Mother's Day

Mother's Day gets me. Every single year it sneaks up on me, and then I'm standing in church watching the baby dedications and weeping. Some years more than others, but always without fail.

Mother's Day is complicated. I watch people. I'm a people watcher by nature, and I'm especially attuned to people on this wonderful, difficult day. I see the woman longing to be a mom, yearning to be the one up on stage holding a little one, wondering if her time will ever come. I know her by the tears running down her face as she turns away from the happy scene. I see the woman smiling down at her child while silently grieving the ones she never met. I know her by the wistful look in her eyes as she rests her hand on her belly unconsciously, a habit that never seems to go away.  I see the woman who looks sadly at the empty seat next to her--a woman who would give anything to hug her own mother one last time. I don't know her yet, but I will someday--a day I will never be ready for. I see you.

I have been one of you, am one of you still. I have written many times about my losses, but I don't know that I was ever quite able to truly convey the overwhelming, all-encompassing pain and grief I felt sometimes. Mother's Day was excruciating for me. Staring up at a whole line of rosy-cheeked babies and doting moms and dads was torture every year, and I found myself wanting to skip church on the day I probably needed it most.

How can you be thankful on a day your heart is so full of everything but gratitude? Questions and shame and anger and desperation, yes. But not gratitude. Not today. Flutters on a screen, heartbeats there and gone, hopes and dreams destroyed. I know. I see you.

I don't know if you will ever be up on that stage. I certainly doubted that I would ever be. I'm not one for platitudes; I have been on the receiving end of way too many. But I do want to say that you are not alone. Don't cry by yourself today in a bathroom stall; don't watch Netflix all day alone in the dark. Don't do the things that almost destroyed me years ago. Reach out to someone you love--or someone you barely know. Reach out to me. I'm here. I see you.

But God...

Grief has been a common theme throughout many of my posts. Razor-sharp grief has split me in two on more than one occasion, but it has also been a binding thread, connecting me to so many women that share components of my story.

Just recently, another close friend lost her baby before she ever got to meet it. I was able to counsel her, listen to her, advise her, and just be there for her in an experienced way that most others, thankfully, could not. She asked me one day how I endured it all during those dark years, why I no longer spend my days constantly grieving and longing for the babies I will never get to hold on this earth. I answered her in two words that our pastor once made into an entire sermon:  

But God.

For three years, I lived in a waking nightmare of hospital visits, surgeries, tests, ultrasounds, hormones, specialists, needles, blood, incompetence, heartbeats and no heartbeats, shots, and silence. I cried out; I wrestled; I screamed; I pleaded. After the fifth loss, I often felt more like a hollow shell than an actual person. I experienced many moments of grief that left me prone on the floor, silently begging for it all to swallow me up because my spent tears and hoarse voice had left me with absolutely nothing else.  

As I tried to comfort those suffering through their own tragedies, I fought desperately to gain perspective. I worked with people who lost their beautiful, vibrant children or beloved spouses in terrible accidents. People who saw a loved one suffer through a cancer diagnosis. I witnessed both of my grandpas endure some of the cruelest things this world has to offer in their dying days. I watched people struggle through their grief and come out stronger on the other side, and I watched some who seemed as though they would never get out from under it. I know for a long time, it could have gone either way for me. 

But God. 

He faithfully restored my marriage. He brought friends into my life who shared the same beliefs. He prompted me to write and share my story with other women who were in pain. And on the most difficult days, he reminded me that even though it hurt, I was not hurting alone. In my weakest, most painful moments, his strength was revealed. 

When God blessed me with Addison, she didn't fill the void of the babies that I lost. Only God could do that. He bound up my heart with his own healing thread of grace and contentment and love, and he filled it with a peace that passes all understanding. And even now, on the occasions when pain lurks around hidden corners and sometimes dwells in the shadows of my heart, he is there, ever faithful with his perfect comfort. While I would never wish to walk that three-year road again, it changed me for the better. Places that were hard and angry are now soft and sympathetic. Pride has been replaced with humility. Striving to do it all on my own has given way to surrender. I don't wrestle with what I went through anymore; it is a part of who I am. It has given me a powerful testimony, and it has prepared me for whatever lies in front of me. I'm no longer apprehensive about the future because I know that even on the hardest days ahead...

But God. 

But [God] said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
2 Corinthians 12:9-10 NIV

A Tribute to Koda...

