On Blogging - 145 Posts Later

I started this blog on one of the darkest, most heart-wrenching days of my life. It was Mother's Day, my first Mother's Day, and my only child was dead.

Some people IRL have asked why I turned to blogging, and honestly, I don't think I had a choice. For one thing I was running out of paper. There wasn't a journal, notebook, piece of junk mail, or page in our telephone book that hadn't been scrawled on with poetry and prose about how it felt to lose my beautiful little Peyton.

I didn't know what I would write about here. How often, or even if anyone would ever read it. What I knew at the time was that I needed to write. And write. And write. I told someone earlier tonight that my writing became like the shoulder of an old friend, ever ready for me to lean on.  

I had read once that every time a page is published to the web, it becomes a permanent fixture regardless of whether or not you erase it. I guess in that way I found comfort too, knowing that Peyton's story would live on, even if only as some mess of binary code stored somewhere out in cyber space. It may sound silly to some, but when your child has left this earth so quickly after entering it, every imprint she leaves feels significant.

Tonight I went back and read some of my earliest posts and made a few discoveries. The first was a realization, the second, a gift.

The realization was about the permanence of my situation. Regardless of what happens in our future, this experience of loving and losing Peyton has left me forever changed. Sure I can breathe a little easier than I used to, and at times I even find myself braving cautious optimism, but the shift that I felt when Peyton took that last breath was just as organic and lasting as I knew in my heart that it would be.

There are posts that I wrote back then, seven months into my grief, that seventeen months in feel as if they could have been penned today. I guess in that way I still feel the way I did last May when I wrote in Moving On:

I cannot move on, as so many have suggested, I can only move with. And for now, that is what I am exhaustingly working towards; trying to find a way to live this life; to find joy in it once again and to see our dreams fulfilled with Peyton. With the memory of her, with that little spirit, with her unguarded love, and even with the unrelenting pain of her loss. 

I guess the more I remind myself that there can still be forward movement, even with all that has happened, the better.

The gift from going back to those older posts came in the form of this poem. It reminded me about so many of the beautiful aspects of mothering Peyton that grief over losing her was stealing from my memory. Just as finding the picture that I wrote about brought the gift of remembering to me back then, re-reading the poem tonight gave me that same gift all over again.

This little trip down blogging memory lane got me to thinking about other bloggers and what their blogs have meant for them, and so I am posing this question to be answered with your comments, for no other reason than I am just sort of curious. This question, of course, is open to all bloggers, not just those who blog about loss, and blog readers alike.

Beyond the wonderful support of this amazing community, what do you feel is the greatest gift that blogging (reading or writing them) has given you? 

Good News...

Thank you all for your kind words and prayers.

Today went very well. I had minimal cramping during the procedure and have experienced only slight discomfort since. A fellow BLM had likened it to a very long yearly, and I think that is a fair description, just in case anyone who is reading here is facing down the same thing.

The RE said that my uterus is "nice and smooth" which is what they want to see when they do the trial run transfer test, and that he thinks I will be a "good candidate" for the IVF. Is it strange that I feel proud of my uterus?

I have been beaming all day. Hard to imagine someone beaming as they walk around with betadyne and saline leaking out of them, but it's true... ear to ear. Remember what I said the other day about nothing being able to ruin a truly good day?

Getting good news in the baby department is not something we are used to. After miscarriage, baby loss, and facing severe infertility issues, I was worried to hit another hurdle, but today we were spared more heartache and for that I am thankful.

When I got home I called to have my name registered on the waiting list for the injections class. The nurse told me that my file first has to be "run by" a woman in another department who will call me on Monday.

Am I trying to have IVF or interviewing for the FBI?

I don't know what exactly needs to be "run by" her, but I am pretty sure I have all my ducks in a row so.... Yay!

I can almost feel the earth turning again. Could it be? Is there actually going to be some forward momentum for us? I hope so!

Throw another sheet into my Cuckoo file

Tomorrow is the trial run for IVF. I'd be lying if I didn't say I was a little nervous about it. I know that probably sounds silly, to be nervous about a trial run, but after all that has happened these last two years, I guess I am a little shell shocked over anything having to do with my baby making abilities.

