Creativity- A State of Mind

                                                   My take on a "patriotic Christmas wreath"

When I took a job in a privately ran scrapbook store in 2006 I thought it was just another retail job. However, it turned into a passion. Before I knew it I was a pro! I never thought I would be an “artsy” or “crafty” person. You see I can’t draw. I can’t even draw a stick figure. My best drawings are of dogs… which consist of a bunch of circles and dots in a row that my (at the time) five year old sister came home and taught me. Oh, I can glue a bunch of stuff to a paper plate and call it “art” with the best toddlers around, or color in a page in a coloring book (and stay in the lines!) but art was never my thing.

When I thought of creativity I thought of people who could paint, draw, and sculpt. In high school I was accepted into the Illinois Summer School of the Arts program. The program was at the time highly competitive. I was accepted as one of the five into the creative writing division. There were several sections: physical art, dance, music, writing, and more. Part of the summer was being isolated from the outside world and really working on your craft. We also had break out sessions into the other crafts and at the end of the summer provided a showcase of what we had learned and developed. I was told by one of my instructors that I was one of the best writers they had ever accepted into the program. I was amazed. There had been several hundred students that had submitted packets for the five spots. I had never thought I would be accepted let alone “among the best.” I still think she was crazy!

I have completely lost my focus on this blog. As I have grown older and have settled into a routine I lost site of “creativity.” Although I still scrapbook, I forgot what it was like to be creative and artistic, or so I thought. I found myself thinking, “I wish I was that creative!” While looking at a friends furniture project today.

Then, I looked around my life earlier tonight and I realized I have maintained quite a level of art and creativity in my life. Every time I blog, I exercise creativity. While I would hardly call it a “work of art” I can call it creative. Writing is just one form of creativity that I exercise in my life. I love taking photographs. Not because I think I have an eye for it, or am trying to make money, or for any other reason than the fact that I want to capture life’s memories and my perspective on film. I love taking pictures because it cerements my experiences into history and I believe no two people see the world in the same way.

Creativity exists all over my life. Every time I alter or make a new recipe I am being creative. Every time I buy a new picture frame, decoration, or hang a wreath on my door I am being creative. Last Christmas I made quite a centerpiece and beautiful wreath for my door. That was creativity shining through, and a bit of art to boot.

Did you add a pinch of cinnamon to that recipe; drop some peppermint extract into your hot chocolate? Did you rearrange your living room furniture and add some color to a bland wall? Did you write a love letter to your spouse? Did you run outside and capture the amazing sun set on film?

To create something where there was nothing is creativity in my mind. So, the next time you hear someone say they are not artistic or they are boring take a good look at their life. Because, I firmly believe we all have a form of art or a form of creativity in our lives.

I currently have my take on a new recipe in the oven, plans for dinner festering, working on my recipe binder and a hungry husband on the way home from hunting. Did I mention a loaf of homemade bread is rising on my kitchen counter? Perhaps today I will be creative. 

You don’t have to sew intricate blankets, paint a masterpiece, or sculpt the next great David to be artistic. Creativity is a mindset.

Shopping Carts and Marriage

Well technically I am still pregnant, if you go off of the HCG levels. We are still waiting for those to drop. Because of the hormones I am still extremely sensitive to things, and “pregnant crazy” as a friend of ours calls his wife when she is pregnant. A friend of mine gave birth to an absolutely beautiful angelic baby boy yesterday. You know what, it didn’t bother me at all. Seriously. Because I know she will be an amazing mommy and she deserves her miracle. I didn’t feel even a twinge of jealousy or resentment towards her. I can’t say that is always the feeling I will have because sometimes I see women giving birth and I shake my head and cringe. There are women out there who have babies for all the wrong reasons: to keep their husband from leaving them, for money, for attention, etc. Personally I think the only reason someone should ever have a baby to celebrate the love that the couple shares and to increase their love in their family by adding to it.

That is all I have to say about babies tonight.

I am currently surrounded by recipes. Literally. I have a new cookbook I just unwrapped to my left, an old torn up one to my write, magazine cut outs and recipes cards strewn all over as I try to find this recipes online to post in a facebook group I am in. Some of them I have to type out because they are my creations.

Let me tell you about my husband and food. He is spoiled. He knows he is spoiled and will readily admit to such spoilage. See, when I met him he was living a bachelor life. He would buy a party size frozen lasagna, bake it in the oven and every night until it ran out cut off a piece of the lasagna and eat it for dinner. His pantry consisted of Blue Box Mac n Cheese (only Kraft for him) and his freezer consisted of Stouffers frozen family or party size meals that would feed him for a week. You could consistently find those dollar pizzas stacked high and empty boxes loading his trash can. It was quite disgusting.

