I've been feeling the need for some introspection this week. Sunday was Ada's due date. Today is Willliam's. He would be four. This week has stunk.
It's been worse than I thought it would be. No, not worse. Just different. And maybe worse. A worse kind of different.
The months between when we lost William and when he was due were rough. Really rough. But I remember when we got to William's due date the first time around. It was a beautiful day, and it was sad, but it was happy too. It was peaceful, and wistful, and calm. I thought about it all day, and then it was over, and I was okay, for the most part.
This time, it's been opposite. We went through the horror of what was the physical recovery this time, and then I moved on. But I moved on with a little spot of bitterness left in my heart from that experience. People who know me might be surprised by that, but it's there. I'm not sure what the bitterness is towards, and it's very small, and it's insignificant in my overall life. But I think it is what has caused me to react differently this time. It made me push everything aside instead of dealing with things, until last month, when I no longer had huge projects to distract me, and it all just came spilling out, all these unresolved emotions, all these feelings of regret, and sorrow, and...anger maybe? Maybe that's what the bitterness is. Anger at how my doctors handled things. Anger at the situation. Anger that I'm dealing with this again, and I don't want to. I just want to ignore it. I just want it to go away.
Why do I put myself through this every year? Why did I give my children names, and why do I do things on what would have been their birthdays, and why do we talk about them and give them identities and make them part of our family? Why do I torture myself with all that? Why can't I just be like other women and let it go, or at least pretend to let it go even though I may never let it go inside? Sometimes I think I'm being overly dramatic, and I wonder if I'm trying to get attention or something. But that's not me. I'm a no-drama kind of person (except on stage). I don't do things like that.
No. This is real. And I think I know the reason for it all.
I feel things deeply. I always have. Not in an easily-offended, make-small-situations-into-big-deals kind of way, but when I feel happiness, or sorrow, or compassion, or love, I feel it with everything I have, with my whole body, with my whole soul. I throw everything I have into every life experience, whether it is a positive one or not. I believe we are equal parts our joyful and sorrowful experiences, and I think we feel those opposites to the same extreme. When I feel joy, and love, and life (which is most of the time, despite the seriousness of this post), I feel it fully. And so, when I feel sorrow, and grief, and sadness, I feel it just as fully. That is how life works. That is the law of opposites. Sometimes I envy those who go through life feeling those emotions only dully. But then I remember those incredible impactful moments of extreme joy--the arrival of my children (all four of them, in their own way), moments of belly-aching laughter and unconditional love shared with Ben, family vacations, glimpses at God's love for me, overwhelming moments standing on a stage doing what I love--and I know I would NEVER trade the way I felt in them. Even if it means today is awful.
And therein lies the answer to my questions. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I torture myself every year? Because I love those two little ones in that same extreme that I feel all other emotions. To steal a line from a play, one that spoke to me every time I heard it, I've realized I have a great capacity to love. And that capacity was filled from the first moment I knew those children where there, from the first moment I saw their heartbeats, from the first moment I felt them move. They are real. They were alive. They are my children, even if I only physically had them for a few months. And I loved them just as much as I've loved any other person in my life--to the fullest. Of course I'm going to remember them, and miss them, and feel their loss. That is how I do things. With everything I have to give.
I'm sure, in days to come, I will still compare. I will feel self-conscious knowing other women move on, forget, do things differently. I'm sure there will still be moments of introspection when I ask, "What is wrong with you?" Then I have to just tell myself, "Kirsten, yes. Of course you are going to be different than other women. You are going to handle this situation in this way, because you are YOU. And this is how you live your life. With nothing held back."
It's time to stop holding back and being bitter. It's okay to embrace the extremes. Because they make me who I am.
Today, I'm going to. I'm pulling out my August birthstone necklace, that I've avoided wearing all week. Instead of leaving them to fade in a plastic bag, I'm taking my ultrasound pictures from Ada and making copies, so I never lose them. I'm thinking of her instead of trying to ignore her simply because it was easier to do so. I'm letting her back into my life. I'm remembering William. Because guess what? They are my children. My beautiful, joy-filled, patient children, from whom I continue to learn every day. This is how I do things. I remember.
So, my dear, little Ada and my strong, wonderful William. Happy Birthday. And here's to many years of many more. I love you.
Friday, August 8, 2014
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Growing Pains
I've avoided this blog for some time now. January 12th, to be exact. The date of my last post. At first it was because I felt I didn't need it. I was so strong. But then everything fell apart. And then I didn't write because I was angry. And I didn't write because I was confused. And I didn't write because things were ugly.
