I don’t know if anyone’s still reading, or if anybody is still interested in reading, but I have a new blog! If you’d like the link, send me an email at avamaxine@gmail.com

Byes!

Oh Lordy Lordy Lordy. How I’ve been dying to blog. Dying. But I’ve stopped myself from doing just that, and it’s not unlikely trying to put the brakes on a speeding train hurtling down the tracks. I can stand in front of it with my arms out in front of me and the most vigilant intentions, but shit, I gots to write.

I’m not writing on this blog for a few reasons, the first and most important being that when I moved my blog to Tumblr, it was mostly because a few of my friends/readers were annoyed that my Blogspot blog required a log in identification and password. It was annoying for them to have to enter their details in every time they wanted to stop in. I liked the password because it allowed me a sense of privacy and control. But then I thought, ‘Fuck it. I’m not that important, nobody is going to creep my stupid personal blog except for people I talk to in real life on a regular basis.’ And then I thought that even if other people did read my blog (like people I don’t talk to on a regular basis) it wouldn’t be the end of the world. But I guess I’m not really comfortable with that philosophy after all. I ended up inviting lots of my friends to read my blog when I started this one up. It was a weird moment for me. I sent out quite the mass invite via Facebook, and decided to include a few people who I normally feel a little awkward around. I guess I was hoping that by sharing myself with them a little more, than maybe I could make a few more meaningful connections out there.

I ended up basically exposing my soul to the last people I should have shared my life with. I essentially handed these people the juciest, most delectable gossip they could have ever hoped and dreamed of on a silver platter. Of course, most of the people who read this blog are people I speak to in real life. I don’t want you to read this and think ‘Oh my God, is she talking about me?’ I’m probably not.

I don’t know what I was thinking.

Yes, I see the contradiction. Why write a personal blog on the Internet if I don’t feel comfortable with people knowing things about me? It’s like this; I occupy a tiny corner of the Internet. My blog isn’t politically charged or celebrity driven. I don’t touch on pop culture very much, and I’m not selling anything. I’m not going to generate a lot of traffic from unique visitors- all of my readers are either people I’ve personally invited, or referalls directly from those people that I’ve personally invited. People who accidentally land over here don’t really want to be here, and after glancing around quickly and saying ‘Oh fuck, this is just some chick’s personal blog. Lame’ they leave. This is an easy, and relatively safe, way for me to write (which I love to do) and to generate some good conversations with those that I love. I’m an old-school Diaryland and Myspace ex-pat, so blogging is just something I do. And it is easy to manage information- or at least it used to be before I went and took a risk.

Here’s a secret- I’ve always, always wanted to write a book. I would tell my mom and dad that I was going to write a book by the time I was 23. Then 25. I no longer say that, but I think that writing a blog makes me feel like I’m not giving up on that dream just yet. I’m practicing. I know my writing isn’t literary gold, or even that interesting. But I like to do it. And I like it even more when people tell me that they can relate to something I’ve written or that I made them feel better - anything like that. So I guess I thought that by expanding my audience, I would open a few more doors and experiences.

And I don’t have time to call all my dear friends to update them in my life, so this works. Or worked.

Imagine what it feels like to have people you dont really know speculating as to why you were unable to carry a baby. Or what if people you do know choose to take on the role of town crier and divulge that juicy tidbit to their equally nosy friends- people you don’t know, or you do know and can’t stand?

Imagine how you would feel if your financial issues were broadcast to the universe.

And you know what? Fuck that. I have never allowed myself to be a victim or to feel sorry for myself- but the truth is that I have lost a lot but I am not about to lose my dignity or let anybody tell my story for me as interpreted by them. I have clawed and hollered and spit my way to where I am right now like a mangy fucking feral cat, and I am proud of that.

So that’s why I haven’t written. And I don’t know if I will write here anymore, because I know certain dubious characters are lurking in the corners and licking their lips. If I keep posting I’ll be censoring myself and that’s certainly no fun. I don’t know.

