And before we all get excited, I'm not talking about us. :)
At the end of each year, I find myself in the same place of reflection...
In the last month, six of my friends have announced they are expecting, or have adopted a child. And, because it's true, I feel compelled to say this here, in the event any of them are reading this post: I am truly happy for them, but truly sad for us. Even though I have a much firmer grasp on my emotions and have really tried to not compare my life to others' lives, the longing for a child is still very much there. For the sake of my fragile heart, I will not count how many babies have been born to our friends/families since we started trying for Baby Nam in February of 2008, but let's just say it's relatively astounding. I am proud (and relieved) to report that I have at long last reached the place where I am honestly and truthfully happy for my friends/family's pregnancy announcements because babies and growing families are joyous blessings and cause for celebration indeed. I would never want people I care about to suffer the same way we have, I would never want them to know our hurt or sorrow. And I so appreciate the support and love we've been shown over the years by those in our lives who know what we've been through, and those who go out of their way to take our feelings in to account (when they are most certainly not obligated to) when making pregnancy announcements, especially in this social network heavy age.
That being said, the holidays are especially hard for those of us who do not yet have children, pregnancy announcements aside. I love looking at the beautiful family photos posted and shared by my friends and family during this season (which is real progress, because there were years when I would have to take a break from Facebook for a few days because it would get to be too much to bear) but there is still a pang in my heart, a part of me that wishes so very much that we could also share such photos with our loved ones. Had we not lost our baby in 2011 -- amongst countless other ways our lives would be infinitely different -- our holiday cards would be graced with the smiling face of our 1.5 year old, and we would join the multitude of families we know who make and enjoy beautiful holiday memories with their child/ren during this special time of year. But, mercifully, I am in a much better emotional place now, and can accept with an open heart that just because we don't yet have a child doesn't mean that our family will never grow by two (or more!) sweet baby feet. Quite simply, it is just not our time yet, but someday it will be. Some day, some way, a child will come in to our lives.
Sometimes, the prospect fills me with such anticipation, longing and immense joy and excitement that I want to jump right back in now, today, and try again. But...we're just not ready. Why? Because it won't be easy, and it won't be cheap. The fact that we most likely will never conceive the "natural way" still angers and upsets me...and I can't enter in to it again with that attitude. I have to be open and ready to do whatever it is that we need and are willing to do. Honestly, initially, since I have been on birth control for quite some time again and we've taken a break from it all, we will probably try the good 'ol fashioned way again and see if this time, by some miracle, we can achieve a pregnancy. If not, well, then it's back to the RE we go and quite frankly, the idea fills me with absolute dread.
The two biggest hurdles at this point are 1) emotions - will we be able to handle the emotional roller coaster again? What will happen if/when the months roll by without success -- again -- and we're left facing the reality of the RE's office? The constant roller coaster of hope followed by disappointment, confusion and anger are extremely exhausting and they are spirit killers. I don't want to risk losing myself or risk damage to our relationship when we head back down this path... But, there are no guarantees and we just have to make sure we are ready as best we can. Ready for whatever comes down the pike. And I'm just not sure if we're there yet. Sometimes I think I am ready, but then I start to think about how sad I felt with each unsuccessful month, how broken I felt, how angry and desperate...so then I think, no, not yet. I can't do it yet. So who knows? 2) money - as aforementioned, it will not be easy and thus, it will require quite a bit of money to either get pregnant by undergoing fertility treatments, or costly to fund an adoption. Both are options and both would be welcome paths to parenthood but we do not currently have money for either, which is another big reason that if we started trying again anytime soon, it would be the old fashioned way, no intervention. But, we'd also have to try our hardest to enter in to this whole thing without expectations, which again, brings us back to the emotional hurdle. It's a vicious cycle.
And, there are other concerns, namely my health. I still am not entirely sure my body could handle carrying a pregnancy to term. My heart is very sensitive to any changes my body undergoes, any stress it is put under, my own hormones (not to mention any I would be plugged with during fertility treatments such as IVF...) and any medications I am on. I would be a high risk pregnancy on three different fronts: my RH- factor, my heart health, and my unexplained fertility issues...and since I'm rapidly approaching 30, I might be high risk on a 4th front if we don't get pregnant and carry to term before I'm 35. So as you can see, it's quite complicated.
