I have been feeling exceptionally overwhelmed lately. It just feels like life itself is too much for me right now. Granted, I have a lot on my plate with the house, work, and my new Pampered Chef business, but that's really not a lot of chaos compared to what I'm used to. Six months ago, all of this "life stuff" would have not phased me a bit. Now it feels like more than I can handle even though it is all relatively simple and uncomplicated. I realize that a large part of my identity and sense of self worth centers around my ability to handle a lot of things and come through in a crunch. I am really missing the part of myself that was confident and could handle life's twists and turns with relative ease.
My tolerance for a lot of things is lower than normal for me. For instance, I love the house but it feels really overwhelming to be responsible for an entire building with all of it's quirks and unique characteristics. Matt has been awesome with all of his "honey do" lists but I feel like I can barely manage to keep up with the laundry let alone actually do home improvements. Arranging the dishes in the dishwasher so that they all get clean feels like way more daunting of a task than it should be.
I have also been more sensitive lately to sensory overload. All of my life I have been quite sensitive to sounds, visual stimulation, and touch. Lately, my ability to withstand even moderate levels of sensory experiences has been lower and more frustrating. The other night, Matt and I were shopping for paint at Wal-Mart and I almost had an anxiety attack because he left me alone in the grocery section. It didn't help that it seemed like every woman in the store was about 8 months pregnant. Wal-Mart has never been a good place for me, but that night it felt like I was drowning in sights, sounds, and people. I hate that feeling.
We recently finished most of our painting projects and I started hanging pictures on the walls. I almost had a breakdown when I found the box of picture frames that I have been storing since our wedding. I was planning to fill a lot of big collage frames with pictures of Keller and all of his "firsts." While we plan to frame and display some of Keller's pictures from the hospital, we likely won't wallpaper the walls with him the way we had intended to. Looking at empty picture frames, without baby pictures to fill them, makes me incredibly sad. It's even more difficult for me to look at my scrapbooking supplies because I think about how I had planned for Keller to be the most photographed and scrapbooked baby on the planet. Hopefully I will get to a point where I am ready to frame Keller's pictures, display them, and scrapbook the rest. I want to finish my pregnancy scrapbook that I started when I found out that I was pregnant with Keller, but I'm not ready yet.
One of the things that is overwhelming me the most is the fact that my friends are now having their baby showers and their babies. I was so lucky to be pregnant with a lot of awesome friends. It seemed like I had started a trend and it was wonderful to share my experiences with people who were pregnant but earlier in their pregnancies than I was. Now all of those people, including several family members, will give birth and bring their babies home. I can't believe that I am not part of their group anymore. I am a mother, but not in the same sense that they will be mothers. My friends will have babies who come home from the hospital, sleep in their cribs, and keep their moms up all night. I will have to wait at least a year to share those experiences with them.
The thought of facing another pregnancy is also overwhelming to me. One one hand, I can't begin to fathom the idea that I will get pregnant again and go through all of the ups and downs of pregnancy in the next few months. On the other hand, the thought of having a healthy baby, one who comes home from the hospital and sleeps in a crib, is all that I can think about. Contemplating another pregnancy both kills me and uplifts me at the same time and that contradiction of feelings overwhelms me too.
It is going to take a lot of strength, strength that I'm not 100% sure that I have, to get through the next few months. There are no easy fixes to my current feelings of being overwhelmed and I know that I have to be patient and give myself time to heal. I'm aware of the fact that my expectations of myself are high and that I may be trying too hard. As crazy as it sounds, it is somewhat comforting to recognize that I still have high expectations for myself because my high expectations are part of who I was before. Even though I am hard on myself sometimes, it's nice to see that I haven't completely given up and thrown in the proverbial towel.
As each one of my friends gives birth to her baby, I sincerely want to be there for her and her family. I want so badly to celebrate each blessing without drowning in my own sorrow. Right now I am so thankful for the understanding of my friends who know that I may be unable to attend their showers. They know that I support them completely and that I would be there in a moment if I could muster the emotional strength. As I continue my own journey to becoming the mother of a surviving baby, I will need the support of my family and friends probably more than ever. Life may be too much for me right now, but with enough love and support I can and will move through it like I always have.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Angry... but cautiously optimistic
"Let us not look back in anger, nor forward in fear, but around in awareness." ~James Thurber
Anger isn't something that comes naturally to me. For as much as I preach to my clients, "Anger is a normal emotion and you shouldn't feel bad about being angry," I haven't really given myself much of a license to be angry. I am constantly trying to talk myself out of being angry because I have long believed that there is something wrong with experiencing anger. Being the "people-pleaser" that I am, I haven't wanted to express anger because I didn't want to hurt any one's feelings or make them feel bad.
Right now I have a lot of anger and it's sort of a foreign emotion for me. Granted, I have felt anger in the past, but that was better described as irritation and frustration. The type of anger that I'm currently experiencing is very intense and somewhat irrational. I am angry about so many things and some of them don't even make sense. Going to therapy has helped me understand the importance of expressing and experiencing emotions without arguing with them, but I am still struggling to deal with my current level of anger.
I find myself being angry because so many of my friends are pregnant right now. They are all going to have their baby showers, give birth, and bring their babies home in the next few months. While I am jealous, I am also very angry, not at them but at the circumstances. I don't know if I will be able to get past my anger enough to attend their baby showers and share their joy. I feel like a terrible friend because they have all showered me with more love and support than I could have ever imagined and I want to repay that as much as I can. I also have to remember that my pregnant friends also lost Keller; they all expected that their child would grow up and have Keller to play with. Now they will not have that opportunity and it is very sad for them.
Matt and I are in the process of buying a home. While I am very excited at the prospect of purchasing my first house, I am hesitant to get too excited about it before the deal is completely done. I am reluctant to pack boxes and prepare for moving because I don't want to get too invested in something that may or may not happen. The last thing that I was really, really excited for ended in the worst tragedy of my life. Losing Keller has made me afraid to get too invested in anything until it happens and is for sure.
I am so angry because losing Keller has robbed me of my unbridled optimism. I am the kind of person who gets giddy about new pens on the first day of school. I enjoy the feeling of anticipation that you get before a new adventure and I love preparing for new opportunities and changes. It makes me sad that I am trying to prevent myself from getting giddy about the house because I am worried that something terrible is going to happen to take it away from me.
