Some of what you've missed

The kids are on spring break this week.

And sadly, all of Joseph's friends are out of town, making for a somewhat quiet few days.

To remedy this situation, we're heading out tomorrow for an impromptu visit to Chicago. Three days of traipsing around our old neighborhood, of taking in some sights... Millennium Park, the Art Institute, the Lincoln Park Zoo. Oh yes, and eating awesome Thai food, maybe some sushi.

It's gonna be great.

Now, while I'm here... I realize my posting has fallen way the heck off. And I'm sorry.

Really.

I can't make any promises, but if you're still out there reading, I will try to post more often.

In the meantime, a few short updates:

The shoulder is better -- much better. Not a hundred percent, but I made about 20 "backboard shots" playing one-on-one with Joseph on our driveway yesterday.

So, yeah.

The job has been crazy, but still pretty great.

Parenting a teenager has been a learning experience for us all. Sometimes it feels like I'm parenting two teenagers, Evan is just that savvy.

And then there's the diabetes.

Still there, still throwing us curves every once in a while. But (thankfully) nothing like it did this past fall.

Joseph continues to take ownership of more and more of his diabetes management. Last night, for example, when he finished eating a big plate of pesto pasta, he got up and cleared his plate while Ryan, Evan and I were all still eating. I turned to remind him to bolus, but before the words got out of my mouth, I saw him leaning over the kitchen counter, diabetes supplies laid out in front of him.

"What are you doing, Bud?"

"Oh, it's a set change day... I'm just gonna put in a new set before I bolus."

"Good thinking, Bud-- nice job."

"Mom, I'm getting pretty good at this stuff, you know."

"Yes, you are," I said. "And I'm getting pretty good at sitting on my hands."

At that, his head came right up-- and then, flashing me that wonderful grin of his:

"Yes-- yes, you are."

To fill in still more gaps, I thought I'd share some images/a bit of video footage from this fall and winter -- for example, giving you all a glimpse of what the kids wore on Halloween, a peek at some night sledding on this year's backyard hill, my fabulous makeover... and really, just how much the kids have grown over the last six months.

Enjoy!

Spring Thaw

Wow... three months. I can't believe it's been that long.

Well, we're still here -- and it looks like we've made it through yet another Wisconsin winter. The sun is shining, it's 60 degrees, and (Hallelujah!) I can move my arm again -- still limited, but way, way better than when I last posted to the blog.

Look how high I can reach with that arm... Hurray!

This, despite one major setback in early January.

When my insurance company decided that because I wasn't making "significant progress" with each and every visit to physical therapy, these visits now fell under the category of "maintenance" -- and as such, would no longer be covered by our plan.

No. Way.

So this is what went down: I called my case manager, and within two minutes discovered she was clueless about adhesive capsulitis (aka "frozen shoulder"). I'd barely hung up the phone when I was back on with my orthopedic specialist and PT.

Both wrote letters educating her about the condition; explaining that progress is slow and physical therapy, crucial.

And then I waited.

Four weeks.

During which time I experienced much regression (i.e., more pain, less motion).

Until finally, I called my case manager yet again:

"Have you received the letters from my doctor and physical therapist?" I ask her.

"No, I don't believe we've received any letters... but let me take a look."

"Wait a minute-- these were sent over three weeks ago."

The sound of paper shuffling on the other end.

"Oh yes, here they are.... hmmm... we'll have to review these and get back to you."

"Get back to me!? It's been FOUR WEEKS! And this thing is getting worse-- again! I'm back to waking up every night in pain... "

And then I just lose it.

"... I can't reach my back pocket! I can barely dress myself... this is INSANE! I've had this thing since early fall, finally get the right diagnosis, finally start making progress... and now because of some arbitrary decision -- a decision my DOCTOR does NOT agree with -- I'm back to where I was in November." I pause, tears now streaming into the receiver.

Silence. No response.

So I continue.

"What is your FULL name? I want to know exactly who is responsible for this decision."

"I-I... well... um... I will walk your file down for review right now," the case manager says. "I'll write 'priority' on it."

And then she pauses for maybe a second before saying, "I'm so sorry."

The next morning I get a call from my PT.

"Sandra, your insurance company just faxed approval for another 12 visits. We're back in business!"

