Common Colds and Miscarriages
Yesterday C and I dragged Eliza and his other two kids to a birthday party for my friend's one year old boy. It was a gorgeous day, one of those days that makes you think winter really is over and every day can take on so many exciting challenges. We loaded Eliza into her stroller and walked the 30 block walk to Soho. My friend, who I'll call Lucy, works for a children's publishing company and the party took place in her company's store.
Probably terrified by the plethora of rowdy partygoers, both young and old, Eliza went into meltdown mode when we entered the party room. But when C handed her to me and I walked her from person to person in a sort of meet and greet, Eliza wiggled her little arms and legs and smiled. A guitarist played children's songs and Eliza obviously enjoyed the music. The boy celebrating his birthday seemd to enjoy the idea of playing the guitar more than the actual music. The fact that Lucy repeatedly pulled back his reaching, swatting little hand didn't stop him from slithering under the guitar. While the singer belted out "Twist and Shout" and "Wheels on the Bus," C and I passed Eliza back and forth, twisting her little body in the air. C's other kids alternated between various states of misery, at nine and thirteen, a child's birthday party probably closer to the seventh circle of Hell.
I recognized several people from my Lucy's baby shower the previous year and then I remembered that day in it's entirety. Lucy's shower took place in an East Side Penthouse apartment, Lucy being the sort who has friends in literal high places. It was an unseasonably warm day for the first Saturday in February. The only other person I knew who planned to attend the shower was my friend, whom I'll call Becky, a bridge and tunnel commuter from New Jersey. As Becky lives in suburbia, she drove into the city and picked me up.
On the way to the shower, I asked Becky about a recent doctor's appointment. The only reason I asked is because she left a message a few days earlier that mentioned something about a doctor's appointment and the need to talk to me about it later. I wondered if Becky, like Lucy, was pregnant. Though I would be happy for her, as I was so happy for Lucy, I had suffered a miscarriage the prior November, right before Thanksgiving in fact. Yes I talk about Eliza, how the pregnancy was unplanned but in truth it wasn't as unexpected as I've said. To summarize as quickly as possible--C and I broke up the summer of 2004, Memorial Day Weekend as I remember. As I was single and relatively (no completely) celebate that summer, I stopped taking the pill. When C and I started dating, in a circumstance I was determined to keep casual, I saw no need to go back on the pill, instead favored the friendly little rubber things that come in packages marked "Bareback" and "Rough Rider." Let's just say, one weekend I was a bit careless. I wasn't that worried, having been a little careless before to no unfortunate consequence. At 36, I felt that was probably all the birth control I needed. On the day of my 37th birthday in November of 2004, I peed on a stick and found out I was in fact fertile. So much for casual. But that's all ancient history as we now know, I miscarried the Monday before Thanksgiving, C and I were both pretty upset by the loss and though Eliza wasn't exactly planned, she wasn't unwelcome either. Let's just say, after the miscarriage I was too upset to make any big decisions. What I would order at a restaurant seemed so monumental, I couldn't think about birth control. And C seemed to want to "go for it" as they say and when some one is offering what you really, really want, it would take a stronger person than me to say no.
But anyway, I digress, let me take you back to that sunny day in February when I got into Becky's car and we made the left turn on 23rd Street to go across town. It's been over a year now so this conversation isn't exactly how it was spoken, just how I remember it. I'm not adding any jail stays or rehab stints I never did here now, just perhaps different grammar than my far smarter friend Becky might use.
"So why were you at the doctor the other day?"
I held my breath and hoped I could be happy for her when she told me she was pregnant.
"It's complicated. I have to tell people I guess. They had to run a lot of tests on me because in about two weeks, I have to start chemo."
Now here's a word I've heard a lot of. My mother's been through cancer twice, a close friend had it in 1993. I don't want to be bold and say cancer doesn't scare me like it used to because I know enough about stages and "five years" to know better. It's not the shock it once was, I'll tell you that. There were still panic screeches going off like sirens in my head as I've heard these words before and I wanted to roll down the car window and yell "not again, not the fuck again!"
But I forced my voice to remain calm, like I said, I'm not a cancer rookie here.
"What kind?"
Becky seemed embarrassed, like she felt bad telling me her problems. "I have Hodgekin's."
