The Night Before

Tomorrow my little Mags and MoMo will start kindergarten. I’ve had emotions swirling over this for months and months — maybe for the past year. It came too soon. I fought so hard for four years and five in vitro cycles to get those babies into our family. I carried them for 37 weeks, tandem nursed them for three-plus years, stayed home with them for nearly six years...and now they will be spending half their daytime hours in school.

Their teacher (also Miles’ kindergarten teacher), is just wonderful. What a blessing to have her in our lives! And still, my heart breaks and will need to do some more grieving. No more babies at home...just me. So tonight we sang our usual songs, and I gave them extra kisses and whispered in their ears how much I adore them. Then I went to my own bed and wept. 

Not long after, I realized I hadn’t sung “You Are My Sunshine” to them — one of the first songs I introduced to each of my babies. So I went back to their room and asked them to sit with me so I could sing it to them. They both sat on my lap and to my delight, both joined in on the singing, and I held my twin babies tight as I sang and let the tears fall.

It is heartache and heartbreak, being a mother. It is up and down and all around. It is joy, pain, beauty and wonder. It is a magical miracle that overwhelms me every single day.

Dear Maggie and Moses

Last summer I drove about two hours from home to a place of solitude. I needed solitude. Everyone does, and no one really has to go anywhere special for it, but I had felt a strong pull toward truly getting away to be with God for some time. I found a wonderful little place where I had my own tiny cottage for two nights, and Casey's full support made it possible for me to have this time away guilt-free.

While there, I spoke about twice each day with the lady who essentially ran the place. Clare is her name. I told her my very long story, going back to when Miles was born and getting to the place of grief I was currently in, the place where our dreams of more children had not been realized. I had been journaling during my solitude, and on the second day Clare suggested I write a letter in my journal to the children who had never come to be. I knew instantly that I didn't want to do that, and so it meant to me that I needed to do that. But it was going to be one of the hardest things I would write.

It just so happened that Casey and I, over the course of our four failed in vitro cycles, had each come up with a name we liked if we ever had a boy or a girl. He had a girl's name in mind, I had decided on a boy's name. We had talked about them through each cycle, dreaming that one or both of them might be ours one day. The names had come to mean so much that I decided to address my letter to these two specific children. Keep in mind that this was June of last year...we weren't even at a place of knowing if we would try in vitro ever again.

With all of that said, I feel as though tonight is the perfect time to share this letter, so here goes.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Dear Maggie and Moses,

     I find it so very difficult to begin this letter. My fear is that I will cling to the hope of you even more, and that hope has been discarded and trampled over and over again for more than three years.

     Instead of sitting here writing a letter to children who don't exist, I should be holding you in my arms. I should be listening to your laughter as your big brother Miles is his usual, funny self. I thought that one or both of you might be here by now. None of that has come about as I dreamed...it's only been one more heartache after another.

     How do I miss a child that never was? But I do -- have seen you in my dreams, have imagined you coming home, have wondered what you would look like.

     For so long, it has felt as if you were waiting for me at the end of this long journey; it was like I could see you as that light at the end of a torturous tunnel.

     But now...now something I was sure would happen in time might never happen at all. Will I never know you? I struggle mightily to let you go.

     If you are not to be, I need God to change the desires of my heart, because I cannot do it myself. This longing seems almost more than I can bear at times.

     But oh, how you would be loved! And every day that you are not a reality makes me want to hold Miles that much closer. As much as I hope for you...well, he is here and you are not. God gave me such an amazing, beautiful boy in Miles Kendrick. I am desperate for him not to suffer because of my own grief. He is loved, he is precious, he is pure -- HE IS HERE. My love and delight need to be reserved for him, and not for a child that isn't.

     I'm sorry, Maggie and Moses. Please come if you can. But if you can't, God will take care of us. I hate to say goodbye to you, but I need to lay the dream of you at Jesus' feet. He will know what to do.

     I still want you...I do. But if my holding to the idea of you is futile, I am only doing a disservice to Casey and Miles. They need me, my heart and my nurturing. They are my boys.

     If you come someday, you will know what I mean. The love you will find in our little family is precious. It is waiting here if God's will is for you to be.

