Outwardly, nothing big or dramatic has happened. However, inwardly, it’s been turmoil.

I am on Paroxetine (generic brand of Paxil / Aropax) and have been since feeling the onset of Post-Natal Depression (PND) start approximately 2 months after having my most recent baby, now nearly 11 months. The drugs have been good – they’ve most definitely been effective, they keep me on a much more even keel, and make it much easier to find the motivation, that get-up-and-go-ness, that is absolutely essential to being a mum. They give me the joy to see my child smile at me, even when that smile comes in the shadows of 3am and I gently try to coax her back to sleep. They give me the motivation to just get on with it, when “it” is the endless routine of planning meals, cooking meals, picking up toys, picking up rubbish, refereeing, taxiing, reminding little princesses of manners, washing clothes, collecting clothes from various ingenious spots throughout the house…. you name it.

But not everything about the antidepressants is rosy. I’ve known this for awhile, as I had the same issues when I was taking the same drugs after the birth of my first child. This week, the dark side of the drugs have made my life a living hell.

At the beginning of this past weekend, I finished my active strip of the drugs. I had two more strips around, so I wasn’t concerned in the slightest, and put it out of my mind. But, with the distraction of the weekend, and having thrown the used strip out (thus out of sight) I completely forgot about taking the medication at all. Sometime on Monday I remembered, and had a brief look for the box containing the rest of the medicine, but couldn’t find them quickly and easily then got distracted, as mothers do, with the incessant calls of children.

By last night I was feeling truly terrible. I’d been getting dizzy spells all day, some extreme enough that I was concerned I would faint if I stayed upright. I had on and off nausea. I’d been up most of the night the night before, with a combination of a good book and not feeling particularly tired, then not having much luck when attempting sleep, plus of course being woken when I was finally asleep by the baby. Then I went to the store for the ingredients for a last minute snack to be cooked at home, spent the very last of my money until payday, came home, and ruined the late dinner / snack when attempting to cook it. I would have been annoyed in any case – but with the combination of everything, I was beside myself. Overnight, I managed around two hours of very broken sleep, most of which was obtained just as the sun was starting to rise. Lack of sleep didn’t help the situation any and this morning I felt nearly out of my mind. With no money left to pay a doctor for a prescription refill, and as I was sure I had no refills left on my current prescription, I figured I’d have to bear with it until payday, when at least I should be able to get a new prescription if the meds hadn’t appeared yet.

However, the husband – obviously thinking clearer than I was able to – popped into the pharmacy to check, and found that I did indeed have one refill left on my current prescription, so brought it home for me…. after which, of course, the originals turned up very near to one of the places I thought was highly likely they were.

Oy vey.

Paroxetine states in the literature about the medicine that one is not to stop taking the drug suddenly. In other literature I’ve found on the Internet, GlaxoSmithKlein admits that “up to 7%” of patients “may” experience “discontinuation syndrome” on suddenly stopping the medicine. In my personal and anecdotal experience, that figure is MUCH higher. Everyone I’ve known who’s taken the drug has had issues coming off it, even when slowly lowering the dose as recommended, and not just being an idiot like myself and stopping unintentionally. The discontinuation syndrome, in my experience at least, is drastically worse than the depression was in the first place. I know this about the medicine, and indeed, knew it before I started back on them this time (after having similar issues coming off them the last time). The problem is, Paroxetine has a very short half-life, the shortest of all SSRI style antidepressants. This is the cause of the withdrawl / discontinuation syndrome – and it’s also the reason why I’m on this particular drug. A short half life means very little medication transferring into the breastmilk, and thus best for baby. The longer the half-life, the longer it’s in the mum’s system, and the more it gets into baby’s.

When all goes to plan of course, the drugs are taken regularly (as in, within the same hour or two each day), and side effects are minimal. There are a range of side effects even under proper use of course – I alone have had excessively vivid dreams, a sleepy feeling after taking them, light nausea that comes and goes. It’s similar to feeling like I’m constantly in the very early stages of a pregnancy. (And NO, I am definitely NOT). I also strongly believe that although my moods are much more level, it also eliminates the true joys as well as the true sorrows of feeling, having a general numbing / dulling effect on life really. There is a big portion of me that feels like, when I’m on the drug, I’m not 100% myself, that some essential essence of me gets castrated whilst taking the drug. That, as well as being hard to put into words, is also quite unscientific, and thus hard to add to a list of side effects. But it adds up, and in my mind is definitely a negative side of the drugs.

