My Em-Spiration: Finding My Fight

So in the height of my current struggles I found myself turning to an unlikely friend.  Someone who has most likely not had the same experiences that I have had, but is expressing emotions that I can most certainly relate to.  Okay, just so you know, I have never been a huge Eminem fan.  But I’ve also never hated him.  There’s reason to have a certain amount of respect for his talent.  There’s something very real and very raw in his expression, but also very real and very raw in his ability to offend.  Personally, I’ve never been offended, but I can get why others might turn the other way.  That being said, his latest album “Recovery” grabbed my attention even before I knew I needed it.  I often listened to the watered-down, radio versions of his latest releases.  Then, four days post D&C, a song kept running through my head, and I knew I had to own it.  This particular song, “I’m Not Afraid” spoke so much to my emotions in not really where I was at the time, but where I knew I needed to be. 

Yeah, it’s been a ride…

A place that was all too familiar, but I really wasn’t up for visiting at the moment.  I realize that some of you may not be able to relate to my fondness for ol’ Em.  My new friend probably offends many of my readers.  But there are times in my life, when certain events have occurred, when my heart reaches a certain stage of broken, that I get to a point where the sweetness is just sickening.  And I need, no I crave, the harshness and the brutalness of real words that aren’t sugar-coated.  There is a certain amount of satisfaction in finding someone who isn’t afraid to be angry.  Someone who isn’t adverse to yelling, screaming, swearing, profanity …someone who says what I want to say, but can’t.  But alongside this anger, hope sits too.  It is intertwined, tangled up and disguised within these dramatic lyrics, it’s hidden behind the rough edges, peeking out just enough that occasionally I catch a glimmer.  This angry hopefulness speaks volumes to my ragged heart and my complicated emotions.  I realize this song is not written for me and my struggles but there is so much about it that I do get, and it’s then that I realize that it has been written for me and for what I need right now. This album stirs up the fight in me, and there are days when I truly need to rally for that fight.  It empowers me to stand up and demand the dreams I have a right to.  It reminds my heart that it should be outraged by the unfairness, that it’s okay to be angry when I have been robbed.  It gives me inspiration that I can’t find other places.  It pushes me to remember that I refuse to be beat down.  I refuse to let this evil get the best of me.  I refuse to give up.  I refuse. 

And I just can't keep living this way
So starting today, I'm breaking out of this cage…

When Wyatt was ripped from our lives in an instant, I knew that I had to take control of the only thing I had control over.  I had to conjure up all the fight that I could muster.  It was a fight or flight moment and I wasn’t going anywhere.  I was determined to not be beat down by any demons, I was standing my ground and demanding my life back.  This experience was not going to get the best of me.  This hardship was not going to define me in any certain terms.  I was not going to let the darkness take over.  And I fought and I fought and I fought…I was determined that I would be victorious, slay this dragon, bury him behind me and move on. 

There's a game called circle and I don't know how
I'm way too up to back down
But I think I'm still tryna figure this crap out
Thought I had it mapped out but I guess I didn't
This f#*@ing black cloud still follows me around…

Then I was reminded all too soon that this darkness never entirely leaves you.  There’s a certain pain that is always lingering in the background.  A particular demon that can’t wait to come back to haunt you.  It just hurts sometimes.  It sneaks up on you and tries to tear at your insides when you least expect it.  And, well, then there are also those times when it comes flooding back when your heart gets broken once again.  And there I was, sitting all alone, wondering how I have returned to this dark place, wondering how this evil could have possibly found me again and wondering how I was going to escape once more.  So I turned to the advice of my newly acquired BFF and decided I was going to wage war on this evil one more time.  I was not ready to wave my white flag yet.  It was not time for me to surrender.  I knew I had only one choice and I was ready to beat this beast again.  Time to get in the ring one more time and show my enemy that I wasn’t backing down. 

