April Fools

I have always disliked April Fools Day. Even as a kid, I was overly compassionate (not gullible, there's a difference) and I despised the embarrassment that would ensue when I fell for a friend's poor excuse for a joke. I don't know who came up with this ridiculous day, but I'd like to think that they didn't intend for it to be used to harm and hurt anyone. I think the jokes were meant to be light and silly. But they never are.

Of course, as anyone would expect, my biggest April Fools pet peeve is the fake pregnancy announcement. I hope to not rant too much or make a huge deal about this but honestly, I have yet to come across a baby loss mom or a woman struggling with infertility that isn't hurt by these "jokes." To us, it's not a joke whatsoever. It's a serious, sacred thing to be pregnant. Even before I lost Avery, I held it to that high esteem. I can't fathom how not everyone does. My loss didn't change that, I grew up that way. I understand that everyone is different.

Sadly, there have been several women in the baby loss community who were berated for expressing their feelings about the "joke," hoping to spread awareness that there are countless numbers of women out there who could be hurt by it. I cannot believe they were treated so poorly, with such ugly words thrown at them for being honest and asking for sensitivity. I try to put myself in a "normal" person's shoes and look at it from their point of view. I still can't imagine getting so defensive and going against a person who knows such agony and defending a stupid joke over their pain. If I had no idea what losing a baby (or what not being able to have the kids I wanted to have) was like, I'd be grateful for the heads up, as I may not realize that it could be hurtful. I would never want to unknowingly hurt someone with something as petty as a joke. It's okay to not know. Our community doesn't expect people to understand. But we ache for sensitivity and validation. That's why we share our hearts... to raise awareness. We have to journey through this life without our babies. We need help from those around us. It makes it so much more bearable when we feel like people care. I just don't understand why people could get so angry to find out that certain jokes hurt people. It's sad that we live in a world where people don't want to choose compassion for the needs of others. Instead they get defensive and mean. I wish it could be different.

Real pregnancy announcements strike my heart with this searing ache that I can't really describe. It's not a spiteful jealousy, but I long to be like the woman expressing her joy. When I see/hear an announcement, it's like someone held up a mirror for me to look at myself. In my reflection, I see a broken mother with an incredibly flawed body, with arms only half full. The announcements remind me of what I have lost and of what I cannot have. They have nothing to do with the mother sharing her happy news, or with her precious unborn baby. But it reignites this internal struggle I've been battling to be content and happy with what God has allowed for my life.

That being said, I know many other women who struggle with pregnancy news for similar reasons and with similar feelings. I'd do anything to be pregnant again. It's not a joke to me. So to see an announcement that is intended to fool people and see them accept all the kind congratulations and excitement from the gullible ones for a baby they essentially made up, just hurts. Some may think it's overly sensitive, some may think it's asking too much because everything is going to offend at least one person... But why can't some things in life just be universally sacred? Babies/pregnancy/baby loss. Cancer. Handicaps. Things like that should never be joked about.

I was watching Jimmy Fallon last night and Alec Baldwin was one of his guests. Alec told a story about how he pulled an April Fools prank on his daughter by pretending he was having a heart attack. He went as far as to let her call 911 before finally letting her know it was a joke. He laughed as he told the story and thought nothing of it. Okay, that's just rotten. How could you put your child through that for even a minute? To let them think you may be dying and they're about to lose you. I would be so upset with my dad if he did that to me (he would never). It would hurt me that he would put me through that for the sake of a prank. Jokes and pranks should leave everyone laughing at the end with a playful, "Oh, you got me! Good one!" Not trying to stop tears as you realize no one is dying or trying to hold your heart together as you are once again reminded that pregnancy is something that brings you devastation while others can easily throw it around like it's nothing. It makes you feel all alone all over again.

