Into the Fire

Effective January 1st, 2019, I would have health insurance. My HMO offered dental, so the hunt began for a dentist. I found one in February after about a month of searching (Dear HMO, please update your provider directory…), and scheduled an appointment.

She was nice, this new dentist. She took some x-rays and while she waited, she began to set me up for a cleaning. Meanwhile, I told her everything. “Let’s get these cleaned up and see what we’re working with here.” She said. She only got to clean one tooth…because a piece of tooth broke under her instrument. She wasn’t even applying a lot of pressure.

The x-rays finished uploading. My entire upper jaw was bright, bright white….infection. 90% of my lpower jaw was infected as well. She looked at me and said, “I think you’re right. Now seems a good time to throw in the towel.”

I would remain on antibiotics until the date of my surgery four months later. They weren’t enough to clear out the infection. It was a matter of keeping it under control…to keep me alive. My health? It had declined even more. I was seeing an eye specialist because I had lost 60% of the vision in my left eye. I had no depth perception in that eye either. A lot of scary things were being thrown at me. “Maybe there’s a tumor pressing on the optic nerve. Maybe you have MS. Maybe you have an asymptomatic aneurysm.” I had an ultrasound of my eyeball. Those feel incredibly weird, let me tell you. My fatigue was constant. The abscess pressing on my sinus had grown. I felt like a ticking time bomb, to be honest. I couldn’t function and to this day I am not entirely sure why I tried to put on a normal face and let people think I was just this awful failure of a person when I should have just said “I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t do that. I can’t do much of anything except breathe and try my best to do all the things I’m supposed to do.”

And because I couldn’t do those things…my self-loathing grew. I called every oral surgeon in a 20 mile radius and not one took my insurance. In April…I found one an hour away. I was scheduled for a consult the following week and then, I had to wait for the proper pre-approvals from insurance. ten agonizing days I waited for news, for a date when I could expect a light in the dark, dark tunnel. And then, it came. June 12th.

I’d like to say that everything was better and hunky dory after my surgery…but it wasn’t. I still had hurdles.

This is part four of a series. I said there were only two left but eh, maybe there’s two more after this. 

The Struggle is Real

February 2018 was when I had my wake-up call. A close brush with what could have been a deadly situation. Would have been deadly, were it not for the dentist who insisted on pulling an infected tooth.

Oral health is a crucial thread in the grand scheme of overall health. Because I could no longer eat unless it was soft, lukewarm, easy to mash with my tongue against the roof of my mouth, etc, my nutrition suffered beyond the help of multi-vitamins. Despite trying to maximize the nutrition of what little I could eat. The change was slow. I began to grow constantly tired. I woke up in generic pain every day. My youngest son was a year old. I had four children. A bigger house to maintain. And I was drowning.

The Break and a Revelation

After my wisdom teeth were taken out, things calmed down for awhile. About 3 years. I took care of my teeth. I avoided dentists. I was working in a mortgage company, and one day, we ordered Uno’s for lunch. I was chewing and bit into something HARD. The crunch was…oddly familiar. A part of me knew, but it took looking. It was a piece of tooth. My back left molar. The dental phobia was still really real and really pervasive. I did nothing. Well, okay, I started chewing on my right side.

The Tooth about Fear

I have debated telling the story of a long hard road that involved a lot of pain and illness. It is a story that is, for the most part, over. All that is left is the continued healing. I have chronicled it on my personal Facebook page, where the only people who have seen it are dear friends and family. But I have gotten messages and comments along the way that asked me many times to tell my story. It is a tale of teeth, dentists, and fear. Phobia, actually. I hope that by sharing this, someone out there is moved to begin their road to recovery…back to life and laughter. Not all of it will be told in one post, it will take a few.

A Letter to my Children about Love.

This is the product of a discussion I had with my two daughters. Share if you must but please give proper credit. This…is my heart here.

A baby and her newb mother. 

It broke my heart when you told me. Not because of what you were saying. But you were nervous. Tense. I could see it in your eyes, it rolled off of you in waves. You’d labeled yourself and were nervous about telling me. And it broke me.

My children. My beautiful, amazing kids who drive me up a wall but without whom I would not be the woman I am today. I do not care about labels. Love is love. You could come to me one day and say, “Mom, this is my girlfriend and I love her. She’s good to me, she’s a good person, and she makes me happy.”

I would rejoice with you. Love is love.