"Oh," I said waving my hand across my face in the universal, "no big deal" gesture. "My friend with the six kids had that more then ten years ago. Ninety percent cure rate. You'll be fine. It's like the common cold of cancers."
And I meant it. When my friend, who now has yes, six kids, told me she had Hodgekins in 1993, I freaked out. Now that she's been cancer free since 1994 and the proud mother of, did I tell you she has six kids, Hodgekins doesn't have the same impact as say "pancreatic" or "melanoma."
"Really?" Becky turned to me. "Did she have it before the kids?"
"Yeah. I remember it all so well because she'd always wanted to have kids. That was her big ambition in life, to be a mom. And then that happened and we were afraid she'd never get the chance. Then she kept having a kid every year and we were afraid she'd never stop. The treatment was hard on her, it took about a while. She had a rough year but now, it's like it never happened."
This seemed to cheer Becky, well perhaps cheer is the wrong word. She did seem out of it that day. I was supremely glad she told me, supremely glad that I knew some one who'd survived what she was facing. I remember when I found out about my friend, I was so grateful when another friend told me her sister was a Hodgekins survivor. There's something about putting a name to a survivor that makes you feel more confident in an optimistic diagnosis.
I don't remember what we talked about afterwards, to be honest. Becky was quiet, I think still stumbling around in a kind of surprised to be awake state. She spoke, but there was an odd spacey quality to her voice. She was in shock, I'm sure, who wouldn't be. No matter what any doctor says about the probability of your survival, to hear the words "cancer" and "you" in the same sentence, it's not something I'd be expecting.
"Lucy still looks fashionable," Becky said when we got up to the penthouse. Lucy wore sleek maternity jeans and a tight black top. Her long pretty hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Lucy wore her pregnancy well. I have to say it would be hard to find a better looking pregnant woman. The penthouse was littered with about 30 well-to-do women. Waiters in tuxes handed out glasses of wine. I noticed Becky couldn't drink and refused the wine myself. I didn't want her to not drink alone. We met Lucy's sister, her reformed drug addict mother, her co-workers and close childhood friends. Becky and I sat on the terrace balancing plates in our laps with another woman, one of Lucy's co-workers. The woman was friendly enough, spoke of her husband and I wondered why I didn't have a husband. C and I were dating at the time, but truthfully I didn't see him as husband potential. I'm still not sure I do, even after having his baby.
I've never been the type to actively pursue a husband, but as 40 got closer and closer, I have to say the idea of one looked damn good. That miscarriage was so devastating in many ways because not only did I lose a life I'd loved but I saw it as perhaps my only chance. Who knew if C and I would even survive the month, let alone make a baby. I think I was in an odd form of denial then, denying that we weren't using protection, that pregnancy could even be a possibilitity as I was so convinced I was infertile, that the miscarriage happened because having a baby was something I "couldn't do."
So lunch ended and we went inside to ooh and aah as Lucy unwrapped Fred Segal blankets, Baby Uggs, a Bugaboo and a lot of hand knit clothing item. I enjoyed watching Lucy have her moment, liked that the group collectively awed when she unwrapped the stupid singing stuffed animal I bought her. As a mother now, I realize how stupid that gift really was. And while I enjoyed Lucy's day, as the paper came off yet another designer baby blanket, I felt like screaming "my friend has cancer!" Lucy's friend jotted down the giver of the gift in a notepad and I wanted her to write down, "Lucy's other friend is going through a rough time." Becky's gift was the new parent survival kit, a fancilly packaged box of different cold, gas and pain medications for little ones. As Lucy's friend wrote down Becky's name, I wondered if anyone really knew how much love had gone into that gift. It was a nice shower but I couldn't really enjoy myself. I just wanted to be out of there with Becky, so we could get these fake grins off our face, tell each other it wasn't the end of the world, and perhaps wonder if we had any friends that would gift us with a $700 stroller.
I didn't think about the miscarriage or have a "poor me" kind of moment until I walked by Lucy posing for photos with her husband's family. As Lucy stood back to take a picture one woman said, "Wait, we need the mother" and handed me the camera so I could snap Lucy with her relatives. I smiled, took the obligatory photo, didn't know why that phrase bothered me so much. I know part of it has to do with the fact that I'm the amateur photographer in my family, the one always asked to take the pictures. The end result is that I'm not in any of the pictures so when you look at photos from my grandparents' 90th birthday parties, there's maybe one of two of my back and that's about it. It makes me feel, in a way, like I don't exist. Here I was at another smiling, happy family function and some one was enlisting me to take a photo that I would never be in. Maybe if I was going to be a mother, maybe somebody would want a photo of me.
