hiss

you'd think that going through this three times, one would have a certain amount of heads-up as to what to expect. i thought i did. i mean look at my post from when i found out that Tummymuffin III was gone. it was comforting then to think i had "better tools" or that i knew what was coming, even if i was "not dismissing the possibility this could be different." well, you know what? f**k that.
i think that what i thought was: "hey, you already know how to mourn your dead babies! you're already good at that!" so here's the curve ball...so far it's not about that this time. dear God, it feels like it would be so easy if i were simply grieving the loss of another child. i can't even see that child right now, she's so buried under all this anger and confusion and dull, depressing greyness. it's like being buried myself.
i'm feeling bitter that i even had to have a conversation with my husband that involved nasty little acronyms like "ART" and "IVF" and phrases like "willing to lose another one" and "open to other possibilities." i don't know who i am or who i'm supposed to be right now. it feels like i'm simply marking time, waiting for..something. a decision? a revelation?
no. i think right now, in this moment, it's about honesty. i'm losing my sense of being a woman, of being female. yeah, it's that basic. when i poke the snake of anger, what it hisses is that it's not f***ing fair, normal women get pregnant and have live healthy babies as easily as it was for me to just type that phrase. don't argue with me, it hisses, you see this with your own eyes and it's lived out in front of you more often than the sh*t card you obviously drew.
it hisses that without being a mother, without that sort of fruitfulness, i will not develop fully into being a woman, and i will forfeit an enormous portion of life experience that i was told i should absolutely expect and hope to have.
it hisses that i will be alone, alone until my final exit. i will say goodbye to my husband, who was never a father, and to whom i never gave a child, and endure how many years of alone before finally leaving. will you rage, asks the snake, bitter and unwilling to let go? or will you just be so exhausted from loneliness that you simply fade? and then that will be all, no more of your line. so sorry, mom and dad. so sorry, future of my name.
it hisses that trust is slippery. it makes me doubt -- do i trust myself & do i really truly want a family? why do i want children anyway? can i trust the God who made my body which is clearly not working very well? can i trust a society that once again puts me on the outside of normal because it's not going as it "was supposed to?"
and here's the strange part. i think the snake isn't something to be killed, or be frightened of, or to scare away. no. i need to pick it up, wrap it around my wrist, and carry it with me. i need to warm it, count its scales, feel its flickering tongue on me without flinching. yes, much of what it hisses is ugly and painful, and has no truth in it -- but ignoring it, or silencing it is not going to make it stop. i'm suspecting that the snake, while disguised as anger, is perhaps really fear -- and shoving fear back into the shadows just makes it more powerful. and i also suspect that i have something to learn out of all that hissing.
i'm fumbling around in the dark, but i know a flashlight is there, somewhere.

*for those of you who may be offended by profanity: i'm very sorry for offending you. i cannot, however, apologise for being honest. i don't swear lightly.

move back and forth into the change

i'm wondering:
what does it mean to be a bell? and can i turn myself to wine?
meanwhile, i'm breathing as deeply as possible.

Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

                                                 ~Ranier Maria Rilke

sweaters & snakes

i didn't want to post here at first it was because my rage and grief were so raw and fresh i didn't want to give semi-permanent voice to anything that was coming from that initial tidal wave of emotion. then it simply became the imposition of time & circumstance, where just sitting down to begin typing is impossible. but i'm still finding that it's difficult to speak freely about what's really happening, to be honest about the current process. so at least i can keep myself honest here.
medically and physically, this was a much less painful and traumatic process than with the last baby. (i think at some point i need to write a post about what to expect with "finishing" a miscarriage with misoprostol vs. an MVA, as the resources i found online were the biggest helps in knowing how to deal with the procedures. someone remind me.*) i literally went back to work the next day with my doctor's okay, and while it seems a little crazy that i sandwiched in a "removal of the remainder of the products of conception" between days of working on a tv show, i think it was the best thing i could have done. it lent a sense of normalcy to a totally not-normal time, and forced me to look life in the face and say: i'm coming along; you can't leave me behind. however, the challenge now is to not leave what's happened behind as life continues at a breakneck pace.
see, i'm in the middle of a career transition, which basically means working two jobs at the same time. my parents have come out for a previously-scheduled visit, and my parents-in-law from Germany are also in town. my husband is working full-time while also carrying a full-time graduate student load. and in the midst of all these demands and responsibilities, i feel like my deep sadness is like a heavy wet sweater, dripping and clammy and dragging me down. i refuse to be subsumed by it; i think my inner exhaustion is not only from its weight, but also from my stubborn struggle to not be swallowed in its smelly, scratchy folds.
there's a new emotion this time that i think was somewhat absent from the last two losses. this time i'm angry. yeah, angry. at this point my rage has no object -- i'm not angry at or with anyone or anything -- i'm just seriously f***ing angry. not having had a lot of life experience with this, i feel like it's an exotic, possibly dangerous snake that less emotional me looks at and then pokes with a stick, just to see what it'll do. i don't like how it pulls my filters away and makes me feel like all the irritation and frustration and fury are right there, on the surface. i do like that it makes me feel like i'm still here, and most definitely not numb.
i'm still trying to figure out how to ask the hard questions, and more importantly, figure out which ones need an answer. i'm also still trying to reconcile my rational self (this is real trauma, don't be apologetic for your devastation) with my less-rational self (get over it, this happens to a lot of women, it could be so much worse).
the odd thing about working through lifeshaking grief is that it is bizarrely isolating. despite being surrounded by a strong, loving community -- that's you guys -- and a wonderful family and husband; despite knowing that there are so many other families that carry the same scars and the same sort of loss -- i still find myself feeling alone. alone with my horrible tragic secret; locked in some macabre repeating drama, some sick and twisted play that has the same dreadful ending...and i'm left on stage with absolutely no direction.
i could care less what my lines are supposed to be.

*i have written those posts now. you can find the one about misoprostol here, and the one about an MVA here.

Week Ten (or This is Always Where it Ends)

i won't mince words.
sometime in the last week, the flicker of light that was our baby's heartbeat went dim, and my body took her back. all that's left is the empty yolk sac and an alien-looking giant bubble that's making my pants still not fit.
i'm terribly sorry, Team Hope, because i know this news will devastate you too. how i have clung to your words of encouragement and found peace in your cheers and prayers. i will still be finding these things in the coming days. it is good to know that Tummymuffin III was so loved during her too-short tiny life.
so much of pain is fear, and i think i have a lot less fear for what's to come. i've been through it twice already, and even though i am not dismissing the possibility that this time could be different in whatever ways, i at least know what the physical and emotional pain is going to be like. more importantly, i can feel more confident that having gotten through two rounds of this kind of loss already, this one still won't break my marriage, break my faith, or break me. more importantly, i think i am fundamentally changed; more willing to ask for help and lean on the support and compassion of others. i know i won't run away from this. it just feels like i have better tools to help me keep moving through the days and weeks and months to come. life is going to continue with or without me. i'd prefer it to be with me.
in a few days, i will need to have a procedure done to remove what is left*; this time there will be less physical impact, i'm told. since there is no question that Tummymuffin III is completely gone, we'd prefer to not wait so we can have some emotional closure. i'm not sure when i'll post again, but i will try to stay open & honest here, and keep Team Hope in the loop.
thanks for your continued cheering. we need it right now.

*the procedure is called an MVA; i've written about it here as a resource for other women looking for information on what to expect.

Week Nine (or I'm Not Counting)

