Six months

What's up with all these "anniversary" posts, anyway?

I'm just processing, that's all :)

So, it's been six months since my dad passed away.  It is surprising that it's been that long, and it also feels like it's been longer.  I feel like I haven't talked to him in a very long time.... But lately I've been hearing his voice in my head.  Little things he'd say, jokes, and funny quips.  I miss our daily chats.  I miss everything, really.

Everyone tells me this first year is the hardest.  Obviously.  Father's day was difficult, but we fondly remembered driving to Port Clinton to spend the day with him.  Mother's day and birthdays are hard because we sorely miss his phone call.  Monthly "anniversaries" remind us of the distance created by all the time that we have spent just remembering when he was here.  We can't talk, can't call, can't see him.

I am reminded often that he'd be pleased with me, and that's reassuring.  Mostly, he'd be so happy that we are having another baby and I'm sure he'd be excited that it's a boy (he just had us two girls).  Sometimes when I'm cooking I wish I could talk with him about it- we always talked about what we were cooking that day.  We listen to music that he listened to so it simultaneously reminds me of him and calls me back to my youth- driving in the car, listening to dad sing loudly to the music.  The memories are so vivid, I hope they stay that way.  I wish you could take video of your memories, you know?

I'm thankful for a supportive husband who lets me talk about my dad whenever I feel like it.  I'm thankful that he misses him, too, and brings it up when he feels some sadness.  I'm thankful that he lets me process without urging me to feel any different than I already feel (sometimes well-meaning folks just try to cheer up someone who is grieving).  I'm mostly thankful that I married a man who loves to listen to classic rock.  Who knew?!  I'm as surprised as you, but he loves Bob Dylan and will turn on the Bob Dylan station on Pandora which, if you aren't familiar, then loops similar artists.  So we spend our days listening to blues and rock.  Pink Floyd, The Doors, Tom Petty, Janis Joplin, The Band, CCR, Bo Diddley, Paul Simon... I could go on and on.  It's so wonderful.

Which, while I'm rambling, reminds me of the last memory my dad and Kraig shared.  We were on skype just a week before he died and Kraig had just come home from work.  It was the first and only time we skyped with my dad- he had just set up his camera.  Kraig picked up Owen's toy harmonica and played an expressive little riff.  It was something my dad would have done.  I like those memories and those little glimpses of similarities between my father and the man I married.  I'm glad I get to carry those with me forever.

With his favorite little man.  

So, six months and we all miss him terribly.  The grief is getting better and I feel like I am in a healthy place- I miss him but am not overwhelmed with sadness at each thought of him.  I can look back on so many memories and smile.  I think I'm in the "safe zone" where people start to ask about him more.  Probably because they think it's been long enough that I'm not going to break down in a weepy mess of tears.  Either way, I like weaving stories about my dad into my day, and am thankful for a reason to share a little bit of who he was and who he is to me.

Regression

This is very random, stream-of-consciousness.  I'd go back and edit, but I like everything that is included.  For the sake of not having to write separate entries about my dad/my grief, I'll leave it as is.


I was prepared, thanks to my perceptive friend Emily, for some regression as we traveled to Florida for my sister's wedding.  It would be the first time I saw my immediate family since my father's funeral, and I knew there would be some special remembrances of him during the wedding. (My sister held his handkerchief around her bouquet, and played a special song for him during the reception).

The weekend passed with a bit of sadness surrounding the absence of my dad but nothing that I don't normally encounter any other week.  I thought I had side-stepped the possible backtracking in my grief that I assumed would occur.  Whew.

Fast forward to a week later and my dad appears in one of my dreams.  It was an especially vivid one and it was unlike others that I have had since his death in that it made sense circumstantially (as opposed to ones where he is in a wheelchair, etc.)  Enter: regression.

In the dream I was waiting to leave for somewhere/something, and my dad was sleeping.  When he awoke I went in to say goodbye to him before I left and I started weeping.  I told him that he is very ill and he needs to take good care of himself.  I warned him that any respiratory illness could cause him to have to go to the hospital, and if he gets sick to call me right away and head for the ER.  I told him it would be worse than the last hospitalization, and that he would probably die.  Of course, I also told him that I love him very much and wanted him to stay well.

