You Don't Know What's Good for You

One of my friends posted this article on Facebook today and I immediately took note. I've walked in similar shoes.

There is a pervasive theme in America that most people on disability or who come into a clinic presenting with pain are faking for drugs. While there certainly are people who do this, most of us do not. Yet to walk into a new clinic or hospital is to be almost guaranteed that your concerns will be reduced or dismissed if you have a mental illness.

This is a sampling of what I've either witnessed or experienced:

1. You are lying because you want me to give you drugs. I don't know if you are taking them or selling them but I know you are faking.

2. You don't know how you feel. You're mentally ill so I can't trust you to accurately describe what's going on with your body and mind.

3. You aren't smart enough (or educated enough) to understand what's going on. You need to just shut up and let me do my job.

4. You don't deserve any pain medication. I don't like you and I don't appreciate how you are acting in my hospital. I don't care that you are hurting and terrified and I'm enjoying wielding this power over you.

5. You are so much smarter than the staff members here and coming to therapy here would be a waste of time. Take this book home and read it. You can help yourself better than anyone else.

While it's true that I am mentally ill and I sometimes have difficulty distinguishing between reality and fantasy, I can assure you, Dr. Asshole, that I am an expert in how I feel. A fucking genius! And while I may be wrong about things on occasion, I'm no liar. I don't need to fake for drugs or anything else because the totality of my mental and physical ailments is one big pile of PAIN. 

And while I realize that drugs aren't always the right answer, there are times when they are. If I haven't slept for two days because of severe stomach cramping (from my IBS), then you can bet that when you don't help me out, I'm going to relapse into either depression or mania. That's what sleep deprivation and stress do to me. In case you didn't know, those conditions are far worse than me getting a couple of Lortabs I didn't need. You aren't helping - you are making it worse.

Of course, I know I have responsibilities here. One is not to lie about anything - not condition, not pain, not income, not insurance - because if you ever think I've lied about something, you will never believe another word I say. The other is to present myself as neatly and intelligently as possible. Because if, gods forbid, I show up looking and acting sick, you'll decide I'm a druggie bum who is faking. Now I know that when I look and sound normal, you'll say I "look fine" to you and don't need anything but that's the dance we do, isn't it?

What's been your experience with medical staff?  Do they make assumptions about you unfairly? Do they deny you care or medication inappropriately? How do you deal with the stigma?

Tweenky's Pregnancy Aftermath and Recovery

Ever since my appearance on the Godless Bitches podcast, I've had some people ask me about the aftermath of my near-fatal pregnancy and my recovery. In order to answer these questions more fully and dispel the myth that pregnancy is harmless, I've decided to write an detailed account. Some of this may be slightly misremembered or garbled but it's the best I can do. You may also want to read Nathan's account here.

When I awoke from the coma, the first thing I registered was the bag of platelets hanging to the left of my head. I immediately knew I was in trouble - that something major had happened - but I wasn't scared. I didn't feel any emotion. I remember seeing Nathan, then my mom and my sister. I remember thanking them for making the 6 hour drive to come see me. They looked exhausted and distraught but that didn't register. I was too thirsty to care about anything. My mouth was drier than I've ever felt before and it was unbearable. I begged for fluids but they told me that I couldn't have anything to drink until the fetus was delivered. I didn't care. I continue to beg and bitch until a nurse let me have a sip of Sprite Zero so I'd shut up.

Once I got a little relief (and believe me, that was temporary), I asked what had happened. They explained that I had HELLP Syndrome which I was not really familiar with. I was down to 30,000 platelets (normal level is 150,000 to 450,000) and the transfusion was my only hope. They explained that our son was already dead and that I couldn't have a proper drink until he was delivered.

