Dear Santa,
I know I haven't written to you in a long time but this year I really, really want something, and I was hoping you could put in a good word for me.
I know, I know, when people ask me what I want for Christmas I usually tell them I want an iPod touch, or a copy of My Fair Lady, or Lego Rock Band or maybe even just a pair of fuzzy socks. Because you know how I love my fuzzy socks.
But that's not really what's at the top of my Christmas list this year.
Santa, this year I would like a firstborn child. I know it's a huge responsibility. But I'd take care of it myself. (Shallow Man would help.) And it's not just a toy, either. It's incredibly versatile. You can trade it in or sign it away for just about anything.
Or so I'm told. Because right now all I've got to barter with is that old standby, the pint of blood. Which is great and all, but I think I'd like to upgrade.
See, a lot of my friends have one. Some of them even have second-borns, you know, like as a back-up. And I want to be one of the cool kids. You know, because everybody's doing it.
I know some people might just ask for a positive pregnancy test, but I'm asking for the end product right now. Just to be safe. Because I had a whole bunch of positive tests back in May which say I should have 8/9ths of a firstborn right now. But apparently there was a recall on that particular model last July (and the same thing happened back in 2007 as well, if you remember), and I'd just rather not go through that again.
If you decide to give me an iPod touch as well, I won't complain, because it would be nice to have some tunes to listen to during all those sleepless nights, or at least to have one thing that will stop making noise at the time I designate, and where the only part that involves "changing" would be batteries.
But I'd rather have the firstborn child, if it's all the same to you. Heck, I'll even offer you a pint of blood and a . . . well, make that two pints of blood.
Respectfully and very hopefully yours, etc.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Broken
Since starting this blog, I have had the opportunity to talk to many amazing women who have or know someone who has some experiences with infertility or miscarriage. Each one's story is as different as each individual, but there are some common threads and themes running throughout. The discouragement and tears, the hopes and prayers, the struggle between supporting your child-bearing friends and family and grieving for your empty arms, the frustration with the instability of your emotions and how they make you suddenly and irrationally angry and resentful of the first random pregnant woman to pass by.
But overwhelmingly, the thing these women most often express is the feeling that they are somehow broken. I remember sitting in the exam room at the OB/GYN's office after we found out the first time that our dreams had just popped like a balloon, and the first thing I was able to whisper through the tears was, "I'm broken." He, of course, immediately and without hesitation reassured me that it wasn't true, admonishing me in the same breath not to say that again.
This, again, is the standard response of the husbands of these women. They love us no matter what our bodies can or cannot do. And that means the world to us, guys, it really does; but at the same time they don't quite understand. It's hard to shake the sensation that you're broken if one of the things that makes you essentially female just isn't working. That you and your body have, somehow, fundamentally failed. (I can just hear the pens of uber-feminists furiously scribbling over my choice of words at this point. All I can say is, if you've never had the overwhelming desire to do something you know you should be capable of naturally and consistently failed despite all you can do, you're more lucky than you know.)
It took us a year and a half between going off birth control and finally getting that first ill-fated plus sign. At first we thought it was just the after-effects of being on the pill for a couple of years, but it soon became painfully obvious that, no, I was not pregnant, and therefore the only explanation was that I was not ovulating, either. And oh, did I feel broken.
And then, one Sunday, the Relief Society lesson was about this talk. I sat in my little corner behind the piano (I was the permanent substitute pianist for the Relief Society the entire year we were living in that ward) and felt grateful, first, for waterproof mascara since the tears were freely flowing down my face and making puddles on my shirt, and second, for the inspiration of this talk:
It said exactly what I needed to hear that day, and I still can't read it without crying.
"If you feel you are broken, please know you can be mended."
"Broken Things to Mend," Elder Jeffrey R. Holland.
But overwhelmingly, the thing these women most often express is the feeling that they are somehow broken. I remember sitting in the exam room at the OB/GYN's office after we found out the first time that our dreams had just popped like a balloon, and the first thing I was able to whisper through the tears was, "I'm broken." He, of course, immediately and without hesitation reassured me that it wasn't true, admonishing me in the same breath not to say that again.
This, again, is the standard response of the husbands of these women. They love us no matter what our bodies can or cannot do. And that means the world to us, guys, it really does; but at the same time they don't quite understand. It's hard to shake the sensation that you're broken if one of the things that makes you essentially female just isn't working. That you and your body have, somehow, fundamentally failed. (I can just hear the pens of uber-feminists furiously scribbling over my choice of words at this point. All I can say is, if you've never had the overwhelming desire to do something you know you should be capable of naturally and consistently failed despite all you can do, you're more lucky than you know.)
It took us a year and a half between going off birth control and finally getting that first ill-fated plus sign. At first we thought it was just the after-effects of being on the pill for a couple of years, but it soon became painfully obvious that, no, I was not pregnant, and therefore the only explanation was that I was not ovulating, either. And oh, did I feel broken.
And then, one Sunday, the Relief Society lesson was about this talk. I sat in my little corner behind the piano (I was the permanent substitute pianist for the Relief Society the entire year we were living in that ward) and felt grateful, first, for waterproof mascara since the tears were freely flowing down my face and making puddles on my shirt, and second, for the inspiration of this talk:
The first words Jesus spoke in His majestic Sermon on the Mount were to the troubled, the discouraged and downhearted. “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” He said, “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Whether you are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints or among the tens of thousands listening this morning who are not of our faith, I speak to those who are facing personal trials and family struggles, those who endure conflicts fought in the lonely foxholes of the heart, those trying to hold back floodwaters of despair that sometimes wash over us like a tsunami of the soul. I wish to speak particularly to you who feel your lives are broken, seemingly beyond repair.
To all such I offer the surest and sweetest remedy that I know. It is found in the clarion call the Savior of the world Himself gave. He said it in the beginning of His ministry, and He said it in the end. He said it to believers, and He said it to those who were not so sure. He said to everyone, whatever their personal problems might be:
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls."
It said exactly what I needed to hear that day, and I still can't read it without crying.
"If you feel you are broken, please know you can be mended."
"Broken Things to Mend," Elder Jeffrey R. Holland.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Raising Awareness
Well, you learn something new every day. Today I learned* that today, October 15th, is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. I've also heard it referred to as Miscarriage Awareness Day.
So take today to be aware. Statistics say that 1 in 3 (or 1 in 4) pregnancies end in miscarriage. In many of these cases, the women didn't even know they were pregnant because the loss occurred so early in the pregnancy. However, no matter how far along a woman is when she finds out that she has miscarried or will miscarry, it is devastating. I don't think any one miscarriage counts more than another for any reason: length of pregnancy, whether a D&C was required, one that bleeds out or one that just disappears. They're all gut-wrenching (sometimes literally) and it takes time to heal, mentally, spiritually and emotionally as well as physically.
