That Didn’t End Well

We didn’t wind up going to my parents for the big Mother’s Day celebration. In fact, when I finally called my mom, as soon as she asked how are you doing, I lost it. Of course she understood, although it wouldn’t have mattered if she didn’t. While it was Mother’s Day, and of course I love her and wanted her to have a wonderful day with the family, this isn’t about her. It is about me. And something I’ve learned through all of this, is that it is OK — and often necessary — to put myself, and Double A first.

Throughout the day a few friends reached out and some family too (although truth be told, I was a bit hurt and saddened that I didn’t hear from more). They’re thinking of me. They feel our pain and sadness. They know what it’s like. But the truth of the matter is, is that they don’t. And that’s lucky for them. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not faulting them for reaching out. I appreciate it. I really do. It’s just that when you’ve had the mom card dangled in front of you and ripped away as much as I have, there’s little anyone can do or say that makes you feel ok with the fact that you’re not a mom, at least of kids who could actually say Mom at some point.

So what did we do? We went to Tar.get. We sat on the deck and read. We went for a walk. And one of those activities didn’t make me sad. The others involved encounters with the blissful looking families. And while I don’t know how much they struggled to get to those families, or what else they have going on in their lives, at that moment in time, they were for all intents and purposes, perfect, happy families. What got to me most was seeing the families with two or three kids…they could have multiple kids and we still can’t get to one. “Do you think they’ll give us one?” I asked Double A (kidding…).

Back in our protected household, I decided to make a nice dinner, grilling up Allen Bros. steaks (if you haven’t tried, you must), and after a tasty meal, we settled in to watch “We Bought a Zoo.” Seemed innocent enough. But nothing is innocent these days. If you haven’t seen it, Matt Damon’s character has recently lost his wife, quits his job, packs the kids up and yep, buys a zoo. He’s running from his old life and memories, only to find that he can’t hide from it. Those memories are with him. Those memories ARE him.

During the movie, Double A turned to me and said, sometimes I wonder if we should pack up and start fresh. I was thinking the same thing. Yet we both know that it wouldn’t solve anything. Tears trickled down my face throughout the movie (as they had sporadically throughout the day), but it wasn’t until the movie was over that the floodgates opened, before I even realized it. I lost it. I lost it big time, and there was no consoling me, in spite of Double A’s efforts.

The truth of the matter is, there are plenty of times that I want to just run away. But I know that I can’t. There are many reasons, but the biggest one is that what I’m running from is a part of me, and always will be in some form or another. And that just sucks. So, no, we aren’t going to go out and buy a zoo or probably do anything deemed that crazy (although it probably wouldn’t hurt to shake things up a bit). We will just continue to try to move forward. To get up in the morning, sometimes with big old puffy “no, I haven’t been crying all night” eyes and go to work. And continue to live. Continue to hope. No, this Mother’s Day didn’t end well, but it is done, and I don’t have to think about it anymore.

Just Because You Ignore It…

It’s Mother’s Day. And it’s everywhere. On the TV. In the papers. Advertised every which way you look. Even if I tried to ignore it, I couldn’t. And for those of us who are technically mothers, but have never parented, it is an awful reminder of where we should be and what we long for, but aren’t. So how does one deal with this day?

The sun is shining and it looks beautiful out there. I’m trying to figure out what Double A and I are going to do with this day. You see, my entire family on my mom’s side (my parents, sister, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins) is getting together at my parents’ house. It’s an annual tradition, and usually a great time that’s the first outdoor event of the year. And while I’d love to see everyone, the thought of being with my family (or anyone for that matter) with Mother’s Day on everyone’s lips makes my insides tighten up. It may not be the focus of all conversations, but there’s no separating why we’re there. If nobody makes mention of it, then there’s a weird hush and sense of pity in the air. If someone does mention it, even with the best of intentions, it’s likely to send me into a downward spiral, ending with lots of tears. Yet, on the other hand, there’s guilt.

We didn’t go last year. It was less than a month after we lost our 4th child, and we were still in that I don’t know how we’re even functioning phase. Instead, Double A’s parents came in for the weekend, and we went to my parents for a quiet brunch, where it was just the six of us. I remember my mind was racing and wandering. So much so, that as I was pulling into our back parking lot, I misjudged the turn and wound up scraping Double A’s car along the gate (something I never do as I pride myself on being a good, albeit aggressive, driver). Cue tears. Lots of tears. And while I was upset that I had scraped the car (and embarrassed to have done so in front of my in-laws), those tears had nothing to do with the car.

