Little Bundles of Someone Else's Joy

Someone very close to us just had a baby a couple of weeks ago, and I’m not going to lie to you, it hurt a little.  Wait, sugar-coated.  Okay, it hurt a lot.  Of course I knew it was coming and I thought I had sufficiently prepared myself for this day, put my guard up, practiced my poker face, I was braced for the phone call that I knew would sting.  No matter how much I didn’t want it to.  See this was someone close to us and we were happy for them.  We would have never wanted things to turn out any other way.  However, it had only been about three weeks since our loss and to make matters worse, this is the hospital where we lost Wyatt, this is the hospital where I had to leave my baby behind when I sat in that lobby with my belly still swollen, stunned in disbelief that I was leaving empty-handed as I watched other mothers being rolled out to their cars with their babies in tow.  But alas, the phone call came, and we were off to the hospital to congratulate yet another person with yet another successful pregnancy as I suffered in silence yet again.

This one isn’t so easy for me, I am very conflicted with this emotional response.  You see, I have celebrated children for as long as I can remember.  I always knew I would have a career helping kids in some way.  I have always been drawn to children and any child can make me smile.  I was that annoying person that would try to pat a pregnant woman’s belly.  But with each pregnancy loss, my heart seems to mutate.  My loving heart becomes painfully tainted.  Call it what you will:  resentment, jealousy, envy….but do not call it my choice because it is anything and everything but that.  It is something that most people I know who have dealt with infertility, miscarriage, pregnancy or neonatal loss have voiced experiencing, some very loudly and some much more quietly.  It is something that those who have been fortunate enough not to have had any of these experiences may not have considered or simply may not understand.  It is a demon that I ferociously fought against with our first loss and have been clawing at his eyes this time so he could not find me again.  But no matter how hard I have hidden, that damn beast has found me and I’m still trying to escape.  Every time I see a pregnant woman, a newborn baby, ultrasound pictures on Facebook, you name it, it’s salt in the wound.  It is a harsh, coarse salt in this deep, open wound.  It instantly sends a visceral volt of pure emotion to the core of my gut, and I swallow hard trying to make the pain disappear.  It doesn’t.  It is a constant reminder of everything I have just lost and you still have.  You are realizing the dreams for a future that has just been ripped away from me.  Plans for a future that I have to let go of, no matter how much I do not want to.  Do you get that?  Can you for a moment feel how my resentment towards you is really not about you at all?

Someone else very close to me is expecting a baby.  Oh, this was going to be such an exciting time, we were going to have children so close in age to each other, they were going to be the best of friends.  So exciting until in a moment we had to realize that one of these babies wasn’t going to be there on those play dates.  And it’s hard.  It’s hard once again to see others around you pregnant, having babies, being blissful.  It’s hard, even if those others are people you are close to, even if those others are the people you are closest to, it’s hard, it hurts, it stings.  And it’s not that I am not happy for those others, it’s that I am heartbroken for myself.  I have been robbed of a joyful experience, both this time and the next, because of another baby that has been denied his (or her) right to be a part of our family.  And then I sit back, think and get angry once more.  And this time, it’s even more conflicting.  I realize that these people, these people that I love, even though they still have their baby, have also been robbed.  They have been robbed of the opportunity of having a worry-free pregnancy because they know of my loss(es).  But even more than that, they have been robbed of having the chance of experiencing a carefree pregnancy because they have to be cautious and considerate of me and my pain.  They have to hold back.  They have to contain their excitement.  At least when they are around me.  Which is when they are around most of our family and that seems a bit unfair to me too.  This is their first child, they should be excited, they should be elated, they should be able to celebrate in any and every way that they see fit, without the constraints of my pain standing in their way.  I don’t want to be the person to take that away from them.  I do not want to be the one responsible for stealing anyone’s joy.  I have been robbed, but I do not want to be the one to rob someone else.  Ugh, conflicted.   Horribly, horribly conflicted.  

So, I scramble to find my journal.  What did I write?  Where is that entry?  Ah, here it is, December 16, 2005 (wow, that seems soon), “I will not love less because my heart has been broken”.  It was this day after our first loss that I decided I would not let pain rule my heart and be the primary dictator of my decisions.  I wrote it specifically to this painfully conflicting emotion of resentment.  I realized that although my pain and my reactions were not my choice, I did have choices.  I could choose to love no matter how broken my heart was.  No matter how much it hurt, I could still celebrate life being brought into this world, even if I wasn’t the one bringing it.  So I did it, I made that choice.  I held babies when I didn’t think I could.  I went to baby showers when I didn’t think I should.  I celebrated life entering this world in every way I knew how although I didn’t know if I knew how to bring one into this world on my own.  And, I realized, in some odd way, these things brought me healing and peacefulness alongside their pain.  I realized I could and should love again.  I found hope in these little bundles of someone else’s joy.  This was the moment I knew everything was going to be okay.  That I was going to be okay.  Even though my future was uncertain, even though my heart was still in shatters, as long as I could love again, I knew I would be just fine.  So I sit with this thought in my broken heart once again and I know I will be okay, I know I will hold these babies with all the love that my heart possesses, and I know it will hurt sometimes, but somehow I know I will be just fine. 

