Miracles Happen

I'm not a religious person, but I believe that miracles happen.  I've seen one with my own eyes, and felt it with my own heart.  I have held a miracle in my arms.

In 2004, after eight years of unsuccessfully trying to have a baby, and a year of going through an adoption home study, my husband and I welcomed our two oldest children into our family.  They were 5 and 2 1/2 at the time.  It was such a stressful time- learning to parent and bond with these two emotionally needy little boys, as well as dealing with court and social workers.  A month later, I was in my doctor's office finding out that I was pregnant.

When I tell people my story, I hear similar stories all the time- a couple they knew (often it's a relative) couldn't have a baby, so they adopted, and a year later they ended up pregnant. I'm told it's because they finally relaxed... that it happened because they weren't thinking about it anymore.  They weren't stressed out anymore.  I was far from relaxed when I got pregnant.  I went from zero kids to suddenly having a 5 and a 2 1/2 year old.  I was whatever is the polar opposite of relaxed.  But, I always nod and smile, and then I continue the story of my miracle.

You see, during those previous eight years, I never went to the doctor to find out why I wasn't getting pregnant.  I was too afraid and insecure to find out what I knew deep in my heart- that I was somehow physically broken or incomplete, and I would never carry a child.  On the day that I found out I was pregnant, my doctor did an ultrasound, and discovered why I had never conceived before then.  She informed me that I had a septate uterus.  This is a deformity that causes the uterus to be divided in half by a thick fibrous wall of tissue.  The larger the septum, the less likely someone is to conceive, and the less ability the uterus has to stretch.  She told me that there was a higher than average chance I would miscarry.  The best case scenario was that I would deliver my baby prematurely.  I had no idea what that would mean, and I was so elated to finally be pregnant that I really didn't care.

My pregnancy was perfect.  I never had morning sickness, and I felt great the entire time.    That is, until I was 22 weeks along (a pregnancy is typically 40 weeks, so I was just barely past the halfway point.)  I started hemorrhaging and had to be rushed to the hospital.  When I got there, I was having contractions.  Thankfully, the doctors were able to stop the contractions, and the bleeding stopped.  The baby looked strong and was doing well.  After four days, I was released and sent home.  Two weeks later, I was rushed back to the hospital with contractions, only this time was very different.  By the time I got there, I was 8 cm dilated, and there was nothing that could be done to stop my baby from being born.  (In an effort to keep this post from turning into book, I'll spare you the details of the sheer terror I experienced, and how I prayed to any god that would listen that I be allowed to die on the operating table.)

Zackary was born when I was 24 weeks 4 days pregnant.  He weighed in at 1lb 13oz, and was 12 inches long.  We were told to expect the worst- his chances of surviving that first night were about 10%.  He was so tiny.  His skin was paper thin, and would tear with the slightest touch, and it was transparent, making him look a strange shade of red/purple.  His body was nothing more than exposed nerves.  The slightest touch was painful for him, so we could only touch the top of his head and the bottom of his feet.  The bones in his skull weren't even in place yet, and they overlapped each other, giving him a slightly alien appearance.  His eyes were fused shut, and he had no cartilage in his ears.  We had lots of ups and downs during Zack's 91 day NICU stay, but he came home almost 3 weeks before his due date, as a very healthy 5.5lb three month old.

When Zack was almost two years old, we decided that we wanted to try to have another baby.  Emotionally, I needed to be able to carry a baby to term, but I was also terrified of putting another baby at risk.  I carried a lot of guilt for everything Zack endured in the NICU.  I went to see a fertility specialist about my uterus, and I underwent surgery to remove the septum.  A week later, I saw the specialist for a follow-up exam.  She informed me that we would need to schedule another surgery, because she wasn't able to remove all of the septum the first time.  In her almost 20 years in practice, she had never seen a deformity as extensive as mine.  Her exact words to me were, "If I didn't know you already had a baby, I would have told you it would be impossible for you to ever conceive without removing the septum first.  When I got in there, there was nowhere for an embryo to implant."

My miracle is 9 1/2 years old now.  I shouldn't have been able to get pregnant at all, but somehow I did.  He wasn't supposed to survive that harrowing first night of his life, but somehow he did.  He was supposed to have life-long delays and health issues, but somehow he doesn't.  I don't know how, or why, I was given this miracle, but I was...

On Zack's second day of life,
he reached out and held onto the tip of my finger,
as if to tell me he was strong and he would fight,
and he would never let go.

Coming Up for Air

I mentioned in my last blog post that I don't really have any close friends.  That has been true for quite some time.  Since writing that post, I have been doing a lot of self-reflection to figure out why this is so, and more importantly, how to fix it.  There are several reasons to explain how I've gotten to this point in my life.  It's partly because of my feelings of inadequacy- I've always felt like an outsider, and that I never really fit in anywhere.  And part of it has to do with my need to connect with people whom I can try to fix (in an effort to avoid my own issues, I'm sure.)  But more recently (if 9 1/2 years can be considered recent) it has to do with family tragedies leading to depression, anxiety, and a little bit of PTSD.  Oh, and let's also throw-in trying to figure out how to connect to the mother and siblings I hadn't seen since 1980.

