I don't blog much any more. I wish I spent more time writing, but doesn't time get away? It was a tumultuous 2015, a massive learning curve, a year of changes and risk taking and new directions. I tried really hard to just take things as they came and I got better as I went. I was proud of myself for becoming more aware of my own thoughts and what I was feeling and I felt a real change in myself because I know myself better than I did. But enough on that, I just wanted to set the scene a bit about where I am just now.
In August last year we decided to give IVF one last hurrah. We jumped in feet first and decided that whatever the outcome, this was it. So I became a full on druggy once again, pumped myself full of meds and of course promptly developed Ovarian Hyper Stimulation Syndrome for the second time. I was expecting it this time, and at least I didn't also need to cope with getting a shitty number of eggs and no embryos this time. After 5 days we had 6 embryos ready to test to check for abnormalities. Don't get me wrong, we are in no way worried about raising a child with special needs, but the thought is that my body will not grow the embryos if there are chromosomal issues. After what felt like forever, my specialist rang with the good news that we had 3 good embryos, frozen and waiting for us. These will henceforth be known as Ice Ice Babies 1, 2 and 3.
Ice Ice Baby 1 was transferred in early September. I wrote about my ongoing battle with addiction to Home Pregnancy tests in my last blog, and sadly after posting it that sweet second pink line faded. The cycle ended and I was dubious about going again. I think I officially lost hope. If I couldn't get Ice Ice Baby 1 to stick, knowing he or she was perfectly formed, what was wrong with me? I accessed some counselling through the IVF clinic and I accepted her advice. Do one more round and then leave things for a good long while. Make the decision to not make a decision to finish or not. Sounded like I could manage that.
In early November we started our final round of IVF for a while. I think I approached it with a bit of a 'let's just get it over with' attitude, but I figured I'd change it up a little and throw acupuncture into the mix. I find it super relaxing and it was nice to just have time to relax and focus on getting through the round.
Transfer day snuck up on us, and before I knew it, I had my legs in stirrups and once again I was baring my wares to the lady whose kids we've put through very expensive schools, judging by how much we've paid her over the years. We chatted amiably throughout what would have to be one of the most awkward situations one can find one's self in.
They showed us our lovely blastocyst (Ice Ice Baby 2) on the screen and then we all prepared for take off. In it went and off we tootled to have a cuppa and go to acupuncture. "I feel...different..." I whispered to Glen on our way out. I felt weirdly alien, and I had a funny inkling this might be THE one. I dared not hope because I've had A feeling before, but this was the first time I had had THIS feeling. I put it out of my head and went about my business for a week, until finally testing day was upon us.
I peed on my first test about 3 days before the end of my cycle and of course there was a faint second line. I figured it was the HCG shot still, so I tried to calm the storm of excitement rising in me. The next day I tested again, and decided if the line wasn't darker I wouldn't test again. I weed and left the test on the counter whilst I went to find clothes for the day and figured about 3 minutes had gone past.
I glanced at the test.
I did a double take.
I picked it up and gave it a shake.
Two pink lines. Darker than yesterday.
I'm freaking pregnant! Well, I'll be damned.
Armistead Baby number 3 is due to arrive on the 4th of August, 2016.
Lucky we gave it one last shot.
Wednesday, 27 January 2016
Friday, 11 September 2015
Searching for Two Pink Lines
I have a confession to make. I am an addict. I have tried to face my issue in the privacy of my own home, but it's time to fess up. I am addicted to home pregnancy tests. Not just any brand, either. First Response Early Response. 3 packs.
I think my unwholesome addiction began about 12 years ago when we began trying to have kids. As fellow PCOS sufferers might also attest to, my cycle was erratic at best, absent at worst. So I tested frequently to see if I might have magically, mysteriously fallen pregnant. Obviously it didn't happen and I curbed my testing to some extent by the time I fell pregnant with Xavier.
After Xavier, my mission to feed my addiction grew. I hide pink boxes of my favourite stuff into the house and kid them under the bathroom sink, behind the toilet, in my drawers. I couldn't help it. When I was going through fertility treatments I tested every morning from the middle of the cycle. I could convince myself that there was a faint line there, indicating I was up the duff.
By the time I fell pregnant with Poppy I admit things had gotten out of hand. For the first 12 weeks of my pregnancy I tested at least once a week, sometimes more. And then I discovered the world of digital tests! Did you know digital tests SPELL it out for you?? Or even tell you how pregnant you are!? I was in pee on a stick heaven! Pee and it reminds you you are pregnant. What could be a better rush for a fiend like me?
These days I'm learning other uses for my First Response 3 pack buddies. IVF requires taking large quantities of synthetic HCG, which is the pregnancy hormone. From that first shot of the good stuff, and I can watch two pink lines of various shades emerge on a small window, and for a bit of time I can pretend that I actually am.