You could come to me and say, “Mom, this is my boyfriend and I love him. He’s good to me, he’s a good person, and he makes me happy.”

I would rejoice with you. Love is love.

You never need to label yourself as anything with me, your only label is my daughter. My son. Who I love, each and every one of you, just the way you are on any given day. Labels put you in a box and by God, my child, you…you are better than a box. Love is love.

In a world where so few people find real, deep, true love…love is too precious and sacred to be put into a box and held by a solitary definition. It is beautiful, wonderful. And when you find it, hold on to it. Cherish it. Water the sprout and watch it blossom. I don’t care who you find it with. So long as they’re good people and treat you right, that’s all that matters to me.

I have heard some of your peers. Scared to speak their truths to their parents about who they love. As a mother, I find that incredibly heart-shattering. Nothing will ever change that you are my children and I love you. Unconditionally. No strings. Even when I don’t agree with the way you act, speak, dress, etc. Nothing lessens the love I have for each of you. Just the way you are. Love is love.

So if you think a girl is cute and you want to get to know her…go for it. If you think a boy is cute and you want to get to know him…go for it. I will never love you less for who you love. I carried you each within me, my heartbeat was your metronome for 41, 38, 40, and 42 weeks. I brought you into this world, some more painfully than the others. Some of you were easy on my body. Some of you, I struggled for.

Your heartbeats were my compass. Your souls are the stars in my skies. Bright, beautiful, and awe-inspiring. How very, very proud I am to be your mother. Even when I need time away from you. Nothing lessens the love.

Do not label yourselves, my children. You are more than a label. More than a box. More than one definitive term. You are love embodied for each of you were made in love, brought into the world in love, and raised in unconditional love and support. Don’t clip your wings before you learn to fly.

Love is love and my love for you is eternal. Unconditional. Never-ending.

Love,
Mom

All that Remains

Yes, I’m aware that’s a band. But when thinking about a title for this post, I kept coming back to those three words. All that remains. This is a painful thing to write. It isn’t something you’d normally say about something good.

So, the Mister and I have been together for a long time. So long that both of us, for various reasons, lost sight of/stopped doing all the things that we used to. Kids can change a relationship, and now we’ve got four. And they’re great. But along the way, we lost things.

I Was Not Prepared For the Rainbow Pregnancy…

So I haven’t been writing as much as I was hoping to, the holidays were busy, and I have been dealing with all the lovely pregnancy things.

As most of you probably know, this is a rainbow baby for me. I found out I was pregnant exactly five months to the day after I found out I was pregnant…a pregnancy that would end in miscarriage.

I have gone through feelings and emotional episodes that put the feelings and emotional episodes of my other pregnancies to shame, made them look like pure child’s play. I thought I would feel better when I passed the point at which I miscarried in April…and I did, but then I was like “Okay, I need to get to 12 weeks. Surely I’ll feel better then.”

Nope. I wasn’t prepared for this at all. No article, all of which were well written and very helpful, prepared me for this, though they all seemed to be along the line of “It’s normal to be afraid during a rainbow pregnancy.”

The Rainbow after the Storm…

My last post was very difficult to write, and shared a very, very hurtful thing that I am still finding myself coping with.

On April 17th, 2016, I found out I was pregnant with my fourth child. I enjoyed the news for 48 hours. On the 19th began ten days of constant blood level monitoring and ultrasounds. I watched my baby develop a sac, a fetal pole…and then he died. On April 29th, I began to miscarry. 

In the Depths of Sorrow…

My last post was in October of 2014. In that time, a world of changes have occurred. We moved to a bigger home. The kids adjusted to school. BabyBoy is now a preschooler, and has made so much progress.

Life has been good, and it left me in a better place to deal with the blow I am coping with now.

Our eldest had asked for either a kitten, a puppy, or a baby for her birthday this year, and the Mister and I delivered an emphatic “NO!” to all three.

Joke was on us, we found out the day after her birthday that I was pregnant with our fourth child. We were terrified, but after a couple of hours, we began to talk about it, and we grew excited. I was looking forward to this being a happy, healthy pregnancy. I bought prenatal vitamins. Iron. Was eating well and only having periodic nausea.

48 hours later on the 19th, everything began to unravel. My life became a routine of heading to the hospital every 48 hours for bloodwork and scans. It was a yo-yo of “We think you’re having an ectopic pregnancy”, “Oh everything seems fine! Congratulations!”

