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 hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
In Transition
Maybe you've noticed that the look of this blog has changed.
In many ways the changes to this space parallel the changes in my life.
I am in transition.
Of course I am still missing her - but the darkness of grief is not ALL of who I am now.
And yes I am loving mothering the twins - but that love doesn't tell the whole story either.
Somewhere between what has happened, and what comes next,
between what is and what can never be,
between feeling robbed by her loss, and grateful for the perspective on life it has afforded me,
is the place where I live (and write) these days.
This space started as a grief blog.
Then a grief/infertility blog.
Then a grief/infertility/pregnancy after loss blog.
And now it is changing again.
I will always grieve Peyton. With every fiber of my being I feel her loss, in the good days and the bad days. And while my love for her is unwaivering, and I do the best I can at mothering a child who is no longer here, there is a whole side of myself that feels underrepresented in these posts.
The side that has embraced living.
There are so many days that I log on here wanting to share something noteworthy (to me at least) about my day. But then I worry. I worry that something I write may be triggering for someone who has come here fresh in their loss or infertility journey, and that such a post might be a sort of slap in the face.
I had thought that starting the Rodeo would be a safe way to share the twins here.
That it would give those folks who needed it a heads up to avoid my blog on a given day, but now I feel like I have painted myself into a corner with it because I might have SO MUCH to say about them on a Monday, or a Tuesday, but feel like I can't.
Then there are the days that I am dying to post about my latest writing project, or to tell a funny story, or share a general observation on life, but I worry then, too, that doing so would somehow be unfair to those readers who come here solely to identify with someone who is grieving.
So I write nothing.
The problem with writing nothing, is that I just.can't.do.it.
I am a writer.
I live, breathe, eat, sleep, love-love-love to write!
It is as if the events of my life are only confirmed to me once I have documented them. Even during the hospital stay with Peyton, we would go through so much with her during the day, but until I came home to journal it, or read it on her blog, it didn't feel real to me.
For a while I thought about starting a separate blog. An everything other than Peyton blog to chronicle my life with the twins, and my writing projects, but that just felt completely unrealistic, because my experiences with Peyton influence and color every other part of my world. The two sides of my life are not mutually exclusive.
I cry more easily, and laugh more fully - because of her.
I admire the beauty in the little things, and feel confident in taking on the big things - because of her.
I know the value in sometimes building yourself up, and the beauty that comes in sometimes allowing yourself to fall - because of her.
There is no other life to document. No life that is somehow outside of my love of and grief for my daughter. There is just this life. My life. And even when not talking specifically about her, Peyton is a huge part of what makes me me.
So I guess that's what this post is really all about.
A bit of a warning to my readers that not every entry here is always going to be centered around grief, or loss, or infertility.
Yes, this is still Peyton's place - her corner of the blogosphere.
And yes I miss her like crazy all of the time.
But like every big sister, Peyton shares my heart and my love with others now. There is room enough in there for her, and her siblings. For her father. Our friends. My writing, and other passions.
It only feels fitting that she would share this space too.
In many ways the changes to this space parallel the changes in my life.
I am in transition.
Of course I am still missing her - but the darkness of grief is not ALL of who I am now.
And yes I am loving mothering the twins - but that love doesn't tell the whole story either.
Somewhere between what has happened, and what comes next,
between what is and what can never be,
between feeling robbed by her loss, and grateful for the perspective on life it has afforded me,
is the place where I live (and write) these days.
This space started as a grief blog.
Then a grief/infertility blog.
Then a grief/infertility/pregnancy after loss blog.
And now it is changing again.
I will always grieve Peyton. With every fiber of my being I feel her loss, in the good days and the bad days. And while my love for her is unwaivering, and I do the best I can at mothering a child who is no longer here, there is a whole side of myself that feels underrepresented in these posts.
The side that has embraced living.
There are so many days that I log on here wanting to share something noteworthy (to me at least) about my day. But then I worry. I worry that something I write may be triggering for someone who has come here fresh in their loss or infertility journey, and that such a post might be a sort of slap in the face.
I had thought that starting the Rodeo would be a safe way to share the twins here.
That it would give those folks who needed it a heads up to avoid my blog on a given day, but now I feel like I have painted myself into a corner with it because I might have SO MUCH to say about them on a Monday, or a Tuesday, but feel like I can't.
Then there are the days that I am dying to post about my latest writing project, or to tell a funny story, or share a general observation on life, but I worry then, too, that doing so would somehow be unfair to those readers who come here solely to identify with someone who is grieving.
So I write nothing.
The problem with writing nothing, is that I just.can't.do.it.
I am a writer.
I live, breathe, eat, sleep, love-love-love to write!
It is as if the events of my life are only confirmed to me once I have documented them. Even during the hospital stay with Peyton, we would go through so much with her during the day, but until I came home to journal it, or read it on her blog, it didn't feel real to me.
For a while I thought about starting a separate blog. An everything other than Peyton blog to chronicle my life with the twins, and my writing projects, but that just felt completely unrealistic, because my experiences with Peyton influence and color every other part of my world. The two sides of my life are not mutually exclusive.
