Well, I went in for a follow-up BP check yesterday, and after an initial high reading my BP went down to 120/76. Yay! I have some serious white-coat hypertension going on, and I think my doctor is on to me. Even though I was only scheduled for an appointment with a nurse, he came in to go over the results of my blood work (which I already knew were normal), probably to buy some time and make me feel better.
I fully embrace my role as a high-maitenence patient. I am fully aware, but I make no excuses. If I have to see the doc every day from now until the baby comes, I will do it (but I'm praying it won't come to that...LOL). I'm lucky to have a doc who works with me, and takes my situation very seriously.
So all that said, things appear to be just fine! Hooray! I am so thankful. Now if I could just calm the H down....
Speaking of calming down, J and I have decided to try Hyp.no.babies for childbirth. I just started the program a couple days ago, and am really enjoying it so far! I have to admit the cynical part of my brain pops in every once in a while ("Special Place??" "Bubble of Peace??" snicker) but I'm working on it. There's a CD track that I listen to every day which is full of positive affirmations about pregnancy, and it really helps me to be calm and positive! My favorite affirmation, "My blood pressure is perfect every day and night." :-D
Showing posts with label comfort. Show all posts
Showing posts with label comfort. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
Full of Gratitude Friday
Ok, so I missed Thankful Thursday yesterday. It's been a while since I posted a Thankful Thursday post anyway, so I think I'm due. :-)
I am thankful for TODAY. I am thankful that I am almost 18 weeks pregnant. I am thankful for the experience of today, and trying to stay in the present rather than worry about tomorrow. I am thankful that my blood pressure is A-OK and aside from a sinus infection I'm feeling pretty good!
I am thankful for TODAY. I am thankful that I am almost 18 weeks pregnant. I am thankful for the experience of today, and trying to stay in the present rather than worry about tomorrow. I am thankful that my blood pressure is A-OK and aside from a sinus infection I'm feeling pretty good!
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Birthday Recap
Well, we made it. Through their birthday, I mean. The day was about what I expected—tough, with lots of tears, but also sweet in some ways. Here's a recap:
We slept in really late (as late as I possibly could) on Thursday morning, then had cinnamon rolls for breakfast. As we lazed around wondering what to do with ourselves I checked my phone and received a few kind voice mails, emails, and Facebook messages. Cue tears. I was so touched by the responses of family and friends.
For a while we just sat on the couch and cried. We looked at all of their belongings—their tiny blankets and hats, footprints, hospital bracelets, photos, ultrasound pictures. I was glad we hadn't planned too much for the day because I couldn't predict how I would feel or react, or what I'd want to do.
Eventually we got ready for the day, and I put the finishing touches on the blankets and hats I'd crocheted for the hospital (I'll update with photos if I remember). The ones we received when Asher & Evan were born are one of my most treasured possessions. I remember feeling so cared for, that a stranger would take the time to make these items specifically for tiny babies. I plan to donate a set of hats and blankets each year.
After lunch we went to the hospital to donate the hats and blankets. I really wasn't sure how this would go, as it was our first time back there since we left with empty arms on December 18th. But it actually ended up being the most satisfying part of the day! It felt really good to do something in their honor, and to know that another family will benefit from the blankets the way we did. I also felt somewhat resolved and almost empowered walking through the hospital, like Yes, I am here, and I'm not sick. I can do this. We plan to deliver Baby 3 at the same hospital, so it felt good to have some closure before we go back again.
What else can I tell you? Overall the day was very low-key, which was perfect for us. We felt supported by all the messages, gifts, and emails we received, but we spent the entire day by ourselves. No pressure. It was just right.
Although we spent the day alone, I was very concerned that we involve other people in the boys' birthday, and invite them to participate in it in some way. So the week before, we sent out cards with Asher & Evan's footprints on them (again, I'll post pictures later). The cards asked our friends and family to do an act of kindness in their honor and let us know about it. We've gotten a really positive response, and a few "reports" back so far, including donations to charities, a letter to a soldier, and a visit to an elderly relative. People also really liked seeing the footprints, which we printed at actual size. Most people haven't seen photos, so I think they appreciated seeing something of our boys.
As I've said already, I feel a lot of closure and satisfaction with how the day went overall. It was so, so tough, and I dreaded it going in, but by the end I felt OK. We survived, and were reminded by many that our boys are not forgotten.
We slept in really late (as late as I possibly could) on Thursday morning, then had cinnamon rolls for breakfast. As we lazed around wondering what to do with ourselves I checked my phone and received a few kind voice mails, emails, and Facebook messages. Cue tears. I was so touched by the responses of family and friends.
