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Nov. 5th, 2005

I’ve decided to write this in pieces. I can’t sit down and get it all out in one go. I can’t expect anyone to sit down and read it all in one go. I need to take breaks in between each section. There’s so much to tell. I need to say it all. I need to tell it, and read it, over and over, because I still don’t believe it happened to me.

Curtis told me this evening: “This doesn’t happen in real life, this only happens on TLC or the Lifetime network. Those people have this happen to them. Real people don’t.”

The first part ended up being five pages, and at 2am I stopped writing. When I get up tomorrow I’ll write more.

Part 1.

Early on the morning of November first I felt twinges of cramps. They were not unlike the Braxton hicks I have every single day, throughout the day. They came and went irregularly, maybe every 10-20 minutes, and lasted barely 15 seconds. Sometimes I didn’t notice them at all, and they hardly bothered me. I ignored them.
The cramps went, for the most part, unnoticed over the course of my day. Around noon I started feeling them a little more intensely. I had to stop what I was doing and take a breath. Still they were not any more intense then Braxton hicks contractions that I was accustomed to having, it’s just that they were coming more frequently then those were. I posted an entry, feeling irritated and frustrated that they were not spreading out. Usually my bouts of cramps would respond to drinking water or lying down. These did not – but neither did they get closer together. I timed a few and wrote it down on some scrap paper. Thirty seconds at the most, totally irregular, sometimes as little as 7 minutes apart and sometimes as much as 14.
I went to the bathroom and checked myself. My cervix felt odd, like something was sticking out of it, but I couldn’t tell what it was. It was sharp, and small, and something else was fleshy and fat. I was about 4.5 centimeters dilated. When I took my fingers away they were covered in wetness and a cheesey white substance. It looked like vernix. It startled me, and I made a post in my unassisted birth community about the possibility. As far as I knew my water had not broken. A few suggested that it may have sprung a leak, but he was down so low that it had resealed and a bit of vernix was lost. At this point I believe he spun from head down to head up.
His heart rate was strong and normal, I felt him move when I pushed on him, but only a little.
Curtis came home and I pulled him aside to tell him about the cramps. He asked if they were regular. I said they weren’t. We shrugged it off.

I took a shower somewhere around 3:30. They all but stopped. This convinced me there was nothing to worry about. I felt crampy, but the regularity of the cramps had stopped, I was left with almost a sore feeling as though I was recovering from a mighty kick to the gut.
When my mother arrived after 4pm I hid in my room. The cramps returned and I didn’t want her to be alarmed and start making announcements about it. I napped a little, and sipped on some Gatorade that Curtis had picked up for me. Every so often a cramp woke me, but they still weren’t that bad. I didn’t even bother to roll over for them.

I ate dinner around 6pm, and suddenly the contractions felt real. I sat on them a while, wondering what to do. Something was pulling me to go to the hospital. I fought it, because I wanted proof this was real preterm labour; proof that something was wrong. Something inside me knew it, but I pushed it back for fear of the medical treatment I would receive if and when I went.
We didn’t time them, but they were coming regularly. I would moan into a pillow when each hit. I held a hot water bottle to my back, which ached terribly from the baby’s strange position. He’d turned to posterior breech, and the jolts that each contraction sent through my spine were very painful. The cramps themselves were not that bad, it was just the back pain that had me.

My labour with Tempest was so obvious. I had no doubt about what was happening. I kept waiting for that sign this time, kept thinking I had plenty of time to decide. Going to the hospital was a scary prospect. I knew if I entered I was submitting to medical care, and yet I felt so strongly that I should go.
I called the only person I could think of to call: Tammy is an LLL Leader who lives in this town, and recently her and I had started to become good friends. She is a natural birth advocate, and as anti hospital and medical care as I am, so I deeply trusted her opinion.
Her husband answered, said she was busy and took my name and number. I’d relayed to him that it was very important, and he said he’d pass it on but she would not call me back right away.
I sat in silence for a few moments, feeling nervous. The phone rang. It was him again.
“I didn’t realize which Heather it was,” he said. “Tammy’s in the middle of a miscarriage, but she wants to talk to you.”
I burst into tears. I felt horrible for my ignorance. Another contraction hit. This one felt stronger, because I was emotionally unprepared for it. I cried into my pillow and held my stomach. I felt so much pain, and guilt, and a strange sense of kinship. He twisted within me, and I felt something move in my birth canal.