And seriously- this blog very likely has nothing to do with you, although it just might.

My heart is feeling light and cheery after a therapeutic trip to Medicine Hat to visit my sister. It was just an overnight visit, but I brought Salligator with me and it was good. I barely had enough money in the bank to make it down there, but still I couldn’t resist hitting up Value Village - I shit you not when I say that I have never, ever had a more successful shopping trip in my entire life, and that is in spite of the following obstacles:

1) Sally wasn’t in a bad mood, but she was in an extremely sucky, needy, ‘I love my mommy so much I could just swallow her whole’ mood. These moods involve a lot of kisses and hugs and moony, doe-eyed looks from the aforementioned baby child. When she gets like this it’s like she is so overcome with affection that she can’t handle it, and has to give loud smacking kisses and giant hugs. She also insists on being carried, which would normally irritate her as she’d rather run amok. Typically these moods appear in spurts, although she is more prone to them when she’s tired. Oh- and if Paul and I aren’t in the immediate vicinity- she will hug and kiss ANYTHING- preferably a cat, but stuffed animals, rocks, chairs, canned goods, plants, appliances and shoes are reasonable substitutes. I’m not going to lie- I love it when she gets like this, even if it means I have to carry her around Value Village for an hour. If I dared put her down to do some two-handed shopping, she’d cry ‘Mommy!’ in a weak, plaintive voice and lift her arms sadly towards me - it made her look like an orphan about to be abandoned for the 4th time. Terrible.

2. I had a throbbing headache, probably due to the fact that I fell asleep in a position that I’m sure humans are never supposed to sleep in- almost sitting up, head angled in a way that belied that fact that I have bones, and wrapped around Sally (we shared a bed at my sister’s). Oh and I had a My Little Pony wedged under me.

3. I seriously have zero money- but I decided to be reckless and throw it on my Visa since I’ve paid down most of it and am feeling highly responsible.

Yes, indeed I had fun. I had left for the trip in a rattled state- ready to pack up my family and leave Drumheller. I’m stressed about selling my house and losing money on it (as per a previous blog) and now I’m feeling disenchanted towards my house and I don’t even want to be in it anymore. Also, I’m so irritated with gossip, and I’m so disappointed in some of the folks I’ve come to know and even consider my friends. I wonder why they think it’s okay to tell people I don’t know about my pregnancy and miscarriage. Or that they took it upon themselves to share my news with people I DO know- playing the role of town crier possibly? It’s really not anyone’s job but my own to reveal that info, no?  I can say with certainty that even if I didn’t understand firsthand how physically and mentally horrible it is to lose a baby, that I would never treat such subject matter as gossip.

Oh- I’m no saint. I definitely gossip, and it’s something I always feel discomfort over. But I leave it light and more snarky than anything serious. And I certainly don’t reveal secrets or talk about my friends’ hardcore personal issues. Jesus. No. Still, I know when I’m doing it that it’s wrong and mean, and that’s why I feel uncomfortable. I should just fucking stop it.

I’m taking this whole experience as a lesson- first of all, there are certain people in this town I need to keep at arms length. I should know better than to to trust them when they pry and dig at me for information or ask invading questions. I mistinterpret it as them being interested in me or what I have to say. It’s not curiosity- it’s nosiness. And nosy people are busybodies who live to talk about other people, and they don’t give a shit if it’s going to hurt feelings.  Also, if you know people who like to gossip about other people, they probably like to gossip about you too.

Secondly, I will never, ever again discuss anybody’s fertility situation. Ever. Unless they say,  ‘I’m pregnant, tell anybody you want.’

Thirdly, I must remember that sometimes, people act like they’re your friend, and they really are not anything of the sort. I have a few friend-type people here that I’ve always felt unsure of, like I don’t really know where I stand with them. I usually ignore my confusion and insist on being as friendly as possible so that I know that I’m not making THEM uncomfortable, and I probably end up talking too much about myself in doing so. No more. Time to sever ties as quickly and cleanly as possible.

