Mary Makes Babies

On Healing

When I went through my first miscarriage after having my son my instinct was to get pregnant again as fast as possible. I wanted to believe that being pregnant again would erase the pain of my loss. In a way, I saw having another baby as a cure for my grief, an emotion I desperately wanted to escape.

I remember asking a friend who had lost a baby right before having her daughter if it would work. Would the pain go away when I had another baby? She told me, "Yes and no." She said that she'd never forget the pregnancy she lost, but once her baby was born she stopped thinking about her "baby in heaven" as often. She became focused on her love for her daughter and was able to stop fixating on the pain and grief of her loss.  

I wouldn't end up experiencing the joy of my rainbow baby for three more years, and only after losing three more babies, including Sidney's twin. By the time I had Sidney my expectations for erasing grief were much lower. I didn't expect my baby to take away the pain I'd experienced. I knew by then that nothing really can - that the grief of losing a child (even a potential child) is something that a mother must learn to carry forever. The trick isn't to hide from it or make it go away, but to accept the pain, to tuck it away into your heart where you can reach it when you need to without getting in the way of finding love and joy in the present.

Like just about everything with motherhood, the actual experience of having a rainbow baby has been a bit different than I could have guessed. My love for this beautiful baby is a slow burn. I feel like when I had Charlie my heart exploded daily with layer after layer of intense emotion, but this time around that emotion is coming in a slow, steady stream instead. I think part of it is that I'm distracted by caring for two children at once, but another factor at work is that I'm still not fully healed from my heart being broken over and over again.

There is still a part of me that is holding back, that is afraid that I will blink my eyes and she will disappear. Part of me is still scared of how much I love her.

The thing is that hearts don't heal overnight, no matter how beautiful and perfect the balm. It's a slow process, but I can feel that the wheels are in motion. Late at night, when we are rocking together in my silent bedroom my thoughts tend to drift. I find myself realizing things and connecting dots. I am learning to forgive myself and forgive my body for the times it failed me. I'm learning to grant myself the same compassion I so easily offer other mothers who have lost their babies.

"I'm sorry this happened to you." Until now I don't think I've ever really said it to MYSELF. Last night I did, and that's when I realized that Sidney isn't healing me in the way I had dreamed she would so many years ago. She is not an emotional eraser or a tiny genie here to grant my wishes. She was not born to solve my problems.

She was born to be loved, and as with so so many things in life. Love is the answer, and I'm realizing that it's finally time for me to learn to love myself.

Like so many women, learning to love myself has been something I have struggled with for my entire life. It's not necessarily that I dislike myself or that there is anything particularly wrong with me. It's just that for some reason I don't believe that I am worthy of the same love I pile on others. But how can you forgive someone without loving them? How can you support someone or make their wellness a priority without loving them? You can't - not properly.

Now that I have a daughter I feel a huge responsibility toward her. Life in a female body is never easy, and I long to give her the tools to navigate this world with confidence, courage, and joy. I know from experience that the best way to teach your children is by example. If I want Sidney to have the tools for a happy life I must first get them for myself. 

She was born to be loved, and I love her so. There's no way I'm sending her out into life unarmed.

Lucky for me, love begets love, and the more I feel for my children the easier it seems to be to extend that love to myself. I've got a long way to go before I get it right, but I have the best motivation in the world. This heart WILL be healed, and I will be the one to heal it.

 

The Subversiveness of Grief

Today has been a doozy. 

The waterworks started when I came home from taking C to a birthday party and let the dog escape through our front door. This happens a lot. I can't really stop her since she is stronger than me, I suck at training dogs, and every time this happens there is a small child in the middle of the whole affair.

But, YOU try telling that to my husband, who seems to think I let the dog out for the sheer thrill of watching him chase after it. We exchanged some heated words in front of the house, made the neighbors blush, and then my eyes started to sting and I ran into my room to have a little cry. In Scott's defense, it is not very hard to make me cry these days, so it's not like he had to do much to encourage this result. But, if you happen to have any advice on NOT making your pregnant wife cry than please feel free to pass that along to him. As far as I can tell he must think making pregnant ladies cry is what all the cool kids are doing these days.

Anyway, I have been finding it harder and harder lately to recover from my sob-sessions, so it took me a while to get up and try to get on with the day. Scott had left for work, so I started to set up the changing table he had driven to get me that morning. I stocked the shelves with little boxes of cloth diapers, swaddles, and baby clothes, and while this was exactly what I wanted to be doing today, my feelings of sadness just kept growing and growing. By time time I was done it was like wading through quicksand.

