Here Comes the Sun

I have been preparing my heart to accept the idea that we may never have living biological children. To be clear, there is no actual reason to believe that we won't; I am 30 and healthy and all of the tests that the doctor was willing to do before the one-year-of-trying mark came back normal. For me to be sane and enjoy life, I need to be able to accept the possibility that I may never conceive again. It is pretty hard for me to believe in happy endings when our daughter has been in the ground for 18 months and our second chance baby, our Grace, was gone before we got to know him or her. This is our seventh cycle trying to conceive and we weren't exactly careful for the three cycles before that. Why would we easily conceive twice, then struggle, unless something was off?

Lately, I have a love-hate relationship with the baby loss community. On the one hand, I think it is important to have connections to people who know how you are feeling, but on the other, it seems that most of those communities have only half the story in common with me now. As much as I celebrate each new "rainbow" pregnancy or healthy newborn "rainbow," I am not anywhere near knowing what it feels like to find comfort in the warmth of a new life. I used to feel so encouraged and hopeful when I read those stories, but now I feel bitterness and loneliness as I think again and again, "why not us?" I try not to be resentful when the well-meaning rainbow mommies reassure me that my time will come. Though no one likes to talk about it, for many parents the rainbow baby never does come. I have met some absolutely wonderful friends and acquaintances online over the past 18 months, but I find myself withdrawing from that world to try and protect my heart.

I accidentally came across a wonderful blog today called Losing Lucy and Finding Hope (click the text to visit). The author, Bethany, and her husband have been through stillbirth, two miscarriages, and adoption loss and just welcomed their "rainbow baby" in July at long last. I wept as I read post after post; her story and all of the scripture verses she shared along the way touched something in me that I have been trying to squelch. Hope. Though I am a long way from being able to believe in a happy ending for us, it helped to read her stories because I realized that she must have felt how I am feeling at so many points along their journey.

What is hope, anyway? These days, I'm trying not to be so specific with my hope. My heart believes that, one day, we will have a chance to parent children, however it is God chooses to bring them to us. When Haven died, I thought that my redemption as a mother, a wife, and a woman would only come through successfully bringing home another baby, but I don't know now if that is where our lives are headed. I surely do hope so, but I am trying to keep my heart open for the other possibilities that God may have in mind for us.

Soon after Haven died last February, we treated ourselves to iPhones. I immediately downloaded the Beatles song "Here Comes the Sun" as my ringtone, because it spoke to me of hope after such a heartbreaking winter. I feel now that we are coming out of a figurative winter and into the sun. I'm looking forward to what this "summer" will bring.

"Here comes the sun. Here comes the sun, and I say 'it's all right.'"

You know, I really think it will be all right.

Sunshine

Since I heard the words, "I'm sorry, there is no heartbeat" I have been a different person. I stared at the ultrasound screen that showed my completely still daughter and the Brandi I was ceased to exist. In the weeks and months that followed Haven's death, I was afraid to leave the house and have to face a world where I was an outsider, where I would have to answer questions. The whole summer came and went and I barely left my house or office at work. I was constantly afraid that someone would interpret a smile or laugh as a sign I no longer mourned my child; I was afraid to be happy. I was afraid my baby girl would be forgotten, that I would be forgotten. I honestly could not imagine that my life could ever improve or that I would ever be able to be more than the woman whose baby died.

Before I continue, let's establish one thing: I'll never be the same again. Burying your child will shake you to the core, shake your whole world, and you'll struggle to pick up the pieces. I was a pretty carefree person before those words tore my life apart, but now I carry a heavy weight in my heart. These are scars that will never completely fade. I'm twice a mom with twice-empty arms. No amount of time or yoga or even future children will change this. My self esteem will probably never fully recover, or my faith in people, or in my old perception of order in the world. My heart will always walk with a limp.

BUT.