I told them to cut me open. C-section NOW! My brain wasn't working right. It didn't dawn on me that with such a low platelet count, I might bleed out were they to cut me open. All I knew was that I was painfully thirsty. I argued and griped about it until they let me have another sip. My fuzzy mind spun trying to understand the biochemistry going on. What was happening to my platelets? Where were they going? It just didn't make sense.*

I looked up at the collection of bags on the poles and saw one labeled "pitocin." I knew that one. I followed the lines down to my arm and saw the tubes go into the side of my arm near the elbow - not the traditional place for an IV. I looked quizzically at Nathan and he explained I had a PIC line (peripherally inserted catheter). They had used an x-ray machine to insert a tube into my arm that lead to my heart. From it they could send medication and draw blood without further sticking me. I blessed them for that. I hate needles.

They rolled me over and gave me a vaginal suppository, a prostaglandin that would help me dilate and get this over with. This is a medication that was originally planned to be banned under the Mississippi "personhood" amendment 26. I think that's when I realized I had a catheter. I chalked it up as another victory that I'd been too busy dying to feel it going in. I asked about it and Nathan told me my kidneys had started shutting down and I was passing reddish-brown urine. Gross.

That's about the time I noticed that something was wrong with my vision. I could see spots everywhere, gaps in my skin and the wall. I looked at my arms and realized I was terribly swollen all over. My eyes had swelled and that was causing the weird spots. I didn't care. I was too thirsty to care.

I felt it when my water broke. It was a wonderful relief - the way you feel when you've been holding a full bladder for ages and you finally get to go. They dialed up my morphine but I didn't care. I didn't feel any pain or fear. I felt the medication hit my heart and I remember thinking, "This is what morphine feels like? It's not worth the bother." 

Delivery was pretty quick. There was all the "push, push, PUSH" that you hear in the movies. There wasn't any pain, just pressure. I delivered lackadaisically, really only caring about getting something to drink.

Then they laid my son in my arms. I looked at him. I thought I saw him move.

"Did he move?" I asked? "I thought I saw him move."

No, they told me. You're shaking.

I looked at him again. I held him but I don't remember touching him. I sat still while the family took pictures. My mother and sister were openly sobbing. I don't remember what Nathan was doing. I might as well not have been there.

They took him a few short minutes later and asked how we wanted to dispose of him. I jumped in with cremation. I was adamant. I was consigning my son to the flames. I was designating him as "medical waste." It sounds horrid but all I could think of was that I was not going to let my mother get his tiny body and bury it at her church so that she could have a perpetual monument to grief and guilt. I was not going to let her use my son to manipulate me into going to church. I was not going to let her claim an inch of my son for Christ.

He was born free and he died free. I am not chained to his grave. I experience him every day in his father, in the air I breathe, and in my continued existence.

I spent the weekend in the hospital recovering quickly. Although my physical recovery was remarkable, my mental recovery was far less so. I was considered a very high suicide risk and the nurses counselled Nathan that I would have to be watched for a very long time. Strangely enough, suicide hasn't crossed my mind since that day. I've never had a stronger, sharper will to live. But my life was bought at a heavy price and I'm not yet sure how much more I'll be asked to pay.

Although the brain scans showed no permanent damage, my cognitive abilities have been impaired. I don't remember things very well any more. I don't type or spell as well as I did in the past. I often get my words mixed up or I blank out when I speak. 

My blood pressure is an absolute wreck. Without two types of medication each day, my blood pressure will skyrocket and I will die. I take both Bystolic and Lisinopril to deal with it.

I suffered some nerve damage in my legs that got better over time. I have restless leg syndrome but, with exercise and a massage pad, I deal with it well. It took me a year to fully be able to walk again. I had to use a cane sometimes for the first year but I was damned and determined to get rid of it. Now I can walk around a Walmart Supercenter without stopping to rest.

I gained weight during my convalescence (but only because Nathan fixed my meals and made me eat) and that has not come off. I'm still working on it. Nathan still fixes my meals and rations out my medication. I don't trust myself with medication since my last overdose and hospitalization in 2010. He also encourages me and helps me continue moderate exercise. I'm taking Victoza injections to control my type 2 diabetes and I have a pill I can take to help with Irritable Bowel Syndrome. The pill doesn't really help much.