I'mma be what I set out to be, without a doubt undoubtedly

But here’s where I can sometimes get stuck:  How do you wage a war when you are not sure who your opponent truly is?  I mean, what was it I was really fighting against?  Who really was this dragon, this beast, this evil, this darkness?  It had no title.  It could not be defined.  I clearly couldn’t put a tombstone on his grave and call it done if I had no name to inscribe at the end.  This has been one of my biggest struggles.  When no one can tell you why the rug was pulled out from under you, when no one knows exactly what happened, when no one is sure what the evil that is lurking about truly is, how can you possibly fight it?  Fighting an invisible, un-named enemy is a daunting and exhausting task.  It wears me out and strips me of everything that makes me strong in the first place.  It is the one thing that can surely break me down and it does, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, it chisels away at my core. The not knowing why, the not knowing how, the not knowing when, it chews me up and spits me out.  It knocks me out cold and I’m dizzied every time I try to get back up.  Just writing these words wells my eyes and weighs down my spirit.  It just sucks.  End of story.

I'm standing up, Imma face my demons
I'm manning up, Imma hold my ground
I've had enough, now I'm so fed up
Time to put my life back together right now

But I know my story isn’t over.  Giving up is not my style.  Backing down isn’t really part of my nature.  So I will fight blindly if that’s what I need to do.  I will keep swinging with my eyes closed until I hit that target if that’s what it takes.  I know that my army of supporters is strong enough to back me up, pick me up when I’ve fallen, put me on their shoulders when I can stand no more.  I am ready for battle once again.  I know I will win, I am certain I will be victorious.  I am often not certain how, or when, and I might not yet even know what victory looks like.  But I am certain why.  And it’s because I choose.  I choose to fight, I choose to stand, and I choose to eventually define what victory is for me.  This is my life, the only one I will be given, and when given a choice, I will choose to find my fight and demand what is rightfully mine.  So with my Em-spiration in my back pocket and my blindfold on, I’m stepping out into the unknown, which is so much better than not stepping at all. 

I'm not afraid to take a stand
Everybody come take my hand
We'll walk this road together, through the storm
Whatever weather, cold or warm
Just let you know that, you're not alone
Holla if you feel that you've been down the same road

[Of course all songs in italics are the rightful property of my pal Eminem, from the song I'm Not Afraid....thanks Em]

Wearing My Heart on My Blog

There are days when I begin to think that starting this blog may not have been such a great idea.  Days when I want to remain anonymous and don’t want anyone to know the pain that my heart holds.  Days that I wish I could hide from all the fears that engulf me, escape from the ugly parts of my world as I know it and just view life from my occasional rose-colored glasses.  Sometimes I think that crawling back into my hole might provide me some much needed protection.  An escape of some sorts.   And then I have a moment in which I sit with a group of women innocently filling Easter eggs for a hunt, non whom have read my blog, not a one who knows my heart.  I have unknowingly situated myself right smack in the middle of two women, one who has recently had her second baby, a one-month old, and the other who is pregnant, conveniently sharing a recent due date of mine that I cannot hold on to, but still find myself clinging to some days.  She just found out she is having a girl (a simple reminder that I would have just been finding this out too).  I instantly see just how much I would be showing, just how much I would be glowing.  Deep breath.  The conversation circles about….how exhausting is it juggling two, planning the ideal age difference between your children (ah, the benefits of actually being able to time these things), sleepless nights with a newborn, not being able to nap when you are pregnant with your second, and on and on…  The conversation endlessly weaves in and out of these topics, thrusting me into a tailspin and I can’t seem to regain control.  Tears begin to surface.  I push them back.  My heart is telling my body to get up and leave but my mind is telling me to stay and persevere.  Why didn’t I see this coming?  How could I have not had the foresight to prepare myself for the possibility of this event?   Oh, how I want to put my fingers in my ears.  La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.  I can’t hear you.  Desperately trying to tune them out, get my eggs filled and get the hell out of here.  There are things I want to say, but I am aware of the social inappropriateness of my desired contributions to this conversation.  I mean, I know that I really can’t tell them about the shared due date, my dead babies, my broken heart.  I can’t tell them that I want their blissful ignorance, and their bulging bellies and their sleepless nights (well, maybe not the nights).  I can’t tell them that their stories are only my dreams and aspirations and I don’t know if or when they will be realized.  And, of course, I don’t really want to.  The last thing I want to do is bring these joyful women into my darkness.  I try to spare most pregnant women my truths, someone deserves a happy and fearless pregnancy.  They don’t know my story, and it’s okay that they don’t know my story, they don’t need to.  But I quickly realize that I need my blog, I need to share with others who are willing listeners, I need this outlet, because without it I would have the possibility of enduring more of these experiences of feeling alone.  Sharing my heartaches with others has opened doors to my heart that I didn’t think was possible.  Letting you all in has brought me a peace I didn’t really know existed.  I am so thankful for my sharing space. 

