At
home, I was met with a very happy daughter. And I told her, "Look
Whitney! Mommy is getting better. I'm well enough to come home today."
I gave her a gentle hug then headed upstairs, slowly, as climbing
stairs was difficult, and gently crawled into bed and rested. Later
that evening, my dad carried in dinner, and we all ate together. At the
dinner table, Whitney was so happy to have her life more normal and
have everyone over that my mom said, "Isn't this nice...we're one whole,
big, happy family!" And with those words, I immediately burst into
tears. We weren't one big happy family. One of us was missing, and
she'd never be there, and I didn't think we'd ever feel completely whole
again.
I looked up and saw this look on my
mom's face that I hadn't ever seen before. She felt so bad for saying
something so innocent. She apologized profusely. And I knew there was
no malice behind it, and I told her it was okay. I needed to get used
to the things people say, and I knew that I needed to get a bit more
thick skinned when it came to things. But it was still hard to hear.
Everything was still so new, and I still was learning about what I
could handle and what I couldn't. I composed myself again, sat back
down, and picked at the rest of my dinner. I still had no appetite.
I
was very fortunate once I was home. My mom came over every day to help
watch Whitney, clean my house, and take care of me. I was so
energyless when I returned home. In the beginning, I spent just an hour
or two out of my room for an entire day. If you know me, you know that
I'm a goer and a doer. I go stir-crazy very easily. It was so obvious
that I was depressed and needed time to grieve. And thank goodness all
the adults in my life recognized that and didn't push me.
One
thing that my husband did was that he liked to try to "protect" me.
There were condolence cards that had arrived in the mail, and he hid
them from me when I got home. He wanted to spare me the pain of reading
through them and reliving how much her death hurt. But, fortunately
for me, my mom had convinced him otherwise. She explained that I needed
to know that people were thinking of us, and that he shouldn't deny me
those sympathies. And she was right. While I couldn't read them all at
once, and I had to gear up each time I read one, it was nice to know
that we were being though of. I had just enough strength to read two a
day in the beginning. I couldn't cry, and so I had to limit myself as
to how much pain I could handle. But, while difficult to read, it
really was the support of friends and family that helped me through. I
needed to read them in order to help heal. And, with each card I read,
the situation became more real and not just a bad dream that I had been
having. It was important to have the option to see them.
One
other thing that was completely out of my control was that I had
diarrhea. I would get a stomachache after every meal and spend time in
the bathroom. I could barely eat a whole meal even when I was hungry.
At first, I assumed it was from the anxiety. And I didn't think too
much about it. Then after a few days, I thought maybe it was a residual
effect of the anesthesia, but typically they drugs are constipating. However,
they did give me ketorolac, which can cause digestive problems,
so I figured that was it. After I was home for about 5 days, I decided
to stop taking my prescriptions to see if that would help. I had become
so weak from the loss of fluids that climbing the stairs in my house
made me out of breath. But stopping the ketorolac didn't help. This
was just my body's response to all the stress, emotions, trauma, hormone
shifts, and mental anguish I was going through. And finally about 3
weeks later, I started to get back to (a new) normal.
I
had to visit my doctor's office on Monday so that my stitches could be
removed. When I called to make the appointment, my OB was booked for
the day, and they told me I'd have to see the nurse practitioner. I was somewhat frustrated, but I didn't have a choice. Getting stitches out was scary
enough, and I didn't really want to deal with anyone but my doctor. It was
going to be hard enough sitting in the waiting room with a bunch of
pregnant women. There are 4 or 5 OBs in that office and the waiting
room is always full and the doctors always run late. I never had an
appointment where I waited for less than 30 minutes past my scheduled
time. Just sitting there watching all the other women for that long was
not going to be fun. Andy offered to take me and he said that he and
Whitney could wait with me, but I didn't want to get the stitches out by
myself, and I surely didn't want Whitney to watch...if it pulled or
hurt, she didn't need to see me cry. This ordeal had been hard enough
on her already. And she didn't need the extra trauma of seeing that her
mommy was crying, but not knowing why. So, I just asked my mom to take
me. (I couldn't go alone yet, as I was still on driving restrictions).