For a while we just sat on the couch and cried. We looked at all of their belongings—their tiny blankets and hats, footprints, hospital bracelets, photos, ultrasound pictures. I was glad we hadn't planned too much for the day because I couldn't predict how I would feel or react, or what I'd want to do.
Eventually we got ready for the day, and I put the finishing touches on the blankets and hats I'd crocheted for the hospital (I'll update with photos if I remember). The ones we received when Asher & Evan were born are one of my most treasured possessions. I remember feeling so cared for, that a stranger would take the time to make these items specifically for tiny babies. I plan to donate a set of hats and blankets each year.
After lunch we went to the hospital to donate the hats and blankets. I really wasn't sure how this would go, as it was our first time back there since we left with empty arms on December 18th. But it actually ended up being the most satisfying part of the day! It felt really good to do something in their honor, and to know that another family will benefit from the blankets the way we did. I also felt somewhat resolved and almost empowered walking through the hospital, like Yes, I am here, and I'm not sick. I can do this. We plan to deliver Baby 3 at the same hospital, so it felt good to have some closure before we go back again.
What else can I tell you? Overall the day was very low-key, which was perfect for us. We felt supported by all the messages, gifts, and emails we received, but we spent the entire day by ourselves. No pressure. It was just right.
Although we spent the day alone, I was very concerned that we involve other people in the boys' birthday, and invite them to participate in it in some way. So the week before, we sent out cards with Asher & Evan's footprints on them (again, I'll post pictures later). The cards asked our friends and family to do an act of kindness in their honor and let us know about it. We've gotten a really positive response, and a few "reports" back so far, including donations to charities, a letter to a soldier, and a visit to an elderly relative. People also really liked seeing the footprints, which we printed at actual size. Most people haven't seen photos, so I think they appreciated seeing something of our boys.
As I've said already, I feel a lot of closure and satisfaction with how the day went overall. It was so, so tough, and I dreaded it going in, but by the end I felt OK. We survived, and were reminded by many that our boys are not forgotten.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
One Lovely Blog Award
So without further ado, here are the rules of this award:
1. Accept the award and post it on your blog with the name of the person wo has granted the award and his/her blog link.
2. Pay it forward to 10 other bloggers that you have newly discovered.
3. Contact those blog owners and let them know they have been chosen.
And here are the lovely ladies whose blogs I've nominated. Some are relatively new finds, some are blogs I've followed since the beginning of our journey. I am thankful for all of them, and many more than are listed.
- Kerry @ Our New Normal
- Stephanie @ Carried Through Grief
- Trisha @ Such a Short Time - Such a Long Road
- Laura @ My World
- Courtney @ Cloudy With A Chance of Hope
- Beth @ Little Bluebirds Fly (Beth has since moved to a private blog, but you can find some great pre-e info here, and instructions to access her new place)
- Christy @ Almost A Mother
- Ashley @ Nolan's Story
- Betsey @ Too Beautiful: Living After Losing Olivia
- Ciaran's mommy @ All the Little Ponies
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Talking about my kids
Several weeks ago I met up with a new and dear friend who lost her baby daughter around the same time we lost Asher & Evan. Of course we instantly connected over our losses. It was wonderful to see her again.
As we walked and talked, various circumstances and details surrounding our babies, and losses, came up over, and over, and over again... which is only natural when talking to another babyloss mom. But it struck me, because we weren't specifically talking about our children or our losses the whole time. We would chat about something entirely different—HGTV, the park we were in, food... and our grief wove in and out of the conversation, naturally. Neither of us felt the need to qualify any of our statements, or to dance around the subject. I cannot have that kind of conversation with anyone else in my life except someone who has lost a child. It was such a gift to talk in that way. To fully acknowledge what we've been through, how it affects our every breath... and not worry that the listener will recoil or get uncomfortable.
And it also made me sad, because what we were doing was simply talking about our kids. Like any parent, one's children come up often in conversation. We were just a couple moms chatting about life. But it's only with other babyloss moms that it is socially acceptable to casually mention our (dead) children. When I speak with others I probably only mention Asher & Evan 1 out of every 10 times they cross my mind.
I wish I could describe how freeing it was, how good it felt to talk this way. For a short time, I felt almost "normal."
As we walked and talked, various circumstances and details surrounding our babies, and losses, came up over, and over, and over again... which is only natural when talking to another babyloss mom. But it struck me, because we weren't specifically talking about our children or our losses the whole time. We would chat about something entirely different—HGTV, the park we were in, food... and our grief wove in and out of the conversation, naturally. Neither of us felt the need to qualify any of our statements, or to dance around the subject. I cannot have that kind of conversation with anyone else in my life except someone who has lost a child. It was such a gift to talk in that way. To fully acknowledge what we've been through, how it affects our every breath... and not worry that the listener will recoil or get uncomfortable.