Matt asked me this morning if I wanted to go to Helena to start shopping for new bathroom stuff because we will have two bathrooms in the new house. My first instinct was to say, "Absolutely, let's go now." But my second instinct was to hold back because, how awful would I feel if we bought new bathroom stuff and the house deal fell through? It would be very similar, on a smaller scale, to coming home to a room literally filled with baby stuff with no baby to use it.
Six months ago, I would have been so unbelievably excited about buying a house. I would already have had everything packed, would have purchased paint for every room, and likely would have had a good start on decorating each bedroom with a unique and very "Jami" design. Now I am still optimistic, but cautiously optimistic. I have packed a few things and started on a few details, but I haven't ordered new address labels or notified the post office that we will be moving. Six months ago, I would have ordered a stamp with my new address on it. I may have even designed and purchased little "We've moved" postcards to send to our friends and family. Sadly I don't know if I will ever be THAT person again and I will miss that side of myself a lot.
I wasn't naive before, but I was more sure that things would work out for me if I just worked hard and prepared enough. I know that random things happen to everyone, even those who prepare and have optimism. But I also know that sometimes preparation does help ensure that negative things can be avoided. In my mind, I could not have been MORE prepared for Keller's birth and I am angry that that preparation was not enough to bring him home safely.
Like I said before, a lot of my anger is irrational. I know that my excitement and preparation for Keller's birth did not cause his death. I also know that failing to prepare for Keller's birth would not have made losing him any easier. It is just so hard for me to know that I may never be that fiercely optimistic again; part of that innocence is gone for me. Granted, I still fully plan to get excited and even giddy about good things happening in the future. However, my optimism will likely be somewhat more withdrawn and guarded, and to me, that is a loss in and of itself.
Maybe something good will come out of my present state of anger. In some ways, I think it is good for me to go through it because anger is evidence that I am healing and moving through the stages of grief. Perhaps my anger will even translate into motivation to DO something productive. Who knows? I may even pick up a paintbrush and show my new house how beautiful a little anger can be.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Rare and unexpected... either good or bad
This week has been tough. There's really no other way to put it. While my body continues to heal at a breakneck pace, my mental and emotional healing has been slower. I continue to move forward with the business of life while I struggle to make sense of the fact that my son is not at home in my arms. I feel like I have let go of a lot of the questions that were drowning me, but that has opened the door for other questions to take their place.
My question of the week is, "Why have I been involved in so many random situations that had a very low probability of occurring?" I realize that a lot of my life has been spent shaking my head at the sheer randomness of life. I feel like my life, in particular, has been filled with experiences that experts would have said had a low probability of ever occurring in the first place.
Not all of my random experiences have been bad, in fact, some have been awesome. For instance, I only applied to ONE graduate school and got into it. I had done poorly on my GRE, had low self-confidence, and found the only school in the Seattle area that didn't require the GRE for admission. When I sent in my application, I knew that I was putting all of my eggs in one basket and I was ready to spend the next year on my parents' couch wallowing and starting the application process over again. When I was accepted to Northwest, I knew that getting into the only school you applied to was as rare as getting struck by lightning. I didn't argue with it; I just packed my bags and started the next phase of my life.
That wasn't the only time that the randomness of the world worked to my benefit. When graduate school was drawing to a close, I started applying for jobs. In the big metropolis of Seattle, I interviewed for ONE job and was offered that job on the morning of my graduation. When I decided to move home to Montana, I interviewed for ONE job and was offered that job within 30 minutes of the interview. I later met my husband at a wedding, which was yet another example of the randomness of the world benefiting me in an unexpected way.
I don't think that I have lived a charmed life or that I am exempt from the normal forces of the world. I do have to marvel at how many times I have experienced those "one in a million chance of happening" things and how extreme those experiences have been. I realize that I don't take times when life is mellow for granted because I know that that can change in a moment - for good or for bad.
Because my pregnancy with Keller was so uncomplicated, I was assured that having something devastating happening after the first trimester was extremely rare. I was almost guaranteed that it was very likely that I would give birth to a healthy baby as long as I took care of myself and kept my prenatal appointments. All I had to do was wait for the time that I would meet my son.
Stillbirth is a relatively uncommon occurrence. Most pregnancies that go beyond the first trimester, and nearly all that go beyond 20 weeks, result in babies that survive. Some of those babies have complications that require medical intervention, but most of them eventually go home to their excited parents. Having a stillborn baby is highly unlikely, especially with medical technology where it is, and most obstetricians go their entire careers experiencing very few stillbirths.
Keller died of a cord accident, which is a common condition that rarely causes stillbirth. His death has made me afraid that something terrible will happen to my body. While I have been healing quickly, I have also been fearful that something will go wrong and that it could affect my ability to have children in the future. When I started bleeding this week, I was sure that there was something terribly wrong with me. The bleeding was extremely heavy and I did not feel well. My concern was that I had hurt myself by starting my exercise regimen too early and hitting the gym too hard. While it was very likely that I had returned to my normal menstrual cycle and was having a period, I wasn't completely sure.
To ease my fear about the bleeding, I called my doctor's office to discuss it with the nurse. I left a message in the morning and my call was not returned until after 3:00 pm. The nurse asked me to describe my symptoms, explained her understanding of the term "heavy bleeding" to me, and instructed me to use normal feminine products to deal with my issue. While I like my doctor and her nurse, and have defended them in a lot of this, I was frustrated with how my concerns were handled. I realize that "heavy bleeding" may mean different things to different people. I also understand that they probably get a lot of calls from postpartum mothers who are surprised when their periods return. My frustration comes from the fact that I feel like they treated my concern as just another complaint and sent me the message that I was somehow bothering them with my problem.
I am frustrated with the situation because I am not like every other postpartum mother. I do not have a crying baby at home and I am not going to function like every other person who has recently given birth. Up until my recent hospital stay, I had never stayed in the hospital overnight. I had never had an IV, nor had I ever had anaesthesia. That said, my reaction to future medical situations is going to be different because of my unique experiences and possibly the sight of my own blood may be more traumatic for me than it would be for a person with different experiences. I don't think that I should be treated like everyone else because my experiences are unique and different. In fact, everyone who seeks medical treatment should be treated with compassion and understanding for their unique situations.