On top of crying at every opportunity I have been exceptionally cranky and angry over the past couple of months. I've joked about it, but it's actually been a little bit over the top for my tastes. I find myself snapping at my husband and even at my son constantly. My temper is super short, and before I even know what is happening I'm raising my voice. Even out in the world with strangers I find myself losing patience quickly. The cashier at the grocery store feels stand-offish, the lady at the kid's thrift shop is judging me, the stranger on Facebook is making comments that compel me to start a fight. I don't feel like myself, because this isn't how I usually navigate the world.

At first I chalked it up to hormones. I mean, pregnant ladies are notorious for being cranky, right? But a few days ago I saw a quote that got stuck in my mind. 

Anger is often grief that has been silent for too long.

First the sentence sat in my mind, then it simmered, then it sunk, like a brick, down into my brain and I finally got it. Of course I'm angry. I lost a baby. ANOTHER baby. I lost a fifth baby. And it hurts like hell, still, and maybe putting away all of those sweet little onesies and miniature socks forced me to face what is probably one of my deepest fears. The fear that it will never stop hurting - even when I am finally holding my rainbow baby in my arms the pain will still be there. The loss will still be there. My heart is just permanently cracked - and no amount of beautiful healthy babies can fix it.

I knew that, but it's one thing to expect something and another to experience its proof. I'm just a little while away from having another baby, and I should be really happy right now. I should be nesting and celebrating, and trying to enjoy the last couple of months of experiencing pregnancy. I should be relishing every kick, warmly chuckling over my discomfort, and basking in gratitude that this is FINALLY HAPPENING. But it's hard to do all of that while carrying this weight of grief around with me - especially when the grief has been disguising itself as anger. 

I'm furious at my husband for not missing our other twin, Bebe, like I do. It's lonely to grieve all by yourself, and if he is hurting like I am he doesn't tell me about it. It isn't surprising, of course, the babies we lost never felt real to him the way they did to me. He didn't know them like I did. He didn't have a CHANCE to love them like I did. They were ideas and those ideas vanished. Loving an idea and loving another human life just isn't really the same thing. If I'm going to be mad at Scott for not grieving like I do than I should just go ahead and be mad at my whole family, the whole world. And maybe I am actually.

The only other person that I think really felt the last loss as intensively as I did hasn't even had his fourth birthday yet. I can't exactly lean on him for emotional support. He still brings up Bebe, and his random explanations to strangers about how he "used to have two sisters but one had to go back to heaven instead of being born" is a really great for ripping my guts out.

(Also great at ripping my guts out: questionnaires/pamphlets/receptionists that want to know how many pregnancies I've had. Why does EVERYONE want to know this?)

But Charlie is one step ahead of me. He acknowledges the loss, and how sad it made him, while I keep charging along determined to be happy no matter what. So while I was stocking up my bedroom for our newest addition it finally hit me (like a truck) there should be TWO co-sleepers. There should be TWO little bundles of onesies to fold, and TWO infant car seats to get a hold of. Seeing these things set up in my room don't make me as happy as I thought they would. Instead, they look lonely, because Bebe's half is missing. 

Bebe is missing.

And people, I hate to admit this too, because I thought I was stronger than this, but I am scared. Like really, truly, irrationally, scared. The closer we get to the end, the more afraid I am that something horrible is going to go wrong, or be wrong. I'm scared that she won't make it at all, or that she'll be born way too early, or with serious health problems. I'm scared to death and it's getting harder and harder to push off the fear and find any peace.

So that brings me to a place where I realize that I need to lady up and accept that my feelings at this point are complicated at best. I'm taking the pressure off of myself to celebrate or happily prepare. Instead, I'm going to take a minute and grieve the losses that still hurt, lick my wounds a bit, and then try to re-group so that I can try and meet this baby with the joy she deserves to see from her mama. I canceled my pre-baby party, I'm taking a break from nesting, and I'm going to see if I can just focus on healing a bit more for now.

I will probably also find myself a therapist to try and navigate this whole crazy nut that just cracked open because mama can't afford to cry all day.

But first, one more bellyache. Why can't I just be a normal person?!! WHYYYYYYYYYYY????? WHHAAAAAAAA!!!

Ok, I'm done.

Records, Rainbows, and the Value of Acknowledgement

We got really great news during last week's doctor's appointment. Such great news, in fact, that it has taken some time to sink in. Baby A, who we call Niji, passed the NT scan with flying colors. Our little rainbow baby had all the right organs, in all the right shapes, in all the right places. Niji shows no signs of scary genetic or chromosomal issues either. At this point, our doctor felt confident in giving us a new statistic. This pregnancy now has less than a 1% chance of miscarriage. In other words, this is really going to happen.

