Author: Sheila Quirke

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The Freshman 15 Grows Up: The Miscarriage 20

So my friend and fellow blogger Real Mom Nutrition posted this week about her “Freshman 15.”  It was a good post, kind of a weight gain memory lane, and brought me back to the days when I worried about things like five extra pounds and wondering if I should switch to skim milk (I did and still drink two glasses a day). 

And then the thought “Miscarriage 20” popped into my head.  I’ve had four miscarriages now.  There won’t be another.  My uterus is closed for business.  I am done, which is a shame, as Mary Tyler Dad and I make exceptional kids.   Six pregnancies, two babies, and one child.  Not a great track record. 

With each miscarriage (all in their first trimester) I put on 15-20 pounds.  That makes sense, as with both of my babies I put on 38 pounds, 15-20 of which were in the first trimester.  With the earlier pregnancies, the weight came off quickly.  I would indulge in some Portillo’s and chocolate for a few weeks afterwards, licking my wounds along with my french fries, and then I would get it together.  The weight would fall off. 

After this spring’s miscarriage, the weight did not fall off.  It’s tenacious, this particular Miscarriage 20.  The Universe’s latest laugh.  “Ha,” it chuckles at me, the cruel Universe, reminding me of who is boss.  Not me.  I get it, Universe.  You win. 

I shared the post on my facebook page with the tag, “I am struggling with the ‘Miscarriage 20.’  Are you struggling too?  Can we struggle together?”  The responses were sobering:

  • Stillbirth 50
  • Miscarriage 45
  • Infertility 60
  • Four Pregnancies, One Baby 40
  • Three Pregnancies in Two Years, Two Babies, One Miscarriage 30
  • Putting Self Last 60
  • Single Mom 60
  • Bipolar 50
  • Annual Holiday 15
  • Dysfunctional Family/Grad School/Two Major Depression/Marriage 30
  • Self Esteem Issues from Teenagedom 25

That’s a lot of weight.  And a lot of sadness.  And a lot of french fries.

More than a few comments expressed gratitude about the honest discussion of miscarriage and what it does to us who have experienced it.  Honestly, I am not a good person to ask about this, despite my obvious familiarity with it.  For me, miscarriage does not equal the loss of my daughter.  Four year old Donna that I helped lower into the ground. 

After my third miscarriage, my OB called me at home one day and gently asked if we would try to conceive again.  She expressed concern about my “psyche.”  Now that is good practice — a doc to call you at home just to see how you are — but I didn’t need her to worry about my psyche.  I needed her to worry about my uterus, and leave my psyche to me.  I tried to explain to her that, for better or worse, my husband and I simply have a different continuum of sadness, pain, and loss.  YES, miscarriage is awful and sad, but we’ve known deeper sadness.  Our perspective is inalterably changed.  Sigh.  We gave it one more shot this spring after six months of uber-expensive out-of-pocket acupuncture.  No luck.  Another miscarriage.  Another ultrasound with bad news.  Another D and C.  Another Miscarriage 20.

I am tired of it.  I am tired of looking in the mirror and not liking what I see.  I am tired of the science of “strategic dressing.”  I am tired of the up, down, up, down, up, up, up on the scale. 

Seeing all the empathy shared on yesterday’s facebook thread was a good wake up call for me.  The Universe can have its laughs with us, but there is something mighty powerful about universal experience.  One of the commenters discussed her own recent weight loss, the work of it, but the joy of it, too.  “Self-forgiveness is golden.  Self-loathing must go,” she wrote.  Word. 

I am all about the Transcendentalists.  Have been since I first discovered them in college.  Walt Whitman and Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau are prophets to me.  I will work to remember Emerson’s Self-Reliance in the coming days.  Ain’t nothing gonna change until I do, so it looks like it is time to change. 

Wish me luck.

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Happy Bill Kurtis Day, Chicago!

Today, for the record, is Bill Kurtis Day in Chicago.  If you’re like me and spent your childhood here, Mr. Kurtis, which is what I called him when I met him, is an honest to God Chicago icon.  Unlike New York and LA, our celebrities come from politics and local news stations.  I like that about Chicago.

Some of my earliest memories include watching Bill Kurtis and Walter Jacobson reporting the news.  For some unknown reason, I had a crush on Walter and would plead with my parents to let me stay awake and watch with them.  I would intentionally mispronounce Walter’s name, “Walter Ja-pe-skin’s Perspective,” as it seemed to charm my folks, making it more likely I could stay up.  It felt so grown up, being with my folks and older sibs, watching these two men report the news.

I was an odd kid, and the news did it for me.  In the eighth grade, I thought Phil Donahue was dreamy.  I so wanted to be “That Girl.”  I mean, Good Lord, when you look at the hair I’ve been sporting for two years,  you see I am completely guilty of being a Marlo Thomas wannabe.  She was kind of like a younger, more wide eyed Mary Tyler Moore.  See?  I’m odd.  I know this about myself.

Okay, but enough about me.  It’s Bill Kurtis Day in Chicago!  I am celebrating with this post and spreading the news of the day’s significance.  I heart Mr. Kurtis.  He is imminently trustworthy in his news delivery.  He is a reminder of my youth, that has somehow extended into middle age.  Improbably, he and Walter are back reporting the news again.  So much in the world has changed, including how we get our news, yet there they are, each week day, doing what they’ve done since I was wee and having to trick my parents into letting me stay up to watch them.  I don’t need to ask my folks’ permission anymore, and truth be told, I am rarely using television for news.  I still believe in what Walter and Bill Kurtis say, though, as they say it so well. 

