I've never gone this long without blogging.
I don't know if it is the time of year, a bout with the stomach flu, dealing with Bubba's allergy, or all of the above, but I find so many posts floating through my head these days, and so little time to sit and write them.
I hope the holidays are being kind to you all. I know that for the ALI community in particular, this time of year can feel especially cruel. A reminder of all we should have, that we don't. A big giant slap in the face from the universe.
I recently ordered the book of this, we will not speak, by the incredibly talented Angie M. Yingst (fellow blogger, BLM, and all around cool chickie) and she wrote something in one of her poems that really, really struck a chord with me.
She said:
"Though we have lost a petal, we are still flowers
lush and full together, in a garden of hope."
Hope.
Even when it feels like there is nothing left in this world worth living for, there is still some measure of hope to be found. Sometimes it is just out of sight, tucked away behind all of your troubles, but hope is there nonetheless, whispering that you can move forward. That things can get better.
When I lost Peyton, this community gave me hope in the knowledge that I didn't have to go through this alone.
When I lost my fertility, this community gave me the hope that I had other options to build my family.
When I started bleeding, and was told to prepare to miscarry my twins, I found hope in the words of comfort and encouragement that came my way. That same hope carried me through nearly seven months of bedrest.
Hope - from all of you.
So now here I stand, on the other side.
I have two healthy children here with me, and though we are missing their big sister (we always, always will) this holiday once again feels joyful.
There were more reasons than I can count (or recall now) beating me down with the message that things were hopeless, but each morning I am greeted with two smiling faces who remind me that even though it felt like it at times, hope was never lost.
There is always hope.
That is my message to all of you reading this. No matter where you are in life, no matter how things feel, or seem, regardless of what you are now facing, there is always hope that things can get better. If not this Christmas, maybe next.
Sending love, light, and above all, hope, to my sisters (and brothers) in loss this holiday season.
****
I am participating in this year's 25 Days of Giveaways blog hop. Be sure to check back on 12/23.
Showing posts with label future children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label future children. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Still Hers
I've been in a sort of funny place this week. Vulnerable. Emotional. I've written a number of posts without hitting publish. I never do that.
We started breaking down Peyton's room this weekend. I know... I know... it's long overdue. These little ones now need their own space, and yet somehow, knowing that just didn't make the task any easier. Neither did the fact that Peyton never actually came home to that room. It was still hers.
I can still feel, see, smell, hear, taste exactly how it was to be in that room in August of 2008. I sat in the chair with my feet up on doctor's orders. Hubs assembled the crib piece by piece and hung shelves. I folded tiny clothes, placing them into lined drawers.
We were ready.
Today marks 1112 days since Peyton died, nearly 1/10th of my life has been spent missing her. 1112 days of looking for answers that don't exist. Of trying to understand who I am now, and figure out where to go from here. I have grown a bit in these last 1112 days. Joy comes more readily now, as does gratitude. But Peyton, my sweet, sweet Peyton. She is no less gone. No less absent from our every day lives. No less a gaping hole in my being.
There is now a couch on its side where Peyton's crib once stood. And a file cabinet. And an office chair. Items stacked in a corner until my writing space can be arranged. The years of grief and dust in which I had written her name on that crib has been wiped clean. The mattress removed, replaced by one with certifications assuring me that there will be nothing toxic coming from it as my child sleeps. That crib, so long identified in my mind as Peyton's, is now the place where Squeaks sleeps (or refuses to sleep, as the case has been this week) in a room down the hall. Her brother, by her side, in a crib all his own.
But in that room, that room once meant to be hers, I can still sense the little girl who never came home. The baby who smelled of sweet mint, and was the first to lay her head across my chest. I can still feel the child who made me a momma.
With time Peyton's room will be redecorated and re-purposed. The writing studio I have talked about for the last few years will come into being and the bumble bee decor will come off the walls, but it doesn't matter. For me that room is still hers. It will always be hers, and I will always wish that she had come home to it.
READERS DIGEST CONTEST UPDATE: I NEED YOUR HELP
As a way to honor her third birthday, I have entered the Reader's Digest "Your Life" Contest with an entry about my experience mothering Peyton. The voting is open until November 15th, and you can vote once a day. It would mean a great deal to me to get Peyton's story in Reader's Digest. Can you please help me out by visiting this link and casting your vote for my entry. I have fallen way behind, currently in fifth place, a full 9000 votes behind first place! There were some issues with voting last week that sort of took me out of the running, but after contacting Reader's Digest about them, they seem to be fixed now. Also, you don't need a Facebook account to vote from what I have been told. Thank you so much! I would really love to honor Peyton this way. To raise awareness about the fact that little babies are born with, and die of, Leukemia. Peyton's story is a rare one, but it still deserves to be told. xoxo
We started breaking down Peyton's room this weekend. I know... I know... it's long overdue. These little ones now need their own space, and yet somehow, knowing that just didn't make the task any easier. Neither did the fact that Peyton never actually came home to that room. It was still hers.
I can still feel, see, smell, hear, taste exactly how it was to be in that room in August of 2008. I sat in the chair with my feet up on doctor's orders. Hubs assembled the crib piece by piece and hung shelves. I folded tiny clothes, placing them into lined drawers.
We were ready.
Today marks 1112 days since Peyton died, nearly 1/10th of my life has been spent missing her. 1112 days of looking for answers that don't exist. Of trying to understand who I am now, and figure out where to go from here. I have grown a bit in these last 1112 days. Joy comes more readily now, as does gratitude. But Peyton, my sweet, sweet Peyton. She is no less gone. No less absent from our every day lives. No less a gaping hole in my being.
There is now a couch on its side where Peyton's crib once stood. And a file cabinet. And an office chair. Items stacked in a corner until my writing space can be arranged. The years of grief and dust in which I had written her name on that crib has been wiped clean. The mattress removed, replaced by one with certifications assuring me that there will be nothing toxic coming from it as my child sleeps. That crib, so long identified in my mind as Peyton's, is now the place where Squeaks sleeps (or refuses to sleep, as the case has been this week) in a room down the hall. Her brother, by her side, in a crib all his own.But in that room, that room once meant to be hers, I can still sense the little girl who never came home. The baby who smelled of sweet mint, and was the first to lay her head across my chest. I can still feel the child who made me a momma.
With time Peyton's room will be redecorated and re-purposed. The writing studio I have talked about for the last few years will come into being and the bumble bee decor will come off the walls, but it doesn't matter. For me that room is still hers. It will always be hers, and I will always wish that she had come home to it.
READERS DIGEST CONTEST UPDATE: I NEED YOUR HELP
As a way to honor her third birthday, I have entered the Reader's Digest "Your Life" Contest with an entry about my experience mothering Peyton. The voting is open until November 15th, and you can vote once a day. It would mean a great deal to me to get Peyton's story in Reader's Digest. Can you please help me out by visiting this link and casting your vote for my entry. I have fallen way behind, currently in fifth place, a full 9000 votes behind first place! There were some issues with voting last week that sort of took me out of the running, but after contacting Reader's Digest about them, they seem to be fixed now. Also, you don't need a Facebook account to vote from what I have been told. Thank you so much! I would really love to honor Peyton this way. To raise awareness about the fact that little babies are born with, and die of, Leukemia. Peyton's story is a rare one, but it still deserves to be told. xoxo
Thursday, July 14, 2011
This, That, and The Rainbow Rodeo...
**
Prayer Request:
A BLM friend of mine lost her first baby to cancer. Now she lost her rainbow baby at 7 months gestation. I don't think any of you would know her, as she doesn't really blog, but I am going to respect her privacy by not saying too much that might identify her and just ask that you all please remember her in your prayers. She is really, REALLY hurting. The injustice at the fact that this wonderful mother should have to face so much pain and loss in her quest to build a family, when monsters like Casey Anthony... well... you can finish that sentence yourself...thinking about it is just too much.
If you could send her healing thoughts/prayers I'd appreciate it.
**
**Possible trigger post - talks about living children.**
I need some mom advice...
I haven't slept in nine days.
Okay, that's a lie.
If I hadn't slept at all in nine days I would probably be dead, or at the very least making a fool of myself hallucinating in the streets, but the truth is I haven't slept more than about 1.5 hours at a time in NINE days, and it's starting to get to me!
I don't know what's going on here.
It started as a growth spurt. Both babies came home from our 4th of July vacation (where they happily slept through the night as usual with the exception of their one overnight feed) and were eating, eating, eating (read: K nursing say from 1-4AM, H then waking hungry and nursing from 4-5, Then K waking hungry again around 7:30, and on and on.)
About three days into being back home I started feeling miserable, and thoughts of quitting breastfeeding swirled around in my exhausted mind. It dawned on me that the last time I had felt this miserable about breastfeeding was during a growth spurt around 15 weeks, so I decided that we must have hit another one.
I mean it HAD to be that, right?