Today, at 14 weeks, I officially enter the second trimester, and have now been pregnant for the longest time since having CC. This realization was a bit shocking - to say the least. Between my anxiety, Bebe's loss, and the subsequent depression that followed, I was pretty much convinced that this baby would be doomed. I was just waiting to see something awful on that ultrasound screen, or have my doctor come in with shitty news. I spent that whole two weeks before our appointment obsessing over every little pain or cramp - dreading each trip to the bathroom where I was certain I would discover the telltale blood to signal the end.

When Niji started to wiggle on the screen tears sprung out of my eyes and started rolling down my cheeks. I couldn't believe the baby was still there - was still OK. It seemed impossible after everything that has happened that I would actually get to have this child. But there it was, flailing its tiny arms and legs around, flipping in every direction, and confounding the poor scan tech who was trying to take Niji's picture. 

The news about Niji has done a lot to lighten my spirits, but the underlying grief of Bebe's loss still remains. I have a beautiful, perfectly healthy baby growing inside me right now, but I also have a dead one. Until she fades away I'll see her at every scan, her body looking smaller and smaller in comparison to her twin. And every time the tech stops to measure our little Baby B, I'm grateful to lay eyes on her one more time. I'll never hold her, or get to know her, or watch her grow. All I have of Bebe is the dreams I had for her life. I have the hopes and the fantasies that I couldn't help but develop after finding out I was carrying twins. I'll always have them with me now - and I know that every time I look at the other I will remember that she's not there.

Losing a baby while having a baby is still losing a baby. And it's still heartbreaking. Bebe was my fifth angel baby - a number that I can barely comprehend any more. And while I know, logically, that my loved ones love me back and care about what I've lost, this loss feels different than the others when it comes to people's reactions. I wasn't sure what to expect when I shared the news, as I wasn't sure how I'd react if I were on the other end, but what I have learned from this is that there is one reaction that is pretty much always the right choice - and that is acknowledgement. 

My sister in-law sent a gift. My in-laws sent me flowers. A friend took my son one afternoon to give me time to grieve (and shower). These gestures made me cry - but they also made me feel loved. Because that's what you do when someone dies. You send flowers. You say you are sorry for their loss. You give them a break from life for a minute so they can catch their breath. You can't fix it. You can't take away their pain, but you can acknowledge what happened so that they feel less alone in their grief. So, for what it's worth, I know what to do now, should I ever get the same news from someone else. 

Every acknowledgement, every hand on a shoulder, every "I'm so sorry", every hug, they have helped. And I'm grateful for them all. 

As for my own acknowledgement, I think I am finally ready to do something artistic to say goodbye to my angel babies. I'll share the project with you when the time comes. For now, I'm going to try my best to let go of my pain and focus on the feeling of this little baby squirming in my belly.

XO MH

The Etiquette of Grief

I find it hard to know when and how to share bad news - especially while in the midst of grief. At moments I feel like shouting to the rooftops, just hoping to hear an echo back from my own anger and disappointment. Sometimes I crave empathy or even just acknowledgement. I want someone to commiserate with, to hear my story, to tell me that my pain is real and valid. 

Other times I just want to crawl under my blankets and never come out. I dread seeing other people, having to make small talk, or to hide my pain with a mask of normalcy. What's even more frightening is that mask slipping. I mean, nobody likes crying in public, do they?

My current situation is even more awkward from a social standpoint. On one hand, I have a tragedy to report, and on the other a pregnancy to announce. I don't envy the recipients of this news. I have no idea what I would say to someone else in my position. 

In fact, the memory of failing other friends during their own losses is something that haunts me pretty often. I had a friend lose a twin once. Did I say the right thing? Did I understand what she was going through? Did I treat her with the compassion that she deserved in that moment? I really don't think so. How can anybody understand what losing a baby feels like until they have experienced it themselves, much less losing a twin during a pregnancy that you had already gone through so much to get to.

The fact that so very few people can understand how I feel right now almost makes sharing the news feel pointless. It's like I'm asking my friends and family for something that they just can not give - empathy and understanding for a situation that I hope none of them ever ever have to deal with. And asking for hopes and prayers and good juju doesn't appeal much to me either. If prayers made babies I feel like I'd have a house-full by now. 

But then today a friend from CC's school offered to watch him for me this afternoon, and that little gesture actually did make me feel acknowledged, and cared for, and supported after all. Even coming from a woman with three beautiful healthy kids. I found myself admitting to her that I hadn't showered in a week, or eaten anything but potato chips for the past two days. I found myself crying when she gave me a hug, and feeling thankful for such kindness from someone who I have only known for a little while.