Love forever,

Mama

_________________________________________________________________________________

Even now, that is a very hard letter for me to read. I don't feel the sadness as much, but I remember it. But my sorrow was turned to joy on January 19 this year when we found out our fifth cycle was a success. And then again a week later, the joy grew as we found out we were having twins! Then came April 9, the day we learned we were having a boy and a girl...our Maggie and Moses.

Tomorrow is the end of a long chapter and the beginning of another, because our sweet little ones will arrive in this world. We only just learned that this afternoon, since Moses' growth had dropped down a bit, so the safest and best thing to do is to get them outside my body as soon as possible so he doesn't lose any more nourishment. Having carried these two miracles for 36 weeks and 6 days by the time they're born, I am so relieved to be where we are. I am so blessed. Praise God for new beginnings!

Good. Grief.

When I used to hear the word 'grief,' my immediate thoughts were of someone having lost a person close to them. It meant someone had died, and it was not a word I wanted to know personally. There was also the 'Oh, good grief, Charlie Brown!' thing...but never before would I put 'good' and 'grief' together in a serious way. And I always assumed that grieving was something that happened to someone after something very bad had happened. I didn't see it as a process that one partakes in, that one must partake in at times in their life in order to move forward. I also used to assume that grief was linear, but no longer.

I was ignorant about grief years ago. My life wasn't easy, but it wasn't hard. And then in February 2001 I started going to the doctor for unexplained symptoms, and this went on until he diagnosed me with an auto-immune disorder more than a year later. Four days before my wedding. Casey and I thought, 'Well, if we can get through all of that hospital craziness (one week) and this diagnosis...we can get through anything!' I thought this was my grief. My valley.

Miles was born in April 2006. I was finally rid of the hospital on July 19. Celebration. Recovery. I thought I was moving on. It wasn't until September, when Miles was five months old, that I began to realize all that I had missed in his life. I remember breaking down in the shower one evening, sobbing uncontrollably because I hadn't been able to celebrate my first Mother's Day, hadn't carried him home for the first time, hadn't been able to breastfeed like I'd wanted, hadn't even taken one picture of him until he was four months old. I had dreamed of taking photos of him as a tiny, newborn baby. I had missed that.

Still ignorant about how my grief was working and how I had to be a part of it instead of just waiting for it to 'happen,' I thought that with full physical recovery would come full emotional healing. But the joy I felt after my final surgery in July 2007 was short-lived. Grief was upon me again, and I was just starting to get it. No one had warned me that the emotional pain can long outlive the physical pain. I thought that kind of pain only came with 'real' loss. I was still just beginning to grasp how much I'd lost, and I didn't even know the half of it until we started trying to have another baby in March 2008.

Fast forward to the present day. Grief is not linear. There can be ten steps forward and one hundred steps back. There can be two steps up and four steps down. There can be a valley after a valley -- it's not always valley-mountain-valley-mountain. Your pain is your pain, and it can be a lonely place if you let it -- sometimes even if you don't.

I have handled my grief in both good and bad ways. I don't know that anyone handles it perfectly. It frustrates me greatly sometimes that I can't press a pause button on life so I can have time to grieve and then be caught up with everyone else. I am almost always 'stuck' behind and I don't know that I will ever be able to catch up, but I am learning to accept that.

One thing I've learned, sometimes grudgingly, is that I will never be the exact same person I used to be. Life looks different to me now, but I believe that there are better parts of me that might not have been if I hadn't gone through what I did. And my joys...they are sweeter and dearer because of my sorrows. My pain is deep, but I hold the tiniest moments close to my heart. I don't think I would have done that had things been easier.

I write about all of this because of something that sounds extremely simple, but for me has been a thing of dread. And instead of continuing to avoid it, I decided to walk through my pain because I knew that there would be a bit of healing on the other side. Grief is not a friend of mine, but lately I'm seeing that I have to sit with it in order to heal. There is no other way. I could try to avoid it my entire life, but what kind of life would that be? I am tired of pain, and I know I will grieve certain things until I die, but the deep sadness is something I must be with so that I can move on.