Following the frustrating conversation with the nurse, my counselor helped me realize that my reactions to a lot of things are bound to be shaped by my past encounters with events that had a "one in a million chance of happening." I have had a lot of things happen to me that had a very low probability of occurring, so I am not comforted by statistics anymore. If I have a problem and someone tells me that it is very unlikely to be serious, what comfort is that to me? My life has repeatedly been permanently affected, in both good and bad ways, by things that no one could have predicted.
How do I find comfort in all of this? The first thing that I will do is to find a health care provider that understands my unique position. I wasn't sure about switching before, but I now realize that I need to find a doctor that will treat me with a high level of caring and sensitivity for my unique needs. I know that I am not the only person that my doctor will see, but I do need a provider who will field my questions with an understanding of my situation and the impact that my past experiences have had on my perception of bodily symptoms. I should not be treated like every other mother because I am not like every other mother. I have a baby but he is in my heart instead of in my arms.
I don't want to get into a trap where I am pessimistic because of my past experiences. Sure, I have had a lot of random, crazy, and unpredictable things happen to me. Only God knows why I have had the unique experiences that I have had and He knows where I should go from here. I find a lot of comfort in knowing that I am just as likely to have unpredictable awesome experiences as I am to have those rare and devastating ones. I am so thankful for the positive times that I have had and I wouldn't give those up for anything. It is my belief that experiencing the difficulties that I have had allows me to truly appreciate and value all the positive things in my life. I hope that, with continued healing, I will continue to embrace life with all of it's chaos and unexpected twists.
My question of the week is, "Why have I been involved in so many random situations that had a very low probability of occurring?" I realize that a lot of my life has been spent shaking my head at the sheer randomness of life. I feel like my life, in particular, has been filled with experiences that experts would have said had a low probability of ever occurring in the first place.
Not all of my random experiences have been bad, in fact, some have been awesome. For instance, I only applied to ONE graduate school and got into it. I had done poorly on my GRE, had low self-confidence, and found the only school in the Seattle area that didn't require the GRE for admission. When I sent in my application, I knew that I was putting all of my eggs in one basket and I was ready to spend the next year on my parents' couch wallowing and starting the application process over again. When I was accepted to Northwest, I knew that getting into the only school you applied to was as rare as getting struck by lightning. I didn't argue with it; I just packed my bags and started the next phase of my life.
That wasn't the only time that the randomness of the world worked to my benefit. When graduate school was drawing to a close, I started applying for jobs. In the big metropolis of Seattle, I interviewed for ONE job and was offered that job on the morning of my graduation. When I decided to move home to Montana, I interviewed for ONE job and was offered that job within 30 minutes of the interview. I later met my husband at a wedding, which was yet another example of the randomness of the world benefiting me in an unexpected way.
I don't think that I have lived a charmed life or that I am exempt from the normal forces of the world. I do have to marvel at how many times I have experienced those "one in a million chance of happening" things and how extreme those experiences have been. I realize that I don't take times when life is mellow for granted because I know that that can change in a moment - for good or for bad.
Because my pregnancy with Keller was so uncomplicated, I was assured that having something devastating happening after the first trimester was extremely rare. I was almost guaranteed that it was very likely that I would give birth to a healthy baby as long as I took care of myself and kept my prenatal appointments. All I had to do was wait for the time that I would meet my son.
Stillbirth is a relatively uncommon occurrence. Most pregnancies that go beyond the first trimester, and nearly all that go beyond 20 weeks, result in babies that survive. Some of those babies have complications that require medical intervention, but most of them eventually go home to their excited parents. Having a stillborn baby is highly unlikely, especially with medical technology where it is, and most obstetricians go their entire careers experiencing very few stillbirths.
Keller died of a cord accident, which is a common condition that rarely causes stillbirth. His death has made me afraid that something terrible will happen to my body. While I have been healing quickly, I have also been fearful that something will go wrong and that it could affect my ability to have children in the future. When I started bleeding this week, I was sure that there was something terribly wrong with me. The bleeding was extremely heavy and I did not feel well. My concern was that I had hurt myself by starting my exercise regimen too early and hitting the gym too hard. While it was very likely that I had returned to my normal menstrual cycle and was having a period, I wasn't completely sure.
To ease my fear about the bleeding, I called my doctor's office to discuss it with the nurse. I left a message in the morning and my call was not returned until after 3:00 pm. The nurse asked me to describe my symptoms, explained her understanding of the term "heavy bleeding" to me, and instructed me to use normal feminine products to deal with my issue. While I like my doctor and her nurse, and have defended them in a lot of this, I was frustrated with how my concerns were handled. I realize that "heavy bleeding" may mean different things to different people. I also understand that they probably get a lot of calls from postpartum mothers who are surprised when their periods return. My frustration comes from the fact that I feel like they treated my concern as just another complaint and sent me the message that I was somehow bothering them with my problem.
I am frustrated with the situation because I am not like every other postpartum mother. I do not have a crying baby at home and I am not going to function like every other person who has recently given birth. Up until my recent hospital stay, I had never stayed in the hospital overnight. I had never had an IV, nor had I ever had anaesthesia. That said, my reaction to future medical situations is going to be different because of my unique experiences and possibly the sight of my own blood may be more traumatic for me than it would be for a person with different experiences. I don't think that I should be treated like everyone else because my experiences are unique and different. In fact, everyone who seeks medical treatment should be treated with compassion and understanding for their unique situations.
Following the frustrating conversation with the nurse, my counselor helped me realize that my reactions to a lot of things are bound to be shaped by my past encounters with events that had a "one in a million chance of happening." I have had a lot of things happen to me that had a very low probability of occurring, so I am not comforted by statistics anymore. If I have a problem and someone tells me that it is very unlikely to be serious, what comfort is that to me? My life has repeatedly been permanently affected, in both good and bad ways, by things that no one could have predicted.
How do I find comfort in all of this? The first thing that I will do is to find a health care provider that understands my unique position. I wasn't sure about switching before, but I now realize that I need to find a doctor that will treat me with a high level of caring and sensitivity for my unique needs. I know that I am not the only person that my doctor will see, but I do need a provider who will field my questions with an understanding of my situation and the impact that my past experiences have had on my perception of bodily symptoms. I should not be treated like every other mother because I am not like every other mother. I have a baby but he is in my heart instead of in my arms.