Does this all sound familiar?  See what I mean about it making sense?

I woke up and thought that those were all the things that I would have told him had I spoke with him about his illness before he died.

Kraig reminded me that those were the things I did tell him before he died.  Not immediately before, of course, but at times over the past two years and as recently as 2-3 days before his hospitalization.

The only difference was that in the dream, he was crying.  I could see and feel his emotion.  My dad wasn't one to hold back many emotions but sadness was one he did keep to himself.  I don't know how he felt about his disease or if he even knew its severity.  I also often wonder how he felt as he was driving to urgent care, likely gasping for breath.  I wish he had called me but I understand that the circumstances probably didn't allow for that.  Still, I wish I had spoken to him one last time.  I think being able to experience his sadness in the dream gave me a bit of closure.  Maybe he did understand how ill he was and how serious it could be if he got something as minor as a common cold.  I know that if he thought about it he would have been extremely sad to leave me and my sister (and our families) behind.  I know he would have been sad about his life being cut short.

At the same time it hurts to see him sad, even if it's only in a dream.  Part of me wants him to have been living in some grand illusion where he thought he'd get better just so he'd be protected from the painful truth.  Nobody wants to know they are going to die young.

When I woke up, the dream set off a flurry of emotions, some sad, some happy that I had seen him, mostly yearning to see him again.  Nothing out of the ordinary but as the day went on and we- coincidentally and completely unintentionally- listened to some of his favorite musicians, the emotions became stronger.  I felt the usual anger, despair, and disbelief that I struggled with so much during the first few weeks after his passing.

I am trying to remain positive as a lot of different thoughts go through my head.  I had a great relationship with my dad over the two years before his death and I am extremely grateful for that.  We talked constantly, day in and day out.  We were honest with each other and I considered him not only a loving father and grandfather, but a wonderful friend.  I knew how proud he was of us for moving to Oregon and how excited he was to possibly come visit this summer.

I have felt, at times, that people fault me for leaving Ohio when we did, especially when my dad suffered from such a terrible disease.  I have never felt guilty about it nor did I ever feel like my dad thought I should have stayed.  Sure, he missed us.  That is normal.  But he was so proud and so thankful to be able to witness some of our new life.  He knew it was a great choice for us as a family, and he never said a negative word about it (which was, honestly, quite surprising to me).  We maintained a close relationship even from across the country, and I think that is what matters the most.  The only thing he expressed disappointment about was our slow pace (in his opinion) in adding to our family.  The fact that I can't call him to tell him we're having another baby hurts more than anything related to distance in our relationship.  He would have been so thrilled.

I'm sure there will be many more instances in the next 20-30 years (that he should have been alive, given an average lifespan) that I will wish I could share with him.  I shared many daily experiences with him when we'd talk, and it hurts to not be able to share the little things just as much as it hurts to not share the bigger events.

So, that's where I am at.  Still struck by the fact that he isn't here.  Missing him more all the time.

Checking in

I have a few updates, so check back over the weekend for new posts.  For now, I wanted to check in about how we are (mostly, how I am) doing.

Grieving is funny.  It comes and goes but I think it's getting better.  I haven't cried about Owen weaning for two weeks now.  I think I got it all out the Saturday before Valentine's Day when Kraig and I went on a date.  Seriously, wept all day.  Ugh.  


So since all of that emotion is purged, I could really start to think about my dad's death.  It's still weird to write/say/hear that- my dad is dead.  I don't wait for him to call or text anymore, though.  Now it's just weird to see his name in my text list or see an email from him.  That stings a little, to be honest.  And talking about it will still bring me to tears, of course.  But at least I can function now.  Baby steps, right?


