Why I hate April

I met my husband in April.

It was a Friday night and a friend and I were celebrating the end of my third year of university at a downtown bar. Paul was there with a group of friends and somehow we ended up dancing. Before that day I had never believed in love at first sight but the first time I looked in his eyes (and saw that amazing dimple when he smiled) I knew I would marry him.

A year later -- also in April -- he proposed. The circumstances were bad, the words weren't romantic and he didn't get down on one knee. But there he was: the only man I had every really loved was holding a ring and asking me to spend the rest of my life with him.

We used to celebrate both of these 'anniversaries'. We would go out to dinner or if he was away he would make sure to call. When you are young and have no kids to distract you these milestones seem so important.

But now I hate April.

The dread starts a week before and by the time April finally rolls around I am in a full-fledged funk. I used to try hide it. Friends would comment that I was unusually quiet but I would smile and dismiss it as nothing. After ten years it seems too difficult to explain.

Some people suggest that time makes grief fade but I have come to realize that some types of sadness are always a part of you: hiding in your tissues, in your heart, in your mind. Sometimes it ebbs and your focus turns to other happy aspects of your life but you know it is not really gone. It will flow back.

Sometimes you know it is coming and sometimes it blindsides you when you least expect it.

I always expect it in April.

In April 2000 we should have been celebrating the birth of our first child; the baby Paul and I had nicknamed Gaffer. We had been waiting for this little person to come into our lives for almost three years. With each doctor's appointment, drug treatment and negative test Paul would hold me and remind me to focus on the baby that was waiting for us. His faith never wavered.

Our struggles with infertility started in 1997 when Paul and I decided to have kids (you can read about it in this post: http://juliehollingergendon.blogspot.com/2010/05/my-journey-to-motherhood.html) There were tests, pills, injections, mood swings and ultrasounds galore but in early August 1999 my prayers were answered. Against all odds -- I was pregnant.

I had just finished a disastrous treatment cycle and I had not held out a lot of hope for success. Midway through the cycle the specialists at the fertility clinic considered discontinuing the treatment, I had to take twice as many injections as they predicted and ended up I ovulating the day before a business trip (we had to ditch the insemination at the lab and buy Paul a plane ticket to San Francisco instead). When I started to bleed a few weeks later I was not surprised, I simply tried to put it out of my head.

Try as I might though I could not snap out of it. I was exhausted and nauseated and I chalked it up to the fertility meds working their way out of my system. The nurses at the clinic were not convinced. One of them explained that since I had two eggs there was still a chance I was pregnant. Sometimes one egg won't 'take' but the other will hang on. She encouraged me to buy a pregnancy test and find out for sure.

After three years in infertility hell, I had spent a small fortune on pregnancy tests. I had never, ever seen a positive sign and I was not holding out hope that this would be any different. I didn't even tell Paul I was doing it. I woke up, peed on the stick and braced myself for another heartache. As I sat on the side of the tub I watched the stick. One line appeared -- the test was working. Line two appeared -- I screamed.

Paul was in a dead sleep but was in the bathroom in a second, thinking I had either been attacked by a home invader or had been cornered by a spider. He was not prepared for a happy wife and the positive pregnancy test we had been dreaming about. We got dressed immediately and headed to the clinic for a blood test to confirm. I was pregnant.

Ten days later it started to unravel. More spotting, some cramping... I called the clinic and they told me it happened sometimes. Don't panic. A few days later I called my GP who sent me for another blood test. My levels were still climbing, he assured me. I was pregnant. A few days later I woke up with more horrible cramping and after a trip to the bathroom I woke Paul and told him that we had to go to the hospital. We drove in silence as I cried.

After a quick exam the doctor started an IV and did a blood test. They gave us a private room because I was almost hysterical. Paul was a rock but held it together for me. I can only imagine how much he was hurting. Finally the doctor came back. He was quiet and sat down on the stool by my bed. I never looked at him. I remember staring intently at the IV on the back of my hand wishing he would just leave. I knew that as soon as he opened his mouth it was over.