'Tis a double edged sword is my addiction. You see this round I have peed like never before. Twice a day. It's costing a fortune (Costco is the cheapest for a hit, but Big W will do at a pinch), but it's the emotional roller coaster that's costing me most. Those two pink lines from the fake HCG? They fade, man. Each time I wee, the line is a shade lighter. Until we reach the point f no return and we see if the line begins to darken again with real HCG. That's the legit hit. That's the real stuff. So, here I am balanced at the precipice of lighter or darker. I could just wait a few more days and have a blood test and I'll know one way or the other. But the lines...I need them. They are my life line to my dream.
I'd like to say I was motivated enough to give up the hit. But I can't. I enjoy the rush too much right now, and I'm hurting no one but myself. Maybe, one day, I'll see a darkening line again. But it's too soon to say if this will be the one. The real deal.
My name is Bec, and it's been 14 hours since my last pee on a stick. Oh, fine...it was an hour ago and I rushed home from work. Don't judge until you've tried it, okay?
I think my unwholesome addiction began about 12 years ago when we began trying to have kids. As fellow PCOS sufferers might also attest to, my cycle was erratic at best, absent at worst. So I tested frequently to see if I might have magically, mysteriously fallen pregnant. Obviously it didn't happen and I curbed my testing to some extent by the time I fell pregnant with Xavier.
After Xavier, my mission to feed my addiction grew. I hide pink boxes of my favourite stuff into the house and kid them under the bathroom sink, behind the toilet, in my drawers. I couldn't help it. When I was going through fertility treatments I tested every morning from the middle of the cycle. I could convince myself that there was a faint line there, indicating I was up the duff.
By the time I fell pregnant with Poppy I admit things had gotten out of hand. For the first 12 weeks of my pregnancy I tested at least once a week, sometimes more. And then I discovered the world of digital tests! Did you know digital tests SPELL it out for you?? Or even tell you how pregnant you are!? I was in pee on a stick heaven! Pee and it reminds you you are pregnant. What could be a better rush for a fiend like me?
These days I'm learning other uses for my First Response 3 pack buddies. IVF requires taking large quantities of synthetic HCG, which is the pregnancy hormone. From that first shot of the good stuff, and I can watch two pink lines of various shades emerge on a small window, and for a bit of time I can pretend that I actually am.
'Tis a double edged sword is my addiction. You see this round I have peed like never before. Twice a day. It's costing a fortune (Costco is the cheapest for a hit, but Big W will do at a pinch), but it's the emotional roller coaster that's costing me most. Those two pink lines from the fake HCG? They fade, man. Each time I wee, the line is a shade lighter. Until we reach the point f no return and we see if the line begins to darken again with real HCG. That's the legit hit. That's the real stuff. So, here I am balanced at the precipice of lighter or darker. I could just wait a few more days and have a blood test and I'll know one way or the other. But the lines...I need them. They are my life line to my dream.
I'd like to say I was motivated enough to give up the hit. But I can't. I enjoy the rush too much right now, and I'm hurting no one but myself. Maybe, one day, I'll see a darkening line again. But it's too soon to say if this will be the one. The real deal.
My name is Bec, and it's been 14 hours since my last pee on a stick. Oh, fine...it was an hour ago and I rushed home from work. Don't judge until you've tried it, okay?
Saturday, 28 February 2015
Hello, Darkness, My Old Friend
It's been a big few months. I've changed many things in my life that I thought were constants. The place I work, the car I drive, our house. None of these are remarkable, but the culmination of them all at the same time has left me feeling...overwhelmed. And unsettled. Perhaps that's why I have found the bottom of the deep dark hole again.
Look, this abyss is not the deepest I've been in. I've been deeper, closer to oblivion. But still, it's not a place I want to be. I thought I was strong enough to hold myself up, no matter what. I was wrong, and here we are, having a tea party for one in my cave of despair.
"What happened?" you may ask? Same thing as usual. Things didn't go the way I planned, as per usual. I really try not to micromanage my life, my expectations, but I can't help it. From cradle to grave, I'm going to be bossy and over planned, I just can't help it. Sometimes it's actually helpful. Other times, like our seemingly endless journey to conceive another baby, it becomes more stressful. And the last round was just about as crappy as they come.
After our last miscarriage, Dr Kate finally convinced us that we needed to step things up. Move on from regular IVF and into the scary world of PGD. PGD stands for Pre-implantation Genetic Diagnosis, or genetic tasting. We've never managed to have any of our miscarried babies tested for genetic abnormalities, but it's one thing that could be causing our losses. We know G and I are genetically normal (ish), and Xav and Poppy are all clear too. So we can make perfect babies, but maybe not all of the time. Kate explained that it's one thing we can rule out as a cause for so many losses, and, keen to find a reason, we decided to embark on a (very expensive) new chapter in our journey.
It's bizarre how quick the whole IVF thing becomes part of life. Injections are a daily necessity, handfuls of tablets and vitamins are my dessert after dinner, and starting my day with a 6.50am internal ultrasound, have just become the norm. But PGD? A whole new world. So with lots of new information after hours of meetings with PGD gurus, I started the pill. As in, THE pill. The irony of this did not escape me. Of all of the things I've had to do over the past 6 years, standing on my head after, you know... , included, taking the bloody PILL is the stupidest and funniest thing I've partaken in. If Alanis Morrisette wanted a new lyric for her song, there it is.