Then I entered into the picture. Because I love to cook he started to really love to eat. Ok, so I sort of have hurt his girlish figure. When I met him he was maxing PT scores, top of the line fit. Now… well he doesn’t bust tape and he passes his pt test… of course we have both gotten older. My love for cooking started at a young age. I find it to be like writing, something I really enjoy. The preparation, the hard work, and then sharing it and hoping others feel my love and joy as they partake in it.

When we first got married I was teaching myself how to cook. In between lavish home cooked meals was mac n cheese, hamburger helper, and other prepackaged meals. Over time these became less and less until it was months between when a blue box would be on our shelves. Yes, he became very spoiled. My husband is now a foody.

In fact, he is so spoiled that when I dragged him to the grocery store recently (I think he would rather have teeth pulled then go with me to the grocery store. The man is a big old baby when it comes to grocery shopping. And he is a grump to have with you, which is why I pretty much never take him. But I was pregnant and I needed dog food, thus he was with me for lifting) he kept taking things out of my cart! That is right folks, he was removing food from the cart, shaking his head and explaining that “we don’t eat this anymore” or “but your homemade is so much better.” I had to rescue my ONE box of mac n cheese (the first box I’ve bought in a long long time) and I had to counter that there might be a time when he is not home and I don’t feel like cooking for one that I might want some mac n cheese. Tonight, as I eat my allotted one cup of mac n cheese that I doctored to not be as high in calories/fat, I am grinning to myself. Thankful that I put it back in the cart. I was quite astounded when we checked out and the bill was over two hundred dollars. We had been on vacation and had emptied our kitchen before going but man! And then I was even more surprised when putting away the groceries and I realized how many items were seasonings and condiments, not food!  As I looked at the items in the bags and realized how much he had put back I came to the conclusion: he is off grocery shopping detail indefinitely!

My dear husband requests meals. It makes my heart smile when he does. In fact I tell him all the time when he is my experiment rat he HAS to tell me if he doesn’t like it and I wont make it again, but if he says he does like it he is going to have to eat it over and over. There has only been one dish he hasn’t liked. Oddly, it is Campbells Chicken and Rice Casserole. He seems to think its extremely bland and gross. It does sort of resemble nursing home food. I made that five years ago and to this day it is the only dish we can think of that he hasn’t like. Now, me on the other hand…

What he doesn’t realize when he is requesting food is the amount of work or time it takes for a dish. But you know what, he never complains. Ever. He just gets excited when the dish does appear on the menu. He has a few absolute favorites. My chilli is his number one. The funny thing about that is the recipe was an absolute accident. I was missing a few ingredients so I substituted one day and now, well if you ask him I cold take a world championship with the recipe. He’s such a goof.

I was thinking about my darling husband and food as I poured over the healthy recipes for the group. Trying to figure out which ones I could get away with sneaking onto the menu and which ones he would throw a fit over (anything with lima beans or tofu for sure!) As I thought about our recent grocery trip I looked down at my new throw, and it made up for every item he removed from the cart.

I have this issue with buying things for myself. I just, don’t do it. It drives him nuts. I don’t know if it is that I feel bad, knowing that my income goes to paying off credit/loans and not household items, or if it just the way I have grown up. I never got new things as a child. It was always used, garage sale items, and never anything I “wanted”. I feel spoiled every time I buy myself a new pair of jeans, or tennis shoes. I don’t need a lot of “wants” to make me feel loved. I live in an amazing house and have enough money to make amazing dishes that my husband loves and looks forward to.

The day after we went grocery shopping we headed to Costco. Once a month we go there and stock up on things like toilet paper. While we were there we noticed office chairs on sale. For over two years I have wanted a chair for the office. I was using a cold, metal folding chair. The chair was extremely uncomfortable so I didn’t spend time in the office, where my scrapbook table was set up. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I scrapbooked. I sat in one of the chairs, swirled around and laughed. The chair got put in the cart. I removed it. He put it back… well needless to say I have a new chair in my office.

Then, as we walked to the register I saw this display of throws. Green and blue, fuzzy and ubber soft. I picked one up and grinned it was so soft. I put it back down. I do this all the time with things, pick them up, put them down. You know you do not need that throw. I mentioned, “too bad they don’t have a red one that would match our living room.” My husband sees a red one on the box photo and then lifts pallet after pallet until he finds a red one and tosses it into the cart. “Honey, we don’t need a throw.” I tell him, fingering the lovely (fake) lamb skin. I remove it from the cart. “Besides its twenty five dollars and there is so much more we could spend twenty five dollars on.” My voice of reason. I head towards the register, where my husband suddenly appears with the red throw and tosses it on the belt. “Don’t argue.”