So there you have it.

Six weeks later, I'm still doing my exercises, still going to PT-- which continues to be ridiculously painful (but I get back a little range of motion with each visit, so it's unbelievably worth it), and according to my doc, I am now in the third and final stage of this thing-- the thawing phase.

Hurray, indeed.

Frozen

"Do you have diabetes?"

"Wha - What? No, no I don't" I say, looking up at the doctor's face— trying to breathe through the pain.

"Now, lie still and try to relax your arm," he says, taking hold of my right hand once again — then lifting my arm straight up toward the ceiling.

And again I try to breathe, as this time the doc moves my arm slowly back toward my head.

Only he can't get it anywhere near my head.

Like there's some large invisible wedge between my arm and the exam table.

"Well, this is a classic case," he says, bringing my arm back down by my side and then turning to the resident sitting in a chair next to the exam table — a young dark-haired woman wearing large white-framed eyeglasses. "No history of trauma, several months of rapid loss of motion... let's turn the arm inward."

Taking hold of my wrist and elbow, he bends my arm at a right angle and attempts to twist it down toward my stomach.

I cry out— because that tiny motion feels like he's just stabbed the top and front of my shoulder with a knife.

Breathe... breathe...

"Range of motion is lost in all directions," he says, with a note of finality that makes me queasy.

Placing my arm by my side, he turns once again to the resident. They continue talking about my symptoms, my history— while I stare at the ceiling, tears sliding down into my hair.

No, it's not just what they're saying, it's the damn pain still reverberating from the top of my shoulder down to my elbow.

Please just stop.

"... so we have a severe loss of motion in all directions, high level of pain... we're dealing with only one of two things, aren't we?"

"Yes," the resident responds tentatively.

"And what tests would you order?"

"X-ray."

"Yes— which was already done, showing healthy bones with some calcification on an otherwise healthy rotator cuff, meaning we can rule out... what?

"Arthritis," the resident says, sounding more confident.

"Correct. So what is the only other thing this could be?

"Adhesive capsulitis."

"Exactly!"

They smile at each other, clearly pleased that this resident gave the right answer.

I clear my throat.

Both turn toward me.

"Yes," the doc begins, "I'm very sorry, but what you have is adhesive capsulitis — a "frozen shoulder." It's a painful condition- "

"Yes, I know."

"... one with a very long recovery period. First, understand that you didn't do anything wrong. There's nothing you could have done to stop this. No one is really sure why this happens or how. We do believe that there is an autoimmune component to it— partly because the majority of those who suffer from the condition have diabetes."

"My son has type 1 diabetes," I say, distractedly, pulling myself up so that I'm seated on the table, legs dangling over the edge like a little kid's.

The doctor tells me I'll need physical therapy for as long as a year or more. He tells me about the three stages — "freezing, frozen and thawing" — and that to minimize range of motion and muscle loss, I'll need to do a lot of work. A lot of painful work.

"What about a cortisone shot?" I ask, hopefully.

"A steroid shot won't cure this, and we see mixed results when using it to treat frozen shoulder symptoms, but it might relieve some of the pain for a short time."

"Could you give me a ball park percentage of people who present like me and actually experience pain relief from the shot?"

"I'd say it's about 50%."

"Oh."

"It's always something we can try," he tells me, "if the pain becomes unbearable."

Three hours ago, when I arrived for my appointment with this specialist — this orthopedist who deals only with shoulders — I'd been so ready to plead for a steroid shot...

But now.

"Well, it's pretty bad at night and if I challenge it in any way..." my voice fades and then, "I think I'll hold off on the shot today."

So that's it.

I've heard about this thing, but could never really appreciate how bad it was until now.

Until I couldn't go to bed without waking repeatedly in crushing pain, simply because I rolled onto my shoulder.

Until I couldn't get my coat off without a struggle.

Until I couldn't reach my back pocket.

Until there was no sledding.

(Not even on the backyard hill)

No hugging my children without pain...

I don't think I've stopped shaking since yesterday's appointment.

Gone So Long

First.

I am so sorry to have left you all hanging-- we're here, and we're fine.

I think.

So much has happened since my last post, I don't quite know where to start.

