not cry, although the familiar lump in my throat was present the entire time.

I was proud of myself. And relieved. Felt like I had conquered something, which probably led to my agreeing to visit the Baby Friends.

As we pulled onto their street and into their driveway, I got nervous. The same feeling I get before I go onstage for a big performance, a little breathless and light-headed, dizzy. I pulled myself together as M rang the doorbell.

Please don't answer with the baby in your arms. Please don't.

I got my wish. M's best friend opened the door and ushered us in. I managed an enthusiastic Hi and a big smile. The dog was let into the porch, he jumped up. Ordinarily I would have scooted away, yesterday I was grateful for the distraction. I pet him and talked to him as the new mommy opened the door to the living room to greet us. Still no baby in sight.

We sat down in the living room, now transformed from the last time we visited, pre-baby. A pack n'play now in the corner (is that a swaddled baby in there?), the ridiculously expensive baby swing we made fun of them for buying, half a dozen mylar It's a Girl balloons, partially deflated, the screen saver of rolling pictures: baby in bath, baby in hospital, mom and baby in hospital, baby with aunt, etc etc.

We sat. We chatted. Nothing baby related. The weather, our upcoming trip, price of gas. Purposefully avoiding the huge white elephant. Or rather, the swaddled bundle of joy 8 feet away. I was feeling pretty good. I can do this. I'm doing this.

Mommy jumped up, slapped her hands on her lap. So, do you want to see her? Too excited a tone. I nodded. Mommy walked over the the pack n'play and I said, desperate now, Oh, don't wake her. She scoffed. No big deal. She's awake anyway.

I stood to greet them, the two of them. The baby was swaddled in several blankets, the outer being the softest fleece. Her little hand was covering her face, her eyes opened. She moved a little.

Do you want her? Mommy asked me, as she motioned for me to take her. No. Please no. Do not give me that sweet smelling little bundle. I didn't miss the irony of the question. Do I want her. Yes, yes I do. But she's not mine, and if you give her to me I might not be able to give her back.

That's ok. We'll sit down.

She sat down beside me on the couch, baby in arms. M came over and stood by me, to support me, to see the baby, I'm not sure. I was glad he was there.

I'm a big girl, Mommy said, in a sing-song voice. I was 8 lbs 5 oz when I was born and now.....

I didn't hear the rest. The tears came, streaming down my face and I turned into M's jacket and cried that I wanted to go home. I couldn't breathe.

They handled it well. Mommy passed the baby to her husband with instructions to take her upstairs. I could tell this was their plan. They expected this. They knew I wouldn't be able to do it. She turned to me and gave me a big hug, talking in a soothing voice like I was six years old. It's ok. It's too close to home. A little bit at a time. She'll get bigger. It must be really hard.

You have no idea. You have no idea. You have no idea.

The tears subsided. Daddy came back downstairs. She was asking us what we had learned about our chances at a successful pregnancy. We still haven't seen our MFM. We talked about what we're expecting to hear. The baby's cries came over the monitor. Daddy muttered I should go check on her and went back upstairs. He didn't come back.

We chatted for another few minutes, my new job, our anniversary plans. Mommy said she had to leave soon, she was shopping for her future sister-in-law's bridal shower. We were glad to have a reason to leave.

I came home and went to bed. I was done.

M feels that he's going to lose them as friends. Not because of them, I really do think they're trying to handle this as delicately as possible, but for us, it will never be the same. I don't know if I'll ever be able to be in their company without seeing their baby as a parallel of what Charlotte "should" be. Yes, she'll get bigger. Will that make it easier? I'm not sure. This couple is the center of our social circle. They host the parties, plan the trips. The next birthday dinner is in a week. I don't think I can sit through a 2 hour dinner with that baby there. After that we're looking at all the holidays, the weddings we're all invited too, Christmas parties, New Year's, etc. Even when I was in the hospital, in the shock of Charlotte's death, I was worried about our future relationship with the Baby Friends. I knew it would be so hard. It was only yesterday that M realized it too.

One day at a time, for now.

Before we went over there I had been feeling pretty good. Still heart-broken and sad, but somewhat accepting of the fact that my baby is dead. That's our reality. I hate it, but there it is.

When I got home yesterday, it was like,

My.

Baby.

Is.

Dead.