It started as a growth spurt. Both babies came home from our 4th of July vacation (where they happily slept through the night as usual with the exception of their one overnight feed) and were eating, eating, eating (read: K nursing say from 1-4AM, H then waking hungry and nursing from 4-5, Then K waking hungry again around 7:30, and on and on.)
About three days into being back home I started feeling miserable, and thoughts of quitting breastfeeding swirled around in my exhausted mind. It dawned on me that the last time I had felt this miserable about breastfeeding was during a growth spurt around 15 weeks, so I decided that we must have hit another one.
I mean it HAD to be that, right?
Now, I'm not so sure...
After a few days, H decided she had had enough of the cluster feeding, and went back to her regular routine of eating before bed, 0-1 times overnight, and then in the morning. K, on the other hand, has gotten into this funny place where now he only wants me AND will only sleep if I am nursing him. He is suddenly a light sleeper too, so if I move he wakes up, gets mad, and we have to start the whole rock nurse lay down rock nurse lay down nurse rock nurse nurse nurse routine all over again.
Poor hubs tries to help, he really does, but its no use. K screams at him, and only calms down for me, which makes hubs wonder what the use is in even trying since nothing he does seems to console K. It's gotten to the point where K won't even take a bottle of expressed milk anymore, he just screams and screams until I nurse him... again!
I am using the term "nurse" lightly, because half the time he isn't eating at all, just, sort of, "hanging out." Sometimes he pops off and then relatches an inch or so off and it's a struggle to get him off and relatched properly so I end up with these just awful looking hickey bruises. He also has taken to grabbing whatever boob, or bit of bare skin he can, and pinching or pulling. Not so fun since I am also dealing with thrush.
I guess last night hubs could really pick up on my frustration/exhaustion, because I woke up to this note:
After a few days, H decided she had had enough of the cluster feeding, and went back to her regular routine of eating before bed, 0-1 times overnight, and then in the morning. K, on the other hand, has gotten into this funny place where now he only wants me AND will only sleep if I am nursing him. He is suddenly a light sleeper too, so if I move he wakes up, gets mad, and we have to start the whole rock nurse lay down rock nurse lay down nurse rock nurse nurse nurse routine all over again.
Poor hubs tries to help, he really does, but its no use. K screams at him, and only calms down for me, which makes hubs wonder what the use is in even trying since nothing he does seems to console K. It's gotten to the point where K won't even take a bottle of expressed milk anymore, he just screams and screams until I nurse him... again!
I am using the term "nurse" lightly, because half the time he isn't eating at all, just, sort of, "hanging out." Sometimes he pops off and then relatches an inch or so off and it's a struggle to get him off and relatched properly so I end up with these just awful looking hickey bruises. He also has taken to grabbing whatever boob, or bit of bare skin he can, and pinching or pulling. Not so fun since I am also dealing with thrush.
I guess last night hubs could really pick up on my frustration/exhaustion, because I woke up to this note:
Have I mentioned how lucky I am to have such an understanding husband?
So tell me mommas... what do you think is going on here?
Teething?
Just the age (19 weeks?)
Typical Momma's Boy?
Time to start solids?
I'm at a loss...
Teething?
Just the age (19 weeks?)
Typical Momma's Boy?
Time to start solids?
I'm at a loss...
**
Now onto some good news! I am really excited/humbled/honored/stoked/etc etc to learn that my little ole blog here has been nominated for Babble's Top 50 Mom Blogs. It would mean A LOT to me if you all would take a moment to vote for my blog by clicking here. If you sort by popularity I should be on about page 3. If you sort alphabetically I fall around page 13. You can vote for as many bloggers as you'd like. I did. Some of my favorites are also on the list :)
**
Welcome to the Friday Rainbow Baby Blog Rodeo, a place to celebrate the amazing children who have come into our lives after loss, and to strengthen our bond as a community of Rainbow parents.
Every Friday we can gather here to share our little ones' triumphs, brag like the proud parents that we are, and yes ... even own up to our epic fails in parenting (all in good fun of course) via links to our own blogs with posts about any and everything Rainbow from the week.
Feel free to grab the button from the sidebar and help spread the word. Let's bring this Rainbow parenting community together.
I will go first...
That's what we have been up to this week...
**
Has your Rainbow hit a milestone this week?
Starred in a cute video?
Done something adorable? Funny? Downright embarrassing?
If you answered "yes" to any of the above questions,
than you have come to the right place!
Welcome to the Friday Rainbow Baby Blog Rodeo, a place to celebrate the amazing children who have come into our lives after loss, and to strengthen our bond as a community of Rainbow parents.
Every Friday we can gather here to share our little ones' triumphs, brag like the proud parents that we are, and yes ... even own up to our epic fails in parenting (all in good fun of course) via links to our own blogs with posts about any and everything Rainbow from the week.
Feel free to grab the button from the sidebar and help spread the word. Let's bring this Rainbow parenting community together.
I will go first...
We had lots of fun keeping cool in this heat wave by getting our exercise indoors.
We worked on sitting up in the Bumbo...
We worked on sitting up in the Bumbo...
 |
| Two Peas In A Pod |
Practiced our tummy time...
and laying on our backs kick - kick - kicking...
and jump jump jumped in the jump n go and jumperoo...
That's what we have been up to this week...
So, tell me, what have your rainbows been up to?
To join in the fun, write a post on your own blog about what your Rainbow(s) has been up to this week, and then add the link to that post in the Linky widget below.
Thanks for riding along on the rodeo!
To join in the fun, write a post on your own blog about what your Rainbow(s) has been up to this week, and then add the link to that post in the Linky widget below.
Thanks for riding along on the rodeo!
Monday, July 11, 2011
On Living - Right Where I Am
"As long as I can I will look at this world for both of us. As long as I can I will laugh with the birds, I will sing with the flowers, I will pray to the stars, for both of us." ~Sascha
It's been just over a thousand days since Peyton left this world.
Just over a thousand days since I held her in my arms that last time as the sun broke through the clouds, and cast white light across her small body.
It's been just over a thousand days...
God I miss her.
I spent the better part of the first year without Peyton being furious.
At God mostly.
It hit me tonight, as I looked at my two beautiful blessings, that it may be time to start working on toning down that fury
It may be time to start feeling Thankful rather than Spiteful when I think of Him.
It may be time, but that is a post for another day.
In that first year after Peyton's death I saw very little hope in the future and no joy in the day to day. Even to think about feeling joy felt like some sort of betrayal, and yet when people tried to remind me that living was not a betrayal, I hated them for it.
People would see me spending all day every day at her grave that first year, and they would say, "Peyton wouldn't want to see you like this" and I would think, "what the hell do you know anyway? Was your child born unexpectedly with cancer? Did your child die in your arms? Do you live with the aching arms? And the nightmares? And the daytime ones?"
I was hurting.
Everything was darkness.
Telling me that I was disappointing Peyton in my grieving just added to my fury.
To my fury, and to my guilt.
In that first year people told me I would survive.
They were right.
I did.
Every second of every minute was agony, but somehow, some way, I came through it, even if only by the skin of my teeth.
The second year without Peyton I lived on Pause.
Every day was Groundhog's day.
The sun rose.
My child was dead.
The sun set.
My child was dead.
Families around us grew.
My child was dead.
Children conceived after Peyton died had now outlived her, and yet, my child was still dead.
It is still hard for me to believe, sometimes, that I no longer live in that long gray fog that consumed the second year. At that time the world around me seemed to be moving at lightning speed, while our world, our tiny little corner of the universe, sat immobile - seemingly stuck on its axis unable to turn towards the sun.
And then, just like that, one day it did.
One day there was forward momentum, a feeling that had become so foreign a concept to me that I didn't know what to do with it.
In that moment we were afforded a new lease on life, and the blessing that this is has not been lost on me.
Peyton's third birthday is just a few mere months away, and I feel something shifting in me once again. For the first time, in a very long time, maybe ever, I find myself thinking of Peyton and smiling.
Not all the time of course, many memories of her still stir feelings of being robbed, scared, and heartbroken, but every once in a while an image of that little girl - so tiny, so brave - pops into my mind and I can see her lifting her sweet, perfectly round little head up off of my chest when we did skin to skin, and the corners of my lips turn upward in gratitude.
Yes, you read that right. Gratitude.
Peyton did something no one else in this world can ever undo.
She made me a mother, and through the aching, I can't help but to feel grateful for that.
She came into this broken world, loved me with a pure heart, and left so many gifts for me that I am still discovering them day by day.
Some have been easy to see - the friendships I have made within the BLM community. The connection I have been able to feel with my writing. The deep sense of empathy I feel for those who are hurting - and others have taken more time to fully grasp - like realizing how important it is to truly appreciate each and every day.
Even the tough days, because a tough day is just another chance to overcome something difficult, and discover something beautiful in its wake.
That little girl has enriched my world.
She has made colors crisper.
Experiences richer.
Meanings deeper.
Because of Peyton I appreciate what a gift it is to wake up each morning.
