Dear Amanda,
Today, you would have been 31. Happy birthday to you, dear sister! 31 years ago, you were chosen to walk among the angels instead of live a life here with us on Earth. The more of life that I experience, the more challenges faced, I realize more and more the immensity of your loss and the effect it had on all of us, even those of us who came after. How our lives would have been different. Had you lived, I may not have been. Mom and Dad tried for so long to get you, suffered so much heartache and sorrow, that you would have been their miracle baby. Would they have had the desire, the will, to try for another? Would they have mustered the strength to take the risk, possibly enduring further heartache? It is an odd thing to ponder. Still, you are indeed a miracle. It is an honor to share a middle name with you, but as you know, we share far more than that. I believe you are with us every day, in our hearts and in spirit. You are so very loved. Always.
This summer, Mom showed me the only picture of you that she has, the ultrasound picture of you at approximately 7 months, just 2 short months before you were born sleeping. I’ve grown up knowing your story and honoring your memory, missing you even though we’d never met, but that picture brought me to tears because there you were. Heart beating, little body growing, very much alive, captured forever in time in that one photograph. It upsets me that the doctors or someone in the room when you were born didn’t take a picture of you for us to keep. It would have been hard to see but at least I could have seen you, and at least there would be another picture of you besides that one ultrasound and the ones taken of your tiny little white coffin at your funeral. Did you know that Grandma Kendrick kept a purple flower from your service pressed between her family Bible? She wore purple quite often and now I sometimes wonder if she wore it to honor your memory.
Even though we’ve never shared moments like other sisters do, I know I’ve been blessed to have my sister by my side. I know you’re there, always. I’m grateful you were there to greet our grandparents when they passed on, and that you get to spend time with them now and have gotten to know them and love them as I did here on Earth. I’m happy you were there to greet our little one when he/she left us just last year, gone far, far too soon. That was a comfort to me, and I know you know that. I know you were with me in the operating room three years ago, standing by my side, holding my hand, when no one else could be. And even though I’ve never seen your face, I feel as though I have. I envision you have long brown hair, probably thick and wavy like Mom’s was. But perhaps you would have cut it shorter as you aged. Would you have glasses? Maybe you’d need them but I think you’d wear contacts and I think you’d have Dad’s brown eyes. I think our noses would be similar but maybe yours would be smaller and a bit upturned like Mom’s and Grandma’s. For some reason, I think you’d take after Mom’s side more, like I take after Dad’s, so I envision you’d be taller than me. Would you be married or have a partner? Would I be an auntie? What would you do for a living? Would you be language/word oriented like me, or more math minded? Would you have played an instrument, or been more athletic? Would we have quarreled growing up, like siblings often do?
As I grow older, and especially around the holidays when people gather together with their families, I often think of you and miss you all the more – because you should be here too, you know? Really here, smiling right beside us in the family photos, arm slung around my shoulder or hugging me close, helping cook the Thanksgiving feast, exchanging gifts, laughing at old stories with our family, sipping a beer or a glass of wine, enjoying a slice of my famous pecan pie. And because of our own loss last year, I've come to understand more and more the pain of what would have been. That’s what hurts the most, I think, the knowledge that there is so much that you’ve missed, that we’ve all missed, with each passing year that goes by and you’re still gone. I wish you could know the love, the immense love, that we all share for one another, our family. At my lowest points, I’ve talked to you and I know you’ve heard me but what I wouldn’t have given to pick up a phone and call my sister, hear your voice on the other end telling me it was going to be alright, that I just had to take it one day at a time, that you loved me and were there. Maybe that’s an idealistic view of what our relationship would be like, because I really have no idea, but our family is close and always has been, so I cannot imagine we wouldn’t be best friends, that I couldn’t call you for support or advice. And maybe you wouldn’t have all the answers or even say all the right things all of the time, but I know you would’ve cared and would’ve tried your best.
