It has been 9 years since my first loss. 9 years. Some would say they have nothing to show for it. I say, this isn’t how I envisioned my life, but this is where I am. I could be sad, envious, and still holding onto hope for a life that wasn’t meant to be mine. Instead I choose to live each day moving forward with who I was meant to be. Strong, independent, inspirational, a hard worker, a loving daughter and sister, and a faithful wife. Some days I wonder why I wasn’t meant to be a mom, but the moments are fleeting when I remember who I am and knowing that my purpose in life was much more than just being a mom.
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When Father’s Day isn’t
To the dad that was coming and didn’t show, hold your hand, watch you grow.
Never watched your softball games, taught you to dance, or learned your friends names.
To the dad that you saw once every couple of years, had you for hours, then left you in tears.
To the dad whose new family meant more than you did, blood’s not thicker than water-you were his kid.
To the dad of the little girl writing this letter, crying as she types, who swore she’d do better.
She grew up. She thrived. She learned from her mother; the things that she needed to love one another.
She met a man that swore he’d be more, than the father that left her when he walked out the door.
She had a career, a car, and a spouse. She had a white picket fence around the outside of her house.
But you wouldn’t know because you weren’t there. Instead of walking her down the aisle you called HER selfish and said you didn’t care.
What she didn’t have was her childhood dream, a baby of her own, she couldn’t it would seem.
But instead of showing support and trying to care, you rubbed salt in the wound, made her feel worthless and bare.
The older she got the smarter she became. It took her almost 40 years but she’s done playing your game.
To the dad that missed out and decided to pass, you can take your regrets and shove them up your ass!
On the edge
I can’t breathe! I fling myself upright in bed; grabbing at my throat, my chest.
My heart is pounding so hard!
I suck in air. Again, and again, and again.
I can’t breathe!
My skin feels prickly. I start sweating.
I force air out of my lungs and back in.
My mind is racing and yet I can’t think straight.
I’m breathing but I can’t breathe!
I throw myself out of bed and stumble towards the bathroom. I choke down a Xanax and stare at a stranger’s reflection in the mirror. The eyes staring back at me look tired and emotionless.
I sit on the edge of the cold bathtub. I remember this spot well. I sat here and cried after each negative pregnancy test for over 2 years. I sobbed in this spot after each of my 3 miscarriages. And again when I was told I would never have my own kids. I sat here crying each time Mother’s Day came and went with empty arms and each time someone offered unsolicited advice. I sat here when my favorite aunt passed from cancer and again when my grandmother passed a month later.
I find myself here a lot. On the edge. If you’re looking; you can usually find me here, on the edge of a breakdown or, if I’m lucky, a breakthrough. I don’t know what brings me here tonight. But I do know, I’ll get thru it and be stronger because of it. Because that’s what I do.
I’ve had a lot of realizations on the edge of this cold bathtub. And each one comes with a new wave of emotions. I’m learning to ride the wave and accept each emotion and feeling as it comes. I’m learning to accept myself for my inability to have children and for my anxiety. I’m learning to live the life I’ve created instead of the one I expected. It’s been a wild ride, but it’s far from over. And I’m going to continue living my life on the edge.
If things had gone as planned
If things had gone as planned, I’d have an almost 6 year old coming home after a day at summer camp. She (or he) would tell me about how she and her best friend Caitlyn were able to ignore the camp bully. She’d be so proud of herself for not getting angry or crying. I’d tell her I’m proud of her too. And to keep her head up because she’s better than what anyone else thinks of her and I’d tell her how much I truly love her, but if the bully ever caused her physical harm to punch the bully in the nose. And I wouldn’t be mad at her, but that’s not the first line of defense.
She would go on to tell me how they swam in the lake and tomorrow they’re going to paddleboat. She’d show me her picture that she made by glueing leaves and flowers to paper and and then she’d show me her pinecone bird feeder.
“Oh yeah!” She’d say. And smile big! She’d tell me she almost forgot but she lost her first tooth. How she doesn’t even know where it is. Her and Caitlyn had been playing on the monkey bars and when she jumped off it was gone. She’d tell me it didn’t even hurt. She’d be such a brave, strong girl. The tooth fairy would still come of course. She’d leave a $2 bill, after all this is why I’ve been saving them, and some other fun treats.
If things had gone as planned, I’d have the most amazing almost six year old that ever existed!
If things had gone as planned, I wouldn’t be sitting around in my underwear playing video games or planning a birthday photo shoot for my 15 year old dog.
If things had gone as planned, we wouldn’t have been able to travel and move from state to state on a whim. We wouldn’t appreciate the quiet evenings we have and the ability to go wherever whenever. We take each day as it comes and look to the future.
But on days like today I like to visit that almost 6 year old, with a gappy grin, in stories that I fabricate from an idealism that’ll never be.
