Reflecting On My Journey Through Infertility

Last Spring, I stumbled upon a video about infertility entitled "What IF?"

At the time when I first saw it, we were knee deep in grief over Peyton and had been trying desperately for nearly 9 months, without success, to achieve another pregnancy. The previous December, I had gotten the news that an infection from my c-section had left both of my tubes scarred beyond any usefulness, and that my only option, and not a guaranteed option at that, was IVF.

I was in shock.

For over a year after Peyton's birth I had complained to my doctor that I wasn't ovulating or menstruating. When she gave us the green light to try again last June, and I failed to conceive, I knew something was wrong. Through it all, my OB explained my infertility away as the result of me "grieving too hard." "If you don't get over this," she would tell me, "you will never get pregnant."

Lying alone and half naked on a steel table at the hospital, my unresponsive tubes glaring down at me from a monitor overhead, a sympathetic doctor delivered to me the news that I would never again be able to conceive on my own. "There is no justice in this world," she told me, taking a deep breath, and as she did, any last shred of hope that I had held onto for a family of my own, flowed out of my eyes and down my cheeks.

In that moment: grief stricken and infertile - I felt my life was over.

Discovering that I had lost my fertility after losing my only child undid several months of healing, and brought a million questions to my mind. Hard questions. Painful questions.

Was I still a woman if I couldn't conceive?
Was I still a mother if my only child was dead?
Was I still a Catholic if I was willing to pursue IVF when the church is so strongly against it?
Was I still a wife if I couldn't give my husband a family?
Were we still a couple if making love could never create a life?

For someone who just a year and a half prior had been a confident 28 year old, with a promising career, thriving social life, happy marriage, and first child on the way - the downward spiral of those 18 months took me to the darkest depths of my life. Everything I believed would be suddenly felt like a lie, and the truths that I was facing were hard to swallow:

I had lost our child.
I had lost our fertility.
I had lost our hopes.

That's not a typo. I HAD LOST these things, or at least that's how I felt. In my mind, the blame for all of our losses and failures, were mine and mine alone.

I don't know why I always viewed hubs in a different light than myself. In many ways, I saw him as a victim in all this. He had married me and I had failed to hold up my end of the bargain.

Maybe it was because our IF issues were with my body?
Maybe it was because when he proposed he told me he wanted to "grow old together and have lots and lots of children," and the realization I couldn't give him that made me pity him for staying with me?
Maybe it was because I was Peyton's mother, and our miscarried baby's mother, and mothers always blame themselves.

All I know is that when I stumbled across this video, it struck a deep chord with me. I had, for months, been asking myself many of the same questions posed in the video.

What IF I lost my sense of self to my infertility?
What IF I lost my sexiness to infertility?
What IF I lost my spouse to infertility?

What IF?
What IF?
What IF?

Today I was looking around on the internet, and once again came across this video. As I did, the tears came, but they were different somehow. Today I cried tears of gratitude. Though I had felt so sure just six months ago that infertility would beat me, today I realized that I have beaten infertility.

It took over a year of trying, months of hormone injections, the pain of twisting an ovary, Ovarian Hyper Stimulation Syndrome, 4 weeks of bed rest for the Ovarian Hyper Stimulation Syndrome, the heartbreak of learning our first cycle had failed, many, many, MANY hours of therapy to deal with the above mentioned feelings, facing a second cycle after failing the first with no explanation, a bleed that has kept me on bed rest since week 12 and in all likelihood will continue to keep me bed ridden for the next 20 or so weeks, tens of thousands of dollars, countless tears, fears and anxieties, and all the emotions that go into having a high risk pregnancy after loss, but I am here - pregnant - full of hope - and very grateful.

I guess that is why I am writing this post. To let others on their own infertility journey know that I get it. I have been there, at the bottom, the very bottom. I have questioned every aspect of myself, my worth, and my life. I have wondered if joy would ever again return to my heart. If I could ever give my husband a family. If I could ever survive this, and the answer is yes.

There is always a chance.

Sometimes we have to wrestle with these big questions to find our way, but in the end, we can all get there. For us, a couple who lost their fertility to birthing a dying child, our chance came with IVF. For others it comes with surrogacy, or IUI. Medications, or adoption.

I don't know what the future holds for us, but I do know that it is looking brighter once again, and that is something that once felt impossible.

I guess that what I am trying to say is that it is only when we open our eyes and our minds to all of the possibilities in front of us, even those that we fear or resent or are unsure of, that we can find pathways to hope.