When I went home after dropping him off I felt obligated to make use of that time. I took a shower. I ate a hot meal. I took some time to think and to write and to cry a little. The time was a gift - and I felt like I shouldn't waste it. It's funny how an imagined obligation can motivate me more than my own actual needs. That's depression for you, right?

My friend's gesture ended up making me think that maybe I should share this news after all. Just because I've lost faith in prayers and happy thoughts it doesn't mean that I need to lose faith in the kindness of the people I love. I'll be sharing the news on Facebook today or tomorrow. I'm not sure what I expect, but at least I know I won't be alone in my grief and in my hope. It's kind of a shitty gift for me to give right before Christmas, but what can you do? 

Big hugs to the folks reading. I'm thankful to have had you to talk to along the way. 

 

Grief and Hope

I hate having to share this update. It's not the one I had hoped to write. My head has been full of double rainbow baby dreams. As nervous as I was, I really felt like this was meant to be - having twins I mean.

But Baby B (we called her Bebe) stopped growing about 2 weeks ago. By the time we had our scan she was gone. No heartbeat. No hope. She's faded away - a vanishing twin. Her loss brings my angel baby count up to five. FIVE. How can that be possible? It just doesn't seem fair that one person should have to lose so many babies. I know it's even worse for some people, and that it could be worse for me. Every time I look at C, or feel his warm little cheek against mine I remember what a miracle he is. But still, the losses hurt. A lot.

While I cried for Bebe the ultrasound showed us images of Baby A (who we call Niji) kicking and waving her tiny arms. She's big and strong and healthy looking. I should feel relieved for Niji, but losing Bebe has stolen my confidence. I find myself over-reacting to every gas bubble or muscle spasm. I'm terrified of losing them both.

We go back in two weeks for another scan - during which our doctor will look for clues that could indicate birth defects, genetic abnormalities, or anything that would lead us to believe that the baby was, as our doctor put it, incompatible with life. He said that with anyone else he would gladly assume that Baby A is rock solid - but our history makes him more cautious about choosing optimism.

That's not to say that he is unkind or unhopeful. He's neither, really. He just wants me to understand exactly what kinds of risks we have ahead of us, because of course, nothing is guaranteed. No-one has to tell me that. The sentiment is pretty much tattooed on my heart at this point. NO PROMISES.

It's awfully hard to know how to feel right now. I'm absolutely depressed, but I'm not hysterical. I think the responsibility I feel to keeping even-keeled for Niji's sake is stopping me from completely losing it. But it's hard to get out of bed, or to care much about feeding myself or focus on the positive. I wish I could take Niji's health for the miracle that it most likely is, but my thoughts just keep drifting to a tragic outcome. I'm scared again - and I hate being scared.

What does give me hope is Niji's uncanny ability to make her presence known. It makes me hope that maybe she's just like her big brother - determined to be here. Last night I was laying in bed, waiting for sleep and letting my grief carry me away for a few precious moments. Suddenly I felt a familiar sensation spinning in my belly - like a goldfish flipping over and over. It was like she was saying "MAMA!! I'M HERE!!! ARE YOU WATCHING??!!"

I see you, little one, and I love you. I hope I get to meet you. I hope I get to keep you. I'm sorry you lost your sister. I miss her too.

Baby Niji waving hello

Five Weeks

We've made it through the first week of pregnancy (that I have actually been aware of) and while I don't want to jinx myself, I have to say I'm feeling good. That is, I'm feeling awful, which I feel great about. Haha.

My HCG levels have been very high and are continuing to climb. I was actually so unused to only having to get TWO quantitive blood tests that I couldn't relax until insisting on doing a third. Each time I've tested at the upper limits of what is normal for a singleton pregnancy which means there is a very real chance that there are two babies in here.

While I would be thrilled to have two babies (really, I would be), I am worried about the added risks that carrying twins would incur. We're already in a rather dicey situation, after all. I have zero control either way, so I am doing my best to just go with the flow and see what happens. 

Another thing that makes me suspicious of twins is how sick I am, and how quickly I became so. The hormones hit me like a ton of bricks as soon as we started approaching the two week post-ovulation mark. I am alternating between feeling intensely nauseous and trembling with hunger. Exhaustion hits me constantly. I am crying over Instagram photos and snapping at everyone so much that CC called me out on it last night. 

"This is not being loving, Mama. This is being MAD."

Boy, he gets right to the point. I hear you, buddy and I'll try harder to keep my cool from now on.