I wish we were more unified as people. That we would understand that everyone has their battles and that we all need grace for those journeys we walk through. No one likes to be the so-called party pooper or to demand people to meet their needs. But we could all think twice about the things we say or do that could cause people unnecessary pain, and not just on April Fools Day, but in our day to day lives. Why is it so hard to be nice? To care? To lighten the burden even just a little for those going through hardships. To have patience and understanding for people who seem to have unrealistic needs. It may seem ridiculous from the outside, crazy even, but just have a little grace. They walk a much different road, one that they'd never want you to walk down, even if you chose to show them no compassion. <3

The Inevitable

I've been a part of this awful wonderful community of women since I started my blog in June of 2010. The community of baby loss moms. Before I started my blog, I was alone. I was the freak of nature whose baby died inside her. I knew no one like me. The only outlet I had was, sadly, Facebook... the vast sea of normal people with constant pregnancy announcements and photos of living chubby pink babies. I felt so alienated. So isolated. I didn't start getting better and healing until I started finding mothers like me.

I had so much anger, so much pain, so much grief... I didn't know what to do with it. How to express it and how to just release all of the pent up emotions that were plaguing me. Finally, when another baby loss mom's blog inspired me to start mine, it was the best thing that could have happened. I was able to get all of those tormenting thoughts out but I also found so many other women out there who had been thrown into this journey around the same time I had.

We'd all lost our firstborn babies within months of each other. We were all in the very early raw stages of our grief, some of us still trying to process our losses, some of us still waiting for the results to tell us what had happened to our babies. We went through so much together, pouring out tortured posts and leaving each other encouraging and loving comments. We started adding each other on Facebook and being a part of each other's lives. I didn't feel so alone anymore. It made such a difference to have people that understood this. It was vital in trying to heal.

The next step we all worked toward was being ready for our Rainbow Babies (a baby born after a loss... the rainbow after the storm). It seemed we all started getting pregnant around the same time, one after another, until we were all pregnant again together. It was very exciting and hopeful, sharing these sacred pregnancies together, sharing our fears and understanding each other's worries. And of course our babies are all pretty close in age (though Jude came a bit earlier than he was supposed to). One by one, we had our precious Rainbow Babies. Each miracle entered the world, healthy and perfect. It was glorious.

But then things changed... It was me who quickly found out that Jude would be my last. It was me who was told not to have any more children. Even though I have come to know a few other women who have the same exact blood clotting mutations I have, I was the only one who didn't have a successful Rainbow pregnancy with the same corrective medical regimen. The other women carried to term. None formed blood clots. None had their future children taken away from them. It was just me. My body still failed to sustain my unborn child. My emergency c-section almost killed me... twice. I was the only one with complications. What is wrong with me? Why can't I just be like them?

Even though all of these new realities came to be, I was, for the most part, still the same as these mothers. We were torn between happiness and sadness. Thrilled to finally hold our living, breathing children like we'd always dreamed. But we were sad because it reminded us all over again what we'd lost with our first babies. We were all experiencing what we'd bawled our eyes out for through dozens of agonizing, sleepless nights. It was glorious. And we all shared it together. First smiles. First visits to the cemetery to meet big sister/brother. We all understood each other. I felt like I belonged so well, though I knew one day, it would change again...

And that time has come. I knew it would. I was fully aware it would happen. I don't think I expected it to start happening so soon, but it has. My baby loss friends are slowly getting pregnant again. I'm surprised by how much it bothers me. I am, without a doubt, happy for them all. I would never want any of them to be in the same boat as me. I wouldn't want them to never have more babies. I know I would if I could! I would never want any of them to think they have attributed to my struggles. Trust me, the struggles were already here! I have no bitterness or ill will toward them. Am I jealous? Sure. My feelings all stem from how I feel about myself... how I feel about the cards I have been dealt... the horribly unfortunate flawed nature of my body and its inability to do the one thing I desire more than anything. The sadness I feel is not geared toward these lovely mothers. It is not their fault. They're just doing what they have every right to do... what I wish I could do. And I feel sorry for myself. I'm slowly becoming different again. But I'm so glad they're not like me.

I feel stuck in my grief. I like I can't move on like I would be able to if I could continue having more children. I feel like I grasp onto Avery tighter than I would if I could have another daughter. Not that she could or would be replaced. But that ache in my heart to raise a daughter could possibly be quenched. I wouldn't know what it would be like to raise Avery and watch her grow up, but I could experience a daughter and all the girly sweet things I would have experienced with Avery. Now, none of that is possible and I am left with dreaming of what could have/should have been. I can't fully move on because I am still being injured by all of this. What took Avery nearly took Jude and it's taken away all of the babies I thought I would have... All the babies I wanted so badly and still do. I will never feel life fluttering away inside me ever again. I will never bring another life into this world. I will never caress another newborn cheek in the middle of the night. I'll never cradle another tiny body close to my chest. I still can't get over that. I can't get past it. It's all I've ever wanted. I'd do anything to change this.