I didn’t. And you know what? This blanket has magical powers. In the last week there have been two days where I have been physically and emotionally exhausted but couldn’t sleep. Both times I have picked up the blanket, wrapped myself in it and fallen asleep for hours. Who would have known?

You see, marriage is a lot like shopping carts. It is full of give and takes, putting in and taking out. But in the end, it is so worth it. 

Truth

I had a much different idea in mind for tonight’s post. In fact I wrote it in my mind last night while I was trying to sleep. I couldn’t sleep. Between the pain and the emotions coursing through me… I ended up watching the clock tick until ten this morning when I finally gave in and got out of bed. I was going to write about something much more uplifting, but that post is going to have to wait. I always said that I would write honestly, from the heart.

I’m tired of being positive. I’m tired of healing from one tragedy just to face another one. I’m tired of putting things in the past, being happy, to have that happiness like a rug, pulled up from under me and having to figure out how to stand on broken legs and let them heal. I start to run forward just to have the rug yanked out again and to start the process all over. At what point do you stop running, stop moving forward and just lay there, give up and give in, knowing the pain of the broken legs and not wanting to feel it again? I am so tired of my legs healing from each break, growing stronger, just to have each break hurt more and do more damage then the last. But I get up, I move forward, I keep running. Why? Why do I keep going? Why? Why am I determined to hurt over and over?

So here it is. I am scared. I am scared to tell people, anyone how I really feel. I hide behind this mask of pretending everything is all right all the time. No one, including my husband, really knows what is going on inside my head. I show that I am ok and I pretend that I am ok, when in reality I am far from ok. I am scared to let anyone into what is going on inside of me.

I am scared I will be judged. I am scared I’ll be rejected. I am scared people will not look to me as leader or a strong person anymore. I am afraid people will think I am crazy and take away my positions in a variety of clubs and volunteer organizations in which I serve, that they will think I am unfit to do my jobs or to lead. In reality, I need those in my life. I need to know I am needed somewhere by someone doing something. To take away all that I do would kill me.

I’m just scared. Physically and emotionally. Physically the pain has almost become unbearable, I’ve been running a fever for about four days now, and I cant tell you the last time I slept well. But I can put on a brave face at lunch with a friend, or on a long telephone call. I don’t want to worry anyone, I don’t want to bother anyone. I just feel like something is wrong, but I cant pinpoint what it is. My lower back is killing me but it doesn’t make sense, I didn’t have surgery on my back. Nothing makes sense. Yesterday my fever was 102.9 I’ve been controlling it by staying on top of Tylenol and drinking lots of fluids. I have a doctor’s appointment Monday. I’m just trying to hang on until then. My energy last for about four hours and then I feel like I’ve been hit by a train.

Emotionally, well emotionally, is an entirely different beast. I cant stay still, I cant just rest. Because then I am left with my thoughts. My thoughts are ugly and scary and the stuff that nightmares are made of. I’m my worst critic and my worst enemy all in one. All I hear, when I am alone is how unworthy I am, unlovable, alone. I think about what a failure I’ve been and how scared relationships make me. I think a lot about other things, things I cant write on here, things that people would read and say I am incapable of leadership, incapable of volunteering, incapable. I am afraid people would think I was unstable because they wouldn’t understand the context of the words, they would read JUST the words, not the meaning behind them.

I want so badly to write it down, not to post it, but just to get it out there, but then I am afraid if its written it will be found. Whether by my husband or someone else.

I don’t expect anyone to understand. I don’t like being me. On any given day I wish I could be someone, anyone else. When my friends run home to their parents and I am left reminded I don’t have that, or when we are asked to write down our best friend and so many of them list their moms, or when the holidays roll around and my husbands gone and I am nothing but a hassle, a heavy weight, holding back a friend, or when I feel completely unwanted. When I look at the blog I wrote about last Christmas and how only my deployed husband called me, how I spent most of it alone in my empty house, wishing I had someone to call family.

I hate myself. Literally. I feel like I failed at everything I have ever started. I’ve never had anything normal in my life. I’ve never had a normal prom, a normal wedding, a normal graduation. Normal meaning happy, accepted, surrounded by support, people there who cared. I’ve never had a family Christmas or a time where I felt like I was surrounded by care, love, family, safety. I turned down a writing contract out of fear. Fear of failure, of not finishing what I started, which I have been known of doing. Fear of rejection.

I’m scared of getting close to anyone. People fail you. It happens. Whether in death, or in friendship, they fail you. I’m going through this right now with a friendship I know is not long lasting, a friendship that has caused me so much pain in the last year but because of the love I feel for this friend I haven’t cut ties yet, but I feel it coming, I know its coming. I don’t want to get close to people because I am scared of the pain that will come. People grow apart, sometimes it is as simple as that, but it still hurts. And not having anyone to fall back into, not having a family or home to run to when it happens, no rock there, is hard. It is easier just to keep everyone at arms length. It’s easy to say, harder to do. I love others but I don’t let others close to me. I time out friendships, meaning, I never spend a lot of time with the same person. I see people infrequently, so I don’t get close, I don’t get hurt. Whose fault is that? Mine.