My levels were dropping he told Paul quietly. If I had not already lost the baby it was only a matter of time. There was nothing they could do. "I'm sorry," he said as he left us. I remember hearing the paper crumple as Paul sat down on the table behind me and held me as I sobbed. I remember the nurse peeking in and then leaving. When she returned a few minutes later her eyes were glassy. She removed the IV in my hand without saying anything to us. What was there to say? Instead she rubbed my arm and asked if there was anything else that she could do.

"Do you want me to call someone," she asked. "We have a chaplain and a social worker on call." Paul assured her that we were fine and after she left he helped me get dressed and all but carried me to the car. The next few days are a blur. I called in sick to work. I avoided phone calls and I cried. I was devastated and I was angry. I have never felt so out of control in my life. There was nothing I could do or say to bring my baby back so I punched walls, I kicked things and I cried some more.

After a few weeks, Paul convinced me to try another round of treatment and I got pregnant again. I was petrified of losing this baby and I did everything the doctors told me to do. We found out that we were having a baby girl and we picked a name. My parents bought us a crib and we set up a nursery. There were pink outfits folded in the dresser and hanging in the closet. I was so busy that when April rolled around I was surprised to feel the sadness set in.

The baby I lost had been due in April. While my belly was swelling with a daughter I loved more than life itself, I felt empty. While my rational mind reminded me that I was blessed to have a healthy baby kicking me from within, I mourned the baby I had lost. I would never know if it was a boy or girl. I would never give it a 'proper' name. That child would always be my Gaffer. I felt selfish as I cried. I wanted my baby back. I wanted them both.

At first I dismissed it as hormones. I was pregnant -- crying came with the territory. But the following April it happened again. And with every passing April for a decade the grief takes hold as the snow starts to melt.

Every April I open the beautiful wooden box that Paul and I bought after my miscarriage. It contains the pregnancy journal I had been filling out during my treatments and through the brief weeks my baby was with us. There is an ad for the hotel in San Francisco that trumped the fertility clinic. There is a ziploc bag with the positive pregnancy test. Some condolence cards. A poem that was sent to me by a friend who lost a baby and understood my pain. The hospital bracelet from our trip to the emergency room. A coin set. A package of seeds -- Forget-Me-Nots.

I never planted the seeds; I fully intended to when my mother gave them to me but the next year I was afraid. What if they didn't take? What if I planted them and they died? It would make me too sad. Instead I keep the packet. The seeds have potential -- the promise of life. It is seems odd to me that I am clinging to possibility of life that these seeds carry as I mourn the potential life that was lost. Instead of planting the seeds and letting them thrive, I am hoarding them. As long as the potential is there then I can't be hurt again.

I have thought about this post for a few days and struggled with whether or not to publish it; it is very personal and the pain is still raw after eleven years. But as I approach my fortieth birthday and look back at the events that shaped the woman I am today there is no way to ignore this part of my life. This child that no one had a chance to meet is as real to me as my others. I am also sharing this story because I know that I am not alone. Many of my friends admit quietly that they too have lost children. I am willing to bet that I am not the only one still mourning.

So as April sits on the horizon I brace myself to feel the sadness, to pull out the wooden box that no one else ever opens and to shed a few more tears for my Gaffer. This summer I will buy a flat of Forget-Me-Nots and plant them in my garden. The seeds will stay in the box.

You can't get there from here...

A few weeks ago I was talking to a girl at the gym who is in her last year of high school. She had been accepted at one university but was still waiting to hear back from the program at the top of her list. Although it has been more than twenty years since I applied to university, I vividly remember the anxiety she was describing as she talked about checking her mailbox each day.

I was seventeen and it was mid-June. I was at school preparing to write one of my last exams. I had already heard back from Queen's and Ottawa U -- both had accepted me for general arts -- but I was holding out for Carleton. I had applied for the journalism program and the competition was stiff. One of my friends had gone home for lunch that day and had come back to school with a letter from Carleton offering an early acceptance to their engineering program. I called home and begged my mom to check the mail. Yes, there was a letter from Carleton. No, she was not going to open it before my exam.

Is it a big envelope or a little envelope? I asked. Is there a department on the return address? Tell me something... anything.... I begged.

I got home that afternoon and called my dad so he could hear the news along with everyone else. I got in. I screamed. I danced. I read the letter four times (later I would even frame it).