I took the phone back when the pain subsided, and explained to Tammy my symptoms. I wanted a second opinion about whether or not this was labour and she knew a good, trustworthy (albeit non-practicing) midwife who I wanted to call. Unfortunately, non-practicing really meant non-practicing. My two remaining choices were notorious “med”-wives. One had recently given birth, and may not be answering her phone. With no choice I picked the other and took down her number.
Before I hung up Tammy told me my contractions were five minutes apart and lasting roughly a minute.

I called the midwife, Karen, and quickly summed up my symptoms. I told her I was having an unassisted pregnancy, explained my history, and was very clear that I merely wanted a second opinion on whether this was preterm labour or something non-threatening.
I paused for another contraction.
She said, “Without a doubt you’re in active labour, and if I were you I’d go now”. She brought up some points I had not considered: like how a preterm baby does not need a fully dilated cervix to pass through.

She started to give me a lecture about how if only I’d gone sooner in the day when I first felt the twinges they could have stopped my labour.
“I am of the belief that things happen how they are meant to,” I told her. “Even if I’d known then, I would not have wanted my labour stopped.”
She was aghast that someone would refuse medical care so willingly. I hung up, and called Tammy back to tell her I was leaving. I promised to call her from the hospital when I knew what was happening.

I called my mom. “I think I’m in preterm labour, I need a ride to the hospital”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” she said.
I had one more moderate contraction, and then they stopped. I went to the bathroom, and when I wiped I felt something sitting just on the brim of my perineum. I felt a rush of fear, and ran to the car. I kneeled in the seat because I was afraid to sit on it, whatever it was.
It took about three minutes to drive to the hospital. We walked to the ER desk, and the nurses directed me toward L&D. “I’m only 34 weeks,” I told them. I heard the number echo down the hall between nurses like a game of telephone. Someone ran up to escort me. She offered a wheelchair, but I refused. I was still afraid to sit.

The walk to L&D took five full minutes. I joked to LC how torturous it was for a labouring woman. I felt no contractions on the walk.

They brought me to a private room, gelled my stomach and hooked me to an external fetal monitor. His heart rate was 138. The nurse told me the machine would check to see if I was actually having contractions. Of course, they’d stopped when I got into the car so I felt like an idiot lying there. It was almost an hour before I felt them start up again. It was a very slow build at first: quiet irregular cramps that I barely noticed quickly turned into sharp back pains I had to moan through. I flipped onto all fours, rocked and made my birthing noises. Inside my mind I repeated a mantra: gentle, baby, gentle.
A nurse came in and announced that the monitor was not picking up any uterine activity: I was not having real contractions. She put a hand on my stomach to feel for tightening – when there was none she seemed to feel validated.

I watched his heart rate fall with the next cramp; 110, 100, 80, 73 – then we would hear silence for twenty seconds, slowly his heartbeat would return as the cramp subsided. This continued for the next half hour. I reported it to the nurses, but they ignored me. They insisted the machine said I was not in labour.
An RN was called. All I wanted now was for someone to tell me what was sticking out of my vagina.
I called Tammy and gave her a ho-hum update. We knew nothing, no one knew anything, no one could agree on anything. They said I’d be there at least another few hours to wait for tests. Tammy assured me she’d still be awake then and to call when I knew something more.
I sent Curtis and Tempest home; she was exhausted. I assured him that I’d be home before tomorrow morning so he wouldn’t have to figure out what to do with her when he woke for school.
LC stayed. We cracked jokes about the negligent staff between what were most obviously contractions, even though I was firmly told they weren’t. The RN agreed that it was early labour, but wouldn’t check me without the OB/GYN present. He was called, and I was told it would only take him ten minutes to arrive.
In hospital terms this means half an hour or more.
By that time the cramps were very intense. I asked for a birthing ball, and considered a shower while I waited. It was starting to hit me that I was actually in labour, but the full reality of the situation and what that meant for the future were well beyond my grasp. I was focused on my visualizations, my mantras, and retaining a sense of comfort even in this stark hospital room. LC rubbed the small of my back, but not nearly hard enough. I think she was trying to be gentle for fear of aggravating me, but when you’re having a contraction a soft and gentle touch is the last thing you want.