All’s well that ends well
But what happens when it doesn’t? End well that is…
Well, you learn to cope with the ending you’ve been given. You learn to play the cards that were dealt. It’s not always fair. Almost never. I always believed a perfect life would be a boring life, but I never anticipated the life I was given.
Your entire life you are lied to. Told you choose your life, you chose your outcome. But that’s not true. You have choices but you don’t choose your life.
You don’t choose to be born, you just are. You don’t choose the family you are born into or the way you are raised. It just happens. You’re told you get to choose what you want to be when you grow up. Even that was a lie. I guess in a way I got lucky and something that was worth pursuing fell into my lap while I was still in school. But I didn’t choose it. I chose to be smart and pursue it, but it chose me. I can attain that I didn’t choose my husband, my heart did. And you can’t help who you love, right?
We did choose to travel and move around exploring different areas to call our home. And each choice was met with other adventures. For that I will always be grateful. We did choose to get married before trying to start a family. We chose to try and start a family. It did not choose us.
It took 5 years to realize that even without kids we are a family. It took 2 more years to realize my patience for kids isn’t what it use to be. You see, over the years I put this guard up. I told myself kids were annoying, and loud, needy, demanding little jerks. I’ve told myself this same lie over and over and over again. Until I started to believe it. Until I thought I had finally convinced myself that there was no room in my life for children now. I enjoy my privacy, my quiet, and ability to do what I want when I want.
And then…while watching Christmas movies with my husband, who is rarely vocal about us not having kids (to protect my emotions) has been making comments such as if we had kids, if we had a boy and a girl, if we had…blah blah blah.
And it broke me.
And then…not one, not two, not three, not four, but 5, birth announcements came in the past 2 weeks.
And it shattered me.
And now I’m left picking up the pieces of this facade I’ve spent years building. Of this strength I’ve not just portrayed but felt, and I’m left wondering how long it will take me to get back to that. How long will it take me to overcome the grief and anger and sadness again. Will it be easier this time? Will it ever go away? How do I know the triggers that may cause it to resurface? I thought I was beyond this. I thought I was stronger.
I thought it was suppose to be easy to just CHOOSE to be happy. I thought I could play along long enough to make it seem real. Like not having kids didn’t bother me. I thought if I could think it long and hard enough it could be true.
I know all the comments that will come along with this. Comments I’ve heard many times. Comments that I do appreciate but have also grown numb to. “Hang in there” “You’re so strong”. “You’re so brave”. “You can have my kids”.
Again, all lies. Right now, I’m not strong, I’m not brave, and I don’t want your asshole kids, I want mine!
If you’re going thru these same emotions right now, I feel you. I wish I could tell you it will get better. I wish I could tell you it gets easier. But right now, all I can tell you is that you’re not alone. And somehow I’m pretty sure we’ll get thru this again. And probably again, and again years down the road. Because that’s what we do. That’s all we can do. I can’t comfort you or make you feel better when I don’t even know how to comfort myself. But I can be transparent and raw with my emotions and let you know, you are not alone.
YOU
You didn’t know when you bought me my doll and encouraged me to nurture it that I wouldn’t be able to have kids.
You didn’t know that when I was in Girl Scouts and needed my babysitters badge and you asked me to babysit, that I wouldn’t be able to have kids.
You didn’t know when you encouraged us to write stories about where we saw ourselves in the future; 5, 10, 15 years from now; and I wrote about a large family, that I wouldn’t be able to have kids.
But YOU. YOU know. YOU act like I’m less than, like I’m not as smart, like I’m not as worthy, and like I won’t care for your child the way that you do because I can’t have kids.
YOU know and YOU act like my experience, and my knowledge, and my opinions are not wanted and are not appreciated because I can’t have kids.
And you, if you are like me I see you. I know that you have experience. I know that you are probably smarter than most parents. I know that you feel undervalued and unappreciated. I know you feel unworthy and alone I see you. I hear you. And it’s time for us to RISE. Because we are smart, and we are valuable to society, and we have a lot to offer. We are worthy and we do know love. And just because we can’t have kids, doesn’t mean we didn’t want them and doesn’t mean we don’t know what it’s like to love one like you do. Yes parents, I’m talking to YOU. YOU are not better than, YOU are not smarter than, and YOU are not more worthy than we are because you were able to have children. 7 out of 8 people have children and yet YOU think you’re special. I think it’s time to do some reevaluating.
Forgotten
They may have forgotten but I’ll never be able to. The harsh reality is that I’m the only one that will ever remember.
Those 7 blissful days. The days you made my momma heart so joyful. The 7 days I wondered whether you would be a boy or a girl. If you would have my eyes. Curly hair like daddy maybe. Maybe even red hair? What would your laugh sound like? Would you be stubborn and passionate and caring? Would you be funny and confident and humble? The 7 days we got, just you and me. You were the size of a Poppyseed but you became my entire world!