You know, I had written a previous blog about not knowing where I would be buried. That bothered me. I don’t have a place to call home, I don’t have a site to be buried. It would be a matter of time before my grave was covered in weeds and I was forgotten. That doesn’t scare me, it is an ending that I believe is my due, what scares me is the fact that day to day I feel completely isolated, completely unconnected to anyone on earth. Like, why I am here. What is the purpose? Why have I been allowed to die three times and brought back?

When does it get better? Every time something has happened to me I have asked this question. When does it get better?  After being abused and testifying against my parents I asked that. After bouncing from home to home and abuse in the foster care system I asked that. After losing my boyfriend in a car accident in high school I asked that. After foster care I went off to college. Excited, something normal. I loved thriving there, student senate, sorority, academics, normal. Then Brian kills himself.  That wasn’t about me. That was about him. But it happened to me. The circumstances changed my life, rearranged my plans. It was not the normal college experience. Not the normal human experience. I asked, “When does it get better?” When do I get normal, when do I get happy? Nothing after that has answered the question. My mom dying of aids, car accident where I get to lose three of my best friends, three women who I actually loved and who I counted as family, gone in a span of a second, trauma after trauma. Finally I get married. No one was there to witness our marriage. NO ONE. We were alone. As is my life. I wore work clothes, left the ceremony and went back to work, as did he.

Ok, well now I am married. That’s normal right? I mean I married my best friend. We move all over the country and have so much fun together. Its time to start a family. Miscarriage after miscarriage, hell lets throw in a still birth for good measure, I mean, why not, she’s had to handle everything else thrown her way. Lets see if that breaks her. No. I didn’t let it break me. I haven’t let any of it break me. I’ve bounced back time and time again. I’ve dealt. I’ve learned. I’ve grown. Two more miscarriages. I face the fact that I may never have a baby. And it is damn important for me to have a biological baby. I am the only combination of my mother and father on this earth and they are both dead. With my death that line dies. We can’t do surrogacy and don’t qualify for invetro because they cant find out WHY we are miscarrying. If we could pinpoint it, if we knew it was my body I could do surrogacy. If we knew it was the embryos we could do invetro. But we don’t know and therefore I don’t qualify for either. You see they wont take a baby and put it in another woman’s body if my body isn’t the issue. They wont risk another woman to do that and I wouldn’t let them. So we are stuck. Trying to decide do we keep trying do we keep doing this?

And I am stuck asking the question I have been asking my entire life: When does it get better? I have been beat down, stabbed, set on fire, raped, lost friends, had to relearn to walk, talk and live again after a coma, and buried a baby while losing four others and I keep getting up and I keep asking the question: when will it get better?

At which point do I realize it doesn’t get better? That suffering is my lot in life. That this is it? A lonely experience, a disappointing, heart shattering, soul crushing, experience that I cant rewind and I cant undo. An experience that when it finally ends will find me alone in a grave that will grow over with weeds in a matter of time, because I didn’t matter. I don’t have anyone who will come back and visit. Honestly, that’s how I feel.

I am scared of letting anyone get close. Everyone who has gotten close to me has failed me or been taken away by deaths grips. I don’t want the curse that is my life to hurt anyone so I don’t let people close. I just am so tired. I am so exhausted. I cant keep asking: “When will it get better?” Because no matter what, it never does. There will be months and then BAM. A reminder, you are not normal, you are not loved. Here you go deal with this and ask yourself why are you still here? It doesn’t matter how much I loved God or how much peace I found in him, it didn’t matter how strong I was, how positive, it didn’t matter if I was doing things right or wrong, life’s cruelty would seek me out and pause it all and remind me that I will never be normal. I will never have a family. I will never feel loved, because after all I have been told since my birth in words and actions that I am undeserving of it. I believe that people can care and they do, but care is temporary love is permanent, and I don’t believe I will ever be loved. People think they do but they always change their minds.  

And at the end of the day that is why I don’t let anyone know the real me. The real me is closed behind steel walls reinforced with graphene. 

“Anonymous”

I debated all afternoon whether or not to publish the second comment left today by “Anonymous” but went ahead and posted it. I would like to think I am a strong, wonderful woman who wouldn’t let ignorant immature little girls bother me. But, I am a very sensitive person and words hurt me. They always have. I internalize the things said to me, even hateful things, and let them get to me. I wish I didn’t. I wish I could simply let mean things roll off my shoulders. That is not who I am. I really was hurt by what she said. I’m not writing this as a hate-filled way to get back at her. I am writing this to get my feelings out.

