Monday, March 20, 2017
Microblog Monday - One of the loneliest feelings
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
Seven months
Blogging used to be a form of therapy for me. Instead of seeking actual therapy with an actual therapist as the months turned to years on our infertility journey, I'd write. In journals, too, not just online. And when Evelyn died, I wrote (quite eloquently, if I'm being honest, especially considering my fractured state of mind) to several friends and also through various Facebook posts about what I was experiencing as a bereaved parent. But now, as the days, weeks and months continue to march past, I don't quite know how to put my thoughts and emotions in to words. I'll think of something I want to say and I'll write it down and email it to myself so I can attend to it later because I've decided I want and need to write a book about our journey-turned-odyssey to parenthood and I want and need to talk about Evelyn's birth and death because I refuse to allow her story to be a taboo subject. But my mind is brimming with snippets of thoughts and I'm not quite sure how to formulate those snippets into cohesive paragraphs and eventually into chapters. My mind is all over the place, and my writing reflects that. To be expected, I know but it's still frustrating because in addition to reading, writing has long been a refuge. I've always loved the written word but now I feel lost where once I felt a sense of comfort. I don't know how to express myself now and perhaps that's because I still haven't figured out who I am yet, post-Evelyn's life and death. Her beautiful life changed me, there is no doubt about that -- but it is her untimely tragic death that has changed me the most. There will always be an Evelyn-shaped hole in my heart that will never -- and should never -- be filled.
Now, we go to actual therapy. Once a week has turned in to once every two weeks, and it's helping us manage our grief and discover healthy new and continued ways of coping. We are grateful for it and plan to continue as long as we are financially able. But I keep trying to find a path back to my old friend, writing. Even the words that I'm writing here, right now, seem wrong, forced, unnatural, halting, inadequate. And I suppose it feels that way because I've discovered that there are simply no words to properly describe what we have endured. Devastated, broken, empty, shattered, lost -- they all seem akin to the platitudes we repeatedly hear: "She's in a better place," "God must have needed another angel," "Everything happens for a reason, someday you'll understand why this has occurred," "God doesn't give us more than we can handle," "You're still young, there's still time to have other children..." I wish people would stop. Just stop. Because these phrases are all bullshit. Just like the words we try to use to describe the absolute dissolution of our lives as we have come to know them.
Who I am now, in the wake of my only child's death, is so far removed from who I was seven months ago that I cannot even begin to describe it. Every once in a while, I get a faint glimmer of that person, and instead of filling me with hope, it startles me. Looking in the mirror, I know who I'm looking at is me but the eyes are all wrong. There is a desperation, a hollowness. They are the eyes of a haunted individual and they give that person -- me -- away. I can smile (which feels revolting, most of the time) but the smile doesn't carry to my eyes. I have posed for a total of three photos in the seven months since Evelyn's death in August and I cannot look at them. I didn't want to take them but I gave in to appease someone else for two of them and the third was taken on my birthday so I gave it my best effort, despite how I truly felt, and smiled for the camera. It was a ruse but regardless, the photo exists. I turned 33 and there is a picture to prove it. We were with dear friends and I admit that I enjoyed the dinner and time we spent together because they are special, wonderful people who have so completely enveloped us in love following Evelyn's death, but I still felt completely uncomfortable smiling for that photo because what in the world do I have to smile about? My daughter is dead. The daughter we spent nearly nine years trying to conceive, the daughter we were supposed to welcome in to our family in December but instead, watched her be born too soon and then struggle to survive for just shy of nine hours, only to die in her daddy's arms. The daughter we will never again see in this life, the daughter we love as fiercely in death as we would have in life. People don't smile for photos when their child is dead. And yet, I guess people do. Because I did it. Because we are human beings and it's what human beings do. They celebrate milestones even if they don't want to, they say they are grateful for another year of life when it feels absolutely wrong that they have lived another year when their child got mere months. They feel desperately lost, the otherness of their situation and lives so utterly pervasive that they feel nearly inhuman at times, all the while going to work, shopping for groceries, going to doctor's appointments and conferences and tanking up their cars. They go out to dinner and to the library to check out another book or movie, the throngs of people around them completely oblivious to the person's pain because they wear their "functioning human" masks so convincingly. And they pose for photos, and they smile in spite of themselves. Because that's what people do.