There have definitely been benefits and consequences to publicly telling my story.  There are challenges that present themselves when you wear your heart on your blog.  Challenges that come with putting it all out there and hoping that others truly understand your intentions.  There are fears that come along for the ride.  Fears that others will judge you for what you have to say:  judge that you have said too much, judge that you have said too little or even judge that what you are saying isn’t something worth saying much about.  There are fears that by sharing your story no one will understand or no one will respond or the worst fear of all:  that no one wants to listen to what you have to say.  And if I’m being honest, some of these fears have already been realized.  There have been moments when someone close to me has told me she is “worried about me” and maybe she thinks that I am sharing too much.   But the reality is, it doesn’t matter if I write it here for you to read or keep it trapped in my heart, I feel it just the same.  It exists whether you know it or not.  Putting it out here provides me some opportunity to release some pain, to let it escape a little so that someone else might be able to hold it for me for a bit.   The burden just feels a little lighter when you don’t have to carry it all by yourself.  There have also been moments when others have suggested the possibility that I’m not being completely honest.  That maybe I should be more angry or more sad or more…. something?  But the thing is, I feel I am being completely honest.  I want the entire picture of my emotions to reflect in my tellings, the complexity of my emotions is what makes my story mine, what makes it real to me.  I most definitely feel anger, resentment, jealousy, sadness, disappointment, but this is only one side of my story.  If you know anything about me, you know that I have an eternally hopeful spirit.  My heart is ridiculously resilient.  Even in my darkest of days, there was always a ray of hope shining through, I always looked for a silver lining.  I sometimes found it.  I see this as my saving grace.  Sometimes hope is the only thing that is left.  If I don’t have hope, I’m left with nothing.  So I grab onto hope with all my might and hold on tight and wait for hope to fulfill its promises.  I’m disappointed when it doesn’t, but I never regret holding that hope in the first place.  Hope is a beautiful thing and I’m grateful for the softness that hope brings into my heart.  But don’t mistake my hope for happiness, hope is a path that may take me there, but hope can reside amidst my heartache and pain just the same. 

Aside from these responses, which I know were expressed only out of love and concern, there have also been moments of awkwardness, uncomfortable silences, huge elephants in the room.  In these instances I am often sure that the person I am spending time with has read my blog but they don’t know what to say, and I’m okay with that too.  You don’t have to say anything.  But I also have a friend, who just looked at me when she saw me at the park that day and told me she had been reading my blog but didn’t know what to say and in saying that, she said a lot.  I appreciated the gesture just as much as if she would have said something profound.   I have found so much healing in telling my story.  There has been so much freedom in letting you know who I am and where I have been.  I feel less broken when I have given others the opportunity to reach out to me, to comfort me, to validate that I am indeed not alone in my circumstances.  A friend of Rob’s recently told us that he wants to know how we are feeling but is afraid to ask.  My point exactly.  I feel like I can tell you through this blog how I am feeling and only those that want to know have to listen.  How perfect is that?  It’s almost perfect.  Perfect is when I connect with someone because of this blog, someone I didn’t even know before, and our hearts can become lighter together because we have shared a similar journey.  Perfect is when a friend tells me I am amazing, I am a warrior, I am a hero, all things I know are not true, but I appreciate the understanding and sentiment behind them just the same.  Perfect is being able to have a long needed conversation with a dear friend because she has read my blog and even though our journeys have been different, she realizes that we are not so different after all and our hearts begin to fuse in a simultaneous healing of sorts. 