The other day I told a friend that writing to work through things in our lives gives our emotions and experiences a unique permanence. That's what I was avoiding. Permanence. Having to someday revisit the phyiscally and emotionally draining experiences we were going through. But now I'm ready. Because, while they aren't fond memories, they, like the actual loss of our beautiful children, came with lessons learned and strength garnered. And peace found.
But the process was very raw, and very ugly. And very hard to admit.
I really debated over what to do after we lost Ada. I spent several days getting conflicting information from the medical team at my doctor's office. At first, I had options. I could wait it out. I could induce labor with a medication to speed up the process and deliver Ada's tiny body at home. I could have an in-office procedure done. Or I could do as I did with William and go in for a D&C.
I wanted to avoid the D&C if possible. Last time, it was incredibly difficult emotionally to just go to sleep and wake up and have his body all of a sudden gone. And I hate general anesthesia.
I spent a long time on the phone with a dear friend who had naturally miscarried her 10 week baby. She was unselfish enough to repoen that experience and beautifully revisit, in great detail, the physically and emotionally wrenching days she spent in that process.
I spent some time discussing the in-office procedure with the nurse at the office and debating the emotional scarring that might come with being awake for that experience.
And then, my actual doctor called, days after the nurse had discovered Ada was no longer there. And she told me I was far enough along that the in-office was no longer an option and that she would prefer I do the D&C to reduce the risk of hemorraging.
So then there I was. Sitting in the pre-op waiting to be wheeled back for surgery. And then she was gone.
And I was okay with that. I still felt as I had when we found out. Peace. Strength. I knew everything would be okay.
Then, three days later, I woke up with excruciating pain. Labor. It was like labor. And it lasted for hours. Then I passed a huge clot, and it was over. The doctor on call said it must just be the last bit of leftover blood from my D&C.
So I moved forward. And then, two days later, it happened again. Agonizing pain, hours of labor, and another clot. And then days later, again, and again.
It was after that third episode that I heard it again--the animal cry. The out of body experience of hearing myself wail with such deep grief that it scared me. I hadn't heard it since the early days of losing William. But what had brought it out of me this time was not the sorrow of losing Ada, but the incomprehensibility of what I was now going through. I had made the choice to do the D&C. I had already gone through the emotional pain of that. And now here I was, a week later, going through exactly what I would have gone through had I miscarried on my own. And every single clot I passed reminded me of what I no longer had.
All I wanted to do was start moving forward and start learning to live my new life as I now knew it, but I couldn't. I was stuck. How could I possibly find the joy in the loss of my little one, feel her with me, think about the beautiful experience it was to carry her for that short time, when the physical healing went on, and on, and on, reminding me only of the loss?
An ultrasound confirmed I still had several large clots left that my body was trying to get rid of, but couldn't. My perplexed doctor gave me a prescription for the miscarriage-inducing medication I had so wanted to avoid before, and sent me away.
I left the office devestated. I felt there was no purpose to what I was going through. At least with the pain of a miscarriage I knew that there was a child, however small, that came from it, and with the sorrow came a beautiful joy I would never forget. But this? This was for nothing. She was already gone.
This was just hell.
I called my mom, and she caught a flight and came out that next morning to be with me through the process of taking the medication.
But it didn't work. It did nothing. The clots were still there. It was time for another D&C.
I agonized over the decision. I had tried everything already except for the in-office procedure. And though I was terrified of being awake, I knew Ada was gone already, and that it was just blood, and that it would be okay.
The morning of the procedure, I woke up with my stomach churning. We dropped our girls off with friends and made our way to the office. I took the pre-op medication and sat to wait out the hour before the procedure was scheduled to begin. But no matter which way I looked, there were pregnant women. Beautiful pregnant women, with beautiful round stomachs, and beautiful healthy babies. And in that moment, in the midst of my frustration and anger over our situation, I hated them all. I had to get away.
We found a bench and squeezed our legs between it and the glass so we could face outside instead of the crowded waiting room. It was a beautiful day. We held hands and talked and laughed and ate trail mix from the vending machine as the minutes ticked by to the moment I was dreading.
And then it came. I was shaking as they lead us into the room. But I had a feeling, deep down, that this would be the end.
It was awful. It was the most traumatic experience I've ever had. But it was over.
Two days later, I passed one more painful clot attached to a large clump of tissue. And that was it. I could move on.
We took off for Disneyland the next week. And as I walked in to the hotel to check in, knowing this trip was our week for healing, the uncontrollabe tears began. It was over. It was finally over. And we had made it. Seven weeks of hell, and we had made it.