But one day, the dream will be realized. One day, our joy will be beyond measure and we will welcome a child into our lives and in to our hearts. I can't wait for that day, I truly cannot. In the mean time, friends, know that we are truly so happy for you as your own families grow. From our hearts to yours, we share in your joy. And one day, we hope you will share in ours :)
Monday, December 9, 2013
Monday, October 21, 2013
Life lessons from a 32 year old Angel
My beloved angel sister Amanda's birthday was on Friday, October 18th. She would have been 32. Her birthday has had a deep effect on me these last few years, and I think because having lost a pregnancy in 2011, in some small way I now have a new understanding for the immensity of the loss my parents endured with her passing. Of course, the experience is so different. We lost our baby at just 6.5 wks, whereas Amanda was born sleeping at full term. My parents had seen her heart beat and her ultrasound pictures, set up her nursery, celebrated her impending arrival with a baby shower, and given her a name: Amanda Lauren. They, like us, struggled with infertility: three miscarriages (including one at around 12 wks) and Amanda. They have suffered so much sadness and heartache. Knowing how deeply we grieved the loss of our little wee one that was so far from being born, I simply cannot fathom how they ever got through the loss of my sister, or how my mother endured giving birth to her daughter, knowing she was no longer living, that she would not be leaving the hospital with her beloved baby but rather planning her funeral. I think about that and I cry. While I am grateful that my parents can truly empathize with what we have gone through and know what it's like to want a child so badly, and while I am thankful that I've never had to try and explain my feelings and they have been such an incredible source of support for us, no one should suffer that kind of loss and yet so many do, and it breaks my heart that my parents know what it is to lose a child. The path of infertility is not for the faint of heart, that is for sure. I've come to realize that they, like us, wouldn't be who they are without having gone through what they have (what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, etc), but I still wish they hadn't had to go through that, that we didn't have to still be on this path, and that my family here on Earth included a sister and that my sister had a little niece or nephew to spoil rotten.
Time is a funny thing. It passes whether or not we're ready. The minutes tick on, the hours stumble forward, the days inevitably pass and sometimes we wish we could go back and relive something again because it was so amazing, sometimes we wish we could jump ahead, or freeze time, or re-do something we'd like to have another chance at doing differently. Sometimes we long to just BE in the moment, but our thoughts and fears and hang-ups get in the way. This year, on October 18, I was stopped in my tracks by this one thought: Amanda never got to do what I have done. Even in my darkest hours, when wrestling with some heavy, deep things, though all of the heartache and disappointments, all of the fear, and the pain of recovery, I was living. Amanda didn't get a chance to do any of the things I've done. Not one, solitary thing. Yes, she's been "spared" the unpleasantness life has a tendency to throw our way, but she's also never had the gift of living, of feeling joy, of feeling sorrow, of setting goals and realizing dreams, of laughing, crying from both exultation and deep sadness, loving, running, dancing, feeling the wind blow through her hair, glowing with pride or burning with shame. I have been blessed with a LIFE. Good, bad or indifferent, I have been gifted something truly special. I tend to lose sight of that because let's face it, life is hard and it's easy to just forget how fortunate we are to wake up and begin a new day. I know I am lucky to be here. {not once, not twice, but really three times things could have turned out quite differently: 1) my parents could have completely given up on having a biological child. Had they done so, I wouldn't even be here. A sobering thought to say the least. 2) Even after I was finally conceived, I was nearly strangled by my own umbilical cord (the same thing that happened to Amanda...) and was born via emergency c-section. Again, quite the sobering thought. 3) My heart could have given out or things could have gone horribly wrong during my open heart surgery. Sobering thought, indeed.} I know all of this and yet I'm human, I get caught up in the whirl-wind of life and forget my good fortunes. But Amanda helps me remember. Even though she's not here, she has taught me so much.
Time has a habit of continuing to pass, and even though I'm turning 30 and I'm still not a mother, even though I struggle to make sense of why that is, and even though I'm uncertain about our path to parenthood, the journey is part of my life story. I get to be here. And my goodness, I so wish she were here too -- that my parents had two living daughters instead of just one. But when I get scared or I hesitate to do something because I'm unsure of taking the risk or don't know if I'm good enough, I will try to remember that it is a blessing to be here: trying, experiencing, living. It's unrealistic to strive to be happy all of the time, I will complain, I will get upset and wish things were different, but perhaps a good goal would be to try to remember that even though today may be hard, tomorrow holds so much promise. Smile, laugh, take it all in. Live the life I envision and do so with gusto.There will be disappointments, true, but God willing, I will have tomorrow, and tomorrow is a gift denied to so many.
Thank you, Amanda, for reminding me of life's splendors. I hope you are proud of me and know how much you are loved and cherished. Happy 32nd birthday -- You may be gone from our sight, but you will never, ever be forgotten.
Time is a funny thing. It passes whether or not we're ready. The minutes tick on, the hours stumble forward, the days inevitably pass and sometimes we wish we could go back and relive something again because it was so amazing, sometimes we wish we could jump ahead, or freeze time, or re-do something we'd like to have another chance at doing differently. Sometimes we long to just BE in the moment, but our thoughts and fears and hang-ups get in the way. This year, on October 18, I was stopped in my tracks by this one thought: Amanda never got to do what I have done. Even in my darkest hours, when wrestling with some heavy, deep things, though all of the heartache and disappointments, all of the fear, and the pain of recovery, I was living. Amanda didn't get a chance to do any of the things I've done. Not one, solitary thing. Yes, she's been "spared" the unpleasantness life has a tendency to throw our way, but she's also never had the gift of living, of feeling joy, of feeling sorrow, of setting goals and realizing dreams, of laughing, crying from both exultation and deep sadness, loving, running, dancing, feeling the wind blow through her hair, glowing with pride or burning with shame. I have been blessed with a LIFE. Good, bad or indifferent, I have been gifted something truly special. I tend to lose sight of that because let's face it, life is hard and it's easy to just forget how fortunate we are to wake up and begin a new day. I know I am lucky to be here. {not once, not twice, but really three times things could have turned out quite differently: 1) my parents could have completely given up on having a biological child. Had they done so, I wouldn't even be here. A sobering thought to say the least. 2) Even after I was finally conceived, I was nearly strangled by my own umbilical cord (the same thing that happened to Amanda...) and was born via emergency c-section. Again, quite the sobering thought. 3) My heart could have given out or things could have gone horribly wrong during my open heart surgery. Sobering thought, indeed.} I know all of this and yet I'm human, I get caught up in the whirl-wind of life and forget my good fortunes. But Amanda helps me remember. Even though she's not here, she has taught me so much.