----
I feel jumpy and on edge today, like all of the nerves in my body are humming. Evie was born seven months ago today and tomorrow will mark seven months since her passing. SEVEN MONTHS. It feels unbelievable to me that so much time has gone by since our world came crashing down. And yet, it's just the beginning, seven months is barely any time at all. One thing I know: I need to do good in Evelyn's name. It feels imperative and important, and it comforts me to reach out to others in similar circumstances. In honor of her due date, I organized a baby blanket drive in December for the two NICUs who cared for Evelyn in August as well as the bereavement program at the local hospital. I'm working on a donation to the local library children's book section in honor of Evie's first birthday this summer, as well as compiling an Amazon Wish list for bereavement care packages for parents who must leave the hospital following the death of their child. So I've come to understand what it is I must do with the immense love in my heart for our Evie Bee: give, do, love, help. As often and as far reaching as possible. It is my way of parenting her. I just wish I knew what to do with all of my bitterness and anger and rage. The fury at the unfairness of her death, and that she suffered as she struggled to survive. I am her mother and it was my job to save her and I couldn't do it. I am incensed that I could not save her, and it boils my blood that despite the many years it took to get her, the outcome is what it is. I understand that it's cathartic to get it out but in the end, it's still there, simmering just below the surface. I don't lash out at people, I don't answer how I'd like to when asked how I am. Because I know everyone is just trying their best and it's no one's responsibility but ours to learn to live with our daughter's death in a way that still allows us to lead meaningful lives. No one else is walking around with the pain of Evelyn's passing like an anvil clinging to their leg, threatening to pull them under if they stop dog paddling. That's us, and us alone. Yes, people feel for us. Especially those closest to the "epicenter" as it were. My parents and our closest family and friends. But everyone else? They are saddened that Evelyn died and wish so so much that she had lived, that our lives hadn't taken this dreadful turn. They wish that for us because they love us. But no one can fix it. This is an unfixable situation. And it is so incredibly lonely.
Now, we go to actual therapy. Once a week has turned in to once every two weeks, and it's helping us manage our grief and discover healthy new and continued ways of coping. We are grateful for it and plan to continue as long as we are financially able. But I keep trying to find a path back to my old friend, writing. Even the words that I'm writing here, right now, seem wrong, forced, unnatural, halting, inadequate. And I suppose it feels that way because I've discovered that there are simply no words to properly describe what we have endured. Devastated, broken, empty, shattered, lost -- they all seem akin to the platitudes we repeatedly hear: "She's in a better place," "God must have needed another angel," "Everything happens for a reason, someday you'll understand why this has occurred," "God doesn't give us more than we can handle," "You're still young, there's still time to have other children..." I wish people would stop. Just stop. Because these phrases are all bullshit. Just like the words we try to use to describe the absolute dissolution of our lives as we have come to know them.
Who I am now, in the wake of my only child's death, is so far removed from who I was seven months ago that I cannot even begin to describe it. Every once in a while, I get a faint glimmer of that person, and instead of filling me with hope, it startles me. Looking in the mirror, I know who I'm looking at is me but the eyes are all wrong. There is a desperation, a hollowness. They are the eyes of a haunted individual and they give that person -- me -- away. I can smile (which feels revolting, most of the time) but the smile doesn't carry to my eyes. I have posed for a total of three photos in the seven months since Evelyn's death in August and I cannot look at them. I didn't want to take them but I gave in to appease someone else for two of them and the third was taken on my birthday so I gave it my best effort, despite how I truly felt, and smiled for the camera. It was a ruse but regardless, the photo exists. I turned 33 and there is a picture to prove it. We were with dear friends and I admit that I enjoyed the dinner and time we spent together because they are special, wonderful people who have so completely enveloped us in love following Evelyn's death, but I still felt completely uncomfortable smiling for that photo because what in the world do I have to smile about? My daughter is dead. The daughter we spent nearly nine years trying to conceive, the daughter we were supposed to welcome in to our family in December but instead, watched her be born too soon and then struggle to survive for just shy of nine hours, only to die in her daddy's arms. The daughter we will never again see in this life, the daughter we love as fiercely in death as we would have in life. People don't smile for photos when their child is dead. And yet, I guess people do. Because I did it. Because we are human beings and it's what human beings do. They celebrate milestones even if they don't want to, they say they are grateful for another year of life when it feels absolutely wrong that they have lived another year when their child got mere months. They feel desperately lost, the otherness of their situation and lives so utterly pervasive that they feel nearly inhuman at times, all the while going to work, shopping for groceries, going to doctor's appointments and conferences and tanking up their cars. They go out to dinner and to the library to check out another book or movie, the throngs of people around them completely oblivious to the person's pain because they wear their "functioning human" masks so convincingly. And they pose for photos, and they smile in spite of themselves. Because that's what people do.
