I say this. And I mean it.

I went to visit Peyton on Thanksgiving morning. I had to deliver a set of handprint turkeys to her from her brother and sister, and with the twins down for a nap, and Hubs home making mashed potatoes, it was a rare opportunity to get up and spend some quiet time with my girl.

Her hill is just as serene as it's always been. Just me, and Peyton, and the squirrels rustling through the leaves, and a very faint hush of traffic off in the distance, and sunlight working its way through gray clouds. It was, like my girl, pure beauty.

I sang Peyton the songs I always sing her. Smile, You Are My Sunshine, Smile Awhile. I even added the Mr. Turkey song that C, the daughter of our closest friends, taught me.

Mr. Turkey. 

Mr. Turkey.

Big and fat. 

Big and fat.

I'mma gonna eat you. 

I'mma gonna eat you.

Just like that. 

Just like that.

C was born just a few months before Peyton. It's hard to believe, watching C now, what Peyton would be doing if she were still with us. Singing songs about Mr. Turkey that she learned at preschool. Playing dress-up with her friends. I walk the line, between remembering Peyton as she was, and imagining her as she would now be. I suppose we all do, don't we?

I filled Peyton in on all the happenings in our life. My mother's upcoming surgery. Our continued job search. Our plans with family for the day. I cleaned off her headstone, wiped the dust from her picture, gave her kisses and said the rosary, and then, as I always do, ended our visit by turning back to blow her a kiss and say:

"Thank you for all of the blessings you have brought into our lives."

I say this. And I mean it.

I am thankful.

I am thankful to Peyton for the little messages and signs; the way she pushes the boundaries of separate universes, planes, and times to bring me comfort in the knowledge that there is something bigger than me outside of this life.

I am thankful that because of her, I love more, and know how important it is to let those that I appreciate know just how much.

I am thankful for the community of strong, powerful women (and men) that she has introduced me to, whose grace, resilience, and compassion inspire me every day.

I am thankful for those who are earlier on in their journey, who reach out to me and afford me the opportunity to be a listening ear, to be able to say (and know and believe) "Things will get better. There is joy ahead for you."  Because I have been where they are, and I have survived it.

I am thankful, even, for the hardships, and the lessons I have learned. That there is no point in living if you are not loving fully. There is no point in being human, without reaching out through bonds to your fellow man.

I am thankful for the depth that Peyton has instilled in my life. The way she has taught me how little "things" matter, and just how much people do.

I am thankful that in her short little life, she loved me despite my weaknesses. She let me show my emotion and my pain, and still cuddled up to my chest to reaffirm what I meant to her.

I am thankful to Peyton for inspiring me to start writing, and for teaching me that the time to write is now, not someday.

I am thankful to Peyton for the role she plays in keeping her father and I together, when statistically, child loss and infertility can easily rip apart even the strongest couple. And I am thankful for the hand that I know she played in bringing her siblings into this world, healthy and whole. Without Peyton, our twins wouldn't be here. Some people struggle with that, but I accept it now for what it is--a gift.

I am thankful for the way that a falling leaf now represents so much, the way that rays of sunlight through dark clouds feel like a hug, and a flickering of the lights is a special hello.

I am thankful in knowing that I owe the best, and closest, relationships of my life to Peyton. She showed me who to let in, who to let slip away, and most importantly to truly appreciate those who love her as much as I do.

I am thankful for the lesson that life is too short to spend being miserable or surrounded by the wrong people, even if it took me millions of tears to get to this realization, and the freedom that comes (when I let it) in realizing that most things are out of my control. Peyton's too-brief life, and the change she affected over the course of it, taught me that most hurdles in life can be overcome with the love of good friends, a smile, and a (sometimes twisted) sense of humor.

Mostly I am thankful that I have always felt her with me. From the depths of despair, to feeling the sunshine on my face, and everywhere in between. Love never dies, and some bonds can never be broken.

I am thankful for all the blessings that loving and losing Peyton has brought into my life...

How could I not be?

For Better Or For Worse.

For better or for worse.
In sickness and in health.
Until death do us part.

Last Friday hubs and I celebrated our five year anniversary, a milestone that feels as if it has sort of crept up on me somehow. When I think back over our married life, the three plus years since we sat down and decided to start a family are a bit of a blur. A kaleidoscope of joy and pain and anticipation and grief with a miscarriage, and the loss of our first child, and the incredible blessing of getting to raise our twins, and I can't help but to feel as if we have lived a thousand lifetimes of experience over the short five year span of our marriage.