Time has a habit of continuing to pass, and even though I'm turning 30 and I'm still not a mother, even though I struggle to make sense of why that is, and even though I'm uncertain about our path to parenthood, the journey is part of my life story. I get to be here. And my goodness, I so wish she were here too -- that my parents had two living daughters instead of just one. But when I get scared or I hesitate to do something because I'm unsure of taking the risk or don't know if I'm good enough, I will try to remember that it is a blessing to be here: trying, experiencing, living. It's unrealistic to strive to be happy all of the time, I will complain, I will get upset and wish things were different, but perhaps a good goal would be to try to remember that even though today may be hard, tomorrow holds so much promise. Smile, laugh, take it all in. Live the life I envision and do so with gusto.There will be disappointments, true, but God willing, I will have tomorrow, and tomorrow is a gift denied to so many.
Thank you, Amanda, for reminding me of life's splendors. I hope you are proud of me and know how much you are loved and cherished. Happy 32nd birthday -- You may be gone from our sight, but you will never, ever be forgotten.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Navigating where we are
In a little less than five months, I will be 30. The big 3-0. Honestly, I'm not too upset about it. While the first few years of the decade were wonderful, my 20's have been wrought with struggle and heartache. Thankfully, I still look younger than my age, and I'm doing well heart-health wise, but the one significant thing that brings about little bouts of panic if I stop to really think about it is the fact that I'll be 30 and still not a mom. I'll be 30 with crappy ovaries. I'll be 30 with IVF looming in my future and as more time goes by, I'm not sure if that's the route we're willing (or even able) to take.
I'll be 30 and no closer to having a child than I was at 24.
As many of you know, we decided to take a baby-making break after our final failed IUI last May. It wasn't all that hard to arrive at that conclusion. In addition to being completely wiped out emotionally and struggling with an immense sense of hopelessness, we were getting ready to move across the country and were financially strapped, to say the least. We just didn't have "it" in us anymore. For the time being, the uphill battle had won. Although it hurt, taking a step back felt like the right thing to do. And now that I can look back and reflect on the past year, I can say with absolute certainty that it truly WAS the right path to take. We have taken the year to heal, to refocus and reconnect. It has been so therapeutic and so necessary. But, we are still financially in the same place we were last year. Jason is still in school and I'm the only one working. Additionally, we are not certain we are done healing, and that's okay. The one surprise: we've now discovered that we're quite ambivalent about our next step, when the time comes.
When we were told last May, for the second time by a second doctor, that we would most likely need to bury our hopes of an IUI yielding successful results and move on to IVF, we kind of accepted it the best way we knew how. We were so tired, nearly shell shocked by the whole thing, and I think we just kind of mentally conceded and thought, "Okay, that's next...but not yet. Not now." But now we wonder if it's the best thing. The idea of taking that much medication, especially with my heart health concerns being ever at the forefront of our minds, just to attempt to get pregnant, is quite frightening to both of us. I am incredibly sensitive to hormones. I have heart palpitations when I have my period. I have been told that it is likely that should I achieve pregnancy, I would battle arrhythmias the entire time, perhaps even need to be on medication to combat them. Since we lost our one and only pregnancy at 6wks, it was really too soon to tell how my heart would handle the stress of a full term experience. And of course there is the cost. We won't be able to afford even one IVF attempt for years. Meanwhile, my ovaries aren't any younger or less cyst-covered and our want for an addition to our family will not have changed. If anything, since so much time will have passed since beginning this journey, it will have reached full throttle...my biological clock ticking very loudly indeed.
The bottom line? We're just plain scared. We don't want to go through what we went through before, we don't want to get sucked up in the throes of trying, and don't want to risk losing ourselves again to the war of infertility. Therefore, we find ourselves between a rock and a hard place: on one hand, we want children and can't imagine a life without them. On the other hand, we are afraid of walking that path again.
Some people may read this and think, "Why don't you just adopt if you can't have biological children?" Because, dear friends, adoption comes with its own set of ups and downs. It is a long and arduous road, just like trying to have a biological child if you are infertile. There are disappointments, there are frustrations, and there are requirements, some of which we do not yet meet, namely a home of our own and acceptable income. And even once you have "passed inspection" there is the wait to be placed with a child, which can sometimes take years. So the adoption option is still a good ways off, just like the IVF option.