I've been working hard to free myself from the anxieties that weighed me down and I am starting to see that there is life after your child dies. There's life! And joy. And fun. Things aren't all sad days and gray skies forever (though I will viciously defend my right to a sad day when I need one!) Yes, life can grow bright again. You can make friends, grow relationships, and find new sparks with your love. I can't say I'm always content, but I can tell you I'm finding myself again.

I'm grateful. So very grateful. I can see the sunshine again.

At the Start

I've been thinking about endings and beginnings and how they are two sides of the same coin. I had an ending/beginning this week; I put in my resignation at work. I won't get into the whys here, but let's just say that I made the right decision and this is another step toward hope, health, and living life to the fullest. I certainly feel a sense of loss, as I established the job and put processes and materials in place that will now be inherited by someone else. It's hard to leave it all behind in favour of a fresh start, but I do feel excited at the thought of a new adventure. Things worked together financially at just the right time, so I do not have to rush into a new position just yet.

I did have another short cycle in May as predicted - only 23 days! But this cycle seems to be normal and I am grateful. With all the work upset we didn't try all that hard, so I'm not expecting anything this month. It was kind of nice to step away from it while we figured things out.

So I'm home. Sunshine is pouring through the window, one persistent bird has been singing for hours outside, and I've had a peaceful day reading articles, eating healthy food, and talking to friends.

I'm at the start of something new. I hope that it is also something good.

Survivor-ish

I have struggled for most of my life with some level of anxiety; sometimes minor, sometimes oh-my-God-my-heart-is-going-to-explode-please-just-kill-me-now. It often paralyzes me when I need to take action, and I live in fear of the "what ifs." I have to admit, though, that going through the absolute hell of losing Haven gave me some perspective. A lot of things are much less scary than I thought before. I'm less willing to put up with situations that are not benefiting me or are causing harm, or people who tear down instead of build up. I'm less afraid to risk, because I realize that, other than those I love, the rest of it just doesn't matter all that much.

There are a few situations in my life that are causing me great anxiety at the moment, but today I looked at it all and thought, "I am going to find a way through it, and even if the worst case scenario happens, it will somehow be okay." So I am trying to remember that. I have been through one of the worst worst case scenarios and lived to tell about it. I'm a survivor.

LG

Danny came home from a trip a few days ago and I have been soaking in the sight of him since then (I am a big hubby sook). I've been thinking that, despite it all, life is good. Despite my hurting heart, my anxieties, my fears, life is good.

I hope I can remember that in the coming weeks and months and years. What a gift for me and my loved ones to be mostly healthy. For Danny and I to have good, stable jobs and a decent place to live. To be able to buy groceries without eyeballing the price (after years of having to!) To be loved by my friends and family. 

Yeah, life is good.

Month Four and the Kicks

I think one of the cruelest physical symptoms left over from my first pregnancy is phantom kicks and flutters. I have mentioned this sensation before, but this just really, really gets to me. I've had them almost every day for the past week and every time I catch my breath for a second and think, "what if I am actually pregnant?" even if I know for sure that I am not at the moment. My mind goes wild for a few minutes... "maybe I am one of those rare cases where I continue to bleed every month but am actually pregnant, and maybe I'm also one of those rare women who doesn't get a positive pregnancy test for one of her pregnancies." Geesh.

It's just a cruel symptom. I don't know what causes them; I know it's not trapped gas, because that feels different. I wish they would end or, better yet, that there would be a real baby in there sometime soon who would give me real flutters and the reassurance that they are growing.

I keep a mini daily journal - just a few lines to describe my day, or to include a quote or thought. I recently looked back on last fall when I got that second positive and we thought for a few weeks we might have a second chance. I was surprised at how hopeful my entries were, and how excited. I don't feel I can muster much of those feelings anymore after 15 and a half months of grief and disappointment, then hope, then more grief and disappointment.

The last little hopeful part of me thinks, "you got pregnant in month four of trying last time...maybe that will hold true again this time around." Who knows? It would be kind of cool, because I would be due just weeks from when I was due with Haven if I were to conceive this cycle or next. The idea of it being so close totally freaked me out when we were trying last year, but now I think it would be kind of comforting.