For those of you who have not experienced miscarriage—and I pray you never do—take a moment to think about it. Raise your awareness. Make a goal to be more open and sensitive to others. Let's take away any traces of stigmatization. Let's recognize that miscarriage is no less real and heartbreaking just because you didn't meet the baby. Stop to think twice before you speak.
For those of you who have miscarried, do the same. Be aware of others who may be hurting or who may need help understanding what you are going through. You are in my thoughts. I know it's not something you ever truly get over, although you do learn to adjust to it. Remember that you are by no means alone; you are not the only person to go through this.
Let's all do what we can to raise awareness of pregnancy loss. Awareness and recognition raise understanding, which is something we ALL could use more of.
Thank you, and bless you all.
*Yup, I've already learned my something new for today and it's only 1:00 a.m. I'm good to go for another 24-hour learning-free period. Go me!
Monday, September 7, 2009
I have come to the conclusion . . .
. . . that there are two basic types of pregnant people (and I say "people" rather than "women" because their husbands/boyfriends/significant others do the same thing).
The first type of pregnant people are those who are normal, regular people who just happen to be growing an extra person inside them. It may come up in conversation, it may not. If it does, it doesn't feel like they're rubbing it in anyone's face; it's just how they happen to be. Hearing them talk about their pregnancy feels about as traumatizing as hearing them say they brushed their teeth that morning. It's just part of the regular routine and nothing to get worked up about.
They are the pregnant people I can hang out with and feel comfortable and not stressed. They're still fun to be with and easy to talk to. Heck, I could talk to them for hours about what color they're painting the nursery and still feel happy and zen and glad to know and be around them, and even be excited for their pregnancy, without grieving for my own.
The second kind are those who are HOLY CRAP I AM ****PREG-NANT***** AND DID I MENTION I AM PREGNANT? Everything is about them and their pregnancy. Because did you know they're PREGNANT? (Oh, and did I mention they're pregnant?) Just as nearly every Relief Society lesson in Utah County turns into "Why Being a Mother is Amazing," no matter where the conversation is going, these people are PREGNANT. "I went to the grocery store and I'm pregnant. I love the Red Hot Chili Peppers and I'm pregnant. The square root of 179 is 13.379088160259652 and I'm pregnant. We're living in nuclear winter and I'm pregnant. An asteroid is heading for the Earth with an imminent impact in 17 seconds but GUESS WHAT I AM PREGNAAAAAAAAANT!!!!! Isn't it SUCH A BLESSING TO BE PREGNANT?!?!"
Conversation with these people is no fun. It's an ordeal to be got through with plenty of clenched teeth and internal recitations of Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall or whatever other mantra will be sufficiently distracting. When I see these people coming I hide behind the nearest tree or duck into the next room or hallway because even a thirty second conversation with these people can shatter the delicate balance of my zen-itude for a week at a time. And by shatter I mean make me NEED to find the most fattening food available and wallow in it. Cry on and off for a day and a half. Sink, as Anne Shirley would say, into the depths of despair and start worrying that this will never happen, or it will happen again exactly like it did before, or that I'm not healing right, or, or, or, maybe I'd better start on that second pint of ice cream.
Because THEY ARE PREGNANT (and did they mention they were pregnant?).
And I'm not.
The first type of pregnant people are those who are normal, regular people who just happen to be growing an extra person inside them. It may come up in conversation, it may not. If it does, it doesn't feel like they're rubbing it in anyone's face; it's just how they happen to be. Hearing them talk about their pregnancy feels about as traumatizing as hearing them say they brushed their teeth that morning. It's just part of the regular routine and nothing to get worked up about.
They are the pregnant people I can hang out with and feel comfortable and not stressed. They're still fun to be with and easy to talk to. Heck, I could talk to them for hours about what color they're painting the nursery and still feel happy and zen and glad to know and be around them, and even be excited for their pregnancy, without grieving for my own.
The second kind are those who are HOLY CRAP I AM ****PREG-NANT***** AND DID I MENTION I AM PREGNANT? Everything is about them and their pregnancy. Because did you know they're PREGNANT? (Oh, and did I mention they're pregnant?) Just as nearly every Relief Society lesson in Utah County turns into "Why Being a Mother is Amazing," no matter where the conversation is going, these people are PREGNANT. "I went to the grocery store and I'm pregnant. I love the Red Hot Chili Peppers and I'm pregnant. The square root of 179 is 13.379088160259652 and I'm pregnant. We're living in nuclear winter and I'm pregnant. An asteroid is heading for the Earth with an imminent impact in 17 seconds but GUESS WHAT I AM PREGNAAAAAAAAANT!!!!! Isn't it SUCH A BLESSING TO BE PREGNANT?!?!"
Conversation with these people is no fun. It's an ordeal to be got through with plenty of clenched teeth and internal recitations of Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall or whatever other mantra will be sufficiently distracting. When I see these people coming I hide behind the nearest tree or duck into the next room or hallway because even a thirty second conversation with these people can shatter the delicate balance of my zen-itude for a week at a time. And by shatter I mean make me NEED to find the most fattening food available and wallow in it. Cry on and off for a day and a half. Sink, as Anne Shirley would say, into the depths of despair and start worrying that this will never happen, or it will happen again exactly like it did before, or that I'm not healing right, or, or, or, maybe I'd better start on that second pint of ice cream.
Because THEY ARE PREGNANT (and did they mention they were pregnant?).
And I'm not.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Two blankets
Shallow Man and I went on our honeymoon to Disneyland. While we were there, we started up a family tradition and bought a soft stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh doll and a cute little bib, I think with Piglet on it, to eventually give to our firstborn. We weren't expecting to have children right away but knew we wanted them at some point. So we decided that every vacation we went on, we would buy a Christmas ornament (really convenient because you can display them for a month and then put them back in storage) and something for a future baby.
Of course, we weren't expecting things to take so long.
I was cleaning out my office in our house last week and found a few of the baby items which I had been looking at a few weeks back but hadn't put away at the time. Probably because I had figured that they would have to be gotten out again before too much longer anyway, so may as well leave them out.