Five years ago, we, as two excited and nervous kids with our whole lives ahead of us, made a commitment to love, honor and cherish one another for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, and until death do us part.

There are areas of my life where I feel cheated - Peyton no longer being here, my lack of fertility, my inability to traditionally birth children etc etc, but one area where I know I have won the lottery is in having married a man who is my partner, my best friend, and my love.

He held my body up in support, when all I could do was collapse through Peyton's funeral.

He allowed me the space to step away from the world and embrace my grief.
Embrace my writing.
Find my new normal.

He encouraged me through two rounds of IVF and cared for me through twenty-seven weeks of bed rest.

He has proven himself time and time again to be an amazing father.

Committing my life to my husband is the single best decision I have ever made. Of course when we recited those vows, we couldn't have known that the "for worse" was to come before the "for better," but that was how it was to be for us, and as we now know all-too-well, nothing in this life can be planned on or predicted.

I have been thinking a lot about love lately, not only because of the love I feel for my little family, or because of my anniversary, but because I have been witness to such incredible acts of it lately.

Two years ago, my Uncle Eddie learned that a funny looking mole on the bottom of his foot was metastatic melanoma, and though we were told that his time with us would in all likelihood be measured in months rather than years, my uncle recovered, resuming his active life of skiing, and biking, and dancing with his daughter on the day that she walked down her own aisle and pledged to her new husband that she would love him for better or worse, in sickness and in health, and until death do they part.

This past February, my uncle learned that some pain he was attributing to sciatica was actually the return of his cancer which had spread to his spine, among many other places. This time the cancer was much more aggressive, and though we prayed for one, it was becoming painfully obvious that a miracle like the one he had experienced in healing two years earlier, was just not to be.

My aunt and uncle have been married for 47 years, and together for over 50. They have had 5 healthy children together, several grandchildren. Their "for better" was a beautiful and long lasting gift. During a recent visit, my aunt told me that she knew my uncle's battle was coming to an end, and that she wanted, as a final gift to him, to renew their vows. She said,"It may seem strange to want to celebrate, given what a sad and difficult time this is for us, but I will not have another chance to do this, and renewing our vows, in the face of his illness, is my way of showing him how much he means, and has always meant, to me, now while he can still hear it."

I couldn't help but feel my eyes welling up as I took in the bittersweet beauty of what she was planning. My aunt could have run and hid from all that was happening, as many of us would have, but instead she stared cancer, and all of the unpredictability it brings with it, in the face, and forged ahead with her plans to surprise him with a ceremony that would reaffirm for him that even knowing what she now knows, even knowing how their story would end, she would do it all over again.

A backyard celebration was planned, but last week my Uncle Eddie took a turn for the worse, and knowing that his time was limited, my aunt called in the priest. In an intimate bedside ceremony, witnessed only by the families of their five children, my Aunt took my Uncle's hands in hers, and vowed before their family, and before God, to love, honor and cherish him, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, and until death do they part. My uncle, whose strength had already left him, rubbed at the wedding ring that he had placed on her finger nearly fifty years earlier and simply said,  "yes."

48 hours later, my uncle was gone.

Life can be crazy, and chaotic, and at times downright cruel, but it is also so full of beauty when graced by true love.

The true love of a husband who comforts his young wife through the loss of their first child.

The true love of a father, who finds the strength to heal to live long enough to see his daughter get married.

The true love of a wife, who sees beyond her own suffering and sadness, to provide for her dying husband the reaffirmation that he is the best thing that has ever happened to her - and to let him know before he passes, how very, very blessed she has felt to share her life with him.

I have lost my child, but I have still been blessed.

My uncle was dying, but he still was blessed.

My aunt has lost her husband, but she too has been blessed.

For better or for worse.
In sickness and in health.
Until death do us part.

We have each been blessed by the gift of true love, and despite the heartaches that life may throw at any couple over the course of their marriage, that is a gift to be celebrated.

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.

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!

Wanting to Want to Remember

I had a nightmare.
At least I think it was a nightmare.
Sometimes PTSD makes it difficult to distinguish between what is a dream
and what is a flashback,
especially in the early moments after waking.

I dreamt of our camcorder.
Sounds silly, right?
It was a wedding shower gift from my bridesmaids.

I replayed in my mind all the discs we had created with it.
So many discs.
So many memories worth saving,
all contained to the first two years of our marriage.