Where was I? Oh, right PGD. I started with the PILL (seriously....) and then got my date for Egg Pick Up. The middle of January. On the anniversary of Mum's passing. Fabulous. Transfer will be the date I almost died from my ectopic. Double Fab. And, to top it off? My specialist will be away and a stranger will be viewing my privates. Just wonderful.
What the hell? I figured. Dignity was pretty much washed away with the number of times my lady bits have been on show in the name of medical science anyway. So we began. Injections at triple my normal dose, bloating to the size of a full term pregnant lady (ah, the irony again. I should teach Alanis another verse). Finally we get to pick up day, as full of eggs as a battery hen. 20+ ready to go. Despite the 7kg weight gain, I was excited. Surely this was our time. We might be 5 or 6 good embryos, and hopefully one of them would be our take home baby.
I woke up from the procedure in extreme pain. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, not at all how it was last time. Through the haze of the anaesthetic I heard the doctor say that they only managed to collect 9 of the 20 eggs. 9? I was a bit disappointed but not terribly. I was totally distracted by my pain. After hours of trying different pain medications, I was diagnosed with severe hyper stimulation, bruising from the egg collection, and given pethidine to manage the pain (that stuff it awesome!). Then we waited for the results. How many eggs would fertilise? Surely half? We got 10/12 last round, so I figured at least 6 would take. (see that micromanaging coming out again?)
Sitting in hospital, by myself, in pain, waiting for results. Not my favourite night ever. By the next day, I could manage my pain with tremydol, and was allowed to go home. In the car on the way home, I rang to see how our embryos were going. "Three fertilised," the nurse announced, and my heart sank. We were told that we may lose more than half in the testing. Three wasn't enough. I wasn't enough. I had failed and wasted thousands and thousands of dollars.
5 days later, we got the news that two of the embryos were no good. Genetically abnormal. To be destroyed.
One was perfect. Genetically perfect, growing well. Frozen for future use. Our Chosen One. Thank God.
It took weeks to get well, and then weeks to simulate a new cycle. I was sure that this little Golden Embryo was the one. Our baby. Our rainbow baby. Finally.
So, in it went. Transferred and healthy. Then we waited 9 days to see if it would take. I kept hope. I convinced myself that all the changes I had made in my life, would bring about this celebration. I was sure. I was so sure.
Then the cramping started. I'm not going to go into detail, but you get the idea. The Golden Child was no more. I had failed to keep it safe, failed to keep it here.
So here I am in my pit of self pity again. I know I need to get out, but I'm not ready yet. I need to own my grief that this journey might finally be over. Not with the ending I hoped, wished for, but finished. I can't see a way forward yet. I don't know whether trying again would be foolish or brave. I always thought I'd know when enough was enough. But this little Micro manager is currently without a plan.
I know I'll get out of here, climb towards the light and enjoy the good things again. But for now Light and Tangy Chips and Nutella from the jar are my only solace. And, as a wise woman told me recently, a block of chocolate makes everything seem better. For now, that will have to do.
Look, this abyss is not the deepest I've been in. I've been deeper, closer to oblivion. But still, it's not a place I want to be. I thought I was strong enough to hold myself up, no matter what. I was wrong, and here we are, having a tea party for one in my cave of despair.
"What happened?" you may ask? Same thing as usual. Things didn't go the way I planned, as per usual. I really try not to micromanage my life, my expectations, but I can't help it. From cradle to grave, I'm going to be bossy and over planned, I just can't help it. Sometimes it's actually helpful. Other times, like our seemingly endless journey to conceive another baby, it becomes more stressful. And the last round was just about as crappy as they come.
After our last miscarriage, Dr Kate finally convinced us that we needed to step things up. Move on from regular IVF and into the scary world of PGD. PGD stands for Pre-implantation Genetic Diagnosis, or genetic tasting. We've never managed to have any of our miscarried babies tested for genetic abnormalities, but it's one thing that could be causing our losses. We know G and I are genetically normal (ish), and Xav and Poppy are all clear too. So we can make perfect babies, but maybe not all of the time. Kate explained that it's one thing we can rule out as a cause for so many losses, and, keen to find a reason, we decided to embark on a (very expensive) new chapter in our journey.
It's bizarre how quick the whole IVF thing becomes part of life. Injections are a daily necessity, handfuls of tablets and vitamins are my dessert after dinner, and starting my day with a 6.50am internal ultrasound, have just become the norm. But PGD? A whole new world. So with lots of new information after hours of meetings with PGD gurus, I started the pill. As in, THE pill. The irony of this did not escape me. Of all of the things I've had to do over the past 6 years, standing on my head after, you know... , included, taking the bloody PILL is the stupidest and funniest thing I've partaken in. If Alanis Morrisette wanted a new lyric for her song, there it is.