Since that trip to Disneyland, we've managed to amass a significant amount of baby items. Not enough to fill up a nursery or anything like that, but five years' worth of globe-trotting certainly adds up. Throughout the years new gifts have joined Pooh and his bib. A sippy cup from Disneyland Paris, a jester hat from Geneva, a stuffed bear from the USS Alabama (of all places!), tiny socks from Santiago saying "I (heart) Papi," a smattering of onesies with cute sayings on them from all over the South, a knit poncho and hat from Peru, and so forth. Some onesies from my sisters, which they painted for us (one with Piglet, one with Pom Pom) when they were making some for Christmas for my other sister and my sister-in-law when they were pregnant with their first children. (My mom had called me beforehand to make sure we'd be okay with it.)
And, most recently, two blankets. One is from my grandfather's house, which was cleaned out recently when he moved in with my aunt's family. It was my favorite blanket to use during naptime when my grandparents were babysitting me as a child, and I think my sister and I even had a few fights back then over who got to use it. It's a little blue quilt, bright blue on one side and blue-and-white checked on the other with a picture of a little smiling caterpillar. The picture is surrounded by the kind of lace that you imagine lining pioneer petticoats and the quilt is tied with fluffy white yarn all over. I can't imagine how it has lasted through so many years and so many grandchildren and still be in such good shape. I picked it out during the cleanup especially so I could use it for my coming little one.
During the course of that day, my two sweet aunts, who were spearheading the cleanup effort, brought a bag over to me that they'd found which had two baby blankets in it that my grandmother had made before she passed away. This was during the weekend of my orphanhood, so I was the appointed representative for my family in bringing back items designated for them. My aunt L said that the blankets were for my sister and sister-in-law (both expecting their second children), or for me if I wanted one, or whatever I wanted. We hadn't made the announcement at that point so I just said it was fine for them to go to the sisters. Aunt L gave me a hug and said she hoped it would happen for us soon. I smiled and thanked her, thinking of our secret.
My aunt M said that she had a blanket to give to me instead, and in the course of a few weeks said blanket was passed along to me. It's also pretty adorable, with a pink border and floating cows. When I got it I squished it a few times and thought about wrapping up a baby in it. Both blankets had been living in my office ever since, as I hadn't figured out where I wanted to put them yet.
I found them, along with the poncho and some onesies, and squished them again a few times. Then I wrapped them up in a plastic bag. I'll put them away with the other baby gifts tomorrow, where they can all start waiting again.
Of course, we weren't expecting things to take so long.
I was cleaning out my office in our house last week and found a few of the baby items which I had been looking at a few weeks back but hadn't put away at the time. Probably because I had figured that they would have to be gotten out again before too much longer anyway, so may as well leave them out.
Since that trip to Disneyland, we've managed to amass a significant amount of baby items. Not enough to fill up a nursery or anything like that, but five years' worth of globe-trotting certainly adds up. Throughout the years new gifts have joined Pooh and his bib. A sippy cup from Disneyland Paris, a jester hat from Geneva, a stuffed bear from the USS Alabama (of all places!), tiny socks from Santiago saying "I (heart) Papi," a smattering of onesies with cute sayings on them from all over the South, a knit poncho and hat from Peru, and so forth. Some onesies from my sisters, which they painted for us (one with Piglet, one with Pom Pom) when they were making some for Christmas for my other sister and my sister-in-law when they were pregnant with their first children. (My mom had called me beforehand to make sure we'd be okay with it.)
And, most recently, two blankets. One is from my grandfather's house, which was cleaned out recently when he moved in with my aunt's family. It was my favorite blanket to use during naptime when my grandparents were babysitting me as a child, and I think my sister and I even had a few fights back then over who got to use it. It's a little blue quilt, bright blue on one side and blue-and-white checked on the other with a picture of a little smiling caterpillar. The picture is surrounded by the kind of lace that you imagine lining pioneer petticoats and the quilt is tied with fluffy white yarn all over. I can't imagine how it has lasted through so many years and so many grandchildren and still be in such good shape. I picked it out during the cleanup especially so I could use it for my coming little one.
During the course of that day, my two sweet aunts, who were spearheading the cleanup effort, brought a bag over to me that they'd found which had two baby blankets in it that my grandmother had made before she passed away. This was during the weekend of my orphanhood, so I was the appointed representative for my family in bringing back items designated for them. My aunt L said that the blankets were for my sister and sister-in-law (both expecting their second children), or for me if I wanted one, or whatever I wanted. We hadn't made the announcement at that point so I just said it was fine for them to go to the sisters. Aunt L gave me a hug and said she hoped it would happen for us soon. I smiled and thanked her, thinking of our secret.
My aunt M said that she had a blanket to give to me instead, and in the course of a few weeks said blanket was passed along to me. It's also pretty adorable, with a pink border and floating cows. When I got it I squished it a few times and thought about wrapping up a baby in it. Both blankets had been living in my office ever since, as I hadn't figured out where I wanted to put them yet.
I found them, along with the poncho and some onesies, and squished them again a few times. Then I wrapped them up in a plastic bag. I'll put them away with the other baby gifts tomorrow, where they can all start waiting again.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Wherein the Husband Makes the Occasional Post on a "Family" Blog
Oh, you know how it is.
The husband (or simply "DH") drops by these blogs occasionally, writing a brief, disjointed comment or two, and then disappears for weeks at a time, with virtually no input.
You know, I just may end up doing that. It is, after all, tradition, and far be it from me to ignore tradition.
Which isn't to say I'm exactly a "traditional" guy on these blogs. I have no Utah roots by blood, and, culturally speaking, I suppose you could say I straddle the line somewhere between the South and the "Mormon culture" of Utah. I'm not sure what my role is here. Having met far too many sociology majors, I don't really buy into the sociological explanations as much, but I don't feel quite the same sense of "role" as many do.
As the "traditional" husband, and setting aside the grief for the moment, my feelings, thoughts, and concerns lay along the following lines:
1) A constant sense of arrested development
I'll be 28 at the end of this month. This certainly doesn't make me an "old" man by any stretch of the imagination. But I sure am a bit old to, say, go to the in-laws for Christmas. Every. Year.
Don't get me wrong - I have fantastic in-laws. And I've always enjoyed spending time with them, including holidays. But we're really getting to that point where it's time to leave the nest, to strike out on our own, to form our own "family". And, we do have our own "family". We are, of course, married, living together in the holy bonds of matrimony and what have you. But, as our roles in the home aren't particularly well-defined (thanks, 1960's!) and as there is little to structure to our days, we often seem to find ourselves slowly shifting from being "spouses" to being in some ways, like, well, roommates. Obviously, there are some pretty significant differences, but the basic concept is there.
