My heart is absolutely breaking.
My cousin-in-law has been battling infertility for three years. I only suffered through infertility for 13 months. My journey is nothing near what she is going through. But when I read some of her blog posts, I feel like I'm reading my own past feelings. Her sentiments and thoughts mirror my old thoughts to the T. I had forgotten how incredibly painful that year of my life had been. Now that I'm surrounded by messy, loud, giggling children, the pain is nearly forgotten.
The sorrow, the bitterness, the helplessness, the anger. I feel it all over again when I read her posts and when I relive those feelings. I realize that the shadow of that experience still clings to me in some way (and now that I'm wanting another baby, I'm fearing that I will have to face that ugly animal again- shudder). It has made me more understanding of loss. It has made me more grateful. It has made me hurt for others who are living in that darkness. But mostly, I'm just heartbroken for my cousin. Unless you have experienced infertility, it's a pain you cannot really know. I mean, as a mother, you can imagine it. But you cannot know it. And still, my pain is nothing near what her pain is. The pain and darkness I went through is only a small portion of her devastating experience.
Right now my cousing is going through something even WORSE than infertility, something I do not know. Something I could not ever imagine.
Last month, my cousin shared a video on her FB page announcing that she was 17 weeks pregnant with twins: a boy and a girl. She had initially been pregnant with triplets but lost one at 9 weeks. The whole world, it seemed, celebrated her immense joy. After all this time, so many failed procedures, a miscarriage, and three years of grief, she was finally getting her much-awaited blessings: not one, but TWO healthy, sweet babies!
But just days after sharing her news, the unthinkable....the water for one of her twins broke and she went into early labor. They tried to stop it, which worked for a while, but eventually she gave birth to her stillborn daughter. Despite her pain, she was able to hold on knowing that this improved the chances of survival for her remaining son. She was given the goal of needing to make it to at least 24 weeks before going into labor again, at which time her son would have a 39% chance of survival. Unfortunately, at 21 weeks, she lost her son as well.
She could feel her son's kicks. He was perfect and healthy and thriving. But delivering her daughter left her weak for an infection. And sadly, three weeks after the death of her daughter, she discovered that she did have an infection, which put her life and pregnancy at risk. Even though she could FEEL her healthy baby kicking, the doctors had to prematurely break his water and allow him to be delivered.
I can't imagine giving birth to one stillborn baby. But giving birth to two of them? In a short three weeks? After three years of ache and grief and heartbreak?
My cousin's story is dead and center of all my thoughts today. I can't stop thinking about her story, crying for her loss, trying to imagine that grief. My heart is broken too. To think that this type of pain can happen and does happen.
I looked on at my babies from a fresh perspective today. It hurts to know that I am so blessed when my cousin is going through so much. It hurts to know that our babies are both our greatest sources of joy and also our greatest vulnerabilities. Good things happen. Bad things happen. Wonderful things happen. Terrible things happen. We cannot control these things. My walk with God is a complicated one right now, but I like to think that we are helpless, but not forsaken. We are lonely, but not alone.
A tiny flower
Lent but not given
To bud on earth
And bloom in heaven
-Unknown
Showing posts with label infertility. Show all posts
Showing posts with label infertility. Show all posts
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Babies On The Brain
Babies are constantly on my mind. My own baby is, admittedly, not a baby anymore. He is so independent and smart. So tough and stubborn. There is no more swaddling. No soft baby cries. No rocking to sleep. Thank goodness for his chubby, pinchable legs. His baby-scented hair. For those moments when he runs to my leg crying for "mama" and wants "up." These are little consolation prizes for the impending loss of babyhood.
A mother's heart can only take so much.
So many hours of my day are filled with love. I am constantly reminding myself of how blessed I am. When I hold my two boys in my lap, I feel like I am holding the entire world. I am acutely aware of how much I have been given. And yet....And yet.....there is still more longing.
When I see a van-full of children. When I see a haggard mommy rounding up a brood of four in the grocery store (how she ever gets out of the house is a mystery to me!). When I see a pew of freshly groomed children of varying sizes at our church. I want that. Too many blessings to count. Not just for their number, but for the fact that they never stay still long enough. I don't know what it is. I don't know how to explain it. I love large-ish families the way I love the color green. It's defies explanation.
Everyone has their own definition of "large" family. I look at a family of six and think, that's the PERFECT size where others likely see that as "large." Don't get me wrong, I don't have any desire to be the next Duggar family or Octomom. But I do yearn for a third baby...and fourth.
There are practical reasons to have four kids. One is about hedging your bets. You know, in case one goes to prison, one gets injured, and one becomes a druggy, chances are you will still have one good one left. The other reason is retirement security - more kids to help pay for your retirement home and care for you. But I also have this crazy fear of growing both old AND lonely. All the grandmothers in my family have outlived their husbands. My next-door neighbor (who lost her one and only son years and years ago), just lost her husband. The fear of having no one, of spending my last days and weeks and years alone....I can't bear it. I figure more kids will decrease the odds of that happening.