I know that everyone deals with their heartbreaks in different ways.  I get that and I respect that.  But I don’t understand why we feel we have to keep our heartbreaks completely hidden.  As I reflect on this for a moment, I come to the quick conclusion that people don’t share their heartaches as much as they should because they are fearful of how others will react and respond.  They are afraid of someone rejecting their pain, belittling their heartache, de-emphasizing the magnitude of their loss.  When we as humans experience a loss in our culture, a loss of any kind, there is such a “get over it” mentality that I can’t get over.  What’s the big rush anyway?  What’s the harm in letting someone feel their pain for a minute and why can’t we take the time to try to feel it with them?  People are also afraid of the qualifiers that come with their sharing, the “at leasts” (You know, “at least you can still get pregnant”, “at least you didn’t carry the baby to term”, “at least you can try again”, “at least you didn’t have memories and experiences with that baby”, “at least there’s adoption”).  I’m so over the “at leasts”.  Please understand that the “at leasts” don’t make anyone’s heartache go away, they only cause further heartbreak by downsizing my pain.  I also think people don’t share because they are afraid of the measurement of pain that goes on in our society.  You know that 1 to 10 scale of pain on the wall at the hospital?  Well let me tell you, it doesn’t apply to a broken heart.  We shouldn’t attempt to judge the volume, intensity or magnitude of someone’s grief.  Who has more, who has less?  Who cares?  My pain is my pain and yours is yours.  If it hurts you, I care about it.  That should be the end of that nonsense.  If we stopped for a moment, stopped for a second and listened to someone’s heartache, listened to their pain, instead of judging it, instead of measuring it, instead of qualifying it, I am pretty certain that more sharing would occur and people would begin breaking their silences and healing their hearts at a rapid pace.  And I’m all for this.  Sharing begins healing and let me tell you a little healing goes a long way.  So I encourage you to find your sharing spot.  It doesn’t have to be a blog or a public forum in any way.  It can be in an email, a discussion board, a phone call to someone you know will understand, but make sure your heart finds its path to sharing, be sure you give yourself a chance to begin your healing.  You have a right to your pain, your heartache, your grief.  You have a right to have your story told.  You have a right to be heard.  If you have no where else to turn, let me be your sharing space.  My heart is open to your pain.  Please tell me your story.  I am listening. 

Unchartered Disappointment

My hope wanes.   Disappointment settles in.  I know in my head that this is only a minor setback, but my heart feels otherwise.  Unchartered territory.  Again.  You see, when we lost Wyatt, we were virgins to the drama of pregnancy failures and well, we were initiated into the club with the mother of all pregnancy losses.  We were kind of naïve and thought that we would be immune to further definitions of pregnancy heartache.  We kind of thought we had paid our dues in full and could enter and exit this club simultaneously.  Even after having Abigail, we still had never experienced anything other than our full-term loss.  Even when we conceived with the most recent baby lost, not only had we yet to experience any other loss (a big yet), we were 3 for 3 in getting pregnant the first month we tried.  I almost feel guilty saying this.  I have so many friends that I love dearly whose hearts surely drop at the sound of that sentence.  Friends who have struggled with not being able to get pregnant after months or years of trying.  So what I am going to say next is sure to send them through the roof.  I just kind of figured we would get pregnant right away again.  I know it was only the first month, but this heart yet healed isn’t dealing with this new form of disappointment all too well.   I had been dealing with the grief from our recent loss pretty well in the past weeks.  I’ll have to say, trying again had brought me some hope once more for a future and a family that I desperately crave.  But I did put off taking that pregnancy test for a couple of days (if you don’t know, you can now pee on that stick up to six days prior to your cycle’s next kick-off).    I kept putting it off because it was kind of nice just being in a state of limbo.   I didn’t have to worry either way, no disappointment, no fear, no nothing.  I knew nothing, I had to do nothing.  I could just be.  Ah, how refreshing it was to just be.  And how very fleeting.

So now I sit with you and tell you of yet another of my disappointments.  And I’m with you, this one just seems a little silly. But before you laugh at me, before you scoff at me, before you just get completely irritated or annoyed with me, let me plead my case.  This was the one card I felt I still had left in my pocket.  This was the only card I felt I still had left in my pocket, the only security blanket I had left to hold on to.  I have had a full term loss, I have had an “early” loss, and have been reminded again all too recently that the rug could be pulled out from under me at any given time if history tries to become my fate once more.  But at least I had my fertility.  At least I could get pregnant at any given time.  I have been so grateful that at any given moment, I could stand back up, face my fears and get pregnant whenever I was ready.  Until now.  And now I hear that little voice in the back of my head utter: you have failed again.  That voice that encourages me to think that I am broken, damaged, unfit to mother.  That voice that no matter how many times I ignore it or tell it to leave, comes back softly, whispering just loud enough so its presence is known.  That voice that I know is wrong, although it is often quite convincing in its arguments. 