I just keep thinking that my dad wouldn't want me to be sad.  I know he didn't know that his time was so limited, and I know that he wouldn't have wanted to die so soon.  But on this side of things I have to believe that he would want me to think positively about him instead of just crying because he is gone.  He's still here with us; when Owen plays his drum that grandpa got him I can hear how happy it made my dad to see (via video) him play it.  Or when Owen sees the photo we have of grandpa on the wall and says "Grandpa! Grandpa Tim!  Grrr" I can remember fondly that my dad would always rub his beard on Owen's cheek and growl.  Then he'd ask Owen "what does Grandpa say?" and Owen would growl back.  I can look at photos of dad with Owen and count my blessings that I got to spend so much time watching him with Owen.  His love for Owen was so very clear.  He was so proud of how wonderful of a little man he is.  It makes me happy when we hear stories or receive emails from people who tell us that dad would always talk about his grandkids.  He was always showing off photos of them.  They were his favorite topic of conversation, to be sure.  Those memories and moments are so sweet. 


I could ramble all day about my dad and how much I miss him (so, so, so very much), but the point is that I am doing a little better.  For now.  No guarantees about the future :)


Aaaannnndddd.... I got a new nose ring.  I ordered the jewelry online (super-duper discounted) and managed to finagle it back into the piercing by myself.  Yeee-ouch.  I'm glad to have it back after 2.5 weeks without.  Petty?  Sure.  But it means a lot to me.  (Now it's time to go back to the tattoo/piercing shop for a tattoo for Kraig and to get my monroe re-done.  Oh yes.)  


Ahem.  Anyway, prayers are still welcome.  Thanks for listening, as always.

There is no greener grass

But the "grass is greener" game is a popular one, isn't it?

What if...

I could give anything for....

If I would have just....

I have tried really hard not to play these games over the past three weeks.  Especially lately, however, one stands out in my mind:

If it just hadn't happened so fast.

Sure, I say that now.  But if it had been a long road?  Well, it was that, too, wasn't it?  My dad was sick for a very long time.  Very sick.  But this particular incident- the one that ended his life- well it happened relatively quickly.

I'll back up even further in case I've lost you.  (Warning: medical jargon ahead.  I'll probably butcher most of it, but if you don't have a med background you won't notice.  For those that do, sorry.  And why the details?  Because this is therapy, people.  Skip ahead if you please.)

My dad was diagnosed with COPD (Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease) in 2007.  COPD is basically the combination of chronic bronchitis and emphysema- two diseases that are usually but not always brought on by cigarette smoking.  In my dad's case, it was absolutely smoking but also likely a genetic component as well, since his father died of the same thing (though much later in life.)  Anyway, in 2007 his COPD was already pretty severe.  He was admitted to the hospital in late April of that year, right before my college graduation.  I think it was finals week, in fact.  We thought (wrongly- due to poor information from an extended family member) that he was going to die then.  He didn't, obviously.

Two years later, in January of 2009, he was taken by ambulance to the hospital again- this time he was intubated (put on a ventilator) and sedated for 3 full weeks.  His blood oxygen levels went up and down, and finally we were able to completely wean him from the ventilator with the help of a tracheotomy.  It was quite a roller coaster of emotions- I was 8 months pregnant with Owen and feared that my father- with whom I had a rocky relationship with for the year prior (well, my whole life, really, but it really culminated in a huge argument before my wedding, after which I didn't speak to him for almost an entire year- right up until his hospitalization) wouldn't meet my child.  This made me unspeakably sad, but not as sad as the thought that my father was going to die thinking that I hated him.  While we thought- based on what his pulmonologist expected- that he was going to die (this was 2 weeks in to the 3 week sedation/4 month hospitalization), I vowed that if he lived I was going to mend my relationship with him.  He was going to know that I love him and that I forgive him.

I did just that.

Thankfully, he was weaned from the vent and transferred to the ICU stepdown unit, and then to the nursing home with his trach, and finally the trach was removed (!!!)  and he was sent home (!!!!!!!!!) to live a relatively normal life.  He lived alone, and that made us (my sister and I) nervous but we knew he had all his meds, his oxygen if needed, and his CPAP machine for nighttime.  Not that he was really all that great about following doc's orders, but we hoped for the best.