Where was I? Oh, right PGD. I started with the PILL (seriously....) and then got my date for Egg Pick Up. The middle of January. On the anniversary of Mum's passing. Fabulous. Transfer will be the date I almost died from my ectopic. Double Fab. And, to top it off? My specialist will be away and a stranger will be viewing my privates. Just wonderful.
What the hell? I figured. Dignity was pretty much washed away with the number of times my lady bits have been on show in the name of medical science anyway. So we began. Injections at triple my normal dose, bloating to the size of a full term pregnant lady (ah, the irony again. I should teach Alanis another verse). Finally we get to pick up day, as full of eggs as a battery hen. 20+ ready to go. Despite the 7kg weight gain, I was excited. Surely this was our time. We might be 5 or 6 good embryos, and hopefully one of them would be our take home baby.
I woke up from the procedure in extreme pain. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, not at all how it was last time. Through the haze of the anaesthetic I heard the doctor say that they only managed to collect 9 of the 20 eggs. 9? I was a bit disappointed but not terribly. I was totally distracted by my pain. After hours of trying different pain medications, I was diagnosed with severe hyper stimulation, bruising from the egg collection, and given pethidine to manage the pain (that stuff it awesome!). Then we waited for the results. How many eggs would fertilise? Surely half? We got 10/12 last round, so I figured at least 6 would take. (see that micromanaging coming out again?)
Sitting in hospital, by myself, in pain, waiting for results. Not my favourite night ever. By the next day, I could manage my pain with tremydol, and was allowed to go home. In the car on the way home, I rang to see how our embryos were going. "Three fertilised," the nurse announced, and my heart sank. We were told that we may lose more than half in the testing. Three wasn't enough. I wasn't enough. I had failed and wasted thousands and thousands of dollars.
5 days later, we got the news that two of the embryos were no good. Genetically abnormal. To be destroyed.
One was perfect. Genetically perfect, growing well. Frozen for future use. Our Chosen One. Thank God.
It took weeks to get well, and then weeks to simulate a new cycle. I was sure that this little Golden Embryo was the one. Our baby. Our rainbow baby. Finally.
So, in it went. Transferred and healthy. Then we waited 9 days to see if it would take. I kept hope. I convinced myself that all the changes I had made in my life, would bring about this celebration. I was sure. I was so sure.
Then the cramping started. I'm not going to go into detail, but you get the idea. The Golden Child was no more. I had failed to keep it safe, failed to keep it here.
So here I am in my pit of self pity again. I know I need to get out, but I'm not ready yet. I need to own my grief that this journey might finally be over. Not with the ending I hoped, wished for, but finished. I can't see a way forward yet. I don't know whether trying again would be foolish or brave. I always thought I'd know when enough was enough. But this little Micro manager is currently without a plan.
I know I'll get out of here, climb towards the light and enjoy the good things again. But for now Light and Tangy Chips and Nutella from the jar are my only solace. And, as a wise woman told me recently, a block of chocolate makes everything seem better. For now, that will have to do.
Saturday, 27 September 2014
How much can I take? (published Pregnancy After Loss Support Page)
I feel like I’ve spent my whole marriage trying to get pregnant. 10 years ago, blissfully unaware of what was to come, we assumed our honeymoon would result in our first child being conceived. It didn’t quite happen the way we had planned. Two years of fertility treatment resulted in our amazing, beautiful blessing, Xavier. When he was 2 years old, with a 24 month battle with post natal depression fought and won, we decided we were ready to add to our family. I trooped back to my fertility specialist who insisted we try natural for 6 months before he would prescribe Clomid again. 6 months later, “I told you so” firmly in my head, we trooped back again. So began the hardest 6 years of our lives.
The first month we tried using Clomid I fell pregnant. I couldn’t believe our luck! But the HCG stopped rising, and I suffered what was to be the first of many miscarriages. 3 months later, same story, and 4 months after that, our third loss. Our fertility specialist wasn’t exactly the most personable of guys, and without even looking me in the face, declared it was all just bad luck and there was nothing he could do. Needless to say, I changed specialists!
Dr. Kate was my savior, because she was honest, empathetic and smart. We developed a plan, started injectable medications to induce ovulation, and started the next phase of trying to conceive–a little wiser, and far less innocent. Low and behold, month one, I fell pregnant again. I found out on New Years Eve, and I knew something was off. But we got past 6 weeks, when all our other losses had occured, and we thought we might actually get there. At 6 weeks and 4 days, I had agonising abdominal pain, on my left side. I knew straight away it was ectopic. By the end of the day I had lost another baby, my left fallopian tube, and my heart had broken yet again. Bizzarely, I had been pregnant with twins, and the twin that was in the uterus was a blighted ovum. If the twins had been reversed, the baby in my tube would have survived had it been in the uterus. I was crushed. 5 little angels gone. But the worst was still to come.
