"...and other duties as assigned."

The wedding was quickly approaching. I found myself getting more excited about it, but also wondering more and more, "Why does Mike still want to do this?"

He had signed up for the easy job. He had proposed with the expectation that our lives would be long, healthy, and normal. Happily Ever After. Isn't that what everyone expects? He had signed on to be the husband of a mentally stable, strong-willed, smart-ass. Instead, four months before the wedding he had found out that his wife-to-be had a 50% chance of developing the same disease that was going to kill her mother prematurely. On top of that, he wanted kids, and his wife-to-be had just lost her very first pregnancy... what if she couldn't have kids at all? What would he think, then? Mental stability? Gone. She was prone to melt-downs at every turn. This was NOT the same woman he had asked to marry him. This was NOT the pre-wedding anxiety he was expecting. This was NOT the way Happily Ever After stories begin. Why didn't he leave? Why was he still here? He was always there. He was still madly in love with her.

I found myself pondering all of these irrational thoughts, but at the same time knowing full-well that Mike was probably not pondering them himself. He was still signing on. He was still going through with it all. He wasn't regretting the proposal one bit. Everything that was happening to me was happening just as much to him. He was already living the "in sickness... and for worse," parts of his upcoming nuptial vows. He didn't have to, but he was.



A co-worker who was recently re-reading her job description told me that 80% of her daily activities fell under the umbrella of the catch-all phrase found hidden at the very bottom of most job descriptions, "and other duties as assigned." How many of us really look at that phrase and prepare for all that may entail? Most of us gloss over that part of our contract (and that phrase haunts most of those I have encountered). We optimistically assume that MOST of our daily work routine will consist of using the skills and education and experiences pertinent to the title of our job and we whine and complain when outside tasks are assigned to us. "How can my boss ask me to cover the front desk today? Doesn't she know I have to take care of my case-load right now, too? Besides, I didn't go to school to become a secretary! I graduated Magna Cum Laude, for crying out loud I can't be ANSWERING PHONES ALL DAY!"



This catch-all phrase is hidden in most of the descriptions we are assigned in life. It is even hidden in the marital jargon most of us use on our wedding days. "For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse." In other words, you will be required to be a friend, soul-mate, lover, partner, confidante, banker, life-goals coach, audience, inspiration, cheer leader, pillar of strength... and other duties as assigned. Yes, you expect to be a loving spouse. You expect to pick out throw rugs, curtains, and bedroom furniture. You expect to be present at the birth of your children, you expect to have to give hugs, kisses and cuddles at the appropriate times. You assume that you will be expected to be supportive and helpful around the house, and you expect that you will have to remember important dates like birthdays, anniversaries, and all holidays. But what about the rest? What about the other duties you will be assigned in the future? That's where it all falls apart for some people, isn't it? That's where the mess is.

Fortunately or unfortunately (depending on how you look at it) I was learning upfront that my fiance was in it for the long haul. He had had a glimpse of the worst and the sickness and he was still there. He wasn't going anywhere. We were going to be married, and no matter what else life was getting ready to throw at us, at least I knew I wouldn't be alone with the fall-out. It may not be the Happily Ever After story we thought it would be. And it was definitely going to be messier than we had originally bargained for, but sometimes you find that your area of expertise, or the role you were meant to play is buried on the side-lines. You wouldn't have found it had it not been for those "other duties as assigned."

The Puppy Substitute

After the miscarriage (in fact, the very next day) I got a new puppy. I didn't start out the day thinking I would get a dog that day, but things just sort of progressed in that direction. I remember that it was July 6, 2004. It was the first business day after Fourth of July, and I had an appointment with my obstetrician to discuss the weekend's events. My mom had her own doctor's appointment to attend to that day, Mike had a brand new job he was starting, my Dad of course had to work... so my Grandma went with me to the doctor.

"Well, it sounds like everything passed on it's own. I don't think surgery is warranted," my OB assured me. I nodded, speechlessly. Hadn't I just been here less than a week ago? Hadn't I been here so excited about the upcoming birth of my baby?

The OB looked at me, worriedly.