Scott was a little shocked to hear that I had shared the pregnancy here on my baby blog but had not told anyone in our families yet. I guess I sort of feel like the rules have changed when it comes to us and babies. It's not a secret, but it's not really news yet. I MIGHT have a baby many many many months from now, or I MIGHT have another tragedy on my hands at any day. It's just too much drama for me to wear on my sleeve, I guess.

If it comes up in conversation, or I feel moved to tell someone about it, I do. But I'm not making any big announcements, or even sharing these blog updates to Facebook yet because while I do find value in sharing this story, I don't think I'm ready to talk to the whole wide world about it just yet.

I do feel VERY pregnant though, and surprisingly at peace with everything. At least for now. That last HCG test helped, as do the constant physical reminders of early pregnancy, AND knowing that I am on every possible medication and practicing every reasonable precaution I can be. The rest is simply up to destiny. It's either a healthy combination of genetics or it's not, and there isn't a damn thing I can do to effect its outcome.

Yes, I'm definitely surprised at this level of peace. I expected myself to be a nervous wreck every step of the way. I HAVE had my moments, and no doubt, I will have more, but I think the truth is that I love being pregnant so much that it helps displace the fear and the anxiety to some degree. I can FEEL this baby, more so than the last two, and while I can't put my finger on exactly what makes me say that, it's true.

I love this baby. I don't know how long I will have with him, or if I'll ever get the chance to really know him. But for now, he's here, he's mine, and he's safe. I hope that I can remember those things and enjoy his presence for as long as I am able. 

Maybe I'm finally getting to a place where I can believe that it was better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. Twoleo, the baby I lost after CC, weighs the heaviest on my heart because he also felt real to me. I loved him, however briefly, and it has been hard to ask myself whether or not I was glad he had been conceived at all. 

Today, finally, more than two years after losing him, I think I know the answer. I'm glad that he existed, and that I had the chance to love him, even if it means I'll have to miss him for the rest of my life. Once again, motherhood has taught me to understand the true depth of real love. It exists without reward or expectation. It does not require consent or acknowledgement. Like the spark of life, love comes into being shrouded in mystery and fueled by the sheer determination of mother nature.

To all my babies, here and there, I love you.

On Self-Esteem and Getting One's Groove Back

A friend recently told me that my self-esteem was in the toilet and that she didn't like it one bit. She was one hundred percent right, and if I had to pick one defining change between the person I was before losing that baby almost three years ago, and the person I am today, that would be it. Over the past few years, I have gone from someone who exuded confidence to something else entirely. I don't like it, but I'm not sure how to go back to who I used to be - or if I really can at all.

I find it very difficult to separate my self-identity from my body's inability to consistently produce children. I doubt that I am alone in this. Witnessing the failure of one's body is a humbling experience, particularly when it is coupled with losses, grief, and physical changes that linger long after the trauma has passed.

At present, I weigh more than I ever have in my lifetime. My belly is swollen and stretched, and it often feels like I'm wearing a tire around my midsection. Five pregnancies and years spent using hormonal treatments will do that to you. Weight gain, depression, migraines, and vertigo are just a few of the delightful symptoms that I endure while chasing the dream of Child Number Two.

But my insecurities go beyond body image. I often find myself feeling broken, unlovable, or invisible. Anti-depressants have helped take the edge off of these feelings, but still, they persist - encouraged with each failed cycle or work-related blunder, every pile of dishes that remain for more than a day in the sink, or a load of laundry that sours because I couldn't get it into the dryer fast enough. I have started to feel like a broken record - spewing the same old sob stories every time I get the rare chance to socialize with close friends or confide in one of my sisters. It's gotten to the point where I actually avoid socializing because I feel like I'm just going to bum everybody else out with my drama.

I know I've been saying this a lot, but I'll say it again. I'm tired. I'm tired of being that person who always has drama surrounding them. I'm tired of being the mom with the too-messy house, or the wife who always seems to be mad at her husband. I'm tired of my life feeling out of control, or like success is out of my reach.

I'm tired of feeling fear and anxiety over things that ought to be celebrated as matter-of-fact miracles. A positive pregnancy test should not be a mixed bag. It should be smiles and happy tears like every stupid commercial I find myself staring at blankly while waiting for the Skip Ad button to go live. 

I'm tired of being sad.

I decided recently to try and get my groove back. My plan started off with a resolution to declare my independence early and often, making decisions without asking permission or even consulting anyone else. After nearly a decade of marriage, I had gotten into the habit of discussing every move I made. Communication is healthy and all, but I feel like overdoing it for years had made me feel childish and confined. My new policy is to be my own boss in all things.