Because of Peyton I can feel the wind on my cheek and know that somewhere, somehow, in some way that I am too human to understand, we are sharing that moment.
Because of Peyton I truly, TRULY, know how lucky I am to be a mother.
I know what a gift it is to be exhausted from a sleepless night with the babies.
I know not to take for granted any moments with my children, even the challenging ones like those that I have faced in breastfeeding the twins.
That's not to say I don't ever moan or groan or feel sorry for myself about this or that, because I do, I am human, but usually, a beat or two behind whatever gripe I may be airing, I stop, think of that little girl and all that she has taught me, and that quickly puts things back into perspective.
Maybe everyone goes through this?
Maybe this, this feeling that I owe it to Peyton to live the life she wasn't afforded, is just another stage of grieving.
I don't know.
What I do know is that she can't laugh, so I feel that I owe it to her to fill my life with laughter
She can't have a family of her own, so I owe it to her to love mine with all of my heart.
She can't chase her dreams, so I owe it to her to never stop believing in mine.
As the poet Sascha says, I owe it to Peyton to do all these things "for the both of us."
I miss my daughter.
Nothing will ever, nothing can ever, change that.
I still have days where the tears come calling, but something inside of me is shifting.
I am coming to see that honoring Peyton is not equivalent to spending all of my life longing only for what I can never have.
I am coming to see that it honors her memory more to embrace and rejoice in all that I do.
It's been just over a thousand days since Peyton left this world.
Just over a thousand days since I held her in my arms that last time as the sun broke through the clouds, and cast white light across her small body.
It's been just over a thousand days...
God I miss her.
I spent the better part of the first year without Peyton being furious.
At God mostly.
It hit me tonight, as I looked at my two beautiful blessings, that it may be time to start working on toning down that fury
It may be time to start feeling Thankful rather than Spiteful when I think of Him.
It may be time, but that is a post for another day.
In that first year after Peyton's death I saw very little hope in the future and no joy in the day to day. Even to think about feeling joy felt like some sort of betrayal, and yet when people tried to remind me that living was not a betrayal, I hated them for it.
People would see me spending all day every day at her grave that first year, and they would say, "Peyton wouldn't want to see you like this" and I would think, "what the hell do you know anyway? Was your child born unexpectedly with cancer? Did your child die in your arms? Do you live with the aching arms? And the nightmares? And the daytime ones?"
I was hurting.
Everything was darkness.
Telling me that I was disappointing Peyton in my grieving just added to my fury.
To my fury, and to my guilt.
In that first year people told me I would survive.
They were right.
I did.
Every second of every minute was agony, but somehow, some way, I came through it, even if only by the skin of my teeth.
The second year without Peyton I lived on Pause.
Every day was Groundhog's day.
The sun rose.
My child was dead.
The sun set.
My child was dead.
Families around us grew.
My child was dead.
Children conceived after Peyton died had now outlived her, and yet, my child was still dead.
It is still hard for me to believe, sometimes, that I no longer live in that long gray fog that consumed the second year. At that time the world around me seemed to be moving at lightning speed, while our world, our tiny little corner of the universe, sat immobile - seemingly stuck on its axis unable to turn towards the sun.
And then, just like that, one day it did.
One day there was forward momentum, a feeling that had become so foreign a concept to me that I didn't know what to do with it.
In that moment we were afforded a new lease on life, and the blessing that this is has not been lost on me.
Peyton's third birthday is just a few mere months away, and I feel something shifting in me once again. For the first time, in a very long time, maybe ever, I find myself thinking of Peyton and smiling.
Not all the time of course, many memories of her still stir feelings of being robbed, scared, and heartbroken, but every once in a while an image of that little girl - so tiny, so brave - pops into my mind and I can see her lifting her sweet, perfectly round little head up off of my chest when we did skin to skin, and the corners of my lips turn upward in gratitude.
Yes, you read that right. Gratitude.
Peyton did something no one else in this world can ever undo.
She made me a mother, and through the aching, I can't help but to feel grateful for that.
She came into this broken world, loved me with a pure heart, and left so many gifts for me that I am still discovering them day by day.
Some have been easy to see - the friendships I have made within the BLM community. The connection I have been able to feel with my writing. The deep sense of empathy I feel for those who are hurting - and others have taken more time to fully grasp - like realizing how important it is to truly appreciate each and every day.
Even the tough days, because a tough day is just another chance to overcome something difficult, and discover something beautiful in its wake.
That little girl has enriched my world.
She has made colors crisper.
Experiences richer.
Meanings deeper.
Because of Peyton I appreciate what a gift it is to wake up each morning.
Because of Peyton I can feel the wind on my cheek and know that somewhere, somehow, in some way that I am too human to understand, we are sharing that moment.
Because of Peyton I truly, TRULY, know how lucky I am to be a mother.
I know what a gift it is to be exhausted from a sleepless night with the babies.
I know not to take for granted any moments with my children, even the challenging ones like those that I have faced in breastfeeding the twins.
That's not to say I don't ever moan or groan or feel sorry for myself about this or that, because I do, I am human, but usually, a beat or two behind whatever gripe I may be airing, I stop, think of that little girl and all that she has taught me, and that quickly puts things back into perspective.
Maybe everyone goes through this?
Maybe this, this feeling that I owe it to Peyton to live the life she wasn't afforded, is just another stage of grieving.
I don't know.
What I do know is that she can't laugh, so I feel that I owe it to her to fill my life with laughter
She can't have a family of her own, so I owe it to her to love mine with all of my heart.
She can't chase her dreams, so I owe it to her to never stop believing in mine.
As the poet Sascha says, I owe it to Peyton to do all these things "for the both of us."
I miss my daughter.
Nothing will ever, nothing can ever, change that.
I still have days where the tears come calling, but something inside of me is shifting.
I am coming to see that honoring Peyton is not equivalent to spending all of my life longing only for what I can never have.
I am coming to see that it honors her memory more to embrace and rejoice in all that I do.
****
This post is part of the StillLife With Circle's Right Where I Am Project. I'm about a month late to the party, but hey, better late than never.
****
Monday, March 28, 2011
Our new life...
The snowflakes are now three and a half weeks old. It is hard to explain how significantly our lives have changed in this span of time, one that has gone by in an instant, and dragged out due to exhaustion all at once, with building our home and our world around them. Things that once seemed important (getting to those bits of housework for instance) have fallen by the wayside, and instead have been replaced by 2AM feedings and skin on skin time and being stared up at by two sets of beautiful royal blue eyes. Eyes that are young, and innocent, and not at all "all knowing" like those that came before them were.
If I had written this post the first week, I wouldn't have noticed too many of the small joys of new parenthood. The exhaustion I felt from the anemia is something I can barely describe in words -like running in sand, or trying to breathe through a straw. I am grateful to be feeling a bit stronger in that regard with each passing day, and now that my energy levels are coming up, and my milk (Thank God!) has come in, the chaos that is my life raising newborn twins, and missing the older sister who should be here with them, has almost (dare I say it) started to settle into a routine. Well.. as routine as life without sleep can be, but in a good way.
I am no stranger to lack of sleep. Anyone who has read here for a while knows I am an insomniac, and have been since Peyton's passing, but this new lack of sleep - the wake up to change and feed and change and feed (and usually change again) is more physically, but far less mentally, exhausting than my nights have been these last few years, and for that I am grateful.
I used to wonder what I would do if the snowflakes arrived looking like Peyton. Now I have my answer. Our little K is so much her clone in looks that it threw me for a loop the first week or two. H, however, has a look all her own. I guess I am grateful that if one has to look like Peyton, it is K. I think seeing a little girl who so resembled her big sister would be hard on me.
We brought the babies up to Peyton's hill last week. It was a visit cut short by some not very nice weather, and paving happening at the entrance of the cemetery, but I felt it was important, to show them who she is, and to show her that she has not and never will be replaced or forgotten. I also wanted to go up there and offer her my gratitude, for the blessings and protection that I know she offered over her little siblings leading up to their safe arrival.
It's a funny thing, and one I know you have all read a million times on rainbow baby blogs, but I have to say, there is something so bitter sweet in seeing these babies do all that Peyton couldn't. This week they will have outlived their big sister, and while I am so grateful for all that they do, and the ways they thrive and grow and learn with each passing day, there is a part of me - the Peyton's mother part, that feels so sad for her and all that her siblings get to do, that she never was afforded the luxury of. Little things, like being looked at with eyes full of joy, rather than those of fear and sadness. I wish Peyton had been allowed so many things... and that's the reality of parenting a child gone too soon - no matter how full my heart and my life become I will never stop wishing for all that should have been for her.
If I had written this post the first week, I wouldn't have noticed too many of the small joys of new parenthood. The exhaustion I felt from the anemia is something I can barely describe in words -like running in sand, or trying to breathe through a straw. I am grateful to be feeling a bit stronger in that regard with each passing day, and now that my energy levels are coming up, and my milk (Thank God!) has come in, the chaos that is my life raising newborn twins, and missing the older sister who should be here with them, has almost (dare I say it) started to settle into a routine. Well.. as routine as life without sleep can be, but in a good way.
