Mommy Ever After » loss

I have so much.

mommyeverafter — Tue, 25 Nov 2014 10:11:00 +0000

This weekend was the first that the fierce cold really whipped me in the bones.
It has been dancing around, and gotten close, but this weekend it hit me, and got under my skin.

We spent most of the time holed up at home, in our cozy fuzzy living room.
When we went outside for some brief errands on Saturday I felt so chilled that it was hard for me to warm up, so I decided to put a long sleeve shirt over my tank top that was under my cashmere sweater.
I don’t know why, but I looked in an unusual place in my closet (not where I keep my long sleeved shirts, but rather my “exercise” clothing, despite the fact that I do not exercise) and peeking out was a very special shirt.
It was my Valentine’s Day present in 2013, the month after we had moved into our new home.
It was a surprise, because my husband picked it out himself, so out the blue, because he saw it and thought it was soft and sweet and it was so thoughtful. And what I now know is that I was given that shirt the very day that my son was already a bunch of dividing cells, taking a ride into what would be his little nest for the next 9 months.
But the first time I wore the shirt was not until a few weeks later, on March 2.
At that time, I was a week late. It was the first month that pregnancy could even be a possibility and I tested early and it was negative. But for some reason, I really felt like I was pregnant. I had no symptoms, I just felt something. The parents of the students in my class said I was glowing, and I swore to them that I had no idea what they were talking about (because at that point, I did not! I still maintain that I did not! Pinky swear!) I told them that I was likely just gaining a little weight. My pregnancy test was negative, after all. Well as I mentioned in talking about his birth story, I found out I was pregnant on Saturday morning, March 2, while my husband was out to brunch with our family and family friends. For some strange reason, I pulled the last test that I had in my linen closet and I peed on that stick, home alone with my then 2 years and 11 months old daughter. I remember looking at the instructions carefully. I remember seeing that the control line would appear on the right, indicating that the test was done properly, and that the variable pregnancy line would be on the left. But what happened was strange; the control line did not show up, but instead, a dark maroon line on the left. It was not until a minute later that I saw both lines appear. I had two lines, the pregnancy one was just the first to arrive at the party. As a matter of fact, my son liked to be early for everything, coming out 4 days before his scheduled C-Section at 38.5 weeks.
I was in shock and amazement. “I’m pregnant!” I told my daughter. She didn’t quite understand (thank goodness) and then, I can say I really was glowing. I could not believe the miracle that was happening inside of me. I can still feel the swell of emotion as I type these words. I remember wrapping the stick carefully in a box for my daughter to hand to my husband upon his return home from brunch. I remember his face. Surprise and joy. I remember Face-timing my sister, the first person we told. She was ecstatic. I remember having my dad stop by and having the test displayed on our mantle. He hugged us all. I remember calling my mom, who had just landed in St. Thomas, to tell her (she claims she already knew). But more than anything, I remember the feeling that I had, which was the sheer awe and gratitude that we would be growing our family. And I think that because I already knew the magic kind of love that comes with motherhood, I loved this baby instantly.
I rubbed my belly, under my pink striped shirt.
I have written so much this year about my difficult pregnancy, numbness towards the baby, postpartum and my struggles, but I want to make sure to write how much I cherished the baby growing inside of me from the second I found out that he was in there. It was like my heart grew instantly. As did my belly, which seemed to pop out the moment those two lines appeared.
Today, I put on that pink shirt again to get the chill out, but I had my son to keep me warm.
And with him in my heart two years ago, I felt happy. And with him in my arms today, I felt even happier.
This photo makes me want to smile, and it makes me want to cry.
If I’m being honest, I am not writing this post with dry eyes.
It’s that thing about the magic.
I have so much, more than I could have ever hoped for or imagined, but I will never have that experience again,
of waiting for two lines to appear
and knowing that a life was beginning inside of me.
Please please know that I write this with the utmost sensitivity. I realize that some will never experience that joy; I realize that for some, two lines on a test is not a happy thing.
But for me, I am still coping with this loss, and it is still something that I think about every day.
Just like the cold wind today, it dances around me, when I see a pregnant person, or a baby announcements or newborn photos.
I will repeat, I have so much.
I have a loving family, a devoted husband, a beautiful daughter and an adorable son.
I may not have everything, but I have so much.
I have so much.
I have so much.
I have so much.
And I have a warm pink striped shirt,
and two babies to snuggle up into it.