My understanding for tomorrow's procedure is that I will go through all the steps I would go through on transfer day, with the exception of the actual transfer. This way they can make sure they have a clear shot on that day, and that they don't put any embryos at risk while dealing with hidden surprises. I don't even want to start down the path of thinking about what that means... "hidden surprises."

I don't know what to expect, pain wise, but they did say to take some Rx Tylenol before coming, and that they would send me home with a painkiller after.

There is so much riding on IVF, now that we know it is our only option. Maybe that is where the nerves come from. From knowing this is it. This is our only shot at making rainbow baby(s). Is it selfish of me to ask you all to keep us in your prayers? I know there are so many people out there facing bigger obstacles than ours, we are healthy, we have each other, a home, food on our table, clothes on our backs, but man, when it comes down to baby making, I'll take all the help I can get.

I have been trying to focus on hearing good news. That tomorrow they will say we are all systems "go." Or, at least, all systems "almost go", since we will still need to be put on the waiting list for the injections class.

My focus the last few days has been to visualize a good outcome. I spent a good part of yesterday meditating on it, picturing how I wanted it to go and having everything go fine.

I am a big believer in meditation and visual imagery. Probably another trait that you can throw in my cuckoo file, but whatever. The meditation I used yesterday was one called "Healing Fire." I don't have the name of the woman who wrote it, but I will look for it if anyone wants me to.

Basically you close your eyes and picture yourself coming up to a place where people are standing around a fire. They can be anyone, alive or dead. People from your past, your present and even your future. People that bring you peace. Jesus, Boodah. Doesn't matter as long as they are people you find healing.

You greet them and they greet you and in the center of the circle there is a fire. It's not a fire that would hurt you, more of a healing light. I picture it being purplish white, but that's just me.

When you feel ready in your mind, you step into this fire, and watch as all the painful feelings that have been burdening your heart fall to the ground and burn off like ash. Your mind runs through all the things you'd like to cast away about what has happened to you. The loss, the suffering, the flashbacks, the despair, the hopelessness.

When you are finished letting these things go, what is left is a glowing version of you. Hopeful. Energized. Loving. What is left is the best part of you after all you have been through. The lessons your struggle has taught you. The compassion. The love of new friends that it has brought into your life. The idea is that then, leaving that baggage behind, you are able to move forward.

I did this meditation yesterday to help calm my fears about tomorrow. When I envisioned coming upon the circle, I found people from my past, my grandmother, old friends, people from my real life, people I imagine meeting in my future, and even quite a few of you. There are no words to express the amount of healing I have found in the friendships born of this community.

When I approached the fire, I carried with me all the I can'ts.


I can't have children. 
I can't keep my child alive. 
I can't bring a baby home. 
I can't find happiness. 
I can't move forward. 
I can't ever feel true joy again. 
I can't be a normal person. 
I can't overcome this sadness.
I can't forgive myself.
I can't because good things don't happen to me anymore.


Stepping into the fire, one by one, I felt those feelings burn away. I could actually feel the burden on my shoulders getting lighter as I told myself, I can have children, just not the way I imagined. I can find happiness, even though I don't know how yet. I can move forward, I just need to keep fighting. I can feel pure joy again one day, even though it still feels impossible. I can because I deserve to.

Reminding myself of these truths, my feelings of sheer terror about tomorrow transformed into more of a feeling of cautious optimism, and while I haven't yet reached the place where I want to be, truth be told I am still quite a far ways off, that is okay. It's a step, albeit small, in the right direction.

Hey, even Rome wasn't built in a day.

On Being "Grateful"

I hate The Beatles.

I know, I know, how could anyone hate The Beatles, right? But I do. 

Now before you get ready to hurl rocks at me, maybe I should give you a little more insight as to where this anger toward The Fab Five stems from.

For the last two, possibly three years, my husband has had our morning alarm set to "The Beatles Greatest Hits," and I challenge anyone, even the most die hard fan, to wake up day in and day out to the sound of Paul McCartney's voice, and not develop a sour taste in your mouth at just the thought of him.

Well this morning, as the CD started spinning, I realized something was amiss. Instead of hearing "Bang bang Maxwell's silver hammer came down on her head... do dee do dee do..." I heard what I thought was the start of the DMB song "Crash." Too tired to make sense of it, I rolled over, hit the snooze button, and went back to sleep.