I cry more easily, and laugh more fully - because of her.
I admire the beauty in the little things, and feel confident in taking on the big things - because of her.
I know the value in sometimes building yourself up, and the beauty that comes in sometimes allowing yourself to fall - because of her.
There is no other life to document. No life that is somehow outside of my love of and grief for my daughter. There is just this life. My life. And even when not talking specifically about her, Peyton is a huge part of what makes me me.
So I guess that's what this post is really all about.
A bit of a warning to my readers that not every entry here is always going to be centered around grief, or loss, or infertility.
Yes, this is still Peyton's place - her corner of the blogosphere.
And yes I miss her like crazy all of the time.
But like every big sister, Peyton shares my heart and my love with others now. There is room enough in there for her, and her siblings. For her father. Our friends. My writing, and other passions.
It only feels fitting that she would share this space too.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
i am evolving
i am evolving
changing
the ones that make me - me
i am hers
i am theirs
i am both
i am that butterfly
the one who as a caterpillar thought the world was over
who spent two years beating against the dark walls of her cocoon
feeling the pain leave its impressions on her skin
one day a crack appeared in my shell
allowing a small ray of hope to pour through
and i realized that i just might survive
i am changed
different
learning to fly
i am spreading my wings
admiring my colors
noting the spots and designs that loving her left
the ones that make me - me
i am evolving
and it feels good
Thursday, August 4, 2011
24 Hours In Hell
I am grateful to be writing the post I am about to write.
"But Peyton's type of cancer doesn't run in families."
The doctor told me he wasn't concerned.
I tried to believe him.
He said to head over to Quest because they are good at getting blood from little babies.
More grateful than you can possibly know.
Here is why.
Bubba has a rash.
Nothing too impressive.
Here, check it out for yourself.
We went to the doctor's yesterday to have it looked at. It isn't the first time he has had a rash, he tends to be more prone to baby acne, cradle cap, contact rashes etc, so I wanted to talk about what else I might need to eliminate from my diet.
While there, I noticed a tiny red dot.
Also, not very impressive.
It looked like a pin prick.
I pointed it out to the doctor.
He pressed on it and it did not blanch.
He pressed on the rash on Bubba's belly.
A few of those also did not blanch.
The doctor told me we had to have blood drawn,
a complete blood count and another test I didn't recognize the abbreviations for,
to rule out some things.
One of the things they needed to rule out... Leukemia.
Yes, you read that right.
Leukemia.
Even typing that vile word makes me want to vomit.
I saw stars.
Felt the room spin.
"But Peyton's type of cancer doesn't run in families."
The doctor told me he wasn't concerned.
I tried to believe him.
He said to head over to Quest because they are good at getting blood from little babies.
He said if they couldn't get it there, we would have to go to the children's hospital.
THAT children's hospital.
The one where Peyton lived.
The one where Peyton died.
The one I can't even think of driving past without feeling a part of me die.
The doctor gave us a lab slip and told us not to worry.
Yeah... right.
We headed to Quest.
"You have to take him." I told Hubs. "I can't do it." I started to cry.
It wasn't seeing him get a needle I couldn't handle.
I fly solo on the trips to have them vaccinated.
I couldn't be there to see him have THAT test done.
I was a mess.
I felt suddenly weak.
I thought I might drop him if I took him in.
The whole visit took maybe 15 minutes.
When they came out, Bubba had a single tear in his eye.
"He was laughing right up till the point they stuck him." Hubs told me.
I scooped Bubba up into my arms.
I begged him to be okay.
I cried.
And cried.
And cried.
There was no call last night with results.
I didn't know how to feel about that.
This morning I woke worried.
I called at 8.
At 8:30.
At 9:20.
"_____Pediatrics, this is Anne"
"I'm calling for my son's test results."
"His name"
"______ ______"
"Please hold a moment."
That 'moment' took nearly five minutes.
A myriad of thoughts ran through my mind.
Why was it taking so long?
Were they getting a doctor on the line?
I waited anxiously, repeating "He's fine. He's fine. He's fine. He's fine." with each second that ticked by.
My knees were shaking.
My hand holding the phone was shaking.
I heard a voice at the other end of the line.
"Hello, is this _____'s mom."
"Yes."
"This is Sherry, the nurse practitioner."
"This is Sherry, the nurse practitioner."
"Hi Sherry." My voice cracked. "Do you have ____'s results?"
"Yes I do. They are all normal."
Heavy sigh of relief. "Oh Thank God."
From there we discussed what else might have caused the red dot and the rash.
None of which were serious.
There are no words for the relief I am feeling today.
Last night I saw images of another life.
Of a different outcome.
I could see myself there, because I have been there.
It scared the hell out of me.
It made me want to curl into the fetal position on the floor and die.
Today I feel yet another new lease on life.
My son is healthy.
BOTH of my children are healthy, thank God.
And I am so, so grateful.
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.
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.