I don't want to get into a trap where I am pessimistic because of my past experiences. Sure, I have had a lot of random, crazy, and unpredictable things happen to me. Only God knows why I have had the unique experiences that I have had and He knows where I should go from here. I find a lot of comfort in knowing that I am just as likely to have unpredictable awesome experiences as I am to have those rare and devastating ones. I am so thankful for the positive times that I have had and I wouldn't give those up for anything. It is my belief that experiencing the difficulties that I have had allows me to truly appreciate and value all the positive things in my life. I hope that, with continued healing, I will continue to embrace life with all of it's chaos and unexpected twists.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Sweetly broken... wholly surrendered.
At Keller's memorial service, we sang several of the worship songs that he loved. One of those songs was, "Sweetly Broken" by Jeremy Riddle. The song has powerful lyrics and those lyrics have given me a lot of comfort over the past six weeks. The chorus of the song goes,
"At the cross you beckon me,
You draw me gently to my knees and I am
Lost for words, so lost in love,
I'm sweetly broken, wholly surrendered."
I have been thinking a lot about what it means to be "broken" and I have come to terms with the fact that I am most definitely broken from everything that has happened. I would be lying if I said that I still feel like a complete person because I don't feel complete at all. My friends and family have all tried their best to put me back together, but unfortunately my feeling of "completeness" went away when I was told that my beautiful son no longer had a heartbeat. There is something about mothers and children that I now understand; mothers and children are truly part of each other. They are connected in ways that go beyond emotional ties and when one member of that bond is lost, the other is left broken and incomplete forever.
Losing Keller has left me broken and with a void that may never be filled. I don't know if I will ever truly feel that my brokenness is repaired until I am in Heaven with the opportunity to be reunited with my son and all the other people I have lost. One thing that I have to remember in all of this is that I am not the first person to lose someone that they loved; I'm not even the first person to lose a son. God himself lost his son and because of that, we are saved and able to have eternal life in Heaven. Thinking about God's sacrifice reminds me that I have not been forsaken by God and that he understands my pain more than I will ever comprehend.
A lot of people have told me that I am strong and that my strength has inspired them. I sincerely appreciate those compliments, even though I don't feel very strong yet. To be honest, my understanding of strength has been changed many times over the past 11 years and especially in recent weeks. For example, I used to view strong people as people who could handle things without help and without showing weakness. I now know that strength comes in a lot of forms and you never know what your strength is until you are put into a position where you need it. Strength isn't something that is seen on a day-to-day basis; we find our strength on our darkest days and in unexpected places.
I now see strength as being strong enough to accept help. In my eyes, strong people are those who go to doctors, keep their counseling appointments, and take their medication. Strong people admit when they are having tough days and they allow friends and family to pitch-in when needed. People who cry are not weak; they are strong enough to experience their emotions without arguing with them or justifying them. Strong people express their feelings without allowing pent-up emotions to take over their lives. What we have traditionally regarded as strength may actually be weakness that is shrouded in false bravado.
My recent experiences have taught me about strength, but they have also taught me something about surrender. I used to view surrender as giving up and cashing in. The word surrender is something that I always viewed as being equated with weakness and lack of power. Going to church and experiencing life as it is, has taught me a different meaning of the word, surrender.
Before I got pregnant with Keller, Matt and I had some decisions to make. We realized that we had always assumed that we would get married, both have good jobs, buy a house, and THEN have children. We honestly thought that that was how our lives would go. When things didn't line up in that perfect order, we decided that it was time to let go of some of our control and let God decide the schedule of our lives. Maybe God had other plans and we were just interfering by trying to control everything. Matt and I decided to pray for the things we wanted and allow God to decide the when and how. That choice paid off when I found out that I was pregnant with Keller in January. At that time, we still lived in an apartment and Matt was pretty much laid off from work. Even though it was stressful, it felt good to give up control and see what God's plan was for us.
When I went into labor with Keller on August 31, I learned another lesson about surrender. My contractions went from uncomfortable to extremely painful quickly and I had no control over what my body was doing. I realized early on that I was not in charge and that it was time for me to yield some of my control to God and members of the medical profession. When I learned that Keller did not have a heartbeat, I learned yet another lesson about surrender. I had no choice but to surrender to the circumstances and allow the medical staff to do what they were trained to do. As heartbreaking as it was, it was also comforting to not have to be in charge for once.
After our brief hospital stay, Matt and I returned home to yet another kind of surrender. Once we were home, we allowed our friends and family to take charge of our physical needs. Our moms went grocery shopping, some people sent us money, and our friends brought us meals. Our co-workers took charge of our jobs and kept things running as smoothly as they could. Matt and I were blessed with people who jumped in and kept us afloat and surrendering to their help actually felt good.
As I continue to move forward, I have faith that God will heal my broken spirit. Only He knows the depth of my wounded heart and He has the power to mend what is broken. Truly surrendering and allowing myself to receive His comfort and peace is the only way that I am going to survive. After all, surrender is not weakness or giving up. It is stepping back and allowing a more powerful force to place the broken pieces back together.
"At the cross you beckon me,
You draw me gently to my knees and I am
Lost for words, so lost in love,
I'm sweetly broken, wholly surrendered."
I have been thinking a lot about what it means to be "broken" and I have come to terms with the fact that I am most definitely broken from everything that has happened. I would be lying if I said that I still feel like a complete person because I don't feel complete at all. My friends and family have all tried their best to put me back together, but unfortunately my feeling of "completeness" went away when I was told that my beautiful son no longer had a heartbeat. There is something about mothers and children that I now understand; mothers and children are truly part of each other. They are connected in ways that go beyond emotional ties and when one member of that bond is lost, the other is left broken and incomplete forever.
Losing Keller has left me broken and with a void that may never be filled. I don't know if I will ever truly feel that my brokenness is repaired until I am in Heaven with the opportunity to be reunited with my son and all the other people I have lost. One thing that I have to remember in all of this is that I am not the first person to lose someone that they loved; I'm not even the first person to lose a son. God himself lost his son and because of that, we are saved and able to have eternal life in Heaven. Thinking about God's sacrifice reminds me that I have not been forsaken by God and that he understands my pain more than I will ever comprehend.