Ten minutes later I was scrunched in a ball at the foot of the bed when the alarm came back on. Out of reach of the button, I buried my head below the pillow hoping for silence, and heard these words...

"You got your wall You got your train"
"Crash into me, baby, and I cut into you"
"In the void stream"
"Touch your leaves just so I know"
"I'm verve own and crazy"

Huh? What the?

"Hike up your skirt a little more, and shove your war to me."

Putting the pieces together, I opened my eyes, looked at the picture on my wall of hubs and I on our wedding day, and started to laugh.

So now that I am sure you are all thoroughly confused...the backstory.

Hubs and I spent our honeymoon in Mexico at a resort called Secrets in Playa del Carmen. On one of the nights, the hotel brought in a band, I think they were called "Two Guys Play Acoustic Music" to play covers of popular American songs beach side. 

There is something to be said about the affect that ambiance can have on an experience, because on that beach, with the wind blowing, the waves crashing, and my newly married finger bling blinging in the moon light, "Two Guys Play Acoustic Music" sounded great... well good... well...

When the concert was over, my husband rushed to the table where "Two Guys Play Acoustic Music" were selling CD's, and pulled out his wallet to purchase his own copy.

"These guys are GREAT!" He beamed, grinning ear to ear.

Remember what I told you about ambience?

When our plane arrived home from Mexico, hubs excitedly retrieved the CD from his suitcase, and popped it into the car's player to play on the drive home.

You know how you can go through life incorrectly singing the lyrics of songs, like "pour some sugar on me," becomes "pour some sugar ramen"? Well this CD was like 120 minutes of that. 

Disappointed for not having just discovered "the next big thing", hubs tossed "Two Guys Play Acoustic Music" into a drawer, never to be played again. That is, of course, until this morning. 

My therapist told me yesterday that she found me to be "more depressed than usual," words that, coming from her, are probably not a good sign since she gets paid to hear me cry, bitch, whine and complain on a regular basis. Hubs, I am assuming by this gesture, sensed that too.

Waking up this morning, I expected my outlook on life to be just more of the same.

 "Wah! My kid's dead. Wah! Im am infertile. Wah! Wah! Bah Humbug! Wah!"

This song reminding me of happier times, made me laugh at my husband's sense of humor, and sort of set a different, happier tone for the rest of the day.

Even when I had a bit of a mishap this morning, with my dog eating an entire box of Chocolate Chip Cookies, and me having to give her hydrogen peroxide to make her throw up, my good mood couldn't be broken.

The reminders of all I do have continued.

After fixing up the dog (yes she is okay) I logged in to read some lovely and supportive comments left for me here after my post yesterday, and went on to receive a beautiful gift in my inbox from my dear BLM friend Carly.

I am loved. Waking up to this song, today I was reminded of that.  

By my husband. By my family. By my friends both in real life and in the amazing community that I have met through this loss, I am loved. 

As I wrote yesterday, I will never be grateful for Peyton's loss. But starting my day this way, listening to a song strategically placed by my hubs to put a smile on my face, I was reminded that I still have a lot to be grateful for.



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Please also hop over and give Sami's momma Lisette some love today as she mourns the passing of her sister in law unexpectedly of a brain aneurism.

What if...

Every day I hear stories, on TV, in newspapers, by reading around this blog world, about the strength of the human spirit being demonstrated through truly amazing and inspirational people who have turned the negativity of their pain and loss into a positive for others. Often times I hear them say that they are grateful for the experience, grateful that they were put into a situation that allowed them to make a difference, and it's got me wondering, what about everyone else?

What about the nothing special girls like me? 

What if I never feel grateful?

What if I live 100 years and never make a difference?

What if at the end of the day, the experience of losing Peyton hasn't made me a better person? 

What if I never reach that place where I can look back and say: 

Wow, that was horrible but look at how far I have come. Look how much stronger I am because of it. 

What if all there is in losing Peyton is loss? 

What then?

Mixed Post: All's Quiet On The Fertility Front & Peyton Sends Me A Sign.

The first half of this post deals with my infertility, the second with loss. Read one part, or both, up to you.