I guess an explanation for the silence might be the best place.

Now, I could just say I haven't posted because we've been busy -- DANG busy -- with multiple trips out of town, beautiful weather, preparations for school...

All true.

But that's not the only thing that's kept me away.

Bottom line, I just couldn't bring myself to write.

And for a a while now, I didn't know why.

Until this morning -- after walking Evan to school (yes, you read that right-- Evan. To school.) -- I started thinking about the blog, and the word "fear" came to mind.

Why?

Because I haven't kept Joseph's blood sugars remotely stable all summer.

Because, as a result, his A1c jumped back up-- this time to its highest since diagnosis.

8.6

And finally, because I haven't had the strength to talk about it here.

It's ironic, really.

For despite a somewhat rocky start, this was probably the best summer we've had since Joseph's diagnosis: countless baseball games; trips to see family, friends; an amazing week of diabetes camp for Joseph, "Gramma" camp for Evan, and "Parent" camp for me and Ryan.

And through it all, Joseph grew. A lot.

(Criminy, he's almost as tall as me!)

But the fear, that all this fun was coming at a cost, also grew.

Don't get me wrong-- we didn't ignore the diabetes. No. We tried to get some semblance of control.

But it was impossible.

You see, it wasn't that we weren't logging, it was that so much changed so fast -- virtually day-to-day -- that we couldn't make sense of the data.

Well, summer's over.

Time to get back to work.

(And hopefully, back to the blog as well.)

Random Stuff

Okay, seems I've been tagged for a meme by Penny and Lisa, and (as usual) am very late getting to it.

(Sorry, ladies.)

The rules are as follows:

I must write a post listing 10 weird, random, facts, habits or goals about myself then choose six people to be tagged, list their names and why I tagged them.

All righty, then-- here we go:

#1. I'm the last to finish eating at every meal-- even if I don't do any talking.

I eat that slow.

#2. One of my baby teeth didn't fall out until my senior year in high school.

#3. My idea of fun is working through some form of creative challenge.

Case in point:

A number of months ago, I read several books about HTML, XHTML and CSS, then created at least half a dozen Blogger blogs for the sole purpose of messin' with the template designs...

(Yee hah!)

#4. Even though I'm gonna have a ton more time for myself when Evan starts kindergarten in the fall, I'm already missing her...

#5. I never learned how to play a musical instrument... in an effort to rectify this, I'm in the process of teaching myself how to play the piano using the Sudnow Method.

(If you're ever out my way, just ask me to play "Misty" for you... )

#6. Though reasonably intelligent, I've been known to experience moments of extreme stupidity.

For example:

A few years ago -- while sitting upstairs nursing Evan -- I heard a loud siren. I remember thinking:

What an odd time for a drill.

No one downstairs had heard the siren (music was playing on the stereo at the time), and when I came down for dinner -- despite looking out the kitchen window and noticing that the the sky was an odd shade of green -- I didn't say anything about the siren I'd heard.

(I was pretty sleep deprived at the time-- Evan was teething, you see.)

Anyhow, minutes later I sat down to dinner with Ryan, one of my sisters, her husband and our kids.

The lights flickered off and on a few times as we ate; hard rain pounded the skylights above us-- and for a minute, we heard what sounded like a freight train rumbling past.

"It must be hail," I'd said.

Uh huh.

Less than an hour later, we discovered that a tornado had ripped through our neighborhood.



It had been on our street.



Just six houses from our own.



#7. I'm the only member of my very large family to move out of New England.

(And after the above experience, I've begun to question this decision.)

#8. June 5th was my 15-year wedding anniversary...


... August 23rd will mark the 22nd anniversary of the day Ryan and I met.

And, folks.

I am still crazy about the man.



#9. While writing is one of the most satisfying -- and at times, easiest -- things I do, settling down (both physically and mentally) to write is one of the hardest.

#10. Last year, a local ice cream shop introduced a flavor called "Hot Chocolate."

Deep, dark "Zanzibar" chocolate, laced with cayenne.

Can't. Stay. Away....

As far as tagging others, I'm so very late here that I'm gonna tag anyone who reads this and hasn't done it!

My Six Word Memoir

         Joy

           Pain

            Confusion

               Understanding

                  Determination

Repeat.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks to Nicole for the tag.