4 months after the ectopic/heterotopic loss, we fell pregnant again. 6th time lucky was our hope, and as our milestones rolled past, I dared to hope we might bring home this baby. 12 weeks, all ok. 20 weeks, all ok. Our scan showed a beautiful, healthy baby girl. I bonded with her. I felt her move. I felt her soul. I loved her with my whole heart.
At 29 weeks I had my 4th attack of an unidentified abdominal pain and some spotting. We rushed to the hospital, thinking finally my placenta had started pulling away from the uterine wall. Doppler showed an active baby, but no-one could manage to get a heart trace on our baby girl. After the 7th midwife came in, and again registered a heartrate of 75, and assuming it was my heartbeat, someone decided to put the heart monitor on me. My heartrate was 65, therefore baby’s was 75. Everyone panicked, and I was rushed off for a specialised scan with the head of Fetal Maternal Medicine. Our good run was done. Our daughter was diagnosed with 2nd degree fetal heartblock, a rare condition that attacks the electrical current coordinating the top and bottom parts of the heart. The only hope was a pacemaker fitted at birth, but at 29 weeks, she was still too small to have such an operation.
For weeks we waited, being observed almost daily, and slowly we watched out baby’s heartrate decrease. She was almost delivered at 34 weeks. But the decision was made to leave her for a bit longer and try to get to 36 weeks. I knew it was a bad idea. My biggest regret it that I didn’t insist she be delivered. Things might have been so different. Almost delivered again at 34+3. Then during our scan at 34+6, we knew we have made the wrong decision. She was in heart failure, and there was very little chance she would survive her delivery.
We were wheeled off frantically for an emergency cesarean, meeting a pediatric heart specialist in theatre. At 2:17pm, our daughter was born, and she was still and silent, and I knew she was already gone. They tried for 20 mins to save her, fitting an external pacemaker, trying in vain to restart her damaged heart. But it was too late. We were too late.
Finally we met our longed for baby girl, and she was stunning. Perfect rose lips, porcelain skin, fine fingers. Just beautiful. But silent and still, not at all how it should have been. We named our darling girl Poppy, a pretty name for a pretty baby, and tried to decide how we would tell her big brother that the baby he had been waiting for was not coming home.
I decided on the operating table, holding my precious baby, that I needed to try again. Is that normal? I was terrified that if I didn’t believe I’d get this chance again, I might crumble and tumble away. We weren’t allowed to TTC for 6 months post c-section, so we had an imposed wait time in which we investigated Poppy’s condition and the likelihood of it reoccurring. Unfortunately there was evidence that 15-20% of siblings will develop the same condition in utero. But I had to try. I needed it.
Nothing happened for all of 2012. And half of 2013. “Time for IVF?” was the call of my FS. Round 2 brought that amazing phonecall: “You’re pregnant!” the nurse informed me, and I couldn’t imagine that anything bad could happened again. But it did. Miscarriage no 5. Cycle number 4 brought another positive, but 2 weeks later, with no warning, I miscarried again.
I wonder when I will decide we are done. How much loss can I take? How many times can I fail and keep getting up and trying to succeed? But I still believe in my heart that our family is not supposed to be 3 and 1 in heaven. I really believe that eventually we’ll be rewarded for patience. I just hope that it happens soon, because my broken heart needs some good news to help it heal again.
Photo Credit: Gavin Blue for Heartfelt
Saturday, 12 July 2014
Grief upon grief
I am not a stranger to grief. We've been acquainted for some time. We first met when I was 14. I had lost a few people in my life prior to this, but this was when I got up close and personal with the raw, surging pain that was to be part of me forever. My mother lost her battle with cancer aged 40 years of age. For a long time I held off the my new friend, in a battle of wills that isn't really possible to win. I didn't want to feel that immense pain, I just wanted it to go away. And so began my dance with trying not to feel. To be brave. To be strong.
Years and years later I grieved again for my friend. He died on this exact day 14 years ago. Again much too young. Barely a man. And again I held off grief. I was brave. I was strong.
My grandmother died. My grandfather died. My good friend Helen died. But I hid. I refused to break. I tried so hard to build up a wall around me so I wouldn't feel. It hurt. It felt uncomfortable. It was scary to feel something so big.
Then I started losing babies. The first and second miscarriages were very early, and I was disappointed. The third was harder to deal with. The fourth nearly claimed my life, and I was scared and hurt and sad. It took courage and determination to keep going. Always brave and strong. That was what I needed to be. Then came Poppy.
My pregnancy with her let me forget about my grief over her tiny siblings. I lost them to keep her. She was the one who was meant to come home with me. I loved her more than anything, with everything I had. I let down that wall and she was nestled against my heart.
And then she died. God took her too. I couldn't understand how I could be expected to still be brave and strong? How? My brick wall crumbled, and when Poppy died, she took my whole heart. It hurt so much! All those years of holding grief at bay, and finally I succumbed to constant pull towards the abyss. I felt it. I really felt it. It was raw and painful and...beautiful. There was beauty in this because it came from love. Love is powerful and joyful and meaningful. But it is also devastating and heartbreaking.