This isn't going to be a "boo-hoo, woe is me" type of post, though.  It could easily be that, but really, what's the point?  I experienced things that were soul crushing.  I lost the people that I thought were friends, and I have been drowning in sadness for years.  I've struggled to get my head back above water for quite some time now, with very little success.  That's not the point of this post though.  The purpose of this is to be hopeful and positive.

I feel like I have been slowly suffocating for almost 10 years.  I'm ready to breathe again.  It's exhausting to always be alone in a crowd, wishing that someone would try to reach out to me, and at the same time, praying like hell that I'm blending into the background enough, so that no one notices me.  I'm ready to open my heart, and tear down the walls that I've built around myself.  I'm tired of being lonely.

But how do I begin?  Making real, true friends isn't as easy as it was when I was 5, and I could walk up to another kid and say, "Hi, wanna play?"  I know I just have to take things one day at a time, and relearn how to be comfortable around people.  I also know that I can't force a relationship.  If someone is meant to be a part of my life, they will be.  I worry though, that most people can't handle the type of friend that I am.  I am honest and loyal, and I love with every fiber of my being.  I am not the friend that vanishes when things get tough.  I am both the rock, and the candle in the darkness.  Being those things fulfills my lifelong need to matter to someone... to feel important.  My biggest fear is that I will come on too strong, and seem too needy.  Or that I will just continue to keep the world at arm's length, because then I don't have to worry about people not liking me.

For today, in this moment, I have broken through the surface of the water.  I am filling my lungs with the fresh air, and fighting to stay afloat.

You Can Have My Chocolate Pudding

I always seem to attract them- people that need fixing.  Maybe it's because I'm kind of broken too, so we're drawn to each other. Maybe it's because I keep my crazy (mostly) hidden away, so I seem like a safe harbor.  Maybe I purposely seek out people I can try to fix, to take my focus away from my own issues.  I don't know what it is exactly.  What I do know is that it can be a lonely existence.  These broken souls that I collect are so wrapped up in themselves, that none of them bother to really get to know me.  And when I am no longer of any use to them, they tend to drop me like a diseased hooker.

I don't actually have any close friends.  I'm not even really very close to anyone in my family (with the exception of my hubby and kids.)  I seem to have a hard time staying connected to people in general.  I'm sure it stems from my abandonment issues as a child.  I wish I wasn't this way.  I truly wish I could make friends as easily as everyone else seems to.  I see others with their circle of friends, getting together, having fun, and it makes me sad that I don't have that.  I've tried in the past- I really have. But as soon as I start to get to know someone, I pull away. I refuse to let them through the brick wall I've built around myself.  Or, better yet, I find out that the person is highly toxic, and slightly insane.  And once they know I've found out their truth, they turn on me and try to bring me down too. 

The worst part of it is that I know I am a fiercely loyal friend.  I am there for whomever needs me.  But I never feel that in return from anyone.  Instead, I feel like a hanger-on... an annoying third wheel... the younger sister that your mom forces you to take to the mall with you.  I somehow have become that kid from school that was really nice to everyone, but seemed like they were trying too hard to be friends with you.  The one that would give you her chocolate pudding, even though you didn't ask for it.

The Anonymous People

Last night I watched The Anonymous People.  If you don't know about it, it's a documentary (available for streaming on Netflix) about people in long term recovery from addiction.  If you love someone who struggles with addiction, I highly recommend that you watch this film.  It is about the need for an open, honest dialogue about addiction and recovery, and how the attitudes toward addiction and recovery need to change.

Addiction to drugs and alcohol is an illness.  Some would like to discount it, and say that it's a choice- people choose to become addicts.  They can stop if they really want to.  I've never known anyone who chose to become an addict.  I've known people who screwed up and made bad choices, but they never set out with the desire to destroy their lives.  I've known people that struggled with sobriety for years because they weren't ready to get help.  Or they got help, and then repeatedly fell back into the abyss that enveloped and smothered them.  Addiction is an illness, plain and simple.  Even after treatment, an addict has to work on their sobriety every day.  There is no cure.  Some are able to overcome it, and sadly some are not.

One of the recovering addicts in this film was the actress, Kristen Johnston (3rd Rock from the Sun and The Exes.)  She has become a very vocal champion for change by refusing to be silent about her own recovery.  She will not hide the fact that she almost died because of her drug and alcohol abuse (read her book, Guts if you haven't already.)  She is mostly known for being smart, outspoken, a bit of an over-actor, and incredibly funny  (and let's not forget her proper use of foul language!)  Even her book will make you laugh out loud in the midst of her horrifying life and death ordeal.  That being said, there was a moment in The Anonymous People that took my breath away.  There is a brief moment where all of that brashness and humor drops away, and we catch a glimpse of raw vulnerability from her.  I have always enjoyed Kristen's work for her ability to make me laugh, but seeing this small glimpse of a different side of her made me love her even more.

The main point of the documentary is that attitudes toward addiction and recovery need to change.  No longer should those in recovery hide themselves away, or be shamed into silence.  They need to speak out and be counted.  Addiction is a crisis in this country, and only when attitudes change will real progress be made in the treatment of this disease that destroys so many lives.