The worst impairment I've suffered is mental. I dealt with survivor's guilt a lot that first year but I never really grieved. I still haven't. I don't know if it was the morphine or what, but my emotions never really came back. I've had a precious few bouts of breakthrough crying but they feel just as fake and forced as the smile I wear. My morality is solely a product of my rational thought; it's something I choose to do and not something I feel. If I were living according to my feelings, I would be in prison because I feel no empathy or kinship any more. I am kind because I choose to be. I do what's right because it's for the best.

The schizoaffective disorder is what won me my permanent disability and it will likely never go away. Although the hallucinations and delusions of the schizophrenia are generally well controlled, I do hear breakthrough voices and sometimes feel paranoia. Sometimes I think the walls and floors are folding in on me. Sometimes I get the feeling that there is still a divine hand on me that sustains me and make me strong.  I struggle to accept these as biochemical anomalies and not as fact. Although my life is better without the voices, I miss them and the richness they gave my life. I take Seroquel to combat the psychotic symptoms.

The bipolar part of the equation has been more difficult. I'm currently suffering through a major depressive episode. I don't feel sad or worthless too much though I remember times when I did very vividly. I do not feel suicidal thanks to my Lexapro. What I do feel is rage. Sometimes it's focused, sometimes not. There are times when it takes everything I have not to slam my fist through glass or the wall for no reason. I live in fear of my next manic episode because each one is a harsh test of my relationships, my abilities, and my character.

And finally, I can never get pregnant again without dying. I'm on the pill right now even though the risk is higher at my age for blood clots and such. Now that I have Medicare, I'm planning to schedule an Essure procedure. They'll take some corkscrews and put them in my Fallopian tubes. The tubes will scar up and close thus making me permanently sterile. Even with Medicare, there will be deductibles and copays so it's a work in progress.

This is my life now. I've lost so much and I feel like I have little to show for it. There is a lot of potential guilt in thinking that you're so pathetic you can't even have a baby right. I've combated that by sharing my story and fighting against both anti-choicers and mental health bigots. I've put just about everything publicly on the line, opening up myself to some ridicule and risk (if you can believe that), so that people will know how dangerous and disabling pregnancy can be. That doesn't make me a hero but it does give me a reason to keep going. I'll never be a shining star in the movement or a big name but I will do what I can to educate, encourage, and support my fellow humans.

I don't do it because it feels gratifying. I do it because I've decided it's right...and doing right is how I choose to spend my remaining hard-won days.

*As I understand it, HELLP causes platelets to clot within the blood vessels. As these platelets form their sticky clotting webs inside the vessels, red blood cells get trapped and ripped apart. So you lose platelet availability from the internal clotting and you lose red blood cells from them being torn up. Hence:

(H)emolysis
(E)levated
(L)iver Enzymes
(L)ow
(P)latelet Count

A Southern Girl Goes to Skepticon

Skepticon has come and gone . Those of you who were unable to go may already be sick of hearing about it. Fear not - I have pictures for you so you can experience it vicariously. Mind you, these aren't the pictures you're going to see all over the internet. If you want to see the pics of all the famous folk, you can find them most anywhere. I'm going to show you Skepticon through a different perspective - that of a first-time Southern female visitor with a lot of anxiety.

The first thing I noticed is that Arkansas and southeast Missouri are dirt-poor and heavily Christian. Jobs seemed to be very scarce and the homes were in disrepair or completely abandoned. Many of the buildings looked like they didn't make it out of the early 20th century but churches abounded and, with them, so did pro-life signs.

This is the sign that just blew my mind. God's stimulus package? What the ever-living hell does that mean? I can kind of understand the billboards that said, "End Abortion" or "Don't Kill Your Baby" but what is this? I thought red state Christians were against the stimulus any way.

I felt nervous going through these areas, as if every horror flick about a couple on vacation that I'd ever watched was going to come true. If there was a place in the South to make someone disappear, this was it. I was actually glad we didn't have any religious or political stickers on our car.

Once we got to Springfield, however, all that anxiety melted away. We got to the hotel and I instantly fell in love with it. For the Skepticon rate of $89.00 a night, we got a 5th floor room in this beautiful 9-story hotel. All the rooms opened into the interior of the hotel and looked down upon a lounge, bar, water fountain, and restaurant.

