Something I haven't been sharing on here recently is my health struggles. Beyond the depression and anxiety, last October or so I began to have back problems. I have had different types of back problems throughout my life, but this time, they have been much worse. Between x-rays and MRIs, doctors have found any number of things that could be causing the pain, but so far nothing has helped. On top of that, my doctors think I may have fibromyalgia, which would explain the fatigue, body pain, brain fog, word recall and memory issues.
Because of these myriad physical issues, I have been out of work from my primary job since mid-March. Unfortunately, I am nearly at the end of my employer's ability to wait and hold my job for me while I get better. I have four appointments in the next week to try to come up with some new avenues to consider, but I've got a deadline to be back at work in order to keep my job, and I don't think I'm going to make it. I am terrified. Having a job to return to has been both a safety net and one of my motivations to get better. I love my job. I want to go back. Work gave me a sense of purpose. I was helping people. I was good at it. It helped push me forward through my therapy and depression last year, knowing my work family was waiting to warmly welcome me home. Now, I have to face the very real potential of the loss of this motivation and safety net.
This week, I was forced to admit that my mobility is much more limited than I wanted to believe. My doctor wrote me a prescription for a wheelchair, which arrived yesterday, and I received my handicapped parking permit today. My pain medications render me unfit to drive. If I know I have to drive, I don't take them, but then the pain renders me useless for much of anything. Now that I have the wheelchair, doing the occasional errand or getting to doctor's appointments is easier because I don't have to walk or stand, but lifting that bugger into and out of the car (sans pain meds) means that, at best, I can only do two errands a day. I have been unable to ferry Mira around to school and gymnastics, do laundry, make beds, load and unload the dishwasher, clean the house, etc.
Phil has really stepped up, and he is positively amazing, but he is burned out and exhausted. He has to do not only most of the work a single parent would, but take care of me on top of that. He has earned all the "good hubby" and "good daddy" points that exist and then some. Lord knows he has lived up to the "for worse" part of our marriage vows these days. But I hate watching the light die in his eyes. I hate seeing how tired he is from trying to do it all. And I hate that I feel powerless to help. Instead, I feel like a giant time and energy suck. Spending my time trying to mentally overcome physical pain just results in physical, mental, and spiritual exhaustion.
Because I feel as though I am of no use to my family or myself, I have begun trying to figure out what makes me valuable. When I was growing up, I struggled to make friends and often felt inadequate or worthless, but I knew I was smart. I knew I was good at school and nothing those people ever said about me could take that away. I measured my value with every "A," every "summa cum laude," every advanced degree I could achieve. I had value, and I knew it. I could see it. It was tangible and measurable. Now, I am very likely about to lose my favorite job in the world and may no longer have the ability to do a vocation for which I am still paying off student loans. As I stare at the approaching precipice of job loss, I am trying to determine what else gives me value.
Sure, I can provide love and hugs to my family, and with my wheelchair, I can now contribute to more chores around the house. But does what I have to offer offset what it takes for them to care for me? Sure, Mira loves me, and I can give her only the things a mom can, but is she going to resent me because I can't go out and play, or run around, or do all of the things I used to do with her? I set a goal to complete half-marathons in honor of Patrick. Ultimately, with enough training and weight loss, I may be able to do them in a wheelchair, but I feel like a failure for having been unable to complete this small gesture to honor his memory.
So, what makes me valuable? The easy answer is I am a child of God; that God saw fit to create me gives me value. That helps me spiritually, to some degree. It reminds me that I have a purpose, and I am here for something, but it still doesn't tell me why I matter. Why should Phil stay with me? Yes, he made a promise, but people do that all the time. Now that I am no longer an equal partner and participant, why should he stay? All I do is make his life exponentially harder. He reassures me that he's in it for the long haul, and I try to believe him. But, unless I can figure out a way to feel valuable without needing his reassurance, I'm going to end up sucking him dry, and it will be a self-fulfilling prophecy.
I think one of the reasons it is so difficult to figure out why/how I am valuable is that I have always used the measuring tools of the "powers and principalities." Can I work? How much do I earn? Am I attractive? Am I capable? Am I able/fit? These are not the reasons I want to value people, and now that I have no value under these standards, they are certainly not how I want my worth evaluated. So, here's the list of characteristics that I have that I think give me value.
1) I'm strong. I've been through a lot of stuff and I am still going. I haven't given up.
2) I'm empathetic and a good listener. I know lots of people who either are going through or have gone through rough times. I provide support by helping them feel heard and, when asked, helping them problem-solve or come up with a plan to overcome issues.
3) I'm funny. This one took me a long time to figure out, mostly because my brother was SO funny, I couldn't see my own skills until I was out and about on my own. I can make people smile. I can usually get Mira to come out of a frump and turn things around to "find the fun" as Joy says in Inside Out.
4) I'm a great planner. Even with my foggy, forgetful memory, I have managed to use alarms on my phone, post-it notes, and any number of other coping tools to keep myself on track even when basic word recall fails me. Mostly.
5) I try. The other day, it was clear that Phil was done. He was beyond done (still is, I imagine, but this was a pretty low level). So, the next morning, I got up and got Mira ready for school. It took every ounce of energy I had and left my body weak and my pain level around an 8. But, I knew that I would have the rest of the day to try to recuperate, and it allowed Phil to sleep in and get a little bit of rest before starting his day. It's not a lot, but I am working hard to show my appreciation and make sure Phil feels valued for everything he's doing.
This is not a complete list--I'm hoping I can still find more value in my existence. And, if you have additional thoughts (whether for me specifically or for people generally), please share. But, it's a start. It's enough to keep me going and feel like I have earned my place in the world for another day. I am still very angry and frustrated that all of this is happening and that I have zero control and absolutely no idea where all of this is going. But I am doing my very best to use it as an opportunity to learn. Because I'm smart. Ooooh. Look at that, I get to put that one back on the list. :)
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
5.03.2016
2.21.2016
Time, Forgiveness, and Holding On
Facebook was showing me memories from today in years past and, as often they do, this one included an adorable picture of Patrick at the doctor's office.
Looking at the date, I calculated that he would have been 28 months old in just over a week. 28 months old. And I began to wonder, what would he have been doing?
When Mira was 28 months old, I was newly pregnant with Patrick, and she was in the hospital getting her tonsils out. Would he have needed that? Would he be walking and laughing and playing with his sister, or would he still be struggling to sit up due to something we thought looked like a twist in his spine that never got fully evaluated because of everything else that happened? Would he have had a full head of bright, curly red hair like his daddy, or would it have darkened to brown like his sister's? How many more hospital visits would we have had? How many more snuggles, smiles, and family hugs? How is it that these memories feel like both forever ago and only yesterday, but the actual time of two years seems wrong?
