Friday, April 25, 2014

Miscarriages


This is something I don’t talk about often, or very openly. So it seems odd to write about this and post it on my blog. I guess I don’t really have a good reason to share this now. I imagine only my family and friends reading this, but maybe there are others out there, and I guess I’m okay with that. It is not something I am proud of, but it is my history, and it has helped shape me to be the person I am today.

I am a mom with no child.

It happens in every country and in every culture. The cause is blamed on a variety of things, ranging from sorcery to bad maternal health. It can happen to any woman at any time during her childbearing years. For me, it happened when I was 19. Even after an autopsy, there was no solid explanation for it. Which almost made things worse. I needed to know why. What did I do wrong? Did I not take care of my unborn child? Did I not take care of myself? Would I have been a bad mom? What was the reason that perfect little baby boy couldn’t breathe and live after being born? Why did I have to go through such a hell? Why give me a false belief of becoming a mom? Why let my milk come in if there was no baby to drink it? What would life have been like if the doctor’s would’ve saved him when I begged them to? Would I still be married if he survived? Would I be happy? Would he be healthy? Would I be a mean mom? So many unanswered questions. So many “what if” questions.

More women than you think have miscarriages. Once you ask, or once it comes up in conversations, you will be surprised how many women have suffered such a painful experience. I mean painful emotionally and physically. It is giving birth but there is no happiness afterwards. Instead, you have to leave your baby in the hospital. You have a child to bury. You have to get a headstone for his gravesite. You have to accept the unimaginable. You have to answer “no” to the question “do you have kids?” You have to hear your parents say they have four grandkids, not five. You have to accept that your sisters have nieces and one nephew, not two (all these numbers are old). You have to take flowers, toys, and balloons out to the cemetery when you want to talk to and “see” your child. You have to miss his birthday when you’re not near his grave. It is a terrible feeling to be such an empty and unattached mom.

Friday, April 25, 2014, will mark 8 years. Anthony would be 8-years-old. How can it feel like so long ago and, yet, I remember it so vividly? I still feel guilt. I still feel sadness. I still feel a sharp pain when people ask me why I don’t have kids. I still struggle to laugh at jokes about giving up your firstborn. I still perk up when I hear “Anthony.” I pity myself on Mother’s Day, when a few people awkwardly wish me a “Happy Mother’s Day.” I still want to go out to the cemetery and talk to you, sometimes cry, or just sit on the grass in silence next to you. I still get upset when I can’t take you flowers on your birthday. I’m sorry I can’t come clean off your headstone. I know no one thinks of you like I do; even your father has a child of his own now. There are many who love you and wanted to meet you, but there is no one who would have loved you like I do. You are on my mind often. You will always be my firstborn. I will never forget what you taught me. I will never forget the amazement of hearing and seeing you inside of me.

I don’t know how to move on. How will I ever become pregnant again without thinking of you? I don’t think it is possible. I will never again try to starve myself. I will never again only eat because I have someone growing inside me. I will never take for granted a child’s heartbeat. I will never be able to be pregnant and nurse without thinking of Anthony. Anthony, you are my baby boy. Perfect, tiny, strong. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to keep you alive. I would’ve done anything for you. I would’ve done anything to keep you breathing, to keep that tiny heart beating.

Many say, “it was for the better” or “it happened for a reason.” When I have no scientific reason on his autopsy report, what reason was that? Who decided? Why him? Why didn’t he deserve a chance? Why didn’t I deserve a chance to be a mom? Why let me hear that fast heartbeat if he was never going to walk or talk?

I know I may not be where I am today if I had an 8-year-old child. But, I would have an 8-year-old Anthony who I would love dearly. Maybe I never would’ve gone back to college. Maybe I never would have gotten my college degree. I may never have gone to graduate school. And, I certainly would not be in Peace Corps at 27 years old. Maybe it was a “blessing in disguise” like some tell me. But I can’t help but cringe at that saying. Why should I get to go on and better myself when this helpless little child never even got a chance? I’m sorry, Anthony. I wish I would’ve taken better care of myself, and of you. If I would’ve eaten better, would you be here with me now?

