The Beauty is in the Mix

Earlier this week, Patrick's headstone arrived and was placed at his burial site.  Because we had opted to purchase a set of four plots for the family, we went ahead and got a family headstone, so our information sits on the side opposite Patrick's.  When we went to see it for the first time, Mira became very upset because she wasn't on it.  We tried to explain that we had not put her name on it because when she grew up, she might get married and want to be buried with her spouse.  She was adamant that she be included.  We told her we'd talk about it.

We talked and decided that we would get some matching frogs--one to leave at the cemetery, and one for her memory box.

In addition, we laminated a copy of our favorite picture of the two of them together and found a way to attach it to the stone so that she was part of the "family stone."

Today, when we were on our way to get the frogs, she asked again why we weren't putting her name on it.  I said we were waiting for her to make the final decision when she's older.  "I've decided.  I want to be on the family stone," she told me firmly.  I reiterated the plan, and she was momentarily placated by getting to shop.

This evening, on our way to the cemetery, Mira began to cry.  What she told us next broke our hearts:

I'm sad because I miss Bubba.  I was just about to get to start teaching him cool stuff like letters and counting when he died.  My heart is broken.  Bubba's heart was broken, too.  His heart had a piece of my, and my heart had a piece of his, and now they are both broken.  *points to picture*  That's a picture of when our hearts were together.

What a beautiful description of both the picture and her heartache.  She may not have as many words as an adult, but she has an amazing ability to use the words she does have to get right at the truth.

Even more beautiful--the flowers she placed on the headstone.  Together.  Like their hearts.  

Mira reminded me that every day is full of joy, grief, memory, love, pain, and sadness.  When I saw the final product--flowers, frog, sunshine, flowers, and monument, I was reminded that, if we look, the good and bad mix together to make a beautiful life.  We just have to remember to look.  

This is my beautiful reminder:

On Grief, Metamorphosis, and Self-Excavation

What with my own personal grief; seeing friends in pain with various losses and grief of their own; feeling like things in the world are getting worse rather than better; not to mention the whole snow/winter/cold yuckiness that is January in Michigan, I am overwhelmed with sadness and despair.  I am done.  Empty.  Spent.  Broken.  I have nothing left.  It's not that I don't care.  Rather, I care so much that I have no energy left to care at all.  I am tired of being a responsible adult.  I want permission to be weak, but then rage against any perceived weakness as a failure of the strength label I pridefully own.  I want to run away for a while.  Explore the world.  Excavate me.  But I can't.  Not yet, anyway.  I have made too many commitments.  Obligations.  Maybe later.

I am tired of worrying all the time.  Tired of being afraid.  What is this weird new bump on my finger?  Is my extra weight killing me?  Are Mira's pressures getting worse?  Am I a failure for having a messy home?  Have I failed my family?  My spouse?  My children?  Do I worry too much?  Is it depression, or grief, or both, or neither?  All this worry sucks was what little energy I manage to acquire.  Ain't nobody got time for this.  Where is my joy?  What happened to the woman who could do anything she set her mind to?  Who achieved so much educationally, professionally, personally?  I miss her.  I need more smiles.  More hugs.  More laughter.  More beauty.  More stillness.  More free time.

As an introvert, I need time away.  But I am already so isolated; so alone.  Being out in busy places with people I don't know just makes it worse.  I need one-on-one time in quiet, familiar places with just a few people who can help fill my energetic bucket.  Who won't judge me.  Who don't care how I look.  Who don't have a vision of me that will shatter if I name my truth.  Who can take me away for a while.  Who can bring me back to to myself.

I need help.  I don't know what kind.  I just know I don't want to hurt.  I don't want to cry when I see babies.  I don't want to envy someone else's life.  I don't want to be alone.  I don't want to feel overwhelmed.  I don't want to feel different, or unworthy.  I want to feel connected.  Loved.  Valued.  Valuable.  Worth the space I take up.  But not because other people tell me so--that can be taken away.  No.  I want to know it to be true, deep in my bones.  Know it with every breath.  Feel it.  Remember it.  I want to be so caught up in the joy and love of my life that I am not threatened by what others have; what I don't have.  I want what I am and what I already have to be enough.