Then there is the pure and simple fact that kids are awesome. So, more kids = more awesome. I figure this must be true at least until you hit four kids. I'm sure at some point the amount of awesomeness stops exceeding the extra work and money. But then, I imagine somewhere after your tenth or fifteenth kid, you might as well keep going. Economies of scale...and all that.
Two other reasons:
So, the baby fever has hit me again. It waxes and wanes. Some days it is so unbearable and others, I am content to just see if this is a wave I can ride out. But every time someone close to me announces a pregnancy, or baby shower, or baby birth, it's not just a wave. It's a full blown tsunami. All of my senses and logic are washed away when I think of the fact that OTHER PEOPLE are having babies and I am not.
But even at the height of my desire for another baby, my dreams come into contact with practicality and are instantly deflated. First roadblock: the husband. He says no more. When he says, "no more," he makes it quite clear that what he really means is, "Hell no! Not a chance. We already have too many!" This makes me sad.
Second roadblock: space. I already have two kids sharing a room. Four people in a 950 square foot house (with just one bathroom, I might add) is "pushing" it, at best. There is no way we could fit another person in here. The baby would sleep in my dresser drawer until he turned 18. We have plans to remodel and add a third bedroom and second bathroom. We could totally make it work after that. But this will probably not happen for many, many years.
Third roadblock: my body doesn't work. It was so hard to get pregnant with Ryan. The reasons for that have not changed. I will likely need to go through more fertility treatments of some kind. The emotional turmoil is so, so hard.
Lastly, despite how badly I want another baby, I keep remembering how horrible both pregnancy and my planned c-section were. I hate being pregnant- every second. And I mistakenly just read my post about Ryan's birth story. I wish I hadn't done that. I remembered the emotion roller coaster, the fear, the pain, and that I lost so much blood during my c-section that my doctor wanted me to have a blood transfusion. I had sworn to myself "no more babies!" I really want a baby. But I don't want to do that again!
But I'm not ready to be done. There is a perfect, baby-sized void in my heart. There is more love for me to give. I feel really stuck. I don't know what to do or what I even can do. In the meantime, I will suffer through baby fever....sadly and silently.
A mother's heart can only take so much.
So many hours of my day are filled with love. I am constantly reminding myself of how blessed I am. When I hold my two boys in my lap, I feel like I am holding the entire world. I am acutely aware of how much I have been given. And yet....And yet.....there is still more longing.
When I see a van-full of children. When I see a haggard mommy rounding up a brood of four in the grocery store (how she ever gets out of the house is a mystery to me!). When I see a pew of freshly groomed children of varying sizes at our church. I want that. Too many blessings to count. Not just for their number, but for the fact that they never stay still long enough. I don't know what it is. I don't know how to explain it. I love large-ish families the way I love the color green. It's defies explanation.
Everyone has their own definition of "large" family. I look at a family of six and think, that's the PERFECT size where others likely see that as "large." Don't get me wrong, I don't have any desire to be the next Duggar family or Octomom. But I do yearn for a third baby...and fourth.
There are practical reasons to have four kids. One is about hedging your bets. You know, in case one goes to prison, one gets injured, and one becomes a druggy, chances are you will still have one good one left. The other reason is retirement security - more kids to help pay for your retirement home and care for you. But I also have this crazy fear of growing both old AND lonely. All the grandmothers in my family have outlived their husbands. My next-door neighbor (who lost her one and only son years and years ago), just lost her husband. The fear of having no one, of spending my last days and weeks and years alone....I can't bear it. I figure more kids will decrease the odds of that happening.
Then there is the pure and simple fact that kids are awesome. So, more kids = more awesome. I figure this must be true at least until you hit four kids. I'm sure at some point the amount of awesomeness stops exceeding the extra work and money. But then, I imagine somewhere after your tenth or fifteenth kid, you might as well keep going. Economies of scale...and all that.
Two other reasons:
So, the baby fever has hit me again. It waxes and wanes. Some days it is so unbearable and others, I am content to just see if this is a wave I can ride out. But every time someone close to me announces a pregnancy, or baby shower, or baby birth, it's not just a wave. It's a full blown tsunami. All of my senses and logic are washed away when I think of the fact that OTHER PEOPLE are having babies and I am not.
But even at the height of my desire for another baby, my dreams come into contact with practicality and are instantly deflated. First roadblock: the husband. He says no more. When he says, "no more," he makes it quite clear that what he really means is, "Hell no! Not a chance. We already have too many!" This makes me sad.
Second roadblock: space. I already have two kids sharing a room. Four people in a 950 square foot house (with just one bathroom, I might add) is "pushing" it, at best. There is no way we could fit another person in here. The baby would sleep in my dresser drawer until he turned 18. We have plans to remodel and add a third bedroom and second bathroom. We could totally make it work after that. But this will probably not happen for many, many years.
Third roadblock: my body doesn't work. It was so hard to get pregnant with Ryan. The reasons for that have not changed. I will likely need to go through more fertility treatments of some kind. The emotional turmoil is so, so hard.