My life is so different. Different both from what it was and what I had imagined it would be. Every day feels like a new hurdle to climb, but then again, so did every day we were dealing with two medically needy children. If Patrick were still here, life would not be easy. We would still be stressed. We would still be struggling to get by. That doesn't change that I still wish he were here. It also doesn't change that when he was here, I often wondered if life would be easier if he were gone. The answer, of course, was no. Not really. Some things got easier, but much of life got harder.
The truth is, no matter what you are struggling with, life will not be easier if it is gone. It will just be different. A new struggle will come. New stressors will arrive. You will wonder if you did the right thing. You will second-guess every choice you've made. It's human nature. What I am learning--I think--I hope--and what I am trying to do, is forgive myself. Life is hard enough without emotionally beating myself over the head. And, what the heck. Maybe if I write it down, I will actually believe it. It certainly can't hurt.
I forgive myself
For assuming that it wouldn't happen to us.
For thinking I would be able to handle whatever came along.
For being angry that I didn't get what I wanted.
For wishing things were other than the way they were.
For thinking thoughts that should never be spoken.
For thinking life could or would be better, easier.
For forgetting to take care of myself.
For forgetting to take care of my marriage.
For forgetting to take care of my daughter.
For forgetting that we are not the only ones grieving.
For feeling too much, not enough, or nothing at all.
For forgetting that grief is different for everyone.
For being angry that life goes on. Without him. Without me.
For wanting to leave.
For wanting to give up.
For wanting to die.
For wanting everything to have meaning and purpose.
For looking outward instead of inward for solutions.
For forgetting to ask for help, both physical and spiritual.
For being weak.
For not being true to myself.
For being me.
For being human.
Because I cannot ask others to do what I cannot ask of myself.
Hold on. Tomorrow will come.
Hold on. There is more love, joy, and laughter yet to experience.
Hold on. There are memories to remember.
Hold on. There are sorrows others need to share.
Hold on. The sun will rise again.
Hold on. The Son will rise again.
Looking at the date, I calculated that he would have been 28 months old in just over a week. 28 months old. And I began to wonder, what would he have been doing?
When Mira was 28 months old, I was newly pregnant with Patrick, and she was in the hospital getting her tonsils out. Would he have needed that? Would he be walking and laughing and playing with his sister, or would he still be struggling to sit up due to something we thought looked like a twist in his spine that never got fully evaluated because of everything else that happened? Would he have had a full head of bright, curly red hair like his daddy, or would it have darkened to brown like his sister's? How many more hospital visits would we have had? How many more snuggles, smiles, and family hugs? How is it that these memories feel like both forever ago and only yesterday, but the actual time of two years seems wrong?
My life is so different. Different both from what it was and what I had imagined it would be. Every day feels like a new hurdle to climb, but then again, so did every day we were dealing with two medically needy children. If Patrick were still here, life would not be easy. We would still be stressed. We would still be struggling to get by. That doesn't change that I still wish he were here. It also doesn't change that when he was here, I often wondered if life would be easier if he were gone. The answer, of course, was no. Not really. Some things got easier, but much of life got harder.
The truth is, no matter what you are struggling with, life will not be easier if it is gone. It will just be different. A new struggle will come. New stressors will arrive. You will wonder if you did the right thing. You will second-guess every choice you've made. It's human nature. What I am learning--I think--I hope--and what I am trying to do, is forgive myself. Life is hard enough without emotionally beating myself over the head. And, what the heck. Maybe if I write it down, I will actually believe it. It certainly can't hurt.
I forgive myself
For assuming that it wouldn't happen to us.
For thinking I would be able to handle whatever came along.
For being angry that I didn't get what I wanted.
For wishing things were other than the way they were.
For thinking thoughts that should never be spoken.
For thinking life could or would be better, easier.
For forgetting to take care of myself.
For forgetting to take care of my marriage.
For forgetting to take care of my daughter.
For forgetting that we are not the only ones grieving.
For feeling too much, not enough, or nothing at all.
For forgetting that grief is different for everyone.
For being angry that life goes on. Without him. Without me.
For wanting to leave.
For wanting to give up.
For wanting to die.
For wanting everything to have meaning and purpose.
For looking outward instead of inward for solutions.
For forgetting to ask for help, both physical and spiritual.
For being weak.
For not being true to myself.
For being me.
For being human.
Because I cannot ask others to do what I cannot ask of myself.
Hold on. Tomorrow will come.
Hold on. There is more love, joy, and laughter yet to experience.
Hold on. There are memories to remember.
Hold on. There are sorrows others need to share.
Hold on. The sun will rise again.
Hold on. The Son will rise again.
8.09.2015
Untethered
I've had a rough day. Between witnessing the baptism of two adorable baby boys at church this morning--which reminded me of the two times we tried and failed to do the same for Patrick--and the realization that friendships have changed--resulting in feelings of loneliness and not belonging--I have just felt like running away and starting over. Fortunately, I had someone who could talk me down from the proverbial ledge and got me through the worst of it. And then I did what I do best--processed through writing. Here, without further comment, is the result.
Untethered
I tried to put down deep roots.
I thought that they were strong.
Until the wind uprooted me,
And taught me I was wrong.
Like a kite, free of its flyer;
Like a tent, with pegs pulled free;
I have become untethered,
From the life I built for me.
My thoughts are unrelenting,
Regardless of their truth.
I hope things will get better,
Although I have no proof.
So, with a faith that's shaken;
With a heart shattered and frail;
I try again to take root,
Before the next wind gale.
Untethered
I tried to put down deep roots.
I thought that they were strong.
Until the wind uprooted me,
And taught me I was wrong.
Like a kite, free of its flyer;
Like a tent, with pegs pulled free;
I have become untethered,
From the life I built for me.
My thoughts are unrelenting,
Regardless of their truth.
I hope things will get better,
Although I have no proof.
So, with a faith that's shaken;
With a heart shattered and frail;
I try again to take root,
Before the next wind gale.
5.15.2015
I (Still) Choose You
Today is my 16th wedding anniversary. It's been lovely, fun, silly, beautiful, crazy, scary, hellish, exhausting, and awesome. We have gone on three cruises and been to Disney World, New York City (me), San Francisco (Phil), Mexico, Canada, and Alaska. We have attended family events in Indiana, Georgia, Tennessee, and West Virginia. We travel well together.