Another cliche alert--what a difference a year makes. Eliza was conceived in February 2005, the same month of that baby shower. Who knows, it could have even been that weekend though I know C was pissed when I got back to his place because I'd been gone a lot longer than I said I would be. I had to, Becky seemed to want to hang out and there was no way I could rush home in the middle of her cancer crisis. She's not the sort of person who makes cell phone calls when we're out so I couldn't steal away to call him either. I had to be there for her, I wanted to be. In a way, being with her reassurred me that she'd be okay. C yelled at me for being late and I told him why. He shut-up, cancer has that way of silencing people and I went into the bedroom, sat down on the bed in my coat with my purse still over my shoulder and cried. He came in and hugged me, told me she'd be okay and I was pretty sure of that myself. I just was sick of it, sick of another friend getting cancer, sick of the word and how it kept recurring in different guises in different bodies.
Fast forward to April 2006, the weekend of Lucy's baby boy's first birthday and not only do I have the baby I've always wanted but Becky is now cancer free and starting her five year waiting period. She finished her treatment last Fall, not long before I delivered Eliza. It went well and now her hair and eyelashes have already filled in so much, I realize how different she looked during her treatment. It's exciting to see her bloom and smile and thrive and look like Becky again. And we're bound now, bound by the life changing experiences we went through together. We're new friends, all of us, Lucy, Becky but we're pretty tight as surviving cancer and a pregnancy, it's got a way of bringing people together. Another cliche, I do apologize.
I was induced on November 21st, the Monday before Thanksgiving. Last year, I had my miscarriage the Monday before Thanksgiving. Since Thanksgiving isn't on the same date every year, the date wasn't the same but I was still sufficiently freaked out. I am superstitious but at the same time I refused to let myself worry too much. And in the end I realize why I had to have Eliza on that day, that she would be my gift for the gift I'd so sadly lost. I still think about that baby sometimes. It would have been born in July of 2005. But my daughter is so scrumptious, so lovely, so spectacularly wonderful, I confess to feeling satisfied, though I lost a baby the universe, in its way, gave me some payback.
Probably terrified by the plethora of rowdy partygoers, both young and old, Eliza went into meltdown mode when we entered the party room. But when C handed her to me and I walked her from person to person in a sort of meet and greet, Eliza wiggled her little arms and legs and smiled. A guitarist played children's songs and Eliza obviously enjoyed the music. The boy celebrating his birthday seemd to enjoy the idea of playing the guitar more than the actual music. The fact that Lucy repeatedly pulled back his reaching, swatting little hand didn't stop him from slithering under the guitar. While the singer belted out "Twist and Shout" and "Wheels on the Bus," C and I passed Eliza back and forth, twisting her little body in the air. C's other kids alternated between various states of misery, at nine and thirteen, a child's birthday party probably closer to the seventh circle of Hell.
I recognized several people from my Lucy's baby shower the previous year and then I remembered that day in it's entirety. Lucy's shower took place in an East Side Penthouse apartment, Lucy being the sort who has friends in literal high places. It was an unseasonably warm day for the first Saturday in February. The only other person I knew who planned to attend the shower was my friend, whom I'll call Becky, a bridge and tunnel commuter from New Jersey. As Becky lives in suburbia, she drove into the city and picked me up.
On the way to the shower, I asked Becky about a recent doctor's appointment. The only reason I asked is because she left a message a few days earlier that mentioned something about a doctor's appointment and the need to talk to me about it later. I wondered if Becky, like Lucy, was pregnant. Though I would be happy for her, as I was so happy for Lucy, I had suffered a miscarriage the prior November, right before Thanksgiving in fact. Yes I talk about Eliza, how the pregnancy was unplanned but in truth it wasn't as unexpected as I've said. To summarize as quickly as possible--C and I broke up the summer of 2004, Memorial Day Weekend as I remember. As I was single and relatively (no completely) celebate that summer, I stopped taking the pill. When C and I started dating, in a circumstance I was determined to keep casual, I saw no need to go back on the pill, instead favored the friendly little rubber things that come in packages marked "Bareback" and "Rough Rider." Let's just say, one weekend I was a bit careless. I wasn't that worried, having been a little careless before to no unfortunate consequence. At 36, I felt that was probably all the birth control I needed. On the day of my 37th birthday in November of 2004, I peed on a stick and found out I was in fact fertile. So much for casual. But that's all ancient history as we now know, I miscarried the Monday before Thanksgiving, C and I were both pretty upset by the loss and though Eliza wasn't exactly planned, she wasn't unwelcome either. Let's just say, after the miscarriage I was too upset to make any big decisions. What I would order at a restaurant seemed so monumental, I couldn't think about birth control. And C seemed to want to "go for it" as they say and when some one is offering what you really, really want, it would take a stronger person than me to say no.
