Somehow, despite having to pay $476 for car repairs, Saturday started out okay. We slept in, we saved $6 at Petco (it's the little things, more and more), and we treated ourselves to a bit of frozen yogurt. Then we trooped over to Goodwill in search of a basket and walked out with $10 worth of goodies -- a $3 coffee pot for my husband's office, a few movies, and the basket we'd gone in for in the first place. Then we picked up my car from the shop, paid the bill, and headed to the grocery store, the final stop on our errands list.
And the store even started out okay: they were out of regular zucchini but they gave us the organic zucchini for the non-organic price. They had bags of cherries on sale, which are a favorite seasonal snack of mine. And then... "Oh HEY you guys, how ARE you?" An acquaintance of ours is ambling over, enormous smile on his face, his sing-song greeting ringing like a gong in my ears. I turn and there's his wife, across the produce section, equally huge grin on her face, waving her arms at me.
{Some background so the following makes more sense. These people are family friends. They are some of my brother-in-law and sister-in-law's closest friends and we've been social with them on and off for the past decade or so. They live about 3 miles from our house, we all work at the same university, we're all friends on social media, and J's brother stayed with them when he flew in for Evelyn's funeral last August. So, they know our daughter died. The last time we saw them, we opened up about our infertility battle and shared that we were about to start the IVF process. And...we haven't heard one word from them since Evie died. Nothing. Ever. In 9 months' time.}
The conversation in front of the bananas unfolded something like this (these people that we know are denoted by #1 -wife- and #2 - husband-):
#2: "Oh HEY you guys, how ARE you?"
J: "Oh hey, {insert guy's name}, well, you know, we're just..."
#2{interrupting}: "Yea, you know, we're just in such a rush today, our daughter's birthday is coming up and we're just in a frenzy trying to figure everything out. You know how it is." What?
#1 {wheeling their cart over}: "So how ARE you guys, huh? What's been going on?"
Me: "Well, you know, we're..."
#1 {interrupting}: Did {insert husbands name} tell you about {insert child's name} birthday? She's going to be FIVE this year, can you believe it? Time really flies..."
Me: "Yea, wow, that's great, she's really gotten so big." The little girl is hiding behind her dad's legs, little brother peering around from behind her.
#2: "Well, it's good to see you guys, we'd better keep moving." Starts herding kids away from us.
#1: {Giving me a sad face, yes, THAT one}: "Yea, take care, you guys, bye."
They couldn't get away from us fast enough.
*An aside: We know these conversations can be difficult. We know that it can be hard to know what to say. But a simple, "We're so sorry," or "We've been thinking about you guys," would have meant so much to us. There are no magic words, nothing that can ever fix this. All we're ever really hoping for is a hug or a kind word. Compassion. We don't need or even necessarily want to launch in to the details of what happened with each "new" person we encounter post-Evelyn's passing -- especially in a public place -- but we live this grief every day and hoping people can set aside any discomfort for a few minutes to try and connect with us doesn't seem like too much to ask.
We were stunned. We just stood there for awhile, mouths agape, jaws slack. I looked at J and said, "What the hell was that?" Not knowing what else to do, we turned our cart and made way for the bulk section. Insensitive encounter aside, I needed walnuts and peanuts.
And, empty bins. Apparently, we'd stumbled upon bin cleaning day, because a guy is painstakingly cleaning out each and every bulk bin with a rag. No walnuts, no peanuts. No nothing.
Which apparently meant we needed to talk about what had just happened some more.
"You know, that was really, really shitty."
"I know," he replied. "It's like they say, people show you who they truly are in situations like ours."
"I mean, who DOES that? They haven't said a damn thing to us, haven't reached out at ALL and they KNOW, Jason, they KNOW that Evelyn died, they KNOW and they said NOTHING. Like it didn't happen, like she didn't matter." Tears were springing to my eyes fast and hot and then something pinged inside my head and I knew what I had to do. I started striding down the aisle. "Where are you going," J asked, "honey, wait, where are you going?"