I forgot how great this is supposed to be.

Today is our first wedding anniversary, and also Charlotte's due date. Ha ha ha.

I'm technologically illiterate but I'm going to attempt to post a couple of pictures from our wedding.

Leaving the ceremony:

This was taken my one of the bridesmaids during our first dance- what I wouldn't give to be happy like this again.

Isn't That the Truth

An acquaintance of mine had a baby girl on Mother's Day (different friend than I usually mention- I am surrounded). I haven't seen her or the baby (on purpose), but in my self-destructive moods I lurk on her Face.book page, looking at pictures of her beautiful baby and reading the well-wishers. Today, there was this on her wall;

Isn't meeting your baby for the first time the most intense, euphoric feeling of love that you have ever experienced?!

Truer words were never written. And it's true even, no especially, when your baby dies.

How can "normal" people say things like this to a new mom and then be completely oblivious to the pain of losing a baby? Makes no sense.

But not much makes sense nowadays.

What I Really Want...

What I really want to do today is get a big tub of gummy bears and eat until I feel sick and my mouth is raw and pasty from the sugar.

What I really want to do today is go sit in a bookstore all by myself and read read read trashy books and magazines until I fall asleep.

What I really want to do today is get on a plane and go somewhere ridiculously warm and push my toes through sand on the beach and sip on a frozen drink with an umbrella in it.

What I really want to do today is cuddle in a blanket on the couch with a set of dvds of a TV show I've never seen but that's really really good, and watch episode after episode. With the above gummy bears. It wouldn't hurt for this scenario if a raging blizzard was going on outside.

What I really want is for a friend to call and ask, really ask, how I'm doing and want the real answer.

What I really want is to rewind time about 7 months and rush into my doctor's office and beg for heparin, lie on my left side for the next number of weeks and see if that makes a difference.

What I really want is to go back to the day Charlotte died and scream NO! NO! and beg for another solution when they said she had to come that day and see if that made a difference.

What I really want is to hold her again.

What I really want, more than anything in the world, is my sweet baby back.

And that's the one thing that I'll never have.

Mom

My parents visited this weekend.

I used to look forward to their visits; now I dread it, in a way. I hate tiptoeing around the white elephant in the room for a couple of days. I hate making small talk and hearing the latest gossip from home. The chatter never stops, even when I stop talking mom keeps talking to herself, assuming I'm still listening. My husband feels the same way, eventually he gives up and goes to bed. I stay, type on my laptop while she tells me how this couple is broken up and that one bought a new house.

She has seven sisters, my mom. We have since discovered that the Factor V Lieden gene that contributed to my hellish pregnancy is on mom's side. How this is possible, I don't know. All those sisters, each with 3, 4, 5 kids, all those cousins with perfectly healthy families of their own. Not even a preemie in the mix. Hardly a C-section. And then there's me. In deadbabyland. There are rumours of a distant cousin going through something similar but no one knows details, they do know the baby made it. I wouldn't give a shit about this gene if Charlotte had made it. But of course, she didn't.

I hated this weekend. I could overhear mom on the phone to sister after sister (of course she couldn't go 48 hours without checking in). They'd start the conversation by laughing and cracking inside jokes, mom of course telling them how she had rescued us by buying us groceries and dad helping M with an outdoor project. Then her tone would change. I couldn't hear both sides of the conversation but I could imagine that aunt asking, And how's Heather doing now? Mom responded, every time "Good, really good. It hasn't always been like this, let me tell you." She purposefully chose the generic wording, assuming I wouldn't know she's referring to me. She's as easy to read as an open book. I knew exactly what she was talking about.

As if mom has any idea how I'm really doing anyway.

I heard her say Charlotte's name just once; I think it slipped out. When she arrived in my hospital room two days post-Charlotte, she pretended nothing was wrong. Did her usual, made small talk and gossipped, drove me crazy. After two days I told her to go home. I couldn't take it. It definitely wasn't good for my blood pressure, and I felt like I was bursting inside. During her stay I did ask her to call the funeral home for me and I was so disappointed by her end of the conversation, telling the funeral home that her daughter had had a premature baby, actually, a VERY premature baby and to come pick up the little body. She wrote the whole thing off like a bad day, telling me over and over again oh but you're only young and moaning and groaning about their stressful trip cross-country a few days prior. She told me it would take me a whole month to get over this. It was a couple of months later before she said the word Charlotte, when referring to the monument dad was designing.