However. The discontinuation syndrome kicks my ass, very thoroughly. Doing a quick and fairly unscientific read around the Internet last night, and the main recommendation for those having severe discontinuation syndrome (when legitimately intending to discontinue) is merely to resume taking the drug. Discontinuation syndrome does not mean that the depression isn’t cured or past yet. It merely means that the drug is now so essential to the system that it has become a necessary for the system to function… much like other well known addictive drugs.

I didn’t intend to come off Paroxetine this week, and thus, am back on my regularly scheduled dosage, hopefully to be all evened out within a couple days. However, the past week’s experiences have highlighted that I may well be on this cursed drug for the rest of my life – or at the very least, until significant medical advances have been made in the area of depression and the medication used to treat it.

On Friday, Z5′s school had a “dress in your favorite team’s colours” day, instead of wearing their usual uniform.  After we talked – and cajoled – and insisted – that Zamara couldn’t wear her yellow fairy dress for the “dress up day” (colour notwithstanding, it’s not that kind of dress up day), despite her demanding that she could be the Rugby Fairy, we grudgingly agreed that she would wear red, white, and blue.  Technically it’s the colours of BOTH the USA and the NZ flag, but over here the NZ team is known by their team name the “All Blacks” and therefore wear, well, all black.  So she was going in support of the USA team.  She IS half-American after all… and it was only fair that the Eagles have at least ONE supporter!

All the hullaballoo over her dressing up, however, illustrated the fact that I, the American, don’t really have much patriotic clothes at all.  I do have a USA flag – which the husband promptly borrowed to take to work for their support ‘team’ there – but no clothes that say from the USA, or have a flag or obviously red, white, or blue colours.  So, I needed to remedy this situation.

Thus, the Star-Spangled Mitts were born.

These are a quick and easy knit, great for colourwork experts and beginners alike.  No fancy stitch patterns, no increasing or decreasing needed, and they’re knit exclusively in the round.   They’re fabulous for any patriotic event – small and light enough that they can still be worn in warmer weather, but double as hand / wrist warmers when it is cold, as well.   Fantastic for everything from early morning starts on September 11th through to protecting hands from the chill of ice cream eaten on July 4th – and great for school dress up days, too!

The pattern is license-free (meaning the finished item can be sold without needing to purchase a separate cottage license) and is available for purchase and download at Ravelry.

Alternatively, they can be bought here, just by using the handy-dandy link below

Happy Knitting!

Star Spangled Mitts Pattern.  $2.00 USD, via PayPal.

Then e-books moved to ebook readers, such as the kindle.  I had a play with a friend’s nook and insisted that nope, still not me.  Convientent and all to carry multiple titles with you…. but still, heavy (heavier than a mass-market paperback at least) and bulky, with a learning curve that books simply didn’t posess.  Definitely not me.

Several of my friends then purchased iPhone’s, and started downloading their ebooks to their phone, to read out and about on the go.  I wasn’t sold on the ebook side of things, but I was very sold on the iPhone.  I’d been without an mp3 player for awhile by then, and also saw the use of being able to store my entire, already mostly digital, knitting pattern library on it, replacing not one but two file folders that I had a habit of forgetting places or losing altogether.  That was convience.

I forget what exactly convinced me to try reading ebooks on the iPhone.  I can’t even remember for sure which ebooks were the first ones I read.  I do remember, however, that for the longest time I only read ebooks that I also had a physical, traditional, copy of – the ebook was kind of like a back up, for when I was out and about, or forgot my book, or was in a dark environment.

But those days are long gone for me.  I am quite happily an ebook reader now.  That is not to say, however, that I no longer read physical, paper books, anymore, or even that I prefer the ebook format.  eBooks pose several advantages to reading a physical book.  However, they also come with their own set of unique disadvantages, too.