And it also made me sad, because what we were doing was simply talking about our kids. Like any parent, one's children come up often in conversation. We were just a couple moms chatting about life. But it's only with other babyloss moms that it is socially acceptable to casually mention our (dead) children. When I speak with others I probably only mention Asher & Evan 1 out of every 10 times they cross my mind.
I wish I could describe how freeing it was, how good it felt to talk this way. For a short time, I felt almost "normal."
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Summer Vacation Part 1: Faith's Lodge
At long last, here is part 1 (of 2) of our recent vacation! Our hopes for this time were to relax, get away (that was a biggie), honor and remember our boys, and reflect on the past 7 months. Also to just have FUN and breathe. I think we got all of that and more, and we are so thankful.
The first week of our vacation included three nights at Faith's Lodge in Wisconsin. Faith's Lodge is a nonprofit retreat center for families and couples who have lost a child, or are dealing with the terminal illness of a child.
I cannot recommend Faith's Lodge enough. If you are anywhere in the Midwest (or want to come here) you must visit this unique and serene place. While there we felt both lifted up and supported, and also allowed to sink into the weight of our grief.
The lodge itself was gorgeous! 12,000 square feet, 4 floors. It includes a large commercial kitchen, eating area, wraparound porch, library, craft room, "Eagle's Nest" with beautiful views, and plenty of cozy areas to sit and read or talk.
While there we met 5 other couples who have lost babies. No two stories were alike, but for the first time we experienced a community of others who have truly "been there." J and I have both found encouragement through blogs and the online community, but it was almost surreal to meet people "in real life." It took a little time for everyone to warm up, but we left with new friends and the feeling that we'd known some of the couples for years, rather than days. Slowly, everyone shared their stories, and we connected through similar experiences, while reflecting on the uniqueness of each situation.
There is something incredibly bonding and healing about sitting with people for hours, who you hardly knew until a couple days before, and talking about grief, and pain, and the hardest things in your life, without having to qualify your statements. Everyone just seemed to "get it." I can't describe the feeling, but it was so, so welcome.
There were a few activities planned each day, but we were free to do as much or as little as we chose. We created a bird house and a mosaic stone to add to the boys' garden. We hiked the Inspiration Path. We canoed on the pond. We spent lots of time reading and reflecting.
There is a bridge at the lodge that is surrounded by small, heart-shaped stones. Each of the stones has been decorated and placed in memory of a child. It was actually pretty overwhelming—like stars in the sky, more and more stones stood out to us the longer we looked. We decorated a stone and placed it under a tree to honor Asher and Evan. It was a very meaningful tribute to them.
Faith's Lodge was so good in so many ways. It was also difficult in some ways. Some parts were both good and hard. It was a time of sharing, processing, and healing. We are so very thankful that a place like this exists, and that we had the opportunity to visit.
And now a few pictures:
The first week of our vacation included three nights at Faith's Lodge in Wisconsin. Faith's Lodge is a nonprofit retreat center for families and couples who have lost a child, or are dealing with the terminal illness of a child.
I cannot recommend Faith's Lodge enough. If you are anywhere in the Midwest (or want to come here) you must visit this unique and serene place. While there we felt both lifted up and supported, and also allowed to sink into the weight of our grief.
The lodge itself was gorgeous! 12,000 square feet, 4 floors. It includes a large commercial kitchen, eating area, wraparound porch, library, craft room, "Eagle's Nest" with beautiful views, and plenty of cozy areas to sit and read or talk.
While there we met 5 other couples who have lost babies. No two stories were alike, but for the first time we experienced a community of others who have truly "been there." J and I have both found encouragement through blogs and the online community, but it was almost surreal to meet people "in real life." It took a little time for everyone to warm up, but we left with new friends and the feeling that we'd known some of the couples for years, rather than days. Slowly, everyone shared their stories, and we connected through similar experiences, while reflecting on the uniqueness of each situation.
There is something incredibly bonding and healing about sitting with people for hours, who you hardly knew until a couple days before, and talking about grief, and pain, and the hardest things in your life, without having to qualify your statements. Everyone just seemed to "get it." I can't describe the feeling, but it was so, so welcome.
There were a few activities planned each day, but we were free to do as much or as little as we chose. We created a bird house and a mosaic stone to add to the boys' garden. We hiked the Inspiration Path. We canoed on the pond. We spent lots of time reading and reflecting.
There is a bridge at the lodge that is surrounded by small, heart-shaped stones. Each of the stones has been decorated and placed in memory of a child. It was actually pretty overwhelming—like stars in the sky, more and more stones stood out to us the longer we looked. We decorated a stone and placed it under a tree to honor Asher and Evan. It was a very meaningful tribute to them.