ten is supposed to be the perfect number; the symbol of totality and completion. it's anything but that for me; ten is the number of weeks both my previous children lived before they were reclaimed by my body forever. so understandably, i'm getting slightly nervous.
okay, okay, that's an understatement. i'm exercising extreme self-control and relying heavily on your prayers and encouragement to keep from freaking out. i'll be sliding into week ten sometime soon, but seriously, i haven't been counting because i've learned by wretched experience that Anxious Anticipation of Horrible Milestone is far, far worse than Actual Living Through Horrible Milestone. friends of mine who have also struggled with infertility and baby loss confirm this -- for example, the days leading up to Mothers' Day are always more emotionally knotted than the day itself.
so my next appointment with my OB is in a few days -- i'm back in early since Tummymuffin III measured so small last time. i've been treating the approaching date with a wee bit of melodrama, feeling like it's going to be the Date We Discover the Fate of Our Doomed Child. will his or her heart still be beating? will she or he have grown enough to be viable? or will TEN once again be a marker of doom? doooooooom! (when i say melodrama, i'm not kidding.)
now, i've been working on a job that has me outside, in the mountains (note to the worried: i'm NOT carrying anything heavy; i sit down for most of the day). today three young deer appeared nearby. they looked at me, i looked at them, and they unhurriedly bounded away. and suddenly i felt like my heart was springing with them; suddenly i was filled with a pure and simple thought: in a few days i will get to see our baby! i'm going to see you again, my tiny heart! and all anxiety about the appointment was gone. shocked (and being me), i probed at this new feeling. it was real. and all i can say was it felt clean. clean like the way the first rain is scented; clean like a white sheet hanging in the spring sunlight; clean like the innocence i had with my first, untainted-by-fear pregnancy. and i thought of Isaiah 35, which says that the lame will leap like a deer and the mute will shout for joy.
my heart is still lame and mute much of the time; i cannot easily gloss over its woundings, nor will i pretend that all is shiny happy when it is not. but i do know that the One to Whom you are all praying on our behalf is called Jehovah-Rapha, the Healer. i did not expect such an astonishing, clarifying moment of redemption such as i received today, but i accept the love in which it was given, no matter what happens next.

Week Eight (or Maybe Week Six)

i ended the last blog post with this sentence:
"i am, however, open to the possibilities of tomorrow."
i can almost hear God giggling right now, because according to the crazy magical math of calculating these things, "tomorrow" is most likely when the baby i'm now carrying was conceived. (cue the divine BWAH-HAH-HAH!!!)
so yes, here i am at possibly eight weeks. i have spent most of them fluctuating between terror, numbness, actual joy, and cautious optimism (and not just as a throwaway media phrase). i didn't stop believing i was "just late again" until i was actually sitting in the lab with a phlebotomist sucking six gazillion vials of blood out of my arm. it took me another week to stop feeling falsely "meh" about it out of sheer emotional self-preservation. there are mornings when i wake up absolutely convinced that this poor child is already dead and i feel completely stranded in my own life. there are mornings when i wake up and i feel the aching weight of my growing breasts and embrace hope. i don't know what kind of morning it will be until i open my eyes. so i just roll with it, and try to pray, and mainly rely on sanity of the prayers of my faithful friends and family who have committed to being confident in faith for me. because remember how in that last post i also said "but i admit, here and now, although it is like another tiny death, that i do not still believe."? yeah, i'm still struggling to believe. and i know this is the reality of pregnancy after loss and infertility.
my first ultrasound was a few days ago, and it was a completely bizarre mixture of the first two pregnancies. my doctor found a tiny heartbeat right away, a flutter of light in a dark smudge on the screen. "look, here's the heartbeat!" she said, and it was like with Isabela, whose heartbeat was so crazyamazing in that moment...and then two weeks later, she was utterly vanished. my doctor's next words -- "but the pregnancy is small for how far you're supposed to be along" was like with Tim, whose heartbeat i never saw, and who, two weeks later, stopped growing entirely.
currently, there is no cause for concern, i am told; i'm simply coming back in two weeks to see if my now 8-week fetus is bigger than its current 6-week size. everything else looks fine, and i'm told this is pretty common, as those measurements can be arbitrary. but it's way too close to my last pregnancy's experience for me to be completely blithe about it.
posting here with the news is just one more way i am choosing to find the ray of sunshine that is hopefulness, and curl up in it like a wee kitten, soaking up as much as possible. i so badly want to talk about this pregnancy with excitement and joy, but i know that's unrealistic. if anything, i think i'm still astounded that i'm even pregnant again. as physically uncomfortable as it's getting, at least i know what to expect and i can be actually thankful about the middle-of-the-night potty trips or insane gas that makes my jeans not fit. yes, i know there's even more exciting Fun Body Weirdness to come! woo! and here's the thing: when informed about the nausea and backaches and unwanted body hair...and i know these are the mild ones...i only can think: i hope i make it that far this time. i hope my baby makes it that far this time.
i hope. i hope. i hope.