Let’s face facts here.  I’m not getting any younger.  Forty is pretty much the taboo age for pregnancy, it seems.  It’s a now or never moment.  Interestingly enough, when we were beginning our mission in December to get pregnant, this didn’t bother me so much.  I was hopeful that we would get pregnant quickly, but I was also reasonable and knew it could take some time to get there.  But all rational thoughts have left me now.  The accumulation of losses comes conveniently packaged with the simultaneous collection of fears.  So now I have a new fear to add to my list.  Will I be able to get pregnant again?  Has my age caught up with me?  Did I gamble with time one year too many as I waited until I was ready to risk once more?  How long will it take?  What is my fate?  I want to know the answers to all of these questions and the answers are no where to be found.  It’s uncertain.  It’s up in the air.  It’s a new challenge that I get to bear.  Just one more ingredient to add to my cocktail of crazy.  One more reason for me to wonder how I got myself into this mess once again.  Why am I doing this?  Why am I putting myself through all this?  And I remind myself that we have dreams of a family that I don’t yet feel is complete.  I remind myself that Abigail is so hopeful to have a sibling to experience and share her life with.  I remind myself that I have a right to these dreams, dreams that so many others seem to take for granted.  I have a right to these dreams and I have a right to fulfill them.  End of discussion.

As I reflect on the struggles that we have had with pregnancy, along with similar challenges of friends, family, co-workers, acquaintances, it’s a wonder that anyone is able to get pregnant and deliver a healthy baby at all.  And I wondered when I was at the mall today for much needed retail therapy how all these pregnant people could all be at the same place at the same time (and trust me when I say I noticed each and every one of them).  The odds just don’t seem to be in favor of this.  But wait, these are just my odds.  Well, I guess they could be your odds too, but for your sake, I hope not.   I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.  And I know so many have it so much worse than me.  I know this and my heart breaks for you too.  It breaks a hundred times for your struggles and challenges with all this nonsense just the same.   With this small disappointment inflicted on my heart, I get just a tiny glimpse (yes I realize, incredibly tiny) of what persistent infertility could do to someone’s spirit.  And to all my friends out there that have had to struggle with this ridiculousness, I am sorry.  Please know how truly sorry I am for your pain.  It’s not fair, and I’m not okay with it.  I’m not okay with it at all.

So of course, I know this is not a loss of a child, but it strangely feels a little like grief once again.  It’s a temporary loss of dreams, plans and once more, my hopeful spirit.  But I refuse to be dragged into the dirt too deeply and I quickly look for my silver lining.  I see her four-year-old self bounding all over my house with limitless energy and unrestrained joy.  Oh, how I am thankful for this silver lining.  And I sometimes feel greedy for wanting more, because she brings me so much incredible joy and I know she is more than some get to experience ever.  So I give myself a day, a day to wallow in my own sorts of self-pity, a day to indulge with my friends-and-family coupon, a day to eat all the chocolate in various Easter shapes and forms that I can possibly handle, a day to weep here and there and wonder “Why me?”.   And after this day has passed, I then tell myself I have no reason to wallow at all.  Because when this is all said and done, no matter what the outcome, I still have this silver lining and it is enough.  It is most certainly enough.  Anything more is just icing on the cake.  Don’t get me wrong, I crave that icing, but cake is damn good and pretty satisfying all on its own.  So I am off to enjoy in this little life that I have been given, the one that has not been taken away, and I will do just that.  I will enjoy her with all my might.  I tell her all too frequently that instead of being upset for the one thing you can’t have, you should be thankful for all the things you can have.  So today I will heed my own advice and be fully present with my girl.  She is more than worthy of my undivided attention.  I have been given a gift and I have full intentions of making the most of its offerings.  My future may be uncertain, but my present is right here in front of me.  So here I am today, letting go of a certain amount of fear and uncertainty, embracing and basking in my present, realizing that my life is pretty darn good, as is, right now.   Right now is all I know for sure.  Right now is good enough for me.       

Got Kindness?

  Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things,

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness….

-Naomi Shihab Nye

(For full version of this poem, click here.)