This is where things started happening too fast. The next twenty minutes are a blur of activity and emotion. It took me three days to break down each second. I had LC tell me every moment from her point of view, then asked Curtis, so that I could place every instant into my gray memory.

The OBGYN entered mid-contraction. He was a dark, heavy-set man with a thick accent. I heard him say hello, then repeat the introduction with more insistence when I did not respond. My face was buried in a pillow and I was trying to remain focused. I considered yelling back, “Shut the fuck up”, but couldn’t summon my voice for anything but my birthing woman cries.

When the contraction ended we were formally introduced. I said I only wanted him to see what was coming out of me, and then I would go home.
He donned a glove. I made sure, for the 58th time that evening, that it was non-latex before allowing him to continue. Regardless of how many times I asked this question the response I always got was “What happens to you if it is latex?”.
He reached in and felt around. Silence. I eased the tension by joking that I must be crazy for feeling something there. More silence. He palpated my stomach fiercely and I cried out in pain.

“You are ten centimeters dilated, and the baby’s buttocks and penis are right there.”
I screamed: “What?!”
He repeated himself. I heard an emergency page over the intercom and knew it was for me.
“We have to do a c-section,” he said.
A dam burst at the door to my room - seven people and an ultrasound machine flooded in. Someone put gel on my stomach, someone shoved a bedpan beneath me to hoist my body higher, someone else asked about my allergies, another nurse answered her “She’s allergic to everything”.
“Any medications?” asked one.
“Who is your doctor?”
“When is your due date?”
“When was your last menstrual period?”
“Are you having back pain?”
“Would you like to see your baby?”
A monitor was turned toward me. I saw a head, and part of a spine. The OBGYN shoved his fist into me and pushed my baby back toward my womb. It was the most horrible pain I’d ever felt. I screamed. Things started to hurt terribly. Each contraction felt like hot knives cutting through my spine. I begged to move, but two people held me down. Someone inserted an IV in one arm. Someone gave me a shot in the other. Another IV went into my wrist.
“Pump your hand.”
“I want to deliver vaginally, I want a vaginal birth”
“Heather-“ started the OBGYN, “Your baby is breech, his buttocks is right there, he is half out, I need to do a c-section to save him.”
Someone finally noticed his heartbeat disappearing on the monitor. I looked at the ceiling and howled through another contraction. Two people held my arms so I would not writhe in pain.

“Don’t push”
“I’m not pushing”
“Don’t push!”
“Don’t scream!”
“Don’t yell!”
“Don’t push!”
“I’m not pushing!”
“Take a deep breath!”
“Take it!”
“I want to deliver vaginally!”

I reached out for LC’s hand. The OBGYN took it instead. The room filled with more people. I saw LC pushed to the back corner.

“Call Curtis, call Tammy.”
She nodded.

Hands held me down, hands went up inside me, on me, all over me. None were gentle. I kept reaching for LC but each time I looked for her she was further away; lost in a sea of hospital staff, beeping machines and people screaming orders over my voice.

Suddenly someone came forward and shoved a consent form into my face. The room went silent. I could hear my baby’s heartbeat on the monitor my own pulse racing. I was terrified, and shaking so hard that my teeth rattled over the buzz of commotion just outside my doors. I so desperately wished for someone to hold me, and we’d fly away, somewhere quiet…
The OBGYN broke the silence by yelling at me. Did I want my baby to live? We have to do a c-section now. Now.
Someone put a pen in my hand and closed my fist around it.

I signed.

Chaos resumed. I was undressed, shaved, held down, hooked up, spread open, and palpated by a hundred hands. I shook violently. It was so cold in the room. Someone threw a hot blanket on me. It was my only modesty.
Don’t push, don’t yell, don’t scream, don’t push, don’t cry, breathe deeper.
My IV bag was thrown onto my stomach and my bed flew out the door. I caught LC’s eyes as we rounded the corner. The room grew larger and larger and she looked so small and alone there. I was so scared.

Every bump in the floor felt like a fierce punch. I was held down on my back, slightly inverted, screaming through my contractions. The OBGYN kept his hand up inside me, forcing my baby back toward my womb and demanding I not push. I wasn’t pushing, I never felt the urge to push.
They threw my bed at the first elevator, but it wouldn’t fit. In the second I closed my eyes and fought back rising nausea. I counted seconds.
“My mother was born vaginal breech” I whispered. Eyes turned toward me, but no one said a word. I cried.