Faith's Lodge was so good in so many ways. It was also difficult in some ways. Some parts were both good and hard. It was a time of sharing, processing, and healing. We are so very thankful that a place like this exists, and that we had the opportunity to visit.
And now a few pictures:
Friday, July 9, 2010
Vacation!!
It's finally here! The vacation we've been hoping for, dreaming about, and desperately needing for many months is finally here!
We have two weeks off of work. Two weeks! I am just beside myself. I haven't had that much time away from work since college. (Well, unless you count my 6 weeks at home after the boys were born, which I certainly don't. I may have been off from work, but that was anything but a vacation.)
We have felt such a need, such a desire to get away from everything, and we feel so blessed that it is actually coming together for us. This vacation feels like a gift—from God, of course, but also from Asher & Evan. In some ways, this trip would not have happened without them. I hope that doesn't sound weird, because I don't mean it that way! But I like to think of it as a gift from them, a way to help us heal. This trip is not only from them, but because of them, and for them. It is time away to focus, relax, heal, and honor our boys. To soak them in, remember them, and cherish their memories. And also to live again, to feel joy, to live life more fully because of, and in honor of them.
bittersweet.
We have two weeks off of work. Two weeks! I am just beside myself. I haven't had that much time away from work since college. (Well, unless you count my 6 weeks at home after the boys were born, which I certainly don't. I may have been off from work, but that was anything but a vacation.)
We have felt such a need, such a desire to get away from everything, and we feel so blessed that it is actually coming together for us. This vacation feels like a gift—from God, of course, but also from Asher & Evan. In some ways, this trip would not have happened without them. I hope that doesn't sound weird, because I don't mean it that way! But I like to think of it as a gift from them, a way to help us heal. This trip is not only from them, but because of them, and for them. It is time away to focus, relax, heal, and honor our boys. To soak them in, remember them, and cherish their memories. And also to live again, to feel joy, to live life more fully because of, and in honor of them.
bittersweet.
Friday, June 25, 2010
God is Good
When you doubt God’s goodness, you doubt the very core of who he is. Love and compassion and kindness are not his attributes. They are his heart and soul. They are not his hobbies. They are the lifeblood of who he is. They are his fingerprints and his breath. They are his everything.
—Stuff Christians Like blog,
"Having Faith Like Robert Pattinson", June 23, 2010
As long as I've been a Christian, I have believed that God is good. But when the boys died my ideas of faith and God were called into question. For the first time in my life, I felt disappointed by God. If that doesn't shake one's belief system to the core, I don't know what would. Was God really as good as I'd always believed?
For several months after Asher & Evan were born and died, I wrestled with this thought. I could still say "God is good," and know it in my head, but in my heart I felt conflicted. How could a good God take away my precious children? I realize that one day in heaven is better than a lifetime on earth, but why did He do this to me? I knew God was there, but in my heart I wrestled with Him.
"Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him" —Job 13:15a
In the end it all came down to this question: Do I believe that God is who He says He is? For if I could not believe that God is who He says He is, how could I believe Him about anything? It was a pivotal moment for me. For the first time in my life I was asked to really CHOOSE to believe or not believe. My faith cannot rest on my comfort, on some abstract idea that "my life is good, so God must be good." I was confronted with the fact that my faith must be built on TRUTH, and this was a test of whether or not it is. Does my faith in God depend on my circumstances, or the TRUTH of who He is? When life sucks does that mean He has changed? Do I believe God is the same today as He was yesterday?
After much wrestling, I reached a point of peace. My God is the same today, tomorrow, and forever. He was the exact same God the day I learned I was pregnant, the day we learned it was twins, the day my babies were born and died. He is the same. He does not change.
Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. —Hebrews 13:8
I finally feel like I can say that again. My God is very good. This fact does not shift or change with my emotions or circumstances. God's character is not dependent on me. I choose every day to believe that He is good, no matter what.
Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; his love endures forever. —1 Chronicles 16:34
Monday, June 21, 2010
It's the Little Things: Observations on Grief at 6 Months
The other day I was working on the layout of a book for preteen boys. The boy in the story had just asked a girl to a dance for the first time, and felt anxious about the upcoming date. Eventually the boy went to his dad for advice. The father gave his son tips on how to dance, suggested where to eat, and said Mom would help him pick out a shirt and tie to wear.
I alternately laughed at the boy's nervous thoughts and teared up at the admittedly cheesy story. At 6 months out, this is how my grief looks. My feelings alternate between wistful, sweet remembrance, and deep, aching sadness. I am caught off guard by the little things, new realizations of what I've missed and will be missing out on. I will never help them pick out an outfit for a dance. I will never watch admiringly as their father gives them advice on how to treat a girl. I will never snuggle both of them in my lap for a story. I could go on and on about the things I will not experience. But I try not to stay in that place too long.