There is something comforting about things in our youth that don’t change, that come along with us on our aging process.  This could explain my fascination with Mayor Daley as well.  Or my Mom’s Dorothy Hamill wedge haircut that she wore so well from 1976 until she was diagnosed with her brain tumor in 2004.  Or Kraft Dinner on Friday nights.  These things comfort me.

In spring 2010, I got a call from our daughter’s hospice agency, Horizon Hospice.  They were interested in honoring us as their Caregivers of the Year.  Would we be willing to accept such an award?  Would we be willing to speak about Donna’s hospice experience to a room full of Chicago movers and shakers in an upcoming gala?  Sigh.  I was torn.  It was lovely to be recognized for our caregiving, and yes, an opportunity to talk about Donna is always welcome, but, you know, this call out of the blue cemented Donna’s death and absence.  Then our contact mentioned that Bill Kurtis would be hosting the evening.  “Yes,” I said, quickly, without even consuting Mary Tyler Dad.

I confided to our contact at Horizon that Bill Kurtis was one of my Chicago icons and I would be so pleased to meet him.  Oh, and could I include my father, who would be equally pleased to meet another Chicago icon  — you might not know my Dad, but he is totally and completely a Chicago icon.

The evening came and it was lovely.  Mary Tyler Dad, the wry and sardonic love of my life, had started referring to it as ‘The Hoscars.’  We were both in our finest clothes, which means I got to see him in a collared shirt, always a bonus.  We got to sit with some of the hospice caregivers that cared for both Donna and us in the most terrible of days.  Both of Donna’s docs shared the evening with us, too, and that was especially touching.  And for the first time ever, I ate bacon coated with brown sugar.  OMG, as Mary Tyler Son now exclaims.  Bacon in brown sugar is potentially the best appetizer ever.

About an hour before the actual event, while rich folks hob nobbed over bacon and cocktails, and we tried to not look too conspicuous, Mary Tyler Dad, my own Dad, and I were ushered into the main room where Mr. Kurtis and his lovely partner, Donna LaPietra greeted us.  They held a bag out to me, full of Kurtis swag — signed photos, an autographed copy of Bill’s book, the whole Kurtis shabang.  We chatted and posed for photo after photo.  I learned that Kurtis was changed from its original Kuretich.  Mr. Kurtis and I shared Croatian heritage — no wonder I lived him!  And we chatted about Laura Ingalls Wilder, my favorite childhood author.  He just happens to own the land in Kansas where the Ingalls family homesteaded.  Bill and Donna could not have been kinder or more gracious.  And to hear Bill Kurtis say my name and introduce me?  It. Does. Not. Get. Any. Better.

So, yes, I had a great, great evening.  And today, I have a very personal reason to honor Mr. Kurtis on Chicago’s Bill Kurtis Day.  Except I am still kicking myself that I didn’t bring an Anchorman DVD for him to sign.  Sigh.

Bill Kurtis, Me and Jeremy
Mr. Bill Kurtis, Mary Tyler Mom (complete with awesome sweat stain),  and Mary Tyler Dad at the May 2010 Horizon Hospice ‘Hoscars’

Bill Kurtis, Me, and Dad

Bill Kurtis, Mary Tyler Mom and her Da — another Chicago icon, at the Horizon Hospice ‘Hoscars’

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It’s 5PM. Have you screwed up your kid yet today?

One of my facebook friends posted an Onion article today with the headline, “Study Finds Every Style of Parenting Produces Disturbed, Miserable Adults.” 

I love The Onion on many levels, but mostly because what makes me laugh about their articles are the painful truths they contain.  It is these hard, cold truth that cause my discomfort when I can’t help but chuckle at some of their headlines.  I laugh to keep from crying.  Like when way back in the day, they ran a headline about an adolescent African boy suffering a mid-life crisis.  You see what I mean?  It hurts so much, you laugh so you’re not a crying, weeping mess on the floor.

Anyway.

This short “news item” reminded me of one of my favorite conversations ever.  Mary Tyler Dad and I are lucky to have a tight circle of his high school friends, and now their partners and kids, that still regularly get together.  We’re all over the country, but usually once a year, we get together and enjoy each other’s company for a weekend or week.  An adolescent Brigadoon, if you will. 

Back in 2004 Mary Tyler Dad and I hosted in Chicago.  At that time, only one of the friends had kids, but they were itty bitties.  The rest of us are all “late bloomers” in the kids department, so we were mid-30s and still on this side of the kids threshold.  That weekend, we spent a couple of hours wondering and imagining out loud how each respective couple would screw up their as yet unborn kiddos. 

Now that, my friends, is comedy.  Hilarity definitely ensued that weekend.  For the life of me, I can’t remember how Mary Tyler Dad and I were gonna screw up our little ones, but I’m certain it had something to do with liberalism and laziness.  Or intellectual snobbery.  Something along those lines, at least. 

Whodda thunk it would be grief and cancer? 

See?  Ya gotta laugh to keep from crying.