----
I feel jumpy and on edge today, like all of the nerves in my body are humming. Evie was born seven months ago today and tomorrow will mark seven months since her passing. SEVEN MONTHS. It feels unbelievable to me that so much time has gone by since our world came crashing down. And yet, it's just the beginning, seven months is barely any time at all. One thing I know: I need to do good in Evelyn's name. It feels imperative and important, and it comforts me to reach out to others in similar circumstances. In honor of her due date, I organized a baby blanket drive in December for the two NICUs who cared for Evelyn in August as well as the bereavement program at the local hospital. I'm working on a donation to the local library children's book section in honor of Evie's first birthday this summer, as well as compiling an Amazon Wish list for bereavement care packages for parents who must leave the hospital following the death of their child. So I've come to understand what it is I must do with the immense love in my heart for our Evie Bee: give, do, love, help. As often and as far reaching as possible. It is my way of parenting her. I just wish I knew what to do with all of my bitterness and anger and rage. The fury at the unfairness of her death, and that she suffered as she struggled to survive. I am her mother and it was my job to save her and I couldn't do it. I am incensed that I could not save her, and it boils my blood that despite the many years it took to get her, the outcome is what it is. I understand that it's cathartic to get it out but in the end, it's still there, simmering just below the surface. I don't lash out at people, I don't answer how I'd like to when asked how I am. Because I know everyone is just trying their best and it's no one's responsibility but ours to learn to live with our daughter's death in a way that still allows us to lead meaningful lives. No one else is walking around with the pain of Evelyn's passing like an anvil clinging to their leg, threatening to pull them under if they stop dog paddling. That's us, and us alone. Yes, people feel for us. Especially those closest to the "epicenter" as it were. My parents and our closest family and friends. But everyone else? They are saddened that Evelyn died and wish so so much that she had lived, that our lives hadn't taken this dreadful turn. They wish that for us because they love us. But no one can fix it. This is an unfixable situation. And it is so incredibly lonely.
Monday, November 28, 2016
Where to begin - an update
It's been a long time. There is much to say. Too much. So much can change in 20 months...so much can change in a year...a half a year...a month...a week...a day...a moment.
We pursued IVF. We did it, took the plunge. We took out a massive loan and chased our dream. Four times. And it was on that 4th and final IVF round that our miracle finally found us. Our Evelyn. Our beautiful, perfect girl. Only, she was born too soon and though she fought so so hard, she was just too tiny. She lived 23 wks and 3 days inside of my womb and 8 hrs and 43 minutes outside of it. We will never, ever be the same.
I could spend every breath I take from now until my dying day trying to describe the level of pain and sorrow and devastation we feel, but it wouldn't be enough. It's never going to be enough. I went in to premature labor without cause and suffered a complete spontaneous placental abruption. There was nothing they could do to stop my labor and our Evie was born at 8:22 p.m. on August 15, 2016 via emergency c-section. She passed away at 5:05 a.m. the following morning. There are no words, only tears.
Evelyn was valiant in her fight for survival, stubborn and feisty. She was stabilized at one hospital and then airlifted to a higher level NICU an hour and a half away. I wasn't with her when she died but Jason was -- I said goodbye to my daughter via Google chat. Those images of her final moments are forever etched in to his brain and they haunt him but we know his presence was a blessing, as neither of us would have wanted her to pass on without one of us there with her. She died cradled in her daddy's arms, enveloped in love. Before she was airlifted, the NICU team wheeled her in to my recovery room so I could meet my daughter for the first time. I could not see her in her isolette but Jason guided my hand through the hole in the side so she could hold my finger. He says she did, though I could not feel it, her hand was so tiny. I wish I could have seen her face-to-face before she passed, but Jason did: he sang to her, spoke her name aloud to her over and over and told her how much we loved her, how cherished and beloved she was, encouraging her to keep fighting to survive. And her will was so strong. She kept fighting until she simply couldn't any longer and I told her over the phone that it was okay to let go, that we loved her so so much and always will, that we understood that she was tired and needed to let go. That was the hardest thing I'd ever done...until the following day when WE had to let her go, forever.
The NICU cut through red tape to allow Jason to drive her body back to the hospital where I was and where she had been born so I could hold her and finally see her beautiful face. We spent just short of 24 hours together as a family of three, holding her, singing to her and playing her music, rocking her, reading her some of my favorite children's books. Yes, she had already passed away but we needed to make those memories together. There are no words to describe how it feels to hold your deceased child, the one you had felt kicking the day before, the one who you had been dreaming about, wishing for, trying so very hard to conceive for over 8 years. There just are no words. The funeral director arrived on Wednesday, August 17 and it was then that we were asked to do the hardest thing we've ever had to do: say goodbye to our child, forever. I begged him not to take her, begged him. The finality of handing over our baby, knowing that when he walked out that door, that there was NO going back, that we would never lay eyes on her precious face in this life again, that her body would be reduced to ash...it is misery beyond comprehension, pain beyond pain. It felt as though my heart had literally been ripped from my body, and then shattered like glass. The sounds emitted from my mouth were other-worldly. I do not wish that kind of anguish on any one. Jason and I just held each other, sobbing and screaming for our girl. I do not remember much else about that day.
