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.

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.

Whiplash

I always struggle to put into words how it feels when your child dies. It is life-sized whiplash. One day you are at the top, moving forward, your life is planned out, you know what is coming. You're suspended for a moment, but you don't even know it until it's over. Suddenly you snap back, you find yourself at the bottom, lower than you ever dreamed the bottom could be, and you stare and strain upward, trying to glimpse what you thought was your reality. Surely this isn't real? The denial takes months to lift, and even a year later, your mind has moments of stubbornness and refuses to believe.

Eventually you climb your way up, up, up, but you never reach the top. You can't. The top was for Before You and you will never be that person again. 

As I end cycle 4, feeling that it has also been unsuccessful, I am a little melancholy thinking of Before Me with her baby alive and kicking, her nursery set up, baby clothes hang-drying on the rack, the bassinet sitting smugly next to the bed. What I wouldn't give for an hour in her shoes, not a real care in the world.

Weary

Sometimes I feel like it was all a dream, that it didn't happen. That I didn't give birth to a little girl who died. That I didn't miscarry just nine months later. That stuff happens to other people, after all. It feels like a story that belongs to someone else. 

We have been trying to get pregnant, but I somehow don't believe it's possible to get there again; a baby in my belly, looking forward to a certain future. Maybe that stuff just happens to other people too. My reality is a body that seems to be sick somehow, that is not getting pregnant. 

Some days I feel really at peace with it all. Others where I feel paralyzed by the fear of what could be wrong. I hate that our experiences have robbed me of my peace of mind. I worked hard to cultivate that trust in the world only to have it totally ripped away.

Weary, weary, weary. In all ways.

Shark Week in 3...2...1

This cycle, I was the most "unplugged" that I have ever been since we started trying to conceive (TTC). I didn't look at my tracking app other than to log ovulation and to check something for the doctor. I put in a few notes today when I felt familiar (unwelcome) cramping start, but I was a good girl for almost a whole month! I'm proud of myself - gold star! Now to keep up the good habits next month. :)

This will be another short cycle once the Red Lady (aka: Aunt Flo) arrives, but at least within the normal range. I wish my body would straighten itself out and decide what it is doing!

Since we're on the topic of periods, I will share two great period euphemisms that I learned today:

1) The commies are in the funhouse. (Think about it).

2) Shark week. (It slays me).

They're both great. I laughed a great deal when I read them in an email exchange with someone much cleverer than I. What are your favourites? (Seriously, cheer me up - spill!)

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?

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.

Always, With the News

Today, some good friends told us that they are expecting their first baby. It is the second friend's pregnancy we've learned of in a week. The third announcement in two weeks. I expect there will be many more in the coming months as many friends' babies who are Haven's age hit their first year. I'm not sure how many more facebook profiles and posts I can "unfollow" on facebook - I already shield myself from a lot of other people's joy.

I always feel both elated for our friends upon hearing this kind of news, yet completely distraught and empty at the same time.  Every pregnancy announcement is a little like a punch to the stomach. It's hard to not be jealous of the innocence of pregnancy that they are experiencing...which I will never take part in again. I always think (with a little bitterness, I will admit), "when will it be our turn? We've waited long enough."

I wish our friends all the happiness they deserve. I just hope it is our turn to be happy someday too.

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.

Missing

There is always a piece missing from our lives; the little dark-haired girl who would be finding her legs and warbling out her first words. Well, two pieces; the little one we never got to know. There aren't words for how hard it is to be a childless parent. Because no one can see you are a parent, it is easily forgotten that you are constantly navigating a present that is drastically different from what it should have been.

I should have my hands full with Haven, big and pregnant with our second baby. We had talked about getting pregnant again right away so our kids would be close in age and so I could be home with them for as much of their early lives as possible. Yet here I am, nearly two years from when I first became pregnant, three negative pregnancy tests in the bathroom garbage, laying on the couch listening to the silence. One baby in the ground and one...I don't know where. 

I have been trusting God and choosing to believe that my time will come, but when months pass without another pregnancy, I feel like I am losing them again and again. When my period comes, it always feels so final. A friend of mine was talking about how stressful it can be to try and conceive and I felt like saying, "just imagine if both of your experiences with pregnancy ended in death." It's so hard to believe I will ever know the joy of parenthood.

As selfish as it is, I get anxious and angry when I think about the fact that some of my friends with babies Haven's age are probably already pregnant again and will have a second child before I bring home one living baby. I selfishly feel that it is my turn now. Anytime. 

I miss my babies so much tonight. I miss the life I should have had. 

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.

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.