Rules for this interesting little meme are as follows:

1) Write your own six word memoir;
2) Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like;
3) Link to the person that tagged you in your post, and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere;
4) Tag at least five more blogs with links; and
5) Don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!

Since I'm so late to this one, I'm tagging anyone else who'd like to give it a go.

Pondering the Blog

Today marks the beginning of my fourth year as a diabetes blogger.

In my very first post, I said that it was "liberating to think that I could write something here that might help someone out."

Three years later, and I still feel exactly the same.

And more.

Because soon after writing that first entry, I learned that blogging could open the door to both giving and receiving a tremendous amount of support.

I also wrote that blogging would "allow me to unload some of the vast amounts of frustration, information and heartache" that had piled up "since my [then] 9-year old son's diagnosis."

While this site has indeed allowed me to do just that-- I have to say, the unloading part has become a lot more complicated of late.

Think about it.

My son is now 12-years old-- an age when many of his peers have access to the web.

What would happen if any of them found this site?

Now, don't misunderstand. Joseph is still supportive of me doing this-- is still fond of saying, "Mom, you should put this on your blog."

Even so, I can feel myself holding back.

And I hate it.

Because rather than letting loose -- unloading -- I find myself "knapsacking."

Hauling around stories until the weight of them almost makes me scream.

(Perhaps if I'd started this site anonymously, it would be different.)

Is there a way to balance what I post here with a respect for my son's privacy?

Any thoughts?

Anyone else grappling with this issue?

A Meme... with a few old snaps

Amylia, Jamie, and Heidi tagged me for the meme that's spreading like wildfire throughout the OC.

To participate, one must:

• Link to the person’s blog who tagged you.
• Post these rules on your blog.
• List seven random and/or weird facts about yourself
• Tag seven random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
• Let each person know that they have been tagged by posting a comment on their blog.

Seven, huh?

Well, here we go...

#1. Recently, I made the rather shocking discovery that I am incapable of telling a joke.

Now, it's not that I'm not funny.

Oh, I'm funny.

I just can't tell a joke.

How do I know this?

Because my husband proved it to me after dinner one night last week when, despite much coaching on his part, I could not tell a simple joke.

It kept coming out like this:

"A guy walks into a bar with a duck on his head. Bartender says: 'Hey, what's that duck doing on your head?' Ughhhhh... Wait, wait-- let me try again. A guy walks into a bar with a duck on his head. Bartender says, 'Hey, why is that thing on your head?' GAH!"

And so on.

(Big-time kudos to whoever knows the name of the truly awesome movie this pathetically-rendered joke comes from.)

#2. I was a thumb sucker.

Until I was nearly 8-years old.

Always the right thumb.

When asked why not the other, I told people the left thumb tasted like pepper.

#3. I came darn close to dying after giving birth to Joseph.

Darn close.

Two days after a perfectly normal (albeit long), intervention-free labor and birth-- I was admitted to the hospital with sepsis (an infection in the blood).


Thankfully, Ryan and Joseph were allowed to stay with me.

It took a week in the hospital and two
weeks recovering at home before I could
finally take my boy outside for a walk.







#4. I have a trick left thumb. Ryan thought it best not to include a photo.

Let's just say it's tricky.

#5. When I was very young, my mother's nickname for me was "Tilly Tippy Twinkle Toes."

#6. As kids, whenever my siblings and I watched the Wizard of Oz, we'd yell "I'm the ___!"-- and then call out the name of the character we wanted to "be" for the duration of the movie.

I always chose the Scarecrow.

#7. And finally, I will end this meme on a totally random note:

My 80s haircut.

Admittedly, not all that outrageous compared to some.

Ahhh-- but look at the inspiration:



And then, that inspiration fully (and finally) realized at an office Halloween party--
c. 1986.

Oh yeah.

Big 80s.



There you have it.

I realize that most folks have already been tagged, but I'm tagging nonetheless:

Tom, Scott Marvel, Val, Elizabeth, Jen, and Wil-- if you haven't shared your seven already and would like to join in the fun, consider yourself tagged!

