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.

Recognition

"Boy, your body is just not the same after having babies, is it? Your abs just don't go back the same."

We were walking out to our cars after our Pilates class, where we'd both laughed as we failed at trying to do a full sit-up. I don't know her name, but she is quiet and nice.

I mumbled some kind of agreement and thought, what if she asks? What will I say? Does she know? I never know what to say.

I said, "yeah, it is just not the same." Dang, she is gonna ask...

"So you have a very young baby, do you?"

Pause. Panic. "Uhhhhh, I did, but she died. Oh goodness, that sounded terrible, I'm sorry... yes, I had a baby daughter, but she died."

She kindly said, "I am so sorry, I didn't realize."

"No, of course, it's not your fault. It just comes out so awkwardly sometimes."

We said our goodbyes and got into our cars.


On the way home, I thought, how did she know I was a mom? Then it dawned on me that I have a mommy body now. She could see my baby pooch and the same weaknesses presenting themselves in my body as in hers. It made me proud and sad at the same time to be recognized this way. I'm part of the club, but not really part of the club. My body was a baby home, but my arms stayed empty.

I drove home to my quiet house and now I am sitting here intensely missing my little love, wondering what she would be like now. My 15 month munchkin, drooling and giggling and causing beautiful chaos for her mom and dad. I know she would have been a character - she already was, even in my belly. When a child dies, they leave such a void. A lifetime of I wonders and memories you don't get to build. I have been thinking a lot about our second baby lately too. We would be in the final stretch now, just about ready to bring home Haven's little brother or sister.

I really took it hard when my period came this month, especially with Mother's Day right after. I can't help but wonder when? or...if? My arms just ache to hold, my body to give, my lips to kiss. I yearn to see my husband fulfilled as a dad, finally able to give way to all of that love inside him.

I wonder where we will be this time next year? Will we have a house that is alive again, or will I still be listening to the refrigerator hum? Will we be facing a life without biological children or will my womb finally be blessed again?

Grief is a winding road with no destination...

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.

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.

Of Course

It always seems to be the case that, when you make up your mind to change something, factors play together to foil your intentions. After deciding to quit my app's social group and stop tracking, I had the weirdest cycle of my life and ended up recording it in my app and sneaking onto the social part sometimes too. Ovulation more than a week early, wild symptoms, extreme cramping for days on end, crazy mood swings, and then a period early too...so early that the entire cycle was only 18 days in duration. I have not, in almost 20 years of having my period, ever had such a thing happen. I'm bewildered, depressed, and, of course, feeling hopeless. So...now it is resolution time again.

I decided this morning to listen to my smart hubby and declare we are no longer "trying." That doesn't mean we will prevent pregnancy from happening, but we can't live in this endless state of expectancy and hopeful "planning" and, ultimately, disappointment. I'm putting away the ovulation sticks, writing no daily notes, and just going on with my life. It's time. Past time, really. 

My two week yoga and Pilates class trial opened my eyes to how much I need movement and self care in my life. Though my muscles are aching from all the work, I feel revived and refocused. My goal from here on out is getting myself physically, emotionally, and spiritually where I need to be. If expanding our family happens on the way, that would be amazing, but it can no longer be my primary focus.

I will say that a cycle 18 days long truly is abnormal and I will be consulting a doctor about it...it just won't be Dr. Google.

Have any of you made a similar resolution?

A Step Back

I had a sudden realization this morning that I am investing far too much time and energy and emotion into the process of trying to conceive and it is negatively affecting my life. With symptom notes and potential due date calculations and pregnancy tests and google searches and obsessing over everything, my mind has been so wrapped up in it that I have ended up with a big joy deficit. I haven't been the wife, employee, or friend that I should be, and that's not cool.

I made the decision to mostly step away from the app that I use to track everything. It was a really hard decision because I have been a part of an absolutely wonderful group of ladies on the social part who have had similar experiences to me and are also now trying to conceive. They've really kept me afloat some days, but I don't have the willpower to open the app to talk to them and not end up staring at my notes and making calculations.

As I drove to work today, I was listening to a devotional CD in my car and the message was basically about letting things distract you from what is important in life. I wasn't looking for a confirmation, but there is was all the same.

I am taking a step back. I plan to use this blog a little more often to channel my emotions into something positive, and in all the time I will save by not obsessing, I'll do things that I enjoy and invest in all of my relationships in a new way.

I'm only a few hours in and it is already so hard (I miss my app ladies!) but the sense of relief I feel is another confirmation that I am doing the right thing.

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)

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.