Sleepwalking

My previous post was a bit of a downer. But that happens sometimes, right? We all have our own versions of elephants in our closets.

And I guess that because of the serious topic, no one felt right in commenting on the one point in the story. A point that I purposely included to give you a bit of a humorous image and break up the darkness of the post.

The image of my little brother, peeing at the foot of my bed in the middle of the night.

But I didn't tell that whole story because it wasn't the right post. One topic per post, right? Isn't that the rule? So today I'm going to tell you about my little brother.

The little pipsqueak was born when I was 5 1/2 years old. My only sister was 10 years older than me, and had a room to herself until the pipsqueak was born. (Her other 4 brothers shared the other 2 bedrooms). When he came along, I got kicked out of the baby bed and moved into her room.

She did not want me there.

The little pipsqueak did not stay little long. At a very young age, he outgrew the baby bed. When my sister went off to college, he was moved into my room, which never felt fair to me, because only two of my older brothers were at home any more, and they each had their own rooms.

Why did I have to share with him? Because my brothers didn't want him in their rooms.

Duh. I didn't want him either!

We shared the double bed. He was a very active sleeper. I often awoke with him lying sideways across the bed, pushing me out with his feet, and occasionally I'd struggle to breathe as I woke with him lying crosswise over my stomach. Numerous times, a flailing arm in his sleep would pummel my neck or face. The pipsqueak wasn't even totally night-trained yet - I remember him wetting the bed occasionally.

He was not the cute baby sister I had prayed for.

I was generally quite glad when he got up out of bed to go to the bathroom at night, even though I was a light sleeper and usually woke up when he got out of bed. It was far better than waking to a wet bed. But I did find it confusing that one night when he got up, walked to the end of the bed, stood there in the dark for a minute, then came back and got into bed.

It wasn't until the next morning when I walked to the end of the bed myself, that I figured out why he'd been there.

But it wasn't enough to get him kicked out of my room. I still had to share the bed with him until the next brother went off to college (when I was 13), freeing up one of the other bedrooms.

I wasn't exactly kind to him when he shared my room. I may have even hit him a few times. Like once or twice for each time he kicked me or hit me in his sleep. Or wet the bed. Or crossed the imaginary center line that I drew in the bed. Or touched me with his cold feet.

Maybe even a few other times. Those wonderful memories all tend to blur into one, you know?

Which is why I always swore that my kids would never have to share a bed. Even the boys. They've been stuck sharing a room ever since there was more than one kid living at our address. But they have never had to share a bed except when we travel.

I always thought that giving them each their own beds would make them fight less. But I'm not sure that hypothesis was correct.

Elephants never forget

Yesterday on Miss Britt's blog, I read a sobering post. And I remembered something, even though I really would prefer not to.

See, I have this story... this event... this thing that happened to me a very long time ago. In actuality, it was two events, not just one, but they are part of the same story. And I have told exactly two people in my life. VERY BRIEFLY told two people, because I have such mixed feelings about it.

I don't even know what you call it. But it's been an elephant in my closet for years, and even though I've gotten over it, the fact that I haven't told the story still keeps the elephant there.

And trust me, my closets are packed to overflowing. That damn elephant really doesn't fit well. One small event can yield a pretty large elephant.

The first part happened sometime in my mid-high school years. My ugly-as-hell bedroom was being redecorated from the faded, cracked gray wallpaper that had been there since... oh, probably since my great-grandparents put it there. It was so worn that you could see the brown wallpaper backing on the front of the paper. The white ceiling paper was just as bad.

The new paper - still ugly, but at least yellow and green instead of gray - had been hung, and white tiles put up to cover the ceiling. Dad was just finishing installing a coordinating yellow & green shag carpet on the floor in place of the worn out antique area rug that I could remember watching my little brother pee on the time he sleepwalked to the "bathroom".

I stood in the doorway to my new room, in awe of the colors radiating from it. Not in awe of their ugliness... in awe that there were colors at all. This was so much better than faded and dirty grays, whites, and browns! And dad asked me for a thank you kiss.