Now I do not claim to be a connoisseur of poetry, but I do like to dabble from time to time.  And my dabbling usually begins during times when my world seems to be crashing in on me.  Some might say I’m not such a dabbler after all. So needless to say, after we lost Wyatt, I turned towards volumes of poetry in an attempt to find something that spoke to my heart.  When I came across this poem, it didn’t just speak to me, it was screaming “Read me!  You know me!”.  This is hands down my favorite poem as it resonated with me so much on that day that I found it.  Every time I have read it thereafter it resonates with my heart just the same. 

You see, I truly believe that at the end of the day, kindness really is the only thing that truly matters.  It seems like such a simple thing, but really it is incredibly complex in its abilities to express love, fondness, concern and care.  It is, in my book, the essential key to healing.  When you have truly lost something so dear to your heart, kindness can speak to you in ways that no one or nothing else can.    So, I write this post to speak to you of kindness.  How I have been so fortunate to have experienced so much kindness in my hardships.  How kindness knocked on my door so many times until my heart felt repaired enough to be kind to others once again.  How I feel that all of these kindnesses contributed to my healing, my hope and my courage.  How all of these acts of kindness were my healing, my hope and my courage.  How once again, acts of kindness are my healing, my hope and my courage.

I have heard all too many times how the unfortunate words of others, in an attempt to encourage the broken-hearted mother after a child’s death or pregnancy loss, have caused further heart-break.  I am not sure that these speakers have meant any harm in their unthoughtful words, but I am also not sure that kindness and compassion were backing them up either.  Sometimes people have other agendas when expressing their condolences, such as saying things to make themselves feel more comfortable, to make the situation less awkward, or even to somehow try to remove the pain or fix the situation altogether.  I promise you, none of these things are possible.  Regardless, I will have to say, I have been most fortunate in my losses to have had very few of these experiences.  Instead, I have been the recipient of much kindness and thoughtfulness and for that my heart is abundantly grateful.  I would like to speak to some of these acts of kindness that have touched my heart along the way.  Please know that I cannot possibly mention them all and on this day, these are the ones that speak to me in the moment, but if you have bestowed an act of kindness on my heart and I have not mentioned it here, I promise you me and my heart remember, and we hold you and your sentiment close by. 

First of all, I have been so very fortunate to have been in the care of the most amazing team of compassionate professionals possible.  I will not be able to mention them all, but I do believe that I have had two of the best OBs in town.  Maybe I am biased but the love, encouragement and care that they have both bestowed on me will never ever be forgotten.  The OB that I had with Wyatt sat at my bedside, held my hand and wept with me after we both lost that precious, beautiful boy.  She gave me her home number, cell phone and pager and encouraged me to call her whenever I needed to talk (who does that?).  She met with us whenever we needed to discuss “what happened”, to ask questions, and even offered that I ask her the toughest question of all:  what could she have done differently.  I didn’t.  Her kindness was enough.  Then there was the OB we had when we were pregnant with Abigail (we switched for a variety of reasons, none of which had to do with the care we received from our first OB). I knew in the instant that I met her that she was going to give me everything I needed in terms of kindness and compassion, right along side her reputation for incredible medical care.  (There was an OB briefly in between, but we won’t talk about her, kindness was not her primary motive and I marched myself right out her front door).  Throughout Abigail’s pregnancy, which was filled with anxiety and fear, she too held my hand, provided me with an abundance of encouragement, reserved last appointments of the day for me so that I could have all of her time that I needed without ever feeling rushed.  Towards the end of Abigail’s pregnancy we were even exchanging poetry.  I gave her Nye’s poem (the one mentioned above) and expressed my gratitude for her kindness.  She gave me one on courage.  Amazing kindness. 