I am no stranger to lack of sleep. Anyone who has read here for a while knows I am an insomniac, and have been since Peyton's passing, but this new lack of sleep - the wake up to change and feed and change and feed (and usually change again) is more physically, but far less mentally, exhausting than my nights have been these last few years, and for that I am grateful.
I used to wonder what I would do if the snowflakes arrived looking like Peyton. Now I have my answer. Our little K is so much her clone in looks that it threw me for a loop the first week or two. H, however, has a look all her own. I guess I am grateful that if one has to look like Peyton, it is K. I think seeing a little girl who so resembled her big sister would be hard on me.
We brought the babies up to Peyton's hill last week. It was a visit cut short by some not very nice weather, and paving happening at the entrance of the cemetery, but I felt it was important, to show them who she is, and to show her that she has not and never will be replaced or forgotten. I also wanted to go up there and offer her my gratitude, for the blessings and protection that I know she offered over her little siblings leading up to their safe arrival.
It's a funny thing, and one I know you have all read a million times on rainbow baby blogs, but I have to say, there is something so bitter sweet in seeing these babies do all that Peyton couldn't. This week they will have outlived their big sister, and while I am so grateful for all that they do, and the ways they thrive and grow and learn with each passing day, there is a part of me - the Peyton's mother part, that feels so sad for her and all that her siblings get to do, that she never was afforded the luxury of. Little things, like being looked at with eyes full of joy, rather than those of fear and sadness. I wish Peyton had been allowed so many things... and that's the reality of parenting a child gone too soon - no matter how full my heart and my life become I will never stop wishing for all that should have been for her.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
36 Weeks Today
I am 36 weeks along today.
Almost there...
Almost there...
Both excitement and anxiety are running high, and also, in a very strange way, being this close to delivery feels surreal. That's something I can't quite figure out, since we have been trying to bring home healthy babies since first getting pregnant in 2007, but surreal is the only word I could put to adequately describe this feeling.
* We * Are * So * Close *
I am attaching my latest belly pics. As always, here is a little space for those of you who stumbled onto this post and want to avoid possible triggers...
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Almost there...
Almost there...
Dear God, universe, etc. - please bring these babies to us healthy and whole and happy. Please keep them that way so we can watch them grow and learn and love. Please allow us to be what we have striven to be for the last 4 years - a normal, healthy family.
Both excitement and anxiety are running high, and also, in a very strange way, being this close to delivery feels surreal. That's something I can't quite figure out, since we have been trying to bring home healthy babies since first getting pregnant in 2007, but surreal is the only word I could put to adequately describe this feeling.
* We * Are * So * Close *
I am attaching my latest belly pics. As always, here is a little space for those of you who stumbled onto this post and want to avoid possible triggers...
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Monday, January 17, 2011
Letters From Heaven
My mother has a friend who claims to get messages from the dead.
Yes, you read that right.
I know.
When you start a post with a sentence like that, you sort of have to expect that half of your readers are going to roll their eyes and click elsewhere.
I don't know this friend well. In fact, I think we may have only met in person once. She started calling my mother shortly after Peyton died to say that she had received a message for me and my mom would take it down and bring it on her next visit, at which point I would just sort of shrug it off as someone trying to offer me some comfort and move on.
Some people believe in spirits.
Some don't.
Some believe their children become angels who reside in the heavens. Some see them in the beauty of nature. Others believe that death is the end, and there is nothing beyond it.
I believe that Peyton's spirit lives on. I believe this because I feel it. I feel her. There is something uniquely Peyton that washes over me from time to time, and I know in my heart that she is in that place you go when you leave this world, nudging me along and offering me comfort.
In the early months after Peyton died, I thought I was losing it.
Legitimately.
I thought that having this child ripped from my body then thrown in the earth was going to be the end for me. One day I was downstairs, taking out my anger and sorrow on the elliptical machine, and I lost track of time. When I emerged from the basement, the daylight had gotten away from me, and walking upstairs, my heart caught in my throat at the realization that the house had gone dark.
I hate walking into dark rooms.
All was blackness around me, with the exception of a small stream of light coming from our dining room. I hadn't been in that room for weeks. It had become a dumping grounds of sorts for all of the condolence cards, and items from the hospital, and when I couldn't figure out what to do with either, I flipped off the lights and didn't return.
Coming up from the basement, I found myself drawn toward the light, and wondering about its origin. I discovered that it was coming from our hutch. It was shining on a small white box -the box of her things that the hospital had given us - her hand prints in plaster- a lock of her sandy brown hair. An entire life packaged into a container far too small to hold a pair of shoes.
What I found particularly odd about the situation was that the light that was shining on Peyton's things requires for you to physically walk over and touch an area of the hutch to turn it on. I hadn't, but I felt in my heart that I knew who had, and a sense of peace washed over me.
I told hubs about this little moment that I had had with Peyton, and the light, and he sort of discounted it as another wacky behavior from his grieving wife. He checked my forehead for a fever, told me I looked like I could use some rest, and reassured me that it must have been something to do with our electric.
A few days later, I was walking up to our bedroom. There is a picture of Peyton on the nightstand, with a flashlight beside it. I keep the flashlight there because I am a terrible insomniac, and rather than wake hubs up with a lamp, the flashlight offers me enough light to read. When I walked into the bedroom, the flashlight was flashing. On. Off. On. Off. casting it's beam against her photograph. I am not gonna lie, the sight of it really had me sort of freaked out. I called to hubs (knowing he would never believe me on this otherwise) and he came running upstairs to see what had happened. The flashlight, which was a good 10 feet away from either of us, continued flashing against her picture.
Hubs was stopped in his tracks.
A light on a hutch being turned on, he could make sense of. A flashlight flashing on and off with no explanation - not so much.
It was a few days later when my mother called to tell me that her friend had "received" a message from Peyton. I sort of rolled my eyes, but listened anyway. "Okay mom," I said, "what did Peyton say in her message this time?" My mom went to reading what she had written down, and I felt myself go white. The message read:
I hadn't told my mother yet about the light in the hutch, nor had I told her about Peyton fooling with the flashlight, but reading "Twinkle. Twinkle." in the message, I knew exactly what Peyton was referring to.
On a seperate occasion, I had gone to Peyton's hill with my father to plant some flowers. On a whim, we decided to collect rocks and make them into the shape of a heart, planting the flowers within them. Later my mother told me she had received a call from her friend with a new message from Peyton. It read:
I asked my mother if she had told her friend about the garden my father and I had created, and she told me that my asking this was the first she had heard of it. My dad had never brought up the fact that we made the garden into the shape of heart.
There have been several more messages that Peyton has sent to this women since her passing. Some that seem to make sense or bring us peace:
And others that seem to have no significance, and leave us scratching our heads:
This weekend, I was sitting in the room that will become the snowflakes' nursery, doing a good job of directing hubs around the room to pack things away to be moved into my writing space, when I came across a few of the notes that my mother's friend had sent with messages from Peyton written on them. I was reading them aloud to hubs, and we were laughing at some of them, and finding meaning in others. Finally I came to the last note we had received.
It was from late last year - a time that was difficult for us. We were struggling with infertility, had not yet been diagnosed with blocked tubes, and had no idea that IVF was in our future. This message at the time had seemed the most bizarre and out there yet, and I tossed it aside, thinking myself a fool for ever having found meaning in any of them.
This weekend, however, when I read it back again, this ridiculous little note suddenly didn't feel so ridiculous anymore. It read:
"The twins!" I said, as if truly reading the note for the first time. "Twice baked potatoes - she was talking about the twins. She knew before we knew."
"Maybe," hubs said, raising an eyebrow and smiling.
Maybe indeed.
Yes, you read that right.
I know.
When you start a post with a sentence like that, you sort of have to expect that half of your readers are going to roll their eyes and click elsewhere.
I don't know this friend well. In fact, I think we may have only met in person once. She started calling my mother shortly after Peyton died to say that she had received a message for me and my mom would take it down and bring it on her next visit, at which point I would just sort of shrug it off as someone trying to offer me some comfort and move on.
Some people believe in spirits.
Some don't.
Some believe their children become angels who reside in the heavens. Some see them in the beauty of nature. Others believe that death is the end, and there is nothing beyond it.
I believe that Peyton's spirit lives on. I believe this because I feel it. I feel her. There is something uniquely Peyton that washes over me from time to time, and I know in my heart that she is in that place you go when you leave this world, nudging me along and offering me comfort.
In the early months after Peyton died, I thought I was losing it.
Legitimately.
I thought that having this child ripped from my body then thrown in the earth was going to be the end for me. One day I was downstairs, taking out my anger and sorrow on the elliptical machine, and I lost track of time. When I emerged from the basement, the daylight had gotten away from me, and walking upstairs, my heart caught in my throat at the realization that the house had gone dark.