An instant passed, and I was in the OR.

“Roll like a log,” said a nurse. Sterile and anonymous faces of half a dozen masked men and women appeared over me.
“Please put me out.”
“We will.”
“I’m going to insert a catheter.”
“Please put me out first!”
Three people took my medical history. Someone put a mask over me, then took it away.
“No latex”
“What happens when she touches latex?”
“Skin irritation, breathing difficulties”
“…On her mouth?”
“… allergies”
“… no time”
“… no visible reaction”
“… do it anyway”
The mask came back.
“Breathe deeply”
“Stop screaming”
“How do you feel?”
I closed my eyes and tried to take deep breaths. I wanted to sleep. I kept repeating to myself, “Please sleep, please sleep, please sleep.”
Someone washed my stomach. Someone else pushed on it. The OBGYN removed his hand from my vagina and closed my legs. My eyes snapped open, “I’m not asleep!”
“Breathe deeply!”
“I am.”
Another twenty seconds passed. I could taste the anesthesia on the back of my tongue. “I’m not asleep”
They took the mask away. Someone pricked my left arm, and then it was over.


( 123 comments — Leave a comment )
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(no subject) - (Anonymous) - Feb. 10th, 2009 03:41 pm (UTC) - Expand
Nov. 5th, 2005 10:54 am (UTC)
Nov. 5th, 2005 11:43 am (UTC)
You write so beautifully that I also feel like I'm right there. When you wrote that you were shaking, I found myself doing the same. I'm so, so sorry for your hurt, Babs.

I scarcely know you and I feel on some levels that I'm intruding by coming over here and reading. Having been involved in UC communities for nearly six years now, much of the talk becomes mundane, but every now and then there is a person whose journey is so powerful, and so touching that it just carries me back to when it was all new to me. You are one of those people.

I know you are angry about your c-section, and this will probably not come out in words the way it feels in my head and heart, but sometimes it is less the means of birth that matters, but rather the spirit of the person giving birth. You have so embodied all of that spirit of UC that rings true to me, and surely many others.

Every word I type seems so trite, but I just want you to know how you have touched people. You write that you are of the belief "that things happen how they are meant to." I share the same belief... and I also believe that you are woman very loved and blessed by God/dess, nature, or whomever to have been chosen as a vessel of life so short, because the powers that be knew you would be true to how Jericho's life was meant to be.

Nov. 5th, 2005 08:14 pm (UTC)
This is the first note I've read in these last two days that has brought a few tears to my eyes. Thank you, not just for the words, but for the opportunity for a little bit of emotional release.
Nov. 5th, 2005 12:24 pm (UTC)
Nov. 5th, 2005 01:29 pm (UTC)
I know exactly the feeling you're talking about. My room had green tile the first three times, and this time I just remember thinking, at least this isn't that room, at least the tile isn't green....
Nov. 5th, 2005 01:48 pm (UTC)

I think Curtis was probably partially right. This shouldn't happen to real people, this shouldn't happen to good people, this shouldn't happen to people who work hard for their children and who love them and want nothing but the absolute best for them. This should only happen in the sphere of fictitious television dramas. Not to real people.

I don't know you, but I want you to know that my thoughts, prayers, heart and tears are with you. You're beautiful. Your family is beautiful, all of them... I wish you all peace and clarity.

Nov. 5th, 2005 02:26 pm (UTC)
I remember a few months ago, you posted about a dream you had regarding giving birth to breech twins, one of them passed away peacefully from a heart defect... I hate asking questions, but do you think that alongside your obvious joy and happiness about your being pregnant, you were being prepared for this? You've seemed more in touch with your pregnancy, your body, you babies than anyone else I've ever heard of.

From the sound of it, just from what you've written so far, it seems that regardless of intervention/lack of intervention, Jericho wasn't going to be here very long... and I suppose, the fact that his only experience of this world that we live in was an experience of love and peace, is tragically devistating in one respect, but also immeasurably beautiful in another.