Now, the simple thing I mentioned? I have recently decided to go through every bit of Miles' clothing since he was born in order to sell what I can at consignment next month. That's five years of my little boy's clothes. There were many pieces I set aside, unable to part with them either right now or ever. Ask me about that again next year. But that still left a lot of clothes that have to be washed, sorted, priced and tagged. Today I began washing the clothes and hanging them up until I can price them. But before washing them, I would inspect each piece of clothing to see if they had any kind of stain that needed treating.

I knew it would be tough. It had been emotional just going through them the first time. But today, holding up each onesie or tiny shirt or pair of pants, I felt my anxiety building. And building. And by the time I had started the first load of laundry, my heart was racing and I was finding it hard to breathe. There I stood in the laundry room, crying and asking God to be with me. When I recounted all of this to Casey later on, I cried even more, and as I sit here typing I am still not finished with washing those many tiny clothes.

But guess what? As painful as it has been, and as many memories as it has brought up (both good and bad), I have decided to let grief in my door today...and though I am not at the end of it, I have at least moved in a positive direction. Let's face it: when we're in the middle of it, grief is not where we want to be, right? But if we figure out that there is something good on the other side and we can walk through it, life doesn't seem as scary anymore. At least not to me.

That is good grief.

Solitude and Survivor

I'm sorry. For those friends or family to whom I have not given much of myself lately, those are the best words I can think to say at the moment. I am here, and yet I'm not. My brain, my heart...they are filled with noise and pain that I yearn to quiet and ease.

Back in March I posted this link after our fourth in vitro attempt failed. We got the negative test results on the 16th of that month, and at the moment of 'the phone call' with the IVF coordinator (whose job I do not envy) I remember my body going numb and cold. One week later I was having trouble remembering big and small details of the previous days. I knew I had bought some shirts, but had to ask Casey where we'd gone to get them. I knew we'd visited his parents for a weekend night, but didn't remember the drive there or much of the visit itself. I was actually shocked at how big the gaps were in my memory.

Turns out I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD was no stranger to me, because the events of 2006 following Miles' birth had greatly affected me. But this time the symptoms were much more acute, and because I was in better health I noticed them more quickly. In my mind, there are so many worse things that can happen in life which might cause post-traumatic stress. I almost felt silly  thinking that this was what had taken place for me. Yes, the news for us was bad and came after three years of our struggles. Still...it seemed like a big reaction for me to experience.

I have thankfully had the opportunity to see a counselor who Casey and I trust greatly -- had sessions with him last year, and Casey has joined me for sessions this year. In counseling we are looking for tools in coping with my emotional 'stuck-ness' (for lack of a much better word), and tools that will help us listen to one another in the midst of grief. Our marriage is a strong one and we don't intend letting it go by the wayside. Casey and I have always agreed on being proactive in this.

And as much as I don't want to be tied to daily meds, I began taking anti-depressants almost immediately. I know that for me it is a tremendous help. Side effects? Yes...and I don't like them. But while I struggle to function in daily life, they are something I must endure for a while. I feel as though I must take them, not just for myself, but for my husband and my son. As much as my heart wants to skip those large looming clouds on the road of grieving, I would never choose to miss out on those small sparks of joy I still experience from day to day. Yes, sparks of joy, because with Casey to hold me and Miles to fill my heart with his laughter, there is no denying that joy is going to get through the cracks in my sadness.

I don't know how many of you watch the show Survivor, but this latest season included a twist where the person voted off doesn't immediately go home but instead goes to 'Redemption Island.' They stay there and wait (three days?) for the next eliminated player, and the two duel it out to see who stays on the island for a chance to get back in the game at some point, while the loser goes home for good. As of now, Matt -- self-proclaimed Christian -- has spent about three weeks on Redemption Island. Three weeks. That's more than half the game, and nearly all of that time alone.

I always find it interesting when a Christian is on these reality shows. Well, not so much that they're on the show, more when they start talking about it in terms of what God's will is for them on that show. Can they hear themselves talking? Recently I found myself so irritated with a statement like that I said to the TV, "He doesn't care that you're on the show!" I mean, of course God cares about the person and loves them. But is God really putting effort into the outcome of a reality show? Really? My guess is that he has more important issues on his mind.