But anyway, I digress, let me take you back to that sunny day in February when I got into Becky's car and we made the left turn on 23rd Street to go across town. It's been over a year now so this conversation isn't exactly how it was spoken, just how I remember it. I'm not adding any jail stays or rehab stints I never did here now, just perhaps different grammar than my far smarter friend Becky might use.
"So why were you at the doctor the other day?"
I held my breath and hoped I could be happy for her when she told me she was pregnant.
"It's complicated. I have to tell people I guess. They had to run a lot of tests on me because in about two weeks, I have to start chemo."
Now here's a word I've heard a lot of. My mother's been through cancer twice, a close friend had it in 1993. I don't want to be bold and say cancer doesn't scare me like it used to because I know enough about stages and "five years" to know better. It's not the shock it once was, I'll tell you that. There were still panic screeches going off like sirens in my head as I've heard these words before and I wanted to roll down the car window and yell "not again, not the fuck again!"
But I forced my voice to remain calm, like I said, I'm not a cancer rookie here.
"What kind?"
Becky seemed embarrassed, like she felt bad telling me her problems. "I have Hodgekin's."
"Oh," I said waving my hand across my face in the universal, "no big deal" gesture. "My friend with the six kids had that more then ten years ago. Ninety percent cure rate. You'll be fine. It's like the common cold of cancers."
And I meant it. When my friend, who now has yes, six kids, told me she had Hodgekins in 1993, I freaked out. Now that she's been cancer free since 1994 and the proud mother of, did I tell you she has six kids, Hodgekins doesn't have the same impact as say "pancreatic" or "melanoma."
"Really?" Becky turned to me. "Did she have it before the kids?"
"Yeah. I remember it all so well because she'd always wanted to have kids. That was her big ambition in life, to be a mom. And then that happened and we were afraid she'd never get the chance. Then she kept having a kid every year and we were afraid she'd never stop. The treatment was hard on her, it took about a while. She had a rough year but now, it's like it never happened."
This seemed to cheer Becky, well perhaps cheer is the wrong word. She did seem out of it that day. I was supremely glad she told me, supremely glad that I knew some one who'd survived what she was facing. I remember when I found out about my friend, I was so grateful when another friend told me her sister was a Hodgekins survivor. There's something about putting a name to a survivor that makes you feel more confident in an optimistic diagnosis.
I don't remember what we talked about afterwards, to be honest. Becky was quiet, I think still stumbling around in a kind of surprised to be awake state. She spoke, but there was an odd spacey quality to her voice. She was in shock, I'm sure, who wouldn't be. No matter what any doctor says about the probability of your survival, to hear the words "cancer" and "you" in the same sentence, it's not something I'd be expecting.
"Lucy still looks fashionable," Becky said when we got up to the penthouse. Lucy wore sleek maternity jeans and a tight black top. Her long pretty hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Lucy wore her pregnancy well. I have to say it would be hard to find a better looking pregnant woman. The penthouse was littered with about 30 well-to-do women. Waiters in tuxes handed out glasses of wine. I noticed Becky couldn't drink and refused the wine myself. I didn't want her to not drink alone. We met Lucy's sister, her reformed drug addict mother, her co-workers and close childhood friends. Becky and I sat on the terrace balancing plates in our laps with another woman, one of Lucy's co-workers. The woman was friendly enough, spoke of her husband and I wondered why I didn't have a husband. C and I were dating at the time, but truthfully I didn't see him as husband potential. I'm still not sure I do, even after having his baby.