And on with the day. Stupid kicks.

How to Let Go?

As I sit here facing the disappointment of yet another cycle where we didn't conceive, the seventh such cycle in a year, I can't help but think how hard it is to let go. I know that I need to let the hope die and just live my life, because the heartache every month is too much to bear. It is always a reminder of how much we have lost.

I often drive past an abortion clinic on my way to work and think, "what I would give to have those babies." On that same stretch of road is a pharmacy which I remember walking to when we were first married where I bought a pregnancy test; I was worried that I might be pregnant. How I wish now that I could shake myself and tell that version of me how wonderful it would be and to not be afraid. I can't believe this is my life sometimes...

How do I let go of the dream of a family and live my life? I wish I knew. For more than a year now, my daily focus has been on bringing another baby into the world, hopefully one that is screaming his or her lungs off. Even though a part of me feels that I will never have more babies, my mind can't wrap itself around that possibility. I watch the pregnancy announcements roll on with a numb feeling and wonder, "will it ever be me?" 

How the heck do I let go?

Swallow it Down

Some days it is very clear that I have a choice whether to be bitter or to embrace life. Some days I just want to give in, but...I usually just swallow it down and try to look forward. Other people's decisions and circumstances can't determine my own.

Yup, it is a choice, but it can be a very hard one to make.

Mother's Day and Empty Rooms

I can feel Mother's Day lurking around the corner. Last year, I felt something like panic in anticipation of it...facebook was thick with sappy memes and posts (which are, without meaning to be, very exclusive), stores were oozing with merchandise, the radio and TV blared its soon-coming arrival, and everyone soaked it up. My broken heart was filled with bitterness and anger instead.

I avoided church last Mother's Day, knowing they would have all the mothers stand to be presented with flowers. It never occurred to me until Haven died how many women that tradition hurts - the infertile, the single women who want to be mothers, those whose family is broken for some reason, those who have come so close, like me, only to have their babes snatched away...and the list goes on and on. I won't be taking part this year either. Honestly, I don't think I would even if I was holding a new baby in my arms or my belly right now.

I don't feel the same level of panic this year as last, but there is an ache in my heart all the same. 

An order from Old Navy was the first time I bought anything for Haven. I was only a few months pregnant but found these cute onesies that said "I love my mommy" and "I love my daddy" for Mother's Day and Father's Day. I hope one day I can fill them with a new life. Right now, they are squashed together with all the rest of Haven's unused things in a big tub in the nursery closet. The nursery is still a reminder of what is not. I may finally work up the courage to dismantle it in the coming weeks. It stands as a symbol of expectancy and it crushes me every time I look inside.

Bumpy Road Behind, Bumpy Road Ahead

I've been thinking a lot lately about the last few years and how life has changed since Haven. When she died, I felt that I had died too; there was a Before Haven Me and an After Haven Me. In a lots of ways, I would say that is still accurate, but the more time that passes, the greater my acceptance of what happened.

I do not want Haven's death to define me; I have seen where that leads. There are moms in the online forums I used to frequent who live in the depths of grief every day, years out, and I don't want to end up that way. Yes, Haven is irreplaceable and I will always mourn her death and feel her gaping absence, but I believe life can be good again with or without the children we long for. We are still a family no matter what happens.

I feel in some ways as though the trauma we have been through has set me free. I lived in so much anxiety in the aftermath that I felt paralyzed, but now I can see that it can be a gift to embrace the fragility of life. We only get one crack at today and I want to make the most of it. If it means a change or a risk, so be it.

A friend of mine was talking about her own anxiety and how her husband stopped her one day and said (about her particular fear), "well, what if it does happen? Then we will just deal with it." Hearing that made me stop and think... I have already had the worst happen; I have held the body of my child and I am still getting out of bed every day. Whatever may come, I will deal with it. I made a promise to myself that I will really live, so...here we go.

Pitter Patter

I was writing in my journal yesterday and found myself writing, "Who am I now? What will my life be? I can't see into the future anymore."