I've never felt comfortable hugging or kissing my parents. It was something we just didn't do in our family, until one of my brothers was paralyzed in a serious car accident when I was 14. Almost losing one of us seemed to draw their attention to the fact that life was transient, and overnight they became more affectionate. Overnight was too fast for me, but I tried.

So I gave dad the hug and kiss he requested, though a bit reluctantly because he always gave his kisses on my lips. And this time, I felt his tongue trying to probe. I kept my mouth firmly closed. But I couldn't keep all of the ickiness out.

I tried to put that memory out of my mind in subsequent years. It was a one-time thing, and I avoided anything that might cause a repeat of it, until I began to feel a bit more comfortable again.

A few years later I was home from college for one of our breaks. College had allowed me to embrace the night-owl in myself. I loved staying up late to get my alone time, and I'd often hang out in the dorm lounges, watching TV alone until someone new wandered through. Then we'd sit together, watching TV and chatting late into the night.

Those habits didn't easily transfer back to my parents 7:00 am to 10:00 pm schedule. One evening I started watching a TV movie, and mom and my younger brother both went to bed. I was sitting on the floor. Dad was also up, I think in a rocking chair, but I don't really remember.

What I do remember is that somehow his hand began cupping my breast, over my shirt. I remember a comment asking if those were all mine. Which almost made me laugh because there isn't much now to call mine, and back then there was far less. But it also made me freeze. Because this was my dad, not some college guy in a dorm lounge at 2:00 am.

I sort of enjoyed that from college guys. To be honest, that might be one of the reasons I turned into a night-owl. I was pretty good at keeping anything from happening that I didn't want to happen. Except when it was my father. I froze. I don't even remember what I mumbled... I probably answered his question. I just remember the shock and uncertainty and more shock. Not knowing what to do.

I went to bed, my thoughts still going in circles. I should have done something. I could have done something. But I did nothing. Shock. Fear. Guilt. Confusion. They all spent the night sparring inside my head.

The next day, dad caught me alone and apologized. He didn't know why he had done it and promised it wouldn't happen again. I knew he meant it. I forgave him. But since I didn't understand why it happened, or why I allowed it to happen, I kept blaming myself to some extent too. And I put the elephant in my closet so no one would know about it.

Years later, just prior to the birth of our first son, my husband and I were discussing his mother being in the delivery room with us. He brought up my parents being there as well.

That was a tough one. I wanted them there, more for them than for myself. See, my siblings and I were all born in the 50's and 60's. And back then, fathers were not allowed in the delivery room. Dad begged and pleaded when my youngest brother was born. And his doctor was sympathetic, but couldn't allow it. He said the hospital would lose its license if he allowed it. (Hard to believe how times have changed, isn't it?)

Even though dad wasn't able to see any of his children born, I could let him see a grandchild be born. I wanted to give him that opportunity... that special gift. But after what had happened, could I be comfortable with my dad being in there?

Eventually I decided I could. And that was when I knew I really HAD forgiven him. Up until that point, I wasn't sure.

But the elephant remained, a big, gray, smelly secret wedged into my closet. Not even my husband knew this secret. He probably wondered why my closets were so crowded, but I couldn't tell him. He never had a decent father, and he looked up to mine. How could I let him think less of dad?

I still can't tell him, or anyone who knows dad. I still don't even know what to call the things that happened... my elephant remains unnamed. But maybe I can free a little closet space by telling you.

A bit of explanation

I tend to get introspective around this time of the year. As we approach the kids' spring birthdays, I remember the one that didn't get a chance to have a birth day.

I didn't expect yesterday's post to go quite how it did. But when the post began writing itself, I followed along, letting it tell its story.

I remember how lost I was during that time. How alone. I didn't realize that between 20 and 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, many of them before anyone realizes they ARE pregnant, but still a large number of women have to deal with the loss. I had never heard of what I had... a "missed miscarriage", where the body doesn't seem to recognize that the fetus isn't developing as it should and get rid of it on its own. I didn't know that miscarriages were more common in people who were dealing with infertility issues. I never knew that the "wait a year before seeing a doctor for infertility" didn't start the clock over after a pregnancy and miscarriage.