Our trip down to Florida to see hub's family.

Long car rides with the camera rolling
as we cracked jokes and bantered nonsensically to break the monotony.

Images of my husband waking in the early hours of morning.
He hates to be recorded this way - I love it.
How intimate it is. How only I get to see him like this.

The two of us talking over my pregnant belly.

My mind played over the contents of each disc,
and then it stood in fear
before the one that we can't seem to watch again.

Less than an hour long.
It is her whole life.

There are scenes from my first induction.
That trip to the hospital was full of hope.
It failed and we went home empty handed and I felt it then.
In retrospect, though I had no way to know, I felt it.
It was a foreshadow of what was to come -
me staring longingly at the car seat in the back.

The empty car seat.

I felt it and it scared the life out of me.

Then came the scenes from a week later - her second induction.
Peyton was stubborn.
She wouldn't come out.
We still didn't know.

I had felt it on that car ride the week earlier,
but we didn't know.

At this point in the video,
we still thought we were having a take home child.

The images move on to the Operating Room.
Hubs telling me we had a girl.
Me looking at him in disbelief.
The anesthesiologist asking what her name was.
"Peyton," I uttered, even though it was not the name we had discussed and decided on.

These first five minutes of the video are joy filled.
Or at least as close to joy filled as any in her life.

I am in a haze,
a deep anesthesia induced haze,
but I feel joy.

I remember the fear and disorientation from the drugs.
The way my body shook violently.
The nausea.

I remember feeling that I was missing her birth in my fog.
But there was joy.

She was here.
She was fine.
The doctor told me she was perfect.

That scene ends.
Then, of course, the joy is lost.

The rest of the video details her degradation
from a perfect, pink little thing,
to one who is bruised and battered.
Our little Peyton, by the end of the hour,
is barely recognizable.

We watched the video right after she died.
Literally right after.
In those early days.
It might have been the night of her funeral.
I can't remember.

What I remember is that my parents were here,
and we sat together
and we watched it.

It was so hard
that we couldn't face it again.
So we put it away.

"Maybe each year on her birthday?" we said.
"Or her angelversary."
Neither has ever felt possible for us.

The videos ended.
The nightmare continued.

That's what my dream/flashback was focused on this morning.
On the after.

There are no videos after that one.

This, among all the other things listed, is what scared me the most.

There was life.
And then Peyton and her death.
And then grief.

Can one simultaneously live and grieve?

If you can, we haven't figured out how.

Not truly.

Maybe in a day to day way.
But never in a way that felt worthy of remembering.

Since her death there has been cause for documentation,
but no desire.

A cruise my parents took us on in the early months.
The birth of my nephew.
Weddings.
A camping trip.
Christenings.

It's as if we have been going through the motions but not really living them.
Seeing things but not experiencing them.
Breathing but not being.

I want to get back there.
I can feel that change happening inside of me.

I want to get back to that place
of wanting to remember where I am,
rather than just wanting to survive it.

I am a prisoner to my nose...

So the last few weeks have been pretty redundant. Wake up. Brush teeth. Back to bed. Take a few quick trips to the fridge/ bathroom. Back to bed. Take a shower. Back to bed. As you can tell... very exciting. 

I am happy to report that I have not bled since Thursday, and am crossing my fingers that this is some sort of good sign, though I know that SCH's are totally unpredictable, and no two cases seem to be the same. I have spent the last 4 days really focused on moving as little as possible and I think that is working. I have heard a few stories of SCH loss recently, and I can't lie, that's really hard. I am so incredibly in love with these two little babies, so incredibly in love, and am just holding onto the hope and belief that regardless of this damn uterine blood clot, come late February or early March, they will be here healthy, happy, safe and sound.

We went to the Doc this past Tuesday. I wasn't supposed to go until next Tuesday, but my morning sickness out of nowhere kicked into a super high gear, and I worried it might be some sort of complication due to the SCH. I am thrilled to report that once again both babes looked good on ultrasound and at one really adorable moment, they each leaned back to a laying position and put their hands in their mouths simultaneously and my heart just stopped because that was something their sister always did, in utero and in life, we even had Peyton buried with her hand to her mouth because she loved sucking on it so much, and seeing that sibling similarity between what she liked to do, and what they liked to do, was really touching.

Any guesses out there as to what sex these little snowflakes are? We have a pretty good idea, but have been told that it's still a little early to announce, because the ultrasounds at this point are not entirely reliable in that department.