But I digress. The aforementioned Matt now has my attention. Here he is, this nice, young Christian guy...I never found him disagreeable, just a bit unfocused on what he was saying. The intentions to 'honor his God' as he put it were definitely there, I only had trouble with believing that the best way for him to do so was in the run for one million dollars. On an island. Alone. I'm by no means this great Christian example, but even I know that there are better ways to honor God than trying to win a bunch of money in a game where most people excel by lying and backstabbing.

What the producers unwittingly did in creating this 'Redemption Island' twist, however, was to force a sincere Christian kid into more solitude than he ever wanted, and in last week's episode the effects of it were clearly showing. Up until then, Matt seemed strong and confident and was winning every single duel that came his way. He gave the glory to God, and I would scoff in my usual way that God didn't really care. Yeah, I liked the kid and was cheering him on...but I wanted there to be more. And now the solitude had all but broken Matt. He was crying on camera, saying that God had been carrying him for the past few days. But the best part? Now he said he was done with the game. That was it! That was what I'd been waiting for! Matt had used his time of forced solitude to be with his God, and he had had a breakthrough: the game didn't matter. At the next duel he faced, Matt looked broken and maybe a bit wiser. He somehow pulled out yet another win and said something like, "I guess God still wants me here." Well of course that bugged me, but not as much this time. And the woman who he beat in the duel mentioned before she left that because of Matt's example she was going home and getting involved in a church. That, in my mind, is the closest reason to God wanting Matt on that show.

I digress once again. Why, you might be asking, would I interrupt my talk of PTSD and depression to discuss an episode of Survivor? I promise it fits. When we were watching Matt breaking down and breaking through because of his solitude, all I could think was, "I wish I could do that!" And maybe that sounds like an unusual thing to wish, but I am in an unusual place in my life. Counseling and meds can help, no doubt -- but at this point I still need something more. And so Casey and I have decided that I will take a weekend in the next couple of months and spend it in solitude with God. There are ways I could find some moments of solitude where I am right now, but I believe what will truly help me grow is being in another place all alone for a good stretch of time. I've found one place online that is very appealing: it has little cabins specifically for spiritual meditation and solitude. And I know this is what my heart needs because I normally wouldn't want to do this, and yet I can't stop thinking about it.

Eleven years ago I was in search of solitude. I found a horse ranch two hours from my home and spent a night there in the bunkhouse. Sitting under the stars on the tiny balcony, reading my Bible and journaling about the experience, I could feel my soul being renewed. I remember how it felt and I long for that again. Just me and God, tending to the wounds in my heart.

Little Angel

Sunday was a difficult day. Wait, that's an understatement. Sunday was a dark, dark day for me. Grieving takes you to dark places at times, but even in the midst of those times I know that I will come through it. I know that. Still, it doesn't change how hard grieving can be.

One thing that shook me out of it was Miles knocking on my door that afternoon, coming to my bedside and asking, "Mama, why won't you let me in with your sadness?" It was his simple and yet terribly insightful four-year-old way of showing me his love. I was torn and comforted at the same time.

So, don't worry about my grieving. It is healthy, it is necessary, it is a part of life. Plus, I have a little sandy-haired angel by my side who won't let me go very far into that 'darkness.' He's got a firm grip on my hand and definitely on my heart.

Pain

At 12:30 p.m. on Wednesday we got the news: our fourth attempt at in vitro fertilization had failed.

I am writing this from my 'cave' -- that being a surrounding of a large latte, my laptop, my knitting and my DVR remote. In other words, the things I use as my escape.

My pain is only just surfacing, and it is fierce. No, I do not need offers of a surrogate. My body can carry a baby perfectly well, it's just that the embryo/blastocyst needs to hold on and grow when it gets in there.

I do not want to talk about adoption. I've said this before, but the decision to have a baby/adopt a baby are extremely personal. Don't ever assume that someone wants to do that just because they don't have a baby.

Ranting aside, I am thankful for the prayers that have been offered on our behalf. I am highly aware that others have suffered and are suffering far beyond my comprehension. I work to keep that in mind as I wade through my own terrible grief.

Thanks for listening.

A Promise is a Promise

In my last post I promised that I would share the reason(s) why my posting had slowed so much. And so I will.