And then my world was flipped upside down. And as you left my body I held you one more time. This time in my hands. But I couldn’t keep you. You slipped through my fingers. For you were too good for this world. And I have to believe you’re in a better place waiting for me.
I wish others would remember you. And sometimes I wish I could forget January 3,2015 when you left me. But I’m happy for those 7 days we got. Just me and you. I never had to share you with a cruel world that wasn’t good enough for you anyway. You were mine and mine alone and I’m proud to be your mommy. And I’m glad I was chosen to have held you for those 7 joyful days. I will hold you in my heart and my memory for eternity. You will always be my little Poppyseed.
Over
And just like that the magicalness is over. All the thought, preparations, stressing, and worrying you’ve done to make this day everything you could’ve imagined has now come to an end. Everything you wanted this day to be and more. Just over. Just as quickly as it began.
And instead of it ending in wrapping paper strewn about, it is blood clots and unimaginable pain. Not only physical, but mental.
You see, a miscarriage(and infertility),if you don’t have the experience, can be a lot like Christmas. So much thought and work goes into making this day magical. ‘What Christmas cards will I send’ translates to ‘how will I announce’. ‘What presents should I buy’ translates to ‘which is the best car seat, stroller, high chair etc’. ‘What should we make for dinner’, ‘what can or what should I not be eating to keep baby healthy.’ Everything is carefully thought over and every detail planned. And then the day comes! Santa has come and you see those 2 pink lines. Everything is exactly how you imagined.
And then you look around. It’s quiet, your house(womb)is messy and empty, and you feel more lonely than you’ve ever felt.
Even though you had but a fleeting moment of joy, the sadness now overwhelms you.
But the difference is this. You know Christmas will happen again next year. Next year can be different for you. You can plan differently, stress less, enjoy your time more. But for me, and others like me, that opportunity has passed. We can never get it back. We will never experience it again. The baby that we once held in our womb will never be able to be replaced by another. You can have one bad Christmas erased by memories of more good Christmas memories. But you can’t replace a lost baby. So today I think of those with empty arms, empty wombs, and empty hearts and homes. You are in my thoughts today and always.
Vikki
Unplanned
We spend our entire lives planning.
What should we wear today? What should we eat? Where should we go? Who’s driving? Who’s paying? Who’s coming? Who’s gonna be there? Will it last? How long will it last? What are my other options? What do we want to be when we grow up? What school do we want to go to? Can we afford it?
Life is a never ending list of decisions that decide our futures.
Somewhere in that decision making process, my fate was decided for me. How I choose to proceed will ALWAYS be MY decision.
My life was preplanned. My fate unplanned.
Believe me, I’m a planner. I like to have control in all aspects of my life. I’ve come to realize the only control I have in this universe is ME. And even that seems questionable since I’ve been diagnosed with infertility and anxiety(definitely out of my control). But what I can control is how I respond to these unforeseen, unplanned, ailments.
I chose not to proceed with fertility treatments. My options were expensive and success rates were low. Less than 4% chance. I chose not to proceed with adoption. The process is long, expensive, and quite frankly makes me bitter. I choose to be the best dog mom and spoil my fur princess every chance I can. I choose to be the best Auntie I can.
And I choose to speak out. Let my voice be heard. My story be heard. Because infertility isn’t something to be ashamed about. Infertility is NOT a choice. Even though I chose not to proceed with fertility options, I choose to not let infertility win.
I am infertile, but infertility will not define me. I decide to define infertility in MY way. I choose to be more than my infertility.
When Mother’s Day doesn’t come easy
This year my heart is heavy with grief on Mother’s Day, but not just for myself. I’ve been blessed enough to find women going through similar journeys with infertility. And while I welcome the friendships with open arms and appreciate that they can empathize and understand what I am going through, my heart is heavy that they are forgotten on this day as well.
While my 6 childless Mother’s Days since trying to conceive haven’t been easy, this is definitely the hardest. There’s definitely a sisterhood among fellow infertility warriors. We support each other and can vent without offending, knowing that we may have different feelings but that they are all valid.
To see these amazing momma’s at heart hurt as I do on this day is heartbreaking.
The love that these women give to nieces, nephews, godchildren, friends, etc. To love another woman’s child as fiercely as you can and be willing to give your life for that child. That makes you a momma. Not giving birth.
So this year and every year on Mother’s Day don’t forget these amazing women who love YOUR children unconditionally. Send them a card or just give them a hug and let them know they are just as much appreciated and deserving of this day!
To my fellow mommas at heart, you are beautiful! You are strong! And you will survive today!
Beyond the Poppyseed 