We suffered the loss of five grandparents and Phil's mentor. We became an aunt and uncle to five wonderful nieces and nephews. We survived three moves; law school; infertility and four rounds of IVF; difficult pregnancies; miscarriage; having children; discovering our children have CHDs; seven surgeries and five heart caths in just three-and-a-half years for said children; the death of one child; and the chronic disease and ever-present specter of death with the other; all while living in a fishbowl as a pastor's family.
Looking back at just the last eight years, it's no wonder we're suffering depression and anxiety. We have been living in survival mode. Even if we have a moment to discover what our needs and whether they are being met, we keep our mouth shut so as not to disturb the delicate balance that gets us through the day. There have been times recently when we weren't sure we were going to make it. Even now, there are no guarantees. We just keep taking things one day at a time and checking in with each other. But, it's been worth it.
We share a love of stories--books, televisions shows, movies. We are movie buddies. We've seen Avengers, Sherlock Holmes, Star Wars I-III, Love Actually, Despicable Me, and countless other movies together in the theater. We have begun taking Mira to the movies and get to share those experiences. We have attended GenCon and share our love of board, video, computer, and roleplaying games. We have our own language. We will hear something that will trigger the same wrongity-wrong answers in our head at the same time. We can say a single word and the other person knows exactly what we are talking about. We have invested lots of time and energy and love in each other and, honestly, neither of us wants to break another person in.
We get to go out for our anniversary this year. It's quite an exciting prospect given how other anniversaries have been spent. Our first anniversary, Phil let me fly home by myself to attend my grandfather's funeral. Our second anniversary, Phil was in the hospital with a dear friend and church member who was having surgery. Last year, I was in the PICU with Patrick as they readied him for his G-tube surgery. Four years ago, we were in the process of discovering Mira's CHD. That's not to say we never get to go out. Two years ago, when I was pregnant with Patrick, we got to see Carol Burnett live. Five years ago, Phil officiated a wedding on our anniversary. This year, we're eating at our favorite restaurant and get to spend the night in a hotel and SLEEP IN! Chalk another one up in the good pile!
What I'm trying to say is that marriage is hard. For everyone. Even if the hardest thing you deal with is figuring out how to share because you were both only children, the adjustment and commitment to a single person for the rest of your life will always be hard. There will always be moments when you want to throw in the towel. Literally. I was angrily tossing laundry in the dryer the other evening and the voice in my head was shouting at me to just go upstairs and call it off. But you can't unring that bell. Once it's out there, it colors just about everything going forward. Take a breath. Take a walk. Lock yourself in the bathroom for a five-minute breather. Go to counseling--alone, together, or both. But don't assume that just because it's hard you're doing it wrong, or that there isn't enough love in your marriage to make it work.
My marriage, my family, my life, is worth keeping. It's worth fighting for. We've been through Hell, but we have stayed true to our vows. We've seen better and worse; affluence and scraping by; Melting Pot and ramen noodles; sickness and health. Every day we get the same choice--whether to keep choosing this life together. And today, although in many ways it is just another day to make the same choice, it's the anniversary of our public proclamation of that choice. And looking back at all we survived, all we've built together, all we've experienced, I'm reaffirming my choice.
Heart of my heart. We're in this together. I've got your back. Madly, magically, always.
We suffered the loss of five grandparents and Phil's mentor. We became an aunt and uncle to five wonderful nieces and nephews. We survived three moves; law school; infertility and four rounds of IVF; difficult pregnancies; miscarriage; having children; discovering our children have CHDs; seven surgeries and five heart caths in just three-and-a-half years for said children; the death of one child; and the chronic disease and ever-present specter of death with the other; all while living in a fishbowl as a pastor's family.
Looking back at just the last eight years, it's no wonder we're suffering depression and anxiety. We have been living in survival mode. Even if we have a moment to discover what our needs and whether they are being met, we keep our mouth shut so as not to disturb the delicate balance that gets us through the day. There have been times recently when we weren't sure we were going to make it. Even now, there are no guarantees. We just keep taking things one day at a time and checking in with each other. But, it's been worth it.
We share a love of stories--books, televisions shows, movies. We are movie buddies. We've seen Avengers, Sherlock Holmes, Star Wars I-III, Love Actually, Despicable Me, and countless other movies together in the theater. We have begun taking Mira to the movies and get to share those experiences. We have attended GenCon and share our love of board, video, computer, and roleplaying games. We have our own language. We will hear something that will trigger the same wrongity-wrong answers in our head at the same time. We can say a single word and the other person knows exactly what we are talking about. We have invested lots of time and energy and love in each other and, honestly, neither of us wants to break another person in.
We get to go out for our anniversary this year. It's quite an exciting prospect given how other anniversaries have been spent. Our first anniversary, Phil let me fly home by myself to attend my grandfather's funeral. Our second anniversary, Phil was in the hospital with a dear friend and church member who was having surgery. Last year, I was in the PICU with Patrick as they readied him for his G-tube surgery. Four years ago, we were in the process of discovering Mira's CHD. That's not to say we never get to go out. Two years ago, when I was pregnant with Patrick, we got to see Carol Burnett live. Five years ago, Phil officiated a wedding on our anniversary. This year, we're eating at our favorite restaurant and get to spend the night in a hotel and SLEEP IN! Chalk another one up in the good pile!
What I'm trying to say is that marriage is hard. For everyone. Even if the hardest thing you deal with is figuring out how to share because you were both only children, the adjustment and commitment to a single person for the rest of your life will always be hard. There will always be moments when you want to throw in the towel. Literally. I was angrily tossing laundry in the dryer the other evening and the voice in my head was shouting at me to just go upstairs and call it off. But you can't unring that bell. Once it's out there, it colors just about everything going forward. Take a breath. Take a walk. Lock yourself in the bathroom for a five-minute breather. Go to counseling--alone, together, or both. But don't assume that just because it's hard you're doing it wrong, or that there isn't enough love in your marriage to make it work.
My marriage, my family, my life, is worth keeping. It's worth fighting for. We've been through Hell, but we have stayed true to our vows. We've seen better and worse; affluence and scraping by; Melting Pot and ramen noodles; sickness and health. Every day we get the same choice--whether to keep choosing this life together. And today, although in many ways it is just another day to make the same choice, it's the anniversary of our public proclamation of that choice. And looking back at all we survived, all we've built together, all we've experienced, I'm reaffirming my choice.
Heart of my heart. We're in this together. I've got your back. Madly, magically, always.