It's been nearly a year since I mentioned those three letters here on the blog that have greatly impacted our lives: IVF. Back then I had decided that I wouldn't share more on the subject until I had something good to share about it. I honestly didn't think I would have to wait very long, but as far as any baby news goes I am still waiting.

When I met with my doctor last October after our first cycle didn't work, we discussed the option of a salpingectomy, which is basically the removal of the fallopian tubes. When there is a hydrosalpinx, a tube that has fluid in it, the outcome of IVF can be affected because there is the possibility of inflammation in the tube(s) and that can cause the embryo(s) not to implant. It is still possible to get pregnant when you have a hydrosalpinx, but generally after one failed attempt the option for the salpingectomy is on the table. I was definitely open to this and as with all surgical decisions, once I've made up my mind I'm ready now. That was not possible this time, which was frustrating but I was willing to wait.

The day of the surgery was November 19, and it would take place in a hospital three hours from home. Our doctor actually brought in another surgeon to assist him, one who was going to try and make this a laparoscopic procedure (which it normally is) rather than having to, for a fourth time, open my abdominal scar. They were even going to see if they could untwist the left tube and give us any chance possible at natural pregnancy, but I was well aware going in that I might come out of this with no tubes and a reopened incision, and unfortunately that is what happened. The tubes were beyond saving, but now we had a new start with IVF. I was excited at first, but this surgery, for many reasons, was by far the most emotionally difficult one I'd had. I knew that if the next cycle didn't work it would be much harder to take, and I didn't know how I'd handle a bad outcome what with all we'd put on the line.

Because of the recovery time and circumstantial things, Casey and I weren't able to begin our second cycle of IVF until February of this year. I was eight days into the injections, which is a good deal into the process because everything starts a few weeks before that, when on March 8 I got the call that they were canceling the cycle. I remember the day well because I learned of our friends having just had their second child within minutes of that, and as happy as I was for them I was devastated for us. My body wasn't responding well to the meds, so we had no choice but to stop and wait to start all over again.

The third cycle, which I actually consider the second since the previous one wasn't completed, began in mid-April. I had been doing a lot of exercising since December (training to walk a half-marathon) and probably felt the best that I had in a long time. I was ready, and I just knew this would be our time. We were anxious but joyful to make it to the embryo transfer and have two 'gorgeous' embryos, as the doctor put it. We even had the option of transferring a third embryo, but there was such a fear in us of having all three implant that Casey and I looked at one another and said, "No, that's okay." I go back to that moment every now and then and have my 'what might have been' thoughts.

As had happened the first time around, we had no embryos make it to freeze. That is, none of the remaining few embryos did not progress far into the blastocyst stage, which would have made it possible to cryopreserve them for another cycle. The phone call with this news always comes during the nine days between the embryo transfer and the pregnancy test. In other words, The Longest Wait Ever. I've said many times that those nine days are more difficult than the tests, procedures, injections (close to 50 of them in less than two weeks, all done by me)...yeah, the waiting is the hardest part.

On May 20, I went in for my blood test and made the long drive home (the fertility clinic we visit is three hours away). It was an anxious time, full of uncontrollable foot-tapping and tear-filled prayers. I was literally one street away from home when the call came: the test was positive. We were pregnant! At first I was speechless, but couldn't stop smiling. I had waited more than two years for this news, had gone through two major surgeries and two in vitro cycles to hear what we'd been longing to hear and it was all worth it.

The next few days were surreal. Every hour, every moment, I was trying to grasp our new reality: this dream was coming true. Not only did I say to Casey more than once, "We're pregnant!" I would look at Miles and then say quietly, "He's going to be a big brother!" and I tried to picture it all. We quietly told family and a few friends. There were tears, celebrations, thanks to God...and yet we knew we needed to wait for that second blood test and first ultrasound to share our joy with the world. I couldn't wait -- and not just to tell people that I was pregnant, but to praise God in their presence for this blessing.

This is the hardest part to share. My heart actually hurts with each beat as I type this...even five months later it feels like yesterday down into my very bones. I went in for the second blood test on May 27, one week after the first test. Keep in mind that a week is a long time to be allowing happiness over a realized dream sink into your heart. I remember being on that final elevator ride up to the doctor's office: it's inside a large hospital, and you can't walk down the halls of this area of it without seeing several pregnant women. I think I recently counted 10 of them in just a few minutes.