Here is the video that had such an impact on me. I am sure for those of you haven't seen it before, or are viewing it a second time, you will feel it resonates at some level with you too. (Be sure to pause the music player in the right column of this blog to hear the video.)

Free Pass?

A few months ago, I heard about a woman who had lost two of her three children to infant leukemia. She is the only known case of this happening with non identical twins. Her story sent a ripple of shock and horror through the infant leukemia community because we had all been promised by our own doctors and experts that such a thing could never happen.

Last night my cousin asked me to pray for a 3 year old little girl who was in the battle of her life. Today I learned that her parents, a couple who recently lost their five month old to a congenital issue, have now been dealt the incredibly unfair blow of having to say good bye to her too. Her tiny body couldn't fight off a freak case of bacterial meningitis, something her pediatrician originally wrote off as nothing more than bronchitis.

A woman in my grieving mom's group, a very kind and special and encouraging woman, I learned yesterday, is losing her battle with cancer. Her husband who unfairly had to bury his son, now must prepare to bury her too.

Seems so unfair, doesn't it?

There are a lot of really shitty people in this world. People who hurt and take and think of no one but themselves, and yet, you don't hear about these things happening to them. Why?

You would think that after all a bereaved parent goes through in loving and losing and grieving their beloved children, there would be some sort of free pass. A Get Out Of Heartache Free card. Something along the lines of:

"Your survival through the hell of losing a child entitles you to a life void of any further tragedy."

- God.

I guess this just goes to show that what my doctor told me when she diagnosed my infertility is true: "There is no justice in this world."

These stories are tragic. And heartbreaking. They bring tears to our eyes, and prayers for these families' healing to our hearts. We cry out in anger at God and the Universe for allowing such pain to exist. Hearing them sends us down a road of "Oh, what's the point in even trying," but there is another message here too. An eye opening one. One that must not be ignored.

You are still here. 
You are still alive.
Don't waste it.

It is so important that we not allow our grief to make us complacent in our living. We must not turn our backs on the day to day joys, no matter how minuscule they seem in comparison to the dark cloud that sorrow has cast over our lives. As tough a task as our circumstances make it, and as small as they feel in contrast to our pain, we must remind ourselves of what blessings we do have, and be grateful, because as these stories so cruelly illustrate, there are no guarantees in this life.

I have gotten into the habit of reminding myself before bed of what I do have. Among other things, this practice helps to calm the anxieties that cause my insomnia, and allows me a more peaceful transition to sleep.

I remind myself that I have my health.
My husband.
My family.
My friends.
A house to keep me warm.
Food to fill my belly.
A dog who has brought great joy into my life.
A love for writing.
A bed to sleep in.

You get the picture.

I know this may seem a bit odd, especially coming from someone who wrote in her last post that her life is ruined, and believe me when I say that that feeling is genuine, but even I, the girl with the dead kid and blocked tubes, have to remind myself that while my life may feel ruined, while it may feel at my core as if it has been broken beyond repair, I don't know that yet.

My story has not yet been told in its entirety, and I have to believe, even if believing means pushing through indescribable pain and heartache, that there is a possibility things will get better. The opportunity to live each day with the above blessings is proof of that.

Most of you who read here have lost a child, or loved one, or your fertility. You fight your own daily battles, and struggle through your own dark places.

Life, as we have learned, is not fair. Or easy. Or just.
It is just life.

We have each lost so much, far more than any person should have to endure losing, but I guess my point is that we haven't lost everything.

Each time we wake to see another day, draw another breath into our lungs, or allow a sense of love into our hearts; each time we find enough strength within ourselves to laugh through our tears, or feel that we are in the presence of a message or sign from our children; each time we recognize something beautiful in our surroundings, or feel some measure of peace in our souls, no matter how short lived those peaceful moments may be, we have to remind ourselves that in this broken world of no guarantees, each of these moments is a gift not be overlooked or taken for granted, but instead to be celebrated.

A nice change of pace.

Thank you so much to everyone who participated in this little question and answer exercise. I didn't know if anyone would send questions over, and then checked my inbox and saw all these great ones. I hope you enjoy reading the answers as much as I enjoyed reading the questions. 


