Musical Triggers

It's been a long time since I ran into a full-on trigger.  I've had slight triggers where I may have a few tears or burning eyes or a similarly slight reaction.  Mostly, I see Alli's angelversary and birthday coming from months away like a speeding freight train toward me. 

But, occasionally, I do get triggered.  This time, it was by one of Alli's two songs.  Soon after I lost her, my friend made a CD with one of my favorite songs on it, Josh Groban's "To Where You Are."  It quickly became intrinsically connected to her memory and to my pain.  I avoid hearing it at all costs because it hurts too much.  The same is true of Evanescence's "My Immortal."  Just before Christmas, Groban's song played on my sister's Pandora channel.  I'm sure she didn't expect it or have any idea of what would happen when it played.  I balled up in a hysterical fetal position on the floor and sobbed into our freshly laid floor.  I was immobilized and helpless against the emotional onslaught. 

I know I'm not alone in such triggers.  My friend, a young widow, feels something of the same thing every time she hears her late husband's beloved Beatles songs.  For her, it's a bittersweet feeling because, for a few minutes at least, she feels like he's back with her.  For me, the songs are just reminders of the intensity of fresh pain.  Most of the time, I'm buffered from the pain.  But there are moments when I'm helpless before its overwhelming might. 

These tears are not all bad.  They feel like healing tears, at least after the fact.  It's just hard to deal with the triggers when they come.  And when we lived in the same house as we were when we lost her, just after we lost her, the triggers were everywhere, from her blankets to her toys to my very body from which I had been wont to feed her.  Everything triggered that same onrush of agony.  I felt like I was breaking into a million pieces with nothing to hold me together, which was far worse than the usual, which was me wandering the world like a lost soul with a large, gaping, bloody hole where my heart used to be. 

Triggers, of whatever sort and no matter the nature of the loss, are just hard.  They can be good because they allow you to work through your pain.  But they bring fresh pain.  They're such a mixed bag.  I'm just thankful that I'm mostly living a world where I can find peace and healing through the Savior.  And I know I will hold her again.  On that day, the songs and other triggers will have no power over me.  I look forward to that day. 

Holiday Loss

The holidays are a particularly poignant time for those in mourning, even if the loss isn't recent or didn't occur over the holidays.  My husband and friend both saw the angelversaries of their mothers' deaths over the last week.  My husband lost his mother over two decades ago, and the holidays have never been the same.  His mother was Christmas to him.  It's always hard for him to summon any joy this time of year.  That friend has now lost her mother and father.  Her brother lives far away.  Her sister is far enough away that she can't always make it to celebrate holidays.  She's a lost soul, and holidays are often sort of meaningless to her without someone to celebrate with. 

For those whose loss is not over the holidays, it's still a tough time of year.  We constantly feel the pain of those who aren't here.  When I had just lost my baby, songs and imagery about newborns, pregnant women, and angels brought tears every time, and they're everywhere this time of year.  The dim pall feels worse when everyone else seems so joyous and expect us to feel likewise.

If you're one who feels more darkness than light this time of year, know that you're not alone.  Sometimes, with everyone singing chipper songs around us, it's easy to think we're the only one in pain.  Just know the reason for the season isn't Santa, presents, or any of the trappings.  It's a time to celebrate that Christ came and suffered our pain.  We are never alone because He knows our pain.  When he suffered in the garden, he suffered your pain, so he could carry it for you.  Pray.  Turn it over to Him.  Let Him share His peace with you.  Even if you can't summon a smile on cue, seek His peace this time of year.  He will help you through.  We also celebrate that He has overcome death.  Because He came, we can be with our loved ones again.  There is hope because of Christmas.  Even if you can't really celebrate, find peace in this. 

Journal Tree

I've mentioned our favorite tradition of watching out for ways to serve, writing acts of service on slips of paper, then putting them into a jar for Alli on Christmas morning.  We've started our jar and update it once a week.  I know we need to work harder on finding more people to help.

Another tradition we have is our journal tree.  Every year, we find ornaments that represent our family's year.  If we go to Yellowstone, California, or anywhere else, we get ornaments that we date if they don't already have dates on them and at least once a year sit together as we put them up to talk about what and whom they represent.  Each child also picks out an ornament per year, representing what they love at that time.  When they move out to go to college, they get to take those with them. 

We have ornaments to represent their Christmas prebirth and one to represent them on their first Christmas.