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)
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Twelve Smalls Step - A Giant Leap
I am now nearing my 26th week of pregnancy, and if someone were to casually walk through our home, they would have no idea that we are anticipating the arrival of two little babies in the next few months.
There are no half assembled baby accessories in the living room, the second car seat that we know we need before heading to the hospital has yet to be purchased, and the room that will eventually be the Snowflakes' nursery is still a disheveled pile of files and paperwork that we call an office.
There is so much that still needs to be done, and I don't know if it is out of fear or disbelief, but we seem to have let time just tick by in that department without any progress.
There are many truths that we have had to face in this babylost world, and for us, one truth is that the little yellow room that we had always referred to as "the baby's room" will never hold that title for us again. Though she never slept there, that room was Peyton's, and only Peyton's, and one of these days when the strength or the courage or the drive are strong enough, it will be dismantled, and a space for me to sit and write will replace it.
I feel her there, in that room. I feel her all around me, and though I do believe in the possibilities of our family continuing to grow, I just could never put another child in that room.
When they arrive the Snowflakes will have their own space, a wonderful nursery created for them in the office closest to our bedroom. Hubs has a million and one ideas that he would like to see come to life in there, ideas that sound beautiful and dreamlike and wonderful, and just the fact that we are going there, that we are having these late night conversations about setting up another nursery, or how life will be once these twins come home, is abig HUGE step for us.
And last night we took another huge step.
For the very first time in this pregnancy, we bought something for the Snowflakes. It was twelve somethings actually - twelve little Fuzzibunz cloth diapers, and while some may ask, "what's the big deal in that?" when your only experience with pregnancy outcomes has been a devastating one, it can be hard not to feel superstitious about getting too far ahead of yourself.
Over the past six months there have been several times when an outfit, or a toy, or a blanket has caught my eye for the twins, and I have put these items into my online shopping cart at Zulilly or Amazon wanting to purchase them, only to chicken out before hitting the button. But last night was different.
Last night I felt sure.
I felt sure these babies are going to be okay.
I felt sure that they will be healthy.
And I felt sure that healthy babies need diapers, so like a kid in a candy store I shopped various sizes and adorable colors and it was exciting and made me smile and I loved it.
Last night, in these twelve tiny steps, I was able to take a giant leap of faith that this time will be different - these rainbows are coming home.
****
P.S. Today marks Bedrest Day 90 - ugh.
There are no half assembled baby accessories in the living room, the second car seat that we know we need before heading to the hospital has yet to be purchased, and the room that will eventually be the Snowflakes' nursery is still a disheveled pile of files and paperwork that we call an office.
There is so much that still needs to be done, and I don't know if it is out of fear or disbelief, but we seem to have let time just tick by in that department without any progress.
In this house the only signs that there were ever any thoughts of a baby are some items along our mantle,
and a room at the opposite side of our hallway, hidden behind a closed door - a door that in the last 26 months has only been opened a handful of times, and most often when curious visitors have asked to see it.
Behind that door, everything is exactly as it was the day she died. The little garbage bag of clothes that Peyton wore in her short life still sits on the floor untouched...
The crib, with cards from well wishers at her shower framed above it, now lays vacant, under two years of dust...
And presents, delivered at or around the time of her birth, still sit neatly wrapped, waiting for the arrival of a child who was destined at birth never to come home...
There are many truths that we have had to face in this babylost world, and for us, one truth is that the little yellow room that we had always referred to as "the baby's room" will never hold that title for us again. Though she never slept there, that room was Peyton's, and only Peyton's, and one of these days when the strength or the courage or the drive are strong enough, it will be dismantled, and a space for me to sit and write will replace it.
I feel her there, in that room. I feel her all around me, and though I do believe in the possibilities of our family continuing to grow, I just could never put another child in that room.
When they arrive the Snowflakes will have their own space, a wonderful nursery created for them in the office closest to our bedroom. Hubs has a million and one ideas that he would like to see come to life in there, ideas that sound beautiful and dreamlike and wonderful, and just the fact that we are going there, that we are having these late night conversations about setting up another nursery, or how life will be once these twins come home, is a
And last night we took another huge step.
For the very first time in this pregnancy, we bought something for the Snowflakes. It was twelve somethings actually - twelve little Fuzzibunz cloth diapers, and while some may ask, "what's the big deal in that?" when your only experience with pregnancy outcomes has been a devastating one, it can be hard not to feel superstitious about getting too far ahead of yourself.
Over the past six months there have been several times when an outfit, or a toy, or a blanket has caught my eye for the twins, and I have put these items into my online shopping cart at Zulilly or Amazon wanting to purchase them, only to chicken out before hitting the button. But last night was different.
Last night I felt sure.
I felt sure these babies are going to be okay.
I felt sure that they will be healthy.
And I felt sure that healthy babies need diapers, so like a kid in a candy store I shopped various sizes and adorable colors and it was exciting and made me smile and I loved it.
Last night, in these twelve tiny steps, I was able to take a giant leap of faith that this time will be different - these rainbows are coming home.
****
P.S. Today marks Bedrest Day 90 - ugh.
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!
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