- in what ways are you proud of Peyton? 
I am proud of Peyton's fighter spirit, and the way she never complained. Here this kid was going through the most awful types of treatments and medications imaginable, and she greeted every day with bright eyes, just ready to take the world around her in and be held. She rarely cried, except for during diaper changes of all things (she hated those), but there were some awful moments towards the end where any adult would have crumbled, and she just soldiered through them. I think there is a lot to be learned (and I am still working on this) from someone facing each day with such a great attitude despite the battles before her.
-What things are most precious to you about her?
Most precious to me about Peyton was her unguarded love. There were moments where she should have been exhausted, but for our sake she would stay up for hours staring into our eyes, or cuddle up, even when doing so meant more bruising (because of the Leukemia.)
- other than the obvious (Peyton not being here) is there anything you regret doing/not doing?
My greatest regret is that Peyton was never surrounded by pure joy. There was always an intense undercurrent of sadness. All children deserve to be surrounded by joy. In this way, I really feel I let Peyton down. We just didn't know. We didn't know our time would be so limited. Every day was a sort of panic mode, trying to get from one step in her treatment to the next. There were so many obstacles to overcome. I wish I could have not focused on Peyton's future, and just enjoyed her in her "present." That's not to say we didn't have beautiful moments, and we always smiled at her not wanting to let on how scared we were, but it wasn't pure joy and she deserved that from us.
 -Is there anything you are especially pleased you did do?
Breastfed her and did skin to skin time with her. It was the only "normal" mother child thing we could do in the hospital, and I relished every moment of it. I know she did too. She would pick up her head, look around (a skill I was really proud of her for doing since she was such a little newborn) and sigh before laying her head back on my chest. On my really dark days, it is those moments I cling hard to. They remind me that she was here. She was my child. We had that bond.
- if you had to chose one word to summarise grief what would it be?
Unrelenting
- if you could change one thing about how the world around you responds to your grief what would that be?
How unfairly judgmental people can be. People tend to see Peyton as less than a person because she was such a little baby, and me as less than a mother because she never came home. They say things like, "at least it didn't go on longer" or "at least she didn't come home with you because THAT would be really hard." My daughter is dead. A day old, a month old or 100 years old, that doesn't matter. She was still my child. I also really hate the way certain people use the "Everything happens for a reason" mentality to justify her loss. I have had two seperate people tell me that "maybe it is God's way of saying you aren't meant to be a mother." 
****
Was Peyton a happy baby or did her illness overshadow that?
It took ALOT for Peyton to complain. She did alot of smiling and looking around, she loved being held. I think she was a very happy baby. Happier than most adults would be in that situation. I think the situation overshadowed our joy, not hers. Alot of people, I think, assume because of her age that she was this sick little thing in an incubator. She wasn't. She always looked older than her age, she had a sort of wisdom in her expressions, and was very interactive with us. That is what made it so hard for us to accept how incredibly sick she was. We would get horrible news, come back to the room devastated, and she would look at us like, "Hey, what's the big deal. Look at me, I'm fine." She was our greatest cheerleader.
What is your favorite color? 
I never really had a favorite color, I have always been more of a wear black and white kinda girl. Now I would say yellow because since her passing, yellow butterflies tend to visit us alot. 
What kind of books do you like to read?
Since her death, sleep is an issue with me, so I make a point to try to only read "happy" books before bed. I love Janet Evanovich, Sophie Kinsella, Nicholas Sparks. That being said "The Kite Runner" and "Bobbed Hair and Bathtub Gin: Writers Running Wild In The Twenties" are two of my alltime favorites, and I am addicted to reading anything that has to do with writing.
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When people ask you if you have any children how do you respond? 
I have alot of trouble with this. Usually I blurt out that I did and she is dead and everyone stares at me blankly sort of shocked by it all. I have not mastered a way to answer this without making a spectacle of myself. On the days I am thinking the most clearly it comes out like, "Our daughter died of Leukemia." But usually, like I said, it is more jumbled with emotion. That being said, I never say "none." I do have a daughter, dead or alive, she is still mine.
How is your coping with grief different than your husband's?