A haircut was also in order, as well as a new tattoo, and an overhaul of my makeup stash. Fake it till you make it, right? Perhaps if I present myself with confidence I will start to believe that picture more fully.

I'm trying hard to get back to being a person that I'm proud of being, but it's slow going. Because it's more than the lost babies or the canceled adoption, or even getting fired from my favorite side project this morning. My self-esteem was something that I had been stubbornly holding up since my early twenties - when I decided that no matter how I looked or how weak I may have been in the past I would live from then on as the best person I could be.

I made a commitment back then to being kind and mindful, and passionately creative - to embrace the things I loved about myself and build my actions around them. I chose to wear my best self on my sleeve and to walk with pride, knowing that if nothing else, I was doing my very best.

That decision acted like a pier for years, holding me up even when the world around me began shaking. It gave me the confidence to take chances, to make friends, to pose happily for photos and stop obsessing over how they looked on the other side. But over the last several years that column started cracking, and I no longer feel like my very best is enough to hold me up. 

Still, I'm not exactly UN-happy. I know this post is a huge bummer, but things aren't all bad. Not by a long shot. CC brings a light into my life that never goes out, and the time we spend together makes life worth living. We work in my garden, we giggle and play pretend, we spend hours telling stories and exploring the neighborhood with Pepper dog in tow. Life is good. I love my son, and I love my life. I just don't love myself like I used to, and it's hard to really be happy, like bone-deep happy, when you've lost your self-esteem. 

So what do you say, folks? How do you learn to love yourself again after you've failed yourself so often? What do I need? A massage? Therapy? A swift kick in the ass?

Bottoms Up

Four years ago, during this EXACT week, I started taking Femara as the first step of our OIT (ovulation induction treatment). The little yellow pills were meant to help my body produce fully matured eggs that would be ripe for fertilization. I was a blubbering, nervous ball of emotion - both excited by the prospect of finally becoming pregnant and terrified that this expensive treatment would end up proving me to be barren and doomed to childless future.

As I look back on that time, my fears seem silly - childish even. If our OIT had failed it would not necessarily have been the end to our story. It turns out that when it comes to having children, I'm a lot more determined than I realized back then. I've also learned so much more about our options for family growth. If I could go back and talk to the woman I was, I'd reassure her that there were still many paths left to lead her to motherhood. 

And I'd tell her that no matter how hard it might seem to keep going, there was a little boy on the other side of all this that would make it worthwhile.

But she is back there, and I am here left only with myself and what is left of my optimism for reassurance. I took the last of my femara pills for a new round of OIT on Sunday. This coming Sunday I'll see my fertility doctor for an ultrasound. Four years ago I saw two perfect eggs on the screen, and wept with joy at their existence.

It won't be the same this time. No matter how many eggs I see floating around in there I'll know that their possibilities are not guaranteed. I'll know that the world owes me nothing, and that the eggs I weep for this time will be vulnerable to the same cruel randomness that doomed their three last siblings. 

I'll be trying not to relive my past losses. Like the shocking devastation of losing a pregnancy on the cusp of the second trimester. Or the disappointment of watching my hcg levels creep up only to dip down a few days later. The traumatizing experience of having a D&C after the last loss. 

The shadows of those misfortunes are heavy. It's hard to crawl out from under them - especially living in a state that seems to delight in placing restrictions and penalties on abortion and pregnancy loss. If something were to go wrong, I don't even have the comfort of trusting my doctors or knowing that I'll have access to options or be able to afford them. As if this weren't hard enough already. The more pro-life laws Texas passes the less safe I feel in attempting to bring life into the world.

This week I've been walking around with a feeling of emotional dejavu. In every corner of the house, every quiet moment, and with every swallowed pill and suffered side effect, I find myself reliving the last months before I became pregnant with C. I was so sad, so frustrated, so hopeless. 

But then those two eggs came on the screen and a nurse plunged an enormous needle full of hamster hormones into my belly. I got pregnant for the first time in over a decade -after four years of failure to even get THAT far.

My pregnancy with CC had it's ups and downs. It had moments of fear, seasons of comfort, and times when I was told to prepare for the worst. 

But he came anyway. He arrived rather small, but incredibly strong and completely determined to live. 

It's easy to slip into the memories of sadness, of fear, and of loss. It's harder to remember the hope that bloomed with seeing those two eggs on the screen. It's difficult to recall the wonder and joy I felt as he grew in my belly, or the triumph of his birth.

If my future self could visit me now, I'd want her to tell me that it will all be worth it - that there is an incredible child on the other side of this journey. I want her to tell me that my story isn't over yet, and that I'm so much stronger than I know. 