The level of devastation we feel is absolute. It took us 8 long years to find our miracle and miracles aren't supposed to die. And yet, ours did. 5 of my friends have gone on to have their children since Evelyn's passing and though I am relieved for them that their children did not perish as ours did, my heart can't help but ask, "Why not Evelyn, too?" Why did our child have to die? There are no answers and yet I keep asking. And I think I always will. I look for her everywhere, and find her nowhere. I wish I felt her presence but I do not. Perhaps the pain is too fresh. Her due date was December 9 and that is a mere 12 days away. I feel an emptiness that I thought could go no deeper.
There will be no more fertility treatments. There will likely be no more pregnancies. As we were given a 9% change of ever conceiving on our own, I cannot imagine it happening now. And if it were to somehow occur, by some other miracle down the road, I cannot imagine the fear we would feel in our hearts. Because going in to premature labor once increases the odds of it happening again. Because a placental abruption once increases the odds of it occurring in another pregnancy. I cannot fathom ever going through what we have again.
For the first time in almost 9 years, we are without a plan. We are heavily, deeply grieving for our girl and so short of funding it's absolutely impossible to imagine entering in to the path of adoption (though that will be our next step when we are ready). And it's all just too much. So much pain. So much sorrow. So much anger. Why Evelyn? Why us? Haven't we gone through enough? Wasn't it our turn for a happy ending? The nightmare was supposed to be over and somehow, it's just beginning. I look at her urn sitting atop her sunny yellow dresser and it's just all wrong. I cannot believe our child is in that cold, metal box instead of in our arms.
Life can and does turn on a dime. We have less control than we ever thought imaginable. And it is terrifying. Terrifying to look towards your future and not be able to envision how it will unfold. To know what your heart desires but be so uncertain as to how it will come to pass. To know that you will spend every day of your life missing your child because they are a vital part of you that is now gone. To be haunted by what has happened and not be able to change the outcome. To feel like a piece of you is missing and know that it will likely always feel that way, although mercifully not as acute. To know that with every family photo we take in the years that lie ahead, there will be a beautiful face absent from the rest. I've never been so scared, or felt so hopeless.
And yet a part of me knows --deep down-- that hope will surface again one day. I know this because I know that Evelyn would never want us to spend the rest of our days in misery, missing out on our one precious life and I know this because I promised her we'd grieve for her as healthfully as we can, and I have no intention of breaking that promise. I know this because our new mission in life is to honor her memory as often as we can, and lying down and giving up would never be what she would want for her parents. We just have to allow ourselves the time to heal, and though it will be a lifelong process, it is a journey we must take. One day, one step, at a time. I miss my girl with every breath I take and with every beat of my heart.
Yes, so much can change in 20 months, a year, a half a year, a month, a week, a day, a moment. So very, very much.
We pursued IVF. We did it, took the plunge. We took out a massive loan and chased our dream. Four times. And it was on that 4th and final IVF round that our miracle finally found us. Our Evelyn. Our beautiful, perfect girl. Only, she was born too soon and though she fought so so hard, she was just too tiny. She lived 23 wks and 3 days inside of my womb and 8 hrs and 43 minutes outside of it. We will never, ever be the same.
I could spend every breath I take from now until my dying day trying to describe the level of pain and sorrow and devastation we feel, but it wouldn't be enough. It's never going to be enough. I went in to premature labor without cause and suffered a complete spontaneous placental abruption. There was nothing they could do to stop my labor and our Evie was born at 8:22 p.m. on August 15, 2016 via emergency c-section. She passed away at 5:05 a.m. the following morning. There are no words, only tears.
Evelyn was valiant in her fight for survival, stubborn and feisty. She was stabilized at one hospital and then airlifted to a higher level NICU an hour and a half away. I wasn't with her when she died but Jason was -- I said goodbye to my daughter via Google chat. Those images of her final moments are forever etched in to his brain and they haunt him but we know his presence was a blessing, as neither of us would have wanted her to pass on without one of us there with her. She died cradled in her daddy's arms, enveloped in love. Before she was airlifted, the NICU team wheeled her in to my recovery room so I could meet my daughter for the first time. I could not see her in her isolette but Jason guided my hand through the hole in the side so she could hold my finger. He says she did, though I could not feel it, her hand was so tiny. I wish I could have seen her face-to-face before she passed, but Jason did: he sang to her, spoke her name aloud to her over and over and told her how much we loved her, how cherished and beloved she was, encouraging her to keep fighting to survive. And her will was so strong. She kept fighting until she simply couldn't any longer and I told her over the phone that it was okay to let go, that we loved her so so much and always will, that we understood that she was tired and needed to let go. That was the hardest thing I'd ever done...until the following day when WE had to let her go, forever.