To the first person who guesses correctly (or at least what we feel is correct at this point) and says Baby A is... and Baby B is... I will send you a prize :) Well in all reality, hubs will send you a prize because I don't leave the confines of my home except for doctor's appointments. Today was an exception to that rule however. Hubs told me he was worried because it looked like I "needed some fresh air" so he took me for a nice morning drive and I am so grateful that he insisted on it because the change of scenery did do me a lot of good.

You may be wondering at this point, what any of this has to do with the title of this post - "I am a prisoner to my nose." 

Let me elaborate. 

I have pregnancy nose - big time. Everything stinks. I spend little to no time on our leather couch because it is new (a few months) and stinks! stinks! stinks! Poor hubs has tried everything from baking soda to a product called Odorzout (at 45 dollars a bottle, what a waste of money that was!) to get the smell to stop offending me but it has been to no avail. Anyone have any leather smell removal tips for me? Because of this, I am spending more and more time just in my bedroom, my boring old (but not smelly) bedroom.

Beyond the issues with our couch, we have run into issues with our dishwasher where dishes literally come out smelling like vomit. I can't tell you how pleasant THAT is to deal with when you have morning sickness as it is! Poor hubs has taken every part of the dishwasher that he can reach apart, and still not found the culprit of the smell. Now, on top of all his other responsibilities with me being on bed rest, he is also stuck washing all our dishes by hand. 

Just goes to show, nothing is ever easy.

So there you have it - the reasons why I am a prisoner to my nose. I find every glass of water difficult to get down because even the clean dishes still smell dirty to me, and bottled water smells too much like plastic. I would love to spend my days watching TV (we don't have cable in our bedroom) or surfing the internet (don't have that up their either) but I can't because the couch stinks to the point that it has left me worried about whether there might be some danger to me being around it whilst pregnant even though calls to the state and federal consumer complaint departments, two pregnancy risk lines, Costco, their importer, the lab that tests Costco's products for safety, our state toxicologist, the consumer products safety commission, AND some random lab in California (yes, I know, I don't even live there but the stickers on it said that it meets California's guidelines for flammability and formaldehyde) have all assured me that while the couch may be "stinky" there is no reason to believe it is unsafe. Wow, typing that really illustrates how neurotic I have become - just another side effect of losing a child inexplicably to cancer.

So that's pretty much all the news that's fit to print here. I go back to the doctor on Tuesday to see if the SCH has shrunk at all (as of last Tuesday it was holding strong at 9cm at its largest point) and to watch my little ones dance around some more. Wish us luck!

**Also, sending prayers out to a few of my bloggy momma friends who are enduring their own trials right now, one who is facing her own SCH, and another who, though I don't know the details, is having a really tough time finding her way these last few days. Please keep them in your prayers too.

I'm still standing... er... sitting/laying

10 days. It's been 10 days since my little Peyton celebrated her second birthday in the stars, and I had my big bleeding fiasco. I have spent these days on modified bed rest, trying to free my mind from the worries that come with continued bleeding while pregnant. I've tried books, movies, surfing the internet, but the reality is that every trip to the bathroom is a reminder of this stupid SCH, and until it's presence is no longer so evident, freeing my mind from worry is not too likely.

For the most part I have put my energies into finding info that builds my optimism. I read a study saying that the risks of SCH's associated with IVF are much lower, so I have that going for me, and the vast majority of SCH women that I see on the online boards are still kickin', though there are other boards, boards that talk about loss from SCH, and as a means of self protection, I just try to ignore their existence.

I think the babies are trying to help me through this too. Though I have felt the odd "roll" here or there, being 14 weeks along, movement is not super evident as of yet, and the comfort one can get in these situations from a kick count is not yet an option for me. That being said, last night I felt quite the movement from my little baby B, and this morning, Baby A gave me what I think was the first jab of this pregnancy, and a welcome little jab in the side at that. I like to think they are saying, "don't worry mom, we are here, we are fine."

I felt Peyton begin to flutter at 14 weeks, so I guess it is not completely outside the realm of possibility with two of them in there, and my uterus being so incredibly tipped, that I should start to feel their movements ramp up in the coming days/weeks. What a blessing each movement is, a reminder that this is not for naught, and they are fine, and happy, and playing around inside of me.

I have a routine as I prepare for bed each night, of laying down shirt lifted, my eyes on my stomach just watching for the slightest movement, where I rub my belly, and remind them over and over how very loved they are, and how very wanted they are, and that it would be a really good idea to do whatever they can do to stick around and thrive.

