You Be You

In going through the loss, adoption or infertility journey, did you ever feel like you needed to do or say something you weren’t quite comfortable with in the hopes that it would get you closer to the baby you wanted? We did. One time that stands out is in 2008, after our second loss, with our initial RE. After working with him to carefully craft a mindful and thorough step-by-step plan, I lost my job and he told us that we needed to do IVF because it was covered up to four tries on my outgoing insurance. Now, I didn’t know then what I know now (4 tries!?!), and at that point, we had gotten pregnant easily and we weren’t ready to make that jump. The doctor was not so kind in discussing that option, so we left him for a better fit. Do I look back at that time now and wonder if we should have tried it? Sure, but we weren’t ready at the time and stood our ground.

Going through the adoption process, there were many points that we asked ourselves if we should change or hide information about ourselves to make us more appealing to a potential woman or couple looking at creating an adoption plan for their child. I’m not talking about anything major here: Should we leave off our ages? Should we not mention we’re Cubs fans or that we like Notre Dame? And then the big one: Should we not mention that we’re Jewish? But we are. We are all of these things. We’d go back and forth on the religion factor, but in the end realized that we needed to be true to us, and just hope that it would mesh with someone out there. As time went on, we’d question that decision, and waiver, but stuck with it anyway.

Fast forward to when we met Baby Boy’s birth parents. While I won’t share details here because it isn’t my story to tell, I will share that they asked us about being Jewish. We took a deep breath, glancing at one another and said yes. But the shoe didn’t drop. Rather, just the curiosity of what it meant in relation to Christmas. We talked about Hanukkah, and explained the traditions of the religion and our families. Of how Double A and I collect menorahs and how we’ve long looked forward to lighting them with our children. Of how we gather with family and friends to celebrate and spend time together. Of the foods we eat and the eight nights of presents. And it became clear why they were asking, and what was important: Family. Tradition. Presents. Shared experiences that they could relate to, and wanted for their child.

The night before BB was born, the social worker told us that his birth parents had something for us that they wanted to give us at the hospital. Of course in our minds, we thought, a baby, right? But when we saw them, they presented us with a box, and in that box, was a beautiful menorah. We were floored. We’re still floored. I choke up each time I think of this, or share this story. In all likelihood, they didn’t know from Hanukkah, and yet they wanted to be a part of that tradition. They wanted to share in that experience with their child, and create memories. We are beyond grateful for this incredible physical and spiritual gift, and lit BB’s menorah every night this past Hanukkah with such pride and joy. Hiding who we are would have taken something away from BB.

The challenges of loss often make it so that you can’t see straight. At least I found it to be. What can I do/say/give to get me to have a living baby? The more losses we experienced, and the longer our adoption wait went on, it was easy to get caught up in the “maybe I should…” or “what if I…” rather than stick to our well-thought out plans. I questioned everything. And then I questioned it again. Some of those questions still linger. The thing is, questions are good when they force you to look at all sides of a situation, ensuring you’re being your best advocate. It’s when they come from a place of panic and uncertainty that can cause the most harm.

When I really think about it, I realize that Double A and I made the best decisions we could at the time. And as we are about to celebrate Baby Boy’s first birthday this week, I’m grateful we made the decision to stay true to ourselves.

How do you handle staying true to yourself in your journey?

Life Filters

I think it’s safe to say that filters affect our daily lives. And by filters, I mean current and past experiences, dreams and ideas that shape how we live our lives, and the ways in which we do—or don’t do things. It’s probably something that I’ve always known, but it really hit home as Double A and I lit a yahrtzeit candle in honor of Baby K (it was the third anniversary), and the flood of emotions opened back up.

I realized that the filters in which I now parent comes from a place of extreme joy, combined with a certain sadness and fear. After going through everything we’ve gone through, the act of actually parenting one of our children is a big deal. A REALLY big deal. I’ve waited so long for this. And now that I’m finally able to, I not only want to make sure that I’m taking in every moment, but I also don’t want to screw it up. I want to make sure that I’m honoring the babies we lost and buried, while focusing on, and celebrating our son who is here with us.

On many levels, this filter is a good thing, as it gives me a different perspective toward parenting. I find it funny that when you bring a baby home, most people go to the negative: ‘Say goodbye to sleep!’ ‘Good luck with those dirty diapers!’ ‘Have fun with all of the throw up!’ When I hear this, my response is always, ‘Isn’t it great? We GET to do this!’ This is usually followed by me wanting to smack the person upside the head as a reminder that that’s a stupid thing to say to someone who has lost their children.

