His name is Davin Carroll.

On October 3rd, 2008, I found out he was alive inside of me.

I was surprised.

I sent my husband this photograph in an email with the subject line, “Ready to rumble?”

The body of the email said, “Here comes the fear, do-do-do-do….”

I was scared.

But also, I was cautiously happy.

Before long, I was full of hope. And dreams. And the future.

My last pregnancy had ended in miscarriage at 5 weeks.

The 5 week mark came and went. Trumpets blew inside my heart.

On October 18th, 2008, I had morning sickness for the first time. I have never been so happy to feel so sick.

I turned my arms within and held my baby a little closer, starting to believe I could hold on to that sweetness forever.

On November 10th, 2008, I saw him on a fuzzy, mini-ultrasound.

I saw his heart beating. And that was it. I Believed. He could make it.

We called him Fuzzball.

I thought one day I would be rubbing his head, calling him that.

I began showing.  It felt glorious.

On November 24th, 2008, I heard his heart beating. It was vigorous.

In spirit, I jumped over the moon, grabbed a star, and brought it back to earth with me.  It glowed inside of me.

Up until the end, I thought he was a girl. Maybe that is because, at a time when I felt like I was filled with snips and snails, he filled me with sugar instead. And spice.

And everything nice.

On December 9th, 2008 I found out he had died.

Everything nice scattered in the wind so quickly.

I saw him on a high quality ultrasound that day. He looked beautiful to me. I wish I could see him again.

I was too shaken up to ask for a print of the image. I regret that so much.

I have a pile of things – a pregnancy test, papers, armbands, photographs.  They’re just material things.  They are cold.  They do not kick me in the stomach.  They will never smile at me or hug my neck.  But I look at them; I touch them.

I think of him.

On December 16th, 2008, people I hardly knew removed him from my body by way of a cold, surgical procedure. His body was sent for testing.

He was considered biological material.

Biological material. He did not have a name then. He was labeled “the product of conception.” They cultured his cells in a lab.

Davin had Trisomy 13.

I could write a whole essay on this alone, but that will come later.

I wanted to find a boy’s name I liked that meant “Hope.”

Even though I feel very little of it right now, I wanted to name him after the thing I thought I had lost forever, but which he gave me in surplus, even for such a brief time, without receiving anything in return.

Hope

And which, I know, will return in time. In part because he taught me that it’s okay to hope again even after you think it’s impossible.

Hope

Even if it hurts. Because it tells you that you are alive. And that you want to keep living. And that you believe that each day can be new if you can just let that come back to you.

Hope

Instead, we named him Davin, which means “Beloved.”

Forever he will be.

I miss him so.

Being a parent, yourself, always puts things into perspective.

I was totally thinking of complaining today about some Braden-related things. His gums have been bleeding when I brush them, and I’m trying to figure that out. Also, his refusal to use a regular cup has become maddening, and I’ve been trying to help him make the change. These are the type of things I obsess and worry over. You know, on a small scale. Of course, I’m also worried about all the other things that go into raising him properly, and there are many which hit a much more complex/grande scale of importance, but these are the types of details that float in and out of our everyday lives.

Then tonight I watched a 20/20 special called, My Secret Self – A Story of Transgender Children. It aired previously, about a year ago, but this was the first time I saw or heard anything about it.  The special, that is.  The condition itself (Gender Identity Disorder), I have known of already - even studied it to some degree in graduate school – but I’ve never seen a special like this that dealt so intimately with the lives of actual children who have a life-force that is in strong opposition to the shape of their mortal coils.  I learned about the “secret life” of Riley, “Jazz,” and Jeremy.

I found the episode that aired a year ago, on youtube, broken up into five segments.  I’ve embedded them here, so you can watch them, if you’re interested.  It’s worth the time to take in their stories.

When you close your eyes, you don’t have to know the shape of your anatomy to know who you are. You are distinctly aware of your gender. It’s a strong part of your mental identity, your soul, your being, whatever you want to call it. You don’t have to ask anyone else how you should feel, what the shape of your body is, what organs lie inside your abdomen, or what your voice sounds like in order to identify with your gender. You can close off everything outside yourself and check in with your inner core, and you know.

And can you imagine looking at yourself after that and seeing the shape of something else?  Or being told that you are something else?

I can’t even begin to truly understand, but I can begin to imagine.  As a parent, watching that special, I was moved by so many visceral emotions.  Barbara Walters said she thinks most viewers will be “moved to greater understanding.”  I was moved well beyond that.  What must it be like to try to help your child through this?

It was hard to get Braden off the pacifier, and it’s going to be difficult to get him to give up his sippy-straw cups.  Hill of beans.  Such small change.

I can promise that the reasons why I took that piece of plastic away from him and why I want him to learn how to use his cup, even though those things are causing distress for him (and me) in the short-term, are the same reasons why I would support him – the person he is inside his own mind, not the shape of the bag of meat he lives in – no matter what.

It’s because he’s my child, and I love and respect him.  I’m bound by that love and respect to make the choices that are best for him, no matter how uncomfortable and difficult they may be.  Either short term, or long term.

That’s what I signed up for.  That’s why I’m here.

I can’t even begin to imagine reacting in any other way.

 

 

It’s a damn good thing I don’t wear mascara.

I have no grand idea for what to post today.  This is going to be one of those posts where I just sat down and said, “You know what?  I’m in a #@%* mood, and I’m going to write about what I’m feeling right now.”

So, um.  Sorry, in advance.

Because it’s been one of those days.

Not one of those days when things go wrong for you over and over and over again, or anything.  Just one of those days when the biggest thing that’s gone wrong for you in a long time just won’t leave you alone.

(*ding* Yes. She is going to talk about that again.  The trolley has halted momentarily.  If you would like, you may get off. *ding,ding*)

Every period is a reminder.  And this Monday I started the second one since, well, you know.

Before I got pregnant, I was actually right about to buy one of these thingies.  You know, part of my “Going Greener” thing and all, plus I just like to do weird things with my vagina.  Well, not really, but that was kind of fun to type.

Then I was pregnant, and I was all, “HAHAHA!  Good thing I didn’t order that Diva Cup yet, since I won’t need it for a long, long time! *SNORT!*”

“HAHAHA.”

Yeah.

Today, when I looked into the box that held only 3 more tampons my heart felt heavy.  Because I knew I’d have to buy more of them.

It’s the stupid things like this that make it so it won’t leave you alone.  Things like how your hand runs into the $140 bottle of prescription prometrium (often used to sustain at-risk pregnancies during first several weeks) at the back of your vitamin cabinet sometimes.  The one you only took 2 of before you found out it was pointless and stopped.  But you can’t throw it away, because… well, you just can’t. 

And how you only finally realized that you were really hoping it would be a girl when you found out that’s what one of your friends was having and it caused you to cry uncontrollably at a point when you really thought you were okay.  Which was a shock to you in so many ways, considering you never even realized you cared what the gender was.  Or that you’d care now.  Or that you’ll always care. 

It’s that stuff.

Ah, there it goes again.  At least it wasn’t a children’s show this time.