This level of bedrest that I am on (bed to couch to bed with a few trips to bathroom and kitchen in between) is an indefinite situation, and my house is really starting to show the effects of that. I should mention that when it comes to house cleaning, I am a bit OCD. There are ways that I do things, very particular ways, ways that have been set in stone in the ten years of hubs and I living together (barring my brief absence from interest in caring for anything the year after Peyton died)  and since I have been instructed not to bend/lift/push/pull anything, poor hubs has had to pick up all the household slack before and after putting in a day at work. Sure, he doesn't do it the way I would do it, but he tries nonetheless and it's an effort that I truly appreciate.

I have to say that of all his new responsibilities, I find his efforts at dinner time to be the cutest. For the better part of our decade together, he has never had to think about what to have for dinner or trying to prepare meals. Sure, he has grilled some meat that I took out for him here or there, maybe cooked up some spaghetti, but for the most part these duties have fallen on me, and to see him present his little "man feasts" with such pride is just adorable.

In the past week and a half I have been treated to the finest in bachelor cuisine: taco salad, mac n' cheese, a really not very good chicken in peanut butter thing, a pb& j sammich, and last night, grilled cheese. Each meal is presented with a look of pride and a huge grin and I just smile and tell him it is delicious and "the best pb&j I have ever had" and he beams in appreciation, and that's all that matters. (Well, except for the chicken peanut butter thing, we were both in agreement that that tasted pretty awful.)

I guess that is really it then. I wish I had something more exciting to report, but life on bedrest fundamentally lacks any level of excitement. Please know how appreciative that hubs and I feel for all the prayers that have been sent to our little snowflakes lately. I will leave you today with some pictures of Peyton's birthday party. Though we were not able to be there, we are so appreciative that my Aunt took pictures for us. Like I mentioned earlier, it means a lot that our friends continued the celebration in her honor without us.

****EDIT - per hubs special request, he has asked that I clear his good name, and mention to the world, that last week he "attempted" to make chicken and dumplings... err... the dumplings were good.

Thanks to my sister for hosting the party at the last minute.

On Love - For Better or For Worse

This is today's Facebook status:

Four years ago today, I married my best friend, and while we never could have anticipated as we took our vows, the trials that we would face in just a few short years time, I thank God for having sent me a person of such grace, compassion, love, and strength to be my partner in love, in life, and as an amazing father to our child. 
I love you Dru. 
Happy Anniversary.

I am not usually one to do re-posts, but when I went back and re-read what I had posted at this time last year, I was struck by how true it still felt, and how fitting the words were with what we are facing IVF and infertility wise. It is for these reasons that I have decided to share last year's anniversary post with you again - with some edits in blue.

"For Better Or For Worse" - Originally posted 6/17/09

Three Four years ago today, I married my best friend, on a rainy Saturday over Father's Day weekend. We celebrated with family and friends, made commitments before God, heard toasts and danced, and dreamt of our happy future together. It's amazing how far removed you can feel from the "you" of just three four years earlier, when you are hit with something like we were with Peyton. Yet, despite all the pain and fear and sadness and anger, our love has endured.

The statistics on any marriage making it nowadays are a glass half full at best, and the statistics on marriages surviving the loss of a child are staggering (some studies citing a 90% divorce rate), compound that with divorce rates over infertility, and the outlook for a marriage surviving what we have been dealt are bleak at best.


When reflecting on the arrival of this third fourth anniversary, there is no doubt in my mind as to how we have made it through another year despite the pain of this loss... hard work. 

Marriage is not always easy, it is not always for better, but it is always our top priority. Early on in this journey through grief, we were fortunate to have parents who reminded us that we couldn't just take for granted that we would stay together through this. This dose of reality has inspired us to constantly work at keeping the lines of communication open with one another, even when it would have just been easier to shut down.

Waking up this morning and thinking about this day, about what it means and represents, I thank God for having given me the insight early on to marry not just "mister right," but the "right man." So many couples vow to be together for better or for worse, without realizing that the for betters are not a guarantee, and the for worses are not necessarily fifty years away. They repeat a chain of words that they have heard uttered hundreds of times in life, in movies, in stories, and don't really understand their meaning or the depth of that commitment. 

For Better or For Worse means, I will not run from you when times are uncomfortable. I will not start over with someone else because it is easier. I will not turn my back on you when you have turned your back on yourself. I will not judge you, but instead try to understand.