I wear my emotions like a Scarlet Letter. My husband keeps his all in. There couldn't be two people who grieve more differently than we do. We heard early on how so many couples divorce after losing a child, especially a first child, and committed to respecting each other's grief, even when we don't understand it. For me that means not saying anything when he can't answer the above question, and him not judging my need to write so much or go to therapy. Neither of us grieves better, just totally different.
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When did you get Peyton's cancer diagnosis, in utero or after birth?
When Peyton was born via c-section the doctor told me "you have a beautiful, perfect little girl." By the time I was wheeled back to my room, she rushed to my bedside to say, "Something is very, very wrong with your baby." They had given Peyton some routine shots in the nursery, and couldn't get her to stop bleeding. It was very traumatic and completely unexpected. Within moments of Peyton's birth we were signing papers to authorize blood transfusions and to have her transferred to another hospital. It would be three days before I could even hold her. I hate to say this, but it is true. Peyton's birth was the second worst day of my life. Her death the first. 
Do you think grief has effected your marriage?
Yes. There were days, especially in the beginning, when I felt toxic and jinxed. I love my hubs so much and would beg him to just leave and start over somewhere else with someone else who could give him healthy kids. I never wanted him to leave because I had stopped loving him or anything like that. I wanted him to because I loved him so much that I hated the feeling that I was holding him back from having a family. Luckily, he didn't listen to me. My husband and I have come through this committed to making it. We face high divorce odds because of the loss of Peyton, odds that are compounded when you add in our infertility issues, and that we don't share the same religious beliefs. There are things that on paper would spell out trouble, but we cross each pebble, rut, and mountain together, because we love each other. We have been dealt a tough hand of cards, but they are our cards, not mine, not his, ours. The sooner a couple in this situation realizes that, the better. 
Do you feel like you really got to know Peyton well in the NICU, or do you wish you got to take her home?
I wish I could have taken her home, but by the time that was an option, it was as a Hospice situation. Peyton was suffering so terribly at the end, that I worried taking her home might bring more pain than comfort. That being said, I got to know Peyton. I got to know that she hated the cold hitting her bottom. I got to know that she loved skin to skin time, being held, and kissed and rocked. I got to know that she would fight off the pain of cancer, and chemo, and a mass in her brain, and spinal taps, and debrieding surgeries, and a horrific fungal infection, to stare into our eyes. The night before Peyton died, she stayed up for hours looking at us. It was the greatest gift she could have given us. I think of how hard that must have been. How much she must have wanted to give in and rest, but she fought through it never letting on to how sick she really was. I definitely got to know her, and I am so proud of the little girl I got to know.
Where do you live? 
We live in a sleepy little town in Connecticut surrounded by rivers to tube, mountains to hike, and paths and trails to explore. I love the outdoors and nature. To me, this place is a little slice of Heaven on Earth.
What do you do for a living?
I had a great job and growing career in medical sales when I had Peyton. After she died, I wasn't able to go back. Confidence is what made me really good at that job, and my confidence was completely shattered. It was recommended early on that I do some journaling to get through my grief, and now I write. And write. And write. I have written a memoir about Peyton, some short stories, these blog posts. I don't write for a living, but writing keeps me alive.
What do you think is the biggest lesson grief/Peyton has taught you?
I would love to say something inspiring here, but it would be a lie. The biggest lesson this grief has taught me is how quickly all the plans you had for your life can fall apart. The biggest lesson Peyton has taught me is how deeply you can love someone.
****
My question is simply this: what piece of advice or wisdom you would share with someone who has just lost their baby? 
Keep breathing. Even when you feel like you can't, when your chest is so heavy and you don't know what the point is in going on, keep doing it. Just take one breath, and then another. Be kind to yourself, and don't worry about what others think you should be doing or feeling. They aren't you. Even if they too lost a child, they didn't lose YOUR child in YOUR particular circumstance. Do what feels right in your grief, when it feels right, and when you feel up to it, find an outlet. Jogging, writing, boxing, art. Find an outlet to bear some of the burden of what you are carrying with you.
****
What is your most precious memory with Peyton?