What I love about eBooks -

The ability to read in the dark.  This is intensely useful in my life stage of the moment, seeing as I enjoy reading before I fall asleep at night, but currently co-sleep with Miss 9.5 months, who sleeps much better when all the lights are out.  Admittedly, I’ve actually tried reading physical books, with a portable book-light or pen light – both proved awkward at best, and the light was ambient enough that I still felt paranoid that the baby would wake because of it (although to date she hasn’t yet).

Portability.  This probably applies most simply to my chosen reader, the iPhone.  I still don’t own one of the more specific eBook readers, such as a Kindle, nook, or even iPad, but nor am I overly coveting them.  (Admittedly, I’d love to have an iPad – but not primarily as an eBook reader ) The upside of using my iPhone as an ebook reader, is that it is something I already keep with me at virtually all times.  I sleep with it next to my bed (it’s my alarm clock).  I take it everywhere I go (it provides the music in the car, or on a walk, plus of course, it’s my phone).  It’s palm-sized and lightweight – smaller and thinner than virtually any mass market paperback.  I can fit it in my pocket and not feel overly burdened.

An entire library in one device.  This ‘advantage’ also is a disadvantage however.  Although I do indeed have a small but substantial library on my phone, it differs significantly from the reasonable collection of physical books I own.  This can indeed prove problematic if I’m wishing to read a particular title.  Ideally, I’d have all titles in both formats – but that’s just not practical at this point!

Sexiness.  Sorry, I have to say it.  I look a lot cooler / more modern when seen looking at my phone, than I do with my nose in a book.  I’m happy to be called a nerd… but really, being a geek is sexier.

Advantages of the old-fashioned, traditional books:

Bathability.  Ok, we all know books don’t fare well in a bath.  But I’m the type who absolutely relishes soaking in a hot bubble bath with a good book, preferably a smutty romance or light-hearted chick lit.  And while dropping any kind of book in the bath is not a good thing…. I’d much rather ruin a $10 paperback than a $700 iPhone, and not risk electric shock to boot. Knowing me, I totally would slip and drop it, so now if I’m reading an ebook but want to read in the bath, I have to find something else to read (in physical book format) just for that occasion.  Definitely not ideal.

Being seen reading a book.  Okay, so I said above that sexiness is part of the appeal of reading an ebook, and it is.  But there are certain situations where I would much rather be seen reading a physical book.  When I’m at home with my children around me, I want them to see me reading.  I want to model reading for them.  Because I do so many other things on my phone (or computer for that matter) as well as read, it’s far to easy to dismiss the important act of spending time reading as just ‘playing on the phone / computer’, or more screen time.  Reading is the antithesis of screen time really, and I absolutely want to model that for them.   Of course, there’s the drawback that it seems it’s much harder to read uninterrupted when I have a book physically in my hands, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay if it helps my girls grow up to be fellow bibliophiles.

The tactile experience.  Because, as any book lover knows, the act of actually reading a book cannot be beat.  The appearance of the cover, the smell of the book, the feel of turning the pages, holding the pages open, finding a suitable bookmark…. all of that goes along, part and parcel with the experience.  I love that experience.  Most ebook readers attempt to similate that experience, often with cover art and a way of turning pages that simulates the actual thing – but it’s just not the same, and doesn’t carry the same emotive response within me.  That emotive response trumps any other reasons in me for completely converting to ebooks.  What can I say?  I love books.  And part of that love will always be exclusively for books, not software.

What do you think?  Have I missed anything?

Today being Sunday, and me being filled with motivation thanks to the unending flow of brilliant crafty ideas thanks to Pinterest, I decided to make something I’ve been wanting to for awhile – a table play-fort area of sorts. (Playhouse, fabric house, play tent, no idea what to call it!) I had zero budget thanks to the funds being entirely depleted by the purchase of Miss 5′s school uniform this week, so was forced to work entirely from stash fabric or cannibalized fabric. Originally I played with the drape of a queen size sheet over the table (which only seats 4 anyways, so is fairly small) by chopping off the extra fabric at the corners, and overlocking. I rushed the job though, and although I ended up with something functional, the seems were wonky and slanted and the fit was lopsided and half-assed, and I knew it would bother me. In playing around with my fabric I accidentally discovered I had the perfect combination already – a scrap of fabric that was de-cluttered to me a month or two ago, as well as a long strip of fabric I’d been meaning to use on various non-specific dressups for the girls, a thin cotton knit with gold stars, which was long enough to wrap entirely around the table. The top piece – the ‘inherited’ fabric – was nearly the perfect size to start with – the exact width of the table, and only about an inch shorter than it all up. I did toy with adding a strip of fabric to one end to make it a more-perfect fit, but decided not to bother, in part as it would mess up the look.