Although I know this post is already ridiculously long, there is something that I feel I need to add here.  Something I desperately need you to know.  This will be done on my timeline, not yours.  I will find my hope, my peace, my healing, when I am ready, not when you are.  And even when I was on a course to love again, my heart was still in pieces and I was still in pain.  It was still a process, a long and grueling process.  I don’t expect you to understand the depths of my heartbreak, but I do hold hopes that you will be patient with it.  My timeline is not your timeline.  My pain might make you uncomfortable and it might make you cringe, but it is mine to harbor for as long as I need to, for as long as I want to, for as long as I have to.  Don’t tell me how I should feel, when I should heal, or how quickly my heart is ready to love again.  When you have walked a mile in my shoes, I may give you permission to place judgments on how I have driven the course towards repairing my heart, but until then, I am navigating my own journey and not letting you tell me how or when I will reach my final destination.  It wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I own this journey.  Onward.

Tangled Up in Fear and Hope

I was feeling some anxiety and a little unsettled about creating this blog since my last posting.  I don’t want to give off the wrong impression.  I don’t want to put out the vibe that I live a sad and miserable existence.  I am generally a happy person with a positive disposition.   I like to take my adversities and turn them into hopeful opportunities.  As soon as I could stand up on my own two feet again after that dreadful October 6^th, I had decided that I would not become a victim of my circumstances, that I would not let this loss define who I am for the rest of my life, that I would not let evil reign my world.  I refused to stay in the darkness and have pity on myself and my struggles.  I grabbed a hold of hope and faith, closed my eyes, and moved on.  (Of course this leap wasn’t as easy as it sounds, but another post for another day).  We had a successful subsequent pregnancy and we have a beautiful daughter to hold and to love.  I know how truly lucky I am to be able to say that.  Trust me, I know.  It took us four years after that to decide if we were going to have another baby, four years to choose to really let go of our pain, four years to look fear in the face and deny it any last rights to loom over our decisions anymore.  We finally knew that we were ready to be brave once again and bring another little one into our hearts and into our world. 

With Abigail, it was almost easier in some ways to dive back in.  We had so much darkness and sadness after Wyatt’s death that we didn’t feel we had much to lose.  We felt we had to try with all of our might to right this wrong.  This last time, however, our world had become more peaceful.  We were content.  We had a child to hold in our arms during the day and tuck into bed at night.  We had played against the odds with her pregnancy and won that time.  Was it worth the gamble again?  We had additional odds we knew may not be in our favor this time, especially due to my “advanced maternal age”:  possible fertility difficulties, miscarriage, genetic risks…more speculated fears to add to the list of acquired fears that had already been justified.  However, we had learned the hard way that fear was not our friend and finally decided that living our lives in fear was truly not living at all.  Fear was not going to be the decision-maker in this household.  So, we got pregnant quickly (check), we had an early ultrasound that showed a healthy heartbeat (check), and we had absolutely, positively beat that nasty fear into the ground.  This pregnancy was going to be different.  I was so grateful that we had waited this long to try again because I was cool, calm and collected.  I was so far removed from our last loss that the fear, panic and unsettledness were just not there this time.  I was ecstatic….I was truly destined to have a worry free pregnancy and I was choosing that course and was excited for the ride.  I was headed to my 12 week appointment and could not wait to hear the heartbeat, could not wait for the verification that I already knew to be true, that our baby was healthy and we could now share with the world that we had conquered our fears, faced our demons once again and we were headed down the path to a joyful, fear-free pregnancy at last.  It was about time.

And here’s where the painfully familiar hell parted my blissfulness.  Yep, the baby-snatcher was back, once again, when I least suspected it.  I was numb from disbelief.  I had to have the nurse go back and get the doctor so that I could talk to her “for real” this time about what the plan was.  I was alone so I had to call Rob and tell him about our reoccurring fate.  And it was then I realized there was a task far more daunting ahead, a task I didn’t have to endure the last time, a task that broke my heart even thinking about it at that moment.  I had to tell our four year old that our baby died.  Try that one on for size.  It was the one thing that hurt most of all.  She wanted this more than any of us.  She was thrilled at the prospect of having a sibling.  A month later, she still asks questions, although they are fewer as the days pass, but she still asks questions and those questions still well my eyes with tears. 