And I'm turning 30 in less than five months.
More and more, I am finding that I am not so much angry at our situation as flummoxed. "How did we get here?" has largely replaced "I am so angry we are here," which in truth is quite the improvement. I remember being 24 and having so much hope. I could clearly see the face of our child and the lives we would lead together as a family. Now, that face has faded until it's nearly gone. But happily, instead of feeling mostly despair, I feel a sense of impatience and uncertainty, which is certainly a step up from all-encompassing hopelessness, anger and resentment.
I don't think about all of this every day. Actually, on the whole, I don't really give it much thought in comparison to how much it used to dominate my brain, which is such a change from where I was last year at this time. It feels good to have a mind mainly free of infertility woes. I sleep better at night and I'm working on letting go of things and thoughts I cannot control and which serve no other purpose but to upset, infuriate and worry me.
We have to believe that one day we will be blessed with a child. Someday, our little family of two will grow by two baby feet and it will be the answer to so many prayers. Whether biological or adopted, it will be ours and it will be so very loved. Until then, we have a lot to consider and a lot of money to save. Thank you for supporting us along our journey, even in this 'tweener phase. It means so much!
I'll be 30 and no closer to having a child than I was at 24.
As many of you know, we decided to take a baby-making break after our final failed IUI last May. It wasn't all that hard to arrive at that conclusion. In addition to being completely wiped out emotionally and struggling with an immense sense of hopelessness, we were getting ready to move across the country and were financially strapped, to say the least. We just didn't have "it" in us anymore. For the time being, the uphill battle had won. Although it hurt, taking a step back felt like the right thing to do. And now that I can look back and reflect on the past year, I can say with absolute certainty that it truly WAS the right path to take. We have taken the year to heal, to refocus and reconnect. It has been so therapeutic and so necessary. But, we are still financially in the same place we were last year. Jason is still in school and I'm the only one working. Additionally, we are not certain we are done healing, and that's okay. The one surprise: we've now discovered that we're quite ambivalent about our next step, when the time comes.
When we were told last May, for the second time by a second doctor, that we would most likely need to bury our hopes of an IUI yielding successful results and move on to IVF, we kind of accepted it the best way we knew how. We were so tired, nearly shell shocked by the whole thing, and I think we just kind of mentally conceded and thought, "Okay, that's next...but not yet. Not now." But now we wonder if it's the best thing. The idea of taking that much medication, especially with my heart health concerns being ever at the forefront of our minds, just to attempt to get pregnant, is quite frightening to both of us. I am incredibly sensitive to hormones. I have heart palpitations when I have my period. I have been told that it is likely that should I achieve pregnancy, I would battle arrhythmias the entire time, perhaps even need to be on medication to combat them. Since we lost our one and only pregnancy at 6wks, it was really too soon to tell how my heart would handle the stress of a full term experience. And of course there is the cost. We won't be able to afford even one IVF attempt for years. Meanwhile, my ovaries aren't any younger or less cyst-covered and our want for an addition to our family will not have changed. If anything, since so much time will have passed since beginning this journey, it will have reached full throttle...my biological clock ticking very loudly indeed.
The bottom line? We're just plain scared. We don't want to go through what we went through before, we don't want to get sucked up in the throes of trying, and don't want to risk losing ourselves again to the war of infertility. Therefore, we find ourselves between a rock and a hard place: on one hand, we want children and can't imagine a life without them. On the other hand, we are afraid of walking that path again.
Some people may read this and think, "Why don't you just adopt if you can't have biological children?" Because, dear friends, adoption comes with its own set of ups and downs. It is a long and arduous road, just like trying to have a biological child if you are infertile. There are disappointments, there are frustrations, and there are requirements, some of which we do not yet meet, namely a home of our own and acceptable income. And even once you have "passed inspection" there is the wait to be placed with a child, which can sometimes take years. So the adoption option is still a good ways off, just like the IVF option.
And I'm turning 30 in less than five months.
More and more, I am finding that I am not so much angry at our situation as flummoxed. "How did we get here?" has largely replaced "I am so angry we are here," which in truth is quite the improvement. I remember being 24 and having so much hope. I could clearly see the face of our child and the lives we would lead together as a family. Now, that face has faded until it's nearly gone. But happily, instead of feeling mostly despair, I feel a sense of impatience and uncertainty, which is certainly a step up from all-encompassing hopelessness, anger and resentment.
I don't think about all of this every day. Actually, on the whole, I don't really give it much thought in comparison to how much it used to dominate my brain, which is such a change from where I was last year at this time. It feels good to have a mind mainly free of infertility woes. I sleep better at night and I'm working on letting go of things and thoughts I cannot control and which serve no other purpose but to upset, infuriate and worry me.
We have to believe that one day we will be blessed with a child. Someday, our little family of two will grow by two baby feet and it will be the answer to so many prayers. Whether biological or adopted, it will be ours and it will be so very loved. Until then, we have a lot to consider and a lot of money to save. Thank you for supporting us along our journey, even in this 'tweener phase. It means so much!