The NICU cut through red tape to allow Jason to drive her body back to the hospital where I was and where she had been born so I could hold her and finally see her beautiful face. We spent just short of 24 hours together as a family of three, holding her, singing to her and playing her music, rocking her, reading her some of my favorite children's books. Yes, she had already passed away but we needed to make those memories together. There are no words to describe how it feels to hold your deceased child, the one you had felt kicking the day before, the one who you had been dreaming about, wishing for, trying so very hard to conceive for over 8 years. There just are no words. The funeral director arrived on Wednesday, August 17 and it was then that we were asked to do the hardest thing we've ever had to do: say goodbye to our child, forever. I begged him not to take her, begged him. The finality of handing over our baby, knowing that when he walked out that door, that there was NO going back, that we would never lay eyes on her precious face in this life again, that her body would be reduced to ash...it is misery beyond comprehension, pain beyond pain. It felt as though my heart had literally been ripped from my body, and then shattered like glass. The sounds emitted from my mouth were other-worldly. I do not wish that kind of anguish on any one. Jason and I just held each other, sobbing and screaming for our girl. I do not remember much else about that day.
The level of devastation we feel is absolute. It took us 8 long years to find our miracle and miracles aren't supposed to die. And yet, ours did. 5 of my friends have gone on to have their children since Evelyn's passing and though I am relieved for them that their children did not perish as ours did, my heart can't help but ask, "Why not Evelyn, too?" Why did our child have to die? There are no answers and yet I keep asking. And I think I always will. I look for her everywhere, and find her nowhere. I wish I felt her presence but I do not. Perhaps the pain is too fresh. Her due date was December 9 and that is a mere 12 days away. I feel an emptiness that I thought could go no deeper.
There will be no more fertility treatments. There will likely be no more pregnancies. As we were given a 9% change of ever conceiving on our own, I cannot imagine it happening now. And if it were to somehow occur, by some other miracle down the road, I cannot imagine the fear we would feel in our hearts. Because going in to premature labor once increases the odds of it happening again. Because a placental abruption once increases the odds of it occurring in another pregnancy. I cannot fathom ever going through what we have again.
For the first time in almost 9 years, we are without a plan. We are heavily, deeply grieving for our girl and so short of funding it's absolutely impossible to imagine entering in to the path of adoption (though that will be our next step when we are ready). And it's all just too much. So much pain. So much sorrow. So much anger. Why Evelyn? Why us? Haven't we gone through enough? Wasn't it our turn for a happy ending? The nightmare was supposed to be over and somehow, it's just beginning. I look at her urn sitting atop her sunny yellow dresser and it's just all wrong. I cannot believe our child is in that cold, metal box instead of in our arms.
Life can and does turn on a dime. We have less control than we ever thought imaginable. And it is terrifying. Terrifying to look towards your future and not be able to envision how it will unfold. To know what your heart desires but be so uncertain as to how it will come to pass. To know that you will spend every day of your life missing your child because they are a vital part of you that is now gone. To be haunted by what has happened and not be able to change the outcome. To feel like a piece of you is missing and know that it will likely always feel that way, although mercifully not as acute. To know that with every family photo we take in the years that lie ahead, there will be a beautiful face absent from the rest. I've never been so scared, or felt so hopeless.
And yet a part of me knows --deep down-- that hope will surface again one day. I know this because I know that Evelyn would never want us to spend the rest of our days in misery, missing out on our one precious life and I know this because I promised her we'd grieve for her as healthfully as we can, and I have no intention of breaking that promise. I know this because our new mission in life is to honor her memory as often as we can, and lying down and giving up would never be what she would want for her parents. We just have to allow ourselves the time to heal, and though it will be a lifelong process, it is a journey we must take. One day, one step, at a time. I miss my girl with every breath I take and with every beat of my heart.
Yes, so much can change in 20 months, a year, a half a year, a month, a week, a day, a moment. So very, very much.
Monday, March 23, 2015
Are you there, God? It's me, Melissa.
There have been times throughout this journey that I have thought, maybe, just maybe, if we were to go back to church, or made a concerted effort to pray more, we would get pregnant. Maybe God's punishing us for not taking a seat in His house every Sunday, or for not talking to Him as much as we used to. I know that's not rational and I know that's not how it works but when you're desperate, you begin to think anything and everything matters and if it can be changed or added/deleted from your life or routine in a direction that *might* increase your chances of pregnancy, you do it. You believe it. You HAVE to. Why? Because you're looking for a reason, any reason, that would explain the unexplainable, which in our case was and is, "Why can't we get pregnant?"