At that moment I felt that my life was set; I was going to be a journalist. My first choice was magazine writing but I would have been happy working for a major newspaper. I was going to live in Europe and marry someone fabulous. I wasn't going to have kids. I didn't like children and even if I did they take a lot of time and would interfere with my career. Yep. I had it all decided.

Twenty-some years later I look back at that girl and laugh. I did finish my journalism degree but mid-way through year one I realized that I definitely did not want to be a journalist. I have three lovely daughters and I live only minutes away from the house where I grew up. (I did marry someone fabulous, though!) I am a stay-at-home mom. I studied to be a nutritionist and a personal trainer. I teach yoga and fitness classes and I am writing a romance novel in my scarce free time.

If there was a road map for life's paths and someone plotted the life I had planned against the life I have now they would probably conclude 'you can't get there from here'. But somehow I did.

With the big four-oh only eight months away I have been doing a lot of thinking about the decisions and the circumstances that lead me to where I am now. How did a girl who hated phys ed. end up teaching Spin classes? I spent my early-twenties thinking romance novels were drivel -- today I would like to see my name on the cover of one.

Over the next few weeks I will share some of these turning points with you. Some have been significant -- meeting my husband, having a baby, quitting my job -- but some happened so gradually that I barely noticed them at the time. It wasn't a sharp right or a left but a slow merge from one road to another.

Tomorrow, I'll tell you about why I hate April.

clutter be gone

As most of my friends know, housework is not my strong suit. I do it because I have to. If something more fun comes up I'll drop my chores like a bad habit and save them for the following week.

I used to stress about the house being tidy but over the years I have made peace with the fact that my house is never going to end up on the pages of "Good Housekeeping". Ever. It is clean but lived in. There are four people in this family and we all have lots of stuff.

It was easier before we had kids and even easier when we had a cleaning service that came in every second week. I would invite company and organize dinner parties for the day after the amazing Lisa was scheduled to come and would do my best to 'maintain' between visits.

The winter is the worst. We have a small entrance way and the hats, boots, coats, snowpants, mitts and scarves tend to overflow their baskets making the place look cluttered. When you add in the school bags, gym bags, running shoes and purses it tends to get overwhelming. I try to close my eyes and imagine a happier Julie when the summer rolls around and my front entrance is tidier. On days like today I just snap.

"That's it," I said to Paul this morning in a snippy voice. "I'm done."

Paul looked up from his computer to see what I was stewing about.

"If any of you has something in this house they really love they had better hide it," I yelled out. "Starting tomorrow I am throwing shit out!"

Not my finest parenting moment I'll admit but they know I'm serious and should consider themselves warned. If something special goes missing next week, it won't be my fault.

When Paul and I first bought our house we had precious little to fill it. A bed, a sofa, a dresser, a desk, a dining room table, a kitchen table, our appliances and an old stereo that had only one working cassette player and a turn-table on top. We each had clothes and a mountain of books but it was pretty sparse overall. As we would give people tours of our new house we would show them the storage room, the furnace room and the back room in our basement and wonder what in the world we would ever put there.

Fifteen years later we found out. The storage rooms are packed, the closets are stuffed and we have plenty of furniture. Now we have a choice. We can get a bigger house or get rid of some stuff.

I have been talking about de-cluttering for a while. Last month I was in the bookstore and I found a book on how to de-clutter your house in seven days. I flipped through it imaging a fabulous, minimalist home and nearly made it to the cash before my friend L shattered my dreams.

"You don't need another book to add to the clutter," she said in an annoyingly logical voice. "You just need to do it."

A month later I was back at Chapters (without that spoil-sport L) and saw a book called '100 Things". Paul was already in line at the cash so I could only flip through quickly. The author was talking about how he had walked through his home puzzled by how he had accumulated so much. I could relate. It started him on a one-year journey to live with less.

I was inspired.

"I'm going to do it," I told Paul on the way home. "Over the next year I am going to throw out one hundred things." He didn't say much. I tend to come up with a lot grand schemes and lofty plans so over the years Paul had become jaded when I make these proclamations.

I ignored his lack of enthusiasm and decided to google 100 Things when I got home to learn more. The first thing I learned was that I had missed the premise of the book. He isn't throwing out 100 things - he is going to live with only 100 things!