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
We Are Who We Are -- Musings On Growth and Change
I originally posted this on my other blog, the one that is open to the public to read. Because of the audience, I left out all allusions to our infertility journey/struggles. I did, however, say this: "It
took a long time and it was a difficult journey (filled with a lot of
unforeseen challenges both related and unrelated to my heart surgery),
but I realized that I had to rebuild." In the context of this space, you all know what those "unforeseen challenges" included. I am who I am today in large part because of what I've been through, but I don't want to BECOME those struggles. I don't want them to define me. Not anymore. I've come to realize that I am also who I've begun rebuilding myself into. I know all of you can, in some way, relate and empathize with my words. This journey changes us, for better or for worse, and who we are at the end of this road may not be who we intended to become, or who we thought we'd be. We may not recognize ourselves. But that doesn't mean we're lost - we just have to find ourselves again, rebuild ourselves brick by brick, until we're strong again, until we can look in the mirror and say, "Oh yes, there you are."
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"Don't let your struggle become your identity."
I saw the above quote on Pinterest today and it really stuck with me. So much so that I decided to explore it with a blog post. I've struggled with this very thing for years and although it's oftentimes much easier said than done, I would love to get to that point. The point of "I am what I choose to become, not what has happened to me." (Thank you, Carl Jung). How does one go about riding that fine line of not forgetting what's happened but rather actively choosing to allow your hardships to make you stronger while not becoming all that you are?
I know so many people who have endured and survived some very hard things: medical setbacks, the loss of loved ones, financial ruin, etc. As one can imagine, these events are life altering and sometimes, you find that you're not quite the same on the other side. How do you go about rectifying the "new you" with the "old you?" How do you remain true to yourself and the changes you've undergone while somehow managing to hold on to portions of who you used to be, the attributes you don't want to lose? How do you accept who you are now, and what happens if who you are now isn't who some people in your life want you to be?
I talk about my heart a lot. I talk about it because my heart surgery was a defining moment in my life. I talk about it because I want to spread heart disease awareness. I talk about it because my talking about it serves as a way for me to process what I've been through -- because who I am now isn't who I was before October 29, 2009. I am fundamentally different. While I am strong because I survived something I never thought I'd have to go through, I'm also filled with a fear that is hard to name. I'm afraid of what the future holds for me medically because while I'm doing well now, my good health can change on a dime. I know that now. The veil of denial that so many young people are blessed with has been quite unceremoniously removed from over my eyes.
In 2009, I was forced to face a medical nightmare as an otherwise healthy 25 year old. It happens. Healthy people get sick, often out of the blue. And guess what? You have no other choice but to face it, deal with it, hope to God you get through it and then...you're expected to carry on. Like nothing happened - pick up right where you left off - as if your life is unchanged except for that nasty little blip of time when everything about it was different. It doesn't work that way. And the thing is, I fervently wish, with everything I am, that I could find the Melissa from early 2009. I wish I could magically conjure her back from wherever it is that she disappeared to, because I really miss her. But I can't. Because that girl doesn't exist anymore. That girl all but disappeared the moment she was told she needed to have open heart surgery. She receded further back into the shadows when she was in so much physical pain post surgery that she could scarcely breathe; further still when she was so anxiety ridden and fearful that she would die that she had to be put on anxiety medication for a full year because she couldn't handle the stress on her own and neither could her healing heart. That Melissa, the young woman I had been slowing growing into from birth, was truly merely a glimmer by the time she had her pacemaker implanted in June of 2010. It was a sad realization, and in many ways, I felt completely lost. I didn't recognize myself. Can you imagine a time in your life when you honestly didn't know who you were anymore because what had happened to you changed you so much? If you can, I am so very sorry. If you can't, I sincerely hope you never have to.
It took a long time and it was a difficult journey (filled with a lot of unforeseen challenges both related and unrelated to my heart surgery), but I realized that I had to rebuild. I couldn't and I wouldn't allow this hollowed out person to be who I was for the rest of my life. I owed it to myself, to Jason and to my family and friends, to figure out who I was again and embrace her, scars and all.
The Melissa I am now is quite different from the Melissa I once was. It's probably not something that the average acquaintance would even notice, and the people who have just met me think this is the original because it's who they know. But those closest to me have most likely noticed a change. I'm happy to say that the Melissa I am today is more stable than the Melissa who emerged from the operating room in '09 and continued to stick around through the summer of 2012. She was a mess and in all honesty, I wasn't very fond of her. To her credit, that particular Melissa went through a hard time and although I wish she would have handled some things differently, I'm starting to accept that she did the best she could. I have to forgive her for her mistakes, because I can't go back and fix them. All I can do is move forward with what I've salvaged and what I've rebuilt. Indeed, I've fought hard to dig deep and find the aspects of the old Melissa that I loved and were most "me" but not all the change has been negative. On the contrary, I'm less "glass is half empty" than I was, and I'm learning to appreciate the moment, find joy in the mundane. Because this life is beautiful and I cannot take it for granted.