I get so angry when I think about all of this. About this life I have been given. This life sentence of losing so much of what I wanted for my life. I planned it all out since I was a kid. But I'll tell ya... This body of mine has really screwed up so much of my life. I've always hated my body, but never more than I do now. There's this sense of betrayal. A sense of failure... That because of my body, I cannot do what a woman is made to do. That a life was lost because of my body and another was severely compromised because of it as well. It really takes a toll on how I feel about myself. I know it's not my fault. But my body, inside and out, has always been what's wrong with my life. I always feel like I'm trapped inside this disgusting shell. I wish I could just break out of it and be normal. Be happy.

I wish we could start talking about another baby and decide when we're ready to start trying again. I wish we could make another pregnancy announcement and tell the world with excitement that Jude is going to be a big brother. I wish we could reuse all the precious clothes we loved on Jude. I wish Jude wouldn't grow up alone. I wish he could know what it's like to share life with a brother or sister who would always be a friend. I wish I could watch my belly slowly get bigger, counting the weeks with joy. I wish I could feel the kicks and the rolls once again. I wish I could feel the excitement of the ultrasounds and the thrill of the gender reveal. Keeping the list of names. Journaling every little tidbit. Dreaming of who it is dancing beneath my heart. I miss it. I miss all of it. I hate how much I want it. I swear I was given the wrong fate. Why has God allowed me to grow up with this insatiable desire if He knew I'd be denied it? I just don't understand.

Day 9: How Three Years Feels

I still cannot believe we're already hitting the three year mark on this road without Avery. So much has changed and yet so much has not changed at all.

I live my day to day life in a relatively normal way, enjoying Jude and Daniel, and taking care of our home. It's the moments that come and the occasional thoughts that haven't really changed. I still want my daughter here. I still miss her. I still feel the scars of those traumatic days that I somehow lived through. They were so emotionally scarring, something impossible to get over. I live on but I don't move on. That is my child. I carried her. She's me and Daniel, just like Jude is. I dreamed her whole life out. That love doesn't just stop. The pain of losing that entire life doesn't just shut off when the pregnancy is over.

I really believe I'd be a bit better off if my situation were different. If Jude didn't have to be the last child we have, I think I'd have a healthier heart and mind. I wouldn't ache so much inside. I will never raise a daughter. I will never buy those irresistibly sweet little girl outfits that rip my heart out when I see them in the stores. All I'll ever have are the few outfits we bought for Avery that still sit in a box in the top of my foyer closet. I can't part with them; they're a fraction of all I have of her... which isn't much to begin with. I lost Avery, and the future daughter I wanted to have. I never thought Jude would be it. I always hoped we had learned all we needed to know from Avery to save Jude and the rest of our children from the same fate she suffered. I thought I had the magical fix during Jude's pregnancy. But that still wasn't enough. It started to happen again. It would have happened again.

I try to be graceful. But sometimes I feel angry. Sometimes I just feel so bitter about all of it... that we couldn't change it, couldn't fix it. That the agony didn't end with losing Avery. We had to lose our future babies too, and endure a rough and frightening start with Jude, that nearly took my life and left me medically dependent. Most times, I just don't understand.

I know if things had turned out differently-- if the Lovenox injections and folic acid pills had been the successful regimen it was supposed to be-- I would still miss and love and ache for Avery, but I think the pain would fade a bit into the background, and not be such an agitated sore. I felt myself healing and accepting Avery's absence when I was pregnant with Jude. As soon as things went wrong at 31 weeks and my doctor gave me the news the changed my entire future, I felt that band-aid rip off, tearing flesh with it. A new wound, a new scar, a new loss. And that's where I am.