I hate walking into dark rooms.
All was blackness around me, with the exception of a small stream of light coming from our dining room. I hadn't been in that room for weeks. It had become a dumping grounds of sorts for all of the condolence cards, and items from the hospital, and when I couldn't figure out what to do with either, I flipped off the lights and didn't return.
Coming up from the basement, I found myself drawn toward the light, and wondering about its origin. I discovered that it was coming from our hutch. It was shining on a small white box -the box of her things that the hospital had given us - her hand prints in plaster- a lock of her sandy brown hair. An entire life packaged into a container far too small to hold a pair of shoes.
What I found particularly odd about the situation was that the light that was shining on Peyton's things requires for you to physically walk over and touch an area of the hutch to turn it on. I hadn't, but I felt in my heart that I knew who had, and a sense of peace washed over me.
I told hubs about this little moment that I had had with Peyton, and the light, and he sort of discounted it as another wacky behavior from his grieving wife. He checked my forehead for a fever, told me I looked like I could use some rest, and reassured me that it must have been something to do with our electric.
A few days later, I was walking up to our bedroom. There is a picture of Peyton on the nightstand, with a flashlight beside it. I keep the flashlight there because I am a terrible insomniac, and rather than wake hubs up with a lamp, the flashlight offers me enough light to read. When I walked into the bedroom, the flashlight was flashing. On. Off. On. Off. casting it's beam against her photograph. I am not gonna lie, the sight of it really had me sort of freaked out. I called to hubs (knowing he would never believe me on this otherwise) and he came running upstairs to see what had happened. The flashlight, which was a good 10 feet away from either of us, continued flashing against her picture.
Hubs was stopped in his tracks.
A light on a hutch being turned on, he could make sense of. A flashlight flashing on and off with no explanation - not so much.
It was a few days later when my mother called to tell me that her friend had "received" a message from Peyton. I sort of rolled my eyes, but listened anyway. "Okay mom," I said, "what did Peyton say in her message this time?" My mom went to reading what she had written down, and I felt myself go white. The message read:
"Laughter is needed to fill our hearts. Twinkle. Twinkle."
I hadn't told my mother yet about the light in the hutch, nor had I told her about Peyton fooling with the flashlight, but reading "Twinkle. Twinkle." in the message, I knew exactly what Peyton was referring to.
On a seperate occasion, I had gone to Peyton's hill with my father to plant some flowers. On a whim, we decided to collect rocks and make them into the shape of a heart, planting the flowers within them. Later my mother told me she had received a call from her friend with a new message from Peyton. It read:
"Tell my mommy and daddy I can see heart flower."
I asked my mother if she had told her friend about the garden my father and I had created, and she told me that my asking this was the first she had heard of it. My dad had never brought up the fact that we made the garden into the shape of heart.
There have been several more messages that Peyton has sent to this women since her passing. Some that seem to make sense or bring us peace:
"Tell them I have so much love tucked into my heart,
because we will always be together."
because we will always be together."
And others that seem to have no significance, and leave us scratching our heads:
"Tell them I love pickle ice cream."
This weekend, I was sitting in the room that will become the snowflakes' nursery, doing a good job of directing hubs around the room to pack things away to be moved into my writing space, when I came across a few of the notes that my mother's friend had sent with messages from Peyton written on them. I was reading them aloud to hubs, and we were laughing at some of them, and finding meaning in others. Finally I came to the last note we had received.
It was from late last year - a time that was difficult for us. We were struggling with infertility, had not yet been diagnosed with blocked tubes, and had no idea that IVF was in our future. This message at the time had seemed the most bizarre and out there yet, and I tossed it aside, thinking myself a fool for ever having found meaning in any of them.
This weekend, however, when I read it back again, this ridiculous little note suddenly didn't feel so ridiculous anymore. It read:
"Twice baked potatoes can be very, very good."
"The twins!" I said, as if truly reading the note for the first time. "Twice baked potatoes - she was talking about the twins. She knew before we knew."
"Maybe," hubs said, raising an eyebrow and smiling.
Maybe indeed.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Missing and Growing...
I miss Peyton's hill... a lot.
I miss talking to her.
I miss feeling her near me.
I miss breathing in the air up there and being inspired to write.
I miss the cold snap of wind against my cheeks as I ask her to send mommy a little warmth and sunshine.
I miss watching the hawks, and the eagles soar overhead.
I miss telling her about the animals that have left tracks in the snow.
I miss finding moments of animation among the stillness.
I miss closing my eyes and tapping my chest the way I would her back when she was in my arms.
I miss singing songs to the quiet air - "You Are My Sunshine," "Smile Awhile," and "Oh Dunderbeck."
I miss feeling that she could hear me singing these songs.
I miss these moments which are the only ones I have left to mother her through.
I miss her.
I can handle the boredom, and the redundancy of bedrest.
I can handle feeling trapped in my home.
I can handle so many things.
What is hardest for me to handle is the way this has kept me from her.
I hate knowing she is up there, covered in snow, and there is nothing I can do to clear her space.
I went from visiting her every single day for over a year and a half, to seeing her only a handful of times this entire pregnancy.
You have not been forgotten little girl.
You have not been replaced.
You never will be.
****POSSIBLE TRIGGER POST****
The remainder of this post talks about the Snowflakes, my pregnancy, and also shows some belly pictures. I know how painful this can be for some of you, and as always, am placing some space here for anyone who wants to avoid such triggers.
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Just a little Snowflakes update here.
I am 31 weeks 2 days and feeling every bit of it - in great ways of course. There has been a ton of movement - and these little ones have developed the ability to hiccup over the last week or so, which can be pretty entertaining. I feel a lot of pressure lately, and am completely exhausted. I have read about the "brick wall" that you can hit in the final trimester, and don't really remember that with Peyton, but carrying two has proved to be a much different game, and my energy is just tapped out. Breathing has become a bit of a challenge, especially at night. I think that as the day progresses, and my body fills with fluid etc, the babies put more of a strain on my lungs. I am not sure what can be done for this, so I switch positions a great deal in an effort to get some sleep. I usually get a few hour clips at a time. I like to think of it as practice, this insomnia just preparing me for life with two newborn babies at home.
I was supposed to go for a growth ultrasound tomorrow, but it was cancelled due to the horrific weather we are expecting here in the Northeast. That's alright though. Better safe than sorry, and the appointment has been rescheduled for Thursday instead. I am anxious to see how the babies have grown. All along our little boy, Baby A, has been measuring large. At our appointment around 27 weeks, he was already estimated at 2 lbs 12 oz, which put him in the 93rd percentile. Our little girl, Baby B, was measuring 2 lbs 9 oz, which placed her around the 50th percentile. They say that at this point, the babies grow about a half a pound a week, so judging by the fact that nearly 4 weeks have passed since that last scan, and the plethora of new stretch marks that have made an appearance as of late, I feel pretty confident these little ones are keeping that pace up and will be around the 4 lb mark when I go in next.
This is all great news, of course, since the SCH that has had me on bedrest for the last 130 days, also puts me at a heightened risk for preterm labor. The bigger these babies are, should they decide to make an early appearance, the better! Of course I don't want them to come early. I want them in there and cooking for as long as is best for them. If my uterus holds out until 38 weeks, the doctors will insist upon a c-section (which is an experience I would really rather not repeat) so I am just praying that they decide to come on their own around week 37.
For those of you who have asked about names - we don't have any picked out as of yet. We have a list, a very LONG list, that I am hoping to have narrowed down soon. It is proving harder to name two than we expected. Hubs and I don't agree on many names, so our search for the right ones has been an interesting experience.
For those who would like to see, here are the latest belly shots from 30 weeks. As always, your continued prayers for the Snowflakes' safe and healthy arrival are much appreciated.
I miss talking to her.
I miss feeling her near me.
I miss breathing in the air up there and being inspired to write.
I miss the cold snap of wind against my cheeks as I ask her to send mommy a little warmth and sunshine.
I miss watching the hawks, and the eagles soar overhead.
I miss telling her about the animals that have left tracks in the snow.
I miss finding moments of animation among the stillness.
I miss closing my eyes and tapping my chest the way I would her back when she was in my arms.
I miss singing songs to the quiet air - "You Are My Sunshine," "Smile Awhile," and "Oh Dunderbeck."
I miss feeling that she could hear me singing these songs.
I miss these moments which are the only ones I have left to mother her through.
I miss her.
I can handle the boredom, and the redundancy of bedrest.
I can handle feeling trapped in my home.
I can handle so many things.
What is hardest for me to handle is the way this has kept me from her.
I hate knowing she is up there, covered in snow, and there is nothing I can do to clear her space.
I went from visiting her every single day for over a year and a half, to seeing her only a handful of times this entire pregnancy.
You have not been forgotten little girl.
You have not been replaced.
You never will be.