Five Facts

Yikes! Ryan Bruner tagged me last week, and I'm just now getting to this. (We had a really busy weekend over here)

So here's the scoop-- I must reveal five relatively unknown facts about myself, and then tag five other people.

Here you go:

• During a parent-teacher conference, my first grade teacher told my mom that I "walked with too heavy a foot" -- that apparently, I made an awful racket whenever I took my seat in class. This, despite the fact that I was the smallest kid in my class.
  

• I'm a longtime fan of martial arts films -- I've owned a collection of Bruce Lee movies for over 20 years; saw Jackie Chan films at an art house theater in Chicago years before they were dubbed and in wide release; and -- even though Bruce Lee had been passed over in favor of David Carradine -- was crazy about the series, Kung Fu. (Yet I've never, ever taken karate. Go figure.)

• Though I'm right handed, I cannot snap the fingers of my right hand. At. All. Nor can I "drum" those fingers in any sort of coordinated fashion. However, those fingers on the left can do both beautifully.
  

• The only fist fight I've ever been in (outside of those with siblings) was when I was ten, and it was over a stray cat. She was beautiful-- white with large black spots that made her look very much like a little cow. I'd found her, named her (Spot) and was caring for her, when the girl who lived next door decided she wanted to take the cat for herself. A scuffle ensued, ending quickly when I slugged her in the stomach.

• In the 26 years I lived in New England, I never ate fish-- just couldn't stand the smell. Shortly after moving to the midwest, I acquired a taste for seafood-- beginning with the raw variety (sushi is still a favorite).
  

And since I'm so late on this, if you haven't been tagged already and would like to be, consider yourself tagged!

A Little Self Disclosure

Evan is sick. We have a bug problem. And Joseph's love life is getting just a little too interesting.

Details coming soon...

In the meantime, how about a Meme (courtesy of Penny)?

1. Do you still have tonsils?

Indeed, yes.

Despite chronic tonsillitis as a child and having been told by a pediatrician (who didn't subscribe to the then popular "pull 'em" philosophy) that mine were "certainly on the large side."

2. Would you bungee jump?

Never-- can't stand being upside down.

Freaks. Me. Out.

3. If You Could Do Anything In The World For A Living What Would It Be?

An artist . . . who also writes . . . who happens to be a world class chef . . . with a thriving midwifery practice . . .

4. How many tattoos do you have?

None-- never liked needles.

Ironic, eh?

5. Your favorite fictional animal?

Three-way tie:

Bugs Bunny, Bullwinkle J. Moose and Ren.

6. One person that never fails to make you laugh?

My sister, Teresa.

The woman slays me every time I talk with her. Every. Time.

7. Do you consider yourself well organized?

Depends on the situation.

8. Any Addictions?

Love the sugar and "white" carbs-- am working to change that, though.

9. From what news source do you receive the bulk of your news?

Two weekly magazines-- The Nation (yup, I'm a lefty) and The Economist (love to get world news-- and from a perspective outside of this country). And of course, the internet-- mostly from Salon.

Newspapers annoy me. Too many ads.

10. Would you rather go to a carnival or circus?

A carnival-- you get to do something, not just watch.

11. When you were twelve years old, what did you want to be when you grew up?

An artist.

12. Best Movie You've Seen This Year?

The only one that comes to mind at the moment is Dr. Jack. Just watched it the other night with Ryan and the kids.

Harold Lloyd was a genius.

13.Favorite alcoholic drink

A glass of really good red wine.

14. What is the first thing you do when you wake up in the morning?

Pour a cup of coffee.

Yes, yes, I'm back on the coffee-- but only two cups a day.

Honest.

15. Siblings?

Six -- three boys, three girls.

16. What is the best thing about your job?

Being a stay-at-home mom means I don't miss any of the milestones, and I have plenty of time to just play with my kids.

17. Have you ever gone to therapy?

Yup. One of the best things I ever did for myself.

18. If you could have one super power what would it be?

Fly. I'd really like to fly.

But being super strong would be cool, too.

But if I could heal, well then, that would trump both.

19. Do you own any furniture from Ikea?

Yes. A few small things, and a fabulous chest of drawers I found for Evan at a yard sale. It came from IKEA.

Man, I wish I didn't have to go to the next state to visit an IKEA store.