I was on the elevator with four or five pregnant women, but in my mind I was thinking, "But they don't know there is one more pregnant woman here," and I smiled quietly at the silliness of myself. I arrived at my floor and -- this part will forever be etched in my mind -- I saw a woman leaving the doctor's office with who I'm assuming was her mother, and the woman was sobbing uncontrollably. It was no quiet grief, but open and raw, and it drew me in to the point that I wished I could go to her and comfort her. My only guess was that something had gone very wrong with her IVF cycle...possibly she'd had a miscarriage. My heart went out to her, and I felt a twinge of guilt at now being the woman in whom she would find no comfort.

The second blood test, I should explain, is like the first in that it is quantitative rather than qualitative. The qualitative blood test gives you a 'yes' or 'no' whereas the quantitative test measures the level of hcg (the 'pregnancy hormone') in a woman's blood. The general rule is that any number higher than five means there is a pregnancy, although four weeks into pregnancy it's good to have a higher number than that for it to remain viable. The number on my first blood test was 40 -- not a bad number, but not the best number. The doctor hadn't been too worried about it, just wanted to wait until that second test to make sure the numbers were doubling like they should.

The call came later that afternoon when I was at home. I felt a shock and a numbness as the nurse explained that my number had dropped and was below five. She said the words 'chemical pregnancy' and that she was very sorry, but I just kept nodding and answering and saying 'thank you' to her words until the conversation was over. It was at that point that I felt myself crumbling, falling apart. I was sobbing and calling Casey, who had been out on a walk but was on his way back, and I told him that I needed him to come home without telling him why. He arrived to find me crying on the floor, and I told him it was over...it was all over.

Though we could grasp that a chemical pregnancy is a very early miscarriage -- the embryo attempts but fails to implant, so the body begins producing the hormone that gives you a positive blood test -- our hearts were utterly confused. My first reaction, that night in fact, was to try talking Casey into diving back in to another IVF attempt right now. Well, of course that was a bad idea given my emotions and what I'd just been through physically, but I didn't care. Casey and our doctor did, though, and after talking with both of them and waiting a few days I realized that they were right. I didn't want to hear it, but I knew that a few months off was best, and for a little while I decided that taking an anti-depressant would be a wise choice for me as well.

There is still more to share. Casey and I spent a wonderful few days on a much-needed anniversary vacation in August, and by the middle of the month began a third in vitro attempt. With nearly a year having passed since our first try, I was blown away at how much had happened...and still no baby. One cycle, then major surgery, then a canceled cycle, then a chemical pregnancy. This one had to be it. Right? Just over a year before this, I was so averse to the idea of IVF and now here we were actually going for attempt number three.

So much was different this time, even too much to get into. A major difference was how well my body was responding to the meds, so well that I was told to back off on the injections. I only made two visits to the doctor's office before they said we were ready for the procedures. Our embryo numbers were slightly higher, giving us a better chance at having some make it to freeze. It was hard not to feel like this really could be it -- how could it not? But we'd thought that before, hadn't we, and then had been disappointed. Still...so many things pointed to this being our time. Finally.

The third time was far from charming, and when I got the call just five weeks ago yesterday I was of course crushed. Knowing that it was easier to take than having the rug pulled out from under us like it was in May didn't take much sting out of the disappointment, but I was relieved at not having to go through the highs and lows of that moment again. Still, there we were, grieving once again. And I do mean 'we' because Casey is in this just as much as me -- maybe not physically but certainly emotionally, and we were both crying out to God and sharing our anger with him at our deep disappointment.

I've learned so much, and each time I've learned something different. To be honest, I'd much rather have an easier way of learning...but I know that's usually not how God works. He does his best work in our brokenness. It's unfortunate that I've been so stubborn at times as to not allow his lessons into my heart, but I strive to be better and always will.