At 6 months out I still think of, remember, and miss my boys every single day. Usually several times each day. If they aren't my first thought upon waking, I'll think of them as I shower or pass by the nursery. I think of them when I take a break at work, when I see a bright blue sky, when I feel joy.
The ache of missing Asher & Evan is less often an all-consuming, drowning feeling. More often it's a constant, deep ache. I imagine it's much like having chronic pain or a missing limb. That ache will never go away, but as time goes on I am learning how to live with it. The ache is becoming a part of me, rather than defining me.
I am starting to be able to enjoy babies again. It depends on the day.
I still feel a knot in the pit of my stomach when a friend announces her pregnancy.
We are thinking more seriously about trying again. The fact that I can even consider the idea and look ahead makes me realize how far we've come over the last 6 months.
Sometimes the grief surges up and overtakes me with a fresh wave of pain. These are the times when I go back to their blankets and photos, and just sit and cry. I cry because I'm so, so sorry all their belongings fit in one small box. And I would do anything to have them back. At 6 months, 6 years, or 6 decades, that will never change.
At 6 months out, my happy memories of my pregnancy and Asher & Evan have increased. I am able to smile more often than cry when I see their pictures. Slowly, very slowly, the rawness of grief is becoming secondary to the deep feelings of love.
I alternately laughed at the boy's nervous thoughts and teared up at the admittedly cheesy story. At 6 months out, this is how my grief looks. My feelings alternate between wistful, sweet remembrance, and deep, aching sadness. I am caught off guard by the little things, new realizations of what I've missed and will be missing out on. I will never help them pick out an outfit for a dance. I will never watch admiringly as their father gives them advice on how to treat a girl. I will never snuggle both of them in my lap for a story. I could go on and on about the things I will not experience. But I try not to stay in that place too long.
At 6 months out I still think of, remember, and miss my boys every single day. Usually several times each day. If they aren't my first thought upon waking, I'll think of them as I shower or pass by the nursery. I think of them when I take a break at work, when I see a bright blue sky, when I feel joy.
The ache of missing Asher & Evan is less often an all-consuming, drowning feeling. More often it's a constant, deep ache. I imagine it's much like having chronic pain or a missing limb. That ache will never go away, but as time goes on I am learning how to live with it. The ache is becoming a part of me, rather than defining me.
I am starting to be able to enjoy babies again. It depends on the day.
I still feel a knot in the pit of my stomach when a friend announces her pregnancy.
We are thinking more seriously about trying again. The fact that I can even consider the idea and look ahead makes me realize how far we've come over the last 6 months.
Sometimes the grief surges up and overtakes me with a fresh wave of pain. These are the times when I go back to their blankets and photos, and just sit and cry. I cry because I'm so, so sorry all their belongings fit in one small box. And I would do anything to have them back. At 6 months, 6 years, or 6 decades, that will never change.
At 6 months out, my happy memories of my pregnancy and Asher & Evan have increased. I am able to smile more often than cry when I see their pictures. Slowly, very slowly, the rawness of grief is becoming secondary to the deep feelings of love.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
You Should Read This Book!
We all grieve differently, and we all hide portions of it in places we wouldn't dare let others see. I have been reminded that I am daily battling an enemy who would love nothing more than for me to shove all my baggage into the crevices of darkness, slam the doors, and pretend I have it all together while I secretly fall apart. As I lie in bed at night and wonder what I could have done differently, he laughs victoriously. He looks on while my marriage suffers and I play the role of happy homemaker because everyone else seems to have their act together.
-- Angie Smith, I Will Carry You
I am just about finished with the book "I Will Carry You" by Angie Smith. Angie's daughter, Audrey, was given a terminal diagnosis during Angie's pregnancy. Angie chose to carry Audrey to term and this book chronicles her experience, her journey through grief, and how Audrey changed her life.
Although my situation is different from Angie's, our journeys through grief have had many similarities. I really admire Angie's faith and authenticity as she shares her story. She is honest about her doubts, her questions, her wrestling with God. She has struggled with many of the same questions I have, and dealt with many of the same emotions. This book could also be good for anyone who knows someone grieving a loss, and wants to better relate to their friend. This book says things I would like to tell others about my loss, and how to relate to me in light of it, but in a more eloquent way than I ever could.
I really admire Angie's daily efforts to learn how to live in this strange place of loss and redemption. I identify with her struggles to daily choose faith over fear, hope over despair. I share her "clumsy" (she said it, not me!) dance of grief and joy, as I learn how to exist in this world without my children. And I really admire how many lives she has touched through her experience, and the amazing impact her daughter had on this world during her short time here. It's a powerful book, and I hope you'll pick it up! (cue Reading Rainbow music)
:::
On an unrelated note, we're about to go to a graduation party for our neighbor's daughter. The panic is setting in... will anyone ask if we have children? I can almost guarantee someone will. And I still don't know how I want to answer this question. Perhaps I'll just throw up on their shoes... that couldn't be any more awkward than telling them I have two dead babies, right?