Looking up from the bottom floor

Glass elevators

Rock garden surrounding part of the lounge

Fountain separating the lounge and the restaurant

For a small-town Southern girl, this was luxurious! We raced upstairs to our room, eager to get our stuff unpacked and get started. This is the scene from our room:

Springfield, MO

I'd never been to Missouri before, let alone Springfield, so I was taking in everything. While Nathan checked to see if there was a Gideon Bible (I had found a dollar in the last hotel Bible I'd found but there was no Bible in our room), I checked out a laminated paper that was left on our bed.

Hotel Prayer

Ok, it was kind of pretty as generic blessings tend to be. I wondered if this was standard practice or if we just got prayed for because we were with Skepticon. We had a chuckle, took it as a nicety, and got about the business of being skeptical!

We'd gotten a late start due to a delay in picking up my medication that morning so we missed some early talks, especially Matt Dillahunty's talk that I'd really been wanting to hear. We raced across the street to the Expo Center and got in to hear the second half of Greta Christina's talk and to see all of JT Eberhard's talk which ended in a marriage proposal to Michaelyn and had many in tears. I never ceased to be amazed by the sharp minds we have in our community but I must admit that JT's ability to bring things down to earth where even the most stubborn believer can understand it is incredible.

We didn't go to the Gastropub Friday night but we did sit in the lounge and talk to some wonderful people. We were sitting by Matt Dillahunty, Beth Presswood, and Rebecca Watson. You know how you sometimes start seeing these people as larger than life? As heroes or giants that can't be reached? I didn't feel that way at all. They were extremely kind and generous, down-to-earth people. I spoke with Beth for a while and was so impressed with her genuineness. 

Then he walked in. 

Earlier in the day, he had appointed me as the Keymaster on Twitter and told me to prepare the way but there was no way to prepare for his coming.

PZ Myers was in the house...late but fashionably so.

For someone who has such a reputation as being shrill, hateful, and vicious, that man is very gentle, soft-spoken and sincere. We spoke briefly and he said that we should have him down to Mississippi to speak sometime. Somehow, someway, I'm going to make that happen!

The next day we got up early (for me) and headed over to the Expo Center again to mingle, buy some stuff, and listen to some more talks. This is what greeted us at the door:

Credit: Beth Presswood

Talk about stereotypes! I really wouldn't have shown up to protest in overalls. But these protesters seemed to be pretty kind and I overheard one of our crew say, "We're all really nice people." I was glad that they were trying to emphasize our good qualities.

Credit: Meg Rotenberg

I stayed away from this guy because I didn't really want to discuss how I came to be living in "adultery" or why this was the best option for me. I didn't think he'd understand.

We went inside and checked out all the vendors. I bought some stickers and a necklace from EvolveFish as well as some Surly-Ramics from Amy. CFI and the AHA gave out some free goodies. I met Ed Brayton and Debbie Goddard, both long-time heroes of mine as well as some Facebook and Godless guild friends. We talked for so long that we didn't have time to eat a proper lunch. By the time we got seated for Sean Carroll's talk about the Higgs Boson, I was starting to crash. Nevertheless, I learned more about fields and particles in that time with Sean that I ever had.

At this point I had to make a choice: if I stayed for Jessica Ahlquist's talk, I was going to fall asleep and I wouldn't have enough energy to make it to the Gastropub or any talks later that night. I did not want to miss Jessica's talk but I chose to sacrifice that one in order to recharge my batteries. I'll definitely be picking it up on YouTube when it's available!

So after my nap (damn my disabilities!), we went back over for PZ's talk on genetics and evolution as well as Rebecca's talk on evolutionary psychology. Now that I had my fill of science, it was time for Gastropub!

We took the hotel van over and I managed to bang my head on a steel bar trying to get in. By the time we got to the pub, my head was ringing and all I wanted to do was sit and relax. I took a picture of the pub but tried to get only the flags on the ceiling since I didn't know whether some of the people at the pub might not be out.