If you had asked me before I became pregnant with Haven what I would like my life to look like, I would have had no trouble laying out a 5, 10, 20 year plan for you. But now that she was here and is gone, I can't see ahead anymore. Sure, I want children, I want to pursue my dream of working with endangered languages abroad or find another way to help people full-time, I want to grow old with Danny...but I can't picture any of it anymore. After so much disappointment and grief, none of my dreams feel possible. I feel stuck and unhappy in the life we find ourselves in. I guess it is just empty now. There is a line from an Iron and Wine song that sums it up: "we both learned to cradle then live without."

Anyway. It is an early, melancholy morning at the end of a terrible week and it is raining cats and dogs outside. I am sure I will feel motivated and okay again later, but for now I am listening to the patter against the window panes and longing for the sounds of new life instead.

Another Step

It's often very apparent what we need to do, yet we resist, thinking, "I'll start tomorrow" or "things aren't really that bad." I've known for a very long time that I needed to get my body healthy and that my poor diet and lack of exercise needed to change. I'm chronically under-hydrated and never get enough sleep too, so basically everything needs a fixin'. What really put me over the edge is the discovery of painful varicose veins in my legs, which I have read can be helped by exercise. Well, FINE then!

I finally got up the courage to try a yoga class today after a full year of good intentions and it was...wonderful. I left feeling so at peace and empowered. I'm really excited for my next class! This past year I have worked hard on getting my mind and emotions to a healing place and now it is time for my body to follow suit.

For the first time since I lost Haven, I have felt this week that I am really going to be okay no matter what happens. I'm letting go of my "control" over the situation and stepping back to let what is going to happen, happen. I have to be honest, of course, and say that I slip up alllllll of the time and fall right back into my old mindsets, but it's a journey, not a destination. :)

Question Mark

I used to be so sure of the future and what it would hold. I felt certain that, no matter how hard things got, it would all be okay and we would have the things we dreamed of.

There is nothing like child and pregnancy loss to shatter your illusions of control. Now the future is a big question mark; I can't look forward even a few months with any confidence. It is both liberating and terrifying at the same time. 

I very much hope that we are granted joy in the wake of so much sorrow.

Not Forgotten

Around two years ago, I was sitting in church and a lady whose name I didn't know at the time came up to me and said that, if I didn't mind, she would like to share something with me that she felt God was telling her regarding me and Danny. Inwardly, I was a little turned off and skeptical - I had attended a few extremely charismatic churches when I was younger and found myself a little leery of that kind of thing.

"Sure," I said, not wanting to offend her.

What she said has stayed with me. She said, "I feel that God is asking me to tell you that you have not been forgotten. You and Danny have not been forgotten."

At the time, it had significance for me - I was newly pregnant with Haven, which had been a welcome but scary surprise, and we had a lot of worry surrounding our finances. We had dreams which were hanging so far off in the distance that we never knew if we'd ever reach them. It was definitely applicable to us, as we had often felt forgotten. I was touched; I wept and thanked her for sharing with me.

Just a few months later, I was laying on a hospital bed having just heard that Haven had died. My heart was shattered. Suddenly, those words came to my mind and filled me with peace and the assurance that, somehow, everything was going to be okay. As I have seen many times in my life, sometimes we don't understand the significance of something until much later. This moment is when I needed those words the most.

This memory came to me again this morning as I lay awake in bed, depressed about our situation and wondering if we will ever know the joy of raising children of our own. As we step into the unknown and into another cycle of trying to conceive, I am going to hold onto those words, which are a promise.

"I am with you always, even unto the end of the world." (Matthew 28:20)

"I will lead the blind by a road they do not know; I will guide them on unfamiliar paths. I will make darkness into light before them and the rough places into level ground. These are the things I will do, and I will not forsake them." (Isaiah 42:16)

"And we know that in all things God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love him, who are called according to his purpose." (Romans 8:28)

Been a While

I haven't really felt the urge to write lately, and I have learned better than to force myself to keep up a blog (there are a few dusty, abandoned blogs out there saying "preach!")