Infertility:

I struggled trying to decide what to post here. So many of you have been kind enough to offer feedback and advice on our new journey through IVF, and though I wish I had more to report, unfortunately we are still waiting.

I know some asked if we could get a second opinion, rather than go through a trial run. The IVF group we are using is the most established in our area, transferring over 1000 embryos each year, so while I hate waiting, and also feel that the trial run seems a little wasteful of our financial resources, I don't really have anywhere "better" in the area to turn.

AF arrived this AM with the help of the Prometrium that I was prescribed to get my cycle on track with when my RE wanted for the practice run. I can't tell you how comforting it is to see breast cancer listed as one of the drug's side effects, right alongside dizziness and bloating. Are you kidding me?

So AF came, and I felt blue. Why, knowing my tubes are shot and not functioning, do I still find myself feeling such a sense of disappointment at AF's arrival? I hate that. I hate getting my hopes up for a miracle that is not coming. I did that with Peyton. I should have learned my lesson.

I remember as a kid hearing about a woman's biological clock and thinking how silly it was. Now, everywhere I go, I feel like that clock is ticking away, and people tell me I am young, but really, what good does that do me anyway? I started three years ago. THREE YEARS, two little babies ago, and am still tick-tick-ticking away on that clock with no living children to mother.

Do you ever feel like the universe is trying to tell you something? That you are unworthy or not good enough? I try not to go down that road, really I do, but like I have been saying a lot lately, what makes me so damn undeserving of motherhood?

Sometime, mid next week I would imagine, though I haven't yet heard, will be the trial run that gets me onto the waiting list for the injections class. I am so jealous of the commenters who said this step was allowed to be completed online. The thought of being on hold for the sake of something as menial as learning how to give myself a shot drives me crazy. Take needle, insert needle, withdraw needle. Got it.

So there you have it, nothing. I have nothing to report regarding my lack of fertility. I know it is not Christmas but I am going to throw a Bah-Humbug out there anyway.

Loss:

I had another "sign" from Peyton a few days back, and while I know some people will think I am crackers for saying so, I am going to share it anyway.

I was on a long walk with my dog Charlotte. We had gone about 2 miles up a desolate road and were passing some old 1800's farm houses when it happened.

Before I go any further, I should mention that it has been pretty gray around here lately, one snow storm following another.

When we got to the top of a large hill I came upon a school bus turnaround sign and started feeling sorry for myself, as I sometimes do, and hopeless about my quest for motherhood.

I began wondering if I would ever have children, and if I did, would they live to school age? Lousy questions like those which two years ago would have been too foreign from my life to even enter my mind.

I circled the turnaround and began heading back, passing a large farmhouse on my left, and a big red barn garage on my right, when something caught my eye. I looked up to see a frisbee sized light reflecting off the center of the red garage.

Everything around me was pretty gray, so the sight of the light made the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.

I looked up, down, and all around trying to find the light's source: a beam of sunlight, a lamp, a mirror, but there was nothing.

When I looked back at the door, the light was gone, and a sense of peace washed over me.

"Was that you Peyton," I asked out loud, (like the crazy woman that I am) and just as the words left my mouth, some chimes in front of the farm house began to sound.

You can think whatever you want of that story, to me it felt significant.

Guilt Poem

I talked about you yesterday.
I kept tears from my eyes.
Right up until the topic came
of us and our goodbyes.

And then the choking in my throat,
returned, too much to bear.
I struggled through grief's tightening grip
to fill my lungs with air.

My heart raced. My palms clenched tight.
I wanted to shut down.
I felt those moments pouring in.
I worried I might drown.

Tears came calling once again
stinging hot against my cheek.
And in my mind I played over
that final, painful week.

I thought about the infection
and how it ravaged you.
I remembered the sense of hopelessness.
I shuddered at what I had to do.

I wonder if the words exist,

to convey how it made me feel.

Even all these many months later,

those last seconds feel surreal.

I don't know if the day will come
when guilt will leave me be.
I just pray you know it was out of love,
that I chose to set you free.

~Kristin Binder

Happy Valentines Day.

Thank you so much to Bir at All The Little Ponies for this beautiful gift.


****
Peyton got another Valentine!

This time from Jenn over at The Blue Sparrow. Thank you so much Jenn!

What grief looks like at 16 months - Mel's Show & Tell

This is Peyton’s room.