Lastly, despite how badly I want another baby, I keep remembering how horrible both pregnancy and my planned c-section were. I hate being pregnant- every second. And I mistakenly just read my post about Ryan's birth story. I wish I hadn't done that. I remembered the emotion roller coaster, the fear, the pain, and that I lost so much blood during my c-section that my doctor wanted me to have a blood transfusion. I had sworn to myself "no more babies!" I really want a baby. But I don't want to do that again!
But I'm not ready to be done. There is a perfect, baby-sized void in my heart. There is more love for me to give. I feel really stuck. I don't know what to do or what I even can do. In the meantime, I will suffer through baby fever....sadly and silently.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Promises
My pride was hung on a perfectly slender frame
Positioned atop the legs of a runner
A frame given by genetics
I draped it proudly, nothing to hide.
Emulating twigs on magazine covers.
Where once there was firm, smooth skin
Now there is give. Extra flesh
Having released two children from its clutches
It retains a disturbed shape, as if yearning
For the four phantom limbs it once carried.
I love my body for what it can do
A hymn I repeat without conviction
Trying so hard to bury disgust
At the ripples of silver stretching across my abdomen
A map of rivers reflecting the sun's light
The picture of motherhood is not idyllic
New cells divide, laying the floor plan to life
Just as old cells fall prey to atrophy
They sprout and flourish as a parasite
To be cut violently from my body, fruit gauged from its vine
Some days it is hard to love what is left
A deep scar cutting across my lower abdomen
My skin marred, tired, stretched like a blown tire
I squirm in the reeds of my new self
Struggling to find myself within my reflection
Each day I fight the fight anew
But would never wish the struggle away
Just as antimatter shriveled and exploded
That moment before it brought forth earth
Two hearts have left my body, strong and pulsing with life
And they are beautiful.
Since Ryan was born I've been struggling with self acceptance. I oscillate between being confident and proud in what my body is and does and angry and upset at what it no longer looks like. Sometimes I get so caught up in this battle that I lose sight of my blessings. Motherhood itself is a blessing. After going through 13 months of secondary infertility, I thought I would never take it for granted. And here I am, my "baby" is only 18 months old, and I'm consumed once again in the inconsequential and petty hang-ups. Motherhood is not a right. Motherhood is a blessing. While many of us do, no one is guaranteed to experience it. Anyone who has stared at the soulless darkness of infertility is acutely aware of this fact.
I'm counting my blessings today. I'm basking in the wonder and amazement of everything that comes along with being a mother. It can be hard. It can be ugly. It brings out both our worst and our best. But the entire experience, all of it, is nothing but a wonderful honor.
Right now, as I enjoy the beauty of this phase of my life, my thoughts are with all those people who are not so lucky. All those people still waiting and hoping and praying. Even though I only experienced a relatively short period of infertility, a little part of that struggle will always remain in me. My heart will never be able to forget the pain and the repeated blows that each new month of emptiness brings to those who are so desperate to love. For this reason, I promise to appreciate all that I have been given.
Positioned atop the legs of a runner
A frame given by genetics
I draped it proudly, nothing to hide.
Emulating twigs on magazine covers.
Where once there was firm, smooth skin
Now there is give. Extra flesh
Having released two children from its clutches
It retains a disturbed shape, as if yearning
For the four phantom limbs it once carried.
I love my body for what it can do
A hymn I repeat without conviction
Trying so hard to bury disgust
At the ripples of silver stretching across my abdomen
A map of rivers reflecting the sun's light
The picture of motherhood is not idyllic
New cells divide, laying the floor plan to life
Just as old cells fall prey to atrophy
They sprout and flourish as a parasite
To be cut violently from my body, fruit gauged from its vine
Some days it is hard to love what is left
A deep scar cutting across my lower abdomen
My skin marred, tired, stretched like a blown tire
I squirm in the reeds of my new self
Struggling to find myself within my reflection
Each day I fight the fight anew
But would never wish the struggle away
Just as antimatter shriveled and exploded
That moment before it brought forth earth
Two hearts have left my body, strong and pulsing with life
And they are beautiful.
Since Ryan was born I've been struggling with self acceptance. I oscillate between being confident and proud in what my body is and does and angry and upset at what it no longer looks like. Sometimes I get so caught up in this battle that I lose sight of my blessings. Motherhood itself is a blessing. After going through 13 months of secondary infertility, I thought I would never take it for granted. And here I am, my "baby" is only 18 months old, and I'm consumed once again in the inconsequential and petty hang-ups. Motherhood is not a right. Motherhood is a blessing. While many of us do, no one is guaranteed to experience it. Anyone who has stared at the soulless darkness of infertility is acutely aware of this fact.
I'm counting my blessings today. I'm basking in the wonder and amazement of everything that comes along with being a mother. It can be hard. It can be ugly. It brings out both our worst and our best. But the entire experience, all of it, is nothing but a wonderful honor.
Right now, as I enjoy the beauty of this phase of my life, my thoughts are with all those people who are not so lucky. All those people still waiting and hoping and praying. Even though I only experienced a relatively short period of infertility, a little part of that struggle will always remain in me. My heart will never be able to forget the pain and the repeated blows that each new month of emptiness brings to those who are so desperate to love. For this reason, I promise to appreciate all that I have been given.
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