"You know, I lost a baby while I was in med. school... even though I had read all the studies, I still blamed myself for losing that baby, but it wasn't my fault," she paused for a moment and looked me square in the eyes, "and this is not your fault, either. These things just happen." I nodded again even though I really didn't feel like it. Of course it was my fault. Wasn't everything? Surely I had done something in the past to warrant the shame and guilt I now felt.

My grandmother took me back to her house. I just couldn't bear to be myself, and I don't think she could bear to leave me. Besides, after finding out I was pregnant, Mike and I decided to take my grandparents up on their offer to let us live at their house for a while after the wedding. They owned a gigantic Victorian duplex and there was a cute little apartment sitting empty on one side of the house. We could live there for a year or so and save money to buy our own place. It seemed like a perfect fit. After the miscarriage, we continued with our plans. So, I went back with Grandma. My grandpa was there and I casually asked him, "So grandpa... what would you think if we had a pet? Would that be ok?" My grandpa looked at me, "Like what? Like a dog? Do you want a dog?" My sweet Gramps... always jumping the gun and trying to make all of us grandkids happy--"Well, I mean, you know, maybe--someday. I was just wondering if it would be ok to have a dog over there... I don't want to get one if you don't want us to," I stammered.

"Why? Do you want to get a dog? You can have a dog. That's fine. Do you want a dog?" he asked. I sat and really thought about it for a moment. I had had a dog my entire life. Once I moved out of my parents' house, I wouldn't really have a dog of my own. That was a fine thought while I was pregnant, but now that I had lost the baby...

"Yes, I do want a dog. Not now, but maybe someday. I mean, is it ok to have one in the apartment if we find one we want?"

Not an hour later my grandfather had driven me to the pound to look at the dogs. A litter of yellow lab/golden retriever mixes had just been brought in. They were just little yellow fluff-balls, corralled into a temporary plastic fence.

"Do you see one that you would like?" Grandpa asked. I looked over the fencing. All of the dogs were jumping up at me to get my attention... all but one. One of them was sitting as far back as possible and looking up at me with his giant brown eyes. He looked almost as sad as I felt. I bent over to pick him up. I just couldn't help myself.

"This one is cute, " I said. He was the runt of the litter. My grandpa looked him over. "He's not very sociable... but he sure is darling, ain't he?" I looked at the dog. He had slung his head over my shoulder and was lounging comfortably while his brothers and sisters jumped against the fencing and yelped at me relentlessly. He nuzzled into my neck. I immediately fell in love.

"Yep, Grandpa... this is the one." My grandpa smiled and patted the tiny little puppy on my shoulder. "Ok. Let's go see what we have to do to take this little guy home."

The puppies had just come in and were in need of worming. We were told to come back in a few hours to pick up my new dog. I wondered what my parents would say. After all, I would be living there (with my new puppy) for a few more weeks. What would Mike say? He was a dog person and he loved retrievers... I hoped he would fall in love with this puppy the way I did. How could he not? He was so loveable and fluffy! I couldn't stop thinking about him!

The hours passed and Grandpa and I went back to claim my new pup. I couldn't believe it-- this morning I had been sitting in my OB's office ready to bawl my eyes out, and now I had this new little being to take care of! I took him back to my parents' house. Everyone fell in love with him. Mike came home from his first day at his new job and instantly loved the puppy! He was a Godsend... the only thing left to do was to name him!

"What should we name this little runt?" I asked Mike. He shrugged. It took three days to name him! Finally we settled on the name "Chase." He chased everything he saw. He chased birds, he chased babies, he chased people ten times his size... Chase was the perfect name. And he is still the perfect dog to this day (even though he still freaks out during thunderstorms)! I don't know what I would have done between the time I lost Baby Nemo and the time I got pregnant with Liv if it hadn't been for my runt-puppy--Chase.

Baby Nemo

"It looks like a fish," she said. "Yeah. A little alien fish!" I agreed as I looked up at my cousin.
"But the doctor said everything looks perfect. Perfect heart rate, perfect measurements... Perfect." I put the picture of the sonogram down. My young silly cousin said we should call the baby Nemo until we found out the gender. I laughed. Yes, I was 21 and I still loved watching kid movies and Finding Nemo was currently my favorite. That Ellen cracked me up. "Nemo it is."