It has been sixteen months since Peyton left this world, seventeen since she entered it, and eighteen since this room was created. Entire cycles of seasons, holidays, and milestones have passed, and yet, stuck on pause, both this room, and I, sit waiting.

Not much has changed about Peyton’s room. Nothing at all since her death.

Books wait to be read. Toys to be played with. Diaper creams and lotions now nearing their expiration date, sit below a changing table waiting to be used.

Piles of wrapped gifts remain untouched.

Her clothes from the hospital sit in a plastic bag by the dresser.

“They are toxic,” the nurses warned, made so by traces of chemo in her spit-up. "You have to take special care in washing them." 

This little bag has kept me up so many nights, panicked over what to do. Unwashed, the poison still remains. Washed, her scent of mint and milk is lost forever. 

When we put the finishing touches on this room, I sat in this chair, folding onesies, socks and blankets, while hubs hung shelves and pictures. I had never been so happy in all my life.

The last time I sat here, just days before Peyton was born, worry took hold of me, and floods of tears came. 

I flash back to that moment a lot, to the way panic gripped me. I had never been scared in my pregnancy. I never had a reason to be. I was a planner. I was healthy. I had everything under control. 

It came as a complete shock when through tears I told hubs how scared I suddenly felt. How worried I was that I would screw this up. That I might screw her up. That I wouldn’t be a good enough mother, love her enough or know what to do should something go wrong. 

“This is all normal,” he reassured me. “All new mothers probably feel this way. It’s okay.”

I think about that day a lot, about how inconsolable I became for seemingly no reason.

Did I know?
Did something deep inside me know?

The other day I ventured into this little yellow room, this room where nothing changes, this room that time forgot, and made a painful discovery. Dust.

Layers upon layers of dust so thick that I could write her name in them.

She is being lost to time. Covered up. Buried. Sprinkled in a muted veil as if the universe is trying to hide her existence. Trying, with all its might, to hide the ugly truth that things like this happen to beautiful little babies.

Some may think I am overreacting to something that could be wiped away with a rag, but to me it signifies so much more than that. I see the bigger picture. I understand what enough time will do to Peyton, that though she will always beat in my heart, with enough time, to the world, nature, the universe, she will be forgotten. 

To see what others are Showing and Telling, go here.

Hurry up and wait.

I am a pin cushion. At least that is how the last few weeks have left me feeling. I contemplated putting up a pictorial post of my many needle sticks for this week's Show and Tell, but thought, nah, who really wants to see that right? Bruise tracked arms are gross. Agreed.


I have had infectious disease tests. Every imaginable hormone tested. My thyroid tested. Glucose fasting tests. Tests for diabetes, cholesterol, PCOS. To be honest there were vials taken whose purposes escape me. After about the 20th tube of blood, I stopped keeping track.


Friday Hubs and I met with the RE to talk about our game plan, as well as to get the results of his sperm count. All good on that front, though none of that came as a great surprise since he was able to get me pregnant twice before without trouble. Here comes that roll of anger at the injustice of having lost my fertility to birth a dying child. Will that ever pass? It is so frustrating to know just how fertile I used to be, that I got pregnant so easily twice. Sometimes I get so stuck on that. On the why in why don't I have any living children to show for it? What makes me so damn undeserving?


If you are someone who finds comfort in hearing that "God chose us to mother sick children because we are such special parents" you might want to skip ahead a few paragraphs. I don't want my rant to take away from anything that brings you comfort. 


I have been thinking about that alot lately, and I think it is crap. God didn't choose me because I would be such an amazing mother. Obviously the choices I made, though well intentioned and based on what was the best of our knowledge at the time, were the wrong ones. She is dead. My daughter is dead. Nothing about this loss has made me a better person, wife, family member or friend. I am nothing extraordinary. If God chose me specifically because he thought I was the right, strong person for the job, he was wrong. End of rant.


Our appointment with the IVF doctor Friday was a review mostly of what we already knew, an opportunity to ask questions and sign consent forms, and a meeting with a financial planner. The meeting ended, and I am paraphrasing here of course, with "now you owe us $3000 down and you will be put on the waiting list."


The waiting list!? What waiting list? Haven't we waited long enough? Sometimes I feel like my whole life has become hurry up and wait.