So today you’re 31. Usually, I’d go to the cemetery to lay flowers on your gravestone, and tidy up your plot. Sometimes I’d go alone or with Mom or Jason but this year, I can’t go at all and that is hard for me. I know it doesn’t matter to you, because you’re in our hearts and always with us, but it means something to me that I won’t be there. Thank you for watching over us all, for being the beautiful soul I know you are. Thank you for being with me in spirit – and for being with Mom and Dad when they've needed to feel your love. I can’t see you but I know you’re there and when times have been especially hard, and when I have known great fear, you have been a comfort to me, assuring me through the wind or the rustle of leaves, the melodic tinkle of a windchime or the crash of the ocean upon the shore, that it will be alright. It will all be alright.
Much love to you today and everyday,
Me
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Angel anniversary
One year ago, we said good-bye. One year ago, we faced a reality that we weren't ready to face. A reality we would never have been ready to face. And today, we look back on the year and realize just how hard it was. How hard it still is. And how much has changed.
It's hard to believe that you would almost be 5 months old. What would you look like? What would your favorite toy be? What would make you smile? I just can't imagine. Partly because I really don't know, but mostly because it hurts too much to think about it for too long. So I've chosen, today being the exception, to not imagine those things. "What might have been" is too powerful a game to play.
We fought so hard for you, baby, so very hard. But in the end, you just weren't meant to stay. You were too perfect for this place, too beautiful and you belonged among the angels. I won't ever profess to know why, because I simply do not understand why we were blessed with you only to have the end come far too soon. But I do know this: you are loved. Beyond measure. We never got to see your face, or hold you in our arms, and we'll never get to watch you grow up and discover the person you would have been, the person you were meant to be, but you will forever be our little twinkie.
True, I find myself feeling sad today but it's not all about sorrow. There is joy, too. I feel blessed to have been given the gift of feeling life growing from within, if even for just a short while. My body began to change and with it, I changed. We changed. Even though you are not here with us today, little one, you left a lasting impression on our hearts. We love you, for always.
"Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart." -- Winnie the Pooh
It's hard to believe that you would almost be 5 months old. What would you look like? What would your favorite toy be? What would make you smile? I just can't imagine. Partly because I really don't know, but mostly because it hurts too much to think about it for too long. So I've chosen, today being the exception, to not imagine those things. "What might have been" is too powerful a game to play.
We fought so hard for you, baby, so very hard. But in the end, you just weren't meant to stay. You were too perfect for this place, too beautiful and you belonged among the angels. I won't ever profess to know why, because I simply do not understand why we were blessed with you only to have the end come far too soon. But I do know this: you are loved. Beyond measure. We never got to see your face, or hold you in our arms, and we'll never get to watch you grow up and discover the person you would have been, the person you were meant to be, but you will forever be our little twinkie.
True, I find myself feeling sad today but it's not all about sorrow. There is joy, too. I feel blessed to have been given the gift of feeling life growing from within, if even for just a short while. My body began to change and with it, I changed. We changed. Even though you are not here with us today, little one, you left a lasting impression on our hearts. We love you, for always.
"Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart." -- Winnie the Pooh
Friday, September 21, 2012
One year ago Wednesday
One year ago Wednesday, which was September 19, 2011 we found out that, at long last, after so much time and hoping and praying and wishing, we were expecting our first baby. I can remember the moment as if it were yesterday, and not a full long year ago. It was one of the happiest moments of my life, right up there with my wedding day. And as you know, it was not meant to last.
This year, I spent half of the day in the hospital. I had a random atrial fibrillation event that started on Tuesday afternoon (9/18) landed me in the ER and then CCU. I'm ok, they got my heart rate to stabilize and I was released late morning on the 19th but it was a hard day, for more reasons than one.