-- Angie Smith, I Will Carry You
I am just about finished with the book "I Will Carry You" by Angie Smith. Angie's daughter, Audrey, was given a terminal diagnosis during Angie's pregnancy. Angie chose to carry Audrey to term and this book chronicles her experience, her journey through grief, and how Audrey changed her life.
Although my situation is different from Angie's, our journeys through grief have had many similarities. I really admire Angie's faith and authenticity as she shares her story. She is honest about her doubts, her questions, her wrestling with God. She has struggled with many of the same questions I have, and dealt with many of the same emotions. This book could also be good for anyone who knows someone grieving a loss, and wants to better relate to their friend. This book says things I would like to tell others about my loss, and how to relate to me in light of it, but in a more eloquent way than I ever could.
I really admire Angie's daily efforts to learn how to live in this strange place of loss and redemption. I identify with her struggles to daily choose faith over fear, hope over despair. I share her "clumsy" (she said it, not me!) dance of grief and joy, as I learn how to exist in this world without my children. And I really admire how many lives she has touched through her experience, and the amazing impact her daughter had on this world during her short time here. It's a powerful book, and I hope you'll pick it up! (cue Reading Rainbow music)
:::
On an unrelated note, we're about to go to a graduation party for our neighbor's daughter. The panic is setting in... will anyone ask if we have children? I can almost guarantee someone will. And I still don't know how I want to answer this question. Perhaps I'll just throw up on their shoes... that couldn't be any more awkward than telling them I have two dead babies, right?
Thursday, June 3, 2010
I came across this quote in an article on the Grieve Out Loud blog today:
Comfort is the one thing you cannot get by looking for it.
If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end:
if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth–
only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin with and, in the end, despair.
~C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity
Comfort is the one thing you cannot get by looking for it.
If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end:
if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth–
only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin with and, in the end, despair.
~C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Today
Today, I was able to go to church.
Today I chatted with a close friend while fawning over her baby.
Today I looked at their pictures and felt more love than sadness. I even smiled at their precious little faces.
Today I went shopping, bought lots of clothes (a lot for me, I'm so picky!), and didn't have a breakdown.
Today I feel the slightest bit of hope, like maybe things will be OK. Maybe some things even are OK. Not everything, by far, but today I can recognize that my life has both good and bad.
I don't know if tomorrow will be better or worse, but I am thankful for Today.
Today I chatted with a close friend while fawning over her baby.
Today I looked at their pictures and felt more love than sadness. I even smiled at their precious little faces.
Today I went shopping, bought lots of clothes (a lot for me, I'm so picky!), and didn't have a breakdown.
Today I feel the slightest bit of hope, like maybe things will be OK. Maybe some things even are OK. Not everything, by far, but today I can recognize that my life has both good and bad.
I don't know if tomorrow will be better or worse, but I am thankful for Today.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Can I get a Do-over?
This weekend did not go quite as planned.
We had planned to have a garage sale on Saturday, participating in the all-city garage sale day. We'd been (OK, I'd been) counting on this day for several months. We had signs, money to make change, all our wares neatly arranged on borrowed folding tables, everything priced to sell.
We started out at 8 am. While J went to get us breakfast at Caribou (he read my mind!) I cheerily made our first (and what would become our only) sale of $1.
At about 10:30, the sky got seriously ominous looking. "This wasn't in the forecast!" I insisted. Indeed, the current weather still said nothing about rain. We nudged our tables closer to the garage and prepared for a mad dash. And then it started raining, and HAILING. We quickly carried everything back inside, shut the garage door, and went inside. It rained for several more hours, enough to effectively cancel our garage sale.
We decided to try again next weekend. We will have another sale. No big deal. Seriously, I mean it's disappointing, but it's just a garage sale, right? And yet as I told myself these things, I began to cry. Fully aware at the ridiculousness of crying about a failed garage sale, of all things. But at the same time I knew that it wasn't really about the garage sale.
Disappointment has been a prevailing emotion since we lost the boys. To put it bluntly, I am used to things working out or me. I don't say that like I'm so awesome, but I am not used to failure. I am not used to plans failing so catastrophically. Losing the boys was by far the biggest disappointment of my life. And ever since that, any time plans fall through it hits me extra hard. It takes me right back to the largest failure of my entire life: failing to "follow through" and complete my pregnancy, ending with two healthy little boys. Now, every little disappointment only reminds me of that.