At the end of my next cycle, a trial run will be performed sans eggs. Once that happens, another round of waiting begins, this time for a slot in the injections class.


I asked the RE how long of a wait until we could actually get started on injectable medications and he said, "Maybe, I dunno, April?" 


April?!  


His words left me feeling so defeated, my hopes for this year crushed. We are only, what, 5-6 weeks into 2010 and I already know that a rainbow baby is not possible for me this year. I got pregnant at 27. 27! How did I go to sleep one night waiting for the birth of my child, and wake up in a reality where I would have to wait four years from that first test for a chance to bring home a baby? God please let us bring one home. Please. I can't lose another child. I can't.  


Have you ever felt like EVERYONE is pregnant but you? When we were pregnant, only one other friend was at the same time. Now, only a few years later, everyone has reached a point where they are starting their families, and hubs and I are stuck in frustrated bystander mode.


Three of my best friends are expecting, two within a week of my due date with Peyton. Walking the line between my joy for them, and my internal heartbreak is so difficult. I want to be there for them. I want to be a good friend, to shower them with all that this moment deserves, and yet I can't. Not to the extent that I would have been able to. 


Last night was a perfect example of that. At a Superbowl gathering of maybe 12 people, two of the women (my best friend being one of them) were expecting. There was a lot of talk about due dates, godparents, ultrasounds, kicking. I hate no longer living in that world. I hate that while "normal" women can offer congratulations without heartbreak, and coo over ultrasounds and due dates, my child's death plays on an angry repeat in my mind. I want to be in that world. I want to, but I can't. When you have seen what we have seen, there is no going back. 


Instead of joining the conversation, I found a seat in front of the TV (I hate football by the way) and fought back tears, pretending to focus on the game. I wish I could put my sorrow aside, move past it and be the bigger person. I wish I was stronger, that I could overcome my heartache and interact like a "normal" woman, but I can't. That part of me is broken.


Do you ever feel like you no longer have a place to fit in? That's how I feel all the time. I don't  fit in with friends who have children, or with those who don't. Honestly I don't know where I belong anymore. Is there a place for people like us?


Last night hubs and I were talking about it. How we had a daughter once. We did. We had a living, breathing, pink and beautiful child. We were parents. He a father. I a mother. She was here. She shared our oxygen. Does that matter? Does that still qualify us as parents, or are we somehow "less than"? That is how I feel alot. "Less than."


It happened. She existed. I swear she did. Does anyone else know that, can they see that? Do I look like a mother, sound like a mother?


When people talk about pregnancy or parenting, unless I am asked directly, I stay out of it. Who wants advice from a woman who couldn't make a healthy baby? Who wants advice from a woman who couldn't keep her alive? Is it even okay for me to consider myself a mother, when my only child is dead? 


I carried Peyton. Loved Peyton. Nursed Peyton. But then came the next chapter. The ugly chapter. The one no pregnancy book talks about. I made end of life decisions. I held Peyton as the color drained from her perfect little being. Did I lose my mom card with that chapter? I feel like I did.


Everything leading up to Peyton's birth felt so right. I remember beaming. I remember the excitement. I remember the joy, and naive anticipation. Since her birth nothing has ever felt right again.


I know people want us to move on. I hear their comments all the time. 


"Have another baby."
"Adopt a baby."
"Why don't you look into getting one of those kids from Haiti."


If only things were that simple.


How can we move on, when things outside of our control leave us indefinitely paused, stuck on the most painful chapter of our lives?

Comfort in numbers?

I have to preface this post by saying that I have a wonderfully supportive family and small but amazing group of friends. Those who have stuck with me, really, truly stuck with me through this past year, give meaning to the idea of true friendship. I commend them really, those who have chosen to ride this storm out at my side. 

Sometimes I sit and think on it, wondering how I would feel in their shoes. Honestly, I don't know how I would handle me, were I looking in from their side. I imagine it can't be easy being around someone who you met one way (happy, upbeat, outgoing, career driven, motivated, successful) and then find yourself looking for reasons to stick around when those qualities disappear. I have, in the span of 17 months, become nearly an exact opposite of the old me. 