1.17.2013
A Reminder of What's Important
Being a rather stubborn, get-what-I-want-come-hell-or-high-water kind of person, I can get a little focused on a goal and forget to see other things. This has been brought home to me quite clearly as of late. As the total number of family/friends I know who are pregnant continues to grow (now above 12), I've gotten more and more focused on getting another child and my frustration at being denied that which I so desperately desire. Unfortunately, this narrow focus has made me forget to take pleasure in that which I already have--namely, Lil' Bit. Don't get me wrong, I have been loving playing with her and watching her develop and taking joy in her. But I've been taking it for granted. I assume, as we all do, that there will be a tomorrow. And, although the odds are on my side, it's not a given.
We've all heard that once you pass that 13-week threshold of pregnancy your odds of delivering a happy, healthy baby are much higher. But, it's no guarantee. And yet, most of us go through pregnancy sure that there is a next day, and a next, until we reach the finish line. Recently, a friend of a friend lost her baby at 20 weeks' gestation. I know other people who have lost babies at 15 and 17 weeks and even as late as 38 weeks. The truth is, there is no "safe" period. Not even birth. Many a parent has lost their child shortly after birth or in the first few months. But none of us dwell on it. In fact, generally after the first 6 months, when the risk of SIDS is over, we all move through life even more sure of every tomorrow.
Back when Lil' Bit first went to the hospital, I had my first moment of remembering not to take each day for granted. With her health diagnosis, the need for surgery, the actual surgery, and all of the other health issues that have come, I have been reminded that every day is not a given. And yet, when she is being a sassy toddler and running me out of what little patience I have left, I forget. I forget to marvel in her existence. I forget to tell her how much I love her. After yesterday, however, I am making a firm commitment to remember. Every day.
See, some dear friends of mine lost their 3-year-old child quite unexpectedly. When I saw the news, I had to read and re-read it many times before it sank in. My mind just couldn't accept what I was seeing. I could see pictures of this beautiful child--so close in age and personality to my own--from just days before. How could she possibly be gone? Phil and I sat in the house trying to digest this news. My very first thought was, "I can't even imagine." But, the truth is, I could imagine. That was why it was so painful. I could easily see it having been me. And I was terrified. In that instant, I didn't care whether my FET was successful. My focus was Lil' Bit and making sure I held her and that she knew how much I loved her.
And so I find myself in a very different space today. My goal is still to go forward with the FET. And I will still be sad it isn't successful. But as of this moment, it is no longer the most important thing in my life. There are way more important things--loving Lil' Bit and Phil and making sure they know how much; loving my friends through their loss and through the hard times ahead; living my life in remembrance of the fact that today could be the last day--whether mine or someone else's. I will plan for the future, but I will live for today. I will remember.
We've all heard that once you pass that 13-week threshold of pregnancy your odds of delivering a happy, healthy baby are much higher. But, it's no guarantee. And yet, most of us go through pregnancy sure that there is a next day, and a next, until we reach the finish line. Recently, a friend of a friend lost her baby at 20 weeks' gestation. I know other people who have lost babies at 15 and 17 weeks and even as late as 38 weeks. The truth is, there is no "safe" period. Not even birth. Many a parent has lost their child shortly after birth or in the first few months. But none of us dwell on it. In fact, generally after the first 6 months, when the risk of SIDS is over, we all move through life even more sure of every tomorrow.
Back when Lil' Bit first went to the hospital, I had my first moment of remembering not to take each day for granted. With her health diagnosis, the need for surgery, the actual surgery, and all of the other health issues that have come, I have been reminded that every day is not a given. And yet, when she is being a sassy toddler and running me out of what little patience I have left, I forget. I forget to marvel in her existence. I forget to tell her how much I love her. After yesterday, however, I am making a firm commitment to remember. Every day.
See, some dear friends of mine lost their 3-year-old child quite unexpectedly. When I saw the news, I had to read and re-read it many times before it sank in. My mind just couldn't accept what I was seeing. I could see pictures of this beautiful child--so close in age and personality to my own--from just days before. How could she possibly be gone? Phil and I sat in the house trying to digest this news. My very first thought was, "I can't even imagine." But, the truth is, I could imagine. That was why it was so painful. I could easily see it having been me. And I was terrified. In that instant, I didn't care whether my FET was successful. My focus was Lil' Bit and making sure I held her and that she knew how much I loved her.
And so I find myself in a very different space today. My goal is still to go forward with the FET. And I will still be sad it isn't successful. But as of this moment, it is no longer the most important thing in my life. There are way more important things--loving Lil' Bit and Phil and making sure they know how much; loving my friends through their loss and through the hard times ahead; living my life in remembrance of the fact that today could be the last day--whether mine or someone else's. I will plan for the future, but I will live for today. I will remember.
10.16.2012
An Addiction to Hope
It's been a rough week for me as, every other day, I have learned of another friend, relative, or co-worker who is in their first trimester of pregnancy. And, although it may not be my first thought, I am truly happy for them. Knowing first hand how horrible infertility is, I don't wish it on anyone. Still, hearing the news when I am still raw and not yet through this month of loss (next week would have been my due date with Oliver), I just get angry at the unfairness of it all. I also get cranky because I hate being told no. I am one of those people who will stubborn my way through to anything I *really* want and being told "no" only makes me work that much harder. All of which helps explain why, late last night, I was reconsidering our decision to stop IVF.
Now, please understand, cognitively, I have no desire to try again. I hate the shots and the roller coaster and the waiting. I hate not being able to plan vacations or use leave time in case I need it for maternity leave. I get anxious at the idea of having to be pregnant while Lil' Bit goes in for another heart catheterization next spring. But, being bombarded with all these pregnancies, on top of viscerally feeling the loss of Oliver, and, at least emotionally, all I want is another child.
Finding myself confused about holding both of these diametrically opposed positions, I consulted my "IVF Bible"--The Infertility Survival Handbook by Elizabeth Swire Falker [I highly recommend it for anyone suffering with infertility!]. In it, there is a chapter on how to know when to stop, and she points out that fertility treatments are addictive: "[R]eproductive technology offers perpetual hope of having a child. It's almost impossible to walk away from that." And she's exactly right. You are forever asking yourself if the next time would be the time that worked. In addition, there are stories of women who have undergone six or more fresh IVF cycles, and however many attendant FET cycles, before achieving their goal. It's quite easy, especially for those of us who want to push through and do whatever it takes to get what we want, to slip into a never-ending cycle of treatments.