Farmer's Gastropub

The place was loud beyond belief. As one who rarely ever drinks and doesn't tolerate loud noises well, this was a challenge. Yet I was grateful for this place where people could gather and make choices that they weren't allowed to make back home. Namely this:

and this...

It probably sounds crazy to those of you who live elsewhere but the Mississippi county we live in is dry. You can't legally buy alcohol or even possess it. So when I show you this, it's not to glorify drunkenness but instead to glorify choice (although inebriation is fine if that's what you want).

Although I didn't get up and mingle with anyone, I did see a friend I'd met the day before. You should really check out this guy and his blog/podcast The Skeptic Wire. Tell him Tweenky D sent you.

Greg Perrine of The Skeptic Wire

Despite leaving early and taking all my meds early, I overslept the next day and missed Matt's second talk. I can't tell you how sorry I was to have missed those talks and to have to leave early and miss the afternoon talks as well. I'll be catching up on them on YouTube, no doubt.

So we packed our stuff and left that rainy, Sunday morning. Although I didn't get to participate fully, I have no regrets. I had a great time and met some wonderful people. Everyone was kind to me and I felt really safe and comfortable. I say this to encourage any of you who want to go to a conference but have doubts - just fucking go!  The organizers work hard to put this stuff together and they want you to have a good time. Hell, almost all of us want you to have a good time. I daresay you won't find a group of kinder, smarter, more confident, more outgoing, and more interesting people than you'd find at Skepticon.

I slept for a few hours on the way back thanks to the rain but I did get some pictures of a little town whose name I love but whose looks make me fear: Ravensden.

Ravensden, Arkansas

I love crows and ravens. They are some of the smartest creatures around. I'd love to have a statue like this in my front yard.

However, this is the good side of the road. The rest of the area is filled with scary places like this:

It was operating on a Sunday and it smelled funny. Even a Southern girl like me couldn't help but imagine stuffed city folks. I have got to stop watching horror shows on Netflix late at night.

And of course no Southern trip is complete without seeing a dead deer. When you don't have a proper grocery store for miles around, you have to take matters into your own hands. Isn't the South amazing?

I plan to go to Skepticon #6 next year and be better prepared. I'm also hoping that my physical and mental health will continue to improve so I can participate more. But let me tell you, my first time was awesome! I felt a lot of love and respect from everybody - from the folks roaming around with hot pink hair, to the guy in the utility kilt, to the Matt Smith lookalike, all the way to our Overlord PZ. These skeptics are fantastic!

Jesus, Take the Deal

Norovirus

I've suffered a lot in my young life - disease, depression, and a near-death experience - and the way in which I've handled these issues has changed dramatically. When I was a young Christian and in pain, I would pray and beg Jesus for relief. He healed the sick while on earth, right? Why wouldn't he help one of his children out? But when no relief came, I'd always end up a blubbering pile of weakness, making deals with God and going so far a few times as to even agreeing to be a missionary in Africa if he'd just take the pain away. He never did and I never went to Africa.

As an atheist, I've handled these issues very differently. I know now that no amount of prayer, posturing, and deal-making is going to make a difference. There is no personal god out there who cares that I'm in pain. The universe is quite indifferent to all our suffering and, while that terrifies some people, I find it to be soothing that there is indeed a great equalizer. The universe has no demands or expectations and so I get to be the final judge of my own experiences.

Today shook my faithlessness. About 6 this morning, I woke up with a particularly nasty Norovirus swelling my intestines and sending everything into overdrive. The norovirus is commonly called "stomach flu" around these parts and most everybody gets it. The problem is that I have diverticulitis and a section of my colon is prone to swell so when you add a norovirus, you get a super helping of pain.

I've had this stuff off and on my whole life and it's never pleasant. Projectile vomiting and projectile diarrhea usually means that, when you're done, you're going to have a mess to clean up. And since all the fluids in your body have just been rather nastily ejected, you're going to be as weak and helpless as a kitten. This is a great test when looking for a spouse or long-term partner by the way - if s/he takes care of you during this time, you've found a keeper!