And, when we arrived, I was pleasantly surprised...for the first time
ever, they got me in at my scheduled appointment time, and my OB had
rearranged his schedule so that he could take out the stitches for me
and answer any questions that I had. What a relief! The stitches
weren't bad. He made two long running stitches all the way across my
abdomen, so it was two tugs and that was it. Tender, but not painful.
He didn't even tear off the tape holding my skin together. He
suggested I keep it on until Wednesday, and then slowly take them off
until Saturday, when they should all be removed. It was easier than I
thought, and I even did well holding myself together in the waiting
room. It's the little victories that really help when your whole world
is spinning out of control.
When I got home
that evening, I finally allowed Whitney to see my new scar. She had
been asking for a few days, but I didn't want her to see the stitches,
because I didn't want her to get too scared. With them removed, I
figured "why not?" So, I laid down in bed, and sat her next to me. I
told her that she wasn't allowed to touch, because it was a boo-boo and
still hurt. Then I tried to describe it so that she would know what to
expect. The scar wasn't exactly in a straight line. It dipped down in
the middle and the skin was still red, so I told her that the scar
looked like a smiley face. The pieces of white tape, perpendicular to
the scar, I told her were like the teeth. So, it looked like a smiley
face with teeth. Not a scary image, and she was fascinated. Every
night we went through the routine of looking at it, and every night, I
gave her the same image before showing her. Then as the "teeth" were
removed, she had a visual cue that I really was healing each day. I am
so glad that I was able to show her and be truthful with her about the
whole medical procedure. I think that level of honesty was good for
both of us.
Now, I just had one more day left before what I
feared was my biggest challenge--picking up Miri's ashes. The cremation
center called me on Monday, letting me know that her ashes were going
to be delivered to their west county location and that I could pick them
up on Tuesday anytime before 3:00. I spent so many hours from Friday
(when they picked her up) to Tuesday (when I got her remains) imagining
how it would go and how heartbroken I would feel. I still couldn't cry
because of the surgery, but I went through the pain over and over in my
mind, preparing myself. I pictured myself crying so hard that my knees
would buckle under me. I imagined crying so hard that I ran out of
breath. I pictured needing my mom to hold me upright. And these were
all the things that I really was feeling, but couldn't act out because I was still too sore from the surgery to cry. I was
forced to stuff it all in.
On Tuesday, I
asked my grandmother to come over and watch Whitney so that my mom could
drive me to pick up Miri's ashes. Andy went back to work that day and
so he couldn't go, and I was still under doctor's orders to not drive.
Even if I could have done it alone, this was one of those things that I
knew I needed support to get through. My mom had suggested that I take
an extra percoset that day to help with my discomfort, and I agreed,
because 9 times out of 10, she knows exactly what the right thing for me
to do is. So my grandmother arrived, I had a "sundae", took a deep
breath, and got in the car. It was a 15 minute drive, but it felt like
an eternity. On the way, my mom had offered again that she could do
this for me if I didn't think I could handle it or didn't want to. But
for me, that wasn't an option. I had such an overwhelming need to
handle everything myself. I had to cancel my registries, I had to call
the funeral homes, I had to take care of the paperwork. And this was no
different. I just had to be strong enough to do it. When we opened
the door, the director was talking to a couple about their services. He
asked if he could help me, and I said "I need to pick up my daughter's
ashes." My eyes welled up, but I held it together. He quickly excused
himself from the couple and took me to a table at the back of the store.
He presented me with a small cardboard box, probably 3 inches tall by 8
inches wide by 3 inches deep. There was a small label that said St.
Louis Cremation and Miriam Grace Shrensker underneath. He expressed his
condolences and had me sign a piece of paper. I didn't read it--I
don't think I could have with my eyes as teary as they were--but I
signed it, and I assumed that it confirmed that I picked her up. He
said how sorry he was for our loss, and then we left. I held the box so
closely. And I was so surprised...I didn't feel like I thought I
would. I was sad, but not overwhelmingly so. I actually felt really
happy, in a strange way. For a week, I had been missing holding my
baby. I felt so empty and I just wanted to hold her. I thought about
getting a teddy bear as a substitute, but really, there is no substitute
that could fill that void. But finally, for the first time, I got to
hold her. Granted, it wasn't the way I
wanted it to have been and it she didn't look like a baby anymore, but
she was back with me again, and I needed that so badly. I cradled the
box in my arms, and I loved her.