I was only 7.5 weeks pregnant, but I had gotten in to see the my obstetrician a little early. With all the stress and anxiety around me, I had begun to worry and I had some spotting. The doctor had me come in immediately and she ordered an ultrasound. Everything looked "perfect." Those were her words, not mine. Mike and I were excited... it was starting to feel more real. I started having those panicky moments that every mom has, "Holy shit there really is a tiny little person in there (or some kind of fish...it was still too early to be sure) and eventually she is going to come out and I am going to be expected to know what to do with her!" We began informing everyone around us that we were expecting. A storm of questions from every direction ensued:


"Is that why you're getting married?" Yes, we got engaged two years ago and have had the date set for the last six months because we knew we would get pregnant four months before the wedding.


"Are you going to finish school?" No, I thought it would be fun to drop out when I only have a year left. It would be great to start paying back all those student loans a year early... especially since I won't have a degree to show for it!


"What does Mike think? Is he freaking out?" Ok, I actually didn't have a smart-ass remark for this one. He was handling it all better than I was. Why wasn't anyone asking if *I* was freaking out? I was FREAKING OUT! Do you KNOW where babies come out from?!?


But the weeks went on. The morning sickness subdued earlier than expected. All the tell-tale signs of being in that early stage of pregnancy had abruptly disappeared. I was growing pretty fond of little Nemo. The excitement radiated out of Mike, my mom, and his mom... and it was starting to rub off on me. I was getting used to this "Mom" idea. I had been taking my walks and watching what I ate. I had given up caffeine totally and was drinking enough water... all the things the books tell you to do. I was going to do this right. By the time I reached my 12 week check-up I was feeling fantastic and I hadn't even gained any weight, yet. Mike accompanied me to the appointment. That was the day we were going to hear Baby Nemo's heartbeat for the first time.


"Hmmm... I can't seem to find it. How far along are you?" the physician's assistant asked while shoving the doppler monitor as far into my stomach without giving me a puncture wound as she could.


"Ummm... like 11.5 weeks?" I answered. She put the doppler away and looked at my chart. She smiled assuringly, "Well, ok. You aren't quite 12 weeks yet. Sometimes we can't find the little guy's beat for another week, or two. It looks like you had an ultrasound last time? And everything was fine? I wouldn't worry about it, but if you want to come back next week we will try again." Mike and I shrugged. I had read somewhere (and the P.A. assured us) that the chance of losing a baby after seeing the heartbeat was pretty low, so I decided we didn't need to make the extra appointment. We thanked her and left. I was heading into the second trimester and I didn't even care about not fitting into my wedding dress anymore, or the fact that I was going to have to have a dry bachelorette party and drink grape juice during the maid-of-honor's toast. I didn't even feel moody and hormonal anymore.


A few days later I woke up and went yard-saling with Mom. It was a Saturday. By the time we got done with our scavenging we were ravenous and decided to bring lunch home for my dad and the boys. I had just finished eating when I started feeling odd. I couldn't put my finger on it exactly. I didn't feel sick, but I didn't feel well either. I thought maybe the sandwich I had eaten was bad, but then it happened: some cramping followed by bright red blood. My mom called Mike at work to tell him she was taking me to the hospital.



An ultrasound in the ER confirmed our fears: no brain activity, no heart beat. I had seen the ultrasound as the technician performed it, but when I asked if anything was wrong I was told that the doctor would have to talk to me about it. They can't tell you anything and you always have to wait for the doctor to come in to confirm what the tech already knows. So we sat in my room-- Mike, my mom, and I-- just waiting for the doctor to come in. It seemed like it took hours, but that was all right with me. I wanted to wait as long as possible. As long as we were waiting, I could pretend that everything was still all right. As long as the doctor had not come in yet I had no reason to believe I wasn't really pregnant anymore. I could deny, deny, deny that flat-line I had seen on the monitor.