For our angel, we also have one to represent her growing wings the year she passed away.  We have an ornament as well to represent the angels we lost during pregnancy.  Every year, those ornaments feel particularly poignant because they, plus the angel at the top of the tree, are the stand-ins for those who can only be there in spirit.  I love our journal tree because it represents our life together, our loss and pain, and the love we have as a family.  I think we grow together each year as we reflect on the years we had together.  I recommend this tradition for anyone looking for a way to remember times together and those you have lost.  

Mourning with Those that Mourn

The Lord has a way of reminding me that I have been richly blessed.  When I start to feel down over losing my baby and my miscarriages, I'll hear a story or meet a person who has lost more.  When I meet people like this, I'm reminded I have much to give because of the empathy I've learned through our experiences.

A friend of mine told me a story of friends of his who lost their kids to the state and have to struggle to get them back.  We came close when my baby died, and investigators set us up for the fall through false evidence and fabrications.  The Lord protected us through a series of miracles.  Sometimes, people have a tendency to judge those who have legal troubles and/or are in danger of losing their kids.  When I meet people under the same threat, I have nothing but empathy and understanding.  

Another friend of mine was thrown into a legal mess by someone she considered friend.  She's lost everything or almost everything because of it, including friendships, trust, freedom, and valued possessions.  And it was in no way her fault.  It was all the result of lies.  We talked this week about what we'd been through, what we'd lost, and how hard it was to know we were innocent and find ourselves unable to prove it.  We cried together, and it felt good.  I've been blessed to be in a unique position to help her out during her time of hardship when she was staring into the face of homelessness.  I know the Lord gave me this opportunity to help her because He trusted me to act as his hands.  

When we go through hardships like loss and legal trouble, we can allow it to destroy us and make us bitter, or we can allow it to teach us empathy and gratitude for what we have.  It's now the holiday season, a time to remember to be grateful and to show greater love, understanding, and generosity.  It's easy to allow these seasons to remind us of our loss.  It's a time when a lot of us sink into depression as we consider what or whom we don't have with us right now.  But it's up to us how we approach this season.  Do we allow it to weigh us down or do we lift ourselves by looking for ways to lift others?  Sometimes, it's more than we can do to reach outside the darkness we're in right now.  That's when the Lord may send us angels and hands of heaven to lift us up.  

I pray all who read this find a way to survive this holiday season, find someone to cry with, find people to lift and people who will lift them in return.  I also pray the Lord will be with you and help you and those you love through this time of darkness and light.  

Into the Face of Mortality

Things were going okay.  We had challenges like anyone else, but our life was okay.  Then, we got the news recently that my husband was borderline diabetic.  People can live okay with managed diabetes, but I've seen and heard of the dangers it can pose to arms, legs, eyes, and overall health.  His brother has lost a lot of vision, likely due in part to his diabetes.  His father and mother also had it, so it's not really a surprise.  However, that doesn't mean it's going to do him any favors.  A young man I heard of recently died due directly to his diabetes.  It's scary stuff.  The best hope he has is to trim off the pounds and control the diet better. 

However, this isn't the worst of the news we've had recently.  We just learned the only sibling my husband feels at all close to was just diagnosed with skin cancer.  He found out about his condition due to miraculous circumstances rather than through careful planning or even intent.  He had no idea it was coming. Skin cancer can be curable, but only if it's caught early enough.  At this point, we can only pray it was.  My niece had cancer a few years ago, when she was little.  She was stage four and yet has been declared cancer free. 

I believe in miracles and guardian angels.  I know my Alli and others watch over me and my family.   I believe that the Savior suffered not just for my sins but also for my pains.  I know He can heal my heart.  However, I also know that the Lord sometimes asks us to undergo hard things.  I've lived many of the last years since I prayed my baby would live on what some have called "but if not" faith.  "Lord, I would like my husband/brother-in-law/baby/etc. to be cured of this malady.  But if not, I will still trust and follow."  It's a hard place to be.  We'd all like to think that all we need to do is pray, and all will be right with the world.  But that's not how the Lord works.  He tries us and blesses us as we strive to follow.  But even the most righteous, wonderful person can still suffer, can still die, can be called on to endure the most miserable trials in faith.  I will pray and even fast for my husband and his brother.  I will trust that things will go as they should, that a Father who cares enough to send us here to grow and become like Him, has our best interests at heart.  If my husband and his brother are healed, we'll show undying gratitude.  But if not, we will still believe and obey and be thankful for our blessings. 

