171 Beats Per Minute

171 beats per minute.

That's what the happy, sunny ultrasound technician said.

"Do you want to hear the heartbeat?" I had no idea you could hear the heartbeat this early, so of course I wanted to.

"There it is. 171 beats per minute."

"Is that good?"


"That's very good.." Very good; very real.

At every step of finding out I was pregnant, I was skeptical. After all, I AM 46 years old.

I decided not to take the test until I was 14 days late because I just was not sure. When I took the test, I took it twice. Well, honestly, the first time I tried to pee on the stick, I completely missed the stick and had to re-pee. Then I thought the results were faulty because maybe missing the whole stick somehow tainted it and I would need to test again for a more accurate reading. When the second test confirmed the first, I still had a hard time believing it. We had tried. We stopped trying. Not really stopped, because, as I have said to friends who had surprise pregnancies, "If you were having sex without protection, there was always the chance that you would get pregnant."

So, there was always that hope...always.

Then the technician said, "171 beats per minute," and later showed me a picture with a tiny arrow pointing to a little blob that was my baby.

Another three weeks passed, and the blood came. Not a lot. Just a little...just enough.

A different technician, not as sunny, not as bubbly, not asking what I wanted to see or hear. Just the silence.

"I am not hearing the heartbeat. I am going to take you to another room and we'll wait for the doctor. Take your time getting dressed." That was it.

Most of my friends know I like crime shows, both true crime and "ripped from the headlines" shows. I always feel bad for the people upon whom suspicion falls just because when they were told tragic news, they had no reaction. That's how I usually react. The road from my head to my heart to my emotions is paved with doubt and hope in equal measure.

I was expecting her to tell me that they would use a different machine that would show a better picture. Or that someone would come and tell me that this technician was new and she needed help reading the screen sometimes. Or that someone would just walk up and say, "We're sorry, but you're dreaming: No pregnancy, no blood, no 171 beats."

Instead, I dressed in silence, followed the technician to another room, and after a while, to another room and no one said anything except, "Follow me."

I sat in an office, with a space heater blasting air that was way too warm, for a long while before anyone said, "I'm sorry. You have had a miscarriage." The "no heartbeat" message was still traveling on Hope Road. The nurse came in and hit the brakes for me.

"I need to ask you a few questions so we can make sure we get you healthy after this miscarriage." The tears came then. Just sobbing. No wailing. No hiccups. No beats anymore. Her face was the last sympathetic face I saw in that office.

When my OB/GYN came, the one I chose on-line and had never met, she was chewing gum. In between chomps, she told me what we needed to do to remove the tissue from my body. And the "comforting words" came in that sing-songy voice that universally signals, "I've done this before. I have to say these words. You are nothing special." The words "blah, blah, blah" practically floated over her head as she said, "It's not your fault. You are not being punished. You can have the tissue analyzed to see what happened, but the insurance probably won't pay for it because they know it probably happened because you are 46 (smack, smack). I tell my patients who are 45 that they have 0 chance of getting pregnant. (chew, chew). If you were 25 or 28, and this were your 2nd or 3rd miscarriage, I would say get some tests (chomp). But since you are 46 (by the way, you look 23) it's a miracle you even got pregnant (slap in the face)."

I had no where to look: there were three 2ft by 2ft pictures of her twins on the wall, her pants were brown, the white table behind her was calling to me, and I was wearing my favorite pair of converse sneakers. I knew there would be something in that room that would always remind me of this moment, and I wanted it to be something that I never had to see again. I had no where to look, so I turned inward to that dark place that I visit sometimes, that has been always been. And I am still there.

But I am praying to get out.

I have friends and family and co-workers who love me. My students missed me when I was gone. My daughter tells me she loves me every day. My husband has been my rock and one of the people, of many, who reminds me that God is in charge.

And I am still there.

45!

There are about 30 minutes left of my birthday. It has been a very good day. Nothing big happened, but I feel great. I am looking forward to all of the possibilities of this year and the years to come.

Me at 2 years old.

I will resume the blog, but I am taking a break for a day. I don't want to break too long, or I will get out of the habit of writing.

Thank you all for reading and for the birthday wishes!

1 day 'til 45

"It takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else."--Erma Bombeck
 
When I started this, I had no idea what direction I wanted to take this. I knew that I wanted to write something. I miss writing. My day to day life as a teacher is filled with so much that I don't give myself time to do the things I love like writing. That's my fault and I can change it. I might not write in the form of this blog, but it has been so nice to hear from so many of you who are reading that I don't think I will totally give up the blog.

I want to thank all of you who have taken the time to not only to read my blog, but also to respond:

Jennifer B., Jennifer L. (your baby is beautiful), Kati R., Kristi D., Sweet Lew, Christine D., Julia S., Carol W., Janice T., Amy S., Rebecca L., Catherine B. (I miss you), Nicole L., Kathy M., Megen E. (my student turn friend), Janice S., Aimee K.R., Chrischeryl M., Evelyn L., Jessica M., and Andrea O. (the only person who lived with me for four years and survived my quirks--love you!). Somebody name Anonymous too.