Something else that contributed to my disproportionate response is that is takes so darn much energy to get excited about anything lately. I was exhausted by the task, by trying to psych myself up for it, and by the let-down of all that energy going to waste.
:::
Also this weekend, some friends of our gave birth to healthy, BIG (7 lbs each at 35 weeks!!) twin girls. I am happy for them. But I cannot talk about it, or say more than that. I am really, truly happy for them, I am. But it just hurts way too much to think about it. I'm taking the week off from Facebook, so I can miss the congratulating, well-wishing, and photos. I really feel like a big jerk. And yet so helpless to feel any other way. Ugh.
:::
So, the weekend was hard. There were other things, but I've whined enough to give you an idea.
On the plus side, we heard a great sermon on Sunday about suffering, and the Good News amidst it all. Our church has gone through a LOT of stuff over the last couple of years. Lots of births, deaths, medical diagnoses, cancer, job loss, etc, etc, etc. In fact, our pastor had a list (without names, of course) of some events we've gone through as a body, and it was pretty amazing to see. The whole point was that life is hard, but we have hope. I am trying to hang onto that truth this week.
In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.
—John 16:33
We had planned to have a garage sale on Saturday, participating in the all-city garage sale day. We'd been (OK, I'd been) counting on this day for several months. We had signs, money to make change, all our wares neatly arranged on borrowed folding tables, everything priced to sell.
We started out at 8 am. While J went to get us breakfast at Caribou (he read my mind!) I cheerily made our first (and what would become our only) sale of $1.
At about 10:30, the sky got seriously ominous looking. "This wasn't in the forecast!" I insisted. Indeed, the current weather still said nothing about rain. We nudged our tables closer to the garage and prepared for a mad dash. And then it started raining, and HAILING. We quickly carried everything back inside, shut the garage door, and went inside. It rained for several more hours, enough to effectively cancel our garage sale.
We decided to try again next weekend. We will have another sale. No big deal. Seriously, I mean it's disappointing, but it's just a garage sale, right? And yet as I told myself these things, I began to cry. Fully aware at the ridiculousness of crying about a failed garage sale, of all things. But at the same time I knew that it wasn't really about the garage sale.
Disappointment has been a prevailing emotion since we lost the boys. To put it bluntly, I am used to things working out or me. I don't say that like I'm so awesome, but I am not used to failure. I am not used to plans failing so catastrophically. Losing the boys was by far the biggest disappointment of my life. And ever since that, any time plans fall through it hits me extra hard. It takes me right back to the largest failure of my entire life: failing to "follow through" and complete my pregnancy, ending with two healthy little boys. Now, every little disappointment only reminds me of that.
Something else that contributed to my disproportionate response is that is takes so darn much energy to get excited about anything lately. I was exhausted by the task, by trying to psych myself up for it, and by the let-down of all that energy going to waste.
:::
Also this weekend, some friends of our gave birth to healthy, BIG (7 lbs each at 35 weeks!!) twin girls. I am happy for them. But I cannot talk about it, or say more than that. I am really, truly happy for them, I am. But it just hurts way too much to think about it. I'm taking the week off from Facebook, so I can miss the congratulating, well-wishing, and photos. I really feel like a big jerk. And yet so helpless to feel any other way. Ugh.
:::
So, the weekend was hard. There were other things, but I've whined enough to give you an idea.
On the plus side, we heard a great sermon on Sunday about suffering, and the Good News amidst it all. Our church has gone through a LOT of stuff over the last couple of years. Lots of births, deaths, medical diagnoses, cancer, job loss, etc, etc, etc. In fact, our pastor had a list (without names, of course) of some events we've gone through as a body, and it was pretty amazing to see. The whole point was that life is hard, but we have hope. I am trying to hang onto that truth this week.
In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.
—John 16:33
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Valley Song
by Jars of Clay
You have led me to the sadness
I have carried this pain
On a back bruised, nearly broken
I'm crying out to you
I will sing of Your mercy
That leads me through valleys of sorrow
To rivers of joy
When death like a gypsy
Comes to steal what I love
I will still look to the heavens
I will still seek your face
But I fear you aren't listening
Because there are no words
Just the stillness and the hunger
For a faith that assures
I will sing of Your mercy
That leads me through valleys of sorrow
To rivers of joy
Alleluia, alleluia
Alleluia, alleluia
While we wait for rescue
With our eyes tightly shut
Face to the ground using our hands
To cover the fatal cut
And though the pain is an ocean
Tossing us around, around, around
You have calmed greater waters
Higher mountains have come down
Alleluia, alleluia
Alleluia, alleluia
Oh, Lord sing of Your mercy,
Mercy
Your mercy
You have led me to the sadness
I have carried this pain
On a back bruised, nearly broken
I'm crying out to you
I will sing of Your mercy
That leads me through valleys of sorrow
To rivers of joy
When death like a gypsy
Comes to steal what I love
I will still look to the heavens
I will still seek your face
But I fear you aren't listening
Because there are no words
Just the stillness and the hunger
For a faith that assures
I will sing of Your mercy
That leads me through valleys of sorrow
To rivers of joy
Alleluia, alleluia
Alleluia, alleluia
While we wait for rescue
With our eyes tightly shut
Face to the ground using our hands
To cover the fatal cut
And though the pain is an ocean
Tossing us around, around, around
You have calmed greater waters
Higher mountains have come down
Alleluia, alleluia
Alleluia, alleluia
Oh, Lord sing of Your mercy,
Mercy
Your mercy
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Happy Easter!