So back to the story: I was in so much pain that my body was turning cold and clammy. I felt like I was dying which isn't so scary except that it was proving to be a slow, painful death. At some point, my mind wheeled back to the old Christian days and I started lashing out: 

"Jesus, you're supposed to be the Great Physician! Help me!" 

Then I'd hear the counterargument in my head, "You have to have faith."

Faith is in short supply, you see, but I plowed on, "I don't have any faith but, if you miraculously heal me, I will know you're real and then I'll have a faith I can share with everybody! What a testimony!!"

There was no healing. Nothing but another round of vomiting and pain.

I can't tell you how ashamed I am now that I gave in to this weakness, the human drive to do anything - to make any deal with anybody - in order to survive. I thought I was past of the point of making deals with a non-existence deity but today's illness tested my resolve and I lost.

What do I take from this? One, I'm still human. I'm still susceptible to the same fears and desires as everyone else. And that brings me to an even better discovery: my compassion for those who turn to faith during pain and death is renewed. Although I do not agree with these people and I realize that their reliance on faith may cause them more harm than good, at least I can see them as hurting people again rather than some stupid, lost cause. I found some of my empathy again and I'm glad for that.

Did you make deals with God as a believer? What do you think of those who cling to religion when they feel they have nothing else? How can we reach these people better in their time of need?

P.S. - there is a "Great Physician" - she's my sister. 

The Shamed Slut Diaries

If you are interested in my 28 day contraception blog, please visit The Shamed Slut Diaries. It's a sarcastic yet somewhat serious documentary about the monthly cycle, contraception, and other family issues written as a testimony to the state legislators and governor who think it's their business to regulate my ladyparts.

Where Is Tweenky Dee?

This latest round of attacks on women have been very disheartening. Many of you may have been wondering, "Where is Tweenky Dee? Where are all the videos? The blogs? Where's all that work we've come to expect?" 

I'm still here, of course, but I have nothing to give you right now. The fight has asked more of me than I can give and I need time to recover. You see, I'm a woman too - a woman of childbearing age who has some very high stakes in these battles and I'm losing. Let me explain.

Because of the terrible disease that killed our son in the womb and almost killed me too, I absolutely cannot risk another pregnancy. Doctor's orders - not even one more attempt or I will die. We take responsibility for this by practicing two forms of birth control (the pill and condoms) until I can have the surgery to be sterilized. If the unthinkable should happen and, against all odds, I get pregnant again, then I will be forced to either have an abortion or die.

Now I have men and women in our legislatures demonizing me for the responsible use of birth control and doing everything they can to make sure I can't choose abortion in the worst case scenario. I'm a slut because I don't want to die. I'm a slut who deserves shame and disgrace if I think flushing a fertilized egg out of my system so that I can live is a good idea.

I hear them saying to me, "You're worthless. You deserve to die. You can't make any babies so you might as well be dead."

So here I am being doubly responsible with my birth control, yet if by some miracle I get pregnant, the state thinks I should have to have a transvaginal ultrasound before being denied an abortion to save my life. How do they think I'm going to feel, laid up on that table, feet in cold stirrups, a long wand shoved deep inside me and only so I can see the "heartbeat" and form of the embryo that is going to kill me. Because I'd love nothing more than to see another dead child. Losing the first one was so much fun, I just can't wait to do it again.

That's why I can't fight right now. That's why I'm having to take some time for myself. Because I'm a real woman who hurts. I'm a real woman who is afraid. I'm a real woman who is angry. I'm a mother who has lost her son and now all she hears is, "Try it again, slut. We'll get you next time."

Is this what "compassionate conservatism" looks like? Because if it is, you can shove it up your ass.

Just let me cry for a few minutes, please.

For anyone reading this that has ever had to grieve the loss of a friend or family member, I ask how long does this grieving process last?

I have started writing this again (for about the 6th time) since mid December. I seem to get to a point and just delete it only to start over a few weeks later. It has been about a year to the day that we lost our son and I have yet to cry.

 I have had to remain strong and be the one in constant control of my feelings. Making those hard decisions and make sure everything, to the best of my ability, is taken care of. I don't see it as a sacrifice I chose to make but rather a decision to make the best of the situation and provide the needed care. But sometimes it would be nice to just cry for a few minutes.