We
then went to my mom's house, because Andy couldn't handle having her
ashes at our house. So my mom offered to keep them safe at her house
until the day came when we were ready for them. It was a quick 3 or 4
minute drive, and then I had to hand over the box. I stayed in the car
while she found a spot for her granddaughter. And in a minute or two,
she returned and started driving back to my house. She asked if I was
okay, and I was. I felt really good, better than I had felt in a while.
Relieved that it was over. Proud that I found the courage to do it,
and happy that I got to be with her. "I did it," I said. And then the
extra dose of percoset started messing with me. I started feeling woozy
and a bit over-drugged, and I just needed some time for it to wear off.
When we got home, I headed straight to bed and laid down for a couple
hours.
I
was so proud of myself for doing it. I needed that little victory.
And it was another piece of the closure puzzle that I was glad I
experienced. If I had let my mom or someone else do this for me, I
think my healing would have suffered. With each challenge that I
overcame and each task that was difficult, I gained confidence, closure,
and pride. I learned about my own strength. And these are such
valuable lessons, and ones that I will carry with me through the rest of
my life.
Every
Monday, my grandmother takes us to lunch at Einstein's. Finally, I was
recovered enough from the c-section to go. And, as we walked up to
place our order, Andy looked at me and said, "Are you excited...you get
to eat lox again." Lox is my favorite sandwich from there, and with
each pregnancy, I had been avoiding it along with sushi, carpaccio, and
other raw or under-cooked meats. I know he meant to cheer me up, but
really, he just made me feel miserable. It was a blatant in-your-face
reminder that I wasn't pregnant, and I still should have been. I
started to get teary-eyed, and I just couldn't bring myself to eat it. Eating lox now meant that Miri was dead. I wasn't 100% ready to accept that
I was no longer pregnant nor was I ready for that "perk" of having a stillborn. Having
those "first time since I got pregnant" moments should be met with joy,
and I wasn't ready to handle them yet. I ordered a turkey sandwich even
though it wasn't what I really wanted.
About
two weeks after I returned home, my mother-in-law came in town and
stayed with us, as she always did. This trip had been planned a couple
months earlier when Andy decided he wasn't going home over Christmas.
Both Andy and Judy double-checked that I was okay with that, and I said
that it was okay as long as Judy understood that I wasn't going to be
very entertaining. Her visits normally go like this: arrive on Friday
early evening, stay Saturday, leave Sunday after lunch--quick weekend
trip. And Andy typically works Friday night until 10:30-11:00, and then
again on Saturday from 10:30 am to 11:00 pm. He's off Sundays, so
Sunday before lunch is his only time to visit with his mom, and I
entertain her the rest of the time. However, this time she decided to
stay an extra day to have time to be with Andy, which I was totally okay
with. I would like him to get to spend time with his mother. That
just meant that my mother, my safety blanket, wouldn't be around.
So
she arrived Friday afternoon, and when she got there, my mom left. We
went out to dinner, and I heard all about how hard it is when someone
you love dies--her husband had passed away 8 years earlier and she still
cries every time she thinks about him. And I know she meant well, but a
child is different than a husband. It's a totally different feeling. I
was supposed to be her caregiver, her protector. I was supposed to
keep her safe. And I let her down in the worst possible way. Not
intentionally, not that it was even in my control...but it was within my
body and that somehow made me feel responsible.