So my story goes, and on it goes still.  The burning question now is:  When is enough, enough?  At what point do you look at fate and fear and say, “Fine, you win.”?  When do you decide that the gamble is no longer worth its odds?  I’m not going to lie to you, I’ve considered throwing in the towel many times this month.  I’ve considered wrapping my arms around my family tightly and claiming that I have so much to be grateful for and that my life is full.  I have considered proclaiming that I have enough love in my heart and there is no more room for pain.  I have considered giving up my fight, giving into my fears and relinquishing my dreams for a less heartbreaking existence.   But, I quickly realize that these are no longer only my dreams that I would be placing aside, that it is no longer solely my heart that has been broken:  there is a brave man and a hopeful four year old who are also sitting next to me.  They give me strength and give me reason to be a fear-slayer and fight for our family’s dreams.  One more time.  I’m not sure I have more in me beyond that, but this time is the only decision I have to make right now. So here we are……"trying again".  Once again, terminology I find disturbing.  It blatantly states my previous failures and implies so much, well, uncertainty regarding my future, to say the least.  So I find myself in an eerily familiar situation: uncertain, fearfully hopeful, and hanging on to some definition of faith for dear life.  Come along for the ride if you dare, just remember the end of this journey has not yet been written….fortunately for you, you can get off the ride whenever you wish, I, on the other hand, am here for the long haul.  Hold on tight.

Have You Met My Baby?

                The mention of my child’s name may bring tears to my eyes,

                By it never fails to bring music to my ears.

                If you are really my friend, let me hear the beautiful music of his name.

                It soothes my broken heart and sings to my soul.

                                                                                                -Author Unknown

I want to introduce you to my son.  His name is Wyatt Nicholas.  He was born October 6, 2005.  I carried him inside me for 9 beautiful months, 40 exciting weeks.  I won’t lie to you, it was a tough pregnancy.  I was incredibly nauseous for the first 20 weeks or so and had unbelievable back pain sprinkled throughout the months, but it was a joyful pregnancy none the less.  We religiously followed our pregnancy with the What to Expect …book.  We read Good Night Moon, Guess How Much I Love You, and countless Dr. Seuss books to him in utero every night before we fell asleep.    We painted his nursery with love and care decorating it with prints and photos of favorite storybooks.  We had baby showers galore and a closet jam-packed with precious tiny baby clothes.  We had an uneventful pregnancy with every appointment getting us closer and closer to the finish line.  We could not wait to meet our son, we had done everything we could to prepare for his arrival and we were over the moon. 

Little did we know what hell and mayhem were waiting for us around the corner.  I was 40 weeks pregnant, home alone and began bleeding and was panic stricken.  Rob came home and we went to the hospital immediately.  Once we got there, they found Wyatt’s heartbeat and told us everything was a-okay, I was just in the beginning stages of labor.  A long labor followed, then another false alarm, his heart rate dropped while pushing, I was rushed for an emergency c-section, then he bounced back and more pushing resumed.  Then it happened again.  And this is the moment that my world began to stop. This is the moment that has changed me forever.  This is the moment that I have defined as the worst moment of my life (and I desperately hope it stays that way).  Again, I was rushed back to the operating room for an emergency c-section, although this time the reality of the false alarms was realized.  It was apparent that the false alarms were never really false at all. Time froze.  Terror, panic, horror flooded me.  I tried to replace the realization of my worst nightmares with prayers, mantras, and happy places.  I couldn’t see anything, I couldn’t feel anything, I just had to hold my husband’s hand, looked into his scared eyes and wait.  Wyatt Nicholas Hobek was born on October 6, 2005 at 6:30 am and was 8 lbs, 4 oz and 21 inches long.  He was not breathing on his own.  I did not get to hold him or see him.  He was whisked away from me in an attempt to save his life.  They couldn’t.  He lived for four hours and then he died, in my arms.  I finally got to hold him when he took his last breath. 

There is so much more to this story, but I know it’s a hard story to swallow, trust me, it’s a story I still find hard to believe.  And I am not telling you this story to make you sad or so that you will feel sorry for me.  To revisit our conversation from last week, I am telling you this because I need my story to be heard:   I want you to know my story, my son’s story, my family’s story.  I desperately wish that this story didn’t have to be a hidden part of my life.  There are so many complications in having a story such as this.  There are so many times when questions arise in innocent conversations and I struggle with how to answer them.  When you ask me how many children I have, I feel I have to tell you one, because I don’t want you to feel awkward when you don’t know how to respond if I tell you my truth.  When you ask me if Abigail is my first born or if she’s an only child, I nod reluctantly, to save you from the horrible pain that I have endured.  I carry pictures of both my children, but when I show them to you, I keep his hidden to be sure that my reality doesn’t make you uncomfortable.  But just so we’re clear, just to be sure you understand:  I do these things to protect you, not me.  I hurt when I deny his existence and my heart breaks a little every time I lie.  I tell you I only have one child, but in my heart I will always hold two.  I am not ashamed of my past.  I am proud.  I am honored that I was allowed to carry him for 9 amazing months, that I was chosen to be his mother, that I was able to love him in the time that I was given.  He was truly a gift and I will hold on to that for as long as I live.  So all I’m asking from you is to allow me to remember him from time to time, to let my story escape from my past on occasion, to let me honor my first-born child and acknowledge his existence in this world, even if it was fleeting. 

