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:

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.