But of course the doctor did finally come in and tell us what I already knew. The baby was dead. She was still in there, but had probably been dead for four weeks. In fact, she had probably died just a few days after the "perfect" ultrasound. I had been carrying around a dead fetus for a month. I guess my body was just as good at being in denial as my mind was. It just didn't want to let go. It strung me along, letting me get comfortable with the idea of motherhood, letting me want something I never knew I wanted, and letting me get ready for a baby that wasn't going to come.


The only thoughts I remember from that ER room are as follows: Crack-heads and fifteen year olds have healthy kids every single day. I know moms who smoked and drank throughout their pregnancies. I know moms who didn't even want their kids. I know moms who got pregnant from one-night stands... all resulted in healthy pregnancies and babies. Why was this happening to us? I am such a failure. I can't even do what dogs and cats and prostitutes can do: MAKE A BABY! What is my husband-to-be thinking? Will he cut and run? I can't blame him if he does. Oh, God why did I consent to this catheter? It was highly unnecessary and extremely painful! Do I have to have surgery to get Nemo out of me now? What is going to happen?

They decided against a D&C (the surgery sometimes performed after a miscarriage). At the time I thought that was wonderful news and looking back, it was the best decision... but a few hours after I got home from the ER I really wanted to permanently maim whoever decided I could miscarry naturally. I was having actual, timeable contractions. Painful, painful contractions. Looking back now after giving birth twice naturally I can honestly say that my miscarriage was the most painful of any of the experiences. Maybe it was because I was so stressed out. Maybe it was because I had refused to eat or drink since we had gotten the bad news. Maybe I should've gone back to the ER and strangled the nurses who had sent me home with a sheet of paper indicating that I should be prepared for "minor cramping." Whatever the reason, it was awful and it lasted for two and a half days.


Luckily (for me), my mother knew what I was going through. She had been where I was... she had a miscarriage about a decade earlier. She could relate and for that I am forever grateful. She never left my side and she knew what to say, and what not to say (which is sometimes the more important of the two). I try to find the reasoning behind everything that happens in life and the selfish part of me likes to think that my mom had her miscarriage so she would be prepared to help me with mine. It brought us closer... and I remember thinking, "Well this is a shitty way to feel closer to someone, God. Couldn't you have just let us win a trip to Maui or something?"


But, no. This was just one more brick in the path we had to walk together that year. One more test. One more hurdle. One more notch in my Shitty-Things-I-Have-Had-To-Endure-Through-No-Fault-Of-My-Own belt. But everyone has one of those belts, right? To get through this I had to start thinking a certain way... I had to start thinking, "I am not the anomoly. The people with the perfect un-fucked up lives are the anomolies. I am going through what many people before me have gone through. And I will be ok. I have to be Ok. Everything will be ok...?" I had to put on my big-girl panties and realize that this free-ride was over. Life would be hard from here on out.

Not Today

Step One: Denial

The realness fades away after the surgeries are over, the chemo has begun and Mom gets used to her new self. We are home. We are looking ahead. We are all closer than ever and we are in denial. Well, at least I am in denial. Denial is what I do best. Ask anyone. Besides, I am getting married in a few months. I don't have the time or energy to deal with anything deeper than, "What color will your flowers be?" I am busy and about to get busier. I am about to become a wife and there are many things to do to get ready and only three months to do them.

Oh, and did I mention? Three weeks after mom gets home from her surgery I pee on a stick and a big pink plus sign appears. Two days after my finals, one day after I had gone out drinking for my best friend's birthday. Yep. I'm going to be a mom, too. I'm going to be a fat bride who can't have the wine at her own toast.

I am less than thrilled. My husband-to-be is MORE than thrilled, and my mom is in that boat with him. She gets to be a grandma after all which is the only thought that kept me from bursting into tears at the thought of it all. I knew mom wanted to be a grandma more than anything. I remember her talking about "When SHE has grandkids they will come over every Christmas and bake cookies." She had the aprons picked out and everything (and it was before Mike and I were ever engaged, so it was a little weird to me at the time)! So, I start believing that this pregnancy is a good thing. The doctors say Mom might last two or three years. So, maybe this baby will actually remember her a little. I start to cheer up. Mom and I start scourging the neighborhoods every Saturday for yard sales and gender-neutral baby clothes and toys and furniture and carseats and strollers and all the glorious things you buy when you are expecting.