Sharing Time Together

This weekend, we took my aging parents to visit my mom's sisters.  Right now, everyone is healthy.  They're aging okay.  All of them may struggle with health issues now and again, but they're all doing okay.  For now. 

But I've lost.  I know that just because you can hug them today doesn't mean you'll still have them tomorrow.  I know that you need to take advantage of every chance you can to spend with those you love because, as the saying goes, tomorrow is not promised.  You can't know how many hugs you'll get before they're gone.  The recent brush with loss concerning my dad brought that home once again. 

I know we'll be family beyond this life.  But in order for forever families to mean anything, we need to build relationships today.  So we drove for miles to get together with my aunt.  I wish we would have had time to meet up with my other aunt, who lives near the one we visited, or my husband's aunt, who lives near another place we went.  Next time.  For now, I choose to focus on the moments we got to cherish bonding with and helping my kids bond with family.  And I choose to be thankful for what I have rather than brooding on what I didn't get or what I've lost. 

The Roller Coaster of Healing

The last couple of days, I've been listening to a conference about many things spiritual.  As usual, the topics that stand out to me are those about loss.  It often strikes me about how quickly some people seem to spring back from loss.  Some people can talk in a calm voice, often even a smile, just after they've lost someone close to them.  It almost seems like some people don't need healing because they've accepted so fully that families are forever that death is just part of life.  They understand that the Lord overcame death.  Death, for them, has no sting. 

Others I have heard of or seen are so crippled by their loss that they can't even function.  Every day seems like a burden.  Every step or thought or breath hurts because all of that is done in the absence of the one they have lost.  They feel like their hearts struggle to beat in the presence of a bloody hole so vast, so painful, that there is no such thing as healing.  Their hearts feel broken forever. 

Sometimes, I wonder if I've failed in my faith that I'm not among the first, that eight and a half years after my angel took wing isn't enough for me to achieve complete healing.  However, then I remember that everyone is an individual, that grief (and the intentional mourning process that comes with it) is not going to be the same for even two people, let alone everyone.  It's okay that death has a sting.  Sometimes, I feel my heart's bloody hole even now.  Most of the time, I have peace.  But, there are days when it's all about that bloody hole.  There are days when my hysterical tears wrack my body and leave me exhausted.  And, it's okay.  Grief is what it is.  It's a crazy roller coaster of emotions that are unpredictable and often uncontrollable.  Feeling okay most of the time is not a betrayal of my angel.  It's an achievement.  Does that mean I've healed all the way?  I don't think there is such a thing, not in this lifetime.  Full healing won't happen until Alli is back in my arms.  For now, I'll take peace most of the time and try to wait patiently for the day when we're back together. 

Songs about Rainbows

A family I know is getting their rainbow baby.  I'm delighted for them.  They lost their three-year-year old in a tragic horse riding accident close to a year ago.  They're watching the date of her angelversary coming on with dread.  I hope and pray this knowledge that their rainbow baby is coming soon will help them find peace as that nightmarish day looms. 

However, I know from experience that the fear will sit beneath the surface, like a storm stirring in what seems like a gentle sea.  They've also had at least one miscarriage.  Fears of a repeat have to weigh on them as they always did on me. 

If anyone deserves the joy of a rainbow baby, it's this family that has been through so much heartache.  There was a time I would have felt jealousy over this because they are getting their rainbow, but I never did.  A rainbow baby is said to fill the big, gaping hole of loss.  That rainbow baby will never replace the lost baby, but there is healing in holding one child after another is lost. 

Or, so I hear.  I didn't really get the chance to figure that out for myself.  Alli came after my first miscarriage, so she was technically a rainbow.  But we felt strongly that she was the one we lost in the miscarriage, that she tried to come, and this was the same baby actually making it into our arms.  It's hard to quite call her a rainbow when they were both she, coming twice and leaving twice. 

I'm past envying other people's rainbows.  I've found peace in the two I can still hold, in knowing I will hold Alli and all the other angels I've lost (15? 16? 17?  I've lost count).  I'm past yearning for diapers, past feeling the pain every time I see a pregnant woman or a baby.  I'm truly happy for this family that finally has something to celebrate.  I will be praying along with them that this baby comes and stays.  It's a beautiful thing to know you have angels who love you on the other side.  However, nothing can quite replace the warm weight of a sweet baby in your arms.  In the meantime, for me, I'll look forward to the day I can hold mine again. 

