I used Archie as a training opportunity, because he also needed his Pentosan injection and I know he's phenomenal about being stabbed.  Both Big G's owner and Ox's owner were present.  I was pretty sure Ox's owner knew how to do a blood draw, so I asked Big G's owner if she did and, if not, if she wanted to learn.  I showed her how to find the vein, press the vein, the angle to hold the needle, and about flashing.  I'm not a licensed vet tech, but if anyone is interested in learning about this, I'd be glad to put up a tutorial.  If you're comfortable giving a horse IM injections, comfortable with needles, it's not too a far leap to draw for yourself.  And you never know when you might have to give IV Banamine (knock on wood).

After Archie gave blood, I showed her how to give an IM injection - another thing I think horse owners should know.  And I love to teach this stuff.  Archie does, unfortunately, have a bald patch on his neck from his years of injections.  But whatever, the meds work and his mane is long enough to hide it.

The ashes part of this?

Big G's owner's husband built Scarlette's urn.  I said I needed a box that would hold her collar, preferably in a separate section, and 40 cubic inches of ash.  And I wanted it to have a hinged lid, so I could open it.  He's a mastermind with the woodworking - actually built all our jumps and the mounting block and makes saddle/grooming stands - so I knew he could handle it.  And he delivered.

I'd thought various things about staining  and making it look grown-up and professional, but finally acknowledged that I needed it to be as unique as she was.  So ombre and pink and attention to detail and, of course, her grinning up at me.

I still can't believe she's gone.  I actually even reached out to the guy I got her with, almost a decade and a half ago, to see if he still had any puppy photos.  It was like reaching my hand into boiling water and just coming back scalded.

It felt good to make something pretty for her.  To honor her a little bit.  It won't be the last thing I do for her, either.  

The first thing I noticed was the silence.

Every time I try to write, it comes out horribly depressing and/or boring.

So imma summarize.  (i just like the look of that)

"But this is work."

Stressed puppy.

There's a hashtag that pops up when you search the one I've been using, #iamoneinfour, which is #miscarriagesurvivor.  I immediately blew this off as bull shit, because why the fuck wouldn't you survive a miscarriage?  Unless you were hemorrhaging or something.

And then my miscarriage progressed and I realized this shit can fucking kill you.  What else in life will destroy you so completely both emotionally and physically?  There's an underlying urge to go and be with your baby.

So let's talk about what kept me from the edge.

Sure, maybe you could master straight before you start asking for lateral....

I bought All The Things.

Rum.

Friends & Fam

Ink

Scheduled for Sunday.  

I bawled.  I broke.  I exited the back while my husband made a follow up appointment and I called my mom.  Because mothers make it better, even if all she does is sob with you.  I wanted to be that mother to my child, only my child didn't make it far enough to share my tears.

The plan, before my heart was ripped out, was to use Archie's birthday to announce my pregnancy.  To this blog and to the rest of the world.  Early, sure, but what could go wrong?  Except everything.

I went back Tuesday of this week to have a follow up appointment.  My friends have come out of everywhere to support me and I received a dozen texts before the appointment time, wishing me hope, wishing the doctor was wrong, sharing my plea for a miracle heartbeat.

But now I'm not pregnant.  Because there was no heart beat.

Because the baby was smaller than she'd been the week prior.  Because my 9 week and 5 day old baby had died three weeks ago.

Images aren't enough for me.  Images can lie.  Technology can hide.  My body is a giant mess of organs and tissues and I wanted as much confirmation as science could provide, so I begged for blood work.  After the second ultrasound, I sat in the tiny lab room and was stuck by the super proficient tech as we talked about tattoos.  For a comparison of my HCG levels, to make 100% sure that they weren't secretly rising as my baby was apparently dying.

The way that HCG works is that it nearly doubles every two days from conception.  These magical little pee sticks are just measuring the presence of HCG, as only pregnant women have it.

So I went back on Thursday, my 10-week mark, and chatted up the little technician and joked with her about the bruise left on my arm as she stuck a different vein.  And my new friend walked the blood work over to the lab instead of waiting for the nightly pick up, so I would know immediately.