It's gets easier to tell our story and until just a few weeks ago no one outside our families knew about it. Not even the people who joined with us back in August 2011 in the fight against amendment 26. It was a private matter that fueled our desire to shut the amendment down and helped give us the courage to create the DeepFried Freethinkers and go public with so much skepticism and freethinking in North East Mississippi that was just unheard of. We are so deep in the Anti-Family Association (or AFA) area that we could see Bryan Fischer go to work everyday. But the AFA keeps us busy and they feed us fodder to blog about daily, too much fodder in fact.

By the time I finish writing this I will be one step closer in my personal grieving process, I hope.

The following is an account from my viewpoint of the events that happened and how they have affected me, so please bear with me as I slowly recall it.

At the end of the January 2011, I took Tweenky out for an authentic Italian dinner in Gulfport, MS, at Pasta Italia Trattoria - a place that allows you bring you own wine in to enjoy with your meal, but not for us. We were celebrating my 2nd New Years sober in 12 years and just our lives together in general. Tweenky ordered the pasta with marinara sauce and I ordered the mostaccioli.  About half way through our salad, Tweenky suffered a severe nosebleed with no apparent cause. It wasn't a normal nosebleed; the blood appeared really thin and watery. Tthat was our first clue this was serious. We left for the hospital and had to deal with a front desk nurse who was more worried about getting Tweenky to sign some papers than the fact there was blood literally gushing from her nose and mouth. I know I was upset and scared, she was only doing her job, but I wanted the bleeding to stop. I had no idea what was happening to her or why. What caused this? Not knowing has the worst feeling ever or so I thought at that moment.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, she was in a room and then we waited for the doctor. They ran a few test and checked her nasal cavity to find the source and cause. I was asked to leave the room. Later I found out they had asked about any domestic abuse and such. That's when they discovered that she had high blood pressure which resulted in a posterior tear in her nasal cavity but the high blood pressure was caused by her being pregnant......Yes, I said pregnant; something I was told previously some years ago would be impossible for me after sustaining an injury and some painful swelling. I have lived with that knowledge since I was 14, but at that age you're not thinking about having a family. It was in my early twenties that the desire to be a father nabbed at me from time to time. It would have a longing effect on me for several years and then fade away.

They carefully packed both her nostrils, stopped the bleeding, and prescribed some blood pressure medicine. They moved her up to Labor and Delivery to address the other factor that caused all this, her being unexpectantly pregnant. The results came back positive and she was approximately 21-22 weeks and, after a sonogram, we found out it was a boy. We were both surprised, scared, excited and lost to say the least. Neither of us had planned on ever having kids - it was something I once longed for but had been denied early on in life, thus given up on. Tweenky had decided that she hadn't had any yet and just didn't really think she wanted to have any as she got older.

Then this is were our lives are changed in so many ways it has taken almost a year to realize what all happened. There are details that I could vaguely remember 6 or 9 months ago that I can't get out of my head now. It's my brain handling the mass amount of emotional information and the slow process is probably needed or one would go insane and lose control of their own emotions, but I have yet to cry.

 It was about a week later when I got up for work as usual and Tweenky said she was having trouble seeing; in fact she had gone completely blind for a few minutes and then the seizures happened. There is nothing scarier than having a loved one in your arms suffering a seizure and there is really nothing you can do but keep them safe from their surroundings. I had no idea what was causing this but I knew I had to act fast. I had managed to get her into the car when she came back around and we headed straight to the hospital where she had 2 more seizures in the ER. The attending doctor in the ER had totally pissed me off; Tweenky was having a seizure and he just stood there. I alone was holding her and keeping her from falling off the table. They finally got her stable, which took 15 minutes because no one could find the freaking key to the medical cabinet - really? 