Sure, there are those who would say, "That's not true Krissy. You still tell stories, you're the same you." and maybe sometimes I am, outwardly. Maybe I have figured out that to keep any friends at all, I had to find a way to silence my grief into a sort of background static. Maybe I have realized that what goes through the mind of a woman who has held her child as she died, what that does to a person, to their heart, to their core, that it is too ugly a business to share, or more to the point, too ugly a business to share with those you love, because they deserve their right at naive innocence.

And so maybe that is why I have felt so down this week, because I feel so tired, and exhausted by this roller coaster of loss and infertility, and so terribly misunderstood. My friends and family, they can try, but they will never truly "GET IT." It's not their fault, and I hope they never have to "get it." Unless someone has gone through this (and I pray they never do), there is just a level of understanding that is impossible to attain regardless of how much one might want to understand, or how much they love you. And that is how you end up in my dilemma. I am loved, so very loved, but also so alone.

I am lonely for someone to talk to who really understands the depth of this loss. That it doesn't go away in a year. That a permanent shift in me has taken place at a level so deep, so organic, that it cannot be erased. Someone who will never make me feel that I am taking too long, grieving too hard, or missing her too much. Sometimes I feel judged, and I know that this doesn't mean I am being judged, but sometimes I feel judged. Little comments made here and there break my heart because they hint at the hope of those around me that I could "get back to normal." There is no "back to normal" after this. There is only finding a way to move forward, forever changed.

My therapist asked me last week what my next step was. I told her, "I am having so much trouble finding that next step, that I just pray to God that the next step finds me."

That is not bull. It is not laziness. I don't have any idea what my next step in anything is. Life, career, family. For someone who used to be a Type A control freak, this last year and a half has made painfully obvious all that is out of my control.

Earlier this week I posted a status on FB that read:. 

Kristin sometimes wishes she had a few BLM's to talk to IRL. 

In response to this status, two people suggested that I find a support group for bereaved parents. The subject of support groups is one that hasn't been broached in a long time. We attended a group meeting very early on and it was an epic failure. I was a total mess who just cried the entire time. Feeling that it wasn't helping, we never went back. 

Getting those suggestions on FB had me wondering if maybe now, with so much time having passed, if I could feel a little braver this time around and attend these meetings.

I looked into the group that had been suggested to me, and visited the website, reading the profiles of each of the members.

Story after story told of children whose lives were cut too short by car accidents, cancer, brain diseases. With each story my heart grew heavier. This group of grieving parents was just another glaring reminder that there is no shortage of grief in this world, and that things can be so damn unfair. So many wanted, loved, children. Gone.

The next meeting for this group is still a few weeks away, and I don't know for sure if I am going to attend. As the date approaches, I guess I will PAGL it, and see what I come up with. There are so many questions. Would I feel comfortable walking into a room of strangers this way again? Would the meeting bring healing, or only more tears? Right now, I am just not sure.

I wish there was a way to bring some of the members of this community together, in person. That I think is what I was really referring to in my FB status. Maybe it should have read:

Kristin wishes she knew some of her amazing babyloss blog friends who have meant so much to her this past year, in real life.

Some of my most healing connections have been made with other mommas right here through this blog, and while I know it is impossible (some of my closest bloggy friends live half a world away, and others all over this country) wouldn't it be nice? 

Wouldn't it be nice to be able to sit in a room, to be yourself, and for once, to feel totally understood in your grief? 

Meet You At The Sunset!

The latest edition of Meet You At The Sunset (formerly The Secret Garden Meeting) is up. If you haven't already, click the button below and check it out.

Thank You Lisa!

Another beautiful gift to help brighten what has become a hard week for me.

Thank you so much to Lisa at Waterfall Angels, for creating these amazing images of Peyton's name.

Lisa lost her son Jasper Thomas in March of 2009. Due to HELLP syndrome, a condition that threatened Lisa's life, Jasper was born at 6 1/2 months and fought for life for 36 hours.

Lisa took these stunning pictures of Peyton's name that she had written on a river rock and photographed at Rainbow Springs State Park in Florida.

Regarding name requests Lisa writes:  I will be taking request as soon as I'm done writing the angels of the blogs that I follow. Thank you for your patience. 


Please be sure to head over and show Lisa your love, and Lisa, thank you so much for this beautiful gift.