My HCG was 24k on Tuesday.  By Thursday, it had dropped to 19k.  My body is starting to clear up the evidence.

And because the emotional pain just isn't sufficient, my body will be working on the evidence, destroying the last remnants of my baby, over at least the next week or so.  

If you've never had a miscarriage, you can't understand.  It's a group no one wants to be a part of and that no one gets to leave.  I'll never be the same.

Two years ago on Veteran's Day weekend, my newly-wed husband and I flew to San Diego. My cousin was getting married. Poor new husband understood his new wife's insistence on attending this wedding, simply by being a medical professional. My cousin was going through his second round of leukemia. 

The wedding was gorgeous and I was able to introduce my husband to parts of my family that he had never met.  I will never regret taking that trip.

The last time I had seen my cousin prior to his wedding was for my grandfather's funeral in 2001.  My dad and I had driven for about a day from Georgia to Texas in order to attend it.  It was about the point that my mind was starting to break and I think it was evident then that little crumbles were falling off.  And I remember getting dressed for the funeral and my cousin lamenting that he either couldn't find his glasses or his contacts.  I was precarious mentally, like most teenagers are, I imagine, and he told me that I looked nice.  I replied, "Says the blind man."  He laughed and my heart lifted and I'll never forget having made him laugh.

Two years ago, he had gone to the big center at MD Anderson in Houston.  Fortunately, we have family in Houston.  A match was made between him and a fellow in England and my cousin's life was prolonged.

This Veteran's day weekend, my cousin announced that the leukemia was back.

When I found out that he had cancer for the third time, I sent my aunt a text.  Asking questions, offering anything I could.  She said that he would be going back to MD for a new trial and commented on how pleased she was that he had found God.  This sent up warning flares.

My cousin never made it to MD.  In the span of a week, the cancer replicated from .01 to 70.0.  That's the fucking "acute" part of Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.

I was photographing kittens at the Humane Society on Thursday when my father sent me a text that my cousin would be taken off life support on Friday.  I didn't even know it had escalated to that point.  Cousin held on for a solid day, breathing on his own.  He passed on Saturday, peacefully and pain free.

When he was diagnosed the first time, I signed up with Be the Match.  Registering is super easy.  I signed up online, answered some questions about my health, and they sent me a packet.  You get a little cotton swab and you collect cells from the inside of your cheeks.  Then you send it back.  Occasionally, they send me emails and verify that I'm still interested and that I haven't moved.

So here's the thing.  I know y'all are the caring sort.  I want to exploit that.  For a good cause.  I appreciate the condolences that I know I'll receive.  But I want more.  Robert Green Ingersoll said it best, "Hands that help are far better than lips that pray."  Please consider registering with Be the Match.  Read about it.  See what it involves.  Think about it.  It's free to register if you're between the ages of 18 and 44.  And you might save a life.

The world is so exquisite with so much love and moral depth, that there is no reason to deceive ourselves with petty stories for which there's little good evidence.  Far better it seems to me, in our vulnerability, is to look death in the eye and to be grateful every day for the brief by magnificent opportunity that life provides. - Carl Sagan

*My apologies for those of y'all who have me in your blog rolls that may be offended at this post's title popping up.  But, seriously.  Fuck cancer.

Also, something attacked his face.  I think bugs.

In other life stuff, my mom is supposed to visit tomorrow night.  She hasn't seen the house and I'm excited to show her, but I also think the timing sucks.  We're all sad here and my house has bad juju right now.  I've been reading about pharms and behavior modification in dogs, in preparation for the vet visit on Saturday, and I found that the immediate and prolonged excommunication of the dogs was the absolute best and most severe punishment I could give them.  I kicked them out of the pack and, when they really return, they will be on their best behavior so as not to be kicked out again.  I've been crazy intense about working commands, too.  They've both been wearing their harnesses 24/7 and I'm still enforcing the concept that they don't get to move in the house until I give permission.  No going through doorways, no lunging to eat, just sit, stay, come.