We moved to Bloomington, IN early last month so this was the first time I was in the hospital so far away from home, from our family and friends, from my trusted UCLA doctors. We did not expect this to occur and it took us completely by surprise. They don't know why it happened and it could happen again. It is not reassuring to feel like I'm a walking ticking time bomb. And it is beyond frustrating that, after nearly 2.5 years cardiac issue free, I'm back to being afraid. It really REALLY scared me. My heart rate was over 200 beats per minute by the time I got hooked up to the monitors in the ER and I was absolutely terrified. I cannot describe how it feels to feel your heart racing, faster and faster and faster, to feel your body start to internally panic, to feel your body automatically respond, and to not have any control over any of it. I went in to survival mode, trying to get up off the gurney, trying to push the nurse away who was attempting to put an IV in my arm to administer heart medication and ativan to calm me down, and I kept saying over and over again that I didn't want to die, please help me, please tell me what's going on, please help me, I can't die today. Needless to say, it was traumatizing. Again. I'm 28 years old. This is too much reality for someone my age, and I've been in this place too many times over the last few years. I'm over it. This is a lot for my husband and I to deal with. He was fantastic, as usual, reciting my heart health history to the ER doctor like a champ, while holding on to my hand, telling me I was going to be fine, telling the nurse to turn off the sound to the heart monitor because it stresses me out. He knew what to do. He was great. Even through his own anxiety about what was going on, he was my hero. But man oh man, this is just too much, you know?
Anyway, a whole year has gone by since that wonderful, glorious day. And I still don't understand why it had to end the way it did. I'm fairly certain I'll never know, and perhaps that's the way it's supposed to be.
This year, I spent half of the day in the hospital. I had a random atrial fibrillation event that started on Tuesday afternoon (9/18) landed me in the ER and then CCU. I'm ok, they got my heart rate to stabilize and I was released late morning on the 19th but it was a hard day, for more reasons than one.
We moved to Bloomington, IN early last month so this was the first time I was in the hospital so far away from home, from our family and friends, from my trusted UCLA doctors. We did not expect this to occur and it took us completely by surprise. They don't know why it happened and it could happen again. It is not reassuring to feel like I'm a walking ticking time bomb. And it is beyond frustrating that, after nearly 2.5 years cardiac issue free, I'm back to being afraid. It really REALLY scared me. My heart rate was over 200 beats per minute by the time I got hooked up to the monitors in the ER and I was absolutely terrified. I cannot describe how it feels to feel your heart racing, faster and faster and faster, to feel your body start to internally panic, to feel your body automatically respond, and to not have any control over any of it. I went in to survival mode, trying to get up off the gurney, trying to push the nurse away who was attempting to put an IV in my arm to administer heart medication and ativan to calm me down, and I kept saying over and over again that I didn't want to die, please help me, please tell me what's going on, please help me, I can't die today. Needless to say, it was traumatizing. Again. I'm 28 years old. This is too much reality for someone my age, and I've been in this place too many times over the last few years. I'm over it. This is a lot for my husband and I to deal with. He was fantastic, as usual, reciting my heart health history to the ER doctor like a champ, while holding on to my hand, telling me I was going to be fine, telling the nurse to turn off the sound to the heart monitor because it stresses me out. He knew what to do. He was great. Even through his own anxiety about what was going on, he was my hero. But man oh man, this is just too much, you know?
Anyway, a whole year has gone by since that wonderful, glorious day. And I still don't understand why it had to end the way it did. I'm fairly certain I'll never know, and perhaps that's the way it's supposed to be.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Yes, I'm still here
Moving is in full swing: mountains of boxes, stuff piled up in every available corner waiting to be placed in a box, lists of various tasks to be done here and there and everywhere. We are feeling the pressure, feeling sad about the reality of leaving our family and friends, but wading through each day like champs.
And we are on a break from building our family. Officially. And no, I'm not sure when we'll be "back." Honestly, I can't focus on that aspect of our life at the moment. We have to focus on us for a change, the bigger "us": our marriage, and "us" as individuals. Somewhere along the line we kind of forgot to really live -- looking back at the last four years, it has become crystal clear that our lives were on hold, waiting, waiting, always waiting. And it wasn't fair. We've missed out on so much and pieces of our true selves were buried deep under the mud and grime of infertility treatments and the despair that followed each and every failed cycle.
Life is too short, you know?