But I was on a mission, my whole body abuzz with fury. I was going to find these people and I was going to let them see my tears, going to tell them how their silence and their "How ARE you's" with their big stupid grins really made us feel. I could hear J calling my name, the cart picking up speed behind me as he was trying to catch up and calm me down. Where WERE they? Did they just run out of the store? Had we spooked them that much? We'd both felt it, the palpable "oh shit, we don't know what to say to these people." We saw how they'd clutched their children to themselves to keep them from getting too close. It felt like they were herding them away before our disease, our "children die around us" disease, could infect their kids and take them away too. Their too-bright grins oozed falseness. They looked ridiculous and scared to find themselves face-to-face with the cautionary tale of all cautionary tales.
Finally, I stopped. I feel J gather me up in his arms and I lose it, right there in the store, in the meat section in front of a display of salsa and sauces. I'm sobbing and saying over and over into his shoulder, "She mattered, Evelyn mattered." People are staring and at first, I don't care. And then...I do. I'm filled with shame, embarrassed about the scene I'm making. I know in my heart that I have every right to break down, that it's pretty amazing that this is the first time in 9 months that I've lost it in public, especially considering the magnitude of the loss and how many MANY triggers there are in any given day. But a grocery store of people are now bearing witness to that grief, and I'm suddenly very aware of myself. I have never felt so "other" in my life.
"I'm sorry," I say, over and over, "People are staring at us." Keeping my eyes trained on the floor, tears were streaming down my face and pooling on the lenses of my glasses. Defeated and deflated, I began trying to will people to look away.
"It's okay, honey. These people don't matter, we're never going to see them again anyway." And then I'm suddenly overcome with a new sensation. I need to see her. Pulling my phone from my purse, I find what I'm looking for and I just stare at it, sobs wracking my body. Her face, her beautiful face. "She mattered," I sobbed. "I know, honey, " J replied, rubbing my back. "I know."
Monday, May 22, 2017
Monday, April 10, 2017
For Someone Else
This life we've been given, it's for us and us alone. I know that, and to some degree, I'm learning to adapt to it. And yet, there are pieces of my heart that I know will always ask the unanswerable: why? Why not us? Why always someone else? Why not Evelyn, too?
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
The Life I Almost Had
Her nursery is much like it was, with the exception of her crib, which we removed to the basement about two weeks after she passed away. Jason's best friend had flown in to support us and he took it apart because neither of us could bring ourselves to look at it let alone touch and disassemble it. But aside from the absence of the focal piece of furniture (and all it represented), Evelyn's nursery is much the same as it was. Rocking chair and side table in the corner, specially-made bedding {our one splurge} I designed with a quilter in Greece folded with care and anticipation on the rocking chair, accent wall painted a pensive dark grey, sunny yellow dresser/changing table, light gray blackout curtains, a standing lamp, and the bookshelves Jason had lovingly made his daughter with his own two hands. The shelves are filled with the children's books I've collected over the years, which, incidentally, was the theme of Evie's room. Aside from finishing touches -- framed prints of female characters from some of my favorite children's books one click away from being ordered, another shelving unit behind the rocking chair made from a pallet to be filled with knickknacks and stuffed animals, etc -- her room was just about ready. All that was missing was her. Our Evelyn. Our long-awaited, hard-fought miracle. Just mere months away...
Evelyn is indeed in her room now, but not at all in the way we'd planned. Hoped. Dreamed. Imagined. Instead of finding her napping in her crib or lovingly cradled in our arms as we rock her to sleep or doing a bit of tummy time on a blanket in the middle of the carpet, she is in the urn resting atop that same sunny yellow dresser which was supposed to be where we kept her onesies and burp clothes and spare wipes, and where we changed her diaper. Instead of butt paste and diapers, a changing pad and side lamp, there is Evelyn in her urn, a bouquet of fresh flowers (always), a few precious photographs, several figures of birds and angels and hearts, her memory box from the hospital, an owl doll a dear friend started to make for her when she was still in utero and finished and gifted us following her passing, her Evelyn Bear ordered from the Molly Bears organization, and a blanket my best friend's mother made her/us hanging like a banner from the top shelves: E V I E.
Our beloved child is reduced to ash and forever entombed in a cold, brushed-gold metal box, a quote from one of the books on the bookshelf above inscribed on top.This life is nothing like the one we thought we'd have. The life we, quite frankly, thought we deserved after so many long, difficult years. Where is that life? Reduced to ash, just like our daughter.
So yes, I long for the life I almost had, and for the future that should have been ours and hers, together. As long as I live, I will never understand why this is the life and future we got instead.
One day at a time...
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.
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