Bouncing Back

Last time, I blogged about my dad.  It turns out it was probably just a seizure, and he's coming back to himself.  But he's lost enough functionality that he needs to be in a facility to help him work through walking and talking issues he still has.  His children flocked around him when we thought he was going.  And he probably registered little to none of it.  It makes me feel bad that we're not there for him now he's conscious enough to be bored and lonely.  Mom goes to the facility almost every day, but the rest of us are so busy that we don't make it to see him.  

I think that's often how it goes.  When one seems to be at death's door, everyone is there.  During recovery, people get too busy.  We are making plans to go and visit him soon, but it is harder to rearrange life when my days are far more full than they were when this started.  I was able to drop everything and run.  Now, not so much.  

It's the same story I've heard again and again.  Death or near-death comes, and everyone flocks around.  Time passes, and they stop coming.  It's not that people are intentionally skipping out to let one or a few left to pick up the pieces.  It's just that after the storm, things seem quiet.  Life goes back to normal...except for those left picking up the pieces.  I'd like to do more, to not be one of those that disappear.  I'm on my phone almost every day, supporting my mom through this, far more than I used to be.  But I'm trying to find a way to do more.  

When Elderly Parents Fade

(My family when we were young)

I've been blogging about child loss.  This week's focus will be on a different kind of loss.  A few years ago, my vibrant, hard-working father started to fade.  The doctor diagnosed him with senility.  He could no longer work as he had.  He couldn't drive as he always had.  He couldn't learn or remember.  As he walked away from his last job and mourned the loss of his license, he still tried to function and did a pretty good job.  But as the years passed, he became less and less eager to get out and about.  He'd go to movies then return to his bed, his TV, and his beloved little Pom-poo (Pomeranian poodle) we brought him and that he loved with all of his heart. 

(At the Bear Lake Beach, camping with Mom, Dad, our Pomeranian, and Dad's dog.)

A couple of years ago, we knew he was fading and took him and my mom to southern Utah, where they both wanted to go to see Zion's and Bryce.  We've taken him on a few little adventures over the years because we knew he had a traveling bone.  Over the last year, he's increasingly faded to the point that his only opportunity to see the light of day was periodic trips to the movies and walks with his dog.  On July Fourth, most of my full siblings and I got together with Mom and Dad for a barbecue.  My unstable-footed father rolled down the last two steps and broke his foot in two places.  He got out even less, mostly staying in bed. 

(Flying away for vacation)

All of his life, he longed to see Disneyland, but they never could afford it when he was young, and then through his first wife plus four kids, his brief second marriage, and his marriage with seven kids to my mom, he never could afford it.  So we, two of his daughters and our families and one of his sons and his family, took him to California.  We helped my elderly parents pay for Disneyland and their hotel.  We surrounded him with love as we celebrated his life and 78th birthday to come, doing just what he wanted to do. 

(Dad enjoying Disney with us.)

He only did California Adventure, Disneyland, a beach, and church while there, spending the rest of the time in bed.  He fell on the slick floors of the hotel a couple of times.  But he came back okay.  We got him home.  He and Mom drove up to my brother's house to pick up his beloved Pom-poo.  Mom went out for a few minutes, then she came back in to find him speaking incomprehensibly, in a way that seemed to indicate he'd just had a stroke. 

Over the last several days, he's been tested and prodded as all family that could rushed to visit, including three kids and some grandkids from his previous marriage.  We have started to pull together to support him.  It turns out it wasn't a stroke but possibly a seizure, though we're still not sure. 

(My Dad over the years)

All I know is the dad I've built a fairly close relationship over the years, the dad that went from a distant, angry tyrant, to a soft, sweet grandpa to my kids, the dad with whom I joked and played pinochle with, the dad that could be hard and sweet by turns, has become like a small child, frustrated in this shell, which is all that is left of his body.  He can't move much but still struggles to get around when the hospital staff won't let him because he could cause more damage.  He is used to being able to get out and do when he wants, even though he mostly doesn't want anymore. And now, no one can understand much of what he says.  He's stuck in a place where strange faces drift in and out of his consciousness, some of which he feels like he should remember.  He's become helpless, like a small baby, but with memories of being so much more.  It hurts to see him like this, but I'm thankful he's not gone entirely.  Not yet, but who knows what tomorrow or next month or next year will bring?  Meanwhile, my mother is left alone, trying to support him and deal with an empty house.  I'm thankful we could be there for them, but it's hard not to be able to do more. 