In our short marriage, the for worse came far more quickly than either of us could have ever imagined. We are just kids ourselves, we could never have anticipated being tested this way or having to endure this kind of pain. I don't know why God has laid this heavy cross over our shoulders so early on, and most days my mind just gets stuck on the anger that I feel over that, but not today. Today I am thankful for the love of the right man, my best friend.

The majority of this last year of marriage has been spent in a state of pain and sadness, and as easy as it would be to get sucked into that abyss permanently, we cannot allow this loss (and infertility) to define our whole marriage. Sometimes I forget how young we are, how many years there are still ahead. Even if just for today, in the bittersweetness of this week that meshes both a day that celebrates our commitment to, and love for one another, and my husbands first  second Father's Day, I will hold out hope and believe that we have had our share of for worse, and the for better days are still to come.

On Being "Grateful"

I hate The Beatles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh? What the?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remember what I told you about ambience?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reminders of all I do have continued.

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

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

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

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



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

Grief. Hope. Thanks. - One Year Without Peyton

At this time last year... this is it. This is the last time I can say this when referring to Peyton's life. Tomorrow marks one year since this beautiful little girl, wrapped in the arms of her mother, stroked on the forehead by her father, and held in the gaze of her loving grandparents, took her final breath and left this world. Tomorrow night I will think about how at this time last year, at around 5:00 pm, Peyton Elizabeth left her body, the body that had brought her so much pain and suffering, and took flight. I like to think of it that way, that Peyton fluttered out of that room, leaving the heaviness of the air in it, the sobbing cries of her parents and grandparents, the averted eyes of the caregivers, all behind. I like to think that Peyton went somewhere beautiful and free and began her new journey.

In this past year I have felt Peyton's presence so many places. The flashing of our flashlight. In the shapes of clouds above her grave or the skies outside a plane window. In a "p" that seemed to appear in soap on the shower wall. In the fluttering of butterflies and the breaking of sun through a gray cloudy day. For the last year I have felt her with me at my lowest times, her soul just barely out of reach, and in feeling her there, felt hope. Hope that life would once again hold joy and peace for me. Hope that maybe this wasn't it for my child. Hope that she made it to a better place, and is at peace with what happened to her, and knows how very, very  much her Mommy and Daddy miss her. Hope that the final breath, the one she struggled to draw to stay with us, did not mark the end of my child. Hope that somewhere, somehow, in a way that I am too insignificant to understand, Peyton goes on.

When I think of this past year, I can't help but be reminded of the famous poem Footprints. We all have our own Gods, our own beliefs, our own ideologies, but in looking back on this past year, on the very darkest of hours and those that felt too crushing to overcome, it was in those moments that I felt Peyton's presence come through for me the strongest, reaching out her little hand to say, "Mommy, I'm here with you. It's going to be okay. I'm okay." I could focus today on the hurt, the injustice, the anger at a life cut cruelly short, but instead today I choose to honor this, her last day of life, by remembering and feeling grateful for the many acts of love that Peyton has bestowed upon me as her mother.

I miss you baby girl. There will never be a moment in my life when your absence is not felt. There will never be a memory made, that would not have been better with you in it. Thank you for staying with me those forty two weeks, for working so hard to thrive inside of me and never letting on how sick you were. I was blessed to have that time with you, that blissfully hopeful and naive time. Regardless of the outcome, I am so grateful for it. It was the happiest of my life.

Thank you for never letting on to the pain you were in. You were so strong and brave, letting Mommy and Daddy hug and cuddle and snuggle with you through your chemo and transfusions and operations. In my life, I have never received such unguarded and selfless love, as I did from you, my child. I needed to mother you. I needed to have time with you. I am so very grateful for each second of strength that you mustered to stay with me. I will never understand the how's and why's of this, but will forever be grateful that while you were here you allowed me to love you, to nurse you, to hold you skin to skin, and to bond with you. Thank you for leaving such an incredibly deep imprint in my soul. You changed me Peyton. You changed how I view everything. To be your mother, to watch you and learn from you and your strength leaves me grateful beyond words. You, my sweet child, you were the strongest person I have ever known. Thank you for sacrificing through pain to grace me with your presence for twenty eight days.  Thank you for your big personality. For your many, many expressions for me to draw upon when I want to see you in my mind. Thank you for the ways you looked at me, and for the incredible amounts of comfort you brought Daddy and me, when your appearance reassured us after receiving bad news from the doctors. Thank you for the hours on end, especially that last night of your life, when you gazed directly into my eyes. This, my child, was such a gift.