Being a parent, on the other hand, brings meaning. It defines roles, creates expectations, and gives couples a reason for structure cause to rally behind. It brings you together in a way that wasn't possible before.
I think we're ready to be brought together like that - we just can't at this point. And that bothers me.
2) Pessimism and detachment
As if two people who have gone to law school and are only a year away from becoming full-fledged lawyers needed any more of this. Let's just say that "optimism" isn't exactly a word we've heard a lot lately. Lawyers make horrible businessmen. To the extent that lawyers recognize this, they succeed. Lawyers are trained to see risk, not opportunity; to look for problems, not solutions.
We've been here - twice. We've lost - twice.
When the third time comes around, I just don't see it being a happy event at this point. Not a time to ponder the joy that will happen in 9 months, but the pain that is certain to come around in a few weeks. And how to handle that inevitable pain. Sonograms and ultrasounds, those traditionally happy moments for parents, won't be opportunities to see the baby but to wait for the ax to fall. And why bother setting anything up if you're going to have to take it down? Why spread the "good news" if you've got to go through the awkward-for-all-parties reversal in just a few weeks?
And how will this affect attachment? Should we avoid giving out names? Thinking about the future? Wondering if "it" will be a boy or a girl? Will I view "it" as a wonderful person in utero or a devastating disappointment on the horizon?
I don't know.
3) Uncertainty
We're at a bit of a crossroads right now.
I was recently given a (conditional) offer to join the Foreign Service. To say that this process was long and difficult would be an understatement. But it's also been a dream of mine to join up and see the world, learn languages, and serve my country.
The problem, of course, is that I have no idea where we'll be sent. I know that we'll be in D.C. for 2-10 months, and then to the four winds. This means that access to fertility treatments and adoption processes will be unpredictable, to say the least.
As the side panel of the blog points out, we've been married for quite some time now. We're both ready to have a family. We don't want to delay this unnecessarily. This does not work well with the Foreign Service life of living in third world countries with little basic medical care, let alone fertility specialists. In some countries, I imagine the only fertility treatments available to us would involve dancing and chanting...
So the road to joining the Foreign Service may well have been a long, hard road to nowhere. If the service will effectively prevent us from having kids for the next five years (a not-unlikely conclusion), then, well, it just might not be for us.
But where does that leave us? What are we to do? What about the dream?
I don't know. A lot can happen between now and August 2010, the earliest I would ship out for training. But that also makes it hard for me to (honestly) shop for private sector jobs or plan anything. We've put off purchasing furniture, electronics, most any "heavy" objects, a car and a lot of other things all because we might be shipped to a country in 18 months where we couldn't take them with us. But that "might" is really bothering me right now. I don't like not knowing where I'll be. I don't like looking at an unruly stack of books on my desk and remembering that I might be moving across the country and across the world in a year's time, so I better not buy that bookcase.
And what if we stay here? Where will I work? Where will we live? How will we pay the bills? At what point do we decide the Foreign Service is a go, or not?
I have no idea. With the possible need for fertility treatments or adoption procedures ahead of us, I just can't say where we'll be or what we'll be doing in the next year, which has effectively put our lives on hold yet again - and may torpedo a dream.
So, those are the "DH"'s sily, selfish, decidedly male thoughts. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll let the missus wander back in here and fix things up.
The husband (or simply "DH") drops by these blogs occasionally, writing a brief, disjointed comment or two, and then disappears for weeks at a time, with virtually no input.
You know, I just may end up doing that. It is, after all, tradition, and far be it from me to ignore tradition.
Which isn't to say I'm exactly a "traditional" guy on these blogs. I have no Utah roots by blood, and, culturally speaking, I suppose you could say I straddle the line somewhere between the South and the "Mormon culture" of Utah. I'm not sure what my role is here. Having met far too many sociology majors, I don't really buy into the sociological explanations as much, but I don't feel quite the same sense of "role" as many do.
As the "traditional" husband, and setting aside the grief for the moment, my feelings, thoughts, and concerns lay along the following lines:
1) A constant sense of arrested development
I'll be 28 at the end of this month. This certainly doesn't make me an "old" man by any stretch of the imagination. But I sure am a bit old to, say, go to the in-laws for Christmas. Every. Year.
Don't get me wrong - I have fantastic in-laws. And I've always enjoyed spending time with them, including holidays. But we're really getting to that point where it's time to leave the nest, to strike out on our own, to form our own "family". And, we do have our own "family". We are, of course, married, living together in the holy bonds of matrimony and what have you. But, as our roles in the home aren't particularly well-defined (thanks, 1960's!) and as there is little to structure to our days, we often seem to find ourselves slowly shifting from being "spouses" to being in some ways, like, well, roommates. Obviously, there are some pretty significant differences, but the basic concept is there.
Being a parent, on the other hand, brings meaning. It defines roles, creates expectations, and gives couples a reason for structure cause to rally behind. It brings you together in a way that wasn't possible before.
I think we're ready to be brought together like that - we just can't at this point. And that bothers me.
2) Pessimism and detachment
As if two people who have gone to law school and are only a year away from becoming full-fledged lawyers needed any more of this. Let's just say that "optimism" isn't exactly a word we've heard a lot lately. Lawyers make horrible businessmen. To the extent that lawyers recognize this, they succeed. Lawyers are trained to see risk, not opportunity; to look for problems, not solutions.
We've been here - twice. We've lost - twice.
When the third time comes around, I just don't see it being a happy event at this point. Not a time to ponder the joy that will happen in 9 months, but the pain that is certain to come around in a few weeks. And how to handle that inevitable pain. Sonograms and ultrasounds, those traditionally happy moments for parents, won't be opportunities to see the baby but to wait for the ax to fall. And why bother setting anything up if you're going to have to take it down? Why spread the "good news" if you've got to go through the awkward-for-all-parties reversal in just a few weeks?
And how will this affect attachment? Should we avoid giving out names? Thinking about the future? Wondering if "it" will be a boy or a girl? Will I view "it" as a wonderful person in utero or a devastating disappointment on the horizon?
I don't know.
3) Uncertainty
We're at a bit of a crossroads right now.
I was recently given a (conditional) offer to join the Foreign Service. To say that this process was long and difficult would be an understatement. But it's also been a dream of mine to join up and see the world, learn languages, and serve my country.
The problem, of course, is that I have no idea where we'll be sent. I know that we'll be in D.C. for 2-10 months, and then to the four winds. This means that access to fertility treatments and adoption processes will be unpredictable, to say the least.