****POSSIBLE TRIGGER POST****
The remainder of this post talks about the Snowflakes, my pregnancy, and also shows some belly pictures. I know how painful this can be for some of you, and as always, am placing some space here for anyone who wants to avoid such triggers.
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*
Just a little Snowflakes update here.
I am 31 weeks 2 days and feeling every bit of it - in great ways of course. There has been a ton of movement - and these little ones have developed the ability to hiccup over the last week or so, which can be pretty entertaining. I feel a lot of pressure lately, and am completely exhausted. I have read about the "brick wall" that you can hit in the final trimester, and don't really remember that with Peyton, but carrying two has proved to be a much different game, and my energy is just tapped out. Breathing has become a bit of a challenge, especially at night. I think that as the day progresses, and my body fills with fluid etc, the babies put more of a strain on my lungs. I am not sure what can be done for this, so I switch positions a great deal in an effort to get some sleep. I usually get a few hour clips at a time. I like to think of it as practice, this insomnia just preparing me for life with two newborn babies at home.
I was supposed to go for a growth ultrasound tomorrow, but it was cancelled due to the horrific weather we are expecting here in the Northeast. That's alright though. Better safe than sorry, and the appointment has been rescheduled for Thursday instead. I am anxious to see how the babies have grown. All along our little boy, Baby A, has been measuring large. At our appointment around 27 weeks, he was already estimated at 2 lbs 12 oz, which put him in the 93rd percentile. Our little girl, Baby B, was measuring 2 lbs 9 oz, which placed her around the 50th percentile. They say that at this point, the babies grow about a half a pound a week, so judging by the fact that nearly 4 weeks have passed since that last scan, and the plethora of new stretch marks that have made an appearance as of late, I feel pretty confident these little ones are keeping that pace up and will be around the 4 lb mark when I go in next.
This is all great news, of course, since the SCH that has had me on bedrest for the last 130 days, also puts me at a heightened risk for preterm labor. The bigger these babies are, should they decide to make an early appearance, the better! Of course I don't want them to come early. I want them in there and cooking for as long as is best for them. If my uterus holds out until 38 weeks, the doctors will insist upon a c-section (which is an experience I would really rather not repeat) so I am just praying that they decide to come on their own around week 37.
For those of you who have asked about names - we don't have any picked out as of yet. We have a list, a very LONG list, that I am hoping to have narrowed down soon. It is proving harder to name two than we expected. Hubs and I don't agree on many names, so our search for the right ones has been an interesting experience.
For those who would like to see, here are the latest belly shots from 30 weeks. As always, your continued prayers for the Snowflakes' safe and healthy arrival are much appreciated.
Monday, December 20, 2010
"What Is" - A different kind of Christmas
Three years ago, on Christmas Eve 2007, I first learned that I was pregnant with Peyton. Ecstatic, I came bounding up the stairs, test in hand, to show hubs the result, and had shaken the thing so violently in my excitement that it had cleared the screen. "Look" I screamed, shoving the stick into his face. Hubs, not yet ready to greet the day, peered with one eye at what I was holding and said, "What am I looking at? It's blank." I ran back downstairs, chugged a glass of water, and tested again, this time tip toeing my way back up to him. This test had confirmed what the first had told me - our life was about to change - we were going to have a baby. We announced our pregnancy with Peyton to my family that night, while seated at Christmas Eve dinner.
Two years ago, on Christmas Eve 2008, we spent the holiday grieving our daughter. Peyton had passed less than two months prior, and most things about that year are a blur. I remember not wanting to remember. I remember staring at the tree, and the gifts, and feeling miserable. My family, not really knowing what to do with us that Christmas, did their best to help us get through it. We poured some strong drinks to forget, and sang a lot of terrible karaoke. We have never sang karaoke on Christmas before - my family is more the traditional read out of the bible and sing Christmas Carols type. At certain points during the night I escaped up the stairs to a bedroom or a bathroom and I cried and cried because my child was dead. My body, still swollen from carrying her, was a reminder of all that was missing that Christmas. It felt impossible to survive. We went to mass that night and sat in the front row. People all around me sang "Joy to the World," and praised the birth of Jesus. I sat, hovered over the pew, and sobbed. I couldn't care who saw me that Christmas. I couldn't care if my tears on this joyous occasion were hard for them. My daughter was dead and I was in a service proclaiming and celebrating the birth of a child. That Christmas I fell to depths that didn't feel possible to break free of.
Last year on Christmas Eve 2009, hubs and I again spent the holiday with my family. We had been trying since July/August for another baby without success. My OB kept telling me my infertility was my own fault - that the depth of my grief made conceiving impossible. We attended an earlier mass last year, a children's mass. If you are having trouble TTC and grieving the loss of your child, attending the children's mass at Christmas is about as joyful as sticking a poker into your eye. My nephew Dylan, just a month old at the time (and already old enough to have outlived his cousin) was swaddled across my sister's chest. I remember leaning into hub's ear at that mass, pointing to Dylan and saying, "by this time next year let's have one of those. Let's really do this." I believed that since my doctor told me that our infertility was my fault, there had to be a way for me to fix it. I believed that I could give this beautiful gift of a child to my husband. Hubs smiled, and squeezed my hand three times, the way he always does to say "I love you," and a glimmer of hope returned to our hearts. Four days later, as I lay alone on a cold steel table in the hospital, a doctor told me that my tubes had been destroyed by my c-section and I would never again conceive on my own. That pledge that I had made "to have one of those by this time next year," was no longer a possibility. We were devastated.
Christmas Eve 2010 is fast approaching. I have spent much of this month sort of ignorant to how quickly it would be upon us. Bed rest makes that easy. I don't have a TV in my room so I haven't seen the Christmas movies and Holiday Special lineup that usually take over this time of year. Outside we have a slight layer of snow, but nothing that screams "It's the end of December. Get ready!" We haven't even put up a tree. It seemed a terrible waste of time, since no one would be downstairs to enjoy it. Our shopping is done, but has been for some time now, since I started doing it online the first month of my rest. I am not even sure that I will be allowed to attend mass this year. Nothing about this Christmas feels familiar, and maybe that is a good thing, because to feel familiar would mean it would be reminiscent of the last three Christmases, and those are days I would like to put out of my mind altogether.
I am hoping that this year I feel at peace, and can feel Peyton's presence with me. She is mentioned to us less and less, even by those that we know love and miss her, and I hate that. Sometimes I think people think that in mentioning her to us they are reminding us of something, but what they don't get is that we always miss her, and always will. Not mentioning Peyton just makes us feel more alone in that. Her absence makes her no less our child. Just as these Snowflakes are so loved and so wanted, so our first sweet daughter always will be.
I guess this is the start of a different kind of Christmas. One that I never could have expected for myself, or planned on. This is the start of walking the line. I feel such joy and gratitude at the impending births of these little ones, and at the same time feel such sadness at what can never be with Peyton, and I think it will just always be like that. Time can pass. Our lives can experience many blessings. The holidays can be joyous once again, but the fact of the matter is that she will always be gone, and we will always miss her. I think if I spend my life waiting to feel better about that, or others spend theirs waiting for us to "move on," there will just be a lot of disappointment.
Life without all of your children present is what it is.
I have been thinking about how different this Christmas would feel, were Peyton here to experience it. I imagine how excited she would be, because this year she would really "get it" for the first time. I go down that road sometimes, because it is so easy to get caught up in the "what could have been," but I have come to realize that to survive this, we have to shift our focus to "what is."
For me, "what is" is my belief that Peyton's soul did not cease existing the day she passed. I don't know how it could have with all the messages and signs of comfort that she has brought to us and those we love since she left this world.
For me, "what is" is a belief in the possibility that just as I am imagining what Peyton would be doing were she alive - twirling and playing in the snow, looking up in awe at the lights and the tree, she is somewhere, some place far beyond my realm of human understanding doing just these things.
For me, "what is" is a belief that just as I feel the warmth and reassurance of Peyton's love ever present within me, she too is warmed by the love of a mother and father who have never let her wander far from their thoughts or their hearts, and never will.
For me, "what is" is a belief that though we have been met with heartache after heartache in our quest to have a child, there is a possibility, and a very good one at that, that our little Snowflakes will be here in a few months time, healthy and happy.
For me, this Christmas has to be about "what is," because it is only in accepting "what is" that I can find some peace with it.
This song is for you my sweet little Peyton.
(be sure to pause the player in the right toolbar before hitting play on this video)
Two years ago, on Christmas Eve 2008, we spent the holiday grieving our daughter. Peyton had passed less than two months prior, and most things about that year are a blur. I remember not wanting to remember. I remember staring at the tree, and the gifts, and feeling miserable. My family, not really knowing what to do with us that Christmas, did their best to help us get through it. We poured some strong drinks to forget, and sang a lot of terrible karaoke. We have never sang karaoke on Christmas before - my family is more the traditional read out of the bible and sing Christmas Carols type. At certain points during the night I escaped up the stairs to a bedroom or a bathroom and I cried and cried because my child was dead. My body, still swollen from carrying her, was a reminder of all that was missing that Christmas. It felt impossible to survive. We went to mass that night and sat in the front row. People all around me sang "Joy to the World," and praised the birth of Jesus. I sat, hovered over the pew, and sobbed. I couldn't care who saw me that Christmas. I couldn't care if my tears on this joyous occasion were hard for them. My daughter was dead and I was in a service proclaiming and celebrating the birth of a child. That Christmas I fell to depths that didn't feel possible to break free of.