Thank you for not leaving me that day. For staying in my heart, on my mind, in my memories. Thank you for the comfort I feel in my visits to your grave, and the little special ways you show me you have never left me. Thank you for showing me what it means to truly, deeply, love. For watching over your Daddy and me and keeping us together when so many couples pull apart in grief. I am trying to push aside my anger, the trauma, my sadness and simply focus on the lessons your life has taught me - to show people how much we love them, to not take things for granted. Thank you for your patience with me, especially during the moments when I have not exhibited the same selfless grace that you did.

Most especially, my sweet child, thank you for helping me survive losing you. It has been a year without you, and I am still here. Thank you for surrounding me with the love and support of an amazing family. Thank you for affecting them in such a way that they understand my grief, my need to remember, and all that has been lost with you. Thank you for bringing such amazing friends to my side. Your short little life has meant so much to so many and rekindled lost relationships and brought great friends even closer. Thank you for giving me a voice to write as an outlet, for showing me a way to the blogs and helping me find people to connect with who truly understand. Thank you for reminding me that as isolating as child loss feels, I have never been left alone.

Thank you my Peyton, my daughter, my sweet child. You've helped me survive. You've gotten me through. I love you always.

Thank you.

Mel's Show (instead of) Tell #62

Last month, as I had mentioned here, my husband and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary. I feel so blessed that he is my partner, and thank God every day for having led me to him. Our relationship is different than it was before Peyton's birth. Really, how could it not be? There are days when there is a distance in the silence that was never there before, and others where we hold fast to each other. We have been devastated beyond words at losing our baby girl, and for the most part have grieved in completely different ways. But through it all, we have remained together.

To celebrate our anniversary we took a few days to get away and visited Newport RI. We needed to be out of this house and spend some time on "us." We are very different, complete opposites in many respects. He keeps most of what he is feeling inside, while I pour every emotion out onto the page, this blog, or in conversation. Sometimes, on the darkest days, I have wondered if there is anyone, my husband included, that really "gets me" anymore. During this trip he showed me that he still does.

In early June I had written a post about my journey through this grief. It is actually the post that I am most proud of, and for some of you will be a repeat, but I am including it below. The post was entitled Sea Glass. It read:

It was recommended months ago that I find a journaling through grief group to help me process some of the emotions that came with losing Peyton. I was lucky to find a group to meet with on a near weekly basis, and the support from these women over the last several months has meant more than any words that I could write. This weekend I went on a retreat with them to the Mercy Center in Madison. I walked along the shoreline, combing the sand for something to bring back to Peyton that was representative of my experience with the group. I found three beautiful shells; one yellow, one orange, and one brown and white, that looked like the face of an eagle. I also found three beautiful pieces of seaglass; blue/green, clear, and brown. When I went for my daily visit with Peyton on the top of the hill where she is buried, I shared with her my experience from the weekend and what I had found for her. I described to her what shells were, how they ended up on the beach and what they looked like. I told her why I had chosen the ones I had, and detailed the vibrance of their colors. Then, placing them near her picture, I moved on to tell her about the three pieces of seaglass that I was holding in my hands; and in starting to speak about them, realized just how much their experience mirrored mine.

I told Peyton how most people find seaglass on the beach and admire its beauty, without giving much thought to all it has endured to wash up there. Like the bottle that these smooth pieces of glass came from, at first I was shiny and full and had purpose; but then she passed and it shattered me. Sharp and broken, I cut out in every direction, the pain so overwhelming that it hurt those who reached out to hold me. The grief and the anger dulled my spirit, and the waves of emotions pounded me relentlessly. The reminders of losing her were everywhere, crashing down on me without reprieve. As I entered Peyton's bedroom - crash. As I passed happy mothers on the street - crash. As I felt the emptiness she left in my arms - crash. I tossed and turned in that current, and was left disoriented by its attack. My sense of direction gone, I just prayed to safely reach the shore. In an instant, I, like the broken bottle, lost my ability to hold, support and protect what had come from within me. The tears washed over me, leaving only dullness where there had once been shine, and yet through it all, like the sea glass, I am still here.