After
dinner, I started having some of the worst thoughts I had ever had. I
knew in my head that it had been bad luck. I knew I couldn't have
stopped it. I knew I couldn't have prevented it. But I started feeling
responsible. And I kept apologizing to Miri over and over. "I'm so
sorry I couldn't protect you. I'm so sorry the safest place on earth
was what killed you. I'm so sorry I couldn't help you." And then the
thoughts turned to what it must have been like for her...I kept
wondering, "What must it have felt like to strangle yourself? Was she
panicked? Did she know to move or wiggle the cord? Did she struggle to
free herself?" And those were so overwhelming. And those were things I
couldn't share with my mother-in-law. I just thought and thought. And
the analytic part of me knew that an oxygen-deprived brain would go to sleep
and die peacefully. But what about right before? It was mental torture
and I couldn't stop it. And I kept everything to myself for a couple
days. And that was really hard. So, I decided that the best way to
ease my worries was to learn more about stillbirths. Perhaps there
would be an article about what happens to the baby. So I took out my
iPad before bed and I googled "stillbirth 31 weeks". And I was grossly
underprepared for what came up. Three websites, and then the link for
images with pictures already displayed on the screen. I had such an
adrenaline kick when images of stillborn babies surfaced all over the
bottom of the screen--that was not what I wanted to see. I didn't even
hit the image tab and they were there in plain view. I couldn't look
and I immediately shut off the iPad, and tried to get those pictures out
of my head. There really should be some sort of warning for that. It
took me about another month before I was ready to go online again to
learn more. It was just horrific to me at the time. It was too fresh
and my wounds were too raw for that.
I had
Andy, Whitney, and Judy all go out together on Sunday, and I stayed
behind, because I really needed to talk and get those dark thoughts out.
The longer I kept them in, the more they just festered, and the worse
it got. I started visualizing her inside me strangling herself and being scared, alone, and in the dark, and I needed to talk to get those visions out. And once
I started telling my mom about my dark thoughts, she told me not to go
down that road, and that she was sure everything happened easily,
peacefully, and painlessly to Miri, and she hugged me. And I needed
that--the reassurance and the love. And while the thoughts didn't
exactly go away, they became less all-encompassing to my mind.
It
had been a couple weeks since I returned home from the hospital, and I
had heard my grandmother and my mom talk about going to my cousin's baby
shower. I knew it was coming up, and just the week before, I made a
comment to my mom that I was so happy I didn't get an invitation,
because I didn't think I would be able to emotionally handle watching
her prepare for the arrival of her daughter, seeing her as pregnant as I
was when I lost Miri, and more than that, I didn't want to take any
attention away from her if I suddenly burst out in tears. What I didn't
know was that I really did get an invitation and it was delivered in
the mail on the day I returned from the hospital. Andy had told my mom
that he threw it away, because he didn't want me to have to deal with it
and he didn't think that I'd be capable of going. My mom RSVP'd for me
that I wouldn't be coming, but she felt somewhat uneasy about hiding it
from me. There was a part of her that wanted to let me know, but
because I had commented just a week earlier that I was glad I didn't
even get an invitation, she and Andy felt that my not attending was
probably what I would have chosen anyway. But with a few weeks of
perspective, I started feeling differently, and my mom decided to tell
me about what they had done. I was a little frustrated that they had
hidden it from me, but I completely understood why. After losing your
baby, it's kind of hard to be in the mood to celebrate someone else's.
But when she told me, I decided that I needed to go for my own sake. I
was still nervous about how I would handle it. Things kept catching me
off guard and it was hard to predict if I was going to be having a
depressing day or not. So I decided to plan on going, but I told them
that if they saw me get up and leave in the middle of the shower to not
take it personally. It would just be more than I could handle and I
would try to discretely make an exit. The hostess (the to-be
grandmother) was very understanding and told me that I could either show
up or not at the last minute with or without Whitney, and it would be
fine. She understood that this would be hard, but they would love to
have me if I was up for it. So, with one week to go, I had to find a
gift. I had purchased some cloth diapers that I was going to turn into
burp cloths for myself by sewing some pretty ribbons on them, and since I
now wouldn't need them, it couldn't hurt to give them to her. I
started sewing and finished the project in two days, and then I also
gave her my jumbo box of newborn diapers that I had purchased already.
Clearly we wouldn't need those either.