I do feel lucky to be where I am today, in my life. So, I can accept the sayings like, “it happened for a reason” or “it was meant to be” a little easier. I understand I would’ve struggled like hell to take care of that little guy and be a happy, healthy mom. It would’ve been hard to get a divorce with a child to think about. I am fortunate to have had the chance to finish university and graduate school and join Peace Corps. I know if I had a child, life would be stressful, difficult, and very different. It is just hard to accept losing him and embrace this part of my past. I still think of him when I see a pregnant lady or when I see a newborn.

While this is not about my experience here, in Cameroon, it is a constant battle for me, especially working with kids and women here. Cameroonians love to ask how old you are, if you are married, and if you have children. I hate comments about how I don’t know what it is like to be pregnant. I want to scream every time they ask me why I’m not married or why I don’t have kids. I WAS married; I HAVE a child. My husband and I chose very different paths. My child died the same minute he was born. He flinched in my arms before I asked the doctors to save him. I left my child on a counter in the hospital, wrapped in a blanket, motionless. What kind of mother does that? I just left him there. I don’t even know who took him off that counter after I left. I couldn’t take him home. I couldn’t feed him when my milk came in. I could only cry and sit in shock as the flowers and cards arrived from family and friends. I could only think of everything I did wrong as people told me they were sorry for my loss.

My loved ones were the reason I was able to continue my life after losing Anthony. I have caring sisters, understanding parents, amazing girlfriends, and very compassionate extended family. While the specifics are mine only, this experience is not unique to me, and I don’t write for pity or to make you sad. I write to get this out of my head. And, maybe if someone has experienced a similar pain, they can have some comfort in knowing they are not alone. It is difficult to talk about this when I don’t have my family and close friends here with me. Usually someone understands why I’m a little down on the 25th of April. Here, I can choose to stay quiet and say “I’m fine” or I can choose to share it with people and have to tell a long story.

It is difficult to see sick kids and hear about young children passing away. I guess I feel like the struggles we deal with in America are more in my face and more common here in Cameroon. There are strong women back home but the women here have a whole different kind of strength within them. In both countries, women go through things you can’t even imagine. While Anthony’s father lost a child too, he didn’t have the responsibility of being unable to keep the child healthy. Women suffer miscarriages; they live through the loss of their children or husbands. I don’t know how they do it. I barely survived the loss of a child I never even got to know. I would never wish such a terrible pain on anyone. A pain that lasts years. And, while it is true, time makes it easier, it definitely doesn’t make it go away. There is not a week goes by without thinking about my baby boy. I wish I were there this week to take care of your headstone and bring you flowers, balloons, or a toy. Happy 8th birthday Anthony, you are on my mind often. Your caring Grandma will come and check on you.




“I fought for you the hardest, it made me the strongest. So tell me your secrets, I just can’t stand to see you leaving, but heaven couldn’t wait for you.” ~ Beyoncé’s new song “Heaven” about her miscarriage (aka my new obsession)

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Grandparents are the best

April 19, 2014

I just found out that tomorrow is Easter. Missed that one in the midst of traveling, moving, “vacationing,” and being overwhelmed. I just got to Ngaoundéré – the capital of the Adamaoua region – and my new banking city. There was a pile of mail waiting for me. I got a small care package from the Cole’s and many cards and letters from my friends and family. THANK YOU! Made my day, as always. And, I’m sorry I haven’t been writing any letters lately.


In two days I will move to my new house and new village, Tourningal. After a month or so of moving around, living out of a backpack, and living in “cases” (Peace Corps transit houses) and hotels, I am looking forward to getting settled back in. But, that’s about all I’m looking forward to. I have a small table, 2 chairs, and a bookshelf for furniture because there wasn’t enough space to bring everything. I need to at least buy a mattress before Monday. I don’t want to start over. I am not excited to have to integrate all over again. (Also, I don’t know how to integrate into a community without eating couscous at nearly every meal, which results in instant weight gain.) People who came to country at the same time are starting projects, doing real work, and here I am at square one, again. It is so frustrating and too overwhelming to think about. I know there are many positives or small silver linings to this situation, but I can’t see those right now. I need a serious attitude adjustment.


One thing that is keeping me going is my parents and Meggie are coming to see me in 7 weeks. Yep, I’ll have 7 weeks to integrate, make friends, and explain to my new village that my family is coming before they arrive. Let’s hope it goes by fast! After a week of Cameroon, we will go to France and I get to see two more sisters and meet my new nephew! This is what’s been driving me lately.