Here is the comment. It is posted on my previous post. 

Your retarded. Year after year you write status message about being pregnant for attention it is obvious. It is a good thing ou don’t believe in god anymore considering your a mass murderer. You are an aborterer. Who gets pregnant half a dozen times and watchs the babies die and says lets get pregnant again. A selfish murdering biatch is who. You know you cant have babies you’ve know that for at least five years  yet you keep getting pregnant why for one reason can we say ATTENTION WHORE youd go straight to hell  if you did believe in god sinc you keep murdering perfect little souls. Murder  is a sin dont you know. Keep writing your poor pitiful me blogs and statses that no one gives a damn bout to keep the attention on you how long will you milk it? Ill get attention when my baby is BORN  not killed inside of me due to  selfish reasons. PS I love your status message about me today. Keep making me famous biatch. PSS check out the way your babies look his is what the murder youve caused looks like http://www.documentingreality.com/forum/f10/miscarriage-47087/

Because you are cowardly and you write as “anonymous” I can only jump to assumptions over who you are. Based on a few keys that you left in your comments and the fact that you are on the West Coast leaving comments from an I-phone it sealed my guess. I have also since deleted the only mutual connection we had left off of my Facebook, obviously she was not trustworthy. I can’t phantom being a person who says such hateful things to another person. The things you have said I would never imagine saying, no matter how much I disliked a person, let alone while declaring Christ as my savior in the same breath.

I don’t need to explain myself to you. I am putting this out there because you did bring up a few good questions in between the lines of your hatred. Why do I choose to keep getting pregnant after so many losses? The doctors have not been able to determine why we are miscarrying. Each pregnancy has been different. In 2007 we had a stillbirth. Losing a pregnancy at 26 weeks is extremely traumatic and the reason we own our dogs. Healing from that was hard. All of the medical tests ran on me and the autopsy on my baby came back with no medical explanation. My husband and myself have had every medical test known to man ran on us in hopes to figure out why we loose babies. We have had our chromosomes and dna studied. There is no medical reason for the constant losses. If a doctor looked at me and told me that there was no possibility of having a life birth I would get my tubes tied. Instead, they give us hope. Because they cant find a reason for the deaths they all agree that it is possible for us to have a baby. Maybe, someday, I will give up that hope. Do I think, if there is a God, he is punishing me for getting pregnant? No. I do not. I think if he exists he knows my heart and he knows my soul, and if he exist he knows that we have nothing but the best of intentions in each try. We never get pregnant without a lot of thought and soul searching.

After each loss we heal. We allow my body and our emotions to heal. We waited 20 months between miscarriages this time around. We had medical supervision during the entire process. I had my first ultrasound two weeks post conception. Every step of the way we were monitored. We did everything, and I would do anything, to keep the baby alive. All of them. To say that I would get pregnant knowing the baby would die is to admit that you don’t know me.

I am a woman who lives off of emotion. Right or wrong, that is who I am. I love deeply and connect instantly. The second I find out I am pregnant, I am attached and that baby is mine, my son or my daughter, my baby. I love that baby as much as I love anything and would without thought give my life up for a baby to be born. It is not easy for me when they die. This was our earliest miscarriage at nine weeks, and it was the only miscarriage where we did not hear a heartbeat. It did not matter. I still connected with the soul inside of me. I am broken over this loss. I feel like a failure, I am disappointed, I am sad, I am hurting because for some reason or another I was yet again unable to carry a baby to term.

A person who has an abortion makes the choice to end the child’s life. I did not make that choice. I made the choice to wait, to do everything possible to save the child. To compare me to a woman who aborts babies is heartless. To say that I get pregnant for attention knowing I will lose the baby is idiocy. I got pregnant and then went through an extensive major surgery for attention. I wanted my cervix cut open, I wanted large pieces of tissue which was imbedded in my uterus to be cut out, I wanted my entire uterus to be scraped with a knife all while under anesthesia, with a tube down my throat, all for attention. You got me.

You words only hurt me in one way. Because part of them echo something I feel. I feel guilty when we miscarry. I feel like I did something wrong. I feel like I hurt an innocent soul. When I become pregnant I do worry a lot about whether the baby will live or not. Sometimes, I do feel horrible and wonder if I am not doing something wrong in continuing to try for a child. These are fleeting thoughts, but they still hurt me. Do I feel like I am killing these children? In a way. Because I do not know what is causing them to die. I do, “What if”. What if I had eaten something different, what if I took a certain medication, what if… but when it comes down to it I do whatever I can to have a successful pregnancy. But, I know in my heart and soul that I have done everything possible to provide for this life growing inside of me. We plan out each pregnancy and prepare months in advance for them.