I will not go into all the numbers, the findings…the rollercoaster, as I have come to call it. But on April 29th, after a promising rally, came the drop that broke my heart. I miscarried my baby at 7 weeks and a couple days. The rainbow I had seen after dinner the night before had not been a sign of hope…it was a goodbye.

And since then, the ride has not stopped. With other losses…I didn’t know the joy of motherhood (and the frustration), I didn’t see anything on a screen.

This has hit me hard and left me desperately treading water in a wide open sea. People said “At least you were early”, and  “Be thankful for the children you have”. I want to punch everyone who says that to me in the face. If you’ve said it to me, I’ve wanted to punch you. Please don’t take it personal. I understand you don’t know what to say. Hell, I don’t know what to say.

I need to be honest, and please know that I’m not saying anything against anyone. Everyone has been so wonderful, caring and supportive. I need to make that clear.

And yet despite all of that, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone in my life. I know I did nothing wrong, and yet guilt kills me. I had drank wine the night before I found out I was pregnant. I had this wonderful little life in me, I got to see that on the screen…and I couldn’t protect him. I couldn’t nurture him, and all the love in the world couldn’t save him, keep him with me. My sheer force of will was not enough, and I feel like I have utterly failed my child. I have my good days. Mother’s Day was a good day. The sun finally came out. I named him. I had a name to attach to my agony. Dominic Charles.

I wrote him letters, I cried so many tears that I ran out of them and sat there sobbing without my cheeks getting wet. He wasn’t planned, but I wanted him, loved him with all my heart the moment I saw those two lines. To see the fetal pole (the baby, for those not familiar with the term), and no heartbeat…please beat. Please flicker. I begged in my head, prayed with all my heart.

Nobody warned me about the aftermath. My previous miscarriage was different. Everything was taken from my body. This one, I opted to let my body take over. Nobody told me that the thought of flushing the toilet would cripple me with guilt, nobody prepared me to deal with the sight of baby clothes, newborns, diaper commercials. Going past the hospital makes my throat ache from the lump that forms. No one prepared me for the anger I feel at knowing that I should have been holding a beautiful new baby in my arms this Christmas, knowing the joys and pains of motherhood, and looking forward to having another join the ride of life…and having it all taken away. I feel robbed. I feel cheated. I loved him so much, why wasn’t that enough? But if love could keep all our babies here, there’d be no grieving mothers.

No. I’m not dealing. I have days where I am okay. And I have days like today where opening a packet of information and resources for perinatal loss brought the pain back as harsh and as hard as it was the day I knew it was all over. A part of me is still struggling. Maybe to some it was as simple as “Merry was pregnant and now she isn’t anymore”.

To me, to my heart, it isn’t that simple. It will never be that simple. I had two lines. I watched my baby start to form. The sac, the fetal pole…I watched it all happen, and I am so angry, heartbroken, and sad because I couldn’t save him. Don’t tell me I can have another. Don’t tell me he was ‘defective’ or ‘chromosomal defects are the leading cause of miscarriage’ or ‘maybe it didn’t plant right in the womb’. I know all of this and none of it matters to me, none of it comforts me or helps me justify things, because no matter what, he was my child, and I’ve lost him. You don’t have to know what to say. Trust me, nothing will ease the pain. Just ask me what I need. A hug.

Why People Like Sephiroth…

Hi, I’m Sephiroth. I have a big sword and even bigger mommy issues.

(I really want to give a shout to anyone who’s come here from the Addicted 2 Final Fantasy Facebook page…it was honestly reading through all the community interaction that inspired me to branch out from ‘mom posts’ and write about something I like to do that has nothing to do with being a mommy or a domestic diva. I know I’m not the only mom who likes to play video games, so if you weren’t referred to this post by them, you should definitely go check them out.)

Um, Merry? You’re a mommy blogger, yeah? So what’s up with this post?

While most of my blogs have focused on life as a mom, I also have hobbies, and among them is a love of the Final Fantasy series. Final Fantasy 7 was the first one I played, and since then, I have played nearly every title in the series, and loved most of them.

Final Fantasy 7 is one of the most widely-recognized titles in the series. Each game has a plot, and of course, a bad guy. Kefka Palazzo from Final Fantasy 6 is arguably one of the most insane, yet successful villains, as he manages to royally mess up the world before he is eliminated. Yet in countless polls, forums, etc, it is Sephiroth who nabs the majority of the ‘bad guy crowns’…people hate him. People love him. Why?