Also, I felt very rejuvenated after being on the beach for a week. Peace Corps put on a conference for young girls and women and I got to bring a young girl and young woman from my old village. It was their first time swimming in the ocean. When I floated on my back they screamed and said it was sorcery. As we stood on the beach and looked out on the ocean, they asked me where the water ends. They took salty water and black sand back to Mayo-Darlé and told me they were going to give it to someone to drink. I couldn’t help but think of bringing sand back to Montana from Hawaii as a teenager. Their per diem for food was 5,000 FCFA ($10) and they never spent more than 2,000 FCFA ($4) on a meal and that was when they told me the food was too expensive. They wanted me to keep the money for them because when I tried to give them the money for all three days, they refused to take it. Needless to say, I sent them home with a lot of leftover money they never used. They are very frugal and it is very humbling. It was a good few days with them. It was a very educational experience for them and for me. After they left, I stayed with my friends and we found a beautiful beach. I truly didn’t want to leave. If I had more money, I would’ve stayed longer. I didn’t have a house yet and I didn’t see the point in rushing back. Probably a good thing I was running out of money.


After the beach, I went to Yaoundé, the capital of Cameroon. Peace Corps has an amazing new office and “case” there. I took the longest running hot water shower in a long time. I froze my water bottle and chomped ice like crazy. I washed my clothes in a washing machine; I forgot how clean clothes feel.


After spoiling myself and running out of money, I took the train up here to Ngaoundéré. It is a night train and it is a long journey. It’s been an average of 15 hours the two times I’ve taken it. Another PCV said she took it the day before and it took them 20 plus hours because a second-class car caught on fire and everyone had to get off the train. I realized I shouldn’t complain about my relatively smooth 15-hour trip. And I decided I would never take second-class.


During the train ride, I made friends with a grandma and little girl sitting next to me. The grandma was so kind and caring to her granddaughter. The girl was maybe 3 or 4 years old; she was so chatty and not afraid of me at all. A few hours into the trip they started calling me “tantine” and “grande soeur”. The little girl had many questions for me. Some examples include: “where’s your dad?” “where’s your mom?” “who hurt you on your chest? (referring to my scar)”, and “where are your kids?” I told her my mom and dad are far away and she thought that was odd.


When I took the last swig of a juice I had with me, she said, “You drank all your juice and didn’t give me any.” All I could think was, “uh oh”. I offered her the basically empty bottle and she sucked out the last drop and was content with that. We shared our cookies while her grandma said she didn’t want any because they are for kids. Honestly, I would’ve done the same if I hadn’t already bought and eaten some cookies in front of her because she was giving me partially eaten pieces of cookie that were slobbered on and I wasn’t too interested in putting that in my mouth. I tried to refuse but she pushed it in my face. I finally took it and was planning on throwing it on the floor but she was watching me intently, telling me to eat it.


She was very curious about the picture of a baby on my phone, I explained it was the baby of my big sister. She, of course, asked where they were. I said they were far away, also, but that my family will visit me soon. She told me her mom was sick and in the hospital. I didn’t understand what her mom was going through in the hospital, she spoke better French than I did, but I could tell she wasn’t happy about it.


She and her grandma were sharing a seat and eventually Mimi (the young girl) came and joined me in my seat after she told me her butt hurt. Her grandma fell asleep for a bit and I told her she is making her grandma tired. When her grandma woke up, Mimi told her grandma, “grandma close your eyes, you are tired.” Her grandma laughed and followed the instructions of the very assertive young girl.


Mimi talked until the second she fell asleep. In the morning, I kept closing my eyes and Mimi would tell me, “ne ferme pas tes yeux” (don’t close your eyes!). I couldn’t help but laugh, and although I tried to keep those eyes open, she repeated that every time I tried to sleep. There was an old man across the aisle who commented, “Grandma is suffering with the child but it is good you have a nice white next to you.” (It is hard to translate but people here don’t like to see anyone suffering and often comment about suffering.)


Her grandma and I kept asking each other, “Do you know which village this is” when the train would stop and every time we would tell each other “I don’t know”. I couldn’t help but laugh when she told me she was just waiting until everyone else gets off to know when she should get off. I told her that was my plan too.