The link you posted with the photos of the dead babies. You know, maybe some people should follow the link, and see what a baby looks like at six weeks pregnant. Because a lot of people think its just tissues, its not. It’s a baby. They look like a human and it is soul destroying to have to burry children. I lost a baby at 26 weeks. I don’t think I need to put into words what that did to me. But, loosing even this one, at nine weeks, was difficult. You might have wanted to shock me with the photos, but you couldn’t. I’ve had bad d&cs where I have lost parts out of me and seen them. Going through it is much more traumatizing then the cleaned up photos on the website. In fact, Im glad they are there, maybe it can help people see that we have babies in us, not fetuses, not tissues but babies, even as early as six weeks they are babies.

All I saw in your comment was a cowardly desperate little girl who can’t walk away. Who is so miserable in her own life she has to stalk and hurt others. Who doesn’t get the love she needs so she goes out of her way to bring others down. I don’t know what I did to hurt you so badly but I am sorry. I forgive you for your behavior and I hope that it is just bad behavior and that you are not a bad person. You won’t get another response out of me. Write away, but your comments will be deleted. In addition, I’ve turned them in and your IP address will be blocked from writing comments. I won’t stop blogging because of your hatred, and I’m not changing my settings, because I know my blogs have helped and touched people from around the world. I’ve gotten the email responses from strangers letting me know that. Maybe some day my words will show you that you don’t have to live a bitter, hate filled life. Who knows. What I do know is you just received your last bit of attention from me.

You know, I have a hard time with love. I don’t believe I am lovable. I don’t even love myself. But, I love others, with all I have. I give everything I have to help and better other people, the society I am in, and to be a good person. I haven’t figured out how to define being a good person. To me, being a good person is treating others how you would want to be treated. To me, a good person is honest, loyal to those she cares about, caring.  A good person never intentionally brings pain to anyone, is strong enough to stand up for what she believes is right, doesn’t walk away when injustice is done, protects those weaker then she is. A good person puts other people first. A good person only allows words to escape her mouth that she would want said to her. A good person is there for others when they need them, and can anticipate the need ahead of time because they are paying attention to those in their lives. A good person forgives the ills done to them, learns from their past, and tries every day to better themselves. I’m not perfect nor do I have all of this down yet, but I do try very hard to do these things regularly.

More then anything when I die I want people to say, “She was a good person.” 

Having a hard night

I am really having a hard time tonight. I have these hormones running through my body and all the pregnancy feelings but I won’t have a baby at the end of the day. Instead all Ill have is pain and sadness. It is not fair. It is not fair how I watch these other women pop out babies like its nothing. It is not fair that I fail at everything. I get it, life is not fair. But this is ridiculous. Life is not fair. I get that. Believe me, of all people, I get that. Ive had to fight for everything in my life. I can materialize parents, a loving family, a childhood of laughter. I cant bring my friends back to life. I cant end wars. Life isn’t fair. I understand. But what did I do that was so terrible that makes karma, fate, God, whatever the hell is out there, hate me and target me this much? Ive had more then my share of bad things happen. Why do they KEEP happening? When is it my turn for a break when is it my turn? Did I do something horrible in a past life? Did I kill a bus full of children? What did I DO??

 As a child we are told we can be/do anything if we put our mind to it. That’s bullshit. We cant. I cant make my body accept and carry a baby to term.

I am so frustrated that teams and dozens of doctors over eight years haven’t been able to figure out it. Theres nothing wrong. Nothing they can find. Test after test, surgery after surgery, invasive procedure after… you get the point. And all show up NORMAL.

No excuse, no reason for it.

Do you know what its like to see the ultrasound and see a baby? To hear/see a healthy heartbeat? To make it to the second trimester and then have to deliver a dead baby?

A horrible woman looked at me and told me if she was inside my womb shed kill herself too.

Well, I guess out of all of this that is the only thing that makes sense. Medicine cant figure out why a healthy baby, with a healthy heartbeat, and with healthy hormones just dies. No chromosome issue. No DNA issue. No heart issue. They did an autopsy. Nothing wrong.

Apparently something’s wrong. Babies don’t want me as a mother. Is that it? Am I being punished for something? Why am I hated so much?

You know, it makes sense. I believe with all of my heart that I am unlovable. I can love like there is no tomorrow but I know I cant be loved. Sure, people can care for me, but they all wake up eventually and realize the truth. I suppose then one can deduce if I cant be loved and babies love unconditionally and love starts in the soul, babies have souls at conception… so if I cant be loved, a baby cant love me, thus cant survive in my womb. Is that it? I think it must be. Nothing else makes sense.

I love you a latte...

This really is one of my husbands new coffee mug.