As I tried to explain all of this to Phil this morning--not because I necessarily want to renegotiate our agreement, but because I wanted to communicate with him where I was (after all, he doesn't know unless I tell him!)--I realized that I was stuck. I am having a difficult time releasing the energy I have invested in having another child. However, I am fairly certain that once I have my hysterectomy, I will be able to let go. There are no more one-in-a-million shots at a miracle child. There is no more possibility of changing our minds and trying one more round. I will be physically incapable of achieving pregnancy. Period. Then, and only then, will I be able to let go of the energy I have invested in having another child. Until that point, I am, for better or worse, irrevocably addicted to hope. And nothing, not our agreement, not poverty, not my infertility, not even common sense, will stop me from hoping against hope that something will change and pregnancy will come. Which, unfortunately, also means that my real healing may not begin until then. Instead, every month, until I am proven wrong, I continue to have unreasonable hope that I could be pregnant. Is it rational? No, but addictions never are. And, it appears that nothing short of impossibility will fix it. Until that time, I still have it within my power to try and to hope against all hope. And, as long as there is something within my power that I can do, I can't give up. That's just my nature. It doesn't mean I'm not going to try to to heal until that happens. But, at the same time, I have to be honest with myself. So, this is me, being honest about where I am; about being stuck; about being addicted--to hope.
Now, please understand, cognitively, I have no desire to try again. I hate the shots and the roller coaster and the waiting. I hate not being able to plan vacations or use leave time in case I need it for maternity leave. I get anxious at the idea of having to be pregnant while Lil' Bit goes in for another heart catheterization next spring. But, being bombarded with all these pregnancies, on top of viscerally feeling the loss of Oliver, and, at least emotionally, all I want is another child.
Finding myself confused about holding both of these diametrically opposed positions, I consulted my "IVF Bible"--The Infertility Survival Handbook by Elizabeth Swire Falker [I highly recommend it for anyone suffering with infertility!]. In it, there is a chapter on how to know when to stop, and she points out that fertility treatments are addictive: "[R]eproductive technology offers perpetual hope of having a child. It's almost impossible to walk away from that." And she's exactly right. You are forever asking yourself if the next time would be the time that worked. In addition, there are stories of women who have undergone six or more fresh IVF cycles, and however many attendant FET cycles, before achieving their goal. It's quite easy, especially for those of us who want to push through and do whatever it takes to get what we want, to slip into a never-ending cycle of treatments.
As I tried to explain all of this to Phil this morning--not because I necessarily want to renegotiate our agreement, but because I wanted to communicate with him where I was (after all, he doesn't know unless I tell him!)--I realized that I was stuck. I am having a difficult time releasing the energy I have invested in having another child. However, I am fairly certain that once I have my hysterectomy, I will be able to let go. There are no more one-in-a-million shots at a miracle child. There is no more possibility of changing our minds and trying one more round. I will be physically incapable of achieving pregnancy. Period. Then, and only then, will I be able to let go of the energy I have invested in having another child. Until that point, I am, for better or worse, irrevocably addicted to hope. And nothing, not our agreement, not poverty, not my infertility, not even common sense, will stop me from hoping against hope that something will change and pregnancy will come. Which, unfortunately, also means that my real healing may not begin until then. Instead, every month, until I am proven wrong, I continue to have unreasonable hope that I could be pregnant. Is it rational? No, but addictions never are. And, it appears that nothing short of impossibility will fix it. Until that time, I still have it within my power to try and to hope against all hope. And, as long as there is something within my power that I can do, I can't give up. That's just my nature. It doesn't mean I'm not going to try to to heal until that happens. But, at the same time, I have to be honest with myself. So, this is me, being honest about where I am; about being stuck; about being addicted--to hope.
6.07.2012
Making Space
Today, I would have been 20 weeks pregnant. I would have been half done. We would have been having an ultrasound and finding out if it was a boy or girl. Instead, I am working to lose weight and get myself ready for our one last try. One last try, the results of which we will receive around what would have been Oliver's due date. Is it serendipity, coincidence, irony, or just twisted? To me, it seems somehow crazy and right at the same time. Like that day was always going to be important for us. I am curious to know what the day will hold for us now. Finality, certainly, regardless of outcome. But will it be an affirmation of life, more disappointment, some of both? All I can do is wait. Wait and feel. Scared. Hopeful. Excited. Anxious. Impatient. Frustrated. Sad. And I'm giving myself some space. Space to remember the joy I felt when we found out I was pregnant. Space to remember the loss. Space to think about what might have been. Space to hope about what still might be. Space to send love to my angel baby. Space to be gentle with myself while I continue to heal. Space for feelings. Space for memories. Space for growth. Space for me. And maybe, hopefully, space for someone new in the coming months.
5.30.2012
Finding My Humanity
Today was a difficult day. This past weekend, we lost a very dear friend and today was her funeral. She was such a wonderful, generous, loving person. My life is truly better for having known her and I am saddened that Lil' Bit will only ever hear stories about her. Her funeral was beautiful, but it was difficult. Difficult in a way most people don't have to experience. Difficult because my spouse was the officiant. Difficult because I had to grieve by myself. This is not to say I was alone. I was surrounded by friends and one of them placed a loving hand on my back during the most emotional parts. But even she had her spouse with her, whose hand she could hold, and who could comfort her in a way no one else could.
Looking around, I saw most of my married friends being comforted by their spouses and, in that moment, I felt envy. Envy the depths of which I had not felt since I had to watch friends become pregnant while I struggled with infertility. I did not begrudge them their comfort. I just wished that I could have a spouse with a "regular" job, so he could sit there with me. But as I sat in my grief for my friend, it occurred to me that if I had a spouse with a "regular" job, we would have never ended up here. And I would never have met her. It also dawned on me that there was at least one other person in that room missing the presence of their spouse, only their spouse would not be there to comfort them at the end of the service, or the end of the day, or ever again.
And I cried. I cried in thanks for the blessings I had. I cried at the injustice of the world losing such an amazing person. I cried because I realized that I had things other people would envy. And I cried at the humanness of my envy, of my self-centeredness at a time when I should have been thinking of my friends, of my guilt over having felt envy and self-centeredness, and of my joy at recognizing my blessings. To quote Doctor Who, "Crying when you're happy-that is so human." Today, of all days, my friend gave me another gift; she helped me see my humanity.
Thanks for everything, Connie. You are loved and missed. Someday, we'll understand.
Looking around, I saw most of my married friends being comforted by their spouses and, in that moment, I felt envy. Envy the depths of which I had not felt since I had to watch friends become pregnant while I struggled with infertility. I did not begrudge them their comfort. I just wished that I could have a spouse with a "regular" job, so he could sit there with me. But as I sat in my grief for my friend, it occurred to me that if I had a spouse with a "regular" job, we would have never ended up here. And I would never have met her. It also dawned on me that there was at least one other person in that room missing the presence of their spouse, only their spouse would not be there to comfort them at the end of the service, or the end of the day, or ever again.