Danny asked me about Sparrows Nest the other day and I told him that I had intended this blog to be a happy place, as I had started it when I was newly pregnant and hopeful. It just didn't seem right to post happy or funny things here now that it had become a place for me to air my grief. He reminded me of my last post, where I promised to start living and enjoying life and said it made perfect sense to write about whatever I wanted. Of course he is right - smart hubby. Believe it or not, my old blogs tended to be humorous. I don't find that as easy anymore.

Lately, I have been busy with living, I guess. We've eaten good food, spent time with friends, I've taken up craft projects for the first time in eons, read books, and am about to embark on an exercise project to boot. 

I've made some online friends who are going through similar things and it has helped to have a place to air my feelings. It always amazes me how good it feels when you share these kinds of fears and someone knows how you are feeling.

We're getting ready to start trying again and I'm equal parts anticipating and dreading it. I'm popping vitamins to help prepare my body to house new life. Even Danny is taking vitamins to do his bit. I wonder if this time it might work or if things will all fall apart again. It makes me so sad to admit that pregnancy is ruined for me; I absolutely loved being pregnant the first time, but now the thought of enduring those 9 months (if I'm that lucky) is much like how I would think about running across a minefield and hoping for the best. 

So that is an update of sorts. I will try to write more often. It really does feel good to talk about these things here.

This Year, I'm Gonna Live

Around 5:00pm on Valentine's Day, 2014, my old life ended and a new life began. When your child dies, you start from scratch. The house is burnt down, torn down to the foundation, and you rebuild. You look the same and you'll eventually seem to be the same, but under the surface and in the most vital ways, you are altered. How could you not be? You birthed, then held, then kissed, then released your dead child. Your life was one thing, then it was another, and you had no choice in the matter. It's a horror that you will never get past. You will learn to live with that grief, like a missing limb or chronic pain, but it's a one-way trip; you can't go back to being the person you were before.

I won't deny that this almost-year has ripped me apart; I feel a little like Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas, pieced together but threatening to tear apart with pressure. It's one of the paradoxes of grief that what breaks you also builds you. There are days when I feel like my shoulders are a mile wide from the burdens they've born and others where I am crushed under the weight.

New Year's Resolutions are not something I do, since exercise and diet plans usually end in me binge-eating cookies on the couch, and most of the things in my life that I want to change are not measurable, thus doomed to failure. I spent so much of my life prior to Haven's death waiting for the next big thing, waiting for life to happen. Wake, work, eat, TV, bed...rinse and repeat. The thing is, life is already happening. There may be some significant things that I wish were different, but if I have learned anything, it is that I only have today; I have very little control over tomorrow.

So if I only have today, I think that I should make the most of it. If I could choose something to change, it is that I want to start living fully. I want to wear the clothes I save for special occasions, learn to swim, get fit, grow my relationships, have fun, spend time thinking, read lots of books, and begin to be creative again. I want to try again, then again and again if necessary, to grow our family. I want to not give up and to rise above my bitterness and grief. I want to, and I will.

This year, I'm gonna live.

Welcome, 2015

I've been thinking for a few weeks about what I wanted to say today, here in the waning hours of the year that has taken so much. It's hard to put into words what I want to convey, but I'll give it a go.

In 2014, grief was our constant companion and teacher; tears have wet our cheeks, our pillows, each other, and there have been many days when we couldn't see our way forward. We've paid dearly in hope and peace - these things aren't easy to grow again.

It is hard in our situation to see beyond our heartsickness and confusion, our empty arms and quiet house. But today, as I went about my tasks, a few thoughts and moments made an impression. I soaked in the sun when I went out to buy our New Years' feast and reveled for a moment in the beauty of the world we live in. I noticed that I have learned to be still and really see what and who is around me. I gave thanks more than once for the amazing man who I am so proud and grateful to call "husband" and for the beautiful years we have weathered together. I thought of all of the relationships which have blossomed in the shadow of our grief; we learned this year how not alone we are.