I don’t mean to sound bitter, although maybe I am. I just wish I didn’t worry about everybody being my friend. Obviously it has bitten me in the ass. It’s shitty because I really do like people, and I can be a  bit like a puppy that wants attention and good happy lovey times and treats and buddies and magic. I’m going to have to force myself to be more aloof or something. Sick. I hate that.

But at this point I’m making myself be all ‘whatever’ about it. I’ll try to distract myself by obsessing about moving in the meantime. Oh, and my fucking awesome new Value Village shit.

And just to end off- I’m so tired that I cannot bear to go through this entry and spell/grammar check, so enjoy the little landmines that are sure to pepper this entire blog!

God- did you just see that? Were you watching? I just gave my husband a package of my personal crack cocaine- Cadbury Mini Eggs. I shared. I shared my Mini Eggs. Everybody in the whole world knows how hard it is for me to share my Mini Eggs.

That deserves a celestial pat on the back, methinks. Maybe a blessing or a prayer answered too, eh? Just some thoughts.

I’m lying in bed, splayed out like a spent two-bit whore. Like I was rode hard and put away wet. At least that’s how I feel. I’m tired, you see. Tireder (lolz) than I have ever been. I’ve been training really hard for a half marathon- the same one that I placed 2nd in last year (well, second place in the ladies- not overall.) A month ago I was not training for any competetive race or even running very much- but now I have nothing to protect and the training fills that hole up. Actually,nothing fills that hole up, but working out to within an inch of my life distracts me enough to give my heart a break.

And because I placed so well last year, I feel like I have to train even harder. I’m not telling myself I have to get 2nd or 3rd or any place at all- but I am telling myself that I have to be in the best physical condition that I can feasibly do on my own.

So I work out every single day, with 2 days a week dedicated to hard hill training. On my ‘rest days’ I go to the pool and do stuff in the water.

I’m pumped full of vitamins, but I am having a hard time eating. I’ve not been able to find a single thing appetizing since ‘it’ happened, nor have I even been hungry. This is shocking considering that I am notoriously ravenous after I run, but I’m just not interested in much other than popsicles, tea and fruit. Of course I force myself to take in enough to keep me going considering the amount that I burn, but it’s no easy task.

That’s probably why I gave up the Mini Eggs- they don’t really seem that awesome at the moment.

So here I am- lying in bed, feat throbbing and spread far apart, eyes achy, legs twitchy. Oh, and it’s hot in here. I refuse to bitch about the weather, but I will make a statement that it is hot outside, and therefore it is hot inside. Having a hot bedroom when I try to sleep annoys me, because I feel weird if I don’t have a blanket on me. There’s a part of my brain that thinks that ghosts will look at/touch my butt if it’s left exposed during the witching hours.

A blanket does wonders where butt-touching spectres are concerned.

Good night.

Fun Fact:

I had never heard of or seen the phrase ‘FTW’ until earlier this year. Apparently it was a pretty popular expression back in the 80’s- I was alive in the 80’s so I’m not too sure how I missed that one, especially considering I had totally typical 80’s older sisters around me too. One sister was all Corey Hart and Whitney Houston, the other was all Heart and hair metal. The Corey Hart Sister was all shoulder pads and Keds, and the Metal Sister was all tasseled leather jackets and high-tops. Both had frosted hair and perms.