How do I get there?  What must I do?  Excavate me?  By making time?  By making me a priority?  By making me an obligation?  Oh.  I guess that makes sense.  How can I feel worthy and valuable if I refuse to value myself enough to make time for what I need?

This is where I am going.  Do you want to come with me?  It's okay if you don't.  I just can't stay stuck in this hole anymore, trying to find happiness in food, stuff, and other people's validation.  I can't stay the same, even though I don't know what I will be when I come out the other side.  Change is scary and difficult.  It hurts.  But, quite honestly, it hurts to stay where I am, too.

I can't promise that you'll still like me.  In fact, ultimately, that's up to you.  I can promise that I intend to like myself--to enjoy my own company--and that I will work to embody kindness, joy, patience, acceptance, strength, and love.  I have no idea where I'll end up, but I will share my journey with you.  You can find me here.

#Truth2015

Yes, No, Maybe So

When we last left our story, I was getting ready for a rough five days.  Dear readers, nothing prepared me for just how rough these days have been.  So, Thursday morning, 2 a.m., I wake up to a crying toddler.  Decide I might as well use the hpt.  I get a very faint positive!  Suddenly, I had all the energy in the world to deal with my baby girl.  I went into her room and slept on her floor, snuggled up with her, until she finally went to sleep.  I was riding high!  Friday and Saturday morning revealed gradually darkening lines--a very good sign:  darker lines = more hCG = growing baby!  We told a few people, but given the loss of Oliver, we were keeping it pretty quiet.  We hadn't planned to announce anything until after the Wednesday beta when we would know if the numbers were doubling appropriately.  In my mind, all I kept praying was, "Please let me make it to the March 14 ultrasound."  Everything seemed to be fine.

Saturday was also the anniversary of my miscarriage with Oliver.  I was feeling melancholy, but my positive result was keeping my spirits lifted.  I was tired, so I took a nap early in the afternoon.  I woke up just after 2 feeling queasy.  I figured it was a good sign and went downstairs for water and crackers.  Just before 2:30, I discovered I was bleeding.  Phil was upstairs napping and I couldn't decide whether I should wake him up to bother him with this news or just cry to myself downstairs.  Around 3 I finally decided to go share.  Telling him made it too real and I broke down.  I was literally having trouble breathing I was crying so hard.  I remember saying, "Not today.  Not again."  Honestly, I am quite ready to erase February 23 off the calendars (no offense to those whose birthday it is).  The bleeding was light, but was still going went I went to bed last night.  It seems to have stopped now, which is a relief.  But, what did it mean?

Was it little babies burrowing in deeper?  Did we lose one?  If we did, are there others still growing in there? Any of these are possible.  And, quite honestly, the beta tomorrow won't tell us much.  Given that I already have positive hpts, we're almost certain the beta will come out positive.  The number might hint at whether there are multiples, but really, we'll likely be just as in the dark as we are today.  Now there's nothing to do but wait until Wednesday and pray the numbers are still increasing.  In the meantime, I am stuck in a body that is still cramping and terrified to go to the bathroom.  I know worrying won't change anything, but it's all too fresh, too convoluted, too unfair.

So, am I pregnant?  Yes, no, maybe so.  What I do know is that I am sad and scared.  So please, pray for me.  For us.  Not for any specific outcome, but for the strength to get through all of this, however it turns out.  Because I am feeling weak and frail and broken.  But, hopefully, as the Beatles said, I'll get by with a little help from my friends.