So, what if the Melissa I've become is disappointing to some people? What if I've changed too much for some people to handle? {To be clear, this isn't an issue I'm aware of, at least not to my knowledge, but I'm sure there are some people in my life who wish the "old Melissa" would come back. Maybe she was more fun, less serious, etc. I'm simply pondering a question I often find myself worrying about...big surprise} I just advised someone else earlier today that all they have to do is be true to themselves and own who they are, and the rest will fall in to place. I think it's time I started taking my own advice. All I can do is be me and be the very best me possible. I'm sorry if I'm not who I used to be and like I said, I wish I could find her again as it would make things so much easier but that's not possible and I have to learn to accept who I am now and who I've become as a result of what I've been handed in this life. I can choose to fully embrace this person I've become and work towards building a happy future with her, or I can continue to search aimlessly for the girl I used to be, wishing I could find her, spending my life pining for someone who is lost. I'd much rather do the former: remember the old Melissa with fondness but appreciate the Melissa I've become and accept her into my heart with open arms. Because the truth of the matter is, everyone evolves. Everyone changes throughout their lives. Some people are thrust in to change by happenstance while some people gradually change over time. But truth be told, we are all made up of our past selves. They are part of who we are and who we will become down the road.
I suppose this all means I'm a work in progress. I suppose I need to choose, every day, to not let my struggles define me. They are part of me, sure, but I'm so much more than that. I am worth more than that and I intend to keep repairing the damage that was wrought in 2009. I'll get there, I'm sure of it. I like this new Melissa. She has her moments of doubt but overall, she's strong and I'm proud of that.
*******************************************
"Don't let your struggle become your identity."
I saw the above quote on Pinterest today and it really stuck with me. So much so that I decided to explore it with a blog post. I've struggled with this very thing for years and although it's oftentimes much easier said than done, I would love to get to that point. The point of "I am what I choose to become, not what has happened to me." (Thank you, Carl Jung). How does one go about riding that fine line of not forgetting what's happened but rather actively choosing to allow your hardships to make you stronger while not becoming all that you are?
I know so many people who have endured and survived some very hard things: medical setbacks, the loss of loved ones, financial ruin, etc. As one can imagine, these events are life altering and sometimes, you find that you're not quite the same on the other side. How do you go about rectifying the "new you" with the "old you?" How do you remain true to yourself and the changes you've undergone while somehow managing to hold on to portions of who you used to be, the attributes you don't want to lose? How do you accept who you are now, and what happens if who you are now isn't who some people in your life want you to be?
I talk about my heart a lot. I talk about it because my heart surgery was a defining moment in my life. I talk about it because I want to spread heart disease awareness. I talk about it because my talking about it serves as a way for me to process what I've been through -- because who I am now isn't who I was before October 29, 2009. I am fundamentally different. While I am strong because I survived something I never thought I'd have to go through, I'm also filled with a fear that is hard to name. I'm afraid of what the future holds for me medically because while I'm doing well now, my good health can change on a dime. I know that now. The veil of denial that so many young people are blessed with has been quite unceremoniously removed from over my eyes.
In 2009, I was forced to face a medical nightmare as an otherwise healthy 25 year old. It happens. Healthy people get sick, often out of the blue. And guess what? You have no other choice but to face it, deal with it, hope to God you get through it and then...you're expected to carry on. Like nothing happened - pick up right where you left off - as if your life is unchanged except for that nasty little blip of time when everything about it was different. It doesn't work that way. And the thing is, I fervently wish, with everything I am, that I could find the Melissa from early 2009. I wish I could magically conjure her back from wherever it is that she disappeared to, because I really miss her. But I can't. Because that girl doesn't exist anymore. That girl all but disappeared the moment she was told she needed to have open heart surgery. She receded further back into the shadows when she was in so much physical pain post surgery that she could scarcely breathe; further still when she was so anxiety ridden and fearful that she would die that she had to be put on anxiety medication for a full year because she couldn't handle the stress on her own and neither could her healing heart. That Melissa, the young woman I had been slowing growing into from birth, was truly merely a glimmer by the time she had her pacemaker implanted in June of 2010. It was a sad realization, and in many ways, I felt completely lost. I didn't recognize myself. Can you imagine a time in your life when you honestly didn't know who you were anymore because what had happened to you changed you so much? If you can, I am so very sorry. If you can't, I sincerely hope you never have to.
It took a long time and it was a difficult journey (filled with a lot of unforeseen challenges both related and unrelated to my heart surgery), but I realized that I had to rebuild. I couldn't and I wouldn't allow this hollowed out person to be who I was for the rest of my life. I owed it to myself, to Jason and to my family and friends, to figure out who I was again and embrace her, scars and all.
The Melissa I am now is quite different from the Melissa I once was. It's probably not something that the average acquaintance would even notice, and the people who have just met me think this is the original because it's who they know. But those closest to me have most likely noticed a change. I'm happy to say that the Melissa I am today is more stable than the Melissa who emerged from the operating room in '09 and continued to stick around through the summer of 2012. She was a mess and in all honesty, I wasn't very fond of her. To her credit, that particular Melissa went through a hard time and although I wish she would have handled some things differently, I'm starting to accept that she did the best she could. I have to forgive her for her mistakes, because I can't go back and fix them. All I can do is move forward with what I've salvaged and what I've rebuilt. Indeed, I've fought hard to dig deep and find the aspects of the old Melissa that I loved and were most "me" but not all the change has been negative. On the contrary, I'm less "glass is half empty" than I was, and I'm learning to appreciate the moment, find joy in the mundane. Because this life is beautiful and I cannot take it for granted.