IVF is looming. It is next for us, whenever we pick up the gauntlet again. Sometime this year, most likely. There are a lot of variables that need to fall in to place first but regardless, it's going to happen. And I'm scared. Terrified, actually. And not just for the medical and physical aspects of the process, either -- that's all bad enough. But also for the looong line of what if's that haunt me ---> what if it doesn't work? What if we put every cent we have in to it and still, we are childless? What if I have another miscarriage? What if they find out my eggs aren't any good? What if I have several miscarriages? What if it works a little too well and we're faced with a whole new set of challenges and risks that one faces when they're a petite woman with a heart health history who finds herself pregnant with multiples? I'm scared, and I'm anxious. But more than anything, I want to believe with all that I am that it will work, without all the what if's clouding my brain.
And so, I begin again:
Are you there, God? It's me, Melissa. Remember me? We talked a LOT in the latter part of 2009. Well, I mostly yelled and you mostly listened. And then I did a lot of pleading, and some bargaining. I promised you that if you let me live, I would, in turn, really try my best to LIVE my life to the best of my ability. I would be more joyful, more appreciative, worry less (still working on that one!) and love harder. I would try new things, not take people, experiences or things for granted, and I would strive for contentedness because just to be alive is a grand thing indeed. I haven't forgotten my promise and I haven't forgotten your mercy...even though I got pretty angry at you again two years later in the Fall of 2011. You know why. But I am working on my forgiveness, as our little one, for whatever reason, was not meant to be and we are not meant to understand why. And so I find myself once again in a position of begging and pleading for a miracle.
Oh God, please. Just let this work. Please oh please. Calm my mind and spirit and give us the strength to endure through this next phase of the process and allow us to have faith in your timing and not lose sight of the bigger picture. Please stay with me when I am feeling lost and shrunken by despair. If this ends up being yet another long and winding road in our journey-turned-odyssey to parenthood, please don't give up on me, even if I get angry and lash out, because it is then that I am most in need of your mercy and love.
********
I know we can do this. I know I can summon the inner strength to continue on through all of the poking and prodding because I know that someway, somehow, at the end of this particular road is our child. And that knowledge is what gets me through the harder moments. Some time ago, I lost sight of the vision I used to hold of our child. It started out strong in 2008 and then wavered through 2010, burst to life in 2011 and then crumbled into dust just a few short weeks later and never really returned. Until now. The vision is beginning to take shape again. I can see a bright light at the end of the tunnel and there is a shimmering outline of a child there who calls us mom and dad.
We're coming, baby. We're coming for you. And you'll be more than worth the wait.
IVF is looming. It is next for us, whenever we pick up the gauntlet again. Sometime this year, most likely. There are a lot of variables that need to fall in to place first but regardless, it's going to happen. And I'm scared. Terrified, actually. And not just for the medical and physical aspects of the process, either -- that's all bad enough. But also for the looong line of what if's that haunt me ---> what if it doesn't work? What if we put every cent we have in to it and still, we are childless? What if I have another miscarriage? What if they find out my eggs aren't any good? What if I have several miscarriages? What if it works a little too well and we're faced with a whole new set of challenges and risks that one faces when they're a petite woman with a heart health history who finds herself pregnant with multiples? I'm scared, and I'm anxious. But more than anything, I want to believe with all that I am that it will work, without all the what if's clouding my brain.
And so, I begin again:
Are you there, God? It's me, Melissa. Remember me? We talked a LOT in the latter part of 2009. Well, I mostly yelled and you mostly listened. And then I did a lot of pleading, and some bargaining. I promised you that if you let me live, I would, in turn, really try my best to LIVE my life to the best of my ability. I would be more joyful, more appreciative, worry less (still working on that one!) and love harder. I would try new things, not take people, experiences or things for granted, and I would strive for contentedness because just to be alive is a grand thing indeed. I haven't forgotten my promise and I haven't forgotten your mercy...even though I got pretty angry at you again two years later in the Fall of 2011. You know why. But I am working on my forgiveness, as our little one, for whatever reason, was not meant to be and we are not meant to understand why. And so I find myself once again in a position of begging and pleading for a miracle.
Oh God, please. Just let this work. Please oh please. Calm my mind and spirit and give us the strength to endure through this next phase of the process and allow us to have faith in your timing and not lose sight of the bigger picture. Please stay with me when I am feeling lost and shrunken by despair. If this ends up being yet another long and winding road in our journey-turned-odyssey to parenthood, please don't give up on me, even if I get angry and lash out, because it is then that I am most in need of your mercy and love.