Those tears, and the ones that have followed mourn what could have been, what should have been, but what isn’t. They represent hopes and dreams and the realization of fears we never even knew we had. They are magnified as one loss turned to two, which turned to three and then to four. And in some ways, they are a comfort as they are a release of the built up emotions and feelings that we’re sometimes pushed to believe we should keep inside and move on.

The truth is, I long for a Mother’s Day when I have a healthy baby by my side. And while I know it will be wonderful, I also know that the sting I feel now will always be there. That’s something those who haven’t experienced loss don’t understand: nothing will take the place of the baby, or in our case, babies who are not here with us.

All of this still doesn’t help me figure out how to deal with this day (other than to avoid Face.book at all costs). Do we go to my parents because everyone wants to see us and then wind up feeling sad? Or do we not go and feel guilty and bad for “letting them down” (even though I know they totally understand)? Is there a way to “celebrate” the mother’s around me, while not neglecting myself, when I’m so far from a celebratory mood? Or can I truly put this day out of my mind and trade it for just an ordinary beautiful spring Sunday? Suggestions are welcome.

In the meantime, to those who join me in this struggle today (and everyday), I send you the strength to make it through, and the hope that one day, we’ll be able to celebrate this day by not only honoring our babies who are not with us, but doing so with those who are.

All Questions. No Answers.

The Rolling Stones sing, “You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, well you might find, you get what you need.” So if I can’t get what I want, then can someone please tell me, just what it is that I need? Because in my book, they’re pretty much one and the same right now. Lately I find myself questioning my hope and belief systems. I mean, I’m not sure whom to turn to anymore when I do hope, or pray, or ask or plead. It seems like it doesn’t matter. Take yesterday for example; I went in for a blood test to find out if I’m pregnant (I’m not). And as I was walking from my car into the lab, I found myself thinking, “I’m not even sure who I should be asking this of, but please. PLEASE let this be positive.” And that just seems wrong. Shouldn’t I know where I’m putting my faith into? I’ve talked before about loss of hope, but now I’m questioning what does faith mean any more?

I used to think that my or Double A’s relatives who have passed on were up in heaven looking out for us. Protecting us. But have come to realize that while they may be looking down on us, they have no control or say in what happens to us. And I get that, I suppose. The thing is, the longer time goes on without any results on the baby front, it makes it harder to hope or believe when you don’t know if, or think, it matters.

I’m not trying to incite a religious battle here. And truthfully I do not want to hear advice that God’s out there, you just have to look harder. Or that he works in mysterious ways. Or that everything happens for a reason. If you believe that, that’s fine. I respect your thoughts and beliefs. What I am trying to do here is put down my thoughts and feelings (and perhaps my confusion and anger), with the hope that seeing them will provide some clarity for me.

There’s that word again, hope. I suppose I should be used to this term by now. As a lifelong Cubs fan, I’ve hoped for the past 38 years that THIS would be there year. And the thing is, at the start of each season, I REALLY believe it.* (*Except this year. While I think Theo & Co. will be good for the Cubbies in the long run, the short term is going to make for one long season.) I like to think that overall, I’m an optimistic person. I try to see the good in people and situations. It’s just that when you try and try and try, and are doing everything you’re supposed to do and beyond, and you still don’t get the results, well, that’s just not right. I won’t even let the word fair enter into the equation.

The road to baby is filled with wishing, wanting, hoping. And unfortunately for many of us, it’s also filled with waiting, crying and wondering. The start of each cycle brings with it a sadness of what didn’t happen and yet a fresh start to what could. It’s a constant whirlwind of conflicting emotions, not to mention raging hormones. We want to believe that this is the cycle. This is the one that’s going to work. Because when you continue trying, you have to believe that, otherwise why try?

So I’m stuck in a strange place. Since we are going to continue to try, there has to be hope, faith and belief. And yet, where that hope and faith and belief is going to be pulled from is unknown at this point. I think I’ve been pretty clear in past posts that I don’t like the unknown. I’ve been living in it for way to long now, and it doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t feel right. I suppose I just need to let go, and ride the waves as Double A tells me. It’s just that I like to steer.

They Didn’t Grow Back

Last year just after our fourth loss, my college roommates sent us a gorgeous pot filled with equally gorgeous flowers. Fragrant hyacinths and tulips in pink, blue and white brightened our living room, while trying to do the same for our spirits. And while it wasn’t successful on latter, the thought behind the flowers, and the idea that they will come back annually did bring a sense of relief to me.

So we carefully watered them throughout the season, clipped them down and stored them over the winter as we were told. Then, a few months ago, we pulled out the pot in preparation for the flowers to bloom again. And…we’re still waiting. Double A kept telling me that I shouldn’t get my hopes up. That if they didn’t come back, it has no meaning. No connection. I DO know this. But today it has been a year, and the flowers that were supposed to distract me have left me staring at dirt and wondering.

