Another Words...

Lately I’ve been thinking about Rudy, short for Rudolph Orsini. He was my next-door neighbor growing up. He was an older gentleman in his 70s. He was one of my best friends when I was 4, 5, and 6. I used to wake up in the mornings and walk over to his apartment and let myself in to watch Eureka’s Castle. He had cable. We didn’t. He’d walk out of his bedroom and more times than not, I’d startle him which wouldn’t phase me. I’d just wave good morning and continue on watching my weird puppet show. He’d walk into the kitchen and take out my juice cup and pour me a glass of orange juice. Then he’d make me an egg on toast. Weird, I know. But it quickly became my favorite. It was made with love.

He’d teach me how to play different card games and we’d count the pennies we’d been saving in a basket. He’d let me use his weird push-vacuum and I’d feel like I was helping and keeping his whole apartment nice and neat. Sometimes he’d tell me stories about two monsters called Momo and Bobo who lived in one of his large closets and he’d open the door and call them and I’d scream and slam the door shut while he laughed.

Rudy and my grandfather also used to take me out to breakfast to a place called Tony G’s in Smithfield. A part of Rudy’s apartment happened to be my grandfather’s office for his roofing business. On the days he would stop in to do paperwork and make calls, we would head out for breakfast after. Rudy would grab his hat and jacket and Grandpa Ed would drive. In the restaurant, I would order an egg sandwich because it reminded me of the egg on toast Rudy would make. They’d both sing Italian love songs to me and I would blush and be embarrassed but secretly love it. So did all the waitresses.

Aside from my grandfather visiting every few days, and me barging in each morning, Rudy lived alone. I’d asked him where his wife was. Being a kid not exposed to different types of families/living arrangements, I was curious why he didn’t live with someone else. One day, he told me, very dramatically, that his wife had died. There was a fire and no one was able to save her. I was so sad for him. I went home and told my mom and she, of course, yelled “OH MY GOD” while rolling her eyes and then laughed hysterically. Years later I’d found out his wife didn’t die in a fire. We think she cheated on him and he left her and went to live in one of his friend’s (my grandfather) apartments for rent.

One night I had a bad dream that my family left and that I was home alone. I was unbelievably scared. I ran to Rudy’s apartment in the dark and knocked on the door crying until he answered. He consoled me and walked me back home and made sure everyone was home with me.

Each December I’d be upset that Rudy didn’t have a Christmas tree. I’d ask every year when he was going to get one and he’d say that it was too much work. One year, I’d had enough, so I snuck a knife from the kitchen, went out into the woods and cut down a small sapling. I finagled a way to get it to sit upright between some books and decorated it with the reject ornaments my mom relegated to the backside of our tree. Figured she wouldn’t notice. She didn’t. Until Rudy invited EVERYONE in to come see the sad looking Charlie Brown-esque Christmas tree. My dad included, who loved that I’d become a 5-year-old Paul Bunyan and imposed the Christmas spirit on my senior friend. My mom was not as amused. Mostly because of the knife and the stolen ornaments.

When school started, I didn’t have time in the mornings to come over for breakfast anymore but I would still stop over sometimes just to say hi. And then I didn’t anymore. Each afternoon I’d get off the bus and he’d be sitting in his big window, waving as I walked past and I’d wave back and walk in my house to do homework or call new friends on the phone. Every day, though, there was Rudy. Waving.

I cycled off of antidepressants in May because I was scared that they might have something to do with the two miscarriages I had had at that point. It was a tough decision. I had been on them since 2007. My doctor did reassure me that the brand I was on is deemed safe for pregnant women, but I wanted to remove any possible variables.

I remember when I noticed they kicked in for the first time. Justin and I were driving to his aunt and uncle’s house for Christmas. We drove by an open field and I can’t adequately describe the feeling. My eyes were taking something in and my brain truly felt it. It was appreciation. It was balance. It was acceptance. It was how it was supposed to be.

I had struggled with depression since Rudy died in 2001. I felt like a bad person and it ate away at me. It also happened at the onset of puberty which I’m sure complicated chemical development. I just felt intense shame and tried as hard as I could not to think about it. The feelings grew over time. I didn’t want to go out with friends but I’d forced myself to. Over time I became quiet and went out less and less. Turns out, Momo and Bobo were real and they fed on my sense of self.

I met Justin in 2005. It was one of those nights I told myself that I had to go out. I had the choice between going to see someone that sort of took advantage of my insecurity or to go to a party with a different friend. I knew I needed to break a habit; to move away from self-deprecation. I made the right choice. When I walked into the party, he saw me and my eyes saw something…and my brain truly felt it.

When I felt like things were advancing towards a serious relationship, though, I tried to ditch him. I called him and told him that I wasn’t worth it. I was too difficult and got sad and I knew it would be mean to put that on someone else. He basically told me to knock it off and asked what time he should pick me up. I needed him more than anything. But I did also needed some help. And there is no shame in that.

When I was 15, the depression had settled in my core. I drove with my dad to pick up a puppy for my sister for Christmas. It was dark and we rode for about an hour down to a fire station where we would meet a man who would bring an adorable tiny puppy out from his truck and hand him straight to me. I held the puppy up in the air to be able to keep staring at how perfect he was. That feeling. Seeing something so new and so adorable that your chest sparkles on the inside. I held him in my arms as we drove home and he slept the whole way. I told my dad that I wanted to name him Rudy.