20. Have you ever gone camping?

Only twice-- just last spring to the School Forest with Evan, Joseph, and his classmates.

And eleven years ago, when I was pregnant with Joseph.

21. Gas prices! First thought?

Yikers!

And then-- hmmm... they're coming down . . . we must be coming up on an election.

22. Your favorite cartoon character?

The Tick.

23. What was your first car?

A used white '74 Dodge Dart Sport (said in your best New England accent).

It had a fabulous red stripe, and I loved that it looked so much like Starsky's striped tomato.

24. Do you think marriage is an outdated ritual?

Absolutely not.

25. The Cosby Show or the Simpsons?

The Simpsons. Though I do love Bill.

26. Do you go to church?

No.

27. What famous person would you like to have dinner with?

George W. Bush. I would let him know exactly what I think of his presidency.

And it wouldn't be pretty.

28. What errand/chore do you despise?

Laundry. For the same reason Penny cites.

The act of doing it doesn't really bother me. It's the relentlessness of it. At times, I feel like Sisyphus as I haul that laundry basket upstairs yet again.

Knowing it's just gonna be refilled and is comin' back down the next day. Ugh.

29. First thought when the alarm went off this morning?

The "alarm" was Joseph waking me to help him gather supplies for an after-school outing.

First thought-- "What a beautiful kid."

30. Last time you puked from drinking?

Just once-- twenty-four years ago.

31. What is your heritage?

French, French-Canadian, Irish and English.

Mostly French/French Canadian, though.

32. Favorite flower?

Yet another tie-- Dahlias (in all of their brilliant colors) and Black-eyed Susans.

33. Disney or Warner Bros?

Warner Bros. Definitely Warner Bros.

34. What is your best childhood memory?

Probably walking around our block with my little sister, Teresa, telling her stories about what we were going to do when we grew up (we did this all the time) --while sharing a stick of Big Buddy Bubble Gum that I would fold neatly in half before breaking so that we'd have exactly the same amount.

35. Your favorite potato chip?

Zapp's Cajun Dill Potato Chips.

They come from Louisiana, and they're awesome!

36. What is your favorite candy?

Dark Chocolate.

Anything dark-- but especially from here.

37. Do you burn or tan?

Generally, tan.

Unless I do something stupid.

38. Astrological sign?

Cancer.

39. Do you own a gun?

No.

40. What do you think of hot dogs?

I try not to. Especially if I'm eating one.

There you have it. Feel free to join in the self-disclosing fun.

Vivian did.

My Big Weekend

"What if Evan wanders away while you're coaching on the field? Or Joseph's pump gets left behind in the dugout-- you know, that almost happened at the last game. He'd picked up his glove and bats and was leaving when I saw his bag was still there. And he was still disconnected. If we lose that pump, they won't replace it."

The panic behind these words was palpable.

"Stop. STOP!" Ryan said, taking firm hold of my shoulders. "Now listen-- I am a responsible person. And I love my children. They're gonna be just fine. I won't lose Evan. And I won't lose Joseph's pump. His blood sugars will go up and down-- but they always do that. He will be fine.

"Just, please go and relax. Enjoy being with your sisters. And HAVE FUN! Okay?"

I nodded my head. Still stunned at the very idea of leaving my husband and kids for three days.

You see, I've never been away from Evan for more than a few hours. In fact, the only time I'd ever gone on an overnight without Joseph was when he was three. And even then, it was just one night.

And of course, it was before he became diabetic.

Three. Days.

As the weekend grew closer, fears about leaving put my stomach in knots-- until I sort of spewed them all over Ryan just before I left.

Astoundingly (to me anyway) his calm reassurances were incredibly effective-- I drove to Chicago on Friday and spent three wonderful days and nights exploring that city with my two younger sisters.





We walked, talked, laughed and just plain hung out.



It was more grand than I could ever describe here.

So how did things go back home?

Well, Ryan and the kids played mini golf, saw Over the Hedge, and went out for ice cream. At night, they watched old movies (Dr. No, The Crimson Pirate). They even had lunch at McDonald's-- a rarity here -- resulting in major points for dad. (By the way, Evan lobbied hard for lunch at McDonald's today... uh no.)