It's been exactly a year since you've been gone, Old Girl. But today, it feels like we lost you only yesterday. I wish the last day of your life wasn't a memory. It was one of the worst days of my life. I will never forget your big brown eyes looking into mine, begging me to do something to take the pain away. As we sat on the floor with you and gave you our last goodbyes, I literally felt like my heart was breaking in two. Thankfully, that was only a day in your ten years. And in those ten years, I have more memories of you than I could ever detail, and that one day cannot overshadow them. Here are the ones on my heart tonight:


I remember the night we met you. You were a silly, clumsy puppy, but already so smart. We ran inside to grab some food at Braum's and left you in the car with the motor running. The next thing we knew, you were hanging out the window about to jump to freedom, having opened it by standing on the switch. Erik ran out and kept you in Jeep Jail, much to your dismay. I still smile thinking about your goofy, happy face, tasting freedom for a few moments.

Our first night with Koda.

One of our all-time favorite Koda pics.

I remember the many, many tricks we taught you. You amazed everyone with how you would get a Kleenex when I would sneeze, how you could turn lights off  and on, and how you would obey every command with merely a hand signal. I remember one year when we were showing off your Kleenex trick at my birthday party, and you got a little overzealous. You started pulling tissue paper out of all of the sacks and you were just so pleased with yourself! You had a knack for making people laugh.

Koda loved to "laugh." (These pictures were taken years apart).

I remember how you used to lay in the doorway every single morning as I was getting ready for work. You would roll the ball to me with your nose, and wait for me to roll it back. It was one of my favorite games to play with you, our private ritual. But on the mornings that I was running late, I would refuse to play along and ignore you altogether. Oh, how I wish I could have a few of those mornings back!

Our house on River Birch

New house, same routine...

I remember the night you got stung by something. Maybe several somethings. Your nose was swollen and misshapen and your breathing was heavy, and I stayed up all night with you, barely daring to blink. I rested my head on you and lay on the floor with you the entire night. The morning couldn't have come fast enough. It was my first taste of how it might feel to be a mom.

I remember the darkest of days, when I would sit on the floor and cry, or stay in bed recovering from yet another procedure. You would lick my tears away, never intruding, just there. My healing shadow. There were days you never left my side, wouldn't even go outside for a potty break. You knew I needed you, and I can't imagine getting through some of the hardest days without you.

I remember you with Addison. You were only a part of her life for a brief time, but you were her best friend. She still prays for you every single night, without fail. Seeing her rest her head on your belly and read to you would always bring me such pride in both of you. Your kind, patient temperament was such a marvel to anyone who didn't know you. Those of us who did, well, I'm sorry to say that we often took it for granted.

You were such a beautiful dog. You were a conversation piece everywhere we took you. From the ever-popular "I didn't know they came in black," to the curious, "What kind of dog is that?!" we responded to questions and comments about you left and right. I always thought that one day, that gift could translate into you becoming a therapy dog, but you just had such a puppy-like spirit, even at the age of ten, that it seemed a shame to try and rein in that exuberance.

Koda loved her daddy.

 
We grew up together, you and I. You saw me go from a silly, adult(ish) woman, to a nervous, but overjoyed, mom. I'm so glad you got to see that transformation. I know the sadness of our hearts had to affect you, as you were such a sensitive dog, and I'm relieved to know that in your final years, you lived in a house of contentment and peace (definitely not quiet, but peace nonetheless). You brought us so much joy, love, and companionship over the years, Old Girl, and I can only pray that we gave you even half of that in return.

I brought you home,
A ball of fluff.
You licked my face
I was enough.

My tiny shadow
Grew big and tall.
You had three loves:
Mom, Dad and ball.

We saw the light
In your dark eyes.
Your happy spirit
Shone through gray skies.

When Addison came
You took her in.
Soon enough you
Were such close friends.

That bleak day came
Caught by surprise.
We saw that look
In your kind eyes.

It broke our hearts
To say goodbye.
For days I couldn't
Help but cry.

I pray someday
We'll meet again
Reunited...
A gal's best friend.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow...

It has been many months since I have blogged. I remember finding it so easy to write when I was in the midst of pain or anxiety, but I find it much harder now, when I feel like my days are (thankfully) more mundane. Today, I was reminded that it is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, thanks to post after post on Facebook. It seems fitting then, that tonight, I write.

My last loss was in April of 2011. I remember it vividly because I spent my 30th birthday not out celebrating, but recovering in bed from yet another D&C. When I was going through my 5 losses, I only knew one person that had suffered a miscarriage. Now, I know too many to count. Back then, I had never heard the term "rainbow baby." Now, it is a universal phrase of hope. I pray that it is because we are finally understanding that miscarriage is not something to be ashamed of. Not something to blame ourselves for. Not another reason to look in the mirror and feel like we aren't enough, don't have enough. Maybe it is finally becoming okay to talk about your loss, to feel it, to grieve it, to share that grief with others.