I thought I was past it, and yet here it is again, that overwhelming feeling that encapsulates my mind, my body, my soul. That squeezes my heart and makes me feel like I can’t breathe. And when I do catch a breath, the tears fall. Not just a trickle, but a full-on flood. Yes, grief and sorrow have raised their sneaky hands once again and have wrapped themselves around me giving me an all too tight, unwelcome hug.

Sure, I know it is to be expected on the first anniversary, and yet, I was taken by surprise to be brought back to that place again. I thought there would be sadness, and even some tears, but I was not expecting to be taken back to that overwhelming place. A year. How could that be, when it plays over in my head like it was just yesterday? Have we really spent the last 365 days trying to move forward, to find answers and continue our quest for baby?

Double A reminds me that just because the flowers didn’t come back this year, doesn’t mean that they won’t come back next. How’s that for a metaphor? Yes, it’s true: you can’t plan life. In fact, life doesn’t always play by our rules. But by that same notion, you don’t know that the thing that’s around the corner isn’t what you’ve been hoping for all along. And while I don’t know what I think about hope right now, I’d like to think that it’s still out there. And I’ll continue to look for it. But right now, here I sit, and I am sad. At least for today. And I’m going to allow it.

You Must Do the Thing

I’ve spent the better part of each day of this past year following an Eleanor Roosevelt quote, only I didn’t know it at the time. “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” Some days the “thing” was getting out of bed. Other days it was going to work or seeing and talking to people. It has ran the gamut from mind-numbingly mundane to truly “brave,” even if the definition of brave may be broad…and determined by me. And yet to quote a friend from our miscarriage support group, what other choice do we have?

Well, I suppose we do have a choice. I could choose to stay in that dark and sad place, or I could choose to move forward and fight. And even though I choose to fight, there are days and times that bring me back to that dark and sad place where I have to remind myself, You must do the thing you think you cannot do. Tonight was one of those nights.

Tonight, Double A and I had to light a Yartzeit candle. While the actual anniversary of the loss of our baby girl is a little under two weeks away, the Jewish calendar has the date as tomorrow. For those of you who don’t know what a Yartzeit candle is, it is a Jewish tradition recognizing the passing of a loved one by lighting a candle in their honor (Note: this is a really simplistic explanation, if you want a more in-depth one, look here.). You light this candle at sundown the night before and it burns for 24 hours. And while neither of us is feeling overly religious these days, we lit the candle as a way to honor her memory, and honor our ability to move forward and fight.

Sure, there were tears. A lot of tears. Not to mention the sad reminder of what was, what should have been and what’s not. But once again, we proved to ourselves and each other that we can do this. We can keep fighting. Keep trying. Keep moving forward. And I hope that each day when I need to find that strength, I remember the words of my friend Eleanor to carry me forward.

Full Court Press

After each one of our losses, it was never “would we try again?,” rather “how soon can we try again?” There was never any question. We were going to have a family, and we were going to keep trying until we got there. And each time, when we got the OK, I thought I was going to be terrified. And while I was scared, what I found was that I was more terrified of NOT trying. Of not fulfilling the dream we so badly wanted for ourselves, so badly knew we deserved. Double A would often ask if I wanted to take a break for a while. But I couldn’t. Each time, it made me want our family even more.

That’s not to say that when the time came, that there wasn’t a certain amount of panic going on in my mind. Of course there was. In fact, as our losses increased, so did the fear. Could I do this again? What if it happened again? And would I be able to survive it if it did? Forward we went, not knowing the answers to those questions, only knowing that we’d find a way to do so. I look back and still don’t know how and where we found the strength to carry on. And I’m so proud at the fact that we did, that we are.

After loss number 2, we started talking about adoption. This is a subject that is not foreign to me, as my sister placed a son for adoption 18 years ago. Of course back then, I was in college, removed from the situation and didn’t really grasp what she was going through, and what an amazingly brave and courageous choice she was making. In fact, until we lost our first, I didn’t understand it at all. And while I’ll never know exactly how she felt, there’s a new connection between the two of us, as mothers who never got to know their children.

When we met with a woman from Jewish Family & Children’s Services to talk about adoption back in 2010, we walked out of that meeting completely overwhelmed. We realized at that moment, we weren’t ready to truly explore adoption as a family building option. We weren’t ready to give up the notion that we could do this on our own. And at that time, couldn’t see past having our own kids, as opposed to having kids of our own.