A lot of people have told me that I am strong and that my strength has inspired them. I sincerely appreciate those compliments, even though I don't feel very strong yet. To be honest, my understanding of strength has been changed many times over the past 11 years and especially in recent weeks. For example, I used to view strong people as people who could handle things without help and without showing weakness. I now know that strength comes in a lot of forms and you never know what your strength is until you are put into a position where you need it. Strength isn't something that is seen on a day-to-day basis; we find our strength on our darkest days and in unexpected places.
I now see strength as being strong enough to accept help. In my eyes, strong people are those who go to doctors, keep their counseling appointments, and take their medication. Strong people admit when they are having tough days and they allow friends and family to pitch-in when needed. People who cry are not weak; they are strong enough to experience their emotions without arguing with them or justifying them. Strong people express their feelings without allowing pent-up emotions to take over their lives. What we have traditionally regarded as strength may actually be weakness that is shrouded in false bravado.
My recent experiences have taught me about strength, but they have also taught me something about surrender. I used to view surrender as giving up and cashing in. The word surrender is something that I always viewed as being equated with weakness and lack of power. Going to church and experiencing life as it is, has taught me a different meaning of the word, surrender.
Before I got pregnant with Keller, Matt and I had some decisions to make. We realized that we had always assumed that we would get married, both have good jobs, buy a house, and THEN have children. We honestly thought that that was how our lives would go. When things didn't line up in that perfect order, we decided that it was time to let go of some of our control and let God decide the schedule of our lives. Maybe God had other plans and we were just interfering by trying to control everything. Matt and I decided to pray for the things we wanted and allow God to decide the when and how. That choice paid off when I found out that I was pregnant with Keller in January. At that time, we still lived in an apartment and Matt was pretty much laid off from work. Even though it was stressful, it felt good to give up control and see what God's plan was for us.
When I went into labor with Keller on August 31, I learned another lesson about surrender. My contractions went from uncomfortable to extremely painful quickly and I had no control over what my body was doing. I realized early on that I was not in charge and that it was time for me to yield some of my control to God and members of the medical profession. When I learned that Keller did not have a heartbeat, I learned yet another lesson about surrender. I had no choice but to surrender to the circumstances and allow the medical staff to do what they were trained to do. As heartbreaking as it was, it was also comforting to not have to be in charge for once.
After our brief hospital stay, Matt and I returned home to yet another kind of surrender. Once we were home, we allowed our friends and family to take charge of our physical needs. Our moms went grocery shopping, some people sent us money, and our friends brought us meals. Our co-workers took charge of our jobs and kept things running as smoothly as they could. Matt and I were blessed with people who jumped in and kept us afloat and surrendering to their help actually felt good.
As I continue to move forward, I have faith that God will heal my broken spirit. Only He knows the depth of my wounded heart and He has the power to mend what is broken. Truly surrendering and allowing myself to receive His comfort and peace is the only way that I am going to survive. After all, surrender is not weakness or giving up. It is stepping back and allowing a more powerful force to place the broken pieces back together.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Overcoming my fears... again
Physically, this has definitely been a better week for me. I'm feeling stronger than I have in a long time. One thing that I did this week was start an exercise program. It's amazing what exercise does for the mental and emotional health, not just the physical. Because of the exercise, my body continues to heal at a rate that surprises even me. I am consistently amazed by the human body's ability to heal and respond to all the craziness that we put it through.
Writing about this whole experience has also helped build my strength. I can't express enough how good it feels to get the story out there. I have always wanted to be a writer, but I was so critical of myself and, I admit, uninspired, that I haven't seriously put pen to paper since graduate school. I realize now that I just needed something to inspire me and quiet my inner critics enough to start the ball rolling. I love the English language and have always felt that it had the power to heal. Hopefully this is the start of not only my writing for therapy, but a chance to use language to help other people with the chaos in their lives.
One thing that I have heard a lot of in various circles is that, "If you speak something aloud, you give it power and permission to affect you." I realize that I do not agree with that statement at all. By verbalizing something or writing it down, you place it outside of you ,and that is where you can see it clearly and hopefully deal with it. Last week, I wrote about all the impossible questions that I have been asking myself since my brother died and more recently when my son was stillborn. I realize now that I was literally drowning in those questions and that they were threatening to steal my joy. The moment I completed that post, I felt the grip loosen a little. I breathed a little easier. Somehow, placing those questions outside of me, and giving myself permission to leave them unanswered, reduced the amount of power that they had over me.
Recently, I have been thinking a lot about the car accident that I was in in September 2001. The accident happened on a gorgeous day when I was doing everything right: not speeding, wearing my seat belt, and paying attention to the road and driving conditions. It was a nice day and there were no factors that made driving difficult. On that day, a motorcyclist crashed into my car and I crashed into the side of a mountain while trying to avoid him. The motorcyclist died literally at my feet and my body was severely crunched. The accident, which happened just three years after my brother's fatal accident, has had a profound affect on me.
After my brother died, I made a promise to myself that I would never cause my parents to feel an ounce of pain on my behalf. I would never injure myself, never get sick, never get so much as a speeding ticket, or do anything else that would cause them to worry about me. My mom and dad went through so much pain when we lost my brother and I couldn't stand the thought that they would ever experience pain again. Even though the accident was not my fault, I felt so bad that my parents would find out about it and be upset. Following the accident, I had to accept that my efforts to be perfect were futile and that being the perfect daughter was not enough to protect me from the randomness of the world. The accident shook me to my very core and had a profound affect on my family.
Following my car accident, I lived in fear. I had always been an anxious and somewhat vigilant person, but I became someone who was truly ruled by fear. I had terrible nightmares and worried about the affect of the accident on my family. I was worried about my physical health and had concerns that my body would never be the same. I was afraid that the accident had somehow crushed my spirit and that I would never recover. I said to myself, "I survived the death of my brother and several other losses, only to be brought down by this? Is this what will actually do me in?" I had heard that people eventually get to their breaking point and I wondered if I had finally reached mine. My biggest fear was that the accident had somehow taken away the parts of myself that I liked; my optimism, my compassion, and my faith in a loving and compassionate God. I worried about loving people again because people seemed to be so temporary and vulnerable to being taken in an instant.