Even the best, though, meant that he wouldn't live for much longer.

COPD is a really awful disease, and unfortunately there is no cure and there is no way to make it better.  It only gets worse.  There are flare-ups or "exacerbations" of the disease, like a respiratory illness, for instance, that then require medical action.  Over time, these exacerbations get worse and worse.  For instance, my dad's first hospitalization in 2007 was only a week-ish stay.  No intubation.  In 2009, he was on the vent for a long time, needed a trach, and was then to use his oxygen fairly regularly at home. We knew the next exacerbation would be worse than in 2009 so we knew two things:  he would be hospitalized for a very long time, and he would be intubated.  Each time he was put on the vent, it would be more difficult to get him back off of it.  His lung functioning was deteriorating quickly and there was nothing we could do to stop that process.

I think you can imagine how stressful it was when he'd get a cold or cough.  At least for me, I always thought "Oh no, he's going to have to go to the hospital, and then what?"  And each time he'd get over a little infection I'd be so thankful.  Last winter (2010) he got sick a couple of times but always got better.  He was able to come to Cleveland to visit us for Christmas, he was at Owen's baptism, and he came up for Owen's birthday party.  Those are all such sweet memories I have with my father.  I am so thankful for that time that I spent with him and could watch him with my son whom he loved so, so very much.

This winter, he got sick again and immediately I told him to go to urgent care if he couldn't breathe.  He joked with me about it, but he seemed to really feel lousy.  He told me as much.  I talked to him everyday and the first day that he mentioned he was ill was Saturday January 22nd.  Over the next two days I'd check in with him to see how he felt and it seemed to me that he was sick but was going to feel better soon.

Tuesday the 25th I got a voicemail from the Ambulatory Care Center in Ottawa.  I called the nurse back and she let me know that he was intubated and taken to the hospital in Lima.  I was worried but didn't panic because, well, he made it through the last time.  Even against all odds, he had made it.  He would do it again.  (Intellectually, I should have known.  We knew he didn't have too much longer to live, we knew it was going to be worse this time... we knew.  I guess this was denial protecting me.)

I called my sister and mom to let them know.  I didn't have much information from his ICU nurse but what she could tell me seemed worse than last time, and she seemed much more urgent.  It was one of his regular nurses from 2009, which I was thankful for.  She was my favorite nurse, and it was nice to have a familiar voice to talk to, and a familiar nurse taking care of my dad.  I know that she loves her patients and I am so grateful for her care.  But that familiarity with her also allowed me to notice those stark differences between the last time and this time.

Still- denial.

He's going to be fine.  We just need to get through the woods.  It's going to be fine.

Well, Wednesday I got a call from his nurse that his sats (oxygen saturation) were dropping into the low-mid 80's (upper 90's is good.  It's on a 100-point scale) and that they were actively bagging him.  I started to panic, and the nurse started crying.  Oye.  This was bad.  I was at the zoo with Kraig and Owen and had to stop and finish talking to the nurse while I sobbed in the middle of the zoo.  I called my sister and my uncle to let them know to get to the hospital as soon as possible.  We'd keep each other updated, but this was not looking good.  His pulmonologist (again, the same doc as last time) "didn't know what else to do"- he was maxed out on his meds, they were already at 100% on the vent, they couldn't do anything else.

They stopped bagging him, adjusted a few meds, moved him back to a regular bed, and his sats started to slowly improve.  By then my sister had arrived and a nephrologist came to speak with her.  My dad had renal cancer in 2010 and had a kidney removed.  The nephrologist said that dad had sterile sepsis and that had caused fluid buildup in his lungs which lead to the respiratory distress that afternoon.  The doc was certain (yes, certain) that if we started dialysis, we could do the work that the kidney wasn't doing (filtering his blood) and that would reverse all of the edema and fluid.

I went to bed Wednesday night thinking that my dad had so many lives- we thought he was on his last one, but no.  He had tricks up his sleeve and he was going to make it out again this time.  We were so hopeful.