This beach is certainly not what I had expected, and sometimes when the tide comes in real high, I can feel the waves coming back for me, but I won't give in. I know that no matter how safely I land in the sand, the rhythm of those waves will always be close enough to feel, but I am staking my claim on this piece of shoreline, and in doing so, know that I will be left standing. I am forever changed. My life had been clear and transparent, each step seemingly planned out for me before I reached it, my purpose well defined. Life has deepened me, washed a different perspective over me that I could never have imagined, and left me worn. I, like the blue/green, clear and brown shards of glass that I found this weekend, have stood in the path of the universe, feeling each blow in its efforts to pound me out of existence, and like the shards of glass, have not been lost to the sea.

People walk the beach and see pieces of seaglass, something tangible to take home as a reminder of a trip, but I know that there is so much more to their story. I know that these smooth little stones hold a special kind of beauty and wisdom, one that can only be attained by surviving the journey.

And so this brings me to the showing. After spending the day talking and walking through Newport my husband pulled me into a shop. "I found you the perfect anniversary gift," he told me, with pride in his eyes. Taking my hand, he brought me to a glass case. "See," he said pointing, "one for each year we have been married, and it's seaglass, just like you." I was so touched. This was the first time he had ever told me that he'd read my blog.

And so today I share with all of those following mel's show and tell , my beautiful seaglass necklace, the gift that means more to me than any other. When my husband couldn't find the words to tell me that he still understands, that he still "gets me", it was with this necklace that he showed me.

A Family, A Mountain, A Moment

This weekend, my husband and I spent a lot of time together, just the two of us, hiking and talking. We visited People's State Forest in Barkhamsted on the Fourth of July, travelling along the Jesse Gerard Trail. We talked about life, about our surroundings, and of course, about our sweet little Peyton. Having nearly reached the top of the mountain, a butterfly, small and white, floated between the two of us, lingering for awhile. I always associate butterflies with Peyton now. We had decorated her steel crib in the hospital with butterflies in a desperate effort to make it feel less cold and clinical; and it has been during some of my lowest moments at Peyton's grave, that these beautiful little creatures have appeared and brought comfort. "Look, it's Peyton." I said to Dru, and we followed as she floated and fluttered before us, up a path and to a beautiful lookout.

The view from atop this rock overlooked the Farmington River, with it's kayakers in brightly colored vessels dancing along the river's bends down below. I wondered how many miles away could be seen from here, and marvelled over the sense of calm that the area below us held from this vantage point. It's amazing how disconnected I have been feeling from that calm these last several months. It was because of the peace in this area that we had decided to settle here, to start our life, to raise a family. My heart welcomed the peace this day. "I can't imagine anything more beautiful than this place?" I said. The view was literally taking my breath away.

I told Dru I felt like Peyton was there with us, that she had offered us this moment, this reprieve to sit among beauty, among each other and be at peace. We thought of her, talked about how we wished she was taking this adventure with us, strapped to our back in a carrier. For a moment, up on that overlook, I imagined how wonderful that would have been. We were not, of course, the first people to discover this lookout, and the remnants of a campfire laid charred in the rock where we stood. I reached into the fire and pulled out a large piece of charcoal, handing it to Dru. "Write her name," I said, "I want a record of her here." We walked the rock finally choosing an area that faced what we thought to be the most beautiful view, and Dru went to work.

As we stood back to admire his handywork, the sun came shining upon us with all of its brightness, allowing us to cast our shadows and love down over her name.

We sat there with her for awhile, breathing her in, before readying ourselves to head back to the trail towards home, looking over our shoulders once more at the name of our lost child on that rock, among so much beauty.

I know in my heart that Peyton had brought us there, to share that place, that moment. I could feel her love and presence all around us. I knew that we had shared this experience, all three of us, as a family.

(Father's) Day

I can see it in our nieces faces,how they always light up when they see you, how you offer seemingly endless energy when you play with them.

I could see it in the way that you joked lovingly with my full belly, how you got anxious with each phonecall as we neared my due date, and spent hours getting the carseat just right in preparation for Peyton's birth.

You were meant to be a Father.

I don't know if I ever told you this, but it was you that made me want to have a family.

I have been so fortunate to receive your love, to know your kindness, and I wanted to share that- you, with a child.

I guess that's what saddens me most this Father's Day.

We live in a world full of men dodging responsibility and child support, a world where entire television shows are centered around child denial and paternity tests, and it just seems so unfair.

Unfair that you, who so wanted and loved our child, who studied through weary eyes the packets of information that they gave us, even when it didn't make sense, and searched and searched for options and ways to keep her with us, you, who were so obviously born to be a Daddy, should have to be childless on your first Father's Day.