And I cried. I cried in thanks for the blessings I had. I cried at the injustice of the world losing such an amazing person. I cried because I realized that I had things other people would envy. And I cried at the humanness of my envy, of my self-centeredness at a time when I should have been thinking of my friends, of my guilt over having felt envy and self-centeredness, and of my joy at recognizing my blessings. To quote Doctor Who, "Crying when you're happy-that is so human." Today, of all days, my friend gave me another gift; she helped me see my humanity.
Thanks for everything, Connie. You are loved and missed. Someday, we'll understand.
3.22.2012
Frustrated Expectations and Tough Choices
So today we took Lil' Bit to the cardiologist for another echocardiogram. Although her pressures were slightly elevated from earlier, it was generally the same--in December Dr. S got 42 and Dr. R got 48 and today Dr. S got 49. Still better than the 60s she was at, but 20 is normal. So, what does that mean? I asked what purpose the meds served if the pressures weren't going down. The answer was that they may be what's keeping her pressures at the level they are currently at. So, instead of her having a heart cath this November and getting weaned off her meds, she's going to get a full-sedation echo this December and a heart cath next November when she's three. That means we have to keep medicating her 6 times a day for at least the next 18 months.
The difficulty is that it's extremely hard to do anything when your child needs meds at 5, 6, 10, 2, 5 and 6, and it's extremely hard to find babysitters who you trust to medicate your child properly and timely. It makes scheduling trips and just figuring out how to get in nap time and meal times really difficult. Although we still plan to make our scheduled trips this year, it's going to take a lot more planning.
Don't get me wrong. The fact that her pressures haven't increased is great news, and I'm lucky that there are meds that keep her healthy. I just had thought the light at the end of the tunnel was this November and now it's been pushed out a year, with no guarantee that that's the end either.
And so, as I drove home today from the doctor's office, I asked myself several questions to which there are no easy answers. We had attempted to schedule my pregnancy with Oliver so that I would be due after everything was done with Lil' Bit. Now that the end won't come until almost 2014--if at all--are we willing to try having another child in the midst of all this craziness? Can I take the risk of having another child knowing that, at least currently, I lack the capacity to cope if the next one also has medical issues? How long do I have the patience and ability to wait while we try and figure out the answer to these questions? The longer we wait, the older I get; the more we pay for embryo storage fees; the longer we make our child-raising years; and the longer we delay my hysterectomy.
I know that I don't have to (and shouldn't) make any decisions today. But if I had to, I would say that I've hit my squeal point. I think Lil' Bit will have to be enough. I just don't have it in me right now to cope with pregnancy and Lil' Bit's meds and the lack of a guarantee on the health of any subsequent baby. And that makes me even more sad. Because I feel like I've lost everything all over again. I am overwhelmed. I am tired. I feel like a complete failure. I feel like I just can't catch a break and the world is dumping on me and I don't know why. It sucks. And all I can do, is just keep going. Because really, at some point, I have to reach a tomorrow that is better. I just hope it's sooner rather than later.
The difficulty is that it's extremely hard to do anything when your child needs meds at 5, 6, 10, 2, 5 and 6, and it's extremely hard to find babysitters who you trust to medicate your child properly and timely. It makes scheduling trips and just figuring out how to get in nap time and meal times really difficult. Although we still plan to make our scheduled trips this year, it's going to take a lot more planning.
Don't get me wrong. The fact that her pressures haven't increased is great news, and I'm lucky that there are meds that keep her healthy. I just had thought the light at the end of the tunnel was this November and now it's been pushed out a year, with no guarantee that that's the end either.
And so, as I drove home today from the doctor's office, I asked myself several questions to which there are no easy answers. We had attempted to schedule my pregnancy with Oliver so that I would be due after everything was done with Lil' Bit. Now that the end won't come until almost 2014--if at all--are we willing to try having another child in the midst of all this craziness? Can I take the risk of having another child knowing that, at least currently, I lack the capacity to cope if the next one also has medical issues? How long do I have the patience and ability to wait while we try and figure out the answer to these questions? The longer we wait, the older I get; the more we pay for embryo storage fees; the longer we make our child-raising years; and the longer we delay my hysterectomy.
I know that I don't have to (and shouldn't) make any decisions today. But if I had to, I would say that I've hit my squeal point. I think Lil' Bit will have to be enough. I just don't have it in me right now to cope with pregnancy and Lil' Bit's meds and the lack of a guarantee on the health of any subsequent baby. And that makes me even more sad. Because I feel like I've lost everything all over again. I am overwhelmed. I am tired. I feel like a complete failure. I feel like I just can't catch a break and the world is dumping on me and I don't know why. It sucks. And all I can do, is just keep going. Because really, at some point, I have to reach a tomorrow that is better. I just hope it's sooner rather than later.
3.12.2012
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:
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.
3.08.2012
Healing v Hiding
I thought I was doing a good job coping. I really did. As far as I could tell, I wasn't hiding from my feelings. I cried. I talked. I cried more. I thought a lot. If you had asked me, I would have told you that I was doing great at this grief/healing thing. Then came Tuesday. I had a severe case of sads. Bad enough I was willing to call it depression. The "I'm crawling back under the comforter and not coming out until it's all over" kind of depression. I didn't even want to eat ice cream to make myself feel better; that's way low for me. So, I took the day off. I let myself bow out. Given that I am also recovering from severe bronchitis, I figured it was allowed. And, by the end of the day, I was feeling pretty functional again. So, imagine my surprise Wednesday morning when I found myself in that deep down funk again. How was this possible? I gave myself yesterday to cope and had gotten better. This was not how things were supposed to go. And yet, there I was. Fighting for the energy to shower, get dressed, and go to work. And again this morning. The funk. The lack of energy. The wanting to bow out and let the world go on without me for a while.
And it occurred to me that maybe I hadn't been coping as well as I had thought. As I thought about it, I realized that there are some good reasons for that. First, my body is not yet done with the daily reminders. I had my ultrasound today and although things look good generally, there is still some "fluff" (yes, that's the medical term the ultrasound tech used) and it's likely I will keep spotting until I have my next period. Let me tell you--it's not fun being continuously reminded of a loss that is, for all intents and purposes, still ongoing. And I realized that I was hiding at work. I would get immersed in things and not have to think about my loss; my grief; my feelings. I was superwoman and getting lots done at work, but I wasn't getting much done internally. Turns out, my ability to function and perform well at work is unrelated to how well I am coping with the loss of my child. Shocker!