Huh? 100 things!! I have more than 100 items of clothing. I have a magazine collection in the basement that easily tops one hundred. Don't even get me started on the books. 100 items is crazy.

I looked at his list and was shocked to see that the writer gave up his yoga mat but used up 8 items on his list for camping gear! Clearly this man was cut from a different cloth than me. He did group all of his books under one item called library which made me feel a little better but I am still shocked. He lived with those 100 items for over a year.

While I admire the man's dedication I am sticking with my own guidelines and will be content with throwing out one hundred items. There are plenty of things in my closet that I no longer wear that could be put to better use at the free store at church. I have jewelery that I don't wear and cosmetics that need to be trashed. The nail polish has taken over a larger section of the refrigerator than I would like so that is another area to work with. Do I need three yoga mats? Probably not.

In the meantime I have been thinking about what items I would need to have on my 100 Things list. It is not a serious goal but more like the game you play at dinner parties: If you were stuck on a desert island and could only bring three things, what would you choose. (For the record I would bring Paul and let him choose the other two items -- what do I know about surviving on a desert island.)

What's on your list? I would be interested to hear what items my friends couldn't live without.

Looking back at my blog posts for the past few months I realized that it has been a while since I posted any of my fiction. So, here is one from June of last year about a character named Linda, a cynical kindergarten teacher who has recently been disappointed by someone in her life. The challenged was to imagine a scenario where Linda is trying to teach her class but is being interrupted by her cell phone. The kids can only hear one side of the conversation.

________

in other words...

Linda sighed as she heard her cell phone start to ring again.

The first time it rang she had ignored it. Usually she turned her phone off during school hours but she had been getting a pep talk from her sister when the bell rang and had quickly thrown the phone in her desk drawer as the kids started to file in. Now it was circle time and she was clear across the room sitting in the old rocking chair with eighteen pairs of eyes staring at her.

When it first rang the kids giggled. She knew it was him. ‘Fly me to the moon’ was their song and she had set it as his ringtone the night they met and danced all evening at the old jazz club on Main Street.

She tried to ignore the interruption by diverting their attention.

“Samuel? Would you like to be Miss Linda’s helper today? Why don’t you come up here and pick a book for the class to read this morning?” Samuel happily scrambled over the bookshelf and considered his choices with glee. Oh, to be five again….

They were on page three when the phone rang the second time. Damn it, why did he keep calling? Linda made a face and pointed at a silly squirrel on the brightly-colored page hoping the kids laughter would drown out the tune that now made her want to cry.

If the kids noticed, no one said anything and she continued with the story. With a quick glance at the clock she noticed that it was only 9:30: it was going to be a long, long day.

She had wanted to call in sick; to pull out the list of substitute teachers who could save her from putting on her happy face for the eighteen little people who sat in front of her. Her sister convinced her to soldier on. “Linda, you need to go to work. Get up, splash some cold water on your face, load up on the Visine and face the world. What else are you going to do? Sit at home and cry for that cheating bastard?”

By 10:30 the kids were sitting at their tables to work on printing. She had spent the last hour singing loud songs and doing silly dances with them in an effort to drown out the constant calls and she knew they all needed a little downtime. But with the kids concentrating on making neat and precise R’s the phone’s ring seemed so loud it almost echoed. Enough.

“Excuse me boys and girls. Miss Linda is just going to answer this call so we can get rid of the interruptions. Everyone keep working on their printing. You are all doing such a good job,” she said in her best kindergarten teacher voice.

She placed her hand over her mouth as she slid open her cell to answer the call. “What do you want?” she growled much louder than she intended. A few kids at a nearby table looked up with alarm but she smiled back at them. “I am very busy right now,” she said returning to her melodic teaching voice in an attempt to reassure the kids. It was not the voice she would have chosen if she hadn’t had an audience. The words she wanted to use were also off-limits in a classroom full of five year-olds.

“I’m sorry. I know… I just, I needed to talk to you, to explain.”

“There is nothing to explain. Your, ahem, partner explained it quite clearly when we spoke on Friday. There is no need for you to keep calling.”

“Look I didn’t know that my wife was going to call you. I am so sorry. That should never have happened. I was going to explain.”