Therefore, in the end all I had to do was overlock the selvedge of the stars fabric entirely around the top piece fabric, and I had an instant table tent, sized to fit and with a ready made curtain-like opening. I did overlap the start and finish of the stars fabric, but forgot to allow for the extra pull from a ever-so-slightly too small top piece – so instead of hanging ‘closed’, there’s a natural slight opening. I completed the top of the table by laying across a strip of plastic sheeting I’d bought for containing craft messiness, as this will allow them to still use the table as a table – for eating on, drawing on, painting on, and generally being messy preschoolers – without putting on and taking off the table tent a millionty times each day. To ‘secure’ the plastic, I looped a strip of braided elastic around the lip of the table, catching the plastic in it at both ends so it stays put but is still easy to remove and/or wash.

I already have ideas for another, better, stronger, play tent of similar style – but the prototype works for now and both the kitten and the children should love it!

As you can see.

It’s not for lack of interest. Lack of time could be blamed, but when can it not? Largely I got out of the rhythm and lost my motivation around the time I lost my baby. Partially I started to feel obligated to post only deep meaningful stuff as it applied to me, but wasn’t overly about losing weight, or my children, or knitting, as all of those are covered by other blogs of mine.

Therein lies part of the problem I believe. I have so compartamentalised my blog – whilst not compartamentalising my life, as life resists compartments – that I’ve left myself with nothing much to talk / write about. Which makes the imagined brief of having to be earth shatteringly significant or scintillating feel ever so much heavier and harder to do.

So, I’m changing all that, as well as the title. The other blogs… aren’t going as such, although I haven’t posted in any of them in long enough that they’ve become rather irrelevant anyway. But THIS blog will now be inclusive of the topics the others cover – losing weight, or my children, or knitting and other crafty bits, as necessary. Quite possibly this will make the others redundant, but again, not much difference there from now.

So, to the name change. Wonder is me. And this is me, again. Me, still. Me, as a mother, as a perpetual student of the world, as a writer, as a knitter, as a cottage business, as a wife, and as a woman. Just me. Again.

It’d be easy to state that I’ve been in the ‘numb’ state of grief and / or depression, and well, maybe I have been. But ‘fog’ seems like a more accurate way of stating it. At the time, I didn’t see it. Suddenly now I’m looking all around me and seeing things again though, and in doing so, realising just how much I didn’t see before.

I’ve been wanting to post something – actually, a variety of somethings, just musings as they happen – here for a couple weeks now, but it seems really odd to suddenly start blogging on a blog that’s been silent for over a year. Starting anew – at a new host, or even just new title / address – doesn’t seem fitting either. I want my journey out there for people to read, even if it’s only a very small handful. Starting somewhere else at this point would feel like a denial of the past.

Tonight, obviously, I’m sitting down and writing a blog. But in doing so I re-read the past few posts. Always helps to see where one’s been. And this ever so much highlights everything.

Because nothing’s really there. No posts since February of last year.

In fact in my last post I lamented not being pregnant and not having a job. Well… I’m currently not pregnant, and am still unemployed.

But a whole life has been created in between, and I have a gorgeous, perfect, delight of a five month old girl to show for it.

Yet throughout her pregnancy I didn’t say a thing. Which in a way isn’t that atypical as I’ve only ever been a sporadic blogger at best. But I still see it as a telling symptom. I white-knuckled my way through the entire pregnancy. It wasn’t until I was holding a confused and possibly a little pissed off, goopy baby on my chest that I really truly believed I’d get my wish.

In my previous births, writing the birth story – often sharing it quite publicly – has been a key part of the postnatal process. This time I was always ‘going to get around to it’, but still haven’t. This despite the fact I’ve typed it out via instant messenger and facebook and various forums so many times I may as well have just copy / pasted it, and told it as many times (undoubtedly sometimes multiple times to the same people) that it’s not for lack of knowing the birth story, or for lack of wanting to share.