It took me a long time to open myself to the world again. It's not that I wasn't living. I went about my business. But I was in a holding pattern, not going forwards but refusing to go backwards. The possibility of more loss almost crippled me, so terrified was I of what it might do to me. So I hid behind my hastily reconstructed wall and hoped for no more loss. The problem is, you forget about love too.
Then we lost another tiny baby. My body decided it wasn't ready to bring joy and delivered me more grief. And it broke me again. I lost hope. I could see no way to be brave or strong. I was a coward and I was weak. I needed to rebuild, somehow. My whole journey since I met grief was wasted because I couldn't be brave or strong anymore. And then I realised: What am I afraid of? Am I afraid of grief? Or am I afraid of love? Why am I battling against something that can not be conquered?
So I chose to walk alongside my grief. And I found I could live with it. I can feel it. Because it is born of love, of joy, and I am equal to it. Being strong is not about not feeling. It's about being strong enough to feel your pain and not let it destroy you. Being brave is just recognising fear and choosing to confront it. Again and again, if necessary.
Last weekend we miscarried again. It was scary and painful and traumatic. But I will not run from the pain or try to hid it. I will cry and feel like my heart and hope have been ripped out again. Grief is not welcome here, but if it needed to come, I will not lock the door. Because love is in my heart. I can't lock it away forever. I will bear the grief so I can enjoy the love. I am strong and brave, though not in the way I thought.
I am equal to whatever comes. I am strong. I am brave.
Years and years later I grieved again for my friend. He died on this exact day 14 years ago. Again much too young. Barely a man. And again I held off grief. I was brave. I was strong.
My grandmother died. My grandfather died. My good friend Helen died. But I hid. I refused to break. I tried so hard to build up a wall around me so I wouldn't feel. It hurt. It felt uncomfortable. It was scary to feel something so big.
Then I started losing babies. The first and second miscarriages were very early, and I was disappointed. The third was harder to deal with. The fourth nearly claimed my life, and I was scared and hurt and sad. It took courage and determination to keep going. Always brave and strong. That was what I needed to be. Then came Poppy.
My pregnancy with her let me forget about my grief over her tiny siblings. I lost them to keep her. She was the one who was meant to come home with me. I loved her more than anything, with everything I had. I let down that wall and she was nestled against my heart.
And then she died. God took her too. I couldn't understand how I could be expected to still be brave and strong? How? My brick wall crumbled, and when Poppy died, she took my whole heart. It hurt so much! All those years of holding grief at bay, and finally I succumbed to constant pull towards the abyss. I felt it. I really felt it. It was raw and painful and...beautiful. There was beauty in this because it came from love. Love is powerful and joyful and meaningful. But it is also devastating and heartbreaking.
It took me a long time to open myself to the world again. It's not that I wasn't living. I went about my business. But I was in a holding pattern, not going forwards but refusing to go backwards. The possibility of more loss almost crippled me, so terrified was I of what it might do to me. So I hid behind my hastily reconstructed wall and hoped for no more loss. The problem is, you forget about love too.
Then we lost another tiny baby. My body decided it wasn't ready to bring joy and delivered me more grief. And it broke me again. I lost hope. I could see no way to be brave or strong. I was a coward and I was weak. I needed to rebuild, somehow. My whole journey since I met grief was wasted because I couldn't be brave or strong anymore. And then I realised: What am I afraid of? Am I afraid of grief? Or am I afraid of love? Why am I battling against something that can not be conquered?
So I chose to walk alongside my grief. And I found I could live with it. I can feel it. Because it is born of love, of joy, and I am equal to it. Being strong is not about not feeling. It's about being strong enough to feel your pain and not let it destroy you. Being brave is just recognising fear and choosing to confront it. Again and again, if necessary.
Last weekend we miscarried again. It was scary and painful and traumatic. But I will not run from the pain or try to hid it. I will cry and feel like my heart and hope have been ripped out again. Grief is not welcome here, but if it needed to come, I will not lock the door. Because love is in my heart. I can't lock it away forever. I will bear the grief so I can enjoy the love. I am strong and brave, though not in the way I thought.
I am equal to whatever comes. I am strong. I am brave.
Friday, 7 March 2014
Patience is a virtue...or so they tell me
So here we are; 2 years, 3 months and 22 days since we said goodbye to Poppy. To be entirely honest, it still feels like it only just happened. But facing facts, it's been quite some time.
I really thought we'd have another baby by now. I realise I wouldn't have been ready to deal with another pregnancy, or possibly another baby, but when I think back to my thoughts in the minutes after we realised Poppy had died, my ONLY thought was, "I need a baby."
The decision to try again was made whilst I was still on the operating table during my cesarean. We were holding our beautiful, silent, longed for baby, for whom we'd waited for 3 long years, and I just couldn't imagine all the preparation we'd been through to include a little one into our lives would be for nothing. I needed to fill my aching arms.