Ironically, my discovery of my lack of dealing with things came when we received some good news. We found out that, if we decide to try again, we have been given the financial resources to do so. I honestly thought this news would make me feel better. And yet, somehow, it plunged me further down into my hole. I simply could not fathom why good news would make me feel so horrible. But, as Phil and I discussed it, and I discovered that his experience had mirrored my own, we figured out what happened. We had been focusing on the financial aspect of the decision whether to try again which kept us from dealing with the emotional aspects. So, once the financial issue was off the table, there was nothing left to do but deal with the emotional baggage. Hence, my funk.
So, I sat with things, thought about things, and tried to listen to the inner me--who often makes more sense than I give her credit for. And I reached a few conclusions. First, I'm taking May off the table. It's too soon and requires too much planning for which I am not yet ready. Plus, I don't think I will have processed my grief by then and I really don't want to start a hormone heavy regimen while still processing strong emotions. As much as I hate waiting--as much as I didn't even want to wait until February this time around--I know that taking May off the table, thereby relieving lots of pressure on us, is the right decision.
I also discovered that one of the things that I needed to do to help me heal was to name my child. This was difficult because we didn't know if it was a boy or a girl. We talked about naming it something gender-neutral, but nothing seemed to fit. Then, yesterday, I was talking with a good friend who went through a miscarriage at 12 weeks. She told me that she had thought she was carrying a boy, so she gave it a boy's name. As I thought on this and talked with Phil, I realized this made perfect sense. While I was pregnant, I thought I was having a boy. So, when I lost the child, what I lost was the visualization of my family with a little boy in it. That made my loss little boy-shaped, so it only made sense that it should carry a little boy name. And, to be perfectly honest, once we found out I was pregnant, since we had already picked out names, I had already been talking to the baby in my head by one particular name. And so, after much discussion and thought, Phil and I agreed on the name for our angel baby--Oliver James. Sometimes, I still find myself talking to Oliver. Most often, I'm asking questions I know he can't answer. But it comforts me. It makes him real. And, while it solidifies the loss, it also helps me heal. Further, by giving him his own identity, I don't have to worry that I will try and treat any subsequent children we decide to have as replacements; they will get their own identity. Still, I have no life experiences with loss that are the same as what I'm dealing with. Don't get me wrong. I have experienced loss, but nothing on this scale. And that makes it hard for me. I don't know what to expect. I don't know how to behave. How do I know what to do? How will I know when I'm done? There's no list of steps I can go through and wander out the other side and know I'm all better. The planner in me is going ape over this.
And, in the midst of all this anger and frustration and funk, what I also realized was that I was not strong enough to do this on my own. I was going to need help. And not just people help (although that part is necessary and amazing). And not just prayer help (although, again, wonderful and amazing stuff here). No, I was going to need medical help. And so it was that I sucked up my pride and took some Xanax. I hate taking meds for anything. It makes me feel like a failure. But, knowing how helpful the Xanax was at taking the edge off so I could function during Lil' Bit's surgery and recovery, I knew it could help me get back to functionality after this loss. And, slowly, I have started to emerge from the fog. Not entirely and not as much as I would like. I'm still feeling somewhat overwhelmed. But, the Xanax has provided me with enough light that the fog isn't as thick anymore.
And so, I am thankful. Thankful for the pharmacological miracle that is helping me get through this loss. Thankful for all the friends who have helped me. Thankful for all the women who have shared their stories with me. Thankful for all of the people who have said the four right words: "That sucks. I'm sorry." Thankful for all the prayers. And, even though it doesn't feel like it right now, I know that, someday, I will be thankful to be on the other side of this. Until then, thanks for walking through it with me.
And it occurred to me that maybe I hadn't been coping as well as I had thought. As I thought about it, I realized that there are some good reasons for that. First, my body is not yet done with the daily reminders. I had my ultrasound today and although things look good generally, there is still some "fluff" (yes, that's the medical term the ultrasound tech used) and it's likely I will keep spotting until I have my next period. Let me tell you--it's not fun being continuously reminded of a loss that is, for all intents and purposes, still ongoing. And I realized that I was hiding at work. I would get immersed in things and not have to think about my loss; my grief; my feelings. I was superwoman and getting lots done at work, but I wasn't getting much done internally. Turns out, my ability to function and perform well at work is unrelated to how well I am coping with the loss of my child. Shocker!
Ironically, my discovery of my lack of dealing with things came when we received some good news. We found out that, if we decide to try again, we have been given the financial resources to do so. I honestly thought this news would make me feel better. And yet, somehow, it plunged me further down into my hole. I simply could not fathom why good news would make me feel so horrible. But, as Phil and I discussed it, and I discovered that his experience had mirrored my own, we figured out what happened. We had been focusing on the financial aspect of the decision whether to try again which kept us from dealing with the emotional aspects. So, once the financial issue was off the table, there was nothing left to do but deal with the emotional baggage. Hence, my funk.
So, I sat with things, thought about things, and tried to listen to the inner me--who often makes more sense than I give her credit for. And I reached a few conclusions. First, I'm taking May off the table. It's too soon and requires too much planning for which I am not yet ready. Plus, I don't think I will have processed my grief by then and I really don't want to start a hormone heavy regimen while still processing strong emotions. As much as I hate waiting--as much as I didn't even want to wait until February this time around--I know that taking May off the table, thereby relieving lots of pressure on us, is the right decision.
I also discovered that one of the things that I needed to do to help me heal was to name my child. This was difficult because we didn't know if it was a boy or a girl. We talked about naming it something gender-neutral, but nothing seemed to fit. Then, yesterday, I was talking with a good friend who went through a miscarriage at 12 weeks. She told me that she had thought she was carrying a boy, so she gave it a boy's name. As I thought on this and talked with Phil, I realized this made perfect sense. While I was pregnant, I thought I was having a boy. So, when I lost the child, what I lost was the visualization of my family with a little boy in it. That made my loss little boy-shaped, so it only made sense that it should carry a little boy name. And, to be perfectly honest, once we found out I was pregnant, since we had already picked out names, I had already been talking to the baby in my head by one particular name. And so, after much discussion and thought, Phil and I agreed on the name for our angel baby--Oliver James. Sometimes, I still find myself talking to Oliver. Most often, I'm asking questions I know he can't answer. But it comforts me. It makes him real. And, while it solidifies the loss, it also helps me heal. Further, by giving him his own identity, I don't have to worry that I will try and treat any subsequent children we decide to have as replacements; they will get their own identity. Still, I have no life experiences with loss that are the same as what I'm dealing with. Don't get me wrong. I have experienced loss, but nothing on this scale. And that makes it hard for me. I don't know what to expect. I don't know how to behave. How do I know what to do? How will I know when I'm done? There's no list of steps I can go through and wander out the other side and know I'm all better. The planner in me is going ape over this.