Now, there might be those of you who will want to bring up the subject of adoption. Let me assure you that I am well aware of that option. I have friends who were adopted, I have friends who have adopted and it is a most awesome thing in my opinion. But before you share with me your wonderful stories, please consider the idea that my heart might not be there. Wanting another baby does not necessarily mean that Casey and I are ready for adoption. We've certainly discussed it, I've researched it and asked questions...but I cannot force myself to do something I don't feel ready for. Just like deciding to have a baby of your own, adopting a baby is a huge and very personal decision. I won't say never, that would be foolish of me. But I do want to make others aware that just because something is good doesn't mean it would be everyone's choice.

I don't know why now, why today is the time I chose to share all of this. When it feels time to share, that's when I share. I have held back so much in the past year, but I did it partly to protect myself. Now I feel a bit stronger, and now I am ready for everyone to know what's been going on. I think it helps me to help everyone understand, which goes back to what I've said before: we all want to be understood. You have your own experiences, and part of the healing comes from those around you simply understanding where you've been. If you are able to take from this some kind of new understanding of our lives, then I've done what I set out to do.

Joy That Needs Sharing

Casey mentioned to me yesterday how much better I seem to be doing emotionally since 'the news'. I guess I had noticed as well, but if he's noticing then something really must be happening. It hasn't been a month yet and I feel I'm covering so much healing ground. Sure, at first I was taking one step forward and then five steps back...but slowly it was two steps forward and one step back, and so on.

After traveling down at least a couple different roads of grief this year regarding my infertility, and of course having had grief over several different things in the past few years stemming from one main source, I am finally learning that grief is neither seamless nor is it linear. It happens the way it happens, and it is different for all of us. And so I didn't know exactly how my grief over this would look, or how long it would last. Sometimes it looked...well, not very pretty. And as far as how long it will last? I still shed my tears over it, but those moments are much fewer and farther between.

But something...something has really happened inside me lately. And I hadn't looked at it closely until Casey's comment to me yesterday. I've not only had a sort of leveling out of my emotions, but I'm beginning to go beyond that and really do more. I'm getting back into exercising, which makes a huge difference in one's emotional state. I have more energy (that might partly be my hypothyroid medicine), and I have a real want to get out and live life instead of just being.

Today it really hit me. I took Miles to the park to pull his wagon around in the warm, gorgeous sunshine on this November day. We were both smiling, he was having his lunch and I was listening to my iPod...and I realized that God has not only brought me through something devastating, but he has worked in me to make me stronger than I have been and felt in a very long time. Tears of joy and gratitude welled up in my eyes, and I looked back at my sweet Miles and we laughed together over something silly. I begged God to let me hold on to that feeling, that glimpse of heaven and its pure perfection. Even as I share this now I can tell you that He has graciously filled my cup to overflowing.

Praise God for warm fall days, precious little boys, and brightness after a long, dark road.

Day By Day

I feel the need to thank so many who have reached out to us, who have prayed for us, who have shown us comfort and understanding. I will tell you now that I am one of those people who, when faced with heartache and disappointment, tends to sort of hide herself away from the world. It's a coping thing, a way to protect myself. There are ways in which this can be good and bad, just like most ways we all grieve. But we all do it differently. And I promise, I am extremely self-aware -- I know when my 'hiding' is an actual needed thing and when it's becoming a more negative thing. I also have a husband who coaxes me out of that hiding when he feels he should.

It hasn't been a week yet since we learned that the in vitro didn't work, so you can imagine that this is all still very raw. I feel like each day since has brought some different struggle, but mostly reality has been setting in and the numbness is all gone. We pray, we remind ourselves that we are not alone in this heartache, and we remember friends and family who have suffered greater things in their lives. But also, we laugh. Casey and I have managed to laugh through every new craziness that has come our way. Sometimes, really, that's all we can do. I don't think it's so much a making-lemonade-from-lemons mentality...it's our way of staying connected to one another, keeping that thing about us that makes us special. Our relationship began and grew because our senses of humor were so much alike, and so we laugh through both the good and the bad.

Like any other difficulty that comes along in our lives that we must face, I am looking to grow from this. I want to grow closer to God, because if I don't seek that growth Satan will seek to tear me from Him. I want to grow closer to Casey for the same reason just mentioned. These times are made more difficult by Satan wielding whatever power he thinks he has, trying to bring me down in any way possible. But...

"...I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord." ~Romans 8:38-39