As the side panel of the blog points out, we've been married for quite some time now. We're both ready to have a family. We don't want to delay this unnecessarily. This does not work well with the Foreign Service life of living in third world countries with little basic medical care, let alone fertility specialists. In some countries, I imagine the only fertility treatments available to us would involve dancing and chanting...
So the road to joining the Foreign Service may well have been a long, hard road to nowhere. If the service will effectively prevent us from having kids for the next five years (a not-unlikely conclusion), then, well, it just might not be for us.
But where does that leave us? What are we to do? What about the dream?
I don't know. A lot can happen between now and August 2010, the earliest I would ship out for training. But that also makes it hard for me to (honestly) shop for private sector jobs or plan anything. We've put off purchasing furniture, electronics, most any "heavy" objects, a car and a lot of other things all because we might be shipped to a country in 18 months where we couldn't take them with us. But that "might" is really bothering me right now. I don't like not knowing where I'll be. I don't like looking at an unruly stack of books on my desk and remembering that I might be moving across the country and across the world in a year's time, so I better not buy that bookcase.
And what if we stay here? Where will I work? Where will we live? How will we pay the bills? At what point do we decide the Foreign Service is a go, or not?
I have no idea. With the possible need for fertility treatments or adoption procedures ahead of us, I just can't say where we'll be or what we'll be doing in the next year, which has effectively put our lives on hold yet again - and may torpedo a dream.
So, those are the "DH"'s sily, selfish, decidedly male thoughts. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll let the missus wander back in here and fix things up.
Checking in
No, I haven't died, or forgotten about this blog, or just gotten too lazy. I've been running around like a headless chicken for the last week or so. My sister had her second child, an adorable little girl, and we've been helping out with big brother, who is two years old, one of our best buddies, and who also managed to break his wrist about three hours after mommy, daddy and little sister came home from the hospital. Good times, good times. But it's still been fun.
In other news, we had our follow-up appointment yesterday and everything is looking fine. So at least I know that I am capable of, what, healthy miscarriages? No surgery or anything needed. And now we just have to wait and see if the old friend shows up again on its own or if we will need to use more persuasive means. Sigh. Here we go again, I guess.
But in the meantime, I'm heading to bed. Sleep well, all!
In other news, we had our follow-up appointment yesterday and everything is looking fine. So at least I know that I am capable of, what, healthy miscarriages? No surgery or anything needed. And now we just have to wait and see if the old friend shows up again on its own or if we will need to use more persuasive means. Sigh. Here we go again, I guess.
But in the meantime, I'm heading to bed. Sleep well, all!
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Side note
What sick sense of irony sends me the insurance statement from that ultrasound on the same day my sister goes in to get induced for child #2? Ha very ha, universe.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Quick Thought
Statistics say that about 1 in every 3 pregnancies ends in miscarriage. I figure this means our next four pregnancies will be freebies. After all, math wouldn't lie to us, would it?
Reasons Why
My reasons for writing this blog are, first, that I think it a right thing for every person in such circumstances (like myself) to set an example; secondly, that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly -- which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness.
Er, wait. Sorry. Wrong reasons speech there.
First off, I'm not writing this blog just because I want everyone to sympathize with me. Okay, well, maybe there is a little bit of that going on, but not much. (Although I do sincerely thank all of you who have expressed your sympathies. It means a lot to both Shallow Man and myself.) I'm writing this for catharsis, both personal and general.
One of the things I've noticed the most as we've been going through the process of infertility and also miscarriage is that nobody talks about it. Ever. Or at least that's what it feels like. Part of this is obviously the fact that people don't like talking about their health problems (at least before age 50 or so) and that in LDS culture we also don't talk much about sex in general, so anything related to it also isn't talked about as much.
But it's also because it feels, to me at least, embarrassing and almost shameful in a way. You wouldn't want to admit that you couldn't read or write or tie your shoes. You wouldn't want everyone at your workplace to know that you couldn't perform the basic functions of your job. Not being able to have children can feel the same way, like you're broken or inferior. I don't for a minute actually believe that infertility means anything of the sort, but when you're in the thick of it it's a lot harder not to listen to those kinds of ideas.
I think there's also an element of the Job syndrome. You worry that someone will think it's your own fault; that you're being punished or are unworthy in some way, because of course God will bless his righteous and obedient children with children of their own. This, of course, is nonsense, because God's purpose is not to give us everything we WANT, but to give us what we NEED.
Now, I'm not saying that I see exactly what the burning need for two miscarriages and struggles with infertility was in my life. And I probably don't specifically need these events. But I do need to grow, and Heavenly Father in His wisdom knows how to give me the experiences and opportunities I need to achieve that growth.
Of course I still struggle with accepting that. I think everyone who goes through trials does. And I have to admit that unfortunately I do go through days where I question and wonder why and am not at all content and lack faith and really wrestle with accepting and learning from my experiences. I would rather not have to grow in this particular way, thank you very much.
But then I have what I guess you might call more lucid periods, where I can step back and say, "Okay, this stinks, but what can I do about it? What can I learn from this?" And it's harder to know what to do if you don't know what anyone else is doing, or if it feels like you're the only one who's going through things like this.
So I guess that's the long way of saying that one of the main reasons I'm doing this is to increase awareness and start a dialogue. If we can talk about these things like they're as normal as they are (I've been surprised to find out just how many people I know are dealing with one or both of these issues) then none of us will feel as isolated, as broken, or as "unworthy" as I sometimes have felt. Then maybe we can get a better, more eternal perspective.
"And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?
"Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him."
(John 9:2-3)
Er, wait. Sorry. Wrong reasons speech there.
First off, I'm not writing this blog just because I want everyone to sympathize with me. Okay, well, maybe there is a little bit of that going on, but not much. (Although I do sincerely thank all of you who have expressed your sympathies. It means a lot to both Shallow Man and myself.) I'm writing this for catharsis, both personal and general.
One of the things I've noticed the most as we've been going through the process of infertility and also miscarriage is that nobody talks about it. Ever. Or at least that's what it feels like. Part of this is obviously the fact that people don't like talking about their health problems (at least before age 50 or so) and that in LDS culture we also don't talk much about sex in general, so anything related to it also isn't talked about as much.
But it's also because it feels, to me at least, embarrassing and almost shameful in a way. You wouldn't want to admit that you couldn't read or write or tie your shoes. You wouldn't want everyone at your workplace to know that you couldn't perform the basic functions of your job. Not being able to have children can feel the same way, like you're broken or inferior. I don't for a minute actually believe that infertility means anything of the sort, but when you're in the thick of it it's a lot harder not to listen to those kinds of ideas.