As time went on, we realised we weren't ready yet. We wanted it, but we weren't ready to handle it. The truth is; grief is all consuming. It feels like there isn't much room for anything else. So we waited. Then we kind of started trying again, and then took a break, then tried again, before throwing ourselves whole heartedly in the magical world of IVF. It's been a year since we started to walk the IVF path. 12 months of invasive testing, painful procedures, meds that make me crazy, and a very harrowing and traumatic miscarriage. And still, no baby.
All up, we've been trying to bring home a sibling for Xavier for almost 6 years. 6 friggin' years! Are you seriously kidding?! In that time we've been pregnant 6 times, and had and lost Poppy. So the question needs to be asked. Am I a glutton for punishment? Will it ever happen? Could I cope with life if it doesn't? I've never considered not being ABLE to having another baby. I've considered not wanting to TRY, and deciding enough was enough. As in MY choice. But what if...well...I'm done? What if God has decided I've had enough chances? What if I've been patient for nothing?
I'm not trying to be dramatic or anything, but I can feel a tantrum building in me. Once again my FB news feed it filled with pregnancy announcements, new arrivals and the growing little sons and daughters of others. I try not to be jealous, but I'm sure I look a little like the Hulk. Green with envy. Do I deserve all of this? Am I so terrible a person? I know I'm not perfect, but maybe I'm awful. So awful I'm not worthy to be a mother again.
I've kept the faith for a very long time that good things happen to those who wait. But I'm not sure that's true. I'm not giving up, not yet anyway. But when does continuing this journey become lunacy? When do I hit the point where it will take more courage to stop than keep going? When will the past 6 years amount to only heartache and nothing else?
For now, I am still determined. But each little knock adds to the myriad of blows we've already taken. I'm a bit worried about the state of the mortar holding me together as it is. Please, please, please let it be our turn soon. I know we don't deserve it any more or less than many others, but I promise it will mean more to us than it might to some. A baby who joins our family, who chooses us to be their family, will know love beyond imagining. They will know a big brother who will truly value every minute they spend together because he didn't get that with his first sibling. They will know Grandparents who know one more kiss and cuddle will never be enough, because they missed the opportunity with Poppy. They will know parents who will endure all of the bad stuff, the worry and doubt, just for one moment of joy they have missed.
Please. Please. Please. Let our patience be rewarded.
Please.
I really thought we'd have another baby by now. I realise I wouldn't have been ready to deal with another pregnancy, or possibly another baby, but when I think back to my thoughts in the minutes after we realised Poppy had died, my ONLY thought was, "I need a baby."
The decision to try again was made whilst I was still on the operating table during my cesarean. We were holding our beautiful, silent, longed for baby, for whom we'd waited for 3 long years, and I just couldn't imagine all the preparation we'd been through to include a little one into our lives would be for nothing. I needed to fill my aching arms.
As time went on, we realised we weren't ready yet. We wanted it, but we weren't ready to handle it. The truth is; grief is all consuming. It feels like there isn't much room for anything else. So we waited. Then we kind of started trying again, and then took a break, then tried again, before throwing ourselves whole heartedly in the magical world of IVF. It's been a year since we started to walk the IVF path. 12 months of invasive testing, painful procedures, meds that make me crazy, and a very harrowing and traumatic miscarriage. And still, no baby.
All up, we've been trying to bring home a sibling for Xavier for almost 6 years. 6 friggin' years! Are you seriously kidding?! In that time we've been pregnant 6 times, and had and lost Poppy. So the question needs to be asked. Am I a glutton for punishment? Will it ever happen? Could I cope with life if it doesn't? I've never considered not being ABLE to having another baby. I've considered not wanting to TRY, and deciding enough was enough. As in MY choice. But what if...well...I'm done? What if God has decided I've had enough chances? What if I've been patient for nothing?
I'm not trying to be dramatic or anything, but I can feel a tantrum building in me. Once again my FB news feed it filled with pregnancy announcements, new arrivals and the growing little sons and daughters of others. I try not to be jealous, but I'm sure I look a little like the Hulk. Green with envy. Do I deserve all of this? Am I so terrible a person? I know I'm not perfect, but maybe I'm awful. So awful I'm not worthy to be a mother again.
I've kept the faith for a very long time that good things happen to those who wait. But I'm not sure that's true. I'm not giving up, not yet anyway. But when does continuing this journey become lunacy? When do I hit the point where it will take more courage to stop than keep going? When will the past 6 years amount to only heartache and nothing else?
For now, I am still determined. But each little knock adds to the myriad of blows we've already taken. I'm a bit worried about the state of the mortar holding me together as it is. Please, please, please let it be our turn soon. I know we don't deserve it any more or less than many others, but I promise it will mean more to us than it might to some. A baby who joins our family, who chooses us to be their family, will know love beyond imagining. They will know a big brother who will truly value every minute they spend together because he didn't get that with his first sibling. They will know Grandparents who know one more kiss and cuddle will never be enough, because they missed the opportunity with Poppy. They will know parents who will endure all of the bad stuff, the worry and doubt, just for one moment of joy they have missed.