“….Afraid no more of tears and pain, more scared when they go I will lose you again.”       

These scenarios get even more complicated with our recent loss, and I have realized that this is another post for another day….so I hope you will continue to read and listen, there is so much more I have to say and so much more I have yet to experience (happy things too, I know this to be true!)...

Enter at Your Own Risk, I'm Keeping It Real

Twenty-three days post D&C.  You know, that procedure where they had to put me under to suck my dead baby from my body.  Yep that one.  And if that didn’t get your attention and make you incredibly uncomfortable, stick around, I’ve got plenty more tricks up my sleeve.  Because here’s what I know for sure:  I will not be sugar-coating any of the crap I’ve been through or the emotions I’ve experienced while going through it anymore.  I’ve done too much of that for those who inquire about my story but then recoil when my reality starts spilling out.  I’ve kept quiet, I’ve been considerate, I’ve thought about YOU and how awkward I might make you feel.  Well, it’s my turn, I’m breaking my silence and I’m thinking about ME and how alone I have felt trying to protect the masses from my pain.  Today is a new day.  Today is the day that I begin telling my story for my sake and no one else.  Today I will be heard.  (Please listen?)

I wish I could tell you that my recent pregnancy loss at 12 weeks was the subject of my story, that this loss describes the essence of my current struggles.  But I cannot tell you that, that is only a recent chapter, my story runs a little deeper.  This story starts over five years ago when I went to the hospital, 40 weeks pregnant with no complications, to deliver a baby boy, and left, empty-handed, broken-hearted and feeling completely ALONE.  Who does this happen to?  Apparently many more people than I had ever known.  People began coming out of the woodwork.  Where had all of these people been and how had I not known their stories before?  I experienced this again with my recent loss, a much different loss, but a loss all the same.  Once I shared my story, I got private emails and facebook messages from friends and family members telling me how they have experienced a miscarriage, infertility, pregnancy loss, but never told anyone about it.  It broke my heart.  Why were all these women hiding behind their pain?  Why is pregnancy loss kept such a secret?  Miscarriage is so common (about 1 in 4) that we are terrified to even tell people we are pregnant until after 12 weeks, you know so we don’t have to tell anyone that we “lost the baby” (terminlogy I find disturbing because I feel it implies some sort of negligence).    It’s almost as if it’s shameful.  It is the unspeakable burden that so many women carry with them for a lifetime.  Pregnancy has become such a fairy tale in our current society that it’s almost as if something is drastically wrong with us if we can’t have a normal, natural, successful pregnancy (as well as in a certain timeframe).  And trust me, that’s exactly how many of us feel:  broken and damaged, as if our bodies have failed us and our families, sometimes over and over again.  Why can’t we embrace each other as women (and men)who have experienced infertility, a pregnancy loss, or neonatal loss and share our heartaches and compassions with and for one another?  Why do these experiences have to be skeletons in our closets?  I’m tired of hiding beneath this mask.  I’m tired of feeling alone.  I’m tired of pretending I’m okay.  I need to be heard.  (Are you still listening?)

I’m starting this blog because I want to tell you something of my past, but mostly I want to document my journey forward.  I want to write about my challenges, my struggles, but also my hopes and inspirations.  I want you to know where I have been and why I haven’t given up hope, even if it has all but dissipated at times.  I am a 40 year old woman who has been 1 for 3 in successful pregnancies and is still fearfully hopeful that I will be able to bring just one more baby home from the hospital.  I realize that others have had it far worse than I, and I am not here to complain about my life.  I have been very fortunate in my lot.  I have a patient and loving husband (so very patient), I have an amazing and soulful four year old daughter, I have the best extended family and friends a girl could ask for, I have an exciting career and educational endeavors, I have a lot to be grateful for in my life and I am, I am so very grateful.  But I also have pain, I have heartache, I have fear.  I have a story that is clawing at my soul to be released. I have a very human and primal need to be heard.  My name is Amy.  I have broken dreams but a hopeful spirit.  I have a journey to share both past and present.  I have to tell you the truth so that others might not feel so alone, so I do not feel so alone.  I have so much hope that you came to listen, because, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I am desperately aching to be heard.