Oh! A little sub-Fun Fact Fact- did you know that popularity in my elementary school was dependent on the height of one’s hair, or specifically one’s bangs? It’s true. I wasn’t unpopular, but I certainly wasn’t one of the golden, magical girls that took dance class and had names like ’Dawn’ or ‘Melanie’ and who, even in prepubescence, had boys frothing at the mouth for them. I don’t think a boy has ever frothed for me, and I am 32 years old. The friends I had back the certainly didn’t admire my beauty or my athleticism- no no. I had neither of those two attributes. They liked me because I could draw well and had awesome snacks at recess. I really wanted popular girl hair. I couldn’t quite figure out what the fuck my body was doing since I was both tall and a bit fat, but I thought that I could work with my hair and instantly turn into an amazing dancer who had sleepover parties every weekend. I have heavy, thick hair, and back in tha day it was virgin maiden hair as well, so fuck if it would hold a curl or height. I got tired of curling my bangs every morning and teasing them and spraying the shit out of them (I’ve never been very good at doing my own hair, I’m too impatient and clumsy) so I decided to PERM my BANGS. The logic? A permanent curl would guarantee fullness and height. I’d like to add that the rest of my hair fell in a thick, straight dark curtain down to my arse. Imagine then, if you will, what that would have looked like. Permed bangs (that soon turned rather limp as the curl fell out almost instantly) atop a massive drape of straight hair, all on the head of a 10-11 year old girl with bad skin, a big nose and a chubby torso on long stick legs.

And people wonder where I developed my particular sense of humour from. Fuck.

Anyway, back to FTW. I did not, until very recently,know that  FTW stood for ‘For the Win.’ For whatever reason (possibly the endless, cyclical 1980’s nostalgia that is relentless- every year some 80’s thing comes back and drives the hipsters wild) I started seeing FTW all over the place- on Facebook statuses, websites, even a few t-shirts.I racked my brain trying to figure out what FTW stood for, but couldn’t bring myself to ask anybody because clearly, everybody should know FTW. FTW was awesome! It was cool like skinny jeans and The Black Keys!

I decided that FTW must be the opposite of WTF. WTF stands for ‘What the Fuck,’ so FTW obviouly means ‘Fuck the What.’

Yep. Fuck the What.

I liked it. I liked how it sounded, and even though I don’t know what the fuck Fuck the What means, it made me happy. And even though I know now that it means ‘For the Win,’ my brain still translates it into Avanese. How does ‘Fuck the What’ work in context? It’s similar to WTF, but it’s a little bit more punk. It’s like saying ‘Fuck that!’ - there’s no question like in WTF, no. It’s a finger pointed at an injustice or stupid act or stupid person and that finger says ‘Hey. Fuck you.’

This is not the first time I’ve arbitrarily come up with my own definition of a phrase or my own word - there’s a linguistic slew of mispronounced, misunderstood, misfit words that my family dubbed ‘Avanese’ when I was wee- way before the permed bangs, even.

Surprising, because I’ve always been a voracious reader and I was a really early talker. You’d think I’d have a decent command of language- if not then at least now. Fail.

On Monday we all went to Calgary to deal with a few things, the first one being that Paul had to write the second part (and therefore complete) his A+ certification. Please don’t ask me to supply details as to what an A+ certificate is, all I can tell you is that it has something to do with being a computer guy.

And that is what Paulie is- a computer guy. One that has his A+ certificate that he studied a long time for out of this behemoth book that bored me to tears just reading the back cover.

Secondly, the trip to Calgary involved an appointment with the U.S. Consulate, which is where you should go if you want to feel like you’ve done something bad on an international scale. You begin in a small, hot room with rows of chairs and lineups that lead to a tired, irritated worker who tells you nothing other than to sit down and wait some more. Then a security guard makes you feel uncomfortable by speaking quietly and seriously as you walk through a scanner. Then you sit and try not to act suspicious, even though you suddenly feel like you’re up to no good when all you want to do is get some documentation.

Did I mention that Sally was with us? Oh, by the way- Sally was with us. Did you know that Sally will be 2 years old in 3 months?

Do you know much about 2 year olds?

So Sally is an exuberant, joyful little thing (unless she’s screaming ) who doesn’t understand sitting still in consulate offices, especially those that have no toys or books for little kids and that won’t let you bring ANYTHING with you while you wait. No food, drinks, toys, colouring books, diaper bags- no. Nothing.

Thankfully Sally met some nice little Iranian boys who were very well behaved and probably more bored than Sally. They made faces at her and tried to make her laugh, which was fantastic and entertaining for everybody in that stupid stuffy room.