But there is, perhaps, a good amount of denial. Because at one of the crucial points of labour I was solidly convinced that this baby would be stolen from me too.

She wasn’t. She was making all and sundry dance around guessing will she, won’t she, how will she, when will she… but she made it here, in precisely her own style, as babies are wont to do. Now each day I’m greeted by a brimming, giggling smile that looks as if she’s sharing a joke, and as I resign to the fact my sleep has indeed ended for the night, I can’t help but feel SO thankful for the priceless wee wish that has been granted to me.

She is my sunshine, and is burning off the fog.

But I am – I am mad at God right now.

I have been a long time believer that the Universe (aka God) provides. Not without work, and not without faith… but when God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.

I can’t find that window just now.

When we lost our baby girl, I figured there was a long-term reason for it. I had to really – the idea that “shit happens” for no reason at all doesn’t sit well with me. I’d failed at the whole creating a healthy baby thing, so I figured something else was planned.

Damned if I know what it is. I’ve put out quite a few job applications, gotten a couple tenative bites, and that’s it. Any interest fizzles shortly thereafter… I’ve been out of the workforce for 4 years and didn’t have much of a career to speak of when I left to have babies. There is nothing for me to go back to, and the economy is crap. Something looked like it was going to come through, I was excited about the prospect and looking forward to it, then that fizzled.

I know I have a lot to be grateful for at the moment. But the past several months have been full of the God showing me the way things could be, then snatching that away in the blink of an eye. I don’t want to play anymore. I am tired of being teased – if God could grow up and play fairly, then we’ll see.

I’m not sure I’ll ever feel “normal” again. Or rather, I’m working on discovering what my new normal is. The brief life and death of Marci has definitely changed me, I’m just not quite sure how, just yet. Aside from the obvious complete loss of trust in the wonder of pregnancy, that is.

Lately I’m just busy. Really busy. Purposely busy. Now, anyone who knows me will attest to the fact that I’m not a total Stepford in terms of household domesticity… but lately the lounge is tidy, the kitchen gets a surface tidy / clean nearly every day, the table has remained not only visible but mostly clear nearly every day. The difference is, now when these things AREN’T this way – when there are toys scattered through the lounge, or dishes left on the kitchen bench, it eats at me something chronic, and thus usually gets taken care of. I’m not spending all day cleaning… but the ‘public’ areas of the house stay at a pretty presentable level. Meanwhile, the bedroom – the sacred place where I can relax, sleep, be intimate, and also close the door to from visitors…. is trashed. And that only bothers me a small amount – more frustrates me as it’s not highly useable for finding things or getting in / out of the closet etc. I think it’s a coping thing – if the public areas of my house are presentable, then obviously so am I. Meanwhile I fall to pieces in the bedroom, when needed, and it falls to pieces around me.

The other thing I’m doing lately is focusing on weight. Part of this is the simple fact that when we got back from the USA I felt bloated and fat and disgusting, and my clothes were tight. But instead of losing just enough to feel ‘comfortable’ in my normal clothes again, I’m going full gusto into the weight loss / fitness thing. Most days I do at least 45 minutes of intentional physical activity (albeit at a low to moderate intensity), some days I do up to 2 hours. It makes me feel virtuous and in control. My weight is only very slowly falling off – which admittedly frustrates me to no end – but it’s something.

And beneath it all lies the thought of pregnancy. I still feel like our family is not complete – but perhaps it will never feel complete, as there will always be a little girl missing. But the thought of pregnancy scares me…. the complexities of which aren’t really worth going into, and likely wouldn’t be understood by anyone who’s not been there before themselves. Furthermore now that I’m so focused on losing weight, pregnancy scares me because of that, too. If I get pregnant, I won’t be allowed to try to lose weight. Granted, I normally lose without trying through the first trimester, but I’m worried that the whole process of pregnancy – and 9 months of being “off the wagon” – will just put me back to square one. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Or, maybe I’m just looking for excuses why not to be ready for pregnancy.

