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.

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.