I miss him.  I miss my daddy and wish I'd hugged him a little more, talked to him a little more often, just given him more of myself.  I know when he leaves here, he'll go see my brother, who he loved fiercely and who died the month before Alli did.  I know his mother and several other family members are waiting to embrace his return.  But in the meantime, we'll do the best we can for him.  I just wish we could do more. 

Another Vacation without Her

It can be painful to go on a vacation, knowing at least one of your family members isn't there.  Now, I think she joins us when we go.  But it's just not the same thing when you can't hold that other family member, when you can't turn to them and point to something exciting.  I often wonder what she would be like, how she would respond.  I feel that hole in my family most keenly when I leave home. 

I miss her so much on these trips.  I'm looking forward to leaving for a while, to escape.  But I wish she could be nearby, taking it all in as well.  It just feels like all the colors are off without her.  Nothing feels right. 

Like I said, I can pray to invite her.  I truly think she will enjoy being with us when we go.  I just wish she could be visible.  One day. 

The Stork's Impending Visit (not to me)

My great niece is going to be born any day now.  On one hand, I celebrate inside because it means I get to hold a baby in pink and play with baby toes.  On the other hand, I will be praying inside, nervous the whole time leading to the birth, the time of birth, and even after baby is here.  Most people sigh with relief when a baby is here safely.  Having lost a babies in and out of the womb, I know babies are fragile in all their stages.  I'd be paralyzed with fear if it were my own baby.  Even watching my nephew and his wife, with whom I have been close for several years, bringing a baby to this earth scares me.

Babies are just scary to me for their sake.  They're scary for me for my sake, too, because I have lost too many times before.  I can't help it.  Babies equal loss to me.  I know most babies live.  This little princess will probably outlive me by many years. But just thinking about a baby makes me cry.  There was a time I envied women who called themselves "expecting" because they were pregnant.  It's been years since I've expected anything but loss, even when I was pregnant.  There was also a time I envied those with babies.  Now, I realize I don't envy any of it because babies mean fear to me.  I'm much more at peace letting other people deal with the stress.  I'll be grateful for my older kids and the chance to hold other people's babies. 

Ongoing Damage part 2

Over a year ago, my preteen girl was diagnosed with mono or a malady very like it.  It was almost impossible to wake her for school.  I had to dress her like a doll and still often couldn't wake her afterward.  Every day felt like the improv game of dead bodies where I had to manipulate a floppy person who was almost as tall as I am.  I finally just let the school know she was not coming or coming late every morning we couldn't wake her.  Summer couldn't come soon enough.  Over the summer, she got better but not all the way.  She showed every sign of chronic fatigue. 

Recently, I called the doctor's office to get some ideas of how to help my girl through these symptoms, which still haven't faded entirely.  I figured she still had the mono, which I had heard could become chronic.  When I talked to the nurse and told her my perception of the situation, she suggested good vitamins and getting her walking in the sun for vitamin D.  But the doctor said these symptoms are psychosomatic, that they have their root in psychology.  He recommended we get a therapist and/or have her work through a kids' therapy workbook. There's no pill to fix her.  There's no easy fix.  And it all started with the early trauma and tragedy of losing her sister on which the trauma of a bully, of a teacher that created an emotionally damaging environment, and other life events have only built to change her from an extreme extrovert who trusted the world to an extreme introvert drained by too much "peopling." 

On one level, she's done a lot of healing since her traumas.  She's gained a lot of confidence and self-assurance in her gifts and abilities.  On the other hand, it's hard to know how far she has to go and what being healed looks like.  All I can do is be there for her, give her those workbooks the doctor recommends since she has no interest in therapists, and help her turn toward God for the healing the atonement offers. 

Mixed Bag

                                              (A photo from Craters of the Moon last year.)

Last time, I wrote that we planned to go to a bed and breakfast to avoid being home and just feeling the pain of Alli's angelversary.  Last year, going to Craters of the Moon offered the perfect balance of get-out-of-the-house-with-the-family-and-stay-busy and time to mourn.  We ended the day looking through her baby book.  It was perfect. 