I know from experience that grief is so very complex. Completely universal, yet incredibly personal. Here are just a few things I wish I had known years ago:

Grief does not, and will not, look like someone else's. I know some were incredulous that I did not plant trees, buy necklaces, or really do anything tangible to remember my babies. But I didn't, and now I don't feel the need to. They are in my heart, and that is really all I need. Don't feel guilty because you aren't grieving like others think you should.

It's okay to ask for help. I certainly did. I knew I wasn't dealing with a lot of things during those dark years. Our marriage was in shambles, my grief was eating me from the inside out, and to everyone else I still looked like I had it all figured out. We did not escape unscathed, but we were able to persevere and grow with the help of an amazing counselor. There is NO shame in admitting you cannot navigate it alone.

You don't have to keep it together for anyone. You will make people uncomfortable. It is not your job to worry about that. Yes, talking to someone about death is hard, but experiencing that loss without support is even harder. Good friends will listen, give you grace, and not expect anything in return. You need to take care of only you, for at least a little while.

Try not to stress the excitement out of your next pregnancy. Sometimes I wonder how much my story has colored the lives of those around me. I know of only one woman personally that has suffered more than one miscarriage, and yet I have tried my best to reassure so many who are terrified of that very thing. I am a fraction of 1% of the population. Please learn from my mistakes. I thought during each pregnancy that if I just prepared myself enough, detached myself enough, that I wouldn't feel it if or when I said goodbye to a once-beating heart. I am ashamed to admit that I didn't do so many things for Addison's pregnancy; now her baby book sits unfinished in a drawer, a testament to my worry that a loss would happen again. I let my fears leach away what should have been hers.

Grief does diminish over time, but it is still there, may always be there, lying dormant, waiting. Facebook posts, a friend's loss, a certain time of year...grief will return. It may not be as strong as it once was, but you are allowed to feel it. And you should. It is a part of the healing. And although I'm not sure if anyone ever finds total healing, I feel like you can get pretty darn close. For us, it came through God in November of 2012 in the way of Addison's big blue eyes, bright red lips, and squishy pink cheeks...a rainbow baby if there ever was one.

I Hope...

I had fully intended to sit down tonight and write a relatively light-hearted blog this evening detailing Addison's second month. In light of today's news however, my mind is somewhere else tonight.

I still remember April 19, 1995. I was in 8th grade. I don't remember exactly how I found out about the Murrah Building bombing. All around me I saw taut faces, hidden tears, kids being picked up from school early. I knew something bad had happened. But I'm still not sure that at the age of 13, I fully grasped the gravity of it all. Even as I visited the fence covered with mementos and stared past it to what was left of the Murrah Building, my innocence somehow stayed in tact, my mind unable to connect the horror before me with a person's capacity for evil. It sounds crazy, but when I saw that fence and the love and support it represented, the first word that came to my mind was hope.

At the age of 20, when the World Trade Center tragedy (that seems too light a word) struck, I wasn't quite so naive. My mom woke me up with a phone call and told me to turn on the news. I sat there for hours staring at the television, the coverage both enraging me and numbing me all at once. Although I didn't understand the lasting ramifications for our country that day, I felt unsafe, terrified that someone could think they were doing the right thing, furthering a cause by taking the lives of so many. Whatever shred of innocence I may have had left disappeared that day.

More recently, as a new mom, the shootings in Aurora and Newtown have affected me in a different way. I am no longer scared for myself. I cradle my daughter in my arms and I am terrified beyond words at what her future will be like. I shudder to think that instead of a future inevitable act of terrorism being a major event in history and in her life, it will most likely be as commonplace as a car accident. I cannot bear the thought of my beautiful little girl and her entire generation growing up either too frightened to step outside of their houses or so angry they probably shouldn't.

Today, as I sat and gaped at the coverage of the Boston Marathon bombings, I was taken back to that day so many years ago - the day that my innocence shielded me from what people are really capable of, the reality that safety is most often just an illusion. My heart is broken for the children who just lost their innocence forever, for the families that went to cheer someone on, their hearts full of pride, only to end up crying in the streets, and for the pain of rebuilding lives that so many will have to endure. It also breaks for Addison. This is the world that she is going to grow up in. While I feel helpless to change it, I pray that somehow, some way, we can help her hold onto her childhood as long as possible. That we can make her understand but not be afraid. And if we do our jobs, maybe someday she will find the hope in the darkness just like I did so many years ago, but instead she will hold onto it, using it to make a difference. Maybe even change the world. Oh, how I hope...