So, what if the Melissa I've become is disappointing to some people? What if I've changed too much for some people to handle? {To be clear, this isn't an issue I'm aware of, at least not to my knowledge, but I'm sure there are some people in my life who wish the "old Melissa" would come back. Maybe she was more fun, less serious, etc. I'm simply pondering a question I often find myself worrying about...big surprise} I just advised someone else earlier today that all they have to do is be true to themselves and own who they are, and the rest will fall in to place. I think it's time I started taking my own advice. All I can do is be me and be the very best me possible. I'm sorry if I'm not who I used to be and like I said, I wish I could find her again as it would make things so much easier but that's not possible and I have to learn to accept who I am now and who I've become as a result of what I've been handed in this life. I can choose to fully embrace this person I've become and work towards building a happy future with her, or I can continue to search aimlessly for the girl I used to be, wishing I could find her, spending my life pining for someone who is lost. I'd much rather do the former: remember the old Melissa with fondness but appreciate the Melissa I've become and accept her into my heart with open arms. Because the truth of the matter is, everyone evolves. Everyone changes throughout their lives. Some people are thrust in to change by happenstance while some people gradually change over time. But truth be told, we are all made up of our past selves. They are part of who we are and who we will become down the road.
I suppose this all means I'm a work in progress. I suppose I need to choose, every day, to not let my struggles define me. They are part of me, sure, but I'm so much more than that. I am worth more than that and I intend to keep repairing the damage that was wrought in 2009. I'll get there, I'm sure of it. I like this new Melissa. She has her moments of doubt but overall, she's strong and I'm proud of that.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
The post in which I use another's words to describe my own fear
The post linked below is perfect in its rawness. It so adequately describes the deep-set fear that I still carry around with me in the darkest recesses of my heart; the fear that I have such trouble putting a name to and which brings me such pause because I don't quite know how to explain it aloud. Some emotions can only be felt, you know? I understand we have not yet reached this point in our own journey, we still have more time to try - and try we will when the time is right - but after so much loss, so much disappointment, so much pain and so many years, the fear is real. This post is perfectly real and perfectly terrifying and just plain perfectly sad.
http://www.mommyish.com/2013/03/29/after-infertility/
http://www.mommyish.com/2013/03/29/after-infertility/
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
"When I'm a parent, I'll..."
"When I'm a parent, I'll [fill in the blank]"
Every infertile has heard it before. In fact, we all probably used to say similar things ourselves, way back when. Before the harsh reality of where we are now jaded our lives and thinking. Before we could ever fathom an alternative.
This post was inspired by a friend of mine who does not have children, is unmarried, and isn't {to my knowledge} in any sort of serious relationship. She just posted a video of some parents doing something she thought was cool, with the tagline, "When I'm a parent, I'm totally doing this." Oh to have those kind of fleeting, optimistic thoughts about a future which includes children. *sigh* Sometimes I toy with the idea of taking a hiatus from Facebook. And Pinterest, for that matter. But I couldn't, I love staying in contact with everyone too much to let my {thankfully these days} infrequent bouts of sadness about being childless affect my social media connectivity. But the fact remains: many of my friends are parents. Currently, many of my female friends are pregnant. Some for the first time, others for subsequent times. And honestly, truthfully, I have gotten to the point where I am happy for them. Does my heart still ache? Yes. But I am happy for THEM. I still long to be a parent, and am saddened to now be haunted by an alternate reality: maybe, just maybe, I won't be. Or at the very least, the road that lies ahead will be a long and twisted one.
I yearn to have that naivete back - when I would see a cute baby outfit and think, "When I'm a mom, I'll dress my child like that," or if I saw a couple walking together, pushing a baby stroller, an image would flash through my mind of us doing that someday. And even when it got harder, after we realized we'd need treatments to even have a hope of getting pregnant, I'd still find myself thinking, "When I'm a mom, I'll..." But these days, I just don't know.
I'm 29. I know that's not old, especially by today's standards, but when you have PCOS, it's not exactly young either. And when you factor in how long it took to get pregnant the one and only time...and to know how it ended... We have chosen to take a break from the "journey to baby" while Jason is pursuing his doctorate, so by the time he graduates, we'll be 31. Will we be in a financial situation to pursue treatments again? I was told that I'd need IVF - not just by 1 doctor, but by 2 - and I can tell you that right now, we could not afford it. Not by a long shot. Will these next 2.5 yrs make a difference? Probably not, as Jason cannot work while he is a full-time doctoral candidate - his responsibilities are too time consuming and his schedule is all over the map time-wise.
And more importantly, will we be ready to board the emotional roller coaster that is baby-making (or the futile attempt of) when infertile 2.5 yrs down the pike? Again, right now, we are nowhere near there. The emotions and the memories of what we went through - the miscarriage, the years of disappointment, the loss of self, the challenges to our relationship- are just too raw.