That Time I Went on Vacation All by Myself (Part One)

I love blog conferences. There's something magical about connecting with people who do what you do, who share your passion for writing, creating, and over-sharing. Bloggers are my people, and as a work from home mama I often feel starved for connection and cooperative work. 

Earlier this year I pitched a couple of different sessions to Blogher 17. I've spoken at two Blogher Food conferences in the past - so I figured I would have a fairly good chance of getting on the agenda. While I didn't end up getting invited to speak, Blogher did hook me up with a free ticket to attend as a conference goer. I was thrilled. A whole weekend of bloggy goodness with zero obligations beyond just showing up. What a treat!

There was just one catch - the conference was being held in Orlando. With a little one at home, no daycare, and a husband working retail hours, it isn't easy to leave it all behind. I worried that such a trip would be frivolous - that spending money on airfare and hotel accommodations was a selfish thing to do.

But then, a week or so later, I had a moment. I've been suffering from some pretty intense mommy and wife burnout lately. I love my family, but being the person with which the buck always ALWAYS stops is kind of exhausting. Like most mothers, my own needs often fall by the wayside. Between work, baby, and husband, there simply isn't enough time or energy to care for myself properly on a regular basis. All of those little sacrifices eventually add up, and I'd been in the negative for way too long.

"Screw it.", I said, and bought myself some plane tickets. 

When I informed my husband that I'd booked the trip I wasn't too surprised (but was still a little disappointed) that his reaction wasn't super supportive. I longed to hear him say "Don't worry. We've got this. We'll be just fine." Instead, he asked me if I could change the flights and come back earlier.

Yup, it was definitely time to get away.

On top of this being my first trip away since CC was a baby (around two years ago) it would also mark the end of our breastfeeding relationship. I had never expected to force weaning with my little one, but for many reasons (which I shall share another time) that's exactly what was about to happen. For the month leading up to my trip I managed to worm our way down to only one nursing session a day. By the time I get home, my lactation will have stopped. It's the end of an era, and I don't know whether I will ever get to nurse a baby again. Yeah, big feelings.

I shipped out on Wednesday afternoon, and by the time I made my way to my hotel, all of the local restaurants had closed. I ended up eating cheese crackers and an ice cream sandwich for dinner. The meal wasn't exactly satisfying, but the solitude sure was.

I woke up the next morning and wandered down to the lobby to work for a bit while my roommate slept in. I opened my email to a comment on an older baby blog post. After responding, I read the original blog post, then the next, and the next, until I had re-read everything that has happened since we lost our baby in January.

As I sat there in the chair I realized that I'd hardly had a moment in the past three years to stop and feel anything - never mind process. I was alone with my thoughts (truly alone) for the first time since all of this pregnancy loss stuff started almost TWO years ago. 

Guys, it's a lot. It's huge. It wasn't until I was finally allowed a moment to really breath - to calm my mind and release the myriad of responsibilities that hang around my neck every day that I really realized just how distracted I have been. My son lifts me up every day. He makes me smile and forces me to go on living every day because I HAVE to. The love I have for him is like a raft that keeps me floating above the pain and devastation lingering below. 

While I am beyond grateful for this little life preserver, I can see now how important it is for me to occasionally shirk the flotation device and let myself sink.

That morning, I closed my eyes and descended into the chair, down onto the carpet, and deep beneath the floor of the hotel lobby. My heart fell further - into the layers of sediment and soil, through the crust, and burnt up in the fiery core. 

Part of me burned to ashes, smoldering in embers before finally sighing a breath of relief - finality.

Later that day, while sitting in a huge room surrounded by women and allies, I was asked to set an intention for the weekend. As a group, we closed our eyes, breathed in unison, and silently mouthed our intentions to ourselves.

Mine was simple. It was time to get my self back.

To be continued...

Adoption, Surrogacy, IVF, Egg Donation, and More: A Guide to Infertility Alternatives

Disclosure: This guest post is sponsored by Donor Egg Bank USA

Recently I was contacted by Heidi Hayes, the CEO of Donor Egg Bank USA, a service that helps parents grow their families using donated eggs. Heidi offered to share some insight into some of the most well-known alternatives to natural conception. I thought this information could be helpful for some of my readers, especially those who struggle with infertility and are looking into their options.

A little about Heidi - Heidi Hayes is the CEO of Donor Egg Bank USA. She has more than 20 years of healthcare experience and has worked extensively in the field of reproductive endocrinology. Having been unsuccessful at traditional IUI and IVF treatments, Heidi personally understands the struggles of infertility. After many years of trying to conceive, she ultimately built her family through adoption and donor egg treatment. She always believed that if she didn't give up, her ultimate goal of becoming a parent would someday become a reality.