Thank you all. You have given my courage to continue writing in some format and that's invaluable to me.

So, what am I doing on the day before I mark the end of my 45 year on earth? I will probably mop the floors, give the dog a bath, and take a walk around the block. At 9pm I am driving to the airport to pick up my in-laws.

After I get back home, before I climbed into bed next to my sweet hubby, I will stop and give thanks to God for this wonderful life I have.

And tomorrow when I walk up I will be taller.  :-)

2 days 'til 45

(Won't pretend I tried to write this yesterday. I was tired enough to sleep for more than 4 or 5 hours. When that happens, I have to sleep).

When I was a kid in junior high, I discovered Erma Bombeck. I think my mom bought her book, The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank, because she thought the title was funny. I had no idea what a septic tank was, but her writing made me laugh. She was a suburban housewife with a life far removed from the one I lived, yet her humor made her accessible to an urban 12 year old. I read every book that she wrote.

I wish I could write so that some kids or adults can understand my part of the world (the one I inhabit in Leander, Texas and the one that occupies my mind).

And I hope it makes them laugh.
 
 One of,my favorite quotes, sometimes attributed to Erma Bombeck, sometimes others:

"When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, 'I used everything you gave me.'"

3 days 'til 45

Short and sweet...

When I got home from four days away from home, I found my dog and my husband waiting for me.

My husband missed me. It's wonderful to be missed by someone who can say so as well as show it.

I love him.

4 days 'til 45 (Revised from previous post)

Dancing queen, machine, or fool...

At the International Baccalaureate Conference of Americas, a room full of educators, administrators, renowned authors, and intellectual giants got busy on the dance floor to classical songs such as "Doin' the Butt," and "The Humpty Dance."

The principal at a school in Ecuador, a man in his 50's, grabbed a woman, took her to the dance floor, and showed her that a distinguished man in a tailored suit and tie can teach a few youngsters about salsa dancing.

And there I was, in the midst of all those people, learning how to "wobble." This from a girl who was too shy to go to dances in high school because she thought she would have to, uhhh, dance. I started to loosen up in college, and every year I get less intimidated, more animated, and just a tad less coordinated.

I intend to learn to salsa well enough to dance with that principal from Ecuador at the next convention.

By the way, Grisham people, study the video. We are wobbling at the first dance of the year.

5 'til 45 (Revised from my home computer, yaa!)

When I was a kid I always felt taller on my birthday. It is not that I really wanted to be taller. No, I enjoy being short. I have been a reference point for many of my friends: Well, how tall is it? Twice as tall as Kasandra. How deep in the water? Just over Sandy's head. How big is the closet? Sandy can sleep in there pretty comfortably. Can't help but believe that my friend who said this to me really wanted to see if that was true.

When I would wake up on my birthday, I would stand next to my twin bed and back up to the mattress; I would swear that the top mattress was hitting closer to my calves than my thighs. My head would feel closer to the ceiling. I would just feel more stretched out. As the day wore on, I would start to feel more normal, but for a moment, I was tall.

The moment was all I needed, but I think my mom thought I wanted to be taller and she started to feel guilty about my height. Not that it was her fault; she's taller than I am. My dad was at least 6 feet, my oldest brother is 6'4", and my brother Leroy is 5'11". She had no need to suppose I would not reach 5'.

I think she felt guilty that I would think that my shortness was my fault. My mother used to tell me that kids grow when they sleep, so I needed to go to bed and sleep if I wanted to grow. Well, I have had trouble sleeping my whole life. Of course my mother could not have known this when I was a kid. She thought that I just wanted to stay up and read my books and watch television. Sure I did, but I was usually watching television and reading because I couldn't sleep. Anyway, she tried everything to get me in bed (and sleeping, not reading) and I am sure that she thought that I was going to grow taller on my own. If I saw myself growing and I was sleeping I could connect the dots and would continue to get the eight required hours of sleep. That didn't happen.

By the time she realized that I might not grow very tall, she had repeated the no sleep/no grow idea. Then she backtracked and remember a few random relatives --all dead, so no way to check--who were short too. Mom remembered Mama Sarah, my dad's grandma: 4'8", large breasted, and mean (which explains my other issues, but that's a story for another time).


Poor thing. What she did not know was that I could care less if I got taller. The nicknames did not bother me; really the only thing that bothered/bothers me was/is that I can't reach some things that are pushed to back on the top shelf at the grocery store. I either have to climb or ask someone.

Otherwise, 4'10 1/2" is what I am. The 1/2 is important because 4'10" is the height at which you can be declared a little person. No offense to little people, but I am not a little person. Really.