I think there's also an element of the Job syndrome. You worry that someone will think it's your own fault; that you're being punished or are unworthy in some way, because of course God will bless his righteous and obedient children with children of their own. This, of course, is nonsense, because God's purpose is not to give us everything we WANT, but to give us what we NEED.
Now, I'm not saying that I see exactly what the burning need for two miscarriages and struggles with infertility was in my life. And I probably don't specifically need these events. But I do need to grow, and Heavenly Father in His wisdom knows how to give me the experiences and opportunities I need to achieve that growth.
Of course I still struggle with accepting that. I think everyone who goes through trials does. And I have to admit that unfortunately I do go through days where I question and wonder why and am not at all content and lack faith and really wrestle with accepting and learning from my experiences. I would rather not have to grow in this particular way, thank you very much.
But then I have what I guess you might call more lucid periods, where I can step back and say, "Okay, this stinks, but what can I do about it? What can I learn from this?" And it's harder to know what to do if you don't know what anyone else is doing, or if it feels like you're the only one who's going through things like this.
So I guess that's the long way of saying that one of the main reasons I'm doing this is to increase awareness and start a dialogue. If we can talk about these things like they're as normal as they are (I've been surprised to find out just how many people I know are dealing with one or both of these issues) then none of us will feel as isolated, as broken, or as "unworthy" as I sometimes have felt. Then maybe we can get a better, more eternal perspective.
"And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?
"Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him."
(John 9:2-3)
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Side note
I really wanted to name this blog "Something Amiss." But apparently that name has been taken. Argh! Can nothing go right?
A Time to Weep
Note: Please bear with the length of this post. Future posts will be much more brief, I promise.
It has been a fortnight full of tears and prayers.
I wouldn't normally have written this post, but I feel strongly prompted to share this experience in the hope that it will help someone else who may be going through trials. (Warning for the squeamish: This post contains, among other things, medical procedures and other potentially-but-not-overly graphic details.)
This fortnight actually began eighteen days ago with excitement and expectation. On the morning of Thursday, July 9th, we had our second doctor’s appointment and were eagerly looking forward to finally hearing our baby’s heartbeat for the first time. The inevitable wait for the doctor to come into the examination room seemed longer than it actually was, so we were almost bouncing up and down with impatience and anticipation by the time he arrived. When he couldn’t find the heartbeat on the Doppler, it was a little upsetting but not a huge deal since it’s not uncommon. Plus, it meant we got to go downstairs to the ultrasound room to check, so we would not only get to hear the heartbeat but see our baby as well.
The doctor hooked up the machine—which, off-hand, I would say was from the late Cretaceous period—and started looking. The first thing he noticed was that the baby was measuring small for the dates. We thought we were almost twelve weeks along, but he said it looked like we could be two to three weeks off. He pointed out the fetal pole but was having a hard time seeing a definite heartbeat. A bit disturbing, but we weren’t panicking just yet. After all, if the baby was smaller than we’d thought, combined with a prehistoric ultrasound machine, it was more than understandable that it might be hard to see. Because the machine was so old and grainy, the doctor decided to schedule us for a dating ultrasound at one of the nearby hospitals so we could figure out exactly how far along we were. We ended up going, not to the hospital next door to the clinic (their earliest appointment was late that afternoon and we wanted to get it all resolved as soon as possible), but to the community hospital one city over. “Start drinking a lot of water,” the nurse told me as we left, “and good luck.”
Drinking the water actually was a blessing because it kept my mind off of the questions about the baby and focused on the more immediately urgent issue of how embarrassing it would be to die from an exploding bladder. So I didn’t have much extra thought to spare during the abdominal portion of the exam, and therefore didn’t notice how unprofessional the sweatshirt-and-jeans-wearing technician was until after I came back from the bathroom and we started the transvaginal scan.
Per a sign on the waiting room wall, I already knew she wasn’t allowed to discuss any results with us since she wasn’t a doctor, but she barely spoke twenty words to us the entire time. She didn’t ever let me see the monitor, just kept clicking away and taking pictures and notes. Then she sent us back to the waiting room and said she would get our doctor on the line.
In the meantime her next appointment had arrived, so she didn’t even try to call our doctor until she finished with them, keeping us sitting in the waiting room for nearly 45 minutes. When she finally came out, she had us go over to the receptionist’s desk, where she handed me the phone and transferred me to my doctor’s line, which was playing soothing faux-Celtic hold music. Then she went to lunch, leaving us there holding the line at the receptionist’s desk and trying to ignore the butterflies in our stomachs. There wasn’t anyone else in the waiting room, thank goodness, but that didn’t make me any happier about waiting to hear medical results in such a public place. While I was holding for about 15 minutes, Shallow Man tried to see if there was any other phone we could use. The receptionist said no, there wasn’t. Finally, one of the other nurses walked through the room and noticed us, and arranged for us to move to one of the back-office phones. At that point my nerves were shot and I was just focusing on breathing when my doctor picked up.
“I’m so sorry.”
I concentrated on holding myself together as he explained. He had thought, after our appointment, that everything was normal and it was just the late-Cretaceous that was preventing us from seeing the heartbeat. The up-to-date machine at the hospital, however, showed that the baby measured 8 weeks and four days—nearly four weeks off—and that there was definitely no heartbeat.
We somehow made it back to our doctor’s office to discuss our options: do a D&C, take some pills to induce the miscarriage, or wait to see if it passed naturally. We somehow made it home and after talking it over, decided to pick up the pills. We had already contacted our respective places of employment letting them know we wouldn’t be in for the next couple of days. Since our bosses had been in on the news, we also told them why. We began the process of notifying the few people we had told to let them know and get the worst of it over and done with. We arranged for a sub for Primary on Sunday. We wept and talked and sat in silence and slept for a time.
My parents came down from Salt Lake that evening so my dad and Shallow Man could give me a blessing. The pain didn’t miraculously stop, I wasn’t promised that everything would work out perfectly, and I didn’t wake up to find out that it was still only that morning and time to go to our appointment where everything would work out perfectly. But I felt and knew that somehow, even though it was astronomically NOT okay, I (and we) would get through this. That I would be okay.
I woke up the next morning reluctant to take the pills. We talked it over again and decided to schedule a D&C, thinking that it might be easier to have someone else take care of everything. But as the day wore on, I became less and less satisfied with this decision. I was still numb from the news and still couldn’t make myself understand it. Denial, perhaps, but remember that I was never allowed to see the scans or any pictures. The doctor had said that the baby had only recently stopped growing, from the images. And I knew that there were many people who had the experience where they couldn’t find a heartbeat but went back again later only to find the baby alive and kicking with a strong heartbeat. I knew our chances weren’t good, but I also knew that I needed to know for sure before doing anything permanent. We decided to wait a week and, if nothing had happened, to go back for a second opinion. After all, I’d had no symptoms that anything was wrong; on the contrary, my pregnancy symptoms were still going strong.