This past May, I called my doctor and told her about my decision to cycle off of my antidepressant. There were no in person doctor’s appointments due to Covid…there still aren’t at the time I’m writing this. She supported the decision knowing my recent struggles. She did suggest I closely monitor how I feel given my personal and family history.

I started off good. Then, a month later, I found out that there was retained tissue from the last miscarriage that March. Likelihood of this happening is about 5% for any D and C surgery. They had thought everything was clear but I had a gut feeling something was off and requested an ultrasound to double check before trying again. I wasn’t surprised as it was the middle of 2020, but I was devastated. I didn’t want to be put under with anesthesia. I was afraid I wouldn’t wake up.

The week leading up to surgery I had to force myself out of bed and to exercise for the endorphins. I walked six miles a day. On one of my walks, I stopped at an open field. The sun hit just above the tree line and lit the grass as the insects buzzed to emphasize the heat on my shoulders. A butterfly flew by and I watched as a bird darted from above to catch it in its beak. I looked back at the field and stifled the intense urge to walk in the middle and scream. I knew then that the next few months would be extremely hard.

We got pregnant for the third time in August. I immediately felt intense fear. I tried to laugh it off and joked that I was one of the only people I knew who had been pregnant three different times in one year. I tried to remain positive but it was impossible. I started bleeding at 5 weeks and knew it wouldn’t work out. But. Compared to my last two pregnancies, my HCG levels were very high and I was experiencing morning sickness very early. I went in for an ultrasound because of the bleeding and they couldn’t see much. I needed to wait a few weeks.

Later that week, my uncle Dan had sent over some old pictures he had found. There was one of me and Rudy when I was a toddler. Justin was on a motorcycle ride with some friends. I went outside to lay down under the stars and cried. I cried for everything. I wished that I could know that Rudy knew I was sorry but the mosquitos were viciously biting and I went back inside.

I decided to look up Rudy’s obituary. He had a son and his wife, who did not die in a fire, her name was Evelyn. I laughed. I knew for sure that the pregnancy wouldn’t work out in that moment. It was official. It just wasn’t our time yet. Before I knew Rudy’s wife’s name, if the pregnancy was to work out and it was a girl, I wanted to name her Evelyn. HA. Absolutely not.

We had gone to my brother’s house for a small outdoor get together that weekend. It was Mid-August and Covid cases seemed to be dropping. It started to rain lightly and we were happy that it wasn’t enough to force us to end one of the only times we had been together as a family since Christmas. It was days before my follow up ultrasound and although I had already accepted the inevitable, I knew I’d still be sad to start planning another surgery. As the sky cleared and two rainbows appeared over the backyard, I knew it was going to be worse than expected. I was feeling too sick. I watched the colors fade in one and then the other until the sky was empty again.

There were two gestational sacs. Both were empty. Nothing had formed inside either. I went in for the surgery two days later. The bleeding wouldn’t stop. I went to my friend’s wedding and bled through the back of my bridesmaid dress, ending the night early. Luckily only two people saw. I knew I had retained tissue again.

I did. We set up another surgery and, this time, they were going to use a camera to make sure everything was gone. When I woke up after surgery, I overheard the doctor telling some interns in the room that I had a “definite heart shaped uterus”. I wasn’t supposed to hear her say this.

She came by my bed afterward while I was fully awake and she showed me the images that she had taken after removing the tissue. She told me that it appeared there was a septum and they kept hitting it during the past surgeries which is why they kept missing the tissue. She could not call it a septum with certainty since she is not a fertility specialist, though. But I heard her while they were prepping me to be wheeled out after surgery. Could I have dreamt it? I sarcastically texted my sister Lizzie, to tell her the news while still woozy from anesthesia with “I have a heart shaped uterus, wooohooo!” Turns out, I accidentally texted the girl I just hired at work…named Liz. Cool.

I stopped reaching out to people after the last surgery, not because of the akward text, but because it was too much at this point. I was struggling a lot. I had nothing positive to share and felt like I couldn’t connect with people. There were a few baby showers/announcements that I ignored and I felt a lot of guilt. I was lost. I wanted to write something because writing had given me a sense of relief before. I sat down to do so a few times but I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t even connect with myself.

I called my doctor and told her I needed to start back on the antidepressants. They likely weren’t contributing to my losses and I was more nervous about my mental state at that point. I realized, as I started being able to connect with myself again, that I did have something to share. I take antidepressants and find great relief in doing so.

There is no shame in that.

I think if there is something I am trying to do in sharing, it is to try to help normalize topics that can be difficult to speak about. I also need to feel connected...for myself… and there is no shame in that either. I saved a quote in the summer when I was struggling most and knew it rang true even though I couldn’t find the words to be able to share at that point. The quote is, “With every story I share, with every word I write, shame breaks down, Brick-By-Brick.”

While I haven’t gotten to the point where I feel full acceptance again, mostly because I’m still struggling with fertility issues, I am feeling more connected and it’s so needed. This past week I found out that I do, in fact, have a heart shaped uterus confirmed by MRI images. I didn’t dream it. I will go in for corrective surgery to remove the septum in my uterus in a couple of weeks. It will be a little while before we can try again. I need time though. To accept everything. I have a few more bricks to break down.

I feel hope again. It’s been a little while, and I’m glad it came just in time for Christmas. I didn’t think I’d be putting up a Christmas tree this year, which is not me at all. It just seemed like too much work. I’m going to do it, though. I’m going to light this year up as it leaves. So it can see itself out.