After that, she must have read something about how to handle the situation because she dropped the you're so young act. She told me she read about how grandparents have double grief, both for the baby and their own child's pain. Of course she liked that. It made it all about her again.

I learned quickly that when it came to this, it was easier to just fake it around her. She has not been a source of comfort, at all.

So, for the next number of weeks, I was reclusive and snippy. One word answers at best. Little eye contact. I was definitely putting out a vibe of stay away, don't talk to me. A couple of times I just got mad and hung up the phone. It's only lately that I've been some resemblance of my regular self, cooking and going to the gym and gardening. To the naked eye, sure, I'm doing really well. But who, in all seriousness, does really well in this situation? Really well compared to what?

I've had the days I spent in bed, because I couldn't think of a good reason to get up. I've had spells of sobbing in fast-food restaurants, the movie theatre, my doctor's office. I refuse to visit our baby friends for fear of the worst, most painful feelings rushing back and having to cope with that all over again. I've been forcing myself to spend hours at the piano because the act in itself occupies my brain enough to force out my regular dead-baby-thoughts. I force myself to the gym because it's supposed to make me healthier and hopefully increase my chances of not having a dead baby next time.

So, yeah, I'm doing really well.

All these aunts of mine, not one, not even one, has called me to say how I'm doing. I got flowers from most of them. I got generic sympathy cards with "Love and Prayers, X" marked on the bottom. My mom's closest sister saw Charlotte; she made the trip in that day because mom was across the country and couldn't. She saw Charlotte, held her, said how beautiful she was. Then she left, drove home. And I haven't heard from her since.

I guess they're all getting the formal report from mom, that I'm doing well.

Mom has told me, in my lowest moments when even she has to acknowledge that I'm upset, that so many people, aunts, uncles, cousins, church people, family friends.... they're all supposedly heartbroken over what happened to us, lost sleep being worried about me, ask about me all the time. I wish they would ask me. I wish they had the courage to call or even just email and ask me. I wish I knew first-hand that these people are thinking about us, how the gossip spread through our small town. I don't even know what they know. Mom has a convoluted record of events as she wasn't there. Information gets lost in translation. I've referred my version of the story to so few people; I'd be interested in hearing what they've heard.

Even some of my closest friends didn't realize that I even saw Charlotte, or that she was born alive.

Thanks mom. Thanks for spreading the word.

Cemetery

Yesterday M and I went to the cemetery to bring the flowers we've had growing for her.

It took us way too long to "get around to it". I'm embarrassed to even say that. Some of the flowers were already finished in the pot, and we plucked off the dead heads before we loaded it in the car. Others are on their last few days. It wasn't the pot of glowing pink flowers I had originally planned.

It was our first visit since May.... we both agreed that was ridiculous and we should be there more often. But, why, really? Her body's buried there, she's not really there. We've glanced at options for her monument but both of us get really emotional and we can't bring ourselves to pick out an epitaph. We get so far and then one of us says I can't believe we're doing this and we put it away. My dad manages a company that produces monuments and he's mentioned it a few times; he's drafted the initial plans and that's as far as we've gotten. He stopped mentioning it awhile ago; I guess he's waiting for us to take the initiative.

Is anyone ever really ready to choose an epitaph for a dead baby? I want the simple line to let casual visitors know, well, that she was a baby, that she was loved, that she mattered. The generic epitaphs in the catalogues don't speak that to me. I don't want any of this "gone to be an angel" stuff. Someday soon I'm going to get my courage up and find something appropriate. I don't want to pick it out, but I want that monument in place.

The cemetery had re-sodded the plot since our last visit. The dirt evidencing a fresh grave is gone, replaced by grass. You'd never even know she was there. I hate that.

M said last night he might go visit the Baby friends soon. I told him sure, go on, but I'm not going. I can't put myself in that place; I feel pretty good right now. I'm not ready to open that wound again. It just hurts way too much. I got a reply from the email I sent to them; she worded it really nicely, included the line Take your time.... we're not going anywhere. So I will, take my time, I mean.

That might be a lot of time.

New Life/Old Life

I'm still here. Barely.