Once we’d made that decision, it felt like a weight had lifted off my shoulders and I felt relieved and almost happy for the first time in 36 hours. I made arrangements to work from home for the next week and we started waiting.
Things continued normally for the next few days. Then, on Wednesday morning, I noticed that when I wiped, the toilet paper was coming away faintly pink. I thought it was my imagination but as the morning went on, it started getting more and more distinct. When Shallow Man called me from work around 1:30 to see how I was doing, I was starting to panic. I told him what was happening and he came straight home. We called the doctor’s office and they recommended that I rest as much as possible and play the wait-and-see game. This meant that we couldn’t go up to Salt Lake for my mother’s birthday party (where, incidentally, we had originally planned to make the first official public announcement). I was frustrated, but I had calmed down somewhat after spending the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening watching fluffy, popcorn movies and was therefore able to resign myself to being at home for the evening.
Around ten-thirty (we had just started watching “Napoleon Dynamite”) I got up from the couch to use the bathroom and as I opened the door I felt a gush of water. When I sat down, my underwear was covered in blood.
After four of the longest and worst hours of my life, the sac passed and it was over. By then I was too exhausted physically to feel much of anything emotionally. During the process, the pain of the contractions had kept me distracted from thinking about the loss. By the end, the relief of it all being over was the predominant emotion for both of us. This numbness lasted through the day on Thursday and most of Friday. (Which was fortunate, because on Friday we ended up staying up until 4:40 a. m. trying to locate a leak in our air conditioning. In the one bit of good luck we had during the last two weeks, we were able to fix the problem for less than $20 the next day. But that’s another story.)
On Saturday afternoon all of a sudden everything hit me and started to sink in. My body was healing enough to let the emotional side out, and I realized with the full impact of the revelation that my baby was gone. January 20th no longer held the same importance that it once had. There was no more urgency to rearrange and consolidate our offices so the smaller room could be converted into a nursery. We wouldn’t be finding out the gender for Shallow Man’s birthday. We wouldn’t get to buy baby things for Christmas.
At one point during the week, a well-meaning and dear friend had, in an attempt to be supportive, pointed out that at least we knew we could get pregnant now. She and her husband had also struggled with infertility before she became pregnant, and she understood the frustration of not knowing. In other circumstances this may have been true, but added to the sorrow of our current loss was the fact that this is our second miscarriage. Now the benefit of knowing that it’s possible for me to get pregnant was overshadowed by the wonder of whether it’s possible for me to stay pregnant. Would we go back to the same problems and struggles of hoping and praying for a baby, only to have the same troubles month after month? Would it take us another year or two to get this far again, only to have it all go south?
The uncertainties and fears still intrude. The pain is still there, on the back burner, under the surface, and it asserts itself from time to time. As with the first time, I don’t think it’s something we’ll ever truly get over. But I have also, with the tears and the pain, unmistakably felt the Lord’s presence and support and love. Each time my soul cries out, “O God, where art thou?” I feel the reassuring answer: “My daughter, peace be unto thy soul.”
I think it’s significant that the scripture reads “a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” Life does not end with weeping; we do not have to mourn forever. We are promised that a better time will come. We will heal. We’re not okay yet, but we will be.
“Thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment; and then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high.”
This fortnight has been one of tears and prayers. It has also been one of an outpouring of support from loving friends and family, and a feeling of being close to and being known and loved by God.
It has been a fortnight of hope, faith, and the beginning of healing.
It has been a fortnight full of tears and prayers.
I wouldn't normally have written this post, but I feel strongly prompted to share this experience in the hope that it will help someone else who may be going through trials. (Warning for the squeamish: This post contains, among other things, medical procedures and other potentially-but-not-overly graphic details.)
This fortnight actually began eighteen days ago with excitement and expectation. On the morning of Thursday, July 9th, we had our second doctor’s appointment and were eagerly looking forward to finally hearing our baby’s heartbeat for the first time. The inevitable wait for the doctor to come into the examination room seemed longer than it actually was, so we were almost bouncing up and down with impatience and anticipation by the time he arrived. When he couldn’t find the heartbeat on the Doppler, it was a little upsetting but not a huge deal since it’s not uncommon. Plus, it meant we got to go downstairs to the ultrasound room to check, so we would not only get to hear the heartbeat but see our baby as well.
The doctor hooked up the machine—which, off-hand, I would say was from the late Cretaceous period—and started looking. The first thing he noticed was that the baby was measuring small for the dates. We thought we were almost twelve weeks along, but he said it looked like we could be two to three weeks off. He pointed out the fetal pole but was having a hard time seeing a definite heartbeat. A bit disturbing, but we weren’t panicking just yet. After all, if the baby was smaller than we’d thought, combined with a prehistoric ultrasound machine, it was more than understandable that it might be hard to see. Because the machine was so old and grainy, the doctor decided to schedule us for a dating ultrasound at one of the nearby hospitals so we could figure out exactly how far along we were. We ended up going, not to the hospital next door to the clinic (their earliest appointment was late that afternoon and we wanted to get it all resolved as soon as possible), but to the community hospital one city over. “Start drinking a lot of water,” the nurse told me as we left, “and good luck.”
Drinking the water actually was a blessing because it kept my mind off of the questions about the baby and focused on the more immediately urgent issue of how embarrassing it would be to die from an exploding bladder. So I didn’t have much extra thought to spare during the abdominal portion of the exam, and therefore didn’t notice how unprofessional the sweatshirt-and-jeans-wearing technician was until after I came back from the bathroom and we started the transvaginal scan.
Per a sign on the waiting room wall, I already knew she wasn’t allowed to discuss any results with us since she wasn’t a doctor, but she barely spoke twenty words to us the entire time. She didn’t ever let me see the monitor, just kept clicking away and taking pictures and notes. Then she sent us back to the waiting room and said she would get our doctor on the line.
In the meantime her next appointment had arrived, so she didn’t even try to call our doctor until she finished with them, keeping us sitting in the waiting room for nearly 45 minutes. When she finally came out, she had us go over to the receptionist’s desk, where she handed me the phone and transferred me to my doctor’s line, which was playing soothing faux-Celtic hold music. Then she went to lunch, leaving us there holding the line at the receptionist’s desk and trying to ignore the butterflies in our stomachs. There wasn’t anyone else in the waiting room, thank goodness, but that didn’t make me any happier about waiting to hear medical results in such a public place. While I was holding for about 15 minutes, Shallow Man tried to see if there was any other phone we could use. The receptionist said no, there wasn’t. Finally, one of the other nurses walked through the room and noticed us, and arranged for us to move to one of the back-office phones. At that point my nerves were shot and I was just focusing on breathing when my doctor picked up.