********
I know we can do this. I know I can summon the inner strength to continue on through all of the poking and prodding because I know that someway, somehow, at the end of this particular road is our child. And that knowledge is what gets me through the harder moments. Some time ago, I lost sight of the vision I used to hold of our child. It started out strong in 2008 and then wavered through 2010, burst to life in 2011 and then crumbled into dust just a few short weeks later and never really returned. Until now. The vision is beginning to take shape again. I can see a bright light at the end of the tunnel and there is a shimmering outline of a child there who calls us mom and dad.
We're coming, baby. We're coming for you. And you'll be more than worth the wait.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Six Hurtful Phrases
I follow Resolve on Facebook and they are pretty good about posting relevant articles about infertility issues. Today's article was this. Change 'career' to 'yourself,' 'each other,' or 'time to do other things,' in the "Aren't you glad you have more time for your career?' one and I've heard them all and so many more. I understand that no harm is meant but it hurts nonetheless. Heck, most people don't even know we're going through infertility (although many couples aren't married as long as we have been without a child being added in to the mix...) so how would they know to be sensitive? This article could have been written better but the gist is clear: if you don't know a couple's story (but especially if you do!) please remember to try and be sensitive and think before you speak...a good rule to apply to life in general!
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
I just want to be a mom - is that so terrible?
My father-in-law would love to see me pursue an advanced degree once Jason graduates with his doctorate this coming May. In fact, he's counting on it. But what he fails to see is that what works for one person may not for another. I have no desire to pursue my Master's. It would be an immense waste of time, money, and energy. For me. For Jason, his Master's was a gateway to what he ultimately wanted to become: a professor of music. And he will achieve that goal in just three short months after five laborious years. But his passion for the subject, and his own drive to achieve his ultimate goal pushed him ever onward. You need that when you're reaching for those stars. As for me, I am happy with my Bachelors. If I wanted to get a Master's in creative writing, I would first of all need to have a desire to either teach writing or write professionally...I would love to write children's books and have a memoir-type book in the works related to heart health but I'm not going to be an Author. Author with a capitol 'A'. At least not at this stage of my life. Secondly, if I didn't want to teach writing or write professionally, I would need to switch gears entirely and opt for something else in a related field of study.
When my father-in-law first mentioned his want for me to go to grad school a few years ago, I approached the idea with trepidation but I was still young-ish and thought, "Well, maybe by some miracle the fertility treatments will work and we'll have a little one soon and when they're in pre-school perhaps I'll be ready." So I dug around a bit and found that I had some interest in a Master's in Children's Literature. But then we had our miscarriage. And then and then and then. Fast forward four years and we're still without child and we have a mountain of debt because Jason has spent the last five years pursuing his doctorate which has meant we've had to make due on my very meager income. All of which my father-in-law fails to consider, because just last month he mentioned grad school to me again. "Once Jason graduates, it'll be your turn." Despite the fact that I have repeatedly told him, very kindly -- a few times kindly and firmly -- that I really have no interest. We really don't have the money. I really don't want to get my Master's. Really, I don't. And yet, I feel guilty. Because sometimes I feel like I should want more. And once upon a time, I did want more. I look around and so many of my friends have advanced degrees or licenses {and children} and then there's me.
But my priorities have shifted and I have my reasons.
My biggest reason? I just want to be a mom. And for us, that means money. For us, that means taking any "extra" we have and putting it towards IVF or surrogacy or adoption. I'm turning 31 one week from today. I no longer have the luxury of time that even our fertility doctors felt compelled to tell us I had because I'm not 24 anymore. We started this journey six years ago and we are no closer today than we were then.
Motherhood. That's my dream. That's what I want. Parenthood. That's our dream. That's what WE want. So once we're back to a double income, that's what our money will be put towards. It's time.
Is that so terrible?
When my father-in-law first mentioned his want for me to go to grad school a few years ago, I approached the idea with trepidation but I was still young-ish and thought, "Well, maybe by some miracle the fertility treatments will work and we'll have a little one soon and when they're in pre-school perhaps I'll be ready." So I dug around a bit and found that I had some interest in a Master's in Children's Literature. But then we had our miscarriage. And then and then and then. Fast forward four years and we're still without child and we have a mountain of debt because Jason has spent the last five years pursuing his doctorate which has meant we've had to make due on my very meager income. All of which my father-in-law fails to consider, because just last month he mentioned grad school to me again. "Once Jason graduates, it'll be your turn." Despite the fact that I have repeatedly told him, very kindly -- a few times kindly and firmly -- that I really have no interest. We really don't have the money. I really don't want to get my Master's. Really, I don't. And yet, I feel guilty. Because sometimes I feel like I should want more. And once upon a time, I did want more. I look around and so many of my friends have advanced degrees or licenses {and children} and then there's me.