Time Marches On...

Time. Time is a tricky thing. It is a rare constant, always moving forward at the same rate, and yet at any given moment to any given person, it feels varying, wavering, fluctuating. Never the same and yet always the same. It is unfeeling, without empathy, and impartial. A best friend or a worst enemy, or even both at the same time, a double-edged sword.  

Addison's birth is the most anticipated event of my life. When I think of holding her, seeing her, becoming a mother, time seems to stand still, even move backwards, days dragging into weeks. However, when I think about labor, giving birth, the fear of the unknown, the seconds speed by. I can't even seem to catch my breath. 

I believe our relationship with time is never more complex than when grieving a loss. My grandmother just went to be with the Lord a few hours ago. What my family wouldn't give to rewind time, stop it, selfishly keep her here with us a few more days. But as those closest to her saw her suffering, time was mercilessly slow.

Addison's entrance into this world coinciding with my grandma's departure of it is an example of time's cruelest paradox. My beautiful baby girl will never know her precious great-grandmother and my grandma never got to see me have a child of my own. I can only pray that Addison's addition to our family will be a bit of healing for us all. Even though I have lost someone who played a major role in so many memories, I will be forever thankful that I have them, and know that they will shape many of the new traditions we will make with Addison.

I am the world’s guiltiest when it comes to looking forward to events and wishing away the time in between. In these last few weeks before Addison comes, my grandma’s passing reminds me of how important it is to embrace every moment as it comes. I want to enjoy this time with Erik before our worlds are turned upside down in the best way. Time and life are synonymous. I don’t want to take even a second for granted; those seemingly meaningless, simple moments are when life happens, or passes you by if you’re not paying attention. My grandma is leaving behind such a remarkable legacy and has taught me many valuable lessons; I’m so grateful to be a recipient of this one.    

Those Glorious Days of Summer?

Summer. A word that makes every kid’s heart leap and all teachers sigh with relief. It signifies an end to a school year, a break, a rest from the daily grind. Summer when I was a kid seemed endless, with so much to look forward to: long, hot days spent swimming at White Water, screaming gleefully on rides at Frontier City, listening to my dad mow the grass while I read contentedly in my room, driving to Tulsa to visit my grandparents, and playing basketball with my neighborhood friends until it was too dark to see. The list, it seems, could go on forever. My favorite childhood memories are from those carefree summer breaks when the days stretched before me…each one a new possibility.

As a teacher, my outlook on summer has been a bit different. Every year I hear, “Must be nice having two months off,” spoken with a detectable trace of derision. Questions like, “What are you going to do with such a long break?” and “How long do teachers get off again?” are asked with a hint of incredulity. A teacher’s summer is spent a little differently than one might think. Most teachers, including myself, use those months to plan and shop for the upcoming year, actually get some things done around the house, and, oh yeah, work a summer job! The summer days no longer stretch out before me as a sea of memories waiting to be made…they fly by in a state of fast and furious “doing.”

As a non-mother, this summer will be unlike my previous “teacher” summers. I’ve spent the last 2 summers pregnant, full of hope, my mind occupied with what might be. This summer, despite my busy state, I am afraid the days will instead stretch out before me in a sea of memories I may never make. I plan to heap even more responsibility onto myself, in hopes that the days will, indeed, fly by as they have in past summers. A little SWITCH (youth group), maybe some dog training (working towards Koda’s Canine Good Citizenship), even a little baby-sitting. Somehow, I’m not sure if it will be enough to keep my mind off the shower I should be planning and the nursery I should be decorating.

With summer just a week away, the non-mother in me finds myself wishing I could stop time and hold at bay the day the teacher in me has been looking forward to for so long. Summer, that beautiful taste of freedom, suddenly feels too oppressive to face. What will I be doing with my two months off? Whatever it takes. 

Snow Day Sparkle

I have to admit that I’ve been feeling a little nostalgic lately. I think the days off from school have gotten to me. I can remember mornings of bouncing into my Mom & Dad’s bedroom with crazy morning hair and pajamas still on, waiting hopefully to see if school had been cancelled. Memories of playing in the snow, drinking hot chocolate, building forts with friends, and making snow ice cream to share with my neighborhood buddies have resurfaced, causing some wistfulness. I spent some time yesterday going through my old photo albums, scanning the long-forgotten faces of my youth, the sights I have been so blessed to see, and the expressions of my teenage face. When I was done, my only thought was, “Man, things were so uncomplicated back then.” In every picture my face reveals EXACTLY what I was thinking in that moment. Sometimes annoyance, but mostly sheer, unadulterated joy. Joy for being alive, for having amazing friends, for everything! In every picture there is a sparkle in my eyes that unfortunately has waned over the passing years.