Dear Sister-in-law,
Thank you for the meals. Thank you for babysitting my children. Thank you for all the support. But I still don’t want to see you or your huge bump. No offense. You just get to be the scapegoat for my pregnancy jealousy right now. I will talk to you, eventually.

Dear Mother-in-law,
I know you’re excited about your only daughter having a baby, but I don’t want to hear about it. I was having one too and you never talked about that. Marci is no less your grandchild than the other baby will be.

Dear Random Acquaintances,
I don’t need you, and every other person I know, to comment on my posts or my facebook status. I understand if you’re uncomfortable or don’t know what to say. But if I then contact you for something unrelated, I do not need a big rambling explanation of why you never said anything. If you’re not going to say anything, then just don’t. I am not keeping a tally, and I hardly know you anyway.

Dear Real Friends,
Thank you for your support. Thank you for saying that you don’t know what to say but that you still care. There ARE no words that can make this better, but I really love you for trying anyway.

Dear Huggies Baby Club,
Yes, I really do want to unsubscribe. Your “Congratulations, you’re halfway!” email came at precisely the wrong time. Fuck off. I use cloth anyway.

Dear Christmas,
I don’t have time for you this year. Can you take a rain check? I’ll catch up with you later – maybe in July sometime.

Dear TV People,
Please put on more programs that aren’t about pregnancy, birth, babies, celebrity baby bumps, people who have a lot of babies, babies dying, and/or children being abused.

Dear God,
I’m still pissed off at you.

Dear Marci,
I love you and I miss you so much.

A scan on Nov 25th (at 21 weeks gestation) picked up that she had died in utero, and after time for arrangements etc was allowed, the induction was scheduled.

As indicated on the scans, she was born hugely swollen (for what she ‘should’ be) and many of her features were indistinguishable. That said, she had absolutely perfect palms and feet, and perfectly formed little ears and mouth as well. She weighed 480g.

A service to farewell her was held today.

I was going to attempt to speak at Marci’s farewell, but I didn’t. Partially I chickened out… but mostly I just couldn’t put words together coherently in a way that would make sense to everyone.

not to mention I don’t like admitting pain, or particularly sharing the depth of it.

my pregnancy with marci was fraught with distress and worry. Truly, there was no time in which I was fully excited about the pregnancy. First there was the wee shock of the pregnancy as the timing was not 100% planned (tho even from the beginning she was very wanted, she just set her own schedule). Plus as I’ve had a previous miscarriage (despite a healthy pregnancy in between) I know it’s not fully ‘safe’ to get all the hopes up in that first trimester. I did tell quite a few people early on, but most of the people either would help support me through a miscarriage should it happen, or at least would understand and not be insensitive.

what I didn’t tell many people was that I was fully expecting to miscarry. and it’s really hard to put into words my exact feelings about it all, because I know paranoia after a miscarriage is completely normal. My pregnancy with Katerina was directly after a miscarriage, with no cycle in between – but from day one with her I *knew* she was sticking around. Call it a gut feeling, or mother’s instinct. I didn’t have anything of the sort with Marci’s pregnancy – really, I think I knew all along that she would not be here for long.

she made herself known, though. with my previous miscarriage, I felt nothing. It may well have been what they unhelpfully term a ‘chemical pregnancy’, because I did not feel a soul hanging around me, and I had no pregnancy symptoms other than a missing period and a positive HPT. Of course I grieved when I miscarried, but it was grieving possibilities rather than definites, the loss of hopes and dreams and what might have been.

marci was different entirely. I tested with her before I was due for AF because I was feeling very pregnant, although not with anything concrete. It was more that gut feeling again. My sleep went to hell (which it did with Katerina too) and I was peeing all the time and my tastes had changed, tho no strong cravings or aversions. and I just knew, and got a positive HPT straight away.

marci’s was my roughest pregnancy too. it’s the only one in which I’ve actually thrown up (though I had mild morning sickness with both Zamara and Katerina). I had fairly severe fatigue, incredibly sore breasts (more than my other two girls combined) achy, shifty joints, ligament pain that wouldn’t let me twist hardly at all, and a finicky tummy. (not aversions as such, just would be halfway through a meal and get the omg-stop-eating-*now* feeling). although I definitely had the urge to nest, I never got the burst of energy that’s meant to go with it, just a slight lessening of the fatigue of before.

marci’s was also a magical pregnancy too. from very early on with her, I was ‘seeing things’. That feeling of having something / someone move right at the edge of your peripheral vision – but when you turn to look, nothing’s there. It wasn’t so much an ‘I’m being watched’ feeling, but it was a definite feeling of presence. Really, it was as if someone was playing hide-n-seek with me but cheating in a friendly way.