My pregnancy with Charlotte is beginning to feel like another lifetime, another dimension. Certainly not relevant to my day-to-day existence, three months later. She occupies my thoughts constantly, in a fuzzy way. The experience of her, of holding her, talking to her, feels like a dream. The part of my brain that cared for her, loved her, and planned and dreamed for her is shut off now, my psyche not allowing myself to go there. If it wasn't for the scar on my belly, I think I could convince myself it all never really happened.

I've had a good week, I guess. This whole sabbatical position has me in a much better place. I think they want me to play a recital as part of the "Faculty Series", which has me at the piano several hours a day in anticipation. I haven't practiced like this since grad school, and the familiar tingle in my fingers and intense concentration is welcome. The piano, for the first time, has truly become a retreat from the woes of my new normal.

I've been spending more and more time with my "old" friends, my music friends. In their artsy lifestyles many of them are still travelling the city on foot with a backpack, hopping from coffee shop to pub, recital to practice room. I used to be that. I gave it up for a house and husband and furniture from I.kea. I miss that life though. I miss thinking that my biggest concern was the phrasing in my Beethoven sonata, when $20 could last me days and days, and a "meal" could be a Coke and Snickers bar. I know I couldn't really go back; I enjoy having a house and car and the stability that goes with that. All the same, I do miss it.

I think the biggest comfort is that all my music friends are as far away from BabyLand as one can get. There's no long-standing debate of breast versus bottle, no "Family Fun Days", no talk of cycles, TTC, OBGYN's. Thank God. I am so, so greatful that I have this circle to help get me through this time. They're happy to jump in. They've been so supportive, much more so than my BabyLand friends, shocked and awed by the true horror of the last few months. And that feels so good, to have that support. To have friends who don't pretend everything is fine.

The only problem is, M doesn't have these friends.

He knows them, doesn't particularly like many of them. Finds this one too loud, that one plain weird. I met M when my artsy lifestyle was calming down. As we furthered our relationship, I found myself moving farther and farther away from my old life and futher into suburbia. I became friends with the wives/girlfriends of M's friends, who, while being very nice people, I did not share as many commonalities with as I did with my music friends.

So, here I am. I've thrown myself back into the arts circle again. M complains, almost daily, that I'm always "out for coffee" with someone or practicing. I think he feels left out. He spends his time outside, gardening, finishing our fence, that sort of thing. We do have some mutual friends that we spend time with, but our circles are only slightly overlapped. Right now I'm not comfortable with the BabyLand circle, but those are his people. I've told him not to wait for me; go visit when he's ready, I won't be hurt or offended if he can take that step before me. That's not his style, he likes to do things together. He might be waiting awhile.

I feel somewhat guilty that I have another group of friends to rely on when M doesn't, but I'm so grateful at the same time that I do. Is it fair to M? Should I be hanging by his side? Is that fair to me? I don't know.

Well, we'll keep plodding through the days together, and figure it out as we go.

Three months

Exactly three months, exactly 13 weeks, since Charlotte's birth, death. Since she was.

It was a beautiful day here today. We don't get many of those on this island, so the city was buzzing today with life and smiles, music pumping from cars and kids riding bikes in the middle of our street.

They were all out today.

Little perfect families, moms and dads with baby or two, looking so happy as they navigated strollers and baby backpacks, dodging sprinklers up and down the street. The wind carried the giggles and cries of the babies to our yard, and I tried to ignore it. Of course I couldn't; I did the opposite in fact. I listened intently.

I wonder what she would sound like if she was here. I wonder how her little cry would be. M heard little whimpers from her when I was still in surgery; by the time I spent time with her those obvious signs of life were nonexistent. I never saw her move. I never saw her struggle to breathe or gasp a cry. When I had her, she was warm, and her heart was still beating. I remember feeling her cool in the hours I held her after she died. I remember the nurse warning us when she brought her in the next morning, She's a bit cold now.

Oh I miss her so. What I wouldn't give to hold her again when she was warm.

I still haven't had any contact with our new-baby-friends. This morning I sent an email, basically saying congratulations and sorry for not visiting. I explained why- I'm just not ready yet. Not at all. I haven't received a response yet, but I'm not sure I even want one. I don't want to open up a conversation about how wonderful it is to have a new baby home, how sweet and precious she is, how full their life is now. I can't do it.