There were a few other issues- suspected pneumonia, premature ventricular contractions, and acidosis- that were cause for some concern, but we thought the dialysis was going to fix all of that on Thursday.

Well, the dialysis wasn't doing a thing on Thursday morning.  Four hours in there was no improvement. They flushed and restarted it, but his pulmonologist came in to let my sister know that he did not think the dialysis would work the second time, and that he didn't see any ray of hope.  He was out of treatment options.  We were going to have to fly in to Ohio as soon as possible to say our goodbyes and let him go because at this point, all measures to keep him alive were artificial.

They did try the dialysis again on Thursday evening, but it did nothing.  Over the course of Thursday night as we packed our bags and tried to rest before our early Friday morning flight, my dad deteriorated to the point where we suspect there was little-to-no brain function.  He was still sedated, of course, but it seemed his body was definitely shutting down.  All of that is irreversible, and while it was difficult to know that information as we flew 8 hours to Ohio and drove 3 hours across the state to see him, it was also comforting in that I had a peace about what we had to do.  My dad was no longer there in spirit anymore- we were just keeping his body alive as much as we could so that I could say goodbye.  There was literally nothing that any doctor could do to bring him back.  We did all that we could.  That was tremendously comforting to know, though the decision to pull a loved one from life support is never easy.  There were no choices left; there was no question about what to do.  I'm thankful for that.

So, we got to the hospital at 7:30pm on Friday night.  Kraig said goodbye to his father-in-law, and then my sister and I had some alone time with my dad.  We prayed, we talked to him, we joked, and we wept.    We said everything we felt that we needed to say, and we let him know that we did everything we could and that we were sorry, but we'd have to let him go.  And it was okay to go- we were there with him and we love him.

As difficult as that was, I am thankful for the peace I had.  As I looked over his body- attached to the dialysis, ventilator, and umpteen (literally, in the teens) different medication bags, I knew he was just hanging on by a thread.  His sats were dropping, his vitals were tentative at best, and even as I stood there for 10 minutes things were slowly declining.  The decision of when to let him go was easy- do it now, and do it as quickly as you can.  That may seem callous, but I choose to believe that he was just waiting for me to come say goodbye.  We were also teetering on the brink of respiratory or cardiac failure and I didn't want him to go that way.  I wanted it to be peaceful, and for that to happen things needed to remain in our control.  He wasn't going to hang on much longer, so it was better to do it now, at least in my mind.

So, they unhooked him from everything, extubated him, and made sure he was comfortable (ie. very sedated) as he took his last breaths.  My sister and I were both there, and while it was difficult to witness, I am glad that he died with his lovely daughters holding his hands.  He wouldn't have had it any other way.  He passed away at 8:30pm on Friday January 28th.

But that's only the beginning, isn't it?  At least for me and my sister, our suffering is only just beginning.  Our story is far from over yet, and while those that love us like to say things like "he's in a better place", we are not in that place.  We are not better at all, actually.  This is a loss that is so deep, so profound, we can hardly find our way through it.  Heck, it's three weeks later and I am still struggling to convince myself that this is real.  He's really gone.  It just doesn't make sense to me.   I knew for years that my time with him would be cut drastically short, but that doesn't make it easier.  In fact, the wonderful two years that I had with him just leave me yearning for more time.  It's unfair.

That's where I am at.  I am bouncing back and forth between denial, sadness, and anger.  I miss my father so very much, I can hardly express how his absence makes me feel.  Like I said, we talked all day, everyday, so already it feels like forever since I have talked to him.  He was my best friend.  I stay at home with Owen and he couldn't work due to his condition, so we were each other's pals day in and day out.  Every morning I'd wake up to a text from him.  I talked to him more than I talk to anyone else except Owen and Kraig- he was my number 3 guy.  And in his death, I can imagine no more painful a loss except if I lost my husband or son.  My dad was so special to me.