We go on walks, and we take naps together in the afternoon, falling asleep watching Dharma & Greg re-runs. My semester is over and I am at home everyday and making a baby is exhausting. Mom is on a weak form of chemo at the moment and is feeling ok but just tired. I am starting to let myself be happy even though the voices in my head kept creeping in during those quiet moments, "She is going to die. Your mom is going to die." And I would hush them immediately, "Yes...but not today." And that is the secret for a while. That is the mantra that gets me through: Not today. She will be taken way too soon. But not today. Today we are going to go have lunch at TR's and come home and watch Roseanne re-runs and fall asleep--me on the couch and Mom in her recliner. We will wake up and have dinner with the boys and everything will be fine... for today.

Is it time? I think it's time...

I'm not serious most days. I don't know what it is about today, but I feel that today it might be time. It may be because today is the sixth anniversary of my mom being diagnosed with colon cancer--I remember the date so well because I can still vividly hear the GI doctor coming into her recovery room and telling my dad and me, "It's really bad," and for some stupid reason my mind started thinking, "Of course it's bad. This day is bad. It is tax day and the day the Titanic sunk... and now it is the day my entire world fell to pieces." I may feel like writing this entry today because a very dear friend of mine is going through the same agonizing experience with her mother as I type this and it has stirred feelings within me that I need to let go. Whatever the reason is, I have decided that right now I need to get back to life, or at the very least, make a valiant effort to do so. This means two things need to happen. Ok definitely more than two things. But we will start with these two:

1) I need to start scrapbooking again. Sounds weird, doesn't it? My mother and I loved to scrapbook together. Especially after Liv was born. God, my mom couldn't scrapbook fast enough! I have all of her scrapbooking stuff... papers, stickers, scissors, punch-outs, die-cuts, you name it! After Mom died, I didn't just quit scrapbooking-- I quit taking pictures altogether. I didn't want to remember it. I didn't WANT to remember a life without my mom. I didn't want to have to look at a family picture from some holiday and think, "Wow. What an empty hole."

A whole year. I missed out on recording an entire year of my daughter's life because I couldn't bear to let myself label any event as *important* without my mom around. I still have a hard time, but I'm getting better. I have started taking numerous pictures again. Of everything. And it's finally time to start putting them all back together again. It's time to take my memories and decorate them, put them into neat little boxes, journal about them and make them into something my kids will one day look at over and over and over... My mom would've wanted that. She would tell me that I am being crazy and that I should record each and every moment with my kids before it is too late. And she would tell me to use up all the Christmas stickers because she bought way too damn many, and why did I let her do that? And she would say that I should make sure to get just as many pictures of Sam as I did of Olivia, because poor Jake never had a proper album!

2) I'm going to start watching Cardinals Baseball again. Ok, this one is even crazier than the scrapbooking thing--I know! It is really odd what your mind and emotions do during the grieving process. But my mom died during the 2006 World Series, which we won, of course. My mom was barely lucid, but I remember her asking repeatedly, "Is the game on, yet?" And my dad and I telling her repeatedly, "No, not yet. Not til later," and then looking at each other like we couldn't believe that she was on her deathbed but still asking about the God-Damned Cardinals! And I can hear the sound of all my uncles and aunts and cousins, who came over to be supportive and see their sister/aunt one last time, cheering for the Cardinals as my mom lay in her hospital bed in our living room. They weren't cheering to be heartless. They were cheering because they just couldn't think about that. They just couldn't think about my dad and me sitting on the staircase crying uncontrollably as everyone cheered their Cards to victory. And I can't blame them. And I don't blame them... but, I haven't been able to watch the Cardinals since. I think this is the season, though. This is the season I watch them again and I can almost hear my mom (and possibly that alto voice up there that belongs to my Grandma Bell) saying, "Well, it's about time!" Oh, my kids are so far behind... will I ever explain to them the Bell loyalty to the Cardinals at this late date? Liv is almost five. I have a lot of catching up to do... but I will do it.

I will do it all. We will go to Cardinals games and I will take a million pictures and scrapbook every single damn one of them.