I enjoyed being Mimi’s big sister and aunty for the night. Kids always make life seem lighter and happier. Mimi helped me relax a bit and be a little more positive about life here. Her little smiling face and sarcastic remarks still make me laugh to myself. You can see the funny little girl, and the beach, below.


And to my patient and loving grandparents back home, I love you and miss you tons. Thanks for "suffering" with me throughout my life. I couldn't ask for better grandparents.





Saturday, April 5, 2014

I misspelled words and my French is terrible, but a little something for my village.

Hate that I had to leave.

You can copy and paste this into the search bar: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOjjZpwCLIo
April 4, 2014 Today was one of the hardest days in country, and in my life. Probably makes one of the top ten. I had to leave Mayo-Darlé because of rumors of terrorist activity. I never felt in danger and never wanted to leave MD. There are so many people in MD who thought it was a joke when I told them; they laughed when I explained the situation. After two weeks away, waiting to know if I could go back or not, the people understood it was not a joke. My whole cluster got evacuated; there were six of us. We got driven back to our villages by Peace Corps and got three nights in our homes to pack our houses and say goodbye to everyone. Simply explaining the situation to everyone would take more than a week. Having to pack up an entire house AND telling my closest friends in three days seemed impossibly overwhelming. (I don’t know how another volunteer did it with only 24 hours.) I have never been forced out of my house or town against my will. It is a bizarre feeling, and that was only after four months. Can you imagine living in a place for years and having to leave? I sure can’t. Also, what kind of image is Peace Corps promoting when there is one little rumor and they take the volunteers out of the village? We are supposed to be so integrated and trusted members of a community but when there is something that is a possible threat they take us out of the village and leave the community members behind without a thought. They don’t ask the volunteers for their opinion or for their advice, even though they expect us to be completely independent while in country. Day by day, I am trying to calm down, accept the situation, and be excited about starting over. It is extremely trying and somedays I’m not sure I can do this. I want to go home, back to the States, where life is easy. I know we have our problems and challenges back in America, but for me, I’ve never had such a challenging day-to-day life. Maybe that is because I’m blessed with such a good family and caring parents, but I also think it is because I was lucky enough to be born in a stable country. I keep thinking how unfair it is for me, for my village, and for Cameroonians. Then, I remember my dad telling us girls, growing up, “Life isn’t fair.” I couldn’t agree more. Why do some people get to grow up with parents who think women can do whatever “their little hearts desire” while other kids grow up with parents who think they aren’t valuable enough to go to school? If you aren’t “smart” enough they will take you out of school to work on the farm, or with the cattle, or take care of the younger siblings. Why do some women get to become whatever they want; doctor, lawyer, engineer, while other women are forced to marry at 14, have kids at 15 and obey their husbands demands every day? Life certainly is NOT fair. At 27, why am I able to pay my neighbor woman (who is in her thirties or forties with more than 5 kids) 5,000 FCFA a month to wash my dirty Western clothing? She has certainly worked harder than I have ever worked in my life. If I could give her and her family everything I certainly would. The least I could do was give her bracelets for her and her kids, and take her oldest daughter (who lives at home) to a conference on women’s issues. That seems like nothing. Okay, I could go on for ages about the unfairness about life here, about life for us Americans and the Cameroonians here. We are so lazy, entitled, and don’t know what it is to struggle. Cameroonian women work from 5 am til 6 pm and never complain. I am upset that I had to leave my village, that I have to start this whole process over, but what upsets me more is leaving my friends behind in a “dangerous” area without any protection. Why are they less important than I am? Ugh, it is terribly frustrating. It is extremely difficult to understand and explain in a way for people back home to understand. I can only hope that my village, and many of the good people in Cameroon, are safe and are not displaced or affected by the terrible people in neighboring countries. I will know more on Monday, but for now I know I am going to a village called Tourningal. It has about 1,500 people (my old village had about 7-8,000 people). There is no electricity there; Mayo-Darlé had 4 hours of electricity that seems so precious now. It is mostly Muslim, like my old village, with mostly Fulani people. I am hopeful that I can use my minimal French and Fulfulde skills there. I am afraid that they fact “they speak both French and Fulfulde” means only Fulfulde. As they say in Cameroon, “On va voir” (we will see). Wish me luck while I start this whole integration process over again