Recovering from my car accident was not easy but I did it. Over time I regained a lot of the things that I had lost. My body healed, my optimism was renewed, and I moved forward with strength and determination. I'm not really sure why the memories of my car accident have come back to me recently but I've learned to experience feelings without arguing with them. I realize that I have overcome a lot of things from that day, but the fears have stayed with me. Losing my son has brought those fears back into focus and I feel ready to deal with them again.
The ironic thing is that I was anxious during my pregnancy with Keller, but I was never afraid. I didn't fear the pain of labor and delivery, nor was I afraid of becoming a parent. I wanted Keller so much and fear was not something that I wrestled with at all. Looking back I wonder if part of my lack of fear was the fact that I had already survived my worst nightmares and lived to tell about them. What could I possibly be afraid of when I had already overcome so much in my life? In some ways, I had that attitude that I had somehow already reached my quota of chaos and that maybe I was exempt from loss and traumas at least for a little while.
Apparently, searching for a "chaos quota" is as futile as the quest for the "easy button." None of us are exempt from trauma, nor do we achieve a "chaos free status" once we have experienced enough pain in our lives. Over the past weekend, my family suffered another devastating loss with the death of my cousin, Austin. On the heels of my son's stillbirth and four days before the anniversary of his own brother's untimely death, Austin left us suddenly and without warning. As much as I am tempted to ask more "why me?" questions, I know that questions will get me nowhere. It's time for this broken family to set the questions aside, band together, and take steps to heal from our collective tragic experiences.
To be perfectly honest, I am reeling from everything that has happened to my family in recent months and years. I don't know why we have experienced these traumas and I can't fathom any reason or explanation to have tragedy of this magnitude. I am trying to be strong but my strength is definitely being tested right now. What I do know for sure is that I want to live my life without allowing fear to dominate my existence. Even under these circumstances, I know that I am no longer willing to allow fear to steal my joy and affect my relationships. I want to love people without constantly worrying that they will be taken from me.
As hard as it is to say right now, I know that I will move forward and love people for as long as I am lucky enough to know them. And when my loved ones do go to Heaven, I want them to know that I don't regret loving them even though losing them was so hard. I want my son, my brother, and all of the people I have lost to know that overcoming my fears and giving them my love was a choice. And I wouldn't change my decision, even if choosing not to love them would have made losing them easier. The future holds plenty more opportunities for me to know and love people and my sincere hope is that I can keep my fears in check and cherish every precious moment with them, even if those moments are brief.
Writing about this whole experience has also helped build my strength. I can't express enough how good it feels to get the story out there. I have always wanted to be a writer, but I was so critical of myself and, I admit, uninspired, that I haven't seriously put pen to paper since graduate school. I realize now that I just needed something to inspire me and quiet my inner critics enough to start the ball rolling. I love the English language and have always felt that it had the power to heal. Hopefully this is the start of not only my writing for therapy, but a chance to use language to help other people with the chaos in their lives.
One thing that I have heard a lot of in various circles is that, "If you speak something aloud, you give it power and permission to affect you." I realize that I do not agree with that statement at all. By verbalizing something or writing it down, you place it outside of you ,and that is where you can see it clearly and hopefully deal with it. Last week, I wrote about all the impossible questions that I have been asking myself since my brother died and more recently when my son was stillborn. I realize now that I was literally drowning in those questions and that they were threatening to steal my joy. The moment I completed that post, I felt the grip loosen a little. I breathed a little easier. Somehow, placing those questions outside of me, and giving myself permission to leave them unanswered, reduced the amount of power that they had over me.
Recently, I have been thinking a lot about the car accident that I was in in September 2001. The accident happened on a gorgeous day when I was doing everything right: not speeding, wearing my seat belt, and paying attention to the road and driving conditions. It was a nice day and there were no factors that made driving difficult. On that day, a motorcyclist crashed into my car and I crashed into the side of a mountain while trying to avoid him. The motorcyclist died literally at my feet and my body was severely crunched. The accident, which happened just three years after my brother's fatal accident, has had a profound affect on me.
After my brother died, I made a promise to myself that I would never cause my parents to feel an ounce of pain on my behalf. I would never injure myself, never get sick, never get so much as a speeding ticket, or do anything else that would cause them to worry about me. My mom and dad went through so much pain when we lost my brother and I couldn't stand the thought that they would ever experience pain again. Even though the accident was not my fault, I felt so bad that my parents would find out about it and be upset. Following the accident, I had to accept that my efforts to be perfect were futile and that being the perfect daughter was not enough to protect me from the randomness of the world. The accident shook me to my very core and had a profound affect on my family.
Following my car accident, I lived in fear. I had always been an anxious and somewhat vigilant person, but I became someone who was truly ruled by fear. I had terrible nightmares and worried about the affect of the accident on my family. I was worried about my physical health and had concerns that my body would never be the same. I was afraid that the accident had somehow crushed my spirit and that I would never recover. I said to myself, "I survived the death of my brother and several other losses, only to be brought down by this? Is this what will actually do me in?" I had heard that people eventually get to their breaking point and I wondered if I had finally reached mine. My biggest fear was that the accident had somehow taken away the parts of myself that I liked; my optimism, my compassion, and my faith in a loving and compassionate God. I worried about loving people again because people seemed to be so temporary and vulnerable to being taken in an instant.
Recovering from my car accident was not easy but I did it. Over time I regained a lot of the things that I had lost. My body healed, my optimism was renewed, and I moved forward with strength and determination. I'm not really sure why the memories of my car accident have come back to me recently but I've learned to experience feelings without arguing with them. I realize that I have overcome a lot of things from that day, but the fears have stayed with me. Losing my son has brought those fears back into focus and I feel ready to deal with them again.
The ironic thing is that I was anxious during my pregnancy with Keller, but I was never afraid. I didn't fear the pain of labor and delivery, nor was I afraid of becoming a parent. I wanted Keller so much and fear was not something that I wrestled with at all. Looking back I wonder if part of my lack of fear was the fact that I had already survived my worst nightmares and lived to tell about them. What could I possibly be afraid of when I had already overcome so much in my life? In some ways, I had that attitude that I had somehow already reached my quota of chaos and that maybe I was exempt from loss and traumas at least for a little while.