Then they tried 3 or 4 different times and with different equipment to find and check the baby's heartbeat and vitals. It was frustrating no one would tell me anything and I knew that if I caused a scene I would likely be escorted to the waiting room - not where I wanted to be. I was playing back the past week in my head: had I forgotten to give her her meds? There were only 3 pills she took daily - had I given her the wrong one at the wrong time?No, I had given her the right meds at the right times...that much I was for sure. But still my head was racing for a reason as to why this was happening. This feeling of helplessness and unknowing was infuriating to say the least.

The ER doctor took me outside and said, "There's no heartbeat or movement and we are moving her to labor and delivery." I felt my world stop, fall around me, and there was nothing else around me except Tweenky. She had lost consciousness from the seizures but she was stable for now.  It was like the world had gone into slow motion for the next forty minutes or so. I don't remember who I called first or who I actually talked to. I was, for all intents and purposes, "going through the motions."

After calling family on both sides, I stayed at her side while the ob-gyn ran tests. It was within a half hour the doctor confirmed that our son had in fact died but that was only part of the problem. Tweenky was suffering a severe type of pre-eclampsia called HELLP Syndrome, symptoms of DIC and her kidneys were barely functioning. They had to install a PIC line for faster results to the medicine they were giving her. She had an IV in each arm, one was saline to keep her hydrated and to keep her kidneys functioning as much as possible.  Her platelet count had dropped to almost 30,000; it should be around 250,000 to 300,000. This meant surgically removing our son (which would stop the DIC and release her from the HELLP syndrome) was not an option and she would have to perform a vaginal birth.

Tweenky had fallen in and out of consciousness 3 times after being moved to the ICU. I know that it was 3 times because, when she would come around and ask what was going on, I had to tell her that we lost the baby each time. This killed me inside every time. She was apparently in such a state of shock, compounded with the seizures; she was having problems remembering, focusing and remaining awake. The doctors came to me with paper work for a blood transfusion and other life-saving permissions,( I was raised a Jehovah's Witness for 20 some years - a blood transfusion would not have ever been allowed had I still been a follower and she would have died.) I signed them all without hesitation. I wanted them to do everything imaginably possible to save her. They kept us up to date as things were happening, but still time was of the essence. She was going to become more septic as the minutes passed and her kidneys were barely functioning, zapping what little energy she had in her to stay awake. All the while they were telling us to plan for the worst. Yet, I still hadn't cried.

Thankfully, she was given prostaglandin suppositories (something that Amendment 26 tried to ban) to induce labor; otherwise, she would continue to slowly die from our dead son who was now becoming septic to her body. In a way I am thankful that Tweenky doesn't remember all the events. I believe it would have destroyed what was left of her after suffering so much. I literally spent the next week at her side in the hospital. I left only for 2 hrs to pay bills as she slowly recovered. The hospital staff was very sincere; they all knew what had happened and that she was lucky to have lived through all of it. We had several doctors come and visit us, some who only heard about our situation, to give condolences and wish us the best. For all intents and purposes, they said she should have died. "Her platelets were so low and her kidneys had all but stopped," one doctor told me several times. At the end of the week, the doctors released her and I was at her side always. I was happy to have her home and still I didn't cry.

Though she suffered several seizures, there wasn't any permanent damage per se. However, she can barely remember much of what happened at the hospital. Personal care, medicine for high blood pressure and depression would be a constant fixture for a long while. I quit my job in Biloxi and made arrangements to move closer to her family to ensure sure she had better care. I am only one person, I can only do so much and was not afraid to ask for help. We ended up moving just north of Tupelo, MS, where we have a family support group that has helped us in so many ways. I may never be able to repay them for all that they have done for us but I will never stop thanking them for it.

Occasionally I feel my eyes swell up and think, "Finally, I can cry," but then something inside reaches up and pulls the tears back. "Not yet, there is still something to do."

Like I mentioned before, perhaps writing this will bring me one step further in the grieving process. It has become easier to at least write about it - that's a step forward. Talking about it to others is still hard at times: I find myself either going blank or changing the subject. "Just a little more time," I tell myself. I usually find something to bury myself into, keeping myself busy and putting this on the back burner.

But it would be nice to just cry and let it all out. I know in time I will.

Thank you all for letting me share. It means a lot.

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