This year's trip to a lovely bed and breakfast was nice.  What with life happening, we didn't get there until late, and my acid reflux had me throwing up everything I tried to eat, my chest burning until I did.  But waking in an old farmhouse to crepes was lovely, especially when the turkey and ducks serenaded us, the cat and dog came for a visit, and the owner made us fabulous fruit crepes and orange juice.  I highly recommend the Woodland Farmhouse Inn in Kamas if someone is in that neck of the woods. 

Sadly, the experience of eating anything was marred by my acid reflux bout.  And we only made it one mile of the mile-and-a-half, steep Timpanogas hike before my acid reflux and my girl's budding heat stroke forced us to turn back.  We were so busy rushing there, rushing up the hill, and rushing to meet my nephews and niece for dessert, and taking care to eat non-greasy foods to even spare a thought for the meaning of the day, for mourning.  It was great to see family members I don't get to see often, however.  We collapsed in bed that night only to wake up to utter exhaustion and grief to double up and strike us hard the next day.  We got little done because we were still reeling from a less-than relaxing and fulfilling trip. 

I can't say I regret the trip.  But I can say I think we'll need to plan a bit better next year.  It's nice to escape, but one can't escape entirely from the grief monster.  If you hold it off, it will get you in the end.  Escape if you can, but plan time to mourn. 

Plans for Survival

(Craters of the Moon)

Last year, we knew that dreaded day in June was coming, Alli's angelversary, so, instead of just bracing for the inevitable pain and trying to survive it the best we could, we skipped town.  We went on a family adventure to Craters of the Moon.  It wasn't expensive because it's not a distant destination.  We just needed to get out and be busy and, above all, anywhere but home, wallowing. 

Like magic, our inexpensive voyage worked.  We kept so busy, I didn't have the whole day to feel the inevitable explosion of emotions creeping on.  I controlled it.  We still brought her baby book and brought it out at a key time to remember her.  We still invited her to join us in prayer.  But it wasn't about our emotions so much as our togetherness and celebration of family rather than a period of mourning.  I wouldn't doubt she was there for all of it, even if we couldn't see her. 

,

(hiking)

I've spent most of the month trying not to think of its ugly caboose, but my husband spent that time planning for another such day of celebration.  He booked a room in a bed and breakfast and tickets for a lovely hike to Timpanogas.  We won't idle by, waiting for the emotions to strike like a landmine under the surface.  We will celebrate her day with our togetherness and invite her along.  I wouldn't doubt my angel will be there this time, too. 

Dreaded June

[Allamandas, a flower whose name resembles my Alamanda's name.]

I always feel better when I haven't noticed it's June yet.  And when I haven't yet connected the beginning of June with its tail end.  I haven't connected the budding, green world of late spring as summer vacation begins with the last moments of June, the darkest day of the calendar year when we pull out the pictures of my baby that start with ultrasounds and end with images of caskets and headstones.  I never dreamed eight years ago that such a bright, happy time of the year could end so darkly.

My world as I knew it ended that beautiful, sunny day.  Everything since has been a process of scrambling to piece together the shards of a shattered, bloody heart.  Every June since has started with the sun shining and ended in the abyss where it feels light will never shine again. 

There was a time I loved June, looked forward to it, cherished it as a perfect time of the year, when the sun hasn't quite baked the color out of the world, and the baby animals are still finding their feet.  Now, it's a month reminiscent of dying flowers beside a tiny grave with dates too close together and shabby rainbows representing the younger babies I would carry but never hold. 

I miss a green, happy June like I miss my smile before catastrophic loss.  But, somehow, life goes on, anyway.  I will survive until July, when the sun can shine again.  I will keep that picture book that ends too abruptly in its place on the shelf until the end of the month, when we will remember her short life with tears and warm memories but also pain.  I know, one day, I will be able to hold her again.  I know families can be together forever.  But for now, June hurts.  And I can either accept that or pretend I can replace what is with what "should be."  Life will go on with the pain.  I've accepted that.  And that will have to do. 

Finding Peace with Infertility

My first baby came fast.  We figured we'd get used to being married for a while then invite in a third.  My boy had other plans.  Not only was I pregnant by the end of our honeymoon, but he came a full month early.  Then as soon as we tried for my girl, there she was.  We thought we'd be able to have babies on cue just like that until our family was complete.  Except when we felt it was time for a third, it took close to a year to get pregnant.  Then we had our first miscarriage at ten weeks.  We were reeling.  It was supposed to be easy. 