I know that one day I will read back over these entries and I will be thankful that I am finally able to smile instead of weep when I think of my dad.  I'll be thankful for the time I had with him instead of feeling like I've been robbed.  I'll be happy that he is no longer suffering instead of just wishing he was still here with us.  I'll still miss him, but it won't hurt so very, very much.  Until then, I am in the middle of this indescribable pain and sadness.  But when you are "going through hell, keep going." (Churchill)  That's what I intend to do.  Please help me keep going.

Deep sigh

Slowly but surely I am going to get caught up on the blog.  I have stories and photos to share, after all.

But right now I just need to vent.  Whine?  Whatever it is, I'm doing it and you can listen or not.  Deal?

I'm not sure if I never allow myself to feel stress and sadness, or if I just never experience it.  I think it's the former and now that's coming back to bite me.  I know, intellectually, that I have been no stranger to stress and pain, heartache and sadness.  I've experienced a lot in my 25 years and I think I just try to let it roll off my back.  I'm tough, I can handle anything, I am not sad because things like *that* don't affect me, I tell myself.  That attitude is getting me nowhere right now.

I can sense my heart's desire to pull away from the sadness and pain, and I can also sense my mind telling me that I need this.  I need to feel it, I need to grieve, I need to just weep.  That becomes difficult when I am not yet able to comprehend the loss of my dad, but I'm sure I'll get there.  That's even more reason to allow myself to grieve.

It's been two weeks and one day since my dad died.  Before all of this, I would have said that that was ample time to get past the really hard stuff.  What did I know?  I don't feel like I've even begun to deal with the immediate feelings of loss yet.  I've got a long way to go.

On the other hand, there has been a lot that has gotten in the way of the grieving process.  Anyone who's ever known anyone who's died knows that the days between the death and funeral are filled with people.  All day, everyday.  It's chaos for a person like myself who prefer quietness and peaceful days with just my husband and son.  Pure chaos.  It's also not conducive to allowing oneself to feel much emotion.

Not only did we have that constant hum of people around us, but my sister and I also had to deal with my father's estate.  He had no will and no wife, so it was up to us to sort everything out.  It's still up to us.  It's a huge undertaking and it's going to take a long time and a lot of work to sort through.  We also had to plan the funeral arrangements.  Needless to say, we were busy.  Also not conducive to allowing oneself to feel much emotion.

Then, lucky me, the three of us got a stomach virus that had us all up vomiting the night before my dad's visitation.  Good gracious, was that ever awful.  Just when I thought I couldn't possibly get more sick than that (seriously, it was bad), I caught influenza and brought it home to Portland.  I remember being ecstatic when our plane touched down in PDX, so happy to be home but fighting off a nasty cough.  I was thrilled to see Donna at the airport to pick us up and then we went for lunch with her and Gordon, but I couldn't give them the huge hugs that I had planned on since I didn't want to get them sick.  Then the chills set in, and just like that I was knocked out for 5 days with a fever.  All I could do was lay in bed and shake, and that's when I knew that I shouldn't have ever thought I couldn't get more sick.  Wow, influenza is rough.  That, my friends, is why people get flu shots.  I started to feel better (meaning I could function- feed myself, get out of bed, walk around) but the deep cough and congestion are still kicking, 9 days later.  Whatever, I'm just thankful to be alive at this point.  Ugh.

During the course of the flu, though, I lost my nose ring.  I know, wah wah wah, I'm such a baby.  But seriously, I've had a nose ring since I was 17 years old.  It's part of me.  I like it.  I've had it repierced 4 times because I had to take it out for dance or jobs, but I could never not have it.  I know it's probably silliness to some of you, but I'm really sad that I lost it (somewhere in a kleenex.  Gross, I know.)  I don't have a spare and don't think I'll be running to the body jewelry store anytime soon.  (Maybe there's one next to the restaurant that we're going to tonight... hmmm....)