Yes, it's been three years since we lost Avery. It sounds like a long time from the outside. It sounds like enough time to get over a baby we didn't know... if you have no idea what losing a baby feels like. Three years is like three months. It doesn't take long for the time to pass, but time and grief are irrelevant to each other. If anything, the passing of time makes it harder. It's been longer since we've been with Avery and were able to touch her, feel her, hold her. As time goes on, everyone forgets. The world moves on even when we don't. I am always feeling like most people in my life forget her, don't count her, and don't remember what we went through. If they do, they don't show it. Some do. Most don't. I wish people would approach the situation through my eyes and not theirs. It's my situation after all. I need the acknowledgment. I cannot be denied her or what I've been through. It makes the difficult life even worse. It makes it harder to truly heal.

My desire is to be the kind of person Avery would be proud of. I want to be strong and happy and inspirational. I don't want to be praised or applauded, but I don't want to be the walking sad story who drags around the darkness of her struggles. I'm trying to be better and feel better. I'm trying not to want what I've always wanted because it hurts too much. I am a work in progress. Always.

Just wait til he starts walking

People keep saying that to me lately.

People I know. Complete strangers. They just keep telling me that same thing, in that same warning tone, as if my world is about to shatter and all hell will break loose as soon as my little boy is completely mobile. As if it's about to be the worst thing that could happen to me.

And each time I hear it, I bite my tongue to what my instincts retort in my head. I feel a tinge of anger build up, as if I'm supposed to defend my little boy. Because to me, each time I hear these generalized, empty warnings, I feel as though that person is trying to talk me out of how much I love my child. As if I'm stupid enough to think I enjoy my son because I have no idea what bothersome perils await me once he can get around on his feet (or turns 2). That soon he will become too inconvenient to love and enjoy. Or something like that.

This all may seem so petty, but my number one pet peeve is taking children for granted. My children (dead and alive) are sacred to me. I do not believe in publicly slandering them in any way. I love every aspect of motherhood. I cherish it, even the challenges. It's exactly what I signed up for when Daniel and I decided to embark on the road to parenthood. I take all of it in. I embrace it all as a gift. The gift of being a mother to an amazing boy who's growing each day into the man he will become. I honestly don't find any of it to be an inconvenience. I could never sit and complain about the trials of parenting my living-breathing child. He is literally my dream come true. I nearly died for him.

And I know the alternative. I know what it's like to bury my baby. I know what it's like to clutch nothing but emptiness in aching arms. I know what it's like to pine for a screaming needy baby to keep me up at night, instead of flashback-plagued insomnia and my own miserable tears. I have a baby that never got to cry and she definitely won't ever start walking and apparently turn my world upside down. She turned my world upside down in a very different way, one that actually deserves complaint and discomfort. I'd much rather deal with her walking.

As for Jude, he is my sweet preemie. Because of that alone, his milestones are precious. They are never on time due to his prematurity, and this is something I struggle with. I try not to worry about what he is or isn't doing. So when Jude started taking steps, we were overjoyed! Disdain was the last emotion I'd ever visit. We encourage him to learn to walk, trying to get him to take steps back and forth between Daniel and me. We count the steps (so far his record is four steps before falling) and we clap and cheer when he does fall. He gets so excited as he's taking these precious steps because he knows he's accomplishing something amazing, something he's never done before. Something his prematurity could have very well taken away from him.

So am I a bit sensitive? Do I take nonchalant, typical statements too personally? Possibly. But in my life, on the road I've walked, I'm so tired of people treating parenthood and children so typically. It's not a typical occurrence. To some, it's incredibly sacred. It does not come easily. In some cases, like mine, it took multiple near death experiences (among other things) to get a breathing child into this world. I don't take Jude's accomplishments lightly. I celebrate them with everything inside me because I know we nearly buried him as well.

We'll never see Avery take her first steps and she'll never run around and play. But Jude will and I can't wait to see that sweet, silly toddler waddle. I can't wait to chase him and hear him squeal with joy. I'm so excited for what's to come. Suggesting any other response is an insult to what I've been through, no matter how ridiculous that seems.

Not everyone possesses the same ideals or views. Sometimes a thoughtless, seemingly simple comment can evoke so much emotion. What some call inconveniences, others call victories.