Our plan is to flip the bird to the passing year during the countdown to 2015, then kiss in the new year, but I know that I won't look back on this time with only a feeling of loss. If I have a resolution, it is to not squander the lessons we have learned, because they came at such a high price. I want to honour our daughter by living fully and not letting any precious time slip past.

Here's to new beginnings, clean slates, fresh starts. Here's to an increase of hope, love, joy, peace, kindness, and growth in the new year for us and for all of you.

Happy New Year!

Lessons and Signs

I have been thinking back to a post that I published on my Map to Joy blog in September (click here to read it). We had just come off of our fourth unsuccessful month of trying to conceive again and I was overwhelmed with weariness and sadness and feelings of failure. When I read that passage of Hind's Feet on High Places, it came to me so clearly that I had a choice to become twisted and bitter or to accept with joy the circumstances of my life. As I sat on the gravel overlooking the river at my in-laws' cottage, I surrendered.

The same weekend, I wandered into the kitchen and froze; there was a rainbow dancing against the white of the oven. For those who don't know, rainbows symbolize babies born after miscarriage or stillbirth in the loss community (rainbows come after a storm). I looked up and saw that the rainbow was coming from a flat crystal which hangs in my mother-in-law's kitchen window on which Haven's footprints are etched. It was one of those experiences where time seemed to stand still; I felt so strongly in that moment that we would have another child.

We found out I was pregnant again about a month after that day and I thought immediately, "this is it! The baby I sensed was coming." We had come such a long way and this was our second chance. As you can probably imagine, I felt so betrayed, angry, and confused when we lost our "rainbow baby" to a miscarriage. I told Danny then that I didn't believe in signs anymore. How could I? He said that maybe we just misunderstand them when they come, though I thought, "what is the point of a sign then?"

I still don't know what the rainbow moment meant, or if it "meant" anything at all. Perhaps it was just that I needed hope that day and so it was communicated to me in a way that really caught my attention. I think I needed to receive that "sign" and this important lesson of acceptance at the same time so that I would not forget either one. I can't explain all of the changes that have happened inside of me this year, but I believe that God is at work in my heart, teaching me acceptance with joy. Teaching me empathy and generosity. Out of the worst pain has come some of the most beautiful fruit. It has been a year of surrenders.

Today, Hope Reigns

I am too pooped to go into details this evening, but I just had to share that today, hope reigns. 

We received such reassuring information at our Maternal Fetal Medicine specialist appointment this afternoon, and I walked out of that clinic feeling something like real hope and even, dare I say, confidence for the very first time in almost ten months. Suddenly I have a sliver of belief that we can bring home a child.

I thought it was so appropriate that my customized locket should arrive today. My tree of life screen feels like a promise.

Guys, I'm hoping and dreaming today. I am going to try to hold onto this as long as I can.

Strong

I read this quote when I was in university and loved it. I was no stranger to difficult circumstances, but even with all I had gone through, I could never have dreamed at the time that my world would so spectacularly shatter in just a few years. That all of the pain, disappointment, and anxiety I had felt would pale in comparison to the events that would befall me.

When your life does crumble, people will tell you how strong you are, how courageous you are. It made me terribly angry to hear that. I thought, "I had no choice in this; I am only surviving. That isn't the same thing as being strong!"

But dammit, I look back to February and March when I was a shell of a person and I think, "I have come a heck of a long way!" I think of the mental and emotional fog I lived in for months when I was out of my mind with grief. When I was afraid to leave my house, when I wished that fate would intervene and I would cease to exist, when I was a wraith among the living.

I look back and I can see that I never gave up. I didn't get bitter. I didn't stop there. So I am claiming now what I couldn't see then. I am strong. I am surviving the impossible every day.  I am choosing hope, choosing joy, choosing life. I'm not there yet. I don't even know where "there" is, but I am going to keep moving forward until I arrive.