After an eternity, the security guard called us and sent us with another guard who escorted us down a long hallway and into an elevator that took us to the 10th floor, where more security and more scanners waited. Impossibly, that room was hotter and more dull than the first, and we waited there for 2 hours. Sally, to her credit, did not once cry or fuss- but she was loud. And she ran and ran in circles, crashing into people, chairs and walls.

My advice to any government office, Canadian or otherwise, is that if you are going to force citizens to wait for hours, and you know they will have to bring their kids, please have a basket of toys and books. Maybe throw a movie up on a television. I know the world doesn’t have to cater to my family because I’m a ‘breeder’ (as a non-parent friend of mine once so eloquently referred to me and my ilk) but it really does make the world a better place for EVERYONE if there are less kids freaking.

Like I said, Sally was her chipper self and didn’t once make me cringe once, so that was awesome. Really though, it was a wholly unpleasant experience, right from the get-go. I had to track down all kinds of hard-to-find documents concerning my parents birth, marriage and death, including military records. I also had to find my own documents, which required ordering replacement ones because the originals disappeared somehwere between my mom and my dad’s respective deaths. And then came the $400 cost of the services we received, not including the photo identification and the cost of checking our bags that we weren’t allowed to bring with us. Oh, and lest we forget the cost of gas into Calgary and time taken off work for Paul (I’m still off work).

All this for an hours-long wait that culminated in 5 minutes of a worker saying ‘Okay. Okay. Yep. I’ll stamp this, copy that. Yep. Okay. You’re done.’

Like, FUCK YOUUU. You guys made me feel like a major security threat and forced my kid to leave her sippy cup with a burly security guy and play with a used kleenex for THAT?

Oh, and I was (am) still healing after my procedure and I was sore sore sore. And emotional. And more tired than I can articulate.

But you know what the worst part of the day was? It was when we took the C-Train to meet my sister for lunch downtown, and as we were walking down the platform when we saw THEM. And their godforsaken, horrible signs.

The pro-life people were there.Picketting with signs.

I myself am not an advocate of abortion. I’m just not. It’s not for me. But I know that abortions occur for many reasons, none of which I really understand never having gone through anything like that. But you know what I do know? I know that I lost my baby in a brutal way in the first trimester and that what I saw will never be erased from my mind.

So to see what I saw displayed on a 5ft poster smack in the middle of a downtown train platform, not a week after having lost my baby fucked me up. To see a picture of an aborted fetus in a bowl with the words ‘WHO’S CHOICE?’ in bold font headlining the image gave me the most physically jarring electric shock that I have ever felt.

The scream started somewhere in my toes and travelled all the way up my body before it got caught in my throat, giving me just enough time to clap a hand over my mouth and turn around on my heel. My knees actually buckled and I grabbed onto a railing while Paul tried to catch up to me pushing Sally in the stroller. The tears happened before I knew they were going to happen and I went from zero to apocalyptic in about 3 seconds.

The anti-abortionists smugly stood there, and i know they wondered if I myself was an aborter and was feeling whatever guilt and shame they had hoped I would feel. Why else would I have such a strong reaction? I could see that in his face when one of the protesters, a young man about 25 years old, smiled at me in the sickest, most horrible way.

‘Paul,’ I gasped ‘Why would they do that?’ We were racing to the other end of the platform to get away. ‘I don’t know, because they don’t think. I’m going to go over there and make them turn those fucking things around’ he fumed. I sobbed that he couldn’t do that, that I couldn’t handle him getting into a fight too. I insisted that we instead walk the long way around to cut a wide path between us and them.

Why would they do that? Why? Why would you be so cruel to strangers? I was visually assaulted with this horrific, graphic image of a fetus in a metal bowl surrounded with blood not a week after having a violent and deeply terrifying miscarriage. Oh God, that was my baby on that poster. That was ME. That’s what happened to me once you get down to brass tacks. That was what happened to my baby.