“I don’t think any further explanations are necessary. In fact, I think the whole situation is quite clear,” she said choosing her words quite carefully. “I was surprised to find out that another venture existed so I have decided to invest elsewhere.”

“Why are you talking like this? Oh shit, are your kids there? Is the whole class listening to you? Damn it, I should have thought about this before I called you.”

“Yes, I agree. There are numerous issues that should have considered beforehand but it’s too late to change it now.”

“I’m going to leave her. I love you, I swear, I just need time.”

“That won’t be necessary. I have already made my decision. Thank you so much for following up,” she let the sarcasm drip from her voice. “I don’t think you need to call again.”

Linda snapped the phone closed and took a deep breath steadying herself against the tears that threatened to fall. “I am sorry boys and girls. I am turning my phone off right now.”

Samuel looked up from the table in the centre of the room. “My mommy hates it when people call on the phone to sell us things we don’t need. She says they always call at the wrong time and that they are a ‘pain a butt’.” The kids all giggled.

Linda looked over at the little blond-haired, boy with the thick glasses who had handily changed the subject and saved her from having to make more excuses to the young class.

Yep, she had picked the perfect helper today.

__________________________

I am happy to say that The Character Project is continuing in the new year. If you love to write you should consider joining us. There are weekly prompts to inspire you and you can participate as often as your life will allow.

What is the lesson

I am a New Year's resolution girl. I like to think of January 1 as a fresh start and it always seems like a good idea to focus on one or two areas where I can make improvements over the next 365 days. For many, New Year's resolutions don't last more than a week before they are forgotten (I work in a gym -- enough said).

In the past my resolution usually focused on my weight; I have entered more than one January hell-bent on losing five to ten pounds. I finally gave up on that train of thought because more often than not I ended up feeling worst about myself instead of better.

For 2011 I have resolved to learn. I love learning so on the surface it seems easy enough. Paul calls me a perpetual student and knows I am always happy to be knee-deep in books, papers and exams. But the resolution is not about that kind of learning, it is about the day-to-day lessons we all ignore everyday.

I truly believe that if we open our eyes we will see that life is presenting us with lessons all the time.

The people crossing our paths do so for a reason; we can learn from them. But it is not just the people we like that can help us to learn and grow -- what about the people in our lives that are more (ahem) 'challenging'? I read once that the people in our lives that we like the least are the ones that remind us of something in ourselves we do not like. Ouch...

My knee-jerk reaction is to dismiss the theory but when I stop to think about it there is a lot of truth there. Whether these people mirror a quality in me -- or have overcome a struggle that still holds me back -- their presence makes me uncomfortable. Recognizing this I have a choice to make: do I walk away or do I start to work on those areas in my life that are clearly hindering me?

There is a Sanskrit greeting Namaste which means (and I am paraphrasing) the Divine that is within me, recognizes the Divine that is within you. It is beautiful idea that transcends any creed or religion. While we may all have different interpretation of the Divine the core principal is the same. Every person has a 'spark' or a goodness in them. We may not see it immediately but it is something that we should recognize and respect.

It would be easier to lose five pounds. I have done it before but inevitably those five pounds will creep right back. The lessons, however, have the potential to make permanent changes in my life.

When did kids stop being kids?

It is Christmas holidays and I am having a blast with Paul and the girls.

Over the past few days we have been doing a Star Wars movie marathon and Paul has been introducing the kids to the wonders of Luke, Leia, Han Solo Darth Vader and Yoda (we are not Jar Jar Binks fans so we are trying to discourage their enthusiasm for bumbling Gungan). As they watched the movies we have been watching their faces and their enthusiasm for the story. It has been fabulous to revisit the saga again from their perspective.

As with all kids their age, Christmas is top of mind. They are thrilled to have everyone come to our house for turkey dinner this year. They are anxious to see us open the gifts they bought for us at the school's Christmas shop and they are excited to see what Santa will deliver for them.

As I write this, Paul has brought them to the mall to get their photo taken with Santa. Kathyrn is six this year and Gracie is ten and they looked so cute in their outfits. I realize with a tinge of sadness that this may be the last year Gracie will agree to pose with the big man. I am hoping that she will continue to humor me well into her teenage years.