So I'm still here, just in a different place, a different capacity. My period arrived today, after a long 44 day cycle. I suppose it's fitting that I write on what I would have normally referred to as CD 1 -- only this time, CD 1 doesn't mean a damn thing. But I needed to write, because that's what I've always done on this day. I guess some habits are hard to break. And at the end of this cycle, I am going back on birth control. If we're not actively trying, my crazy cycle lengths are too crazy for me to deal with. 44 days was bliss in comparison to what I've endured in the past. Med-free, I was no stranger to 50 day cycles, 70 day cycles. Once, even a 91 day cycle. I felt like I was going bat-shit crazy. Nope. I refuse to do this to myself right now. I want to feel good, I want to be REGULAR. The best treatment for my PCOS is the birth control pill. In addition to regulating my cycles, my cysts will be managed, my lining won't get uber thick as time marches on between bleeds which keeps my risk of uterine cancer down {so many lovely things associated with PCOS}. So there you go. This infertile myrtle is taking charge, and taking the time to find herself again, which includes sessions with a health coach where we address my tendencies toward anxiety and my low self-esteem and skewed self-image. I'm not going to take my life for granted, not anymore. Each day is a blessing. I learned that in 2009 when I had open heart surgery but I think it took some time to really sink in.
Anyway, I've missed writing but really, there isn't much to say right now in terms of fertility. My life is not revolving around the pursuit of baby. It feels odd. It feels foreign, but also, it is liberating. Do we still want kids? Absolutely. But right now, after 4 long years, we are just tired and in need of a reboot. The next time I write, I will be doing so from a whole new state. See ya on the flip-side, and if you're still reading, thank you for your support!! When we come off this break, I hope you'll still be following along!
And we are on a break from building our family. Officially. And no, I'm not sure when we'll be "back." Honestly, I can't focus on that aspect of our life at the moment. We have to focus on us for a change, the bigger "us": our marriage, and "us" as individuals. Somewhere along the line we kind of forgot to really live -- looking back at the last four years, it has become crystal clear that our lives were on hold, waiting, waiting, always waiting. And it wasn't fair. We've missed out on so much and pieces of our true selves were buried deep under the mud and grime of infertility treatments and the despair that followed each and every failed cycle.
Life is too short, you know?
So I'm still here, just in a different place, a different capacity. My period arrived today, after a long 44 day cycle. I suppose it's fitting that I write on what I would have normally referred to as CD 1 -- only this time, CD 1 doesn't mean a damn thing. But I needed to write, because that's what I've always done on this day. I guess some habits are hard to break. And at the end of this cycle, I am going back on birth control. If we're not actively trying, my crazy cycle lengths are too crazy for me to deal with. 44 days was bliss in comparison to what I've endured in the past. Med-free, I was no stranger to 50 day cycles, 70 day cycles. Once, even a 91 day cycle. I felt like I was going bat-shit crazy. Nope. I refuse to do this to myself right now. I want to feel good, I want to be REGULAR. The best treatment for my PCOS is the birth control pill. In addition to regulating my cycles, my cysts will be managed, my lining won't get uber thick as time marches on between bleeds which keeps my risk of uterine cancer down {so many lovely things associated with PCOS}. So there you go. This infertile myrtle is taking charge, and taking the time to find herself again, which includes sessions with a health coach where we address my tendencies toward anxiety and my low self-esteem and skewed self-image. I'm not going to take my life for granted, not anymore. Each day is a blessing. I learned that in 2009 when I had open heart surgery but I think it took some time to really sink in.
Anyway, I've missed writing but really, there isn't much to say right now in terms of fertility. My life is not revolving around the pursuit of baby. It feels odd. It feels foreign, but also, it is liberating. Do we still want kids? Absolutely. But right now, after 4 long years, we are just tired and in need of a reboot. The next time I write, I will be doing so from a whole new state. See ya on the flip-side, and if you're still reading, thank you for your support!! When we come off this break, I hope you'll still be following along!
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Due date
Today, May 27th was my estimated due date with our pregnancy that we lost last October. It's kind of a bittersweet weekend, because my husband graduated with his Master's degree yesterday. In September, we were worrying/joking about what we would do if I were to go into labor during his graduation. Funny how life has other plans...