And, in the midst of all this anger and frustration and funk, what I also realized was that I was not strong enough to do this on my own. I was going to need help. And not just people help (although that part is necessary and amazing). And not just prayer help (although, again, wonderful and amazing stuff here). No, I was going to need medical help. And so it was that I sucked up my pride and took some Xanax. I hate taking meds for anything. It makes me feel like a failure. But, knowing how helpful the Xanax was at taking the edge off so I could function during Lil' Bit's surgery and recovery, I knew it could help me get back to functionality after this loss. And, slowly, I have started to emerge from the fog. Not entirely and not as much as I would like. I'm still feeling somewhat overwhelmed. But, the Xanax has provided me with enough light that the fog isn't as thick anymore.
And so, I am thankful. Thankful for the pharmacological miracle that is helping me get through this loss. Thankful for all the friends who have helped me. Thankful for all the women who have shared their stories with me. Thankful for all of the people who have said the four right words: "That sucks. I'm sorry." Thankful for all the prayers. And, even though it doesn't feel like it right now, I know that, someday, I will be thankful to be on the other side of this. Until then, thanks for walking through it with me.
2.27.2012
Where Do We Go From Here
As is evident from my last post, the blood test on Saturday did not bring good news. My hCG level had dropped to 200. My doctor's office called me with the news and had me stop my medications. Thus began the long process of waiting for nature to take its course. It is extremely difficult to process the loss and attempt healing when the loss is still ongoing. I also know that I will spend the next few weeks or so having to inform those people who, for whatever reason, don't yet know that we lost the baby.
As sad as I am about the loss, I also have some relief. The truth is, ever since the numbers didn't double within 48 hours, I wondered about the viability of the pregnancy. I know the doctor said it was fine, but given how easily Lil' Bit's numbers doubled, I'm not sure I ever believed it. And, once the spotting started, I was pretty sure it was all over. I know there are lots of reasons women bleed and that some do go on to carry babies to term. Still, it was just another sign. And, if I'm being honest, I would not have felt much relief if the number Saturday had come back doubled. I would have spent the whole pregnancy worrying, and anxiety wouldn't have been good for either of us. I'm not sure anything would have reassured me. I'm also grateful that it happened at home. I think it would have been much worse if we had gotten to the ultrasound this Thursday and discovered no heartbeat. Not only would the news have been devastating, but I would have had to deal with all the emotions there in public at the doctor's office and then figure out how to explain why I wasn't coming back to work. Experiencing it at home, before Lil' Bit ever woke up, when Phil and I had time together and alone to process everything was ideal--at least, as ideal as that situation ever can be.
Up next is figuring out where we are and what we want to do. We meet with the doctor this Thursday, on what would have been our ultrasound appointment, to talk about what happens next. One of the questions he'll answer is how long we have to wait if we do, in fact, decide to try again. I'll have another blood test on Friday to make sure my hCG levels have dropped back under 5. If not, I'll have to undergo medical intervention to complete the process. In addition, Phil and I have to figure out if we have both the emotional and monetary capital available to spend on another attempt. Even if we decided right here and now that we wanted to try again, we would still wait. Not just to let my body heal, but to avoid trying during the Lenten/Easter season when our household is already taxed and stressed (Plus, with Phil's job, we really need to avoid a Christmas due date).
As we travel down this road, we will talk to each other; check in with where we are and how we feel; reach a decision together; and be gentle with one another as we heal.
As sad as I am about the loss, I also have some relief. The truth is, ever since the numbers didn't double within 48 hours, I wondered about the viability of the pregnancy. I know the doctor said it was fine, but given how easily Lil' Bit's numbers doubled, I'm not sure I ever believed it. And, once the spotting started, I was pretty sure it was all over. I know there are lots of reasons women bleed and that some do go on to carry babies to term. Still, it was just another sign. And, if I'm being honest, I would not have felt much relief if the number Saturday had come back doubled. I would have spent the whole pregnancy worrying, and anxiety wouldn't have been good for either of us. I'm not sure anything would have reassured me. I'm also grateful that it happened at home. I think it would have been much worse if we had gotten to the ultrasound this Thursday and discovered no heartbeat. Not only would the news have been devastating, but I would have had to deal with all the emotions there in public at the doctor's office and then figure out how to explain why I wasn't coming back to work. Experiencing it at home, before Lil' Bit ever woke up, when Phil and I had time together and alone to process everything was ideal--at least, as ideal as that situation ever can be.
Up next is figuring out where we are and what we want to do. We meet with the doctor this Thursday, on what would have been our ultrasound appointment, to talk about what happens next. One of the questions he'll answer is how long we have to wait if we do, in fact, decide to try again. I'll have another blood test on Friday to make sure my hCG levels have dropped back under 5. If not, I'll have to undergo medical intervention to complete the process. In addition, Phil and I have to figure out if we have both the emotional and monetary capital available to spend on another attempt. Even if we decided right here and now that we wanted to try again, we would still wait. Not just to let my body heal, but to avoid trying during the Lenten/Easter season when our household is already taxed and stressed (Plus, with Phil's job, we really need to avoid a Christmas due date).
As we travel down this road, we will talk to each other; check in with where we are and how we feel; reach a decision together; and be gentle with one another as we heal.
2.25.2012
Dear Angel Baby
Dear Baby,
Even though you were with us only a short time, the size of the hole you have left in our hearts feels quite large. You were wanted and loved from the very first moment we knew you were there. Chances are good that we won't ever know why you left us. The potential reasons are myriad and, ultimately, whatever one it actually is won't make much difference. The result is the same. You aren't here. We don't get to see you grow up. We don't get to watch who you become. Your sister won't get a chance to know you. She won't even have any independent recollection that you ever existed. But we will know. And we will remember. We feel privileged that you chose us to be your parents, even if only for a few weeks. Be well, my child. Your imprint on my heart will last a lifetime.
Love, Mom
Baby Hobson - 2/23/12
Even though you were with us only a short time, the size of the hole you have left in our hearts feels quite large. You were wanted and loved from the very first moment we knew you were there. Chances are good that we won't ever know why you left us. The potential reasons are myriad and, ultimately, whatever one it actually is won't make much difference. The result is the same. You aren't here. We don't get to see you grow up. We don't get to watch who you become. Your sister won't get a chance to know you. She won't even have any independent recollection that you ever existed. But we will know. And we will remember. We feel privileged that you chose us to be your parents, even if only for a few weeks. Be well, my child. Your imprint on my heart will last a lifetime.
Love, Mom
Baby Hobson - 2/23/12
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