There were also the labor and delivery nurses with Wyatt.  They were with us for a long and challenging labor.  They laughed and joked with us throughout the labor and then they cried and cried with us when things took a horrible turn for the worse.  And then they hit me with the most unexpected kindness.  They showed up at Wyatt’s funeral service.  I have no idea how they knew when it was or where it was, but they were there, and my heart still holds that memory and emotion of their kindness very very tightly.  And while we are on the subject of Wyatt’s funeral, I cannot even begin to tell you the acts of kindness that were displayed by so many.  First of all, my family.  Everyone lives out of town, immediate and extended.  Everyone was there.  Friends poured through the receiving line just the same.  I was humbled and touched by the sheer number of people that came to share our sadness that day.  The small private practice I worked for shut down so that all could be there.  An amazing friend and her husband drove all the way from North Carolina and then drove back the same day, just to offer me some kindness.  This same friend, a couple of months later, left her family for a long weekend just so she could sit with me and my pain.  Another friend of mine who had recently moved to California couldn’t be at the service, so she sent her mom.  Her mom.  I had never met her mom, but she came to my son’s service to relay the message that her daughter was thinking about me.  Sensational act of kindness.  You see it’s the little things.  The little things that make a big difference to a broken heart.  And I cannot leave out the priest that did our service.  He said the most amazing things in regards to a child that none of us really got a chance to know.  It was as perfect as a sermon at a funeral service could possibly be.  And I’ll be honest, I can’t recall a word that he said, but my heart most definitely remembers it was kind. 

           

Once we were home to settle in our grief, the kindnesses continued.  Each and every card, flower, meal, care package sent to our home was a kindness created to heal my heart bit by bit.  Some days these were the only times my head and my heart lifted enough to see the light of day.  My employer gave me as much time off as I needed.  Genuine kindness.  My co-workers embraced me with open arms and ears when I came back.  Appreciated kindness.  When I was pregnant with Abigail, one co-worker even gave me a baby gift a week to symbolize hope for the arrival of our little one.  Unique kindness.  But I will have to say that no one offered me as much kindness and support as the children that attended the preschool center I work in.  I had to tell them my story because they knew I was having a baby.  We talked about it often, they were almost as excited as I was.  Then I had to return empty-handed and tell them the truth.  They listened, they asked real questions, they wanted to see pictures, they were better at handling my grief then any adult could dare to be.   Children are the kindest of all.  And there is one child who offered me so much kindness, that my eyes well with tears as I begin to tell his story.  I may have had a recently appointed angel looking over me in heaven, but this child was my angel here on earth.  Some days his kindness was the only reason I made it through the day.  This amazing, four-year old child greeted me on my first day back by running down the hall and jumping into my arms, telling me how sorry he was that I lost my baby.   This child asked his mom if they could give me their baby (she was expecting too) because he knew my heart was so broken.  This child sought me out every day just to give me hugs because he knew I needed them.  This child defines kindness.  I hope this child remembers his kindness and how it healed my broken heart in my darkest of days. 

And the kindness resumed when people heard about our recent loss.  Although this loss may have seemed to others less tangible, less significant or less traumatic for us, this was not the sentiment that was displayed through the kindnesses of those close to us.  Almost instantly, a BonBonerie cake (for those unfamiliar the best cake in Cincinnati) and a bottle of wine were brought unexpectedly.  Instinctual kindness.  Thoughtful friends brought meals.  Yummy kindness.  Flowers showed up at my doorstep.  Pretty kindness.  Our neighbor’s parents caught us off guard by saying the kindest things to us without fear of our pain.   Outpouring of love and compassion came through email, cards and phone calls.  And then I was once again overwhelmed with kindness when I started this blog.  I was terrified that I would scare people away, but I have been embraced by so much loving kindness by so many that sometimes I don’t know what to do with it all.  And that’s a good thing.

You see, it’s hard to know what to do or say when someone is going through a difficult experience.  It’s hard to find the right words, especially if it is an experience that you yourself have never been through.  But if I’m being honest with you, it’s hard to find the right words even if it is very similar to an experience that you have been through.  So here’s my advice for you, when you don’t know what to say, do.  Because doing something is always better than doing nothing.  I will tell you, I remember your gestures far more frequently than I remember your words.  Flowers, cards, meals and the like are fabulous and their kindnesses are appreciated.    But even more, when I feel like the world no longer has any kindness left to offer, prove me wrong.  Offer up kindness by being there when I don’t even know that I need you.  When the awkward silence settles in, embrace it and the opportunity to sit with me in silence, hold my hand and hold my heart.  Listen to my heartache without feeling the need to offer up a solution to my problems or console me in some way that isn’t possible in this moment. Bring kindness of your own making, of your own choosing, of your own interpretation, but be sure that kindness is always your agenda, and that kindness backs up your motivation.  Be sure that kindness prevails above all.  Because at the end of the day, kindness really is all that matters.  And kindness is what we all really need.