There was a lot of life in those thirty-four weeks plus fifteen minutes, I'll bet. He probably experienced everything he needed to before moving on, and he passed on in the move loving, peaceful way possible. That too, is beautiful in a way, and I hope that gives you strength and comfort.
(no subject) - babyslime - Nov. 5th, 2005 08:20 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - breathbox - Nov. 6th, 2005 12:47 am (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - ever_abstract - Nov. 6th, 2005 01:13 am (UTC) - Expand
Nov. 5th, 2005 02:10 pm (UTC)
*hugs* :( My thoughts are with you and your family.
Nov. 5th, 2005 02:11 pm (UTC)
Did I want my baby to live? We have to do a c-section now. Now.

That line gave me chills, it is the same line the on-call OBGYN gave me last November.

I don't have any words of comfort, but I just wanted to leave my love and a hug. Be in peace, mama.
Nov. 5th, 2005 02:55 pm (UTC)
it is good that you have another person to help you recount the details of what happened. all of that is very important to remember. you have to take the facts and make them loud.
i can't even comment on the hospital staff.
Nov. 5th, 2005 03:13 pm (UTC)
Im sorry it happened this way....
Nov. 5th, 2005 03:20 pm (UTC)
I'm so sorry they treated you like that. As well as everything else you've been through, having the trauma- and it is trauma- of being whisked around like that and treated like that...

I know it's probably the last thing you want to think about at the moment, but writing this down- while it's still in your mind- is a seriously good idea, IMHO. When you're dealing with other things, the details tend to get hazy. (I have some less-than-stellar experiences with various hospital staff when I was pregnant... so I can empathise with you a bit there.)

I cried through reading this. My heart goes out to you, mama... you're writing about this so... raw-ly and... I just don't know what to say. I know it sounds stupid because I don't know you, but you strike me as an awesome person, and a strong one- and you don't deserve this to have happened to you. I'm so angry at the way you were treated and so sad for you.

*huge hugs*
Nov. 5th, 2005 03:48 pm (UTC)
I'm so sorry for your treatment at the hospital. It was like your worst nightmare came to life. I do believe that doctors do what they believe is the best thing to do for the baby, but I found their insensitivity toward you shocking.

I'm so angry that you had to go through that. I knew something was desperately wrong yesterday when, in your first line, you said that Jericho was delivered by emergency c-section. I covered my mouth and said, "Oh my God. Something went very wrong."

You are an amazing person, Babs.
Nov. 5th, 2005 03:50 pm (UTC)
Nov. 5th, 2005 03:51 pm (UTC)
Thank god you're writing all this down. It's so important to remember.

The thing that strikes me about all of this is how alike many c-section stories are. So many of us have similar memories of that same scene - "Do you want your baby to live?" How can you say anything but yes?

Birth, no matter what the circumstances, should never be like this.
Nov. 5th, 2005 04:49 pm (UTC)
exactly what jenne said. oh my god.
(no subject) - tahoebean - Nov. 5th, 2005 05:26 pm (UTC) - Expand
(no subject) - jennifergroovy - Nov. 5th, 2005 07:56 pm (UTC) - Expand
Nov. 5th, 2005 04:10 pm (UTC)
It is so absolutely amazing to me that I only know you from this journal, and yet yesterday I was thinking about you all day. I even told my family about you. You have some kind of magnetic emergy that pulls people to you; I think it is the honesty and beauty of your soul.
I was reading through your entries last night when I got home from work. Your dream dream these things ahead of time. Its the dream entry from a few weeks ago. Very surreal...

How I wish you nothing but strength and love.
Nov. 5th, 2005 09:50 pm (UTC)
That's exactly it. You really draw people to you, Babs. I have family all over the place praying for you and thinking about you. Everybody is saddened by your loss and amazed by your strength.
(no subject) - ever_abstract - Nov. 6th, 2005 01:17 am (UTC) - Expand
Nov. 5th, 2005 04:11 pm (UTC)
I am not on your FL, but we are in communities together and have mutual friends and stuff.

I just wanted to tell you that i am so sorry this happined. I just cant express in words how sorry I am.

I know of an online support group on yahoo for women who have lost children if you like. Just let me know and I can have the moderator contact you.

I am just so sorry.
Nov. 5th, 2005 04:28 pm (UTC)
Nov. 5th, 2005 04:34 pm (UTC)
You write so very beautifully...if about such a tragedy.

You do not know me, but we share friends, and the experience of an emergency c-section.

thank you for writing this.. so much.