Apparently, searching for a "chaos quota" is as futile as the quest for the "easy button." None of us are exempt from trauma, nor do we achieve a "chaos free status" once we have experienced enough pain in our lives. Over the past weekend, my family suffered another devastating loss with the death of my cousin, Austin. On the heels of my son's stillbirth and four days before the anniversary of his own brother's untimely death, Austin left us suddenly and without warning. As much as I am tempted to ask more "why me?" questions, I know that questions will get me nowhere. It's time for this broken family to set the questions aside, band together, and take steps to heal from our collective tragic experiences.
To be perfectly honest, I am reeling from everything that has happened to my family in recent months and years. I don't know why we have experienced these traumas and I can't fathom any reason or explanation to have tragedy of this magnitude. I am trying to be strong but my strength is definitely being tested right now. What I do know for sure is that I want to live my life without allowing fear to dominate my existence. Even under these circumstances, I know that I am no longer willing to allow fear to steal my joy and affect my relationships. I want to love people without constantly worrying that they will be taken from me.
As hard as it is to say right now, I know that I will move forward and love people for as long as I am lucky enough to know them. And when my loved ones do go to Heaven, I want them to know that I don't regret loving them even though losing them was so hard. I want my son, my brother, and all of the people I have lost to know that overcoming my fears and giving them my love was a choice. And I wouldn't change my decision, even if choosing not to love them would have made losing them easier. The future holds plenty more opportunities for me to know and love people and my sincere hope is that I can keep my fears in check and cherish every precious moment with them, even if those moments are brief.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
We were both doing fine... until we weren't.
As October gets closer, I can't help but think about how different September has been from what I predicted. Most of the past year has been spent with me being excited about and anticipating the arrival of September. I had planned to spend this month getting to know my son; instead I have spent the past 4 weeks working my way through grief so intense that it threatens to drown me. My son, Keller, did not survive long enough to see the arrival of his birth month. He died on the last day of August and I delivered him on September 1. Keller is not crying in has bassinette. I am not sleep-deprived and Matt and I are not arguing over diaper duty. This September has not been at all like the way I envisioned.
What confuses me the most is the fact that Keller and I were both so completely healthy... until we weren't. Keller was such an active baby. From the first time I felt him kick, not long after my 29th birthday in May, Keller never stopped playing soccer with my internal organs. During worship songs at church, he would kick and punch so furiously it was a wonder that I didn't have permanent damage. Keller's movement made him seem so... present and vibrant and ALIVE that it never occurred to me that he wouldn't survive long enough to be born. I had just assumed that he would be born healthy and that his activity level would continue into the rest of his life.
I never had reason to believe that Keller and I would not be perfectly healthy. At every prenatal appointment, Keller and I's check-ups were excellent. My blood pressure never spiked, I gained weight at the right rate, and my bloodwork was always good. I even passed the gestational diabetes screening test in spite of my consistent diet of maple bars and Pepsi. My pregnancy was not complicated at all and a lot of pregnant people were jealous about my lack of morning sickness and the fact that I only gained weight in my belly. Keller's heartbeat checks were always good and he appeared to be growing at the correct rate. With the exception of finding out that he had an enlarged kidney at his 20 week ultrasound that later corrected itself, Keller's development was uncomplicated and did not raise any red flags.
I had absolutely no problems with my pregnancy until I developed cholestasis in week 38. Cholestasis is a liver condition where salts build up in the blood and cause the skin to itch uncontrollably. In my opinion, I dealt with the itchiness like a champion until 3 days before I went into labor. That Friday morning, I was so itchy that I could think of nothing else. I honestly tried everything I could, including oatmeal baths, various lotions, and Benadryl to get relief. Nothing worked. I was at the end of my rope when I called my doctor's office with the slim hope that they would tell me to come in and get induced. I knew that induction was a long-shot but I felt somewhat entitled to it because I had carried my son with few complaints for 39.5 weeks and I was DONE. The nurse told me to go home, take more Benadryl, and put lotion on my skin. I was frustrated, but I did what I was told.
Looking back, I can's blame the nurse or anyone else for what happened to Keller. He and I were the pictures of good health... until we weren't anymore. We did not show signs of any major problems, so how could anyone have predicted what happened to us? My frustrating question is, How do two people who are perfectly healthy go from good to bad so fast? How did Keller go from a perfectly healthy and active baby to stillborn without me or anyone else knowing that something was wrong? How did I go from a perfectly healthy mom-to-be to being pumped full of drugs so that I would be "comfortable" as I delivered my baby who would never open his eyes? It boggles my mind and I can't seem to stop wrestling with these questions.
As I have pondered all of this, I have realized that this isn't the first time I have asked these types of questions and not found any answers. When my brother died, I asked myself, "How did Jack go from being a happy and healthy teenager to gone in such a short time?" My final memory of my brother is a good one. I was reminding him to take a pillow on his camping trip and he was laughing and happy. He was so excited about going on that trip and I could not have imagined that he would not return. He was so present and vibrant and ALIVE, just like Keller, until he wasn't anymore. I still have trouble understanding how things changed so fast and how my entire life changed in a moment. In some of my darkest hours, I feel sorry for myself because I have lost them BOTH. My mind cannot comprehend why the people I loved went from earth to Heaven with no indication that their time with me on earth was almost over.
Honestly, I think a lot of people can relate to me as I wrestle with these difficult questions. How many people have experienced times where life changes in a moment? How many people have wondered, "How did it go from good to bad so quickly?" Granted, some losses are predictable, where people appear to fade away from us slowly. Their health declines or they withdraw emotionally and eventually they are gone. More often than not, our lives change in an instant and that is the hallmark of a true crisis. In all kinds of crisis situations we ask, "How did it go from good to bad so fast?"
I don't know if the answers to these difficult questions will ever be found. And really, would knowing "why" actually help? Would understanding "why" bring my son and my brother back to me? I know that answers will not change the way things are, and as difficult as it is, I am charged with the task of accepting my lack of answers to these impossible questions. I am charged with moving forward with my life and allowing some questions to simply go unanswered.
We can torture ourselves with "why me?" until we have missed out on all the goodness and love that life has to offer. It's easy to get trapped in being the victim of the crisis and lose ourselves in our confusion and frustration about what has happened. At some point, we have to realize that continuing to be a victim is a choice. We can decide to be defined by our crises and unanswered questions, or we can accept that our answer may never be found until we are united with God in Heaven. We can decide to accept life's unanswered questions and move forward with a deeper appreciation for our own strength and resilience.