Perhaps this is something that resonates on a larger scale with loss parents and those who have struggled to become parents (though, of course I realize that there are plenty of other parents out there who just truly appreciate being able to parent). I’m not saying that I don’t get exhausted. Or that I don’t get frustrated. It’s just that I don’t—or won’t—let it bother me. And somehow, in spite of everything we’ve been through (not to mention my personality in general), I’m calmer with, and about him, than I’d ever imagined I’d be. This filter provides me with a patience and appreciation that has brought greater meaning to my parenting and our family.

At the same time, these filters make me feel as though I have to be the perfect parent because of everything we lost. Be super creative and playful! Make only delicious and nutritious meals! Be uber-organized! And while I know there is no such thing, I feel like I should try harder, do more and be it all. It’s a lot of pressure that I knowingly put on myself in an effort to honor Baby K, Benjamin, Sarah, and those we never met. And to make sure that BB understands just how much we love him and what he means to us. Believe me, I know this pressure I put upon myself isn’t fair. And I also know that I’m not the first Mom to experience this pressure. It just feels as though there’s so much more at stake.

Balancing of these filters is a struggle, and I imagine on some levels, it will be an ongoing one as they continue to evolve. I have to remind myself that I can’t go back in time, and that the best way to honor all of our children is to try to stay present and take pride in the parent I am, and will become…triumphs, imperfections and all. Hopefully I’ll listen.

What filters affect your day-to-day? How do you deal?

 

 

 

The Certificate

Baby Boy’s adoption was finalized a couple of weeks ago. All in all, it was pretty much a non-event for me. Sure I was glad to have all of the post-placement visits behind us, and to not have to call to let our agency know if we were taking our son across state lines to visit my in-laws. But did you catch that? Our son. In our minds and hearts, he was our son from the moment we met him. Actually, pretty much from the moment we got the call that we had been chosen. We did raise a glass with our families to acknowledge the day, but more just to celebrate him. And I didn’t think much about it after that. Until today.

Today I opened up a letter from our adoption attorney, forwarding Baby Boy’s amended birth certificate. There it was, our son’s name, along with our names listed on this official document. Only it wasn’t just a birth certificate, this was a Certificate of Live Birth. This was the first time we had seen this. The first time our names appeared alongside of our living child with whom we have living in our home. At first I smiled as I read through all of the familiar information. And then I lost it. Big, ugly sobs came out of me as I both rejoiced in, and mourned the meaning behind the paper I was holding. How could something make me so happy and so sad at the same time? The immense gratitude for BB, not to mention his birthparents, and the deafening sorrow of the 6 years and 7 babies that came before.

My first instinct was to run up to BB’s room to pick him up out of the sleep he had just fallen into, and squeeze, kiss and take in his every inch. But instead, I decided I should call Double A who was on his way to an interview. Everything’s OK I told him before the sobbing returned. I was just coherent enough for him to hear me, and hysterical enough for him to understand.

You know, these past few years, I have become pretty adept at knowing what is going to trigger me. But I hadn’t expected this one.

Please Don’t Ask That

“Do you have kids?” It was the dreaded question, and it wasn’t even being asked of me this time. I was in a business group setting, and as each person went around the room introducing themselves, that was the question that was posed again and again. It seems harmless, and to many, it probably is harmless. But I couldn’t help but wonder if there was anyone else in this room who had walked in shoes like mine. This seemingly unassuming question is so painful for many of us to answer.

As a baby loss Mom, this is one of many questions that make me cringe. Another one is, “Is this your first?” Both are questions I hear a lot now, especially when I’m out with Baby Boy. I struggle with how to answer the question in a way that feels genuine to my family, yet won’t alienate (read: freak out) the person I’m talking to.

My general rule is: if I don’t know the person, and will probably not see them again, I tend to say a quick yes and move on. Yet in my mind—and especially in my heart—I don’t move on. I feel like I’m not being fair to Baby K, Benjamin and Sarah, and the others. And not being fair to myself or Double A. But what do I say that covers all of this?

It’s a conversation I’ve often had with my baby loss Mom friends. One answers with “Two in heaven.” Others answer, “We have/had another daughter, but she died.” While not easy answers, clean and understandable. But why ask this at all? And what about when it’s not so easy to understand? Or that many people would consider only babies who were born to be “actual” children. It’s all so complicated that often I don’t want to get into it. Sometimes I say, “Not exactly, but he’s the first we were able to bring home,” and leave it at that.

What I don’t understand is, why is it common knowledge that you don’t ask a woman if she’s pregnant, but you can ask if she has kids? Or how about if she wants kids, and when is she going to have kids? Can these questions be reshaped as to not be so offensive? Do they need to be asked at all? The more we talk about miscarriage, still birth, baby loss and infertility, the more we will be able to inform and educate the greater community that questions like these are loaded and hurtful.