My brother lost a babe the day it was born, though at full term. Even an autopsy couldn't explain why he stopped breathing.
I am so sorry for your loss.
Nov. 5th, 2005 04:44 pm (UTC)

i have been in your neck of the woods yet never friended or commented...and found you through a mutual ljfriend...

thank you for your words your story
bless you and yours forever
(Deleted comment)
Nov. 5th, 2005 07:28 pm (UTC)
I can't stop the tears either
I am right there with you...I can't stop thinking about you and yours Babs. Lots of people love you, I didn't realize how much I care, but I do. And I am so deeply sorry.
Nov. 5th, 2005 05:08 pm (UTC)
Having to transfer was awful. Going from my dark, quiet, comfortable home to the hospital was awful. The tiny L&D room was so cold and glossy and bright and smelled so weird. The whole thing felt like some awful dream. I'm so sorry LC got pushed aside, but I'm glad she was there. I don't know if how I would've handled it without Julie (my midwife). It was amazing to me that someone with such a calm and gentle spirit could be so assertive and hard when she needed to.

I remember having a contraction while I was in the bathroom changing, and I was swaying and moaning through it and I could hear the nurse outside saying, "What's she doing? What's going on? Why is she making that noise?" and my midwife saying, "She's in labor- she's having a contraction." I was trying to convince myself that I could still have a vaginal birth, and hearing that, I just knew it wasn't going to happen. These nurses didn't even know what a laboring woman is supposed to sound like, no one there trusted me and my body, there was no way they'd let me have a vaginal birth, especially since I'd already had one section.

The section itself was SO much worse than my first. Everyone was so nice the first time, the doctor talked to ME the whole time, telling me what he was doing, asking me if I was okay, etc. This time the only one who treated me like I was even there was the anesthesiologist. The doctor had someone helping and he talked to her the whole time, cracking jokes. I had no idea what was going on. He didn't even tell me when she came out. That hurt so much. I had dreamt of birthing her into my hands.

I have no idea what you're going through. I only caught a glimmer of the pain with my daughter's birth and everything that happened afterwards. I wish I had wrote it all out soon after when it was still raw, but I glossed over her birth to focus on her, and now it sits like a hard lump in my soul. It's important to grieve for the loss of the birth experience, I know you understand that.

I truly feel that everything happens for a reason, even if it's not immediately apparent. I've had some people look at me strangely when I say I feel with all my heart that my BOTH my daughters are blessings. The unspoken words are "How can you say that? Half of her brain is dead and gone, where's the blessing in that?" But she wouldn't Riley Avalon if she weren't the way she is. I'll just leave the rest in the air for you to decide if it applies to you, I don't know your spiritual or relgious beliefs and don't want to overstep there.

I hope my comment doesn't come of as all about me, but no one ever knows the right thing to say, I know it helped me after my daughter's birth, and during her two week NICU stay, to hear the stories of other women who had been through similar experiences.

You and your family continue to be in my thoughts and prayers. Thank you for making this public and sharing this.
Nov. 5th, 2005 08:32 pm (UTC)
Every comment helps, especially the ones where someone knows... a little or a lot. People don't want to talk about themselves and their experiences to me, but I want them to.
Nov. 5th, 2005 05:10 pm (UTC)
I'm so incredibly sad. The tears just won't stop.
Nov. 5th, 2005 05:16 pm (UTC)
Often when something like this happens, everyone wants to know why. People feel the need to place blame - on the mother, on the doctors, on God. I've never been one of those people, because I also believe things simply happen the way they are meant to. Everyone experiences joy and tragedy, as we must in order to grow and learn. And unfortunate as it may be, I've found that the more tragic the event, the greater the lesson learned when you come out the other side.

I don't know exactly what this experience will do for you in terms of emotional and spiritual growth, but I'm really glad that you are writing it down in this manner. It will help with the healing process. I also thank you for sharing your story with us. Your words portray such a vivid experience, I can't help but take a tiny piece of your pain with me and learn from it as well. You are such a beautiful person and an extraordinary writer.
Nov. 5th, 2005 05:29 pm (UTC)
I follwed jesamin's post to your journal and I haven't stopped crying since I started reading. I know I'm just a stranger, but my heart is with you and all of your family. I don't even know what else to say...
Nov. 5th, 2005 05:44 pm (UTC)
I am so angry that they treated so awfully Heather.
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