Of course Ryan was right about everything he'd said before I left-- he didn't lose the kids or the pump. And yes, Joseph's bgs were all over the place.

And we were all just fine.

Another Kind of Anniversary

"When can we start?" Joseph asks, shifting back and forth in his chair.

"How about right now?"

We drop small colored tablets that look like candy into five gray coffee mugs filled with water, and watch as the liquid is transformed-- brilliant red, deep purple, bold blue, bright yellow, and a warm orange.

We're ready to dip the eggs.

This is a tradition for us, decorating hard-boiled eggs on the Friday before Easter.

But next year will be different-- he'll be in kindergarten, instead of here at home in the early afternoon, decorating eggs.

And next year, the baby will be here.

"Mom, can I do the first one?"

"You betcha, sweetie."

I watch him place a cold, white egg on a wire holder and carefully lower it into one of the mugs.

All the while, I'm ansy. I've been feeling this way for two weeks-- like something's not right. Reflexively, I place my hand on my low abdomen.

Please be okay.

I'd been journaling since I first found out I was pregnant-- trying to work through the fear. Thinking that maybe if I wrote it down, it couldn't happen again.

But I haven't written anything in nearly two weeks.

This isn't like last time, I tell myself. I'm twelve weeks-- way past that eight-week mark.

No. We're fine. Just fine.

But then, I turn away from my son, from the unfinished Easter eggs, and pick up the phone.

Despite having no physical symptoms, I've convinced my doctor to see me this afternoon.

Ryan comes home from work and takes Joseph to the park.

"Are you sure you're okay going alone?"

"Yeah, I'll be all right. The doc is pretty confident we'll hear the heartbeat-- that's all I want, is to hear that heartbeat. Then I'll really be fine."

Soon after my arrival, I'm sitting in an exam room, shaking.

Why am I such a freak? Everything is fine. Dammit, I'm twelve weeks!

The doctor comes in, we make small talk, and finally, she pulls out the doppler.

She rubs a glob of clear, cold gel onto my low abdomen, and places the end of the device against my skin, sliding it back and forth, then in small circles-- applying more and more pressure.

For a long time, all we hear is static, and then a faint, rapid heartbeat-- but the doc tells me it's mine.

"Now Sandra, don't panic," she says, noting the look on my face. "It's still early, and this is an older doppler. I'd like to send you over to the hospital this evening for an ultrasound. You're obviously very worried, and given your history, I think you'll feel a whole lot better if we have a look."

My history. I'm glad she didn't say it. If I heard the word "miscarriage" out loud, then yes, I definitely would have lost it.

Ryan is still out with Joseph when I arrive home, so I drive by the park to tell him the plan.

"Why don't we get someone to watch Joseph?" he asks, looking worried.

"It's fine, really. The doc just doesn't want me to go all nuts over the holiday weekend. And besides, I'm not bleeding, I don't have any symptoms. I just don't feel right. It's probably because I'm so damn paranoid."

Half an hour later, I'm sitting on a table in a dark room -- a white sheet draped across my lap -- answering the questions of a very chatty, very young, ultrasound tech.

"So when was your last period? Oh, wait!" she says, after glancing in my folder, "You're twelve weeks today. That's so exciting! Is this your first?"

"No," I tell her. "I have a five-year-old son, too."

"That's so great!" she exclaims with a broad smile, "I'm sure he'll love having a little brother or sister!"

Finally, she switches on the monitor, reaches under the sheet and inserts a 'wand-like' device, called a '"transducer." As she moves the device, it begins to hurt. I wonder if it hurts the baby, too.

But then, I see him.

Sam.

For a moment, I can't breathe.

Over the next several minutes, the only sounds in the room are the clicks coming from her mouse and keyboard-- and me, gasping quietly at views of his spine, his head, his legs...

But why is she so quiet?

I finally get the nerve to ask if everything looks all right.

"Well, we'll have to wait for the radiologist to have a look," she says-- suddenly sounding a lot less chipper than a few moments ago.

Immediately, she turns off the monitor and says, "I'm going to get these images to the radiologist. I'll be right back."

Now she sounds a little nervous.

It's just me. More paranoia.

I lay back on the table and close my eyes, seeing his image all over again.