I felt stronger. I felt peace. I felt relief.
And most of all, I felt Ada.
The other day I told a friend that writing to work through things in our lives gives our emotions and experiences a unique permanence. That's what I was avoiding. Permanence. Having to someday revisit the phyiscally and emotionally draining experiences we were going through. But now I'm ready. Because, while they aren't fond memories, they, like the actual loss of our beautiful children, came with lessons learned and strength garnered. And peace found.
But the process was very raw, and very ugly. And very hard to admit.
I really debated over what to do after we lost Ada. I spent several days getting conflicting information from the medical team at my doctor's office. At first, I had options. I could wait it out. I could induce labor with a medication to speed up the process and deliver Ada's tiny body at home. I could have an in-office procedure done. Or I could do as I did with William and go in for a D&C.
I wanted to avoid the D&C if possible. Last time, it was incredibly difficult emotionally to just go to sleep and wake up and have his body all of a sudden gone. And I hate general anesthesia.
I spent a long time on the phone with a dear friend who had naturally miscarried her 10 week baby. She was unselfish enough to repoen that experience and beautifully revisit, in great detail, the physically and emotionally wrenching days she spent in that process.
I spent some time discussing the in-office procedure with the nurse at the office and debating the emotional scarring that might come with being awake for that experience.
And then, my actual doctor called, days after the nurse had discovered Ada was no longer there. And she told me I was far enough along that the in-office was no longer an option and that she would prefer I do the D&C to reduce the risk of hemorraging.
So then there I was. Sitting in the pre-op waiting to be wheeled back for surgery. And then she was gone.
And I was okay with that. I still felt as I had when we found out. Peace. Strength. I knew everything would be okay.
Then, three days later, I woke up with excruciating pain. Labor. It was like labor. And it lasted for hours. Then I passed a huge clot, and it was over. The doctor on call said it must just be the last bit of leftover blood from my D&C.
So I moved forward. And then, two days later, it happened again. Agonizing pain, hours of labor, and another clot. And then days later, again, and again.
It was after that third episode that I heard it again--the animal cry. The out of body experience of hearing myself wail with such deep grief that it scared me. I hadn't heard it since the early days of losing William. But what had brought it out of me this time was not the sorrow of losing Ada, but the incomprehensibility of what I was now going through. I had made the choice to do the D&C. I had already gone through the emotional pain of that. And now here I was, a week later, going through exactly what I would have gone through had I miscarried on my own. And every single clot I passed reminded me of what I no longer had.
All I wanted to do was start moving forward and start learning to live my new life as I now knew it, but I couldn't. I was stuck. How could I possibly find the joy in the loss of my little one, feel her with me, think about the beautiful experience it was to carry her for that short time, when the physical healing went on, and on, and on, reminding me only of the loss?
An ultrasound confirmed I still had several large clots left that my body was trying to get rid of, but couldn't. My perplexed doctor gave me a prescription for the miscarriage-inducing medication I had so wanted to avoid before, and sent me away.
I left the office devestated. I felt there was no purpose to what I was going through. At least with the pain of a miscarriage I knew that there was a child, however small, that came from it, and with the sorrow came a beautiful joy I would never forget. But this? This was for nothing. She was already gone.
This was just hell.
I called my mom, and she caught a flight and came out that next morning to be with me through the process of taking the medication.
But it didn't work. It did nothing. The clots were still there. It was time for another D&C.
I agonized over the decision. I had tried everything already except for the in-office procedure. And though I was terrified of being awake, I knew Ada was gone already, and that it was just blood, and that it would be okay.
The morning of the procedure, I woke up with my stomach churning. We dropped our girls off with friends and made our way to the office. I took the pre-op medication and sat to wait out the hour before the procedure was scheduled to begin. But no matter which way I looked, there were pregnant women. Beautiful pregnant women, with beautiful round stomachs, and beautiful healthy babies. And in that moment, in the midst of my frustration and anger over our situation, I hated them all. I had to get away.
We found a bench and squeezed our legs between it and the glass so we could face outside instead of the crowded waiting room. It was a beautiful day. We held hands and talked and laughed and ate trail mix from the vending machine as the minutes ticked by to the moment I was dreading.
And then it came. I was shaking as they lead us into the room. But I had a feeling, deep down, that this would be the end.
It was awful. It was the most traumatic experience I've ever had. But it was over.
Two days later, I passed one more painful clot attached to a large clump of tissue. And that was it. I could move on.