While I recognize that my daughter is growing up far too quickly for my liking I am thrilled that she is still a kid at heart. Some may argue that she is a little young for ten but Paul and I made a conscious decision to let our girls be kids for as long as possible. We monitor their television and movie viewing carefully, we try not to watch the news if they are in the room and I review all of Gracie's books if they have not been recommended by someone I trust.

They are sheltered and perhaps that is why I was so shocked by a sign I saw at CHEO yesterday.

While we were waiting for Kathryn in the reception area of the MRI and CAT scan clinic I saw a yellow sheet posted on the wall. "All female patients over the age of eleven will be asked about the possibility of pregnancy prior to a CAT scan or MRI." I almost spit out my coffee when I spotted it. My daughter will be eleven in only eight months and the very idea that someone her age could be pregnant devastated me.

I tried to imagine what I would have done if Gracie would have been the one having the test done. I don't think that the waiting room at CHEO is any place for me to have 'the talk' with my daughter -- especially when the nurse could be calling her name at any moment. She knows about the egg and the sperm but we have not explained all the details about the mechanics. I didn't think it was necessary yet.

I want to say up-front that I am not criticizing the staff at CHEO: I am sure the doctors, nurses and technicians see heart-wrenching situations and that there are good reasons why this policy is in place. It makes me sad, however, to think that there are eleven-year-old girls living lives where pregnancy may be an issue.

Eleven.

Maybe I am naive. As the parent of a pre-teen (and pretty one at that) I know that boys and dating are going to an issue soon. As a mother I will not be able to be with my girls 24/7 but I pray the lessons Paul and I taught them will stick. I want them to make smart decisions. I hope they know that they can come to us if they need to talk or if they have a problem they don't feel ready to handle.

In the meantime, we will continue to let our girls be children. I am glad that they have that luxury. Reading that sign yesterday I was reminded that not all little girls do.

It seemed like a good idea at the time

Now usually when I say those eight words (I am referring to the title above) my friend L is somehow involved.

• "We could totally raise $2,000 each and walk 60km in a weekend!"
• "Don't worry, Julie and I can make hundreds of chocolate suckers for the Easter service."
• "Sure it will hurt initially to pierce the cartilage in our ears but I am sure it will heal in no time."
• "You'll love running in the winter. If you dress right you'll never even notice is it 20 below zero!"

This time I have no one else to blame. Signing up for NaNoWriMo was all my idea. For those of you who are not familiar with National Novel Writing Month, the challenge is to write a 50,000 word 'novel' in 30 days. For me the challenge is perfect. I am a master procrastinator and the 1,667 word quota each day provides me with incentive to sit down at my computer regularly. I actually like writing once I sit down but I lack the discipline to get started each day.

A few of my friends know that for the past four months I have obsessed with a story that has been floating around in my head. A few of the characters have been slowly introducing themselves to me and as the weeks go by I am seeing the framework of a larger tale coming together. I have typed out some of my notes about the characters, I have come up with a number of plot scenarios and I have even written a few scenes but the sheer scope of the project has been daunting. Frustrated and overwhelmed I realized that I needed to put that project on a shelf for a few weeks to see if I can get some clarity.

Enter NaNoWriMo. A few million people around the world would be starting from scratch on November 1. Keeping each other on track. Offering encouragement and suggestions on-line. I signed up in September and promptly forgot all about it.

Two weeks ago the e-mails started arriving. NaNoWriMo starts soon. Are you ready? I must admit I was tempted to drop out but the more I thought about it the more excited I got. There were four characters from a story I had written earlier this year that were hanging out in the back of my brain. Lisa, a pregnant paralegal; Jason, her lawyer partner and the father of her baby; Jon, her friend from university who was secretly in love with her; and Margaret, who got stuck in an elevator with her one fateful day. (click the links to read their initial stories)

A few friends had asked me whatever happened to them. Was this my opportunity to finally tell their full story?

Well, today is day 6 of NaNoWriMo and I am almost 8,500 words in! I am a little behind schedule (truth be told, I should be working on my novel and not on this blog post) but I am excited . Each time I sit down to write I am getting a little traction and a little more confidence.

I will keep you all posted and maybe by the end of the month I will have 50,000 words to share with all of the folks who asked me "whatever happened to Lisa?"