Unpacking our suitcases from Florida was a rather interesting feat. I had brought an empty suitcase with us, knowing it would be filled with souvenirs. We bought two t-shirts (Swimming with Dolphins), presents for my nephew, a set of Mickey Ears and enough coffee mugs to outfit an entire diner.

If only I was exaggerating. It seems like my husband and I managed to find an awesome looking coffee mug at every stop. He has a “Grumpy” mug and I have a “Tinker Bell” mug (it says I often give myself good advice on one side and I seldom listen to it on the other.) We have an American Tradition coffee mug with an US flag on it and the Mickey characters. We have a giant coffee mug with a killer whale from Sea World, and a giraffe coffee mug from Busch Gardens. I am shocked that we got them all back to Colorado without breaking any of them. I wrapped each one in a towel. Silly, but it worked. You would think with all of these mugs that we like coffee or something.

Coffee and I have had a love/hate/indifferent relationship my entire life. When I was adopted my adopted grandfather would come over on Saturday mornings and have one cup of instant coffee with my adopted mother. They would microwave some water, dump in a spoon full and call it good. My adopted mother was single and I never saw her drink coffee outside of those days. When I was about sixteen I tried a glass and it was disgusting. Because my siblings were ADHD we never had caffeine in the house.

When I went off to college coffee was not a big thing on our campus, in fact although we had a Starbucks on campus, my friends and I were much more in love with their other drinks: my favorite was the carmel apple cider.

Upon moving to Washington D.C. my coffee experience grew. I was in charge of making my boss coffee in the morning. He had his own special coffee maker that had espresso and foamer attachments. He would bring in flavored coffees, creamers and sugars to go in the coffee and I could have as much as I wanted. This opened my eyes to a new type of coffee. As much as I liked the flavors I still only had about five glasses a week.

Then I got married. My husband is a coffee addict. Not only do we have a Keurig and a regular pot, we also have a press, an Italian brewer, and a percolator. That way, if for some reason we don’t have power, he can still make a pot of coffee on the grill.  This man loves his coffee and he loves it black. Like really black. No sugar, no cream. While in Afghanistan he fell in love with a drink called “The Mother of All Coffees.” This MOAC is made up of four shots of expresso and coffee in a 24 oz cup. Nothing else. Just that.

So, I started making him coffee. Every morning before we bought the Keurig I would pad downstairs before the universe was awake and turn on the coffee pot for him. For years he told me and everyone else around that I made him the best coffee. (I found out merely by him accidentally letting me know that in reality the coffee I was making him wasn’t strong enough but was the best because it was made with love. Hmph. The coffee was so strong I was half and halving my glasses. Half coffee half creamer). Anyway, the smell of coffee became the ritual. During his first deployment I found myself making an entire pot of coffee but only drinking my daily one glass (Gasp! I am so wasteful! *insert eye roll here*) The smell of that pot of coffee and the reminder of our routine helped with the deployment blues.

Each morning I get coffee smelling kisses, which are really, disgusting. But I love them because they are mine. I still will throw his cup under the Keurig and make it for him.

I went from never having coffee, to a cup every working day, to a cup everyday and two or three on the weekends.

Then, we moved to Washington State. This is when my addiction to coffee began. See, coffee is a staple in Washington. I believe that Washingtonians became addicted to caffeine to substitute for the warmth of the sun, and to chase away those dreary rainy day blues. We moved to WA from Florida during a very windy, rainy, fall season. It was months before we had a day where the sun was out for a few hours, let alone out at all. Outside of the gates of Fort Lewis were multiple coffee shops.

It was really sort of neat for a girl who hadn’t seen a lot of coffee places before. Imagine large looking wooden portapotties. There were wooden drive through structures all over the place that boosted of coffee. The structures were drive through or walk up, no room to stand inside. Most of them could only fit the employee and the coffee machines. Once I put “Starbucks” into our GPS and there popped up over twenty in a six mile radius, and I am not lying. For men who wanted their coffee served with a flare “Hot Chick a Latte” served morning coffee by a woman in a bikini or lingerie. My favorite was a place called Forza. The coffee drinks there were awesome and there was one of my way to work.

I worked at the State Psychiatric Hospital. I needed my daily coffee. In Washington I became a coffeeholic. I would drink two to three cups a day. I bought all sorts of creamers (sugar free mainly), flavored splendas and flavored coffees. Coffee was now as much of my routine as my husbands. In the summer iced coffees (I miss the pistachio iced drink I used to get in WA) replaced my hot coffees and instead of a morning treat it was my midafternoon snack.