We took off for Disneyland the next week. And as I walked in to the hotel to check in, knowing this trip was our week for healing, the uncontrollabe tears began. It was over. It was finally over. And we had made it. Seven weeks of hell, and we had made it.
I felt stronger. I felt peace. I felt relief.
And most of all, I felt Ada.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Joyful Sorrow
I never thought I would be relying on this blog again. I thought it was done, a closed chapter of my life that served its beautiful purpose and would live as a monument to something I suffered through, conquered, and came to deeply love and appreciate as a life-changing and self-bettering experience.
But now, this blog is again open. This part of my life is again brought to the surface. And I am again tearing open these pages to pour out my soul and find healing and peace.
This week, we lost another baby. I went in for a routine 10-week appointment to find no heartbeat. That little body that should have measured 10 weeks, 3 days was only a small 10 weeks, and that little heart that had fluttered so hopefully in my previous two ultrasounds was still.
I had had a feeling going into that appointment. Actually, from the day I took that pregnancy test in mid-November I had a feeling that something was wrong, that there was something to dread in the coming months. I dismissed it as baggage associated with past experience, just fear that something COULD go wrong, fear of getting attached in case something did. But now, I think it was God preparing me, helping me know that I needed to brace myself, needed to strengthen myself, needed to know that while sorrow was coming, He was there to help.
Despite that feeling, in the past three months, I have grown to adore and cherish that little soul, that my heart has told me all along is another beautiful girl, living inside me and becoming part of our family. Ada. Ada Mae. It means noble and happy. And like our little William, Ada is now a forever part of our family. She was alive. She was moving. She was a person. And she always will be.
When we lost William, I got on my knees and begged God to never make me go through that experience again. And while we are here in this same situation, that prayer has been answered. There is an immense feeling of peace in our family. I felt that peace the moment I left that doctor's office. We are strong. We have been through this before. And we have come out of it. And we are all better because of it.
I am devestated. I am grieving. I am full of sorrow. But it is the most joyful sorrow I have ever known. Because of what we know from grieving William and because of the lessons we have learned and because of the perspective we gained from that experience, we know trials and tests and sorrow can be filled with joy. They happen for beautiful reasons that we may not understand, but we will. They can bring us joy in our future. They can give us compassion and empathy and the ability to help others in ways we otherwise could not. They can fill our souls with a kind of divine love and peace and strength and perspective that comes in NO OTHER WAY.
I know Ada is with God. I know she is strong, and beautiful, and noble, and happy. And while I am so sad I won't get to raise her now, I know I will see her again. She is my daughter. Forever.
Ada was due August 3rd, just 5 days before William. That first week of August this year will be one of the most deeply profound and joyful weeks of our lives. Because we will be able to celebrate two lives that have grown our hearts and changed us forever.
We love you, little ones. We love you.
But now, this blog is again open. This part of my life is again brought to the surface. And I am again tearing open these pages to pour out my soul and find healing and peace.
This week, we lost another baby. I went in for a routine 10-week appointment to find no heartbeat. That little body that should have measured 10 weeks, 3 days was only a small 10 weeks, and that little heart that had fluttered so hopefully in my previous two ultrasounds was still.
I had had a feeling going into that appointment. Actually, from the day I took that pregnancy test in mid-November I had a feeling that something was wrong, that there was something to dread in the coming months. I dismissed it as baggage associated with past experience, just fear that something COULD go wrong, fear of getting attached in case something did. But now, I think it was God preparing me, helping me know that I needed to brace myself, needed to strengthen myself, needed to know that while sorrow was coming, He was there to help.
Despite that feeling, in the past three months, I have grown to adore and cherish that little soul, that my heart has told me all along is another beautiful girl, living inside me and becoming part of our family. Ada. Ada Mae. It means noble and happy. And like our little William, Ada is now a forever part of our family. She was alive. She was moving. She was a person. And she always will be.
When we lost William, I got on my knees and begged God to never make me go through that experience again. And while we are here in this same situation, that prayer has been answered. There is an immense feeling of peace in our family. I felt that peace the moment I left that doctor's office. We are strong. We have been through this before. And we have come out of it. And we are all better because of it.
I am devestated. I am grieving. I am full of sorrow. But it is the most joyful sorrow I have ever known. Because of what we know from grieving William and because of the lessons we have learned and because of the perspective we gained from that experience, we know trials and tests and sorrow can be filled with joy. They happen for beautiful reasons that we may not understand, but we will. They can bring us joy in our future. They can give us compassion and empathy and the ability to help others in ways we otherwise could not. They can fill our souls with a kind of divine love and peace and strength and perspective that comes in NO OTHER WAY.