My
cousin's shower was February 11th. I woke up and felt anxious but
ready to face my challenge. If I could make it through, it would be one
more feeling of empowerment, one more victory, one more way I could
know the amount of strength and courage that I had inside. I got
dressed and got Whitney ready, and I had my mom and my grandmother come
with us for support. I didn't want to walk into the shower before
anyone else I knew was there. I still looked somewhat pregnant, and I
didn't want to worry about questions from strangers. And, I didn't want
all the I'm sorry's to start without having a safety net, just in case
it was going to be overwhelming. And, if I needed to leave because I
was so distressed, I didn't want to have to drive home that upset. When
we arrived, I settled in, grabbed some courage to go up to my cousin
and congratulate her and ask how she was doing. And I made it through
the chit chat, hiding myself around Whitney and my mom and grandma. I
made it through the lunch. There were a few people who expressed their
condolences, but I had prepared myself for more than I had to face, and
so it was okay. And then I made it through the massive pile of gifts,
and the shower was over. I did it. And I felt so proud of myself for
being able to stay, being composed, and being able watch her enjoy her
moment without dwelling on me not having mine. It was a great feeling
of accomplishment, and I was so glad I was able to tuck that experience
away and get a sense that I was starting to heal. I celebrated by
indulging in a chocolate chip cookie that night.
With
that shower victory behind me, I was ready to open the memory box. The
next day, I went over to my mom's house, and she pulled it out. It was a
nice sized box, covered in a soft purple fabric with two ribbons that
tied it shut. When I opened it, there was a blanket, the one that she
had been wrapped in. And the primal instinct in me immediately tried to
smell it, to see if there was any of her left behind, but when I
brought it to my nose, it just smelled like a blanket. I found a card
signed by the hospital staff and my OB with small notes of sympathy.
They had cut a lock of her hair and placed it in the box as well. Miri
had long (for a baby), dark (almost black) hair. They had taken hand-
and footprints of her, and placed those in the box as well. It's nice
to have those artifacts. It means that she really was here. She was
"alive". She did exist, and this wasn't just a bad dream. Opening the
box was emotional, but I was so glad to be strong enough to do it. Now I
know that whenever I feel like I need to see something or hold
something of hers, I can. It's there, ready for me, if I need it. And
that is comforting.
At the end of February, my
best friend, Joy, came in town to be with me for a while. She brought
her 4 month old daughter, Gabby, with her who I was very excited to
finally meet. Her visit, while difficult in some ways, was really good
for me. It forced me to get out of the house and back to doing fun
things with Whitney. We toured St. Louis, and did something different
everyday. We took pictures, we gave Gabby a lot of "firsts" and it was
fun to be there for that. After all, I wasn't going to have any of
those "firsts" with Miri. Joy is the kind of friend that no matter how
many months or years pass, we pick up right where we left off. We've
been best friends since the age of two, and there's something special
about our relationship. For as close as we are, it took me until the
third day of her visit to finally open up and talk about what really had
been happening and how hard this was emotionally. We sat in my bed for
a couple hours after Whitney was asleep, and we talked, and I cried,
and so did she, and we hugged.
About two weeks
before my due date, while Joy was still in town, another bout of reality
hit, and I started struggling with wondering what Miri looked like.
There was just something inside of me that was so curious. Was she
pretty? Did she look like me? Did she look like Andy? I knew she had
long, dark hair from the memory box, but that was all. What were her
other features like? These thoughts started to be obsessive, and I just
couldn't put them away. I knew there were pictures at the hospital,
but I didn't want to see them while I was there, and I still didn't want
to see them. She would have been 9 weeks premature, and she probably
didn't look like a normal full-term baby. What if I took one look, and
was horrified. Some of the pictures on google shocked me so badly a few
weeks earlier that I didn't want to risk another shock. And this time
it might be worse because she was my daughter. I didn't want that kind
of image stuck in my head forever, because right now, the Miri that I
was picturing was beautiful. But I just had this huge need to know what
she really looked like. After talking with Joy, she suggested that I
get the pictures. I didn't have to look at them if I didn't want to,
but if I felt like I was ready, they would be there. And that made
sense. So I called the social worker at the hospital, and after a
tearful conversation about how I was doing, she happily mailed them to
me. Two days later they came, and I was afraid to open the envelope.
Luckily, Joy was there, and she opened it for me. The photos were in a
second envelope, so even if I were the one to open it, I wouldn't have
seen them right away. Joy asked me if I wanted to see them, and I said
no. I was too nervous about what I would find. She, being the best
friend that she could be, offered to look for me and just describe them.
From what she said, Miri had big eyes like Whitney, she had a rosy
complexion, not ashen as I would have expected. There was possibly a
birthmark, but the camera angle wasn't great to know for sure. They
dressed her in a nightgown. And there was one shot of just her feet.