“I’m so sorry.”
I concentrated on holding myself together as he explained. He had thought, after our appointment, that everything was normal and it was just the late-Cretaceous that was preventing us from seeing the heartbeat. The up-to-date machine at the hospital, however, showed that the baby measured 8 weeks and four days—nearly four weeks off—and that there was definitely no heartbeat.
We somehow made it back to our doctor’s office to discuss our options: do a D&C, take some pills to induce the miscarriage, or wait to see if it passed naturally. We somehow made it home and after talking it over, decided to pick up the pills. We had already contacted our respective places of employment letting them know we wouldn’t be in for the next couple of days. Since our bosses had been in on the news, we also told them why. We began the process of notifying the few people we had told to let them know and get the worst of it over and done with. We arranged for a sub for Primary on Sunday. We wept and talked and sat in silence and slept for a time.
My parents came down from Salt Lake that evening so my dad and Shallow Man could give me a blessing. The pain didn’t miraculously stop, I wasn’t promised that everything would work out perfectly, and I didn’t wake up to find out that it was still only that morning and time to go to our appointment where everything would work out perfectly. But I felt and knew that somehow, even though it was astronomically NOT okay, I (and we) would get through this. That I would be okay.
I woke up the next morning reluctant to take the pills. We talked it over again and decided to schedule a D&C, thinking that it might be easier to have someone else take care of everything. But as the day wore on, I became less and less satisfied with this decision. I was still numb from the news and still couldn’t make myself understand it. Denial, perhaps, but remember that I was never allowed to see the scans or any pictures. The doctor had said that the baby had only recently stopped growing, from the images. And I knew that there were many people who had the experience where they couldn’t find a heartbeat but went back again later only to find the baby alive and kicking with a strong heartbeat. I knew our chances weren’t good, but I also knew that I needed to know for sure before doing anything permanent. We decided to wait a week and, if nothing had happened, to go back for a second opinion. After all, I’d had no symptoms that anything was wrong; on the contrary, my pregnancy symptoms were still going strong.
Once we’d made that decision, it felt like a weight had lifted off my shoulders and I felt relieved and almost happy for the first time in 36 hours. I made arrangements to work from home for the next week and we started waiting.
Things continued normally for the next few days. Then, on Wednesday morning, I noticed that when I wiped, the toilet paper was coming away faintly pink. I thought it was my imagination but as the morning went on, it started getting more and more distinct. When Shallow Man called me from work around 1:30 to see how I was doing, I was starting to panic. I told him what was happening and he came straight home. We called the doctor’s office and they recommended that I rest as much as possible and play the wait-and-see game. This meant that we couldn’t go up to Salt Lake for my mother’s birthday party (where, incidentally, we had originally planned to make the first official public announcement). I was frustrated, but I had calmed down somewhat after spending the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening watching fluffy, popcorn movies and was therefore able to resign myself to being at home for the evening.
Around ten-thirty (we had just started watching “Napoleon Dynamite”) I got up from the couch to use the bathroom and as I opened the door I felt a gush of water. When I sat down, my underwear was covered in blood.
After four of the longest and worst hours of my life, the sac passed and it was over. By then I was too exhausted physically to feel much of anything emotionally. During the process, the pain of the contractions had kept me distracted from thinking about the loss. By the end, the relief of it all being over was the predominant emotion for both of us. This numbness lasted through the day on Thursday and most of Friday. (Which was fortunate, because on Friday we ended up staying up until 4:40 a. m. trying to locate a leak in our air conditioning. In the one bit of good luck we had during the last two weeks, we were able to fix the problem for less than $20 the next day. But that’s another story.)
On Saturday afternoon all of a sudden everything hit me and started to sink in. My body was healing enough to let the emotional side out, and I realized with the full impact of the revelation that my baby was gone. January 20th no longer held the same importance that it once had. There was no more urgency to rearrange and consolidate our offices so the smaller room could be converted into a nursery. We wouldn’t be finding out the gender for Shallow Man’s birthday. We wouldn’t get to buy baby things for Christmas.
At one point during the week, a well-meaning and dear friend had, in an attempt to be supportive, pointed out that at least we knew we could get pregnant now. She and her husband had also struggled with infertility before she became pregnant, and she understood the frustration of not knowing. In other circumstances this may have been true, but added to the sorrow of our current loss was the fact that this is our second miscarriage. Now the benefit of knowing that it’s possible for me to get pregnant was overshadowed by the wonder of whether it’s possible for me to stay pregnant. Would we go back to the same problems and struggles of hoping and praying for a baby, only to have the same troubles month after month? Would it take us another year or two to get this far again, only to have it all go south?
The uncertainties and fears still intrude. The pain is still there, on the back burner, under the surface, and it asserts itself from time to time. As with the first time, I don’t think it’s something we’ll ever truly get over. But I have also, with the tears and the pain, unmistakably felt the Lord’s presence and support and love. Each time my soul cries out, “O God, where art thou?” I feel the reassuring answer: “My daughter, peace be unto thy soul.”
I think it’s significant that the scripture reads “a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” Life does not end with weeping; we do not have to mourn forever. We are promised that a better time will come. We will heal. We’re not okay yet, but we will be.
“Thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment; and then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high.”
This fortnight has been one of tears and prayers. It has also been one of an outpouring of support from loving friends and family, and a feeling of being close to and being known and loved by God.
It has been a fortnight of hope, faith, and the beginning of healing.
A Brief Introduction and Explanation
This blog is about our rollercoaster journey with infertility and miscarriage.
I wouldn't normally have blogged about something this personal, but I have a strong feeling that I should do this. If it can help someone else who is going through similar trials, or any kind of trial, I'll be glad. But even if it just helps Shallow Man and me get through the tough times ahead, it will be worth it.
If you or someone you know is having or has had similar experiences, please feel free to comment or to pass the word along.
I wouldn't normally have blogged about something this personal, but I have a strong feeling that I should do this. If it can help someone else who is going through similar trials, or any kind of trial, I'll be glad. But even if it just helps Shallow Man and me get through the tough times ahead, it will be worth it.
If you or someone you know is having or has had similar experiences, please feel free to comment or to pass the word along.
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