I know Ada is with God. I know she is strong, and beautiful, and noble, and happy. And while I am so sad I won't get to raise her now, I know I will see her again. She is my daughter. Forever.
Ada was due August 3rd, just 5 days before William. That first week of August this year will be one of the most deeply profound and joyful weeks of our lives. Because we will be able to celebrate two lives that have grown our hearts and changed us forever.
We love you, little ones. We love you.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Happy Birthday
This week we celebrated what would have been your 3rd birthday. And, like every year, we had carrot cake, since that's what I craved when I was pregnant with you, so I figure it must be your favorite.
Love you, little one.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
You're Still Here
Hi William.
It's Mommy.
Just letting you know you're still part of our family. We talk about you all the time. E loves you so much. Pictures of our family she draws include you. Sometimes you're standing with us, and sometimes you're up in the sky, in Heaven.
But I think that's how it really is. I know you're mostly in Heaven, but there are times I undeniably feel you with me. Times when I'm hurting, or really worried. And I can just tell...you're there, and you're there for me.
Thanks for looking out for your mom and dad, and especially your sisters. We still love you.
Love,
Mommy
It's Mommy.
Just letting you know you're still part of our family. We talk about you all the time. E loves you so much. Pictures of our family she draws include you. Sometimes you're standing with us, and sometimes you're up in the sky, in Heaven.
But I think that's how it really is. I know you're mostly in Heaven, but there are times I undeniably feel you with me. Times when I'm hurting, or really worried. And I can just tell...you're there, and you're there for me.
Thanks for looking out for your mom and dad, and especially your sisters. We still love you.
Love,
Mommy
Monday, August 8, 2011
Happy Birthday
It's August 8th.
William would have been one-year-old today. Time has gone so fast. It seems like just a month ago we were getting through my due date. And now it's been a whole year.
It's been an emotional day. I went and bought a toy for a one-year-old and donated it to a foster kids toy drive. When I went to drop it off I started bawling uncontrollably. The poor guy who took it. He was very sweet and very gracious though. Then I got in the car and cried my eyes out, the whole time praying and thanking God for the experience we've had and the short little while William was with us. It's been a day of reflection.
Tonight we celebrated. We sang "Happy Birthday" and blew out a candle and ate cake and everything. We celebrated that he is part of our family and always will be.
I had a doctor's appointment today too. Little girl is growing perfectly and is healthy and active. Ten more weeks. I can't wait.
But for today, I remember you, my little boy that I never met but knew so well. I love you and think about you always. Miss you.
Happy birthday, little one. Happy birthday.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Finally
*trigger pregnancy mentioned*
Well, I've spent a quarter of a year without a computer, which is why I haven't posted in so long. That and I've been sick. Very sick.
Yes, I'm pregnant. 17 weeks.
Wow.
Just that word carries so much weight for me, especially as I write it in the context of this blog. Somehow that word amidst all the sorrow and joy and anguish and healing of this blog is...out of place? Or maybe right in place. Just...poignant.
How have I been feeling? Physically, terrible, but I'm thrilled about that. Emotionally, it's been up and down. Sometimes I have moments of complete surety and peace, knowing that this child is growing, feeling him or her move, knowing that everything is okay.
But then I have moments of great terror, of being sure that I will go through the pain of loss again, not believing that this child will ever be in my arms or in my home. Part of me just can't accept it and probably won't until this child is swaddled and clean, lying, breathing on my chest.
That being said, I love him or her so immensely already. I can't wait.
Keep growing, little one. Keep growing.
Well, I've spent a quarter of a year without a computer, which is why I haven't posted in so long. That and I've been sick. Very sick.
Yes, I'm pregnant. 17 weeks.
Wow.
Just that word carries so much weight for me, especially as I write it in the context of this blog. Somehow that word amidst all the sorrow and joy and anguish and healing of this blog is...out of place? Or maybe right in place. Just...poignant.
How have I been feeling? Physically, terrible, but I'm thrilled about that. Emotionally, it's been up and down. Sometimes I have moments of complete surety and peace, knowing that this child is growing, feeling him or her move, knowing that everything is okay.
But then I have moments of great terror, of being sure that I will go through the pain of loss again, not believing that this child will ever be in my arms or in my home. Part of me just can't accept it and probably won't until this child is swaddled and clean, lying, breathing on my chest.
That being said, I love him or her so immensely already. I can't wait.
Keep growing, little one. Keep growing.
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