That one didn't scare me to see...I already saw her footprints, and
everyone's feet kind of look the same anyway. So that one I glanced at,
and I cried a little. I was glad Joy was there to give me that brief
description. And after a couple days, I had almost worked up the
courage to look for myself. I didn't though. I decided that it would
be better for me psychologically not to see them.
A
few days later, I took the pictures over to my mom's house to keep them
in the memory box. She actually wanted to see them so that she could
put a face with a name. We had a conversation about how I didn't want
to but how she did. And what I realized was that without seeing her, I
already knew her. I felt her move inside me. I knew she was a live.
And I loved her. For my mom, the pictures were like the only evidence
that she had been here. She didn't feel her. She didn't go through all
the bodily changes. And while she saw my belly expand, she never got
to feel her kicking. Having the photos was her link to Miri. When she
looked at them, the first thing she told me was that she could tell that
she would have been a pretty baby. She thought she had my eyes and
Andy's nose. She gave me a bit more of a description than Joy did.
After that, I knew I made the right choice. My need to know what she
looked like was over, and I didn't have to be stuck with any vision that
might not be 100% pleasant or beautiful. My mom put the pictures back
in the envelope. I had her put the foot picture on top, just in case
anyone ever accidentally opened it and I happened to be there, I could
glance away in time. Then we put the envelope in the memory box, and
that is where they have been ever since.
The
rest of Joy's visit went quickly. The day she left, I drove her to the
airport, and I started to cry on the way there. In my head, I thought
that this was a bit silly. We hadn't lived in the same city since we
were 4 years old, and pretty much my whole life, we had to say goodbye. But this
time it was different. It was pretty overwhelming. As I drove home, I
couldn't hold it together. And if there's one thing that I learned
these past couple months, it's much better to get the emotions out than
to let them fester inside. At one point, the tears were coming down so
hard, I could barely see the road. When I got home, Andy needed me to
take care of Whitney, but I was in no shape to do that. I ended up
calling my mom to have her come over, because I was losing control. I
could feel it. It's such an odd feeling to know that you are being
completely irrational and over-reacting, but you can't help it or stop
it or even lessen it a little. I even thought that maybe this is what
it felt like to have a mental breakdown. I started to talk to my mom,
and then it hit me why I was reacting like this. The words just came
out of my mouth, "Another baby that I love was just taken out of my life
again." It wasn't all about Joy...it was also about Gabby leaving, and
it just resurfaced so many raw emotions, and I could barely deal with
it.
After they returned home, I had a bit of
news that was really hard to take, involving my job. Apparently, I have
to return to work by the 8 week mark, or I'll end up losing my pay.
Originally, I had worked out a deal with my department chair in which
I'd be working for the first 3 weeks of the semester, overseeing other
instructors and coordinating courses, writing quizzes, exams, and a
final, but not teaching any classes of my own. It wouldn't have been fair to
the students to have a professor for 3 weeks and a sub for the remaining
12 weeks of the semester. However, once the HR department found out
that I had a stillborn, and not a baby, they informed me that I was no
longer entitled to maternity leave (12 weeks of paid leave), but that
all I could take now was medical leave for the c-section surgery (8
weeks of paid leave). This meant my original deal with my chair was
invalidated, since my work only amounted to three weeks, not the 7 that
were needed, and there is a policy at my university that if you miss more than 8
weeks due to medical leave, you cannot receive your salary for the
additional time. So, if I did not figure out how to teach for the last 8
weeks of the semester, I would be losing 1/4 of my annual salary. My
department chair was incredibly sympathetic, and at the last minute, he
created a class for me to teach and pushed its approval through the
proper channels quickly, and additionally asked the dean to approve of
allowing me to serve as his associate chair. (The associate chair has a
course load reduction to accommodate all the extra duties they are
expected to be performing). He told me that he would still take care of
most of the associate chair duties himself, although there were a few
things that he would be asking me to do. This was more than fair. The
math department almost never has classes which last 8 weeks, and since
he could not get enough students to enroll in two of these courses, he
creatively found a solution so that I could still get paid. I was so
grateful for that, but really upset at the no maternity leave policy
when your baby dies. Apparently, when you don't have a baby to care for,
you don't have a reason to be at home. But, I really could have used