i'm not dreaming

currently, i’m not feeling like my days are merry or bright.
of course saying this makes me want to list about nineteen gabillion things that i’m grateful for, or that are bringing happiness to my life, or that do provide candles of warmth in an otherwise grey misty landscape. but i won’t. i already know that at my core, i have joy woven into my soul by my Creator that, well, compels me to make that list of nineteen gabillion things. this slow, stifling sadness is an alien and disturbing thing that is not part of who i am. and yet it sits within me, like a heavy sticky ball of unresolved goo that makes me sluggish and weary.
the holidays are not the easiest time; i went through these last few weeks thinking: finally, a Thanksgiving with no dead babies! if that sounds morbid and shocking, perhaps it’s supposed to be; to wake me up from this creeping suffocation. i lost both of my children around this time, a year apart, and while i’m relieved to be going into Christmas without feeling like i just buried part of my shredded heart, this also means i’m staring down the long, murky road of infertility. i was officially there awhile ago, given my “advanced maternal age,” but now i am long past when any woman with my – on paper – excellent health supposedly should have become pregnant again. at least the holidays that featured child loss meant that the grief was hot and pure and spiky and sharp; it kept me defiant of despair and awake enough to pursue healing. i don’t know what to do with this amorphous sorrow; it oozes and drips and makes my grief shadowy and elusive. i don’t know from one moment to the next if it’s that i miss my babies, or that i cannot seem to get pregnant, or that my dreams of family now seem ludicrous, or if it’s my secret devastation that my husband is still not a father.
as each month with a normal cycle blends into the next, i have found that somewhere along the series of 28-day lines i slowly stopped believing. first i gave up thinking that i’d ever have a normal, healthy child. then i stopped thinking i’d ever carry to term and have a live birth. and now i realise i’ve even let go of thinking i'll ever be pregnant again. these all now seem to be mildly interesting events that happen to other people. i’m trying to figure out now if loss of belief means loss of faith, and if loss of faith thus means loss of hope.
i think not yet. i still have faith that my story will unfold with the timing it is supposed to. i still have hope that answers for how we will add to our family will become clear. but i admit, here and now, although it is like another tiny death, that i do not still believe. at least not today.
i am, however, open to the possibilities of tomorrow.

thanks, Elizabeth

words of wisdom from a woman who will be missed:

"If you know someone who has lost a child, and you're afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died -- you're not reminding them. They didn't forget they died. What you're reminding them of is that you remembered that they lived, and that is a great gift."

-Elizabeth Edwards (3 July 1949- 7 Dec. 2010)

oct 15th: national pregnancy and infant loss remembrance day

today is October 15th: National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.
each year, somewhere around one million pregnancies in America alone end all too soon: in miscarriage, stillbirth or the death of a newborn child.

October was designated, over 20 years ago, as National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. this day, the middle of the month, was finally designated 2 years ago as a remembrance day to bring comfort, healing and unity to parents (and their family & friends) who have suffered a pregnancy or infant loss. many observe it by lighting a candle from 7-8pm their local time, knowing that many around the world are doing so and feeling less alone in their grief.

the point of October 15th is that it allows parents to openly remember their loss, and to have their loss recognised, without any shame or apology. too often, they aren't even comfortable identifying themselves as "parents" if they have no living children. however, they have experienced the love and hope for a child just the same, even if it was for too short a time, and the lives of those children are just as significant and meaningful than if they had been born.

pregnancy loss is so often kept as a tragic secret, because society is not only uncomfortable with grief, but also confused as to how to reach out and offer support. many are hesitant to acknowledge the loss because they're afraid they might cause more pain by doing so. on the contrary, a parent who's lost a child probably thinks of them often, and any remembrance of that child is appreciated and treasured, especially because they only live on in memory. when you are courageous enough to come alongside someone who is grieving and put your arm around them -- literally or figuratively -- you are giving them invaluable gifts: knowledge that they're not doing this alone, empathy in their pain, and hope for the future.

so today, if you or someone you love has experienced miscarriage, stillbirth, or newborn death, please don't be afraid to remember and recognize the loss, and offer comfort and unity to those whose hearts need healing. thanks.