There was a lot I didn't know.

It wasn't until later that people began to come out of the woodwork, telling me of their experiences. Later that I found an infertility support group to help keep me sane. Later, after I already had dealt with it alone, fought my way through the depression, and was beginning to emerge on the other side.

I think it's a loss. So many women go through these times alone, not knowing how many others could offer support if they just shared, not realizing that other people want and need to hear the stories. So I hope that by sharing some of my stories, perhaps someone else won't feel quite as alone.

Because really, you aren't.

Some things you never forget

I don't think there was ever a time that I didn't expect to be a mother. Perhaps growing up in such a large family myself made it seem more necessary - that my life wouldn't be complete if I didn't reproduce.

My husband-to-be and I discussed it as were dating. I said something about two kids. He countered, subtly mentioning two, maybe three. I stupidly agreed, leaving him to claim I had agreed to three and opening the way for him to counter again with three, maybe four.

Um... I don't think so.

But we never looked at the other possibility: none. After a few years on birth control and deciding it was time to have a family, we just assumed we'd have one. By a year later, we began to wonder.

A couple of months waiting for an appointment. A visit to the doctor. A semen analysis. A few blood tests to check on thyroid function, etc. But before anything more, a surprise. The follow-up visit to the doctor turned out to be a pregnancy test. On August 9, 1990, give or take a few days, our life would change.

We waited a few weeks to tell anyone. I'm not sure we believed it ourselves. But it was too difficult to hide for long; the morning sickness (actually all-day sickness) was overwhelming. Once Christmas arrived, we decided we had to spill the beans (pun unintended but fitting).

A week or so later, I had my first prenatal visit. I should have been about 10 weeks along, and had just begun to wear maternity clothes. But the doctor couldn't find the heartbeat, so he scheduled an ultrasound for the next week. The ultrasound didn't show a heartbeat either, but he scheduled a second one another week later, just to be sure.

No change. No growth. No heartbeat. Fetal size appeared to still be at about 8 1/2 weeks of development. By this point I should have been at 12 weeks. Not a good sign.

I cried as I told the doctor, "I thought it would be easier if I just knew that we were able to get pregnant."

He answered, "Be careful what you wish for."

Asshole.

He scheduled a D&C for the next week. That's a nice term for an early-term abortion. They try to be kind and not call it that to make you feel better. They stressed that since there was no heartbeat, it wasn't really an abortion. It didn't make me feel better. The end result is the same no matter what you call it.

No more baby.

I had to go through another week of being pregnant but not really. Of still being sick all the time, knowing there was nothing to show for it.

When it was over, I came home and sat on the floor in front of the blowing register vents, trying to warm up, so tense that I couldn't stop shivering. I sat there, arms wrapped around myself, rocking. Trying not to let anyone see the tears.

My baby was gone. And it had never really been a baby so no one would acknowledge it.

But it was real to me, dammit.

"That's one long-ass toe you've got"

I have funny feet. Make that foot. Toe, to be exact.

Beth told me so.

In 5th grade, I had these ultra-ugly red, white, and blue sandals. I wore them to school. It was a rainy day. While I sat on the heater at the edge of the classroom, Beth approached me. She looked at my foot and informed me, "You have funny feet."

Thanks, Beth.

My brothers laughed at them too. I can't count how often that poor toe was threatened with amputation-by-machete. Somehow it survived. Probably because my brothers knew mom and dad would amputate some of their parts if they did anything to me.

So after 5th grade I quit wearing sandals. I wore close-toed shoes for years. Finally around 5 years ago, I bought a new pair of sandals. Yes, real sandals. Open toes and all.

I also bought a toe ring, and began wearing toenail polish. Somewhere along the way I bought into the saying, "If you've got it, flaunt it."

I began to flaunt my toe.



I felt vindicated. Take that, Beth.