What are your dreaded questions? How do you respond?

An Absence Explained. A Light Rekindled.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, but not for lack of ideas, thoughts and questions running through my head. The truth is, I’ve wanted to write, but I wasn’t sure how to do it. So, in going with my new motto, “Stop worrying. Stop over thinking. And just do.” here I go: Double A and I welcomed a son into our lives in early May. A beautiful, healthy and LIVING baby boy. Yes, we were finally able to bring a child home to parent through domestic adoption.

I haven’t been sure on how to say this here. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve wanted to shout it from the rooftops, and in real life, I pretty much have been. But it’s different here. While I know (hope?) that there will be great excitement, with that, also come painful triggers. I’ve been on the other side of these announcements, and while happy for the person, there’s still that giant twinge of ‘why not me?’ So I respectfully share this news here as a thank you for all of the love and support you’ve shown Double A and me, and to continue to shed some light on life, and now parenting, after loss.

While I’m not going to share our son’s full story here, I will share that we got “the call” about six weeks before he was due. We were thrilled, and at the same time, we tried to keep a foot on the ground since we we’ve been down this road to baby before, and had also been through a failed match weeks after we lost the twins. We had the opportunity to have dinner with his birth parents and they are truly a strong, thoughtful and courageous couple. Fast forward, and we were on our way to the hospital when we got the call he was here, and we still had an hour and a half before we arrived. A baby. Our baby? Could this actually, finally be?

After an emotional visit with his birth parents, the social worker escorted us to the nursery. Initial papers were filled out and signed. Bracelets were snapped on, giving us our backstage passes to the show we’ve long had tickets for, but never allowed access to.

The door unlocked and we were ushered in where a nurse stood 12 feet away holding our swaddled son (I’ll be referring to him as Smiley, because he has, and does, since the day we brought him home). We were a mere two minutes of scrubbing away the pain of the last 5-1/2 years from meeting him. This time is blurry for me. I know we were talking to one of the nurses, but what I remember more is the 6 or 7 nursing students standing off to the side whispering, smiling and pointing as they stared, clearly knowing our story. And then after checking that our numbers matched, they introduced us to Smiley.

Tears.Love.Joy.Shock.Amazement.Breathless.Grateful.Sadness.Numb.

It was an unreal moment where I was overcome by emotion. ALL emotions. The happiness of finally getting to this point. The enormity of everything we survived. The potential of all that we’ll be able to see, do and enjoy with Smiley. The pain of knowing that those are the same things we’ll never be able to experience with Baby K, Sarah and Benjamin, and the others we didn’t name. The ache of what his birth parents were going through at this very moment. You name it. I felt it. I soaked up every moment. Every feeling. This was part of our story. Part of his story.

Double A held him first (at my insistence), and then it was my turn. I was overcome looking at this beautiful baby in my arms when PTSD hit for the first time. The last three times I held newborn babies at the hospital, they were beautiful, and yet not breathing. That hit me hard many times over the next 2-1/2 days we spent camped out in the hospital nursery. Double A and I had such an appreciation for Smiley, and his birth parents. We took turns holding him close and telling him how much we loved him, and how many people loved him already—even though most didn’t know he was here. He was bathed in kisses hourly, if not more often.

When it was time to leave the hospital, PTSD hit big for the second time. It wasn’t that we were basically taking him home on loan*, rather it was the wheelchair ride out of the hospital. The last three times I was wheeled out of the hospital, my arms were empty and my heart was aching. It took every ounce of concentration I had to stay present on the positive as I stared at Smiley, repeating his name over and over in my head.

*In Illinois, surrenders cannot be signed until at least 72 hours after delivery. We had him home with us 1-1/2 days before we knew for sure he was staying. Stressful and scary to say the least.

Many people had told me that once we were finally able to parent a child of our own, the pain and suffering we experienced would be replaced by joy and happiness. Others have alluded to the fact that now that Smiley is finally here, that he makes everything better, everything OK. I’ve found that the joy and happiness are there, ten-fold. And so is the pain and suffering. There’s no doubt that a light has been turned back on inside Double A and me, and our families. That light, however bright, does not cast a shadow over our past. In fact, on some levels it highlights it. There are times that I’m overwhelmed by how much I love Smiley and the joy he brings, and at the same time, those same feelings take my breath away of our babies we’ve lost.

There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of our babies. In fact, we have a shelf in Smiley’s room where we have Baby K, Sarah and Benjamin’s memory boxes containing their footprints, hats and hospital bracelets. The twins’ hats were incorporated into his baby naming ceremony. Just as we have a picture of his birth parents to share with him and talk about, it is important that he also knows of his siblings. They are a part of our lives, and always will be.