Last year on Christmas Eve 2009, hubs and I again spent the holiday with my family. We had been trying since July/August for another baby without success. My OB kept telling me my infertility was my own fault - that the depth of my grief made conceiving impossible. We attended an earlier mass last year, a children's mass. If you are having trouble TTC and grieving the loss of your child, attending the children's mass at Christmas is about as joyful as sticking a poker into your eye. My nephew Dylan, just a month old at the time (and already old enough to have outlived his cousin) was swaddled across my sister's chest. I remember leaning into hub's ear at that mass, pointing to Dylan and saying, "by this time next year let's have one of those. Let's really do this." I believed that since my doctor told me that our infertility was my fault, there had to be a way for me to fix it. I believed that I could give this beautiful gift of a child to my husband. Hubs smiled, and squeezed my hand three times, the way he always does to say "I love you," and a glimmer of hope returned to our hearts. Four days later, as I lay alone on a cold steel table in the hospital, a doctor told me that my tubes had been destroyed by my c-section and I would never again conceive on my own. That pledge that I had made "to have one of those by this time next year," was no longer a possibility. We were devastated.
Christmas Eve 2010 is fast approaching. I have spent much of this month sort of ignorant to how quickly it would be upon us. Bed rest makes that easy. I don't have a TV in my room so I haven't seen the Christmas movies and Holiday Special lineup that usually take over this time of year. Outside we have a slight layer of snow, but nothing that screams "It's the end of December. Get ready!" We haven't even put up a tree. It seemed a terrible waste of time, since no one would be downstairs to enjoy it. Our shopping is done, but has been for some time now, since I started doing it online the first month of my rest. I am not even sure that I will be allowed to attend mass this year. Nothing about this Christmas feels familiar, and maybe that is a good thing, because to feel familiar would mean it would be reminiscent of the last three Christmases, and those are days I would like to put out of my mind altogether.
I am hoping that this year I feel at peace, and can feel Peyton's presence with me. She is mentioned to us less and less, even by those that we know love and miss her, and I hate that. Sometimes I think people think that in mentioning her to us they are reminding us of something, but what they don't get is that we always miss her, and always will. Not mentioning Peyton just makes us feel more alone in that. Her absence makes her no less our child. Just as these Snowflakes are so loved and so wanted, so our first sweet daughter always will be.
I guess this is the start of a different kind of Christmas. One that I never could have expected for myself, or planned on. This is the start of walking the line. I feel such joy and gratitude at the impending births of these little ones, and at the same time feel such sadness at what can never be with Peyton, and I think it will just always be like that. Time can pass. Our lives can experience many blessings. The holidays can be joyous once again, but the fact of the matter is that she will always be gone, and we will always miss her. I think if I spend my life waiting to feel better about that, or others spend theirs waiting for us to "move on," there will just be a lot of disappointment.
Life without all of your children present is what it is.
I have been thinking about how different this Christmas would feel, were Peyton here to experience it. I imagine how excited she would be, because this year she would really "get it" for the first time. I go down that road sometimes, because it is so easy to get caught up in the "what could have been," but I have come to realize that to survive this, we have to shift our focus to "what is."
For me, "what is" is my belief that Peyton's soul did not cease existing the day she passed. I don't know how it could have with all the messages and signs of comfort that she has brought to us and those we love since she left this world.
For me, "what is" is a belief in the possibility that just as I am imagining what Peyton would be doing were she alive - twirling and playing in the snow, looking up in awe at the lights and the tree, she is somewhere, some place far beyond my realm of human understanding doing just these things.
For me, "what is" is a belief that just as I feel the warmth and reassurance of Peyton's love ever present within me, she too is warmed by the love of a mother and father who have never let her wander far from their thoughts or their hearts, and never will.
For me, "what is" is a belief that though we have been met with heartache after heartache in our quest to have a child, there is a possibility, and a very good one at that, that our little Snowflakes will be here in a few months time, healthy and happy.
For me, this Christmas has to be about "what is," because it is only in accepting "what is" that I can find some peace with it.
This song is for you my sweet little Peyton.
(be sure to pause the player in the right toolbar before hitting play on this video)
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
On Blessings and Gratitude This Thanksgiving
I am blessed to share my life and love with an amazing husband...
who is also my best friend...
and an incredible father.
I am blessed to know what no one else in this world knows -
what it is to be this little girl's mother.
I know how it felt to be looked at with those sparkly blue eyes...
and the warmth that came in holding
her close and being the recipient of her unguarded love.
As well as the great gift that comes with feeling her all around me,
even though she has gone.
I am blessed to have the the loyalty and love
of a very special pup who came along at just the right time,
and has done wonders to bring healing into my heart.
This Thanksgiving I feel especially blessed and grateful
that what we were once told was impossible has come to be,
and a renewed sense of hope and promise has re-entered our lives.
 |
| Baby A - Boy |
 |
| Baby B - girl And then there is the unyielding support of my friends, family, and this community who have celebrated with us in triumph, and stood arm and arm with us in our sorrow. There are no words for what this has meant to me. |
When you live on this side of the loss and infertility universe, and trudge through your days in that old pair of shoes that we never imagined ourselves wearing, it is so easy to focus only on what is missing.
No one is more guilty of this than me.
But there are blessings.
Even in the moments along this journey where the road seems too hard, and the future feels full of impossibilities, there are always blessings to be felt and found. If last Thanksgiving I could have seen what this Thanksgiving would hold, I never would have been able to believe it. Joy felt impossible.
Even in the moments along this journey where the road seems too hard, and the future feels full of impossibilities, there are always blessings to be felt and found. If last Thanksgiving I could have seen what this Thanksgiving would hold, I never would have been able to believe it. Joy felt impossible.
But this year, despite the unending grief and sense of loss that I will always feel for Peyton, and despite the high risk nature of my pregnancy with the Snowflakes, and the bedrest, and the health issues, I can't help but to feel truly blessed.
And that is my wish for each and every one of you - a day where your heart feels full of blessings and peace. And if tomorrow that still feels impossible - hold out hope. There is no telling what seemingly impossible things the days between this Thanksgiving and the next will bring.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Monday, November 22, 2010
Sometimes it feels like I just can't win.
Ever hear that saying, "you're damned if you do, you're damned if you don't"?
That should be my mantra.
Last week I didn't feel well. I had a terrible headache and kept breaking out into cold sweats one minute, and hot flashes the next. I felt just awful, but never developed a fever, nor did hubs pick anything up from me, so I chocked it up to hormones.
My folks had been planning to visit last weekend but I told them not too because of how I had been feeling. On Saturday, after watching me change my shirt for the umpteenth time, hubs suggested we go for a little drive. He thought the fresh air would do me some good, and I agreed. I have been inside for so long (this Saturday will be three months of bedrest) that I swear I am becoming translucent. I was looking at my feet yesterday and could see my veins through my skin. Hubs joked that I looked like a vampire.
Anyway, we started out on our little adventure of driving to nowhere, and after about 20 minutes, and quite a few turns, I realized that we were in the neighborhood of a few dear friends N & J. I told hubs to turn down their street, and when we did, we saw them standing outside. It was really wonderful to see them. I haven't seen hardly anyone these last three months because of the bedrest, and the few times people have visited I either A) find myself so excited for the company that I overdue it or B) feel so embarrassed to be laying in bed with visitors, that I have sort of opted to just keep people away altogether.
We got out of the car for a quick bit and gave our friends a hug. They invited us in, but after one step inside I felt like I was overheating (not because of their house, because of hormones) and retreated back to my semi reclined position in the car. N stood with me talking, while her husband J showed my hubs some work he was doing in their house. We visited a few minutes longer, catching up on what we had been up to (I obviously have not been up to much) gave each other a hug and a kiss goodbye, and headed home.
This is where the "damned if you do, damned if you don't" piece comes into play.
Last night I was on Facebook and saw that N had posted a status saying she had body aches, chills, a sore throat, and a fever of 102. The poor thing had been laid up in bed since that morning. This is when it dawned on me, N was sick when I saw her, she just hadn't been showing any symptoms yet - great!
I called the OB on call to say that I had been around someone just hours before they had come down with a high fever, and to see if I should do anything. I was thinking Tylenol as a preventative for fever - something along those lines. Anyone who has read this blog for any length of time knows that I am not one who takes putting anything unnatural into my body lightly (only organic foods, nothing with artificial dyes or preservatives, no aluminum in my deodorant etc etc) so even to suggest Tylenol was a big step for me. The OB wanted to know what symptoms N had, and when I told him, he asked if I had gotten a flu shot.