Doing skin to skin time at the hospital. She would let out these adorable little sighs as she lifted and readjusted her head, and the minty sweet milky smell of her breath would waft up to my nose with each little exhalation. I had never felt so needed in all my life. 
****
What has been the most helpful form of support for you following the loss of Peyton?
It has been a mix of things. I have wonderful family and friends, and an incredibly capable therapist who have allowed me to feel what I need to feel when I need to feel it through this loss. I have a husband who loves me even when he doesn't understand me, and have found a community online that knows, truly, what it is I am going through. I think it has also been so important to be allowed to grieve on my own time in my own way. This isn't something that can be rushed according to someone else's timetable, and anyone who thinks it can be, has never lived it.
When Peyton has a sibling, what things will you do to help them "know" her?
Peyton's name is spoken in this house every day. She was made of our love and her death doesn't change that. If we are blessed (knock on wood) to have other children, her name will continue to be spoken every day, so our kids will definitely know that they have a big sister looking over them. She is as much a part of this family as any of us. I have heard some cute ideas too, for when they are older, of hanging a stocking for her at Christmas for everyone to write notes to her in. I like that. We will also do Doing Good In Her Name as a family, and decorate the Peyton Tree together over the holidays. The only thing we might not do as a family is watch the videos of her, because towards the end, they are hard and might be difficult for little ones to see. 
Did Peyton ever get to go outside? I know that you probably had to be very cautious about exposing her to germs...just curious.
This is one of my greatest regrets. Peyton never went outside, except the ride from one hospital to the next in an ambulance. If we had known her time was so short, I think I would have pushed for it. I honestly didn't even know that taking her outside was within my rights to do. The fact that she never felt the sun on her face is something that keeps me up at night. 
When you think of Peyton, do you think of her as an 18 month old toddler or as a 4 week old baby?
I think of Peyton's spirit more than her age. I talk to her all the time, but not in a cooing little baby way, more just in conversations. I often ask out loud if she is tired of me burdening her little baby ears with all my complaining. I think because she had such an "old soul" look to her eyes, I always took her for being wise. That's the way I see her. I had a couple really vivid "dreams" about Peyton. In one she was young, maybe 5 or 7, in the other I saw her go through her whole life, so I guess I sort of picture her all different ways. The other day a woman said that she had a seventeen month old at home, and I tried saying that out loud to myself, "I have a toddler, I have an eighteen month old." I couldn't even imagine it. It felt foreign to put an age on her.
Do you have names picked out for Peyton's siblings?
No, haha. To be honest I didn't have Peyton's name picked out either. She was going to be Scarlett or Finn. Then, in a drug induced haze during the C-section I popped out with Peyton. Not wanting to argue with me while my uterus was sitting on my chest, hubs just sort of went with it. When I got wheeled back to the room I asked where Scarlett was and hubs said, "Scarlett? You said Peyton. I told everyone Peyton." Those were some serious drugs. 
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Does your husband read your blog? 
No. I mean he has here and there, but he doesn't because it brings back memories that make him sad.
What is something silly about you; weird habits?
*If I really like something that I am eating, I will sort of dance around in my chair. I don't even realize I am doing it till hubs points it out.
*I took five years of Spanish and can hardly speak a word, unless I am drunk and wandering the streets of Mexico where I become inexplicably fluent.  
*I am TONE DEAF but love to sing. In church, hubs will ask me to stop because I am ruining the moment for him. Being that he is agnostic, that is saying alot.
*As far as weird habit, I have tons of them. I can't sleep if the closet doors are open. 
As a child, what were your dreams?
I wanted to be garbage truck driver/stand up comedian until I was like 7. I don't know why. Just did. 
Since then, my dream has been to write.
****
What is your favorite memory of Peyton?
I already answered this, so I will add another. One day she was being changed and she started to cry and hit this really high note which seemed to shock her. It was like she had found something new, so she shot me this look like, "Hey mom did you hear that?" and went back to it again. She was only a few weeks old at the time. Suddenly she wasn't crying anymore, just hitting the high note because she could. She seemed very proud of herself.
If you could send her a message and know that she would receive it, what would you say to her?
You were loved. You were wanted. You still are. I'm sorry I couldn't do more.