I've been great at distracting myself lately. M and I are heading to San Francisco the beginning of August- he has a conference at Berkeley and I'm tagging along. I can't wait to get away. It's a long, long flight from here but I don't care. Now that I know about this blood-clotting thing I'll make sure I have an aisle seat and do lots of laps around the plane. The change of scenery will do us both good. Plus, people with newborns don't jetset across the continent at whim. One small victory for my new life.

Earlier today I viewed a cousin's pictures on Facebook (I must stop going there, it never turns out well), and there were pictures of a distant cousin's little girl, about 2 years old. The little one looked so much like me I gasped. I instantly broke down. I've never met this little girl, but maybe Charlotte would have looked like that in a couple of years. Maybe she would have looked like me. We'll never know.

Tomorrow is supposed to be another beautiful day. I'm going to visit my baby girl and bring her a basket of pink flowers we've had growing for her. I wish I wish I wish.

6 by 6

One of my favorite babylost websites is Glow in the Woods, and the wise women there have posted these thought-provoking questions for review this month. Link here to see their post.

1 How would you describe your relationship to fear before and after the loss of your baby?

Before, fearless. In general life, anyway. Even when my pregnancy was going not-so-well, I never once really thought things would turn out badly. At least not until three days before Charlotte was born and died, when my MFM sat me down and said This may not turn out well. It was only then that I first felt fear, and it was all-consuming.

Now, I'm ok for the most part, but I'm sure the moment I venture into another pregnancy fear will be a constant companion. We've had the worst happen and have the potential for it to happen again. More than anything I fear the desperate feeling that is only now starting to fade. The pain was too immense. I fear that more than anything, and right now I avoid with all costs putting myself into situations where that pain may come back.

2. Is your lost baby/are your babies present in your life? In what way?

She is. There's a picture of her on our mantel, we have the token memory box and we've planted a garden in her memory. More than anything, we talk about her, not always in a deep meaningful way, more as part of regular conversation. When Charlotte was born...., When we were pregnant with Charlotte..., things like that.

3. Tell us about something said or done after your loss that left you feeling nurtured or supported.

My most vivid memory was when my friend J came to visit, about two weeks after Charlotte was born. She drove 6 hours to see me. While she was here, she made a phone call to another friend. She mentioned she was "at Heather's", and the friend (whom I don't really know), must have said something like Oh, did she have her baby yet? J's next sentence was Yeah, she had a baby girl! Charlotte Molly! She spoke with all the care and love and joy in her voice as if Charlotte was sitting here with me. It just seemed, well, so normal, and I loved her for saying it like that.

4. Tell us about something said or done after your loss that left you feeling marginalized or misunderstood.

Where to even start.... my mother for showing up in my hospital room two days later, making small talk, gossiping and pretending everything was fine, saying You're so young over and over again. I wanted to hit her. The many many people who I've seen that were afraid to say anything, or almost ran in the other direction. My oldest sister who had a healthy baby 10 days before Charlotte, who didn't call me for over a week after the day and when I finally called her, pretended everything was just fine and even complained about the aches and pains of new motherhood.

5. What's taken you a long time to do again? How did it feel, if you have?

I couldn't go back to work. I didn't like my job anyway and my employers were very condescending. I went in a couple of times to say hi and that was as far as I got. After half an hour in the building I felt smothered, and like I was going to snap. I finally resigned last week. I have a new (much better) position lined up a few months down the road, and I'm just going to tread water until then. I just couldn't go back to making small talk with customers, being smiley and fake-happy all day, and I couldn't tolerate working with people who believed that what happened to us, in their words, was not that bad in the great scheme of things.

In terms of things I used to enjoy, I haven't been able to enjoy shopping like I once did. I was never a shopaholic, but I did enjoy browsing in little stores and searching for new and great experimental things at the grocer. Now I'm in, and out. My interest and desire for stuff is gone; I guess I just don't see the point anymore.

6. How would you describe yourself as a partner before, and after?

Before, optimistic, laid-back, relaxed. I was always calming him down and reeling him in.
Now, a realist, weaker and more reliant. This situation has not "made me stronger" as so many people think. I rely on my husband more than ever and he's the same way. We need each other more now than we ever did, to the exclusion of a lot of other family and friends. We're building, almost against our will, our own cocoon. Me and him against the world.