Filling the Hole with Fluffies

I've thought a lot about my love of pets.  When I was a kid, I think I loved cats so much because I never got enough attention from Mom.  There were seven of us, and I always felt a little lost in the middle.  So I turned to cats to fill that hole.  

Now, I'm older.  I don't think I'm filling the parental hole in my life.  I think what I've done instead is fill the hole not having a baby has left in my life.  When my husband and I first got married, we had a rational two cats.  Okay, the cats weren't rational, but the number of pets was.  For the first few years of our marriage as we had one child then another, we added a few more here and there, mostly to entertain the kids.  The cats were the love of my little girl's life.  The hamster was to keep my boy happy when we were about to have another girl instead of a boy.  [It took us pretty much the whole hamster's life to finally admit that whereas we had tried to get a boy hamster, so he didn't feel the imbalance in the force quite as much, we only ended up tipping it female just a bit more.]  We got a bearded dragon because my boy was all about dinosaurs, and that was as close as we could get.  We got fish because the kids found them fascinating and pretty to watch.  

But then, after Alli died, our pet population exploded: cats [now five], rats [several, now down to zero], dogs [one then two then three and back to two again], guinea pigs [two, though that phase passed quickly when the stunk up the house and woke my girl every morning with their squealing], snakes [several at one point because my boy loves snakes], ducks [sold], bunnies [we've gone through several over the years and are now down to two that we rescued], chickens [12 at one point, but the raccoons wiped out so many that we only have a few left], lizards [still have two], frogs [all gone], goats [sold as soon as they ran away one too many times], and I'm sure I'm missing one or two more.  But we've had an insane number of pets.  Part of it was because the kids wanted to try out this animal or that one.  

But I think a bigger part of it was because I was filling a hole.  I couldn't go out and buy a baby, but I could go out and buy a baby, but I could go out and buy something else to care for like a snake or a bunny or a chicken.  But none of them scratched the itch.  None filled the hole.  So I slowly pared down to a few cats, two dogs, a couple of lizards, two bunnies, and a handful of chickens.  That still may sound like a lot, but it's sane compared to what it was, and the greater part of the population stays outdoors.  The cats do the best job of filling the hole left by babies because they're snuggly and warm and like to be held.  But I have had to come to terms with the idea that animals just cannot be what I want them to be.  However, I can be what they need me to be, which is their caretaker who gives them the attention/food/water/etc. they need.  It's good to identify what's happening, so I can seek my solace elsewhere and let the animals be whatever they want and need to be.  

Greeting my Nephew

So far, I think I've done pretty well with being happy for my sister's baby.  I truly am happy for my sister.  She wanted this baby and she's delighted to have him.  It's just hard not to also feel and undercurrent of--what? jealousy?  pain?--something.  A sense that the world is moving on without me as I'm surrounded by women who can happily and without effort--or with little effort--have a baby simply because they want to, it's time, or their body just works that way, whether they want it to or not.

Every time one of these women whose body actually works starts to complain about the horrors and pains of pregnancy, I want to shake them and remind them that at least they get those symptoms, and those symptoms don't go away until they have a baby to take home.  At least they will get a reward for going through all of that.  I want to remind them to be grateful for the swollen ankles, the back aches, the nausea, the tiny bladder syndrome, and even the violence of the unborn upon their internal organs because at least that means a baby is coming, and they will be able to hold and love that baby instead of bury it.  I understand being uncomfortable.  It isn't fun to be pregnant.  I get that.  I've been pregnant 19 times.  I just wish I had more than two live children to show for it.  I imagine if you put all of those months of pregnancies cut short together, I'd have at least nine months.

But at least these women with swollen ankles and pain generally look forward to holding that baby.  I have a hard time contemplating those who decide that they'd rather intentionally kill than hold their baby.  I know there are reasons, and some of them are valid.  It's just hard for me when I naturally go through what other women pay for.  Like someone may envy me for this inevitable result to any pregnancy.  I just can't imagine that mindset.  And I don't wish to.  It all makes me very sad.

I guess I can remind myself to be grateful that, unlike many women with fertility issues, I can actually hold two live babies.  I can remind myself that I'm fortunate to have faith that I will hold my unborn one day.  I can be grateful for the fleet of angels who watch over us and sometimes even help in the answering of our prayers.  There is much for which I can be grateful.  But there are times when it's hard to remember all I have when I'm focused on what I don't.  I just can't let those times last.

Varying Degrees

I know loss is different for everyone.  For me, loss has become the expected, the normal.  I fear miscarriage but at the same time expect it because it's been my way of life for several years now.  I lost another one, as I wrote about in the last week or two, and I bounce back quickly.  It hurt--a lot--but I'm okay.  I even played with my nephew's baby and toddler over the last couple of days, chatted with my pregnant friend, heard of the announcement of my newborn nephew, and I'm okay.  I'm not in the kind of pain I was in under similar circumstances after Alli died.  Loss has become part of my new normal.  Most people that are pregnant say they're expecting, but I can only say when I'm pregnant that I expect a miscarriage.  Because I've been right for years.

But the mommy of those same babies came here to escape/cope with the anniversary of one of her miscarriages.  I couldn't tell you the exact dates of my miscarriages because after 15, I've almost lost count.  If every day I had a miscarriage was destroyed, there wouldn't be a lot of months left without pain.  But to her, that date is significant, like the date of Alli's loss to me.  Loss is different and affects us all differently.

Just because we're in a fetal position over every anniversary or scarcely take note of them, we can't expect the same of everyone or even anyone else.  All we can do is reach out in empathy to others who have lost and treat them with love and understanding.  We need to understand everyone is in a different place on this pathway called life.  If someone doesn't react to miscarriages or is incapacitated by one, we can't judge them by our own experience and emotions because they're going to view these losses and react to them differently.  All we can do is love and offer an ear or a shoulder or whatever they need.

When the Rainbow Fades

So we have a theory about our miscarriages.  Before, I thought that when we gave up on trying to have a baby, the Lord may still send a sweet little one then protect him or her when the time was right.  I've now come to the conclusion that no matter how a baby comes and when, my body will just not support a baby.  In fact, I'm fairly certain I have an unknown medical condition that is taking out the babies.  It may be another antibody.  It may be that my hormones don't kick in.  There's no way to say.  But I had a good two weeks of using the pills the doctor gave me to ward off baby loss--baby aspirin, progesterone, and prostaglandin--and it still did not help.  I still lost the baby at roughly the same time as the later ones of the others.  We can't know what's going on.

But at this point, we can know that my body will not support a baby.  There will be no rainbow baby for me, at least until the Second Coming and the Resurrection.  Then, I will have my army of angels where I can hold and love them.  Until then, I have to be grateful for what I have and continue in the hardest kind of faith, the "but if not" faith.  Elder Simmons of the LDS church described true faith, faith in the Lord that will not be shaken even when our prayers don't seem to be answered as we're hoping.  Lord, I want this.  But if not, I will still trust and believe.  And that is where I live, in the land of but if not faith.  I will not hold a rainbow baby, but I can be grateful for my angels and grateful for the children I can hold.  My peace and joy are both in gratitude.