And then, here's the kicker.  I had to wean Owen.  At this point you probably think I'm just whining to whine, but this is really sad for me.  (You can skip ahead if you want, I don't mind.)  We were still going strong with a handful of feedings (sometimes less) each day, mostly surrounding bedtimes.  I was just going with the flow, no plans to stop anytime soon unless Owen gave me some signs that he was ready.  We would have stopped eventually, and probably sooner than later (like, sometime in the next 6 months) but I was in no rush.  We were approaching his 2nd birthday, so I didn't really talk about nursing him because most people think it's gross or that there is something wrong with nursing such an "old" child (don't worry, I think there is something wrong with you if you think that, so the feeling is mutual.  Ha.)

I was almost embarrassed to tell my doctor that I was still breastfeeding when she started talking to me about meds to help with my influenza.  She didn't give me many options, in fact it was either take this cough medicine and wean him, or you get nothing.

[Awesome.  Some docs seriously need to work on their breastfeeding support.  "Now would be a good time to wean him" isn't exactly the helpful attitude that I was looking for.  Is it so much to ask for a little sensitivity?  Are you seriously going to tell me that I should "just" wean him, as if it's no big deal?  It seemed a bit cold to me, in my much-too-sensitive opinion.]  Stepping off soapbox.

Well, I opted for no meds.

That was before I got zero sleep because I was coughing all night.  I surmised that Owen wasn't getting much milk, if any, anyway because of how sick I was.  So, I called for the meds.  I talked to Owen about how mommy's milk is all gone and we need to say bye-bye.  He took it like a champ, and has been such a trooper all week.  Unfortunately, I only ended up taking the meds for two days because I don't like how they made me feel (Hycodan- codeine, yuck) and wasn't getting any more sleep since I was just up all night sweating and paranoid from the narcotics.  Ugh.  What a mess.  But I had already told Owen it was all gone, and he was being such a trooper.  I couldn't turn back now...

But I am so sad.  I wasn't expecting this to be such a punch in the gut, but it's awful.  I don't know if it's made worse by everything else, or if weaning is always such an emotional experience but I'm a weepy mess.  I'm sure that the fact that I had to do it cold turkey and didn't really have a choice make it all the worse.  I also think that the fact that I have done it for 22.5 months makes it that much harder to just quit.  I know part of it is that this marks the end of the baby era, and now Owen is my little man.  I have to find new ways to bond and connect with him, emotionally and physically, and I wasn't ready to have to think about how to do that.  I just keep thinking that he can nurse again after x amount of time, just not right now, but then I realize that this is it.  It's over.  He's not my little nursing baby anymore.  That will never be a part of our bond ever again.

This may seem melodramatic and ridiculous but it's really hard for me to swallow this.  I also know women who never had that relationship, some who chose not to, and some who tried so hard for so long and just couldn't.  I'm sure it's difficult for everyone in their own way, or maybe some women are just stronger than me.  I don't mean to be insensitive as I sit here and whine about how I got to breastfeed for 22.5 months and that wasn't long enough, or something.  It's not that.  It's just the transition; the moving from one era to another, the end of something and beginning of something that has yet to be determined. I'm not handling it well.  So thanks for listening.  If you have advice or had similar feelings, I'm all ears.

So that's my two weeks in a nutshell.   I have so much more to say about my dad and his passing, and I'm thankful for anyone who is willing to hear me out.  Like I said, this is a little bit like therapy and I'm glad to have the virtual journal to look back on.

From the trenches

I'm finally able to climb out of bed for extended periods of time and I wanted to peek in and say hello.  We are, in fact, still alive over here.  It's been quite a while since I posted; I've had the worst two weeks of my life, if you'll allow me that bit of melodrama.

I'm sure you all know by now, but in case you don't, my father passed away and the three of us travelled back to Ohio to say goodbye and make arrangements for his funeral, and in the meantime caught a nasty stomach bug followed by Influenza B.  I've never been so sick in my 25 years of life, and now I know why people get the flu shot.  Sign me up for 3 next year, please.  I don't mean to be dramatic but I have no idea where I can even look to being catching up on our real-life, let alone our blog.  I'll be back soon, though, since this is a little bit like therapy for me.

In the interim please keep us in your thoughts- specifically that we could catch a break soon.  That would be nice.  Normalcy would be great but I don't want to ask for too much.