I've never been the type to actively pursue a husband, but as 40 got closer and closer, I have to say the idea of one looked damn good. That miscarriage was so devastating in many ways because not only did I lose a life I'd loved but I saw it as perhaps my only chance. Who knew if C and I would even survive the month, let alone make a baby. I think I was in an odd form of denial then, denying that we weren't using protection, that pregnancy could even be a possibilitity as I was so convinced I was infertile, that the miscarriage happened because having a baby was something I "couldn't do."
So lunch ended and we went inside to ooh and aah as Lucy unwrapped Fred Segal blankets, Baby Uggs, a Bugaboo and a lot of hand knit clothing item. I enjoyed watching Lucy have her moment, liked that the group collectively awed when she unwrapped the stupid singing stuffed animal I bought her. As a mother now, I realize how stupid that gift really was. And while I enjoyed Lucy's day, as the paper came off yet another designer baby blanket, I felt like screaming "my friend has cancer!" Lucy's friend jotted down the giver of the gift in a notepad and I wanted her to write down, "Lucy's other friend is going through a rough time." Becky's gift was the new parent survival kit, a fancilly packaged box of different cold, gas and pain medications for little ones. As Lucy's friend wrote down Becky's name, I wondered if anyone really knew how much love had gone into that gift. It was a nice shower but I couldn't really enjoy myself. I just wanted to be out of there with Becky, so we could get these fake grins off our face, tell each other it wasn't the end of the world, and perhaps wonder if we had any friends that would gift us with a $700 stroller.
I didn't think about the miscarriage or have a "poor me" kind of moment until I walked by Lucy posing for photos with her husband's family. As Lucy stood back to take a picture one woman said, "Wait, we need the mother" and handed me the camera so I could snap Lucy with her relatives. I smiled, took the obligatory photo, didn't know why that phrase bothered me so much. I know part of it has to do with the fact that I'm the amateur photographer in my family, the one always asked to take the pictures. The end result is that I'm not in any of the pictures so when you look at photos from my grandparents' 90th birthday parties, there's maybe one of two of my back and that's about it. It makes me feel, in a way, like I don't exist. Here I was at another smiling, happy family function and some one was enlisting me to take a photo that I would never be in. Maybe if I was going to be a mother, maybe somebody would want a photo of me.
Another cliche alert--what a difference a year makes. Eliza was conceived in February 2005, the same month of that baby shower. Who knows, it could have even been that weekend though I know C was pissed when I got back to his place because I'd been gone a lot longer than I said I would be. I had to, Becky seemed to want to hang out and there was no way I could rush home in the middle of her cancer crisis. She's not the sort of person who makes cell phone calls when we're out so I couldn't steal away to call him either. I had to be there for her, I wanted to be. In a way, being with her reassurred me that she'd be okay. C yelled at me for being late and I told him why. He shut-up, cancer has that way of silencing people and I went into the bedroom, sat down on the bed in my coat with my purse still over my shoulder and cried. He came in and hugged me, told me she'd be okay and I was pretty sure of that myself. I just was sick of it, sick of another friend getting cancer, sick of the word and how it kept recurring in different guises in different bodies.
Fast forward to April 2006, the weekend of Lucy's baby boy's first birthday and not only do I have the baby I've always wanted but Becky is now cancer free and starting her five year waiting period. She finished her treatment last Fall, not long before I delivered Eliza. It went well and now her hair and eyelashes have already filled in so much, I realize how different she looked during her treatment. It's exciting to see her bloom and smile and thrive and look like Becky again. And we're bound now, bound by the life changing experiences we went through together. We're new friends, all of us, Lucy, Becky but we're pretty tight as surviving cancer and a pregnancy, it's got a way of bringing people together. Another cliche, I do apologize.
I was induced on November 21st, the Monday before Thanksgiving. Last year, I had my miscarriage the Monday before Thanksgiving. Since Thanksgiving isn't on the same date every year, the date wasn't the same but I was still sufficiently freaked out. I am superstitious but at the same time I refused to let myself worry too much. And in the end I realize why I had to have Eliza on that day, that she would be my gift for the gift I'd so sadly lost. I still think about that baby sometimes. It would have been born in July of 2005. But my daughter is so scrumptious, so lovely, so spectacularly wonderful, I confess to feeling satisfied, though I lost a baby the universe, in its way, gave me some payback.
posted by Litgirl Mama at 8:40 AM
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