Finding Peace Amid Sorrow and Joy

Last week, I went for my ultrasound to make sure everything was on schedule for my FET this week.  It was all good news and we "are go," as the Thunderbirds used to say.  I was 10 mm--they like to see at least 8--with an ideal triple stripe pattern.  There I go, overachieving again.  So, where does this leave us?  Well, tonight was my last shot.  Barring gestational diabetes that needs insulin, I am all done with self-injections.  Can I get a Woo Hoo?!  Tomorrow I start progesterone, Tuesday I start antibiotics and steroids, and Thursday is our "professional installation."  Being our last round, this is a pretty big week for us.

As it turns out, it's also a very emotional week for other reasons, as I rejoice and mourn for myself and several of my friends.  On the joyous side, one friend will have her first ultrasound this week and get her first view of her baby(ies?).  On the difficult side of things, Thursday would have marked 35 weeks with Oliver and will also be the anniversary of another friend's miscarriage.

It is a reminder to me that joys can be tinged with sadness.  But I also remember that joys can feel so much greater when they come after experiencing so much adversity.  So this week, as I prepare for my last chance at becoming a biological mother, I will lift up in prayers and celebrate strong women everywhere.  Women who have experienced infertility.  Women who are denied the children they so desperately want.  Women who have lost children too soon, at whatever time and whatever age.  Women who have provided for their children as best they know how by giving them a life with someone else.  Women who have raised children without help from families or community.  Women caring for special needs children.  Women struggling with their own chronic or terminal illness while trying to meet the needs of their children.  Women doing the best they can with the life they have been given.

And whether this week brings joy, or sorrow, or some of both, I know that I will get through it.  Because the one lesson I have learned over and over--as I struggled with infertility, gave myself shots, weathered my daughter's health issues, and survived a miscarriage--is that I am so much stronger than I ever thought possible.  And so, as I go into this week of sorrow and joy, of beginnings and endings, of life and death, I will find peace in the knowledge that I am strong enough, come what may.

A Grief Divided

There is an old saying that has come in many forms, but boils down to:  A joy shared is a joy multiplied; a grief shared is a grief divided.  I have come to understand this "proverb" a little better this week in two ways.

First, I found out that my blog has helped several people dealing with similar issues.  I was so pleased to hear this because that was one of the purposes of my blog.  Although the main purpose was to have a place to get my feelings out so that I could deal with them, opening the dialogue so that other women did not have to feel alone has always been part of this process.  So, even though my blog posts don't usually generate a hundred hits, the fact that it is helping someone is wonderful news to me.

On the flip side, I have been blessed and humbled to read blog posts by other women who experienced loss that, in retrospect, seems so much more difficult than what I faced.  I am amazed at their strength and grateful that they took the time to share their grief with the world because, just as my stories have helped others, their stories have helped me.  They are both women who had the courage and hope to try pregnancy again after having stillborn children.

Here are their stories:

Erica Crum - Remembering Kinley

Lucy - What I Never Knew I Wanted

One of the things I have struggled with as I consider whether I am willing to try again is, how do I not be anxious?  How do I experience joy when I know it can be gone in an instant?  At what point will it be "safe" to prepare for the child?

Recently, I heard another story about a baby born at 27 weeks to a couple who had undergone infertility treatments for several years.  The baby weighed less than 2 pounds and had severe medical issues.  All of these stories together made me realize something.  There's never a safe month.  Babies can miscarry, be stillborn, die shortly after birth, early in childhood, as teenagers, young adults, or adults.  They can die from medical problems, accidents, or other people's intentional bad acts.  There is nothing safe about trying to bring another life into the world and there is no point at which the loss does not hurt.  The trick is in finding the joy in each day, loving them as hard as you can, as much as you can, every moment you have them.  This truth was shown to me in the most recent post from Erica Crum in which she stated:

Today, I'm 29 weeks pregnant, the same day in pregnancy that Kinley was born. Every single day from now on is a day longer than I got to have with Kinley. Thank you Lord for the blessing of each and every day with her for years and years to come!!!!!

This, to me, is an amazing affirmation of living in the moment and taking joy in each day.  We never know how long we, or our children, will be in this world.  So let's all make sure we make the most of it.