Is that fair? No, losing my baby was NOT my choice, just like it wasn’t my choice to be forced to set my eyes upon this horrible sign. And God only knows what the other signs had on them- there were at least 2 more that likely contained similar if not worse messages. What if somebody else saw that who had just had an abortion and was near suicide over it? Is that okay? Is it right? Is it okay for little kids to see a poster of a dead baby? Is that the best way to get your message across? Instead of volunteering with an organization that assists pregnant moms, or teaching kids about safe sex or whatever, it’s better to operate on shame, shock and fear? I know they weren’t necessarily targeting me or any other mother who had suffered a miscarriage, but when you display these things in such a manner you are targeting everyone. ‘Who’s Choice’ indeed.

Listen- protest all you want. But be smart. Be cognizant of your approach, particularly if you are protesting something to do with life (human or otherwise.) Be conscious that you are not affecting the wrong people. Consider whether or not your message is hurtful or helpful. If you’re just looking to instill deep feelings of guilt to make your own sanctimonious, self-righteous ass feel good, then please go take a flying fuck at a rolling donut. Same goes if your M.O. is based on shock and sensationalism. Showcasing a hateful message does nothing for you or your cause.

So tonight I write this story down with the desperate hope that my brain and my soul can release it. It seems these stains won’t let me be.

In the meantime, I thank you for your continued prayers and kind support. I know that happy things must be just around the corner.

I’d mentioned previously that I was feeling stressed about all of the big, giant changes happening to me and mine, seemingly all at once.

One of those things was the pregnancy, of course. That was a happy, exciting bonus event.

The original, big life-altering event is that Paul and I have decided to sell our house and move. I won’t disclose where yet, but it won’t be in Drumheller. When we found out I was pregnant that certainly encouraged us to move a little faster, so we called a real-estate agent to come by and give us an idea of things.

We paid $140k for this house around 2 years ago. We didn’t buy the house traditionally, rather we rented to own for a few months from friends of ours and then purchased the place.  We were really happy to have an opportunity to own a home when we likely wouldn’t have been able to for a long time- our friends made that possible for us and we are and were grateful.

I’ve never expected to make any money off the resale of this property, but I certainly wasn’t and am not prepared to lose money. And that’s basically what we were told- that there’s not a single fat fucking chance that we’ll get what we paid for this house, even though we’ve maintained it to the nth degree.  He told us that the house will likely only sell for $125-$130k, and he was surprised we paid what we paid for it in the first place. That stings- to hear somebody poo-poo something you’re proud of. We still owe the bank $130k for the mortgage- and if you factor in the $5k we have left owing to the people we bought the house from (they lent us the $ for a down-payment) and real estate agent fees, we’re just fucked. So that leaves us what, $20-$25k in the hole? We don’t have that kind of income to lose.

Mr. Real Estate Guy said we could certainly list the house for $140, but we’ll sit on it for a million years. That won’t work- we want to go and we don’t want to stay here and wait for somebody to pay us what we want. We asked him if any renovations would help our cause, and he said nothing would help, really.

We could put moving on hold, of course, and just stay here- but we’ve caught the bug, and in light of recent events I am very ready to shed my old skin and start fresh elswhere. And I am going to have more kids, and I’m not going to stuff any more people and their things in this house.

I like this house, even though I’m annoyed at it now. I don’t want to feel bitter towards it or associate it with anything other than our first, cute home. And it is a really cute house that’s in good shape and has a great perennial garden that almost all of the previous owners have added to. I’ve decided that I’m just going to have to think of it as a rental in terms of money. When you rent a place, your money just kind of goes away- it’s not ideal, but it’s not the worst thing in the world either. I’m sure that other people have lost money in similar circumstances, with much bigger houses costing lots more money. I suppose that’s the nature of real estate.  I just thought that with the market improving as much as Mr Real Estate Guy said it was, he was going to deliver some better news.