Adoption, Surrogacy, IVF, Egg Donation, and More: A Guide to Infertility Alternatives
by Heidi Hayes

If you have been trying unsuccessfully to get pregnant, or have recently been diagnosed with infertility, it can be a devastating blow. Your vision of the future, your plans of a happy family might seem like they are slipping out of reach. However, there are a lot of other possibilities to consider. Intrauterine insemination (IUI), in vitro fertilization (IVF), adoption, surrogacy or egg donation are all options available to you, and depending on your personal circumstance, they may even be the perfect solution. In this infertility guide, we will look at several alternative fertility options, any one of which might be right for you. Don’t give up on your dreams. The grief, the anxiety, the disappointment you have been coping with can have a happy ending after all.

IUI or IVF: What’s the difference?

Intrauterine insemination, or IUI, could be right for you if your partner has a low sperm count or decreased sperm mobility, or if you suffer from certain cervical problems, including scar tissue, that may inhibit the sperm’s ability to get where it needs to be. The IUI process is significantly less expensive and invasive than IVF, but may not be right for you if you have moderate to severe endometriosis, a history of pelvic infection, or disease of the fallopian tubes.

In-vitro fertilization, or IVF, is a much more complex procedure. It involves retrieving eggs (which can be yours, or from a donor) from the ovaries and fertilizing them in a lab, then transferring the resulting embryo(s) to the uterus. You might be a candidate for IVF if you have had your fallopian tubes removed, or if they are blocked or damaged. Genetic disorders, ovulation disorders, uterine fibroids or male factor infertility are reasons that many try IVF. Women who decide to conceive later in life often opt for IVF using donor eggs, as egg viability and the potential for birth defects increases significantly as our bodies age.

The IUI/IVF process

The process for both IUI and IVF begins with a course of fertility medications that stimulate egg production. You will need to undergo a variety of tests, some to determine your uterine health, and later on to ensure the uterine wall is ready to support a pregnancy. If you opt to use your own eggs for IVF, you will need to take medication to increase egg production and go through an egg retrieval procedure, during which eggs are taken from your ovaries to be fertilized in the lab. If you are receiving eggs from a fresh donor (meaning a friend, relative or qualified donor), you will both need to undergo hormone treatments to align your cycles so your body will be ready to accept the embryo at the same time the donor is ready for retrieval. The transfer is usually done about three to five days after the extraction and fertilization, barring any complications.  

Using frozen donor eggs

Using frozen donor eggs is a popular choice among women who opt for IVF. This allows you to choose a donor from a pre-screened database of options. Unlike with fresh donor cycles, frozen donor databases offer donors from all parts of the country, meaning there is a wide variety to choose from. Frozen donor egg banks work in much the same way as a sperm bank. One of the attractive aspects for many women is that they don’t have sync their cycles with the donor’s -  you can start your cycle immediately, as soon as your body is ready. It is, essentially, conception on your terms.

Building your family through alternate methods:

Surrogacy

Surrogacy is another viable option for some. Many same-sex couples opt for surrogacy, as do couples or individuals who may have medical issues with getting pregnant. A surrogate can be a member of your family, a good friend or found through a network that screens potential surrogates. Using a surrogate generally means going through an IVF cycle to extract your eggs for fertilization, but depending on your situation, you could also decide to use donor eggs. Your surrogate will have to prepare for the transfer in the same way you would if you were undergoing IUI or IVF yourself. Fertility drugs would be administered to stimulate the body to accept the pregnancy, and then the transfer would take place. Many women and couples develop close relationships with their surrogates and report having a very positive and fulfilling experience through the pregnancy and birth. If you cannot carry a child yourself, a surrogate could be an option.

Adoption

Adoption is another way of building your family, and for women and/or couples who can’t conceive in the traditional way, it is a way to fulfill a lifelong personal dream, and give a child a loving home and family that they wouldn’t otherwise have. There are so many adoption agencies through which you can connect with babies, as well as children of all ages. While adoption may not be right for everybody, it is worth exploring to see if it is a good fit for you.

On raising a child that is not “your own”

The stigma of raising a child that is not biologically related to you is a very real thing. Coming to terms with being unable to conceive and carry a child in the usual way can take some time for individuals and for couples. There may be significant grief over unrequited expectations, as well as struggles to breastfeed and even in naming the baby. Even in the case of IVF using donor eggs, many women have reported a sense of loss over the genetic connection, while some express fear that they won’t be able to bond with the child. In almost all of these cases, the worry goes out the window as soon as they hold their bundle of joy for the first time. Parenthood, after all, is its own reward.