grey

somehow, in the early grey morning hours, i feel more untethered to responsibility and rationality. i suppose this is true for most humans; this is why we have rituals like Lauds or Fajr. it's different from those nights when i can't sleep, eyes searching the ceiling in the grainy darkness, my beloved husband breathing evenly into my shoulder, me wanting my brain to just shut up already. no, in the mornings, that is the difference; it is quiet and all that is there is a morass of emotion. gratefulness struggles against sorrow for purchase; contentment and fear jockey for position. i'm learning to let it all sort of wash around and over and through me; i have no one to question my tears and/or laughter when i'm alone so why hide them? as much as i love U2, Bono is still a man, and when he sings "always pain before the child is born...why the dark before the dawn?" i think he misses it. the pain is part of the birth and cannot be separated. the dark is integral to the dawn.
soon it will be a year since i last carried life within me; too long for the doctors to be happy about it and long enough for me to wonder when one just walks away from a dream. how do you know when it's time? when do you know the door is shut? what is the dividing line between "being steadfast in hope" and being delusional with false expectations?
i don't know the answer to that. my last round of tests led my OB/GYN to declare somewhat hilariously that "it is a fine uterus so far." that's lovely, but it's not my uterus that feels beaten down and exhausted from the constant mental wrangling that goes on, when not a day goes by that i don't either think of my lost children or my deferred hopes, or worst, the empty arms of my husband. it's not just my dreams that feel shaky.
when i was first trying to get pregnant, and it wasn't happening, i was horrified by the prospect of becoming That Woman, the one who gets all obsessed with her cycle and cries every period and starts hating sex since it's not making babies and resenting other people's children. after losing both Isabela and Tim, i was horrified by the prospect of becoming That Other Woman, the one who falls into deep depression after miscarriage and becomes a shell of herself, emotionally abandoning her husband and friends for her memory-zombie babies. neither has happened, but the evil ghosts of both of them float at the edges of my consciousness, reminding me how bad it can get. just the fact that i got to spend a lot of time in radiology having strange machines and people prod around my ladyparts was practically a seance, inviting them to both come jeer at me for being unable to just normally have a baby, for heaven's sake. thank God, no really, thank you God for good friends and a supportive husband who never let those bitches get too close.
recently, i met a woman who has a two-year-old and is pregnant with her fourth...she lost two children between her son and the little girl she's carrying now. she was compassionate, and talked to me about how when you do have a healthy pregnancy, it is possible to let go of the anxiety and see your pregnancies as separate events, and be able to find joy in those 40 weeks again. she told me she wished that she had known earlier that infertility and pregnancy loss are every bit as much of the process of building a family as getting pregnant and having babies is. i couldn't stop thinking about that: accepting this as part of the journey towards family -- not as delays or derailings of that journey -- is a much truer, more realistic viewpoint, especially with miscarriage being as devastatingly common as it is.
anyone who has suffered tragedy, pain, and loss will tell you that they find it astonishing that life just kept moving on after such catastrophe. it does though, and if you try to get over grief or through it or past it, you will be stuck. those same people will tell you that grief has no expiration date. so for now, i am just accepting that i have already come a long, long way on my journey, and that the Grief Kitty will come with me and that is alright. (have i written about my Grief Kitty? no? then i'll have to do that sometime) on this road to family, i might see others speed past me in luxury vehicles, but i might also pass others who don't even have shoes. when i watch the dawning grey turn to clear light, i will take my sustenance from all that i do have, and shall not dwell on what i do not.

normal

this last month, i kid you not, i have gotten a bajillion million baby birth announcement things. okay, maybe one or two less than that. but still. this is the right time of my life for that; my peers are happily baby-fying and that is totally normal.
the problem here is that N-word. yeah, i said it, "normal." i sort of alluded to this in my last post, but i've been thinking a lot more about it lately. it's a weird little piece of semantics; on one hand it implies that You Too can be part of a big group of ordinary folk; on the other, it indicates that You Are A Freak O' Nature because nothing normal happens to you or for you.
the last nine months i have watched someone in close proximity to me get normally pregnant; have a normal, healthy first pregnancy, filled with normal joy & anticipation & innocence; go normally into labour; and finally, have a normal, natural live childbirth resulting in a normal healthy baby. i have felt often that i am clearly living in a parallel universe because what seems so normal over there is totally shocking! breathtaking! astounding! over here. other people in that parallel normal place you know, just get pregnant and have babies and are happy. in my version of normal, it is a struggle to get pregnant and then maybe you're actually not going to have any babies, and you will cry a lot, and if you actually do get pregnant on your own and actually do deliver a real live healthy child then it will be A TOTAL EXTRAORDINARY JAW-DROPPING MIRACLE for heaven's sake.
of course, any normal mother will tell you every single one of her kids is a total extraordinary jaw-dropping miracle, right?
i guess i am normal after all...