the extra time to grieve and physically heal. Whoever wrote the policy
obviously does not understand what it is like to have a stillborn. And,
to add insult to injury, I also was informed by HR, that because
maternity leave is part of Family-Medical Leave, and I had taken two
weeks off when Whitney was born--a mistake that HR made, informing me
that I got 8 weeks from the date of delivery, not 12 weeks as needed due
to a change in family status--that I had now used up all my paid leaves
for the next three years. Employees are entitled to at most 2 leaves
in a 6 year period. I took one for Whitney, although I should have had
10 more weeks off, and now I was taking my second leave for Miri,
although I should have had 4 more weeks for her. That means that if I
do ever decide to try to have another baby, I won't be able to get any
paid time off. So unless the stars align, and I happen to get pregnant
at a time when the baby will be born over summer vacation, I'll be
losing between $10,000-$20,000 from taking the time off to recover from a
third c-section. So of 24 weeks of potential maternity leave, I will
have taken only 10, and not entitled to any more until I am 37 years
old...kind of late for having another child. I brought this point up to
my chair, and asked if there was any way that the university might
agree to give me one additional family leave, and he agreed that the way
things worked out didn't seem fair to him either. He spoke with the
dean on my behalf, who also agreed that it wasn't right. They both
wrote a letter, and upon presenting it to the HR director, she asked
that it be approved by the provost before implemented. So, the Dean, in
turn, spoke with the provost, who stuck to her guns, and said that the
rules are the rules, and she would not make any exceptions. So that's
it...I'm out of maternity leaves, and I should expect a loss of salary
if I get pregnant again. I know I shouldn't worry now, but it's
something I'm sure I'll be thinking about in the future, if/when we
decided to get pregnant again. It's just one more frustration to deal
with at an already difficult time.
With about
one week left until my due date, I knew that I couldn't wait any longer
to have the dreaded conversation with Andy about what we were going to
do with Miri's ashes. Andy can be really stubborn and he likes things
done his way, whether it makes sense to me or not, and this was an
important decision for both of us. I really wanted her to be at our
temple, and as time passed, that need grew stronger and stronger. I
couldn't imagine having her out of town. I needed to be close to her
and have the option of visiting when I needed to. I knew that our
temple was his last choice, because he would find it difficult to go to
temple if we did it there. He really wanted to spread her ashes in
Kentucky, on top of his father's grave so he could be with one of his
grandchildren. He died just a few months after his first grandchild was
born, and a small argument within the family meant that he never got
the chance to meet a grandchild. I completely understand his wishes and
his reasoning. If we spread her in Kentucky, that would mean that we'd
almost never get to see her--we only visit his family once a year, if
that. And, Andy has never visited his father in all the years that I've
known him. So for me, following his wishes would be like abandoning
her. I couldn't live with that. So, I sat him down after Whitney went
to bed, and explained that I needed her close. I needed the opportunity
to visit at a moment's notice. I needed her to be somewhere that I
felt at ease with, for my own mental and emotional well-being. He was
somewhat frustrated that I automatically eliminated everywhere he had
thought of with that statement, but I think he understood that I
couldn't feel like I had abandoned her. I told him that "once we spread
her ashes, she'll be gone forever" and I could barely handle that
concept, let alone spreading her somewhere so far away that she really
would be "all gone". So reluctantly he agreed to the temple. I did ask
him if he had any other ideas besides temple that would be better for
him, but he didn't. He told me that this option wasn't going to be easy
for him, and I said that I knew. I reminded him that although it might
not be easy, temple is a place I visit every two weeks, and so I could
see her as often as I wanted. And, the more you go, the easier it gets.
I told him that when my grandfather died, I couldn't visit his grave
without tears, but now I can. I've gone enough, and eventually with
time you get used to it and the pain isn't so new and intense. And,
with all the friends we have in the congregation, I told him that even
if we broke down in the middle of services, there would be more
shoulders for us to lean on than tears that we have in our eyes. We'd be
putting her with "family", in a place of love and support for us. I
couldn't imagine a better place or one that would be easier for us. I
know he didn't fully agree, but the tears in my eyes spoke volumes to
him, and he said "okay". It was just what I needed, and I love him for being able to give me that.
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