I'm ok today. After our loss, I thought this day would be so hard but in reality, I feel mostly wistful. What could have been, you know? I don't know. I wish things were different, that my belly was bulging to capacity with life but alas, it wasn't meant to be. I suppose it's sometimes just as simple as that.
I'm ok today. After our loss, I thought this day would be so hard but in reality, I feel mostly wistful. What could have been, you know? I don't know. I wish things were different, that my belly was bulging to capacity with life but alas, it wasn't meant to be. I suppose it's sometimes just as simple as that.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
We're taking a break and then, IVF
My period arrived today. I was supposed to test tomorrow but again, for the 3rd time in a row, that won't be necessary. I am filled with so many emotions, many of them obvious but also, a few that are taking me by surprise. Near the top of the list? Relief. Please don't misunderstand. I wanted this to work more than anything, and up until this morning, really thought it might be our month {as usual, I had all the right symptoms} but I'm so tired. And this period means the end for awhile. The end of the medications and all of their fun side effects, the doctor appointments, counting days on the calendar to see if any of the month's treatment will ruin any plans we've already made, trying to figure out how to get a day off of work for my procedures, analyzing every twinge, eating all the right things and feeling guilty if I "cheat", writing checks for procedures and meds we really can't afford, worrying worrying worrying and worrying some more. It's over for awhile. We can rest. Refocus and recharge.
But more than anything? Sadness. Disbelief. I can't believe that, barring some miracle, 2012 will be another lost year for us in regards to building our family. I started this year out strong, really feeling deep down that this year was going to be different. And in many ways, it will be different. Our upcoming move to Indiana will be a fresh new start for us: new state, new town, new home, new school, new job, new fertility clinic. We'll discover new places to explore, make some new friends, and make new memories. It will be a good year, but there will still be a big piece missing.
If we can figure out a way to swing it financially, we'd like to try our first round of IVF in December of this year {IVF...seriously, how did it come to this??}. If we can't swing it by then, we'll push that first round to the summer of 2013. Over a year from now. That thought makes me almost physically ill. But you know what? If I'm being honest, and I really want to be honest, I have some real work to do on me. I have developed some serious self esteem issues. I want to be able to find the beauty and goodness in every day. I want to be happy, really happy again, baby or no baby. I am more than my uterus. I don't want wake up one day and find that decades have passed me by, that I wasted my best years being sad, angry, and bitter.
So, like it or not, we're taking a break from treatment. Who knows, maybe we'll be blessed with a miracle between now and our first round of IVF. Stranger things have happened. But I can't bank on that. The reality is that our journey is taking us in a direction we never thought we'd have to go, and we can't shy away from walking that road. If it leads us to our baby, it's a path we have to take.
I'm scared. Terrified. But strangely enough, I'm also hopeful. And so very grateful for your support. I want to thank you for following along this far, and I hope you'll bear with me as we enter in to this next stage. I obviously won't be updating this blog nearly as much, but come late Fall/early Winter, I hope, really hope, you'll continue to follow our story.
But more than anything? Sadness. Disbelief. I can't believe that, barring some miracle, 2012 will be another lost year for us in regards to building our family. I started this year out strong, really feeling deep down that this year was going to be different. And in many ways, it will be different. Our upcoming move to Indiana will be a fresh new start for us: new state, new town, new home, new school, new job, new fertility clinic. We'll discover new places to explore, make some new friends, and make new memories. It will be a good year, but there will still be a big piece missing.
If we can figure out a way to swing it financially, we'd like to try our first round of IVF in December of this year {IVF...seriously, how did it come to this??}. If we can't swing it by then, we'll push that first round to the summer of 2013. Over a year from now. That thought makes me almost physically ill. But you know what? If I'm being honest, and I really want to be honest, I have some real work to do on me. I have developed some serious self esteem issues. I want to be able to find the beauty and goodness in every day. I want to be happy, really happy again, baby or no baby. I am more than my uterus. I don't want wake up one day and find that decades have passed me by, that I wasted my best years being sad, angry, and bitter.