Marci is not a name I would pick, myself, it’s not at all in the style I tend to prefer. But she told me that was her name. I decided to find her a name once we were given a tentative diagnosis. I wanted something meaningful but not tacky. My first thought was ‘Faith’ but in reading stories of others I found faith was a common name for babies that didn’t survive, and it didn’t feel right naming a still living fetus that. I looked for related names (in meaning) and found Mercy. I hadn’t decided on it at all, was just kicking it around in my head so to speak. But I found every time I thought about it, it came out ‘Marci’ and not ‘Mercy’ – including the spelling. After about two days of that I accepted she was trying to tell me something, and I wasn’t going to fight it. I then thought to look up ‘Marci’ and discovered it meant ‘war-like’. To me that was both more optimistic, and more appropriate, than the meaning of Mercy. Grace, her middle name, was automatic – my babies middle names always have been. (I don’t know why – but I don’t question it, either)

In utero Marci was incredibly quiet. I’ve had anterior placentas with all three of my girls, and never felt movements before about 17 weeks, but even after that with marci I felt very little movement. She did like to rest in such a way that, when I was lying down, it was like she was trying to poke out of my womb – I’d get a hard and definite lump on my right side (always the right) that was often uncomfortable. That trick babies (out of the womb) have of falling asleep on the parent when the parent is in THE most uncomfortable position – marci had that in utero.

I hired a doppler when I was about 16 weeks pregnant with her, as the prognosis given by scans were consistently getting worse, and I wanted to have a better idea of when and if she left. I felt a bit like I was spying on her. She got back at me by routinely hiding from it. Only about half the time could I get a strong enough heartbeat that the doppler would give me a BPM reading – most of the other half of the time, I could hear a clear heartbeat myself, but it sounded like it was coming from a distance. I never worried in those instances, because it was clearly a fetal heart beat – but she established a pattern of this ‘hiding’ from the doppler. There were several times I couldn’t find her heartbeat at all, but would try again later and usually find it quickly then. It wasn’t that she wanted me to worry I think… she just liked to keep me on my toes.

I knew roughly when she passed. It wasn’t a lack of movement, because she moved very little and it wasn’t at all uncommon to go a full day with no definite movements. The night before, I’d checked on her and gotten one of the quickest (in terms of speed of finding it) and clearest readings I’d gotten yet. It had been a really good day in general, and I went to bed feeling content and loved. As I lie in bed I thought about how every day I got a good reading on the doppler, I felt a little bit more hope that if she made it through this day, she could make it through the next, and so on. I talked to her that night, which I rarely did out loud. I told her that if she needed to go, she was free to – that I didn’t want her struggling and hanging on just for my sake. I told her that I did very much want her here with me – but that if that wasn’t meant to be I would accept it. And then I fell asleep and didn’t think on it. Until the next night, when I couldn’t find a heartbeat at all. As I put away the doppler, resolved to try again in the morning, I knew. I’m not sure if she’d actually gone then, or if she left overnight – but it was in that time period she left. Before when I couldn’t find the heartbeat, my first inclination was that she was hiding from me. This time… I knew this was it. That was the Sunday night / Monday morning. On Wednesday I had my next scan, which confirmed that her heart had stopped.

Since her spirit left her body, I haven’t had her toying with me in my peripheral vision. There were several times her body shifted in utero, which was mildly disconcerting, but she never again was pushing against my right side like a cat nudging to say hello.

My sense of Marci, from what she showed me in pregnancy, was that she would have been a truly awesome little girl. She had quite a different personality to either of her sisters, but I think would have meshed well. She would have loved hide-n-seek games, and lighthearted trickery such as ‘made ya look!’.

Her wee swollen body spoke of struggle. Her spirit speaks of play and strength.