But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed. —Isaiah 53:5
It's an absolutely beautiful, sunny day outside. A wonderful day to remember and celebrate the death and resurrection of JESUS my Savior. And as our pastor pointed out this morning, it is not just Jesus who was resurrected to new life, but I am also living a new life because of Him! Because of Jesus, I don't need to fear death, because death is not the end. Death is not the end, and WAS not the end for Asher and Evan. I know my boys are rejoicing today and enjoying a party in Heaven. I miss them terribly. They should be here, in cute little Easter outfits. I selfishly want them here, even know I know they are somewhere far, far better.
How is it possible to feel happy and heartbroken all at the same moment? Such is my life.
It's an absolutely beautiful, sunny day outside. A wonderful day to remember and celebrate the death and resurrection of JESUS my Savior. And as our pastor pointed out this morning, it is not just Jesus who was resurrected to new life, but I am also living a new life because of Him! Because of Jesus, I don't need to fear death, because death is not the end. Death is not the end, and WAS not the end for Asher and Evan. I know my boys are rejoicing today and enjoying a party in Heaven. I miss them terribly. They should be here, in cute little Easter outfits. I selfishly want them here, even know I know they are somewhere far, far better.
How is it possible to feel happy and heartbroken all at the same moment? Such is my life.
Monday, February 22, 2010
I will never be the same
This blog post is so achingly true, I had to save it forever. It really touched my heart to read. And it is true that it is SO comforting when someone acknowledges that I will never be the same, and that is OK. It's probably only genuinely happened once or twice. I feel so uncomfortable in my own skin sometimes, like the elephant in the room. I want so badly to be "back to normal" so that I won't feel like I'm making others uncomfortable, so I won't feel so awkward in group settings. For someone (even an internet stranger) to tell my that I will never get over this, and that is just fine, is such a calming reminder. I can feel my anxiety lighten a little bit. I often feel like on top of "getting over" the death of my babies, I am also "expected" to "get back to normal" and become my old self again. The truth is, that person is gone. I really appreciate the validation that it's OK to stop looking for her, and the reassurance that someday I will be comfortable with my new self.
Reprinted from Glow in the Woods, a site for babylost parents (bold mine):
Even in the first, fresh few days, I knew that I would feel better some day.
But I didn't want to feel better some day.
The first time I didn't feel absolutely beaten down by the fact of my baby's death, I felt terrible. I was the mother of a dead child, and that was wholly my identity in those first days and months. I wasn't a daughter or sister or a writer. I was a wife—wife to the father of a dead baby.
That dead baby, my son Gabriel, was my whole world. I couldn't believe it. I could not wrap my head around it. I thought it was a dream. I would wake up at night with aching breasts, expecting to hear him cry. I simply could not fathom how this was my life.
I did not want to feel better. But eventually, I did.
I can't tell you if it was six weeks or six months later, but I started freelancing again; I went to a concert or two (which was extremely disorienting); I made love to my husband; we traveled to San Francisco with his family, including my pregnant sister-in-law.
I was still the mother of a dead baby. How could I be more than that? Despite my best efforts to not move forward, I was. It was not easy—it was terrifying. But it was forward.
+++
The kindest thing someone said to me in the days after Gabriel's loss came from my uncle, my father's brother, who had lost his 22-year-old son in a car accident years and years ago. You will never get over this. It was such a balm. I didn't have to try to get over my loss, put it behind me, pretend to "be okay". It was never going to be okay.
You will never feel as good as you did before you became the parent of a dead child. That woman, that man, is lost to innocence, lost to the pure joy and miracle that is making babies. Even sex will be fraught for some time. I suggest wine. Not too much.
Every pregnancy you hear about—even (I hope) your own—will be shadowed, sometimes so darkly you will wonder what you are doing in a world where people want to have babies. It's madness. Madness you may recognize someday as your own.
Though you may need help to heal from such devastation—therapy, medication, a vacation someplace far from everyone you know—you will never get over it.
But you will feel better.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)