The post I have so much. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

Threadbare

mommyeverafter — Fri, 09 May 2014 23:35:21 +0000

Tonight, as I toweled myself off after my shower,
this old post popped into my head.
As I looked in the mirror I saw tired eyes,
hair that has not been washed since Monday morning (which is a new record, even for me. And no, Twin, it doesn’t even look dirty)
and I thought to myself, threadbare.
The real definition of the word is “becoming thin and tattered with age.”
I think that this past week did a number on me,
as I was already fragile from these past few months.
This week, over and over again, I thanked my lucky stars for my carbon monoxide detector,
and that something pulled me out of bed at 5am to hear it’s far away beeps.
So many people reached out to me this week. They asked if I was OK, asked to help, and told me that my story has haunted them, or motivated them to make changes in their home.
My husband and I are so glad to raise awareness on something so important, but, as he said, we’re ready to stop being the poster children for these hard things.
So I looked myself in the mirror,
and I smoothed on my eye creams and oils and moisturizers (I may never wash my hair but I am crazy for my skincare regimen)
and put on a t-shirt from one of my sister’s old Phish shows and a pair of her silk shorts,
and I realized that, as I wrote in that post so long ago,
I may be threadbare
and a bit of an eyesore
but I am still standing.
Through terrifying surgeries, heartbreaking complications,
losing too much blood and the devastating loss of good friends in my time of need,
through floods and hospital stays and times that were sad and scary and surreal
I am here. I am strong. I may look thin, I may look weak, I may have dirty hair, but I have survived.
I didn’t know that I would.
I am so grateful that I have.
And, just like my daughter’s hospital hat years ago,
I am now the best.
I am the best me I have ever been.
Here’s to the future,
and here’s to the past.

The post Threadbare appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

The Hardest Part.

mommyeverafter — Wed, 23 Apr 2014 00:50:32 +0000

When I wrote The hardest post I’ve ever written, I wrote about my struggles with peri- and postpartum depression. But in it, I proclaimed that the hardest part of the hardest post was having to type the following words:
I can no longer have children.
In it I also wrote how incredibly grateful I am for having two children. I have a daughter. I have a son. I had two pregnancies that weren’t too scary. I had two c-sections that were, but produced babies with Apgar scores of 8 and then 9. I had two children come out of me at exactly 7 pounds and 12 ounces, my first born at 2:22 in the morning, my second at 4:11 in the afternoon.
I felt the magic.
And that magic is what I mourn the most.
There is nothing like that magic. The drive to the hospital. The anticipation. Seeing the baby for the first time. Those first few moments, and then days. The hospital stay (which, after baby number one, seems luxurious).
And the loss of that, of knowing I will never have that incredible feeling ever again, is what makes me feel sad.
Sometimes I anticipate the sadness; If I am going to visit a friend’s new baby or put my arms around a best friend’s pregnant belly, I can expect to feel the pang; but in those moments I experience that two hands thing that I was talking about. I feel so much joy for my friends. It is genuine. It is not about me at all.
And then, there are other times, times when I’m unarmed, when my armor is off, that I feel the pain so deeply it is almost hard to breathe.
Like today, when I went up to the playroom to pick up after my daughter. I was cleaning up tutus and dresses and toy cars when I saw a hand-sewn pillow among a pile of dress-up clothing. This pillow is in the shape of a heart and was given to me by my weekend nurse, Pam, when I had my son, when it was so hard to stand after my surgery. She told me to press the pillow into my incision when I would try to move, and that pressure would relieve some of the pain.
I saw that pillow today, and tears came to my eyes.
I will never have that feeling ever again.
I don’t know how many times I can say this: I realize that I am so blessed. I know what I have. I know that my children are amazing and that some people never get to experience that magic and I am so fortunate that I was able to twice. I have grown a team.
I get to sing “You are my sunshine” and mean every word, so deeply, that my bones tingle and my heart aches.
But it’s hard.
Just as this time in my life has been hard.
I cannot have another baby because it is not safe for my body and I cannot have another baby because it is not safe for my brain.
That magic, while powerful, is not worth the risk.
I cannot put my body through that stress again. I cannot put my family through the pain they have endured once more.
During this time in my life I have lost friends, friends who I thought would be true to me forever; I have scared my family members; my children have seen me cry; I have lost weight and lost color in my face and still, I cannot get over this idea that, despite all of these things, I am out of control of my own body and mind and future.
Sometimes I put a positive spin on things. I think about how I am now forever done the exhausting newborn phase; I think about how my children are both healthy and strong; I feel so glad that I will not have another c-section;
But there is this part of me, this small part of me, that still grieves.
Because there is this little part of me that thinks that there is this little baby out there that I will never know. That it should exist. And that I’m missing it.
I will never feel the magic again. I don’t have the chance.
Today, I had one of those low moments when my grandmother came by for an impromptu visit with a bag of grocery store treats; The baby was squirming and kicking his legs like crazy and I said, without thinking, “This is exactly what he used to do in my stomach, remember?”
And then I said “I will never feel that again.”
And she said “So what? None of us did. Look at what you have. Be happy with what you have.”
And, once again, I am.
There are different stages of grief that I am aware of. Perhaps my belief that there is a baby out there waiting for me is denial.
Sometimes I feel angry, at my body and at my brain chemistry and at my doctors. I am angry that this happened to me.
Other times I ask my husband that if, in 6 years we have loads of money, we could hire a surrogate to carry a third baby for us. Bargaining.
And then there’s the depression. The part of me that is making my eyes sting now as I type these words.
I am waiting for the acceptance.
But until I find it, which I pray that I do, I will go on rooting for my team, cherishing the good moments when I have them, and singing
“You are my sunshine” every single night.
You’ll never know, my dears,
how much I love you.
…

The post The Hardest Part. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.

She’s a bad mama (pa)jama.

mommyeverafter — Sun, 04 Mar 2012 16:18:02 +0000

Watching my kid as she dances around the living room,
belting out “Oh Yoko”,
while wearing her footsie pjs and a faux leopard hat,
I know
that his memory most certainly is a blessing.

The post She’s a bad mama (pa)jama. appeared first on Mommy Ever After.