We’ve also come to the conclusion that we will simply have to sell as many of our belongings and furniture as we can to make up for what we lose. I’ve made Paul promise that we keep all of the beautiful furniture my dad made, the art and Sally’s piano, but books (*sob*), TV units, vases- everything else is going in a garage sale. I don’t give a shit if Paul and I are sleeping on an air-mattress and eating off of plastic plates when we get to our new home (We’ll make sure Sally is set up nicely, of course). It’s all for the sake of new adventures and fresh starts.

So yes, there seems to be a lot of shitty news lately (although comparatively, this news is very small change to what I’ve just been through and doesn’t even matter at all) and it’s discouraging. I don’t give a shit though- I’m bound and determined to proceed with this next part of our life, if for no other reason than to feel excited about something again.

Further (necessary) indignities: I spent this morning sobbing between my bed and the bathroom, horrified every time by what my body was getting rid of. Upon arrival to the doctor’s office, I sobbed all the way to the examination room, was rendered nearly catatonic when kindly doctor tried awkwardly to comfort me, blew snot and spit as he checked me (4th internal exam in a week) and then choked and sputtered on my way out the door. I flapped, gagged, squeaked and wailed at the hospital as I received my morphine shot and booked my D&C for this evening.

Every single nurse that I know as well as the funny crazy resident lady doctor who checked me earlier this week ran into my room upon seeing my D&C chart and gave me hugs and kind words. This brought on a whole new response from me- the ‘Don’t-you-fucking-hug-me-or-I’ll-spray-this-room-in-mucous” panic as they came at me with open arms. But I really wanted those hugs, even though each one turned me into pre- Annie Sullivan Helen Keller (bless her soul).

I’ve now joined that horrible club that I thought I’d never be granted membership to- the miscarriage club. That traumatized, scarred group of moms and dads who have experienced the loss of a child.

They gave me pamphlets. I know how common miscarriage is, and I guess when I thought about it I thought it was a fairly simple, almost unnoticeable event. I read about how women miscarry before they even know they’re pregnant and just think they’re having a bitchin’ period. I was not prepared for the truth of the event- the labour pains, the amount of blood, the helpless feeling of huge amounts of tissue being passed through you, and the horrible pain that brings.

And all I could think about was how my baby deserved more than to have his or her life brought down to me silently screaming over a toilet bowl.

And further to that, I have to go get a D&C in a few hours to finish the event off, because not everything has come out. I insisted on being completely knocked out for it, because I am not emotionally strong enough to be awake during something that seems so degrading and…inhuman. That was a life, and now it’s just gotta be scraped away.

So I’m blogging furiously because I don’t like what’s happening in my head right now, and I’m too weak from days of not eating and bedrest and pain to do anything else but sit here and write write write. If I had a mom, I’d call her and beg her to reassure me that I didn’t fuck this up. That I didn’t do something to make this happen or enough to stop it from happening.

I have also come to the conclusion that I am going to find another job. I make really good money, but I’m unhappy, stressed out and don’t enjoy the work. It’s a job that requires a ton of drive, business savvy and a certain degree of aggression. It’s about Blackberries and Chambers of Commerce and important people. I’m away from my family, and I spend all day missing Sally so much that it’s hard to think of anything else. I love the part where I meet new people, and I love any job where I learn a lot. But I hate the amount of pressure I feel. It’s also an office full of drama, and my pregnancy was the focus of that drama and some things were said to me that made me realize just how cold a place it is.

But the money…

It’s hard not to be seduced by the pay-cheques. But after last night, as I lay awake unable to sleep and hyper-alert, I realized that something needs to change so that the next time (please God, let there be another baby) I get pregnant, I will work someplace where I feel secure and that doesn’t require a ton of travel or overtime. I want a more chilled-out life, and I want my family to be the focus.

I wish my old contract job had been continued.

I just looked at the time and realized that I have to try and sleep a little before my procedure. Pray that the doctors get what they need out without damaging my uterus so that future babies aren’t compromised.