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Greetings from Burlingame, California!

About a month ago, Ben got home from California and we sat in the hot tub. As we did so, he casually brought up some news he’d found out about from his boss Eileen. “So, Eileen called me on my way home tonight,” he recalled, “and she said she had some news for me.” He paused, and I began to worry he’d been fired. “I got promoted.”

“Oh? Congratulations! That’s great!”

“The thing is, we might need to move.” I thought about it overnight, but my morning, I hadn’t changed my mind: I wanted to go. I told Ben so at dinner the following night.

“I’ve thought about it, and I wouldn’t mind moving. I’d follow you anywhere.”

“You would?”

“Yes.”

“Even to eastern Alabama?”

“Almost anywhere.” I rolled my eyes. (His company is in San Francisco.)

So here we are in our nice but cozy apartment in Burlingame, California. It’s furnished, complete with kitchen equipment, but it’s 800 square feet, and when you’ve got 155 pounds of dog travelling with you, it can start to feel a little bit small. We’re at the end of the main drag — equivalent to Pasadena’s “Old Town”, for all you folks from SoCal reading — and we can walk wherever we need to. Seriously, *wherever* we need to. There are two grocery stores across the street. There are seven Zagat-rated restaurants within a half mile. It’s like being in Paradise!

This weekend, we did two things worth noting: first, on Saturday, we washed the dogs. Sounds simple enough, right? Go wash ‘em and come home. Except that: (1) Zamba takes about two hours to wash and dry, and (2) we forgot that the groomer’s would be noisy. It ended up being the *perfect* place to test my tiredness theory: that being in noisy environments wears me out.

I lasted about twenty minutes. I brushed and washed Chaco. That was all I could stand; the blowers (which are like turbo-charged hair dryers) were going full speed, there were dogs barking, and people were trying to talk over the ruckus. Except you (I) couldn’t hear anything but the blowers, so we switched to SHOUTING LIKE THIS. It drove me nuts.

Then, this morning, we went to church. There are a lot of churches here, and they’re all enormous! So we just went to the Presbyterian church here in Burlingame. We found a parking spot three blocks from the doors, went in, and sat down.

Now, a brief time-out to explain to you my medication regimen: I’m currently taking Folgard, a prescription-strength vitamin cocktail designed to reduce the risk posed by my clotting genetic defect, and Plavix, my anticoagulant. That’s it. No more Lovenox, and I’ve stopped the antidepressants and am doing pretty well! So back to church …

Then the organist began playing. I started crying. He continued playing, and tears streamed down my cheeks. I wasn’t sad, but I couldn’t stop them from falling. Especially frustrating when the “Annie tears” won’t come! And MORTIFYING when you’re sitting amidst a bunch of strangers!

So, folks, I think we have an answer: it’s not pregnancy that makes me sensitive to noise, it’s something else. (I’d hoped otherwise.) =( I suspect that something else is emotional lability brought on by the strokes. Cross your fingers that it goes away after a week or so, because I just stopped the Wellbutrin and I have two weddings to attend in April.

Dear Annie,

I cried for you tonight. It sounds like a VERY small victory, but I’ve been having trouble with it lately.

I asked your daddy to explain to me again why you went away. As he told me, he said, “I’m so sorry. We both loved her so much …” That’s all I needed to hear; the tears carried me from there.

Why did this have to happen? Why did you have to be sick? I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately.

And I don’t know. I don’t know why your chromosomes were messed up. If it were my fault — if the medications I’m on, for example, caused your genes to mutate — oh my goodness, I’d feel awful. My doctors, however, have said that I was only taking drugs that are safe for you. That’s not it.

So why did God let this terrible tragedy occur? Why not rearrange things just a little bit to allow your chromosomes to multiply without failure?

Again, I don’t know. But Jesus said, “The rain falls on both the just and the unjust,” meaning that shit happens to everybody, regardless of how good you are. (Please pardon my paraphrasing.) I highly doubt, for instance, that you were going to turn out to be a mass murderer and that He killed you to save a hundred lives. In fact, I know He’s watching over you right now, tears in His eyes, and that He loves you very, very much.

I know that Daddy and I do. We loved everything about you. We loved your smile, your peaceful expression, the way you LOVED your puppies, your inherited love of Cheerios, the way you lit up on Christmas morning …

OK, I’m going to sign off now before the waterworks begin again. I love you, Annie Laurie.

– Mommy =)

So, I caught this terrible cold two weeks ago, and my throat hurt for a day and a half before the rest of my symptoms took hold. I didn’t cry because it would have felt like pouring alcohol over a cut. And I haven’t cried since.

Sounds good, this not crying, doesn’t it? Guess again. I would like to cry; I’m trying to cry; but my body won’t allow it. It’s terrible. I’m sad! All I want to do is crumble in my husband’s arms! I’M SICK OF THIS!!! I showed my parents Annie’s scrapbook; they sobbed, I watched stoically. I did the same at dinner with my friend; same result. It is so frustrating! I AM sad, and I’d like to show it. Plus, crying helps me feel better. =(

I quit Zoloft when we found out that our baby had trisomy 6. That worked for a couple weeks. Today, I picked up a prescription for 75mg of Wellbutrin, which is half my current dose; I pray that that solves my problem. Preferrably without knocking me out; four years ago, I quit 150mg of Wellbutrin cold turkey and it knocked me out for the better part of a week. I didn’t want to do anything but sleep.

Annie, please know that I *do* miss you very much. I’m crying in my heart for you; I love you more than anything in the world, and I’m working on the tears that you deserve.