It's okay. He looked fine.

I tell myself this over and over . . .

After twenty insanely long minutes, the tech returns.

"The radiologist would like to have a look himself-- he'll be right in." Without waiting for a response, she switches on the monitor, and quickly places the transducer in position.

And before I can even think about what's going on, he's here-- a short, thin, bald man, wearing large black-rimmed eyeglasses and a serious expression.

He says nothing-- just looks intently at the image on the screen for about two minutes.

Then he looks at my face for the first time.

"Ms. Miller, we're going to have your doctor call you this evening with your results."

"What?!" I barely get out. "If you know something, I want to hear it now. What's going on? Is there something wrong with the baby?"

My heart feels as though it will smash right through my chest as I wait for his response.

He takes a breath.

"Well. I'm afraid that what we have here is a case of fetal demise."

Fetal demise . . . fetal demise . . . Oh God.

"Wait- what do you mean?"

This cannot be happening now. Not again! I'm Twelve weeks. TWELVE WEEKS!

"There is no cardiac activity. And given its size, growth stopped about two weeks ago. That's probably when the demise occurred."

"What? Can't we wait a couple of weeks and do another ultrasound?" I ask, desperately. "Maybe it's a mistake! My dates could be wrong or- "

"On ultrasound we can detect cardiac activity as early as five weeks. No, this is definitely fetal demise."

"But- "

"This is why I prefer having your doctor call with test results." And with those words, he switches off the monitor.

The tears are coming fast now-- over my cheeks, into my mouth. I can't stop them, I don't even try. The technician is next to me with a box of tissues. The radiologist is gone.

After sitting alone in the waiting room for what feels like hours, my doc calls to tell me that the baby probably died two weeks earlier, and that I can have a D & C or wait for the miscarriage-- which she felt would probably start this weekend. I opt to wait.

I just can't do it-- have him taken out that way. Not after seeing him.

At home, I wait for Ryan and Joseph. I'm sitting on the couch. The lights are off. My hands rest instinctively on my abdomen.

He's still here.

The sound of the front door flying open startles me. Joseph runs into the living room, flings his arms around me-- talking non-stop about a boy he'd met at the park.

Ryan is standing in the doorway, looking at me.

When Joseph finally leaves the room, Ryan sits on the edge of the couch, holding my shoulders as I tell him.

We stay on the couch a long time.

Two full weeks pass. Two more ultrasounds show that he's still there.

Still intact. Still a part of me.

Until finally, almost violently, it happens.

We end up in the ER-- there's just too much blood.

I never see him outside of me.

A positive pregnancy test, ultrasound photos, and so much pain . . . that's all that's left of him.

A Dinner Out

"I want to try something new, take on a new challenge."

That's what I tell Ryan as we sit in a booth waiting for our fabulous dinner to arrive.

We discuss what I'm thinking about. I'm hesitant, though-- it's been a long time since I've taken on anything new, and I'm just not sure that I can really do it.

"Sandra, any time you've tried to do something, you've been able to master it -- well, anything but diabetes-- but no one has mastered that."

And just like that, it's here.

Ryan seems to read my mind. "But you're right here" he says, holding an index finger and thumb less than an inch apart. "You're in this top percent of people who manage diabetes well."

The lump at the back of my throat almost prevents me from speaking.

"I can't stand this, you know? There's Joseph, and then there's diabetes, and I just can't accept that this thing is really a part of him. I have to keep it separate. I see him, and then I see the disease. It's just not him. It can't be."

"I can't do it like that." Ryan tells me. Then he looks at me with an intensely sad expression, pausing a moment before going on.

"I've accepted that diabetes is part of him. Because if I didn't, then I'd have to keep reliving it and-- " the words catch before he continues-- "I can't do that."

For a moment, I really see how hard this is for him-- how he's managed to cope.

Suddenly, I'm very conscious of the low lights, the loud mass of people that surrounds us-- of the boisterous group of four sitting next to us.

And I'm grateful for the noise, and the darkness.

Maybe no one notices the tears spilling over my cheeks, or my feeble attempts to stop them with my napkin.

We'd promised not talk about the kids, about diabetes. We were going to shoot food at each other if either of us broke that promise.

But our food hasn't arrived.