I hadn't.
Why, some might ask, would a person in a high risk pregnancy opt out of getting the flu shot when she will be pregnant throughout the height of the flu season?
It's a fair question. I will do my best to answer it.
For one, I had taken the flu shot about four years back and had a terrible reaction that led to me being laid up in bed for a week with flu like symptoms. Also, no thimerosal (mercury) free shots are available near me, and the thought of injecting myself with something while pregnant just freaks me out. Lastly, and for me this was the biggest factor in making my decision - I have been on bedrest for the last three months and am never around anyone but hubs who got the shot so as to prevent bringing anything home from his work. Seeing so few people I didn't think I was really at risk.
I guess the joke's on me.
Explaining why I hadn't gotten the shot, the OB expressed his dissatisfaction with the decision I had made. He told me about a pregnant patient of his who had gotten the flu the year before and fell into a coma and nearly died. He said that even now, nearly a year later, she was still working to recover.
Nothing like a scary pregnant woman in a coma story to make you feel like an idiot.
I don't know that N has the flu. I don't actually know what she has, she isn't going to the doctor unless it gets worse, but based on her symptoms the OB told me I needed to get on Tamiflu right away as a preventative measure. He said that if taken within 48 hours of exposure, the drug would lessen my symptoms were I to get the flu. I asked him if it was safe, and he said it was safer than getting the flu. This can be dangerous for any pregnant woman, but compounded with the cardiac issues that have been complicating this pregnancy, it gets a little trickier.
At this point in the conversation, I was ready to cry. That's not saying much, I cry a lot these days - hormones, but I was ready to cry anyway. It was all I could do not to break down in tears right there on the phone. (I did break down after I hung up - like a baby - to my sister who assured me that I was not an idiot, nor was I going to end up in a coma. Thank God for sisters!)
The OB told me he wanted my husband to go out last night (at this point it was around 11PM) and pick up the Tamiflu. When I explained that we live in a rural town with no 24 hours pharmacy, he said I could wait till the morning, but needed to get the pills started right away.
So I went this morning and got my pills - asked the pharmacist her opinion on the safety of these Class C drugs, to which she said that my doctor must think the benefits outweigh the risks enough to make it worthwhile, and came back home. I took the first pill around lunchtime, and have felt uneasy about it ever since.
The pamphlet states that it is not recommended to take Tamiflu while pregnant, and there was some study where rats given high doses had adverse fetal affects. I consulted Dr. Google and Babycenter, but found no real comfort there - for every ten stories of women saying they had taken it and been fine, there would be one posted about a woman who was 20 odd weeks along, took the drug and lost her baby. Did she lose her baby because of taking Tamiflu - there is no way for me to know. Do stories like that scare the shit out of this pregnant after loss momma - absolutely!
So there you have it. I feel like I can't win.
I keep people away for months, just to finally see someone who winds up sick the next morning.
I avoid getting the flu shot because I think I am doing the right thing in protecting my babies, only to have to take some antiviral drug that no one seems to have any real answers about.
And now I have to take a drug that I don't feel comfortable with, because stories of "otherwise healthy pregnant women" dying or falling into comas from the flu have me too scared to think straight.
Damned if I do.
Damned if I don't.
****
Anyone out there ever take Tamiflu while pregnant and have a good outcome?
That should be my mantra.
Last week I didn't feel well. I had a terrible headache and kept breaking out into cold sweats one minute, and hot flashes the next. I felt just awful, but never developed a fever, nor did hubs pick anything up from me, so I chocked it up to hormones.
My folks had been planning to visit last weekend but I told them not too because of how I had been feeling. On Saturday, after watching me change my shirt for the umpteenth time, hubs suggested we go for a little drive. He thought the fresh air would do me some good, and I agreed. I have been inside for so long (this Saturday will be three months of bedrest) that I swear I am becoming translucent. I was looking at my feet yesterday and could see my veins through my skin. Hubs joked that I looked like a vampire.
Anyway, we started out on our little adventure of driving to nowhere, and after about 20 minutes, and quite a few turns, I realized that we were in the neighborhood of a few dear friends N & J. I told hubs to turn down their street, and when we did, we saw them standing outside. It was really wonderful to see them. I haven't seen hardly anyone these last three months because of the bedrest, and the few times people have visited I either A) find myself so excited for the company that I overdue it or B) feel so embarrassed to be laying in bed with visitors, that I have sort of opted to just keep people away altogether.
We got out of the car for a quick bit and gave our friends a hug. They invited us in, but after one step inside I felt like I was overheating (not because of their house, because of hormones) and retreated back to my semi reclined position in the car. N stood with me talking, while her husband J showed my hubs some work he was doing in their house. We visited a few minutes longer, catching up on what we had been up to (I obviously have not been up to much) gave each other a hug and a kiss goodbye, and headed home.
This is where the "damned if you do, damned if you don't" piece comes into play.
Last night I was on Facebook and saw that N had posted a status saying she had body aches, chills, a sore throat, and a fever of 102. The poor thing had been laid up in bed since that morning. This is when it dawned on me, N was sick when I saw her, she just hadn't been showing any symptoms yet - great!
I called the OB on call to say that I had been around someone just hours before they had come down with a high fever, and to see if I should do anything. I was thinking Tylenol as a preventative for fever - something along those lines. Anyone who has read this blog for any length of time knows that I am not one who takes putting anything unnatural into my body lightly (only organic foods, nothing with artificial dyes or preservatives, no aluminum in my deodorant etc etc) so even to suggest Tylenol was a big step for me. The OB wanted to know what symptoms N had, and when I told him, he asked if I had gotten a flu shot.
I hadn't.
Why, some might ask, would a person in a high risk pregnancy opt out of getting the flu shot when she will be pregnant throughout the height of the flu season?
It's a fair question. I will do my best to answer it.
For one, I had taken the flu shot about four years back and had a terrible reaction that led to me being laid up in bed for a week with flu like symptoms. Also, no thimerosal (mercury) free shots are available near me, and the thought of injecting myself with something while pregnant just freaks me out. Lastly, and for me this was the biggest factor in making my decision - I have been on bedrest for the last three months and am never around anyone but hubs who got the shot so as to prevent bringing anything home from his work. Seeing so few people I didn't think I was really at risk.
I guess the joke's on me.
Explaining why I hadn't gotten the shot, the OB expressed his dissatisfaction with the decision I had made. He told me about a pregnant patient of his who had gotten the flu the year before and fell into a coma and nearly died. He said that even now, nearly a year later, she was still working to recover.
Nothing like a scary pregnant woman in a coma story to make you feel like an idiot.
I don't know that N has the flu. I don't actually know what she has, she isn't going to the doctor unless it gets worse, but based on her symptoms the OB told me I needed to get on Tamiflu right away as a preventative measure. He said that if taken within 48 hours of exposure, the drug would lessen my symptoms were I to get the flu. I asked him if it was safe, and he said it was safer than getting the flu. This can be dangerous for any pregnant woman, but compounded with the cardiac issues that have been complicating this pregnancy, it gets a little trickier.
At this point in the conversation, I was ready to cry. That's not saying much, I cry a lot these days - hormones, but I was ready to cry anyway. It was all I could do not to break down in tears right there on the phone. (I did break down after I hung up - like a baby - to my sister who assured me that I was not an idiot, nor was I going to end up in a coma. Thank God for sisters!)
The OB told me he wanted my husband to go out last night (at this point it was around 11PM) and pick up the Tamiflu. When I explained that we live in a rural town with no 24 hours pharmacy, he said I could wait till the morning, but needed to get the pills started right away.
So I went this morning and got my pills - asked the pharmacist her opinion on the safety of these Class C drugs, to which she said that my doctor must think the benefits outweigh the risks enough to make it worthwhile, and came back home. I took the first pill around lunchtime, and have felt uneasy about it ever since.
The pamphlet states that it is not recommended to take Tamiflu while pregnant, and there was some study where rats given high doses had adverse fetal affects. I consulted Dr. Google and Babycenter, but found no real comfort there - for every ten stories of women saying they had taken it and been fine, there would be one posted about a woman who was 20 odd weeks along, took the drug and lost her baby. Did she lose her baby because of taking Tamiflu - there is no way for me to know. Do stories like that scare the shit out of this pregnant after loss momma - absolutely!
So there you have it. I feel like I can't win.
I keep people away for months, just to finally see someone who winds up sick the next morning.
I avoid getting the flu shot because I think I am doing the right thing in protecting my babies, only to have to take some antiviral drug that no one seems to have any real answers about.
And now I have to take a drug that I don't feel comfortable with, because stories of "otherwise healthy pregnant women" dying or falling into comas from the flu have me too scared to think straight.
Damned if I do.
Damned if I don't.
****
Anyone out there ever take Tamiflu while pregnant and have a good outcome?
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