So, like it or not, we're taking a break from treatment. Who knows, maybe we'll be blessed with a miracle between now and our first round of IVF. Stranger things have happened. But I can't bank on that. The reality is that our journey is taking us in a direction we never thought we'd have to go, and we can't shy away from walking that road. If it leads us to our baby, it's a path we have to take.
I'm scared. Terrified. But strangely enough, I'm also hopeful. And so very grateful for your support. I want to thank you for following along this far, and I hope you'll bear with me as we enter in to this next stage. I obviously won't be updating this blog nearly as much, but come late Fall/early Winter, I hope, really hope, you'll continue to follow our story.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Come What May
May. Each year since 2008, May has presented me with a challenge. That challenge is Mother's Day. But this year, May comes with two challenging days: Mother's Day {which would have been my first as an expectant mother} and my due date, May 27. Or what would have been {should have been} my due date. This year will be especially difficult for me, for obvious reasons. Normally, I spend it with my mom but this year we won't be making the trip home. But I want to do something. Because even though our child will not be born into our arms this month as it would have/should have been, and even though our child is not here with us on Earth, I am still a Mother. Maybe not in the conventional way that is readily accepted by society, but I am. Or, I would have been. My child lives in my heart, and I want to do something to honor that on May 13th but I can't decide how. It feels odd somehow, wrong even. Like I'm a phony, posing as something I'm not. Is that weird? It feels weird, and that makes me sad.
I don't know. The concept of being a mother even though I don't have a living child is something I've struggled with since the miscarriage. It feels wrong to say it. When someone asks me if we have any children, I don't say yes. But at the same time, we lost a baby. It didn't have a heartbeat yet, but had it continued to grow and develop...it would have been our first child. But is "would have been" the same as, "is"? No, but in my heart...yes.
And May 27th is a day that I just want to get through. It will be a hard day. I know most women don't give birth on their given due dates but it's a marker that you carry with you all through your pregnancy, the intended goal. And if I can just get through it without breaking down completely, I will count it as a success.
***
That all being said, I am making real concerted efforts to find ME again; focus on the positives, turn my face away from the shade and into the warm light of the sun. Whatever the outcome of this last IUI {which we will find out next week}, pregnancy or no, come what may, we fully intend to embrace it. Whatever will be, will be. Will I be disappointed and emotional if this month doesn't work out? Absolutely. But I can't let it ruin me. It will be another road block, but there is still hope. Always hope. Without it, why bother? And we are both so very tired that a break might be just what we need: time to reconnect, explore our new surroundings once we've made our big move this summer, re-focus, re-energize, get our heads (and finances) wrapped around the next step towards making our dream of parenthood a reality.
But first: May. One step {one month} at a time.
I don't know. The concept of being a mother even though I don't have a living child is something I've struggled with since the miscarriage. It feels wrong to say it. When someone asks me if we have any children, I don't say yes. But at the same time, we lost a baby. It didn't have a heartbeat yet, but had it continued to grow and develop...it would have been our first child. But is "would have been" the same as, "is"? No, but in my heart...yes.
And May 27th is a day that I just want to get through. It will be a hard day. I know most women don't give birth on their given due dates but it's a marker that you carry with you all through your pregnancy, the intended goal. And if I can just get through it without breaking down completely, I will count it as a success.
***
That all being said, I am making real concerted efforts to find ME again; focus on the positives, turn my face away from the shade and into the warm light of the sun. Whatever the outcome of this last IUI {which we will find out next week}, pregnancy or no, come what may, we fully intend to embrace it. Whatever will be, will be. Will I be disappointed and emotional if this month doesn't work out? Absolutely. But I can't let it ruin me. It will be another road block, but there is still hope. Always hope. Without it, why bother? And we are both so very tired that a break might be just what we need: time to reconnect, explore our new surroundings once we've made our big move this summer, re-focus, re-energize, get our heads (and finances) wrapped around the next step towards making our dream of parenthood a reality.
But first: May. One step {one month} at a time.
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