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. 

Ongoing Damage

                                                               (Tummy time for three)

I'm no psychologist, but I'm pretty sure my kids' emotional fragility is somehow connected with wounds from losing their little sister early in life.  My girl was three, and my boy was five when their little sister was just gone.  But I'm pretty sure the insecurities created then still play into their subconscious.  The damage festers on, whether they know it or not. 

(A boy and his baby sister)

My boy never really bonded.  They would do tummy time, but he was upset from the beginning he was getting yet another sister instead of his longed-for brother.  He wished her away...then she was gone.  He had been asking for a pacman frog just before we lost Alli, then the YouTube videos of pacman frogs eating just about everything small and weak figured heavily in his dreams after my angel died.  He no longer wanted one.  His own bed terrified him.  We had to get a new one, one he's had ever since.  He woke at 5 every morning for weeks and couldn't get enough sleep.  He finally got settled into better sleep patterns with the help of his doctor, but it was rough.  I think the bigger damage was guilt and fear became part of him, deep down inside.  Guilt that he had somehow caused her loss.  Fear that he could be next. 

(A girl and her baby sister)

For my girl, the damage was catastrophic.  She adored her little sister.  Her whole life circled around the little bundle of pink, the little sister she'd dreamed of, hoped for, and felt a bond with long before Alli came.  The day before I even knew I was pregnant, my little girl came and said, "My sister is coming," and nothing could shake her conviction because she just KNEW.  Then, for all of Alli's life, she wanted to be right there with her, comparing toes and fingers, asking about what "me-baby" was like.  Then, her heart was ripped out when her sister was just gone.  She knew without us telling her how Alli had died.  We were vague with the kids because we didn't want them afraid to go to sleep, but Alli had told her before she left.  Their bond was strong to the end. 

(Mourning)

Now, she doesn't remember her sister, really.  Neither of them do.  We look at Alli's picture book and talk about her sometimes, at least on her birthday and Angelversary.  But every time I cried, the kids would get scared and upset.  My girl would never want to talk about her sister, even at the time, claiming anytime she cried, it was for her cat that died a short time later.  I shared with them my sadness as openly as they would let me.  They worked hard to distance themselves from my mourning and from their own.  We took them to therapy, but the therapist had ulterior motives for all she did and really did not interact with the kids much.  She was eager to fish for evidence against us for the state's fraudulent case, so anything we said or did would show up as "evidence," even objecting to an early morning appointment so the kids could get enough sleep.  Despite our best efforts, they got no real therapy.  Due to this bad experience, I am in no hurry to subject any of us to more "therapy." 

(Fragile peace.)

But I see it in their fragility, especially my girl's.  Her immune system is terrible.  Part of that was she caught mono over a year ago, but part of that is she's always been that way.  It's almost like she feels guilty deep down inside that she lived, while Alli did not.  While her brother, the preemie-born child, was going strong, rarely sick, she's caught everything from strep to several colds and flus a year to that case of mono.  Emotionally, she's just as fragile.  She acts strong, confident, like she's healed, but since Alli's loss, she's wanted me there every night to watch over her as she went to sleep.  When she's sick or tired, she reaches for mommy to comfort her even during her preteen years.  She can't stand being around those in pain and in mourning because she has the kind of empathy where she senses others' emotions and is often strongly influenced by them.  She's gone from being an extrovert, eager to interact with others, to being an introvert, unwilling to let most people in.  Losing her sister broke her, and she's still trying to put the pieces back together.  She had a bullying situation and a teacher that was overbearing that damaged her further, but it all started when her world was shattered on one bright day in late June almost 8 years ago. 

(Healing hearts)

I'm thankful for the healing both kids have undergone.  I'm grateful for the times they have been willing to share their pain, when we could cry together.  I'm thankful for the cat that Alli sent her at the time my girl was most fragile, a cat that has helped her through much of her healing process.  I'm thankful for the healing power of the Lord in all of our lives.  Overall, both kids are doing well, are mostly happy.  But deep inside, I can still see broken hearts struggling to heal the rest of the way. I will continue to pray that their loss and healing makes them stronger than they otherwise may have been.