Fast forward two years and two losses later, and our mindset is completely different. We realized, for us, that we want a family, and how we get there no longer matters. That you become a parent from the love and care you give your child(ren), not because that child is biologically related to you. For some, adoption is a hard concept to grasp, a difficult choice to accept. For us, it IS an option, and one that just could get us to family. We met with several agencies (some of which gave us the ick factor, others which were too big and promotionally), and settled on one that is just right…for us. So, with our home study complete and approved, we are officially going through the adoption process as one path to family.

Notice I said “one” path. We haven’t given up the notion that we can do this on our own (and by on our own we mean walking each step grasping the hands and guidance of our RPL doctor, not to mention our therapist, support group, acupuncturist and anyone else out there willing to help). At this point, no on has told us we couldn’t. Or that we shouldn’t. So in our minds, that means we can. And we will. At least we’ll keep on trying to see what happens, all while knowing that we’re making progress on the adoption front as well. Yes, we’re now approaching our family plan with a full court press with the hopes that at least one way will end with a healthy baby…or babies.

Some have asked us, what happens if both “work” at the same time? Our answer: GREAT! Sure, we know it’ll be challenging, but after everything we’ve gone through, and 4+ years of waiting, we’re ready for a challenge like that. We can’t wait to be busy and overwhelmed with our kids and their schedules, rather than in waiting for them!

The truth of the matter is that we don’t know what’s ahead of us. We don’t know how long either of these paths will take. And with such uncertainty and lack of control comes fear. I don’t like uncertainty. I don’t like not being in control. And I certainly don’t like the fear factor. But they are all there, and so I have to force myself to walk these dual paths playing the best full court press just like my dad taught me: with determination, a plan and my eye on the ball, er, baby.

Grief Lingers, Life Goes On

There’s been a lot of talk about grief lately, due to in part to a maddening MacLeans article. And there have been some great responses to that. Not only was I offended by this article, but also by a question asked of one of our friends about us recently: “Do you think they are over their grief and mourning?” It is because of these articles and these questions, that women and men feel like they can’t talk about miscarriage and loss. It is because of this ignorance that couples feel alone, ashamed and saddened.

Are we over our grief and mourning? No. No, we’re not. In fact, I think its pretty safe to say that we never will be “over” it. We have lost our children. We have buried our child. That’s something you never get over. Ever. But being over it and moving forward are two completely different things.

When you experience a loss, let alone multiple losses, you’re thrown into this cyclone of emotions and thoughts. You don’t know where to turn. You want answers and reasons, and all too often you get neither, only more questions. So you turn to your family and friends, and while they may be able to empathize with you, most of them don’t get it. Sure they mean well, and want to help you, but they don’t fully understand what you’re going through. Sadly, you wind up losing some friends and other friendships change because of this. So where do you turn?

For us, initially we turned to the packet the hospital gave us, which included information on books that may be helpful (Empty Cradle, Broken Heart was one we found useful), and a list of support groups. I remember we decided to go to one of those groups, only to realize that we were off on our days, and had missed it. The more we thought about it, at that time, just days after the service for our baby, we realized we weren’t ready for a group experience yet. We needed to focus on ourselves and our grief, before we could share in the grief of others. And so we went about searching for a therapist who could help us through. It wasn’t easy to find her, but once we did, she has made all of the difference, probably because she has experienced multiple losses herself.

We also turned to the internet, to see what information we could find. And what we found was 26.2 million entries when you search miscarriage. 26.2 million! A number that only makes what you’re going through even more overwhelming and confusing. This is the number that made me want to create Will CarryOn, to help others navigate through the seemingly endless mounds of information to find what they need. As I kept digging, I came upon a community that I hadn’t known existed. A community of women and men, who not only knew what we went and are going through, but are talking about it! Sharing their experiences, stories and feelings that are so personal, painful and real, all in an effort to help others through theirs. Putting faces and stories, to highlight and connect those of us who need to talk about our loss(es), and need to know we are not alone.

A few months after our 4th loss, we did finally make it to a support group, and when we did, it felt like home. We were surrounded by amazing women and men who just “got it.” We were in a place where we weren’t looked at funny, or felt like everyone was tiptoeing around on eggshells. We cry together, help one another through triggers and anniversaries, and even laugh at the ridiculous things people have said to us. Going to group, also showed Double A and me how far we’ve come. We’ve made some amazing friends, both through group and online (many of whom we may never meet face to face). Ones that we wish we never needed to know, but ones we’re so thankful to have in our lives.

It is through this sharing — both virtual and personal — that will hopefully make the subjects of miscarriage and loss no longer be taboo. That will enable people to speak about this on the same public “stage” in which other personal tragedies are spoken. We are not over-sharing; rather we are grieving out loud. We may never be over our grief, but by talking about it, and listening to others doing the same, we will be able to manage, and to learn live with it.