Your Questions My Answers

A few months ago, I read a post where the blogger invited readers to ask questions in the comments section. She then answered them in her following post. As a reader of her blog, I got to know a little more about who it was that I was reading, and saw a sort of virtual conversation play out at she answered the questions.

Over the past 10 months I have really come to love this community. There are many bloggers who I have met here who I now consider friends, and others who I would like to get to know better. I think that is what I liked about the question and answer post, the way it created a sense of dialogue and allowed readers to get a little more insight into the bloggers whole self, not just what they had chosen to blog about on a given day.

The idea of doing this was filed away into the back of my mind that day, and sort of forgotten about, but with the sun shining, and Spring attempting to spring, I thought this might be a fun little change of pace.

So there you have it. If there is anything you would like to know, about me, Peyton, or something you have read here... just ask away! 

  

Comfort in numbers?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swirling, Unforgiving, Nauseating, Heart Pounding Questioning

My baby died of Cancer.

Sometimes this very sentence sends me reeling. How could this happen? How could my child, formed of immense love and carried within me, enter this world with the chips so severely stacked against her? A one in fifty million chance, was that some kind of a joke? When you worry about what can go wrong in a pregnancy, you never picture this. It is simply unimaginable. How could her body have betrayed her so cruelly? How could her blood have been riddled with Cancer at its creation? Why were there no warnings? I was her Mother, how could I have not known? Sometimes I lose days on end, lost in the swirling, unforgiving, nauseating, heart pounding questioning.

Since losing Peyton, I feel unable to escape stories of sick children fighting for their lives. Each blog, it seems, has a button with another story of a sick child needing prayers. Click after click, I read these stories and pray that God will show these children a level of mercy and healing that he did not bestow upon my child. And with each story, I wonder how many more Mothers need to leave hospitals with empty blankets, aching arms, and broken hearts?

It is as if I am seeing the unforgiving nature of this world for the first time. How can this be? Was it always this way; a world filled with the suffering of children? How could there have been so many Mothers with broken hearts out there, without me knowing? How could I have been so naive to believe that terminal illness was for the old? How could I have thought that those that I loved were immune to the evils of Cancer? Was I that proud? Was I that self centered?

Last night I stumbled upon a story about a beautiful little girl named Abigail, who is fighting Leukemia, the same vicious disease that took my Peyton. Abigail's chances are much better than Peyton's. She is older, three or so, and has already made it through several months of chemo. She falls into an age range with a 90% plus cure rate, my poor Peyton was looking at a percent of a percent at best.

While reading her story, scrolling through her page, and admiring the strength of faith displayed by her parents, I found myself sucker-punched and unable to breathe. The right side of her blog had a picture of Abigail with her parents, it read "us with our sweet Abigail who was diagnosed with Leukemia on Oct. 2nd, 2008." Reading that, my heart broke at the realization that on the very day that my sweet Peyton drew her last breath in the battle against Leukemia, this little girl was just beginning the fight. I sat there, staring at the date in awe, knowing that our lives, and that of Abigail's parents, came crashing down on the very same day... and I prayed to God to grant this child the miracle that we had so wanted for Peyton, the miracle of a cure.

Questions from the Outside

I feel like an outsider looking in

on what should have been,

how my life could have been,

as those around us birth healthy children with ease

and bring them home.

In my joy for them

my heart is breaking,

the emptiness in this house stinging me,

as the questions come calling without fail.

How could this happen?

Why did this happen?

How did I end up here?

When will I get my turn to be a mom like the others,

and say the baby kept me up all night,

without referring to nightmares and second guessing?

As children, when something didn't go right

we asked for a second chance, a do-over,

and received one.

Where is my do-over?

I have begged God,

pleaded for one,

but my prayers have fallen on deaf ears.

I want to do so much of it over,

to make different decisions and see if we could have saved her.

I want to know motherhood as a joyful experience,

and shake off the cold of being left outside.

I want to know when my penance

of pain and guilt and sorrow and tears will be paid.

I want to be let in.

~Kristin Binder

Everything Happens For A Reason

Everything happens for a reason. 

This, the most common of platitudes, is one that I have heard, and cringed at, a hundred times since Peyton died. Everything happens for a reason is a perfectly acceptable phrase to use when consoling a friend through the loss of a job i.e., losing this job will lead you to the next even better job; or through a tough break up i.e., no longer being with him will open you to the opportunity of meeting the next even better guy etc. etc. There is however, no reason so great, that it would justify the pain of watching your child suffer through chemotherapy, or the unrelenting grief that comes with watching her slip from this world to the next.

Today, while en route to a doctor's appointment, I sat stopped at a red light blocking me from making a left onto a main street. My light changed to green and I started to move forward, but luckily, out of the corner of my eye, sensed a car hurling toward me at far too fast a rate of speed to be someone who intended to stop at the red light before them. My reflexes engaged, I felt my foot hit the break, and watched in utter disbelief as this idiot woman screamed through my pathway, oblivious to the fact that she had just nearly caused a major accident.

 In that moment, sitting behind the wheel, heart pounding and thanking God for my reflexes, I realized that everything doesn't happen for a reason... sometimes things just happen. Had this woman hit me, she would have seriously hurt me or worse at the speed she was travelling, and there would have been no great meaning behind it... it just would have been. 

I have spent the last eight months trying to figure out why Leukemia chose to break our hearts. Why this happened to Peyton, to me, to us - and the reality is that there is just no reason. Life, for better or for worse, and without much concern or thought for those that it affects, just happens.