But my priorities have shifted and I have my reasons.
My biggest reason? I just want to be a mom. And for us, that means money. For us, that means taking any "extra" we have and putting it towards IVF or surrogacy or adoption. I'm turning 31 one week from today. I no longer have the luxury of time that even our fertility doctors felt compelled to tell us I had because I'm not 24 anymore. We started this journey six years ago and we are no closer today than we were then.
Motherhood. That's my dream. That's what I want. Parenthood. That's our dream. That's what WE want. So once we're back to a double income, that's what our money will be put towards. It's time.
Is that so terrible?
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
In Which I Declare My Intentions
I have a confession to make, and really, it's not unexpected:
I'm DONE with being childless. Six (going on seven) years is six years far too long. I feel this way throughout the year but the holidays only exacerbate it.
I want this Christmas to be the LAST one we spend without some idea of when or how our family will be expanded. I fully understand that come Christmas 2015, it is nearly 100% unlikely that we'll have a child in our arms, or even one on the way (what with our move following Jason's graduation and starting our new life in a new place and all the upheaval that comes with that. including but not limited to our extreme lack of funds) but I'd like to be actively trying again. I'd like to be seeing a new RE and getting to the bottom of why we can't conceive and what needs to be done to remedy that. And I fully understand it won't be easy. I'm not naive. Jaded, perhaps. But naive, no. We're ready to explore the reality of IVF. I'm ready to undergo further testing. Maybe this time, at the age of 31, we'll be taken seriously. I never felt we were at the two other clinics we went to, as we were 24 years old the first time, and 27 the second time. Even though nothing was working, and there was no clear explanation, we were told time and again, "but you're young, you still have time." We were even told that following our miscarriage, right after, "This is progress. At least you got pregnant this time."
The time we've spent in Indiana has been precious. We've healed and have taken some time away from the pressures, emotions, and let-downs of infertility. We desperately needed the break and we're better for having taken it. Our relationship with ourselves and each other is stronger and better because of it and I'm so grateful and thankful for the perspective and for the mental place the space allowed me to arrive at. It was all necessary and we wouldn't change our decision. That being said...
2015 is the year that's going to find us back on the road to baby. Somehow, some way, we're going to be parents. We're ready. It's so past due it's painful. We've been married eight years. I know that life isn't a race and we're all on our own journeys but our hearts are bursting with love to give to a child. I can't explain how it feels. I can only try and share with you what my heart knows to be true, without reservation or hesitation or fear: it's time.
It may take us a year, it will most likely take us more. But this is the beginning of the end of the childless years.
I'm DONE with being childless. Six (going on seven) years is six years far too long. I feel this way throughout the year but the holidays only exacerbate it.
I want this Christmas to be the LAST one we spend without some idea of when or how our family will be expanded. I fully understand that come Christmas 2015, it is nearly 100% unlikely that we'll have a child in our arms, or even one on the way (what with our move following Jason's graduation and starting our new life in a new place and all the upheaval that comes with that. including but not limited to our extreme lack of funds) but I'd like to be actively trying again. I'd like to be seeing a new RE and getting to the bottom of why we can't conceive and what needs to be done to remedy that. And I fully understand it won't be easy. I'm not naive. Jaded, perhaps. But naive, no. We're ready to explore the reality of IVF. I'm ready to undergo further testing. Maybe this time, at the age of 31, we'll be taken seriously. I never felt we were at the two other clinics we went to, as we were 24 years old the first time, and 27 the second time. Even though nothing was working, and there was no clear explanation, we were told time and again, "but you're young, you still have time." We were even told that following our miscarriage, right after, "This is progress. At least you got pregnant this time."
The time we've spent in Indiana has been precious. We've healed and have taken some time away from the pressures, emotions, and let-downs of infertility. We desperately needed the break and we're better for having taken it. Our relationship with ourselves and each other is stronger and better because of it and I'm so grateful and thankful for the perspective and for the mental place the space allowed me to arrive at. It was all necessary and we wouldn't change our decision. That being said...
2015 is the year that's going to find us back on the road to baby. Somehow, some way, we're going to be parents. We're ready. It's so past due it's painful. We've been married eight years. I know that life isn't a race and we're all on our own journeys but our hearts are bursting with love to give to a child. I can't explain how it feels. I can only try and share with you what my heart knows to be true, without reservation or hesitation or fear: it's time.
It may take us a year, it will most likely take us more. But this is the beginning of the end of the childless years.
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