We now live in Colorado and I brought my love of coffee with us. It is here that we purchased our Keurig coffee machine. I love our Keurig. I can make exactly one cup of coffee anytime I want. We have a bunch of different flavors, although my favorite is Hazelnut. I drink two cups of coffee in the morning. I really do enjoy the taste. Caffeine doent have much of an affect on me at all, I drink it for the warmth and the taste. I know to some people two cups isn’t much but to me it is. I make my hazelnut coffee with two packages of sweet n low and about 1/4^th cup of sugar free hazelnut creamer. Sometimes I sprinkle pumpkin or apple pie spice, cinnamon, nutmeg etc in the cup before I brew the coffee for added flavor. It’s delicious. It’s my silly routine.

Six weeks ago that routine came to a screeching hault.

Your life changes when you find out you are pregnant. Your hopes and dreams for the future shift and for many women a euphoric joy settles onto you and your routine. Of course, those who us who are chronic repeat miscarriage survivors have that underlining fear and paranoid panic. For myself, one of the largest changes during pregnancy is caffeine.

The effects of caffeine on pregnancy have been debated for years. Does caffeine cause problems to the unborn baby? There are conflicting reports on the topic, but I am one to listen to my doctor. See, I don’t just get a doctor assigned to me and take their word for everything.

Nope, I’m one of those paranoid women who actually like to research doctors and hospitals before I settle. I interview doctors. I have a list of questions in a notebook that I like to ask. I want to make sure, especially with my history, that I am finding the best doctor for us. Experience, bedside manner, and similar beliefs is important to me. My family elected to use a standard medical insurance, which includes copays, so that I would have this freedom.

I found an OB I really like. She has a lot of experience, a lot of real practical experience from her experiences as a Navy Surgeon. She’s young enough to have a fresh perspective and not be bored with her specialty, but old enough to have experience to back her. Her bedside manner, encouraging attitude, and the fact that she lets me make all the major decisions, means a lot to me. She puts everything on the table, makes sure I’m informed and then lets me decide what to do.

“Rebekah, what does this have to do with coffee?”

When we found out we were pregnant I asked the doctor about food restrictions. My previous OB was pretty paranoid and had given me this long, three page list, of foods not to eat. On it was my favorite cheeses,  teas etc. This doctor in her wisdom, gave me a very short list. She told me that women around the world are having babies every day, women in third world countries, who cant be picky about their foods. She advised me to warm up any lunch meat before eating it (there was a major listeria outbreak here recently), avoid raw steak and sushi (we live in Colorado, not like they are pulling it out of the ocean to give it to us), not drink tea that has euchia in it and limit my caffeine to one a day, or less, if possible. My previous OB had cut all caffeine out of my diet.

Because I don’t drink coffee for the caffeine anyway, I figured I could go to decaff but I never got around to buyging decaf coffee. I would give my right arm to have a healthy child, giving up coffee was no big deal. I would grab a cup of decaf when we would go out to breakfast, but other than that I just didn’t drink it.

That’s why it frustrated me so much to see that the woman who is having children to trap her husband write in a mutual facebook group that she was craving coffee at ten pm, made and drank an entire pot by herself. When someone said something about it, she turned around and said that she wasn’t giving up caffeine just for a baby and she had too much to do to go through caffeine withdrawals.

I am willing to give up anything to be a mother. I will do whatever is possible to have a healthy baby and raise a healthy, well-loved, well adjusted child. I would stand on my head and drink from a straw if my doctor said it would make my child healthy.  What is giving up a cup or two of coffee? A small sacrifice. I would rather be safe than sorry and even if there were conflicting data on the outcome of caffeine in pregnancy why risk it?

Coffee was cut out of my morning routine for the past seven weeks. We found out I was pregnant two weeks after conception and it was a pretty quick decision to change a few of my eating habits. Since I had become extremely healthy in the past year and lost 75lbs, my general eating habits were good, small things like coffee and sushi were easy to say goodbye to.

But, I didn’t say goodbye to the stale smelling coffee breath and disgusting kisses from my sweetheart in the morning. One of those things that you miss while they are gone but wish theyd brush before kissing you while they are here. Yep, still got those daily. And I was content because I was loved by my husband and growing a precious extension of us inside of me.

So, that is why this morning when I padded downstairs and flipped on the Keurig, pulled out one of our new coffee mugs from vacation, brewed myself a cup of hazelnut coffee, I had tears streaming down my face.

I have my coffee routine back. The warm, wonderful, delicious cup of morning coffee to start my day.

But, I don’t want it back. Having it back means that the surgery was successful and that I no longer have limits on my diet… I don’t want a cup of coffee, I don’t want one until April 4^th, 2012.  I can’t change what happened to us and there was nothing I could do to make this pregnancy work.

All I know is what I believe in my heart, and I believe humans have souls and that our souls are formed before we are physically formed. I believe that all of my dead babies had souls and that all of them knew that their mommy loved them. Because, I would have given up my life, not just a latte, for them to have life, if I had been given the option.