But then, soon after, we got pregnant again.  But were told that we had the Kell antibody, one of the nastiest antibodies known to medicine.  Only 8% of the human race has Kell.  Many doctors and nurses don't even know what it is. Those who test positively for Kell antibody often got it from a transfusion, or the man can turn out to be heterozygous for Kell, meaning only 50% of their babies will feel the effects of Kell. 

But after testing, we discovered we were of the "lucky" few, 2% of the 8%.  We won the genetic lottery.  In a very very bad way.  This meant 100% of our pregnancies would result in Kell issues.   It turns out that Kell works like Rh negative but without the treatment, meaning the baby is treated like a disease by the body's immune system.  I read a study about Kell done in the eighties.  Of 6 women in the study who had Kell, 6 babies miscarried or were stillborn.  From 18 weeks on, specialists take several ultrasounds every week and a half to keep an eye on the baby's head and make sure he or she does not get attacked by the body to the point that they have anemia.  One day, the baby can be fine.  The very next, the baby can be seriously anemic or dead, thanks to the body's own defenses.  If the body attacks the baby like a disease, they do a transfusion and try to keep the baby in as long as they can.  A very lucky woman with the Kell antibody can make it past 30 weeks, and then they induce.  Even then, the baby may need a transfusion right there in the delivery room. 

We were blessed in Alli's pregnancy.  She showed no signs of being anemic.  We drove down a full hour and back every week and a half to see the specialist, only to have the baby act as if Kell did not exist.  We made it all the way to 37 weeks, getting stress tested the last few weeks, every week, since the Kell charts ended at 33 weeks.  Alli was born small but perfect.  She honked like a gosling and was a pound and a half smaller than our earlier girl, but she passed all the newborn testing with flying colors.  She gained weight fast soon after.  She was our little miracle. 

Then 4 months later, she rolled into a pillow and passed away in her sleep.  She'd shown signs of being prone to SIDS, sleeping so deeply that I would sometimes have to work to wake her.  But this time, she was really gone.  There aren't words to describe the trauma we went through at that time.  I've talked all about child loss.  I talked about the trauma and fraud we went through at the hands of the state, who tried to frame us for negligent homicide.  But we made it through.  This blog post is not about that nightmare nor the traumatic events surrounding it. 

Just over a year later, we tried to have another baby only to miscarry.  Thus began years of trying, testing, failing, and miscarrying again.  Sometimes, we got as far as home testing for pregnancy then lost it the next day, and sometimes, we needed medical intervention to pass the fetus, once, a D&C, and once, with the morning after pill after hearing those dreaded words, "There is no heartbeat."  I nearly bled to death, saw spots, became severely anemic, and ended up in the ER.  After that, I generally tried to let it pass naturally. 

Each time, we tried again, sure this one would be the one, the live baby to fill the hole left behind by the losses before.  Each time, we were confident we would get our rainbow baby.  Testing landed me in surgery to take care of polyps.  They were already clearing out naturally by the time surgery took place.  No other testing showed any reason.  The hormone treatment, aspirin, and other treatments I took landed us in the same place, still in the empty-arms club. 

I watched the dream of a rainbow fade.  Finally, after about thirteen or fourteen miscarriages, we felt that need to try fade.  I still had a six to eight miscarriage or two after we stopped trying then began the process of carefully avoiding any possibility of pregnancy.  I had hoped if we weren't trying, but the Lord saw fit to send me a baby, anyway, this would be the one.  After that, we decided there would be no rainbow.  We were done, totally done hoping, striving, and trying.  And somehow, I felt more peaceful than I had for the whole time we were trying.  It took me that voyage to come to terms with not filling my arms, with finding peace and gratitude with the two I could hold. 

Through this voyage, revelation, and other things, I have come to the sense that I will hold these babies again.  They are my angels.  My kids helped me name them as we put porcelain angel after porcelain angel on the shelf to represent each little sibling we wouldn't hold (for now).  On Alli's days, her birthday and her angelversary, we pause to remember the little ones we never held.  On Christmas, we fill a bottle with slips of paper containing any service we do for others over the season and read them as a present to Alli and our other angels. 

I have a fleet of guardian angels.  Sometimes, I miss them, and it hurts so much, I can scarcely hold my molecules together.  But most of the time, I have peace.  I know, one day, maybe when we all pass over or during the Millenium when Jesus comes again, my family will be sprawling and large.  In the meantime, I will find peace and be grateful in all I have been given.