Please. Please. Please. Let our patience be rewarded.
Please.
Saturday, 28 December 2013
A blog about not blogging
I haven't blogged for about 3 months, which is the longest I think since I started blogging. I'm sure you've all been waiting with baited breath to hear my pearls of wisdom, and have totally noticed I hadn't shared them in a while. Or perhaps, like me, you've been flat out busy. And maybe, like me, you've been feeling good. Better than you have for some time. Perhaps blogging wasn't needed as much as it was.
I feel a bit like I've betrayed my blog (there, there, bloggy blog, it's OK) since I haven't really felt the need to write for a while. In the past, writing was a necessity. I had something to say about my journey. Somehow blogging helped me find validation, and peace.
This whole entry is really about why I haven't needed to post, which might seem a little odd. But let's face it, I'm a little odd. But we already knew that, didn't we?
Well, I've survived 2013. There were moments when I wondered if I was going to make it. I felt weighed down, emotionally, physically, in every way. My baggage was just too much at times, and I'll be dammed if I could find one of those luggage trolleys they have at the airport.
Then in October, I made a pledge to be more, do better. Let the pain go a little. I forgave myself for not being ready to have another baby. And I put down my baggage. I just put it down and walked away. Possible I've caused a bomb scare at that mythical airport, but I'm sure they're dealing with it. I took only what I could fit into my pockets.
For the past 3 months I've been working on me. Not just selfishly me, but me as a better person. Me as a better mum, wife, teacher, friend, family member. I've needed to make peace with the fact that the old me is never coming back. Like, really. Never, ever. I'm changed irrevocably. But I'm not saddled with this chick who's just a psychotic mess most of the time. I can make her into someone I want to be. I can find my compassion, my forgiveness, my happiness. It's there for the taking, but I have to choose it.
I can't say I've built her yet, but I'm a work in progress. Grief is a selfish thing sometimes, and it's so hard to see beyond how you're feeling and how the actions of others impact upon you. And I don't apologise for my grief. I earned my time to be wholly focused on my pain. But I hit a point and I realised I had to face up to not liking who I was becoming. I can hold my pain in my pocket and still board any plane I choose, without worrying about baggage limits.
2014 doesn't owe me anything. I'm not owed because I've suffered. I will find good in whatever happens. I'd like it to include a new baby, and my gut tells me it will. But if that's not what pans out, well, I'll find happiness. I can't stand still anymore. I can move so much faster now I put down those bags.
So that's why I haven't blogged. I've been busy getting happier and healthier. And building me. Hopefully she'll be a kind and joyous gal. And grateful. And worthy of the blessings she has. I look forward to getting to know her. Without baggage.
I feel a bit like I've betrayed my blog (there, there, bloggy blog, it's OK) since I haven't really felt the need to write for a while. In the past, writing was a necessity. I had something to say about my journey. Somehow blogging helped me find validation, and peace.
This whole entry is really about why I haven't needed to post, which might seem a little odd. But let's face it, I'm a little odd. But we already knew that, didn't we?
Well, I've survived 2013. There were moments when I wondered if I was going to make it. I felt weighed down, emotionally, physically, in every way. My baggage was just too much at times, and I'll be dammed if I could find one of those luggage trolleys they have at the airport.
Then in October, I made a pledge to be more, do better. Let the pain go a little. I forgave myself for not being ready to have another baby. And I put down my baggage. I just put it down and walked away. Possible I've caused a bomb scare at that mythical airport, but I'm sure they're dealing with it. I took only what I could fit into my pockets.
For the past 3 months I've been working on me. Not just selfishly me, but me as a better person. Me as a better mum, wife, teacher, friend, family member. I've needed to make peace with the fact that the old me is never coming back. Like, really. Never, ever. I'm changed irrevocably. But I'm not saddled with this chick who's just a psychotic mess most of the time. I can make her into someone I want to be. I can find my compassion, my forgiveness, my happiness. It's there for the taking, but I have to choose it.
I can't say I've built her yet, but I'm a work in progress. Grief is a selfish thing sometimes, and it's so hard to see beyond how you're feeling and how the actions of others impact upon you. And I don't apologise for my grief. I earned my time to be wholly focused on my pain. But I hit a point and I realised I had to face up to not liking who I was becoming. I can hold my pain in my pocket and still board any plane I choose, without worrying about baggage limits.
2014 doesn't owe me anything. I'm not owed because I've suffered. I will find good in whatever happens. I'd like it to include a new baby, and my gut tells me it will. But if that's not what pans out, well, I'll find happiness. I can't stand still anymore. I can move so much faster now I put down those bags.
So that's why I haven't blogged. I've been busy getting happier and healthier. And building me. Hopefully she'll be a kind and joyous gal. And grateful. And worthy of the blessings she has. I look forward to getting to know her. Without baggage.
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