How often do we look at ourselves in recent pictures and think, “Wow, I look so happy. Not smiling for the camera happy, but I just won the lottery happy.” Shots are usually staged and smiles are often terse. I think a lot of the joy in those days gone by was simply excitement for the future. Everything was such a mystery, waiting to be revealed in each new day. That mystery, for the most part, has been unraveled, and its solving has taken its toll. Along the way we discovered our share of loss, pain, responsibility, and tedious routine. Now pictures that capture a moment of that elusive twinkle are worth a thousand posed shots. I long for more of those moments, seeing the world through a child’s marveling eyes. As I looked out last night over the perfect blanket of snow, still fresh and pure, I felt a sense of peace and a bit of wonderment, a little youthful perspective. Seeing as I’m trapped inside again today, it just might be the perfect day to find a little sparkle. Hot chocolate with extra marshmallows anyone? 

Masks

Our pastor preached a message a few months ago on one word. Masks. Here are some of my own thoughts on the subject:

At some point or another in our lives, we all wear them. Masks shield us from judgment, they protect us from unwanted questions, and they keep other people at arm’s length. I have worn many masks in my life. There’s been the common “I’m Fine” mask, put on after grief, a big fight with someone, or even when I just didn’t feel well. It resembles a tight smile that warns others not to pry. The “½ of a perfect couple” mask was worn in the past to alleviate the stress of others sizing up our marriage. I knew that if the mask slipped, other people would see a mess. This mask is most effective when the other partner is wearing it too; throw in some hand-holding and you have a full-blown costume. Most recently, I have been trying on the “No, it doesn’t feel like a knife to the heart when I see your newborn baby/swollen tummy” mask. This mask is complicated because although I am TRULY happy for the person sharing such great news, this mask is only successful if the person is looking at your smile and not your eyes, because your eyes will show the pain behind them.

Because of my past expertise in mask-wearing, I have really begun to notice those around me lately. It makes me question everyone…what masks are they hiding behind? Is their marriage crumbling? Are they having financial stress? Is their child heading down the wrong path, while they sit by feeling helpless? Having been on both sides of the mask, it is tragic to me that we feel the need to put them on at all. When you are mask free, people open up to you. They share their pain and struggles. After reading my blog, virtual strangers have poured out their sadness and hurt to me. I have reconnected with friends that have gone through the same issues as I have; I never would have guessed had I not opened up first. Instead of hiding behind our masks thinking others will never understand, it is healing beyond words (not to mention a huge relief) to be real, for people to accept you as you are, and to truly begin to OWN your past. My mistakes and struggles do not define me, and they haven’t changed how my true friends feel about me either. If anything, they have made me more human and accessible. Being mask free is when the true renewal takes place, and I promise, it’s the best way to be.

The "Grief Bubble"

THE “GRIEF BUBBLE”

In talking to other people who have dealt with loss, I have found that we have something in common. After every tragedy, there is that one defining moment that snaps you out of your “grief bubble” as I call it. Many can recall the exact second, however innocuous it may have been. It can be as simple as opening your front door to see the UPS man delivering a package or a garbage truck driving down the street. Suddenly you realize that yes, the world is still spinning. Life is still going on all around you. The neighbors are obliviously getting their mail, unaware that your life has stopped in its tracks. The dog next door is pooping on your lawn - simply carrying out its maddening daily ritual. And you want to scream to break the monotony of it all…the sheer idiocy of our routines. Grief has opened your eyes to the fact that life is short and we have to make every moment count. You NEED others to understand this. But instead you close the door and lean against it, knowing that YOU are the one that has just had the epiphany, and that is a bell you can’t unring. No more pajamas and comfort food. No more sleeping the day away. Life is passing YOU by, not the other way around.

As far as I know, there is no timeline for this day…it hits you out of the blue. Some people may walk around in their “bubble” for months, some people only days. It can almost have a hint of betrayal, that decision to live again. How can you do the loss justice without round-the-clock mourning?  And the first day you don’t think about it at all and then realize this the NEXT day…that seems to be treason! But it’s not. It’s healing. And it’s a journey that is just beginning.