I know what I hope for, and I know what I still dream about. I dream of our family, however it comes to be. I just wish I still had a bit of that innocence about me. But, maybe I shouldn't dwell on the past but rather, turn my sights on the future and not predetermine its outcome by allowing fear of the unknown to take over and cloud my vision, stifle my hope.
So for now, I choose to clutch on to the hope that is the future and see what it has in store for us as our story continues to unfold. I'll choose to think, "When I'm a mom, I'll be so very blessed."
Every infertile has heard it before. In fact, we all probably used to say similar things ourselves, way back when. Before the harsh reality of where we are now jaded our lives and thinking. Before we could ever fathom an alternative.
This post was inspired by a friend of mine who does not have children, is unmarried, and isn't {to my knowledge} in any sort of serious relationship. She just posted a video of some parents doing something she thought was cool, with the tagline, "When I'm a parent, I'm totally doing this." Oh to have those kind of fleeting, optimistic thoughts about a future which includes children. *sigh* Sometimes I toy with the idea of taking a hiatus from Facebook. And Pinterest, for that matter. But I couldn't, I love staying in contact with everyone too much to let my {thankfully these days} infrequent bouts of sadness about being childless affect my social media connectivity. But the fact remains: many of my friends are parents. Currently, many of my female friends are pregnant. Some for the first time, others for subsequent times. And honestly, truthfully, I have gotten to the point where I am happy for them. Does my heart still ache? Yes. But I am happy for THEM. I still long to be a parent, and am saddened to now be haunted by an alternate reality: maybe, just maybe, I won't be. Or at the very least, the road that lies ahead will be a long and twisted one.
I yearn to have that naivete back - when I would see a cute baby outfit and think, "When I'm a mom, I'll dress my child like that," or if I saw a couple walking together, pushing a baby stroller, an image would flash through my mind of us doing that someday. And even when it got harder, after we realized we'd need treatments to even have a hope of getting pregnant, I'd still find myself thinking, "When I'm a mom, I'll..." But these days, I just don't know.
I'm 29. I know that's not old, especially by today's standards, but when you have PCOS, it's not exactly young either. And when you factor in how long it took to get pregnant the one and only time...and to know how it ended... We have chosen to take a break from the "journey to baby" while Jason is pursuing his doctorate, so by the time he graduates, we'll be 31. Will we be in a financial situation to pursue treatments again? I was told that I'd need IVF - not just by 1 doctor, but by 2 - and I can tell you that right now, we could not afford it. Not by a long shot. Will these next 2.5 yrs make a difference? Probably not, as Jason cannot work while he is a full-time doctoral candidate - his responsibilities are too time consuming and his schedule is all over the map time-wise.
And more importantly, will we be ready to board the emotional roller coaster that is baby-making (or the futile attempt of) when infertile 2.5 yrs down the pike? Again, right now, we are nowhere near there. The emotions and the memories of what we went through - the miscarriage, the years of disappointment, the loss of self, the challenges to our relationship- are just too raw.
I know what I hope for, and I know what I still dream about. I dream of our family, however it comes to be. I just wish I still had a bit of that innocence about me. But, maybe I shouldn't dwell on the past but rather, turn my sights on the future and not predetermine its outcome by allowing fear of the unknown to take over and cloud my vision, stifle my hope.
So for now, I choose to clutch on to the hope that is the future and see what it has in store for us as our story continues to unfold. I'll choose to think, "When I'm a mom, I'll be so very blessed."
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Just when you think...
That moment when you're just cruisin' along through your Facebook newsfeed, minding your own business, enjoying your afternoon and WHAM! You realize another friend is pregnant.
That moment when you're reminded that you're not as okay with still being childless as you thought you were.
Just when you think you're finally doing better and the reality that you're still not a parent doesn't seem to ache as much as it used to, Facebook. Always Facebook. I make myself 'like' the picture. Because if I don't, I'm letting the sadness win. And I don't want to be that sad, bitter person. Not anymore.
Honestly, I'm much better now emotionally. We need to heal and focus on other things for awhile because we're quite simply worn out from it all. And, the longing isn't as debilitating as it once was. But it's still there - it always will be, how could it not? And when it creeps back up, it always hurts more than I expect it to.
So I close the screen, take a few deep breaths, and tell myself, "Someday. Someday."
That moment when you're reminded that you're not as okay with still being childless as you thought you were.
Just when you think you're finally doing better and the reality that you're still not a parent doesn't seem to ache as much as it used to, Facebook. Always Facebook. I make myself 'like' the picture. Because if I don't, I'm letting the sadness win. And I don't want to be that sad, bitter person. Not anymore.
Honestly, I'm much better now emotionally. We need to heal and focus on other things for awhile because we're quite simply worn out from it all. And, the longing isn't as debilitating as it once was. But it's still there - it always will be, how could it not? And when it creeps back up, it always hurts more than I expect it to.
So I close the screen, take a few deep breaths, and tell myself, "Someday. Someday."
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