Right now my own strength and resilience aren't as high as I would like them to be. Keller is gone and I am still longing to hold my precious baby. Letting go of all the unanswered questions isn't going to be easy for me, but I am committed to working through my confusion and grief until I get to a point where I am strong and able to move forward. I honestly believe that living a life that is full and free from the restraints of being the "victim" is the best way that I can honor my son, my brother, and all of the people who left us way too soon.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Nothing about this is easy... and that's okay.
It has been nearly three weeks since I gave birth to my beautiful baby, Keller. In a lot of ways, I still can't believe that he did not survive. I find myself looking for him, either down at my belly or in our house. I am looking for proof that I didn't just imagine him and it is during those times that I look at his pictures and things from the hospital and I remember that he is in Heaven and it is now my task to go on living without him.
For some reason, I keep looking for some aspect of all of this to be easy. It's like I have a sense of entitlement for SOMETHING in this whole mess to be simple and not too difficult. I keep thinking about what has happened and I realize that everything about this is difficult; there is no "easy button" as the CEO of Staples would like us to believe. Once I remind myself how futile the search for the mythical "easy button" is, the more I am resolved to live the best life that I can even though it is hard.
That said, would it be too much to ask, really, for some part of this whole situation to come easily? I am committed to living each day and putting one foot in front of the other, but does it really have to be so difficult? It seems like every day involves some-sort of difficult task or event that must be overcome so that I can make it to the next day and task. It makes me wonder how I am going to make it through more days and more tasks if everything is so difficult to manage.
In the past week, I have done several difficult things. I attended a barbeque with my church friends and even managed to enjoy myself. I went to the local grocery store for the first time, with Matt's help, and managed to get everything on my list without crying and leaving the store. I went back to work, and with the help of my awesome co-worker, was able to make it through the day. I was even able to help with and attend the wedding of one of my best friends. All of these tasks seem to be relatively simple, but they were difficult for me because they involved being with people and focusing on something other than myself and the pain of losing my son.
This week also marked the first time I had to explain to someone, in person, what had happened. I was out to dinner with a friend when the waitress said, "Wow, you don't even look pregnant when you are sitting down." I had to explain to her that I am no longer pregnant and that my son was stillborn. She felt bad for asking, but I assured her that I am so happy to live in a small town where people actually care enough to ask about your family. It reminded me just how much Keller was anticipated and wanted by people all over the state and especially in my little town of Deer Lodge.
One of the most difficult things that I did this week was attend my follow-up doctor's appointment. I walked in to the office and went through the routine that I had become so accustomed to over the past 9 months. When I met with my doctor, she was very kind and gentle with me. She explained that my blood work had come back perfect and so had Keller's. She said that we were both in perfect health and that Keller's death was being officially named as a cord accident. She asked about my physical, mental, and emotional health. I told her that physically I am healing fast and that I am actually doing okay mentally. I then told her that I am still very raw emotionally, but that I am seeing a counselor and writing about my experience. Then we talked about Matt and I's desire to have more children in the future. She asked that we wait a year, but said that she would be supportive if we decided to try sooner. She said that physically I would be pretty ready to get pregnant in about 6 months, but that I should make sure that I am healed completely both mentally and emotionally before trying to conceive. We then talked about steps that would be taken to ensure my health and the health of our baby the next time I get pregnant.
Following my doctor's appointment, Matt and I had a serious discussion about having more children. We decided that we are both still committed to going through the whole process again and becomming the parents that I know we can be. We decided that we would consider the doctor's advice, but that we would not put arbitrary time limits or constraints on when we would start trying again. I told Matt that I would know when I was emotionally ready to have another child when I could honestly say that I want to love a completely different and separate baby. At the moment, I just want Keller. When I think "I want to have a baby" what I am really thinking is, "I want MY baby, the one that I carried for 9 months and gave birth to." Thinking about a baby, without picturing Keller's beautiful face, is not something I'm capable of right now. I am optimistic that I will heal to a point where I am ready to move forward and love my future children with the same earnestness and devotion that I now focus on Keller.
When I think about going through another pregnancy, with all of its physical and emotional ups and downs, it gives me severe anxiety. I think about all of the prenatal appointments, the preparations, and the anticipation and I can feel my chest get tight. When I am able to get a handle on myself, I remember that nothing about this is easy, so why would thinking about getting pregnant again be easy? Maybe I need to continue to work on accepting the difficulty of this situation and remember that very few things, that are truly worth it, ever come easily. As Matt says, "Maybe things that you don't have to work for, that come easily, are things that you probably shouldn't have in the first place."
Perhaps it is time to give up the quest for the "easy button," accept the situation for what it is, and look at the future knowing that it will be the most difficult battle that I have ever faced. Perhaps it is time to look at those things that are difficult and realize that difficulty isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's our difficulties in life that give us our strength, our character, and our resolve to improve things in the future.
For some reason, I keep looking for some aspect of all of this to be easy. It's like I have a sense of entitlement for SOMETHING in this whole mess to be simple and not too difficult. I keep thinking about what has happened and I realize that everything about this is difficult; there is no "easy button" as the CEO of Staples would like us to believe. Once I remind myself how futile the search for the mythical "easy button" is, the more I am resolved to live the best life that I can even though it is hard.
That said, would it be too much to ask, really, for some part of this whole situation to come easily? I am committed to living each day and putting one foot in front of the other, but does it really have to be so difficult? It seems like every day involves some-sort of difficult task or event that must be overcome so that I can make it to the next day and task. It makes me wonder how I am going to make it through more days and more tasks if everything is so difficult to manage.
In the past week, I have done several difficult things. I attended a barbeque with my church friends and even managed to enjoy myself. I went to the local grocery store for the first time, with Matt's help, and managed to get everything on my list without crying and leaving the store. I went back to work, and with the help of my awesome co-worker, was able to make it through the day. I was even able to help with and attend the wedding of one of my best friends. All of these tasks seem to be relatively simple, but they were difficult for me because they involved being with people and focusing on something other than myself and the pain of losing my son.
This week also marked the first time I had to explain to someone, in person, what had happened. I was out to dinner with a friend when the waitress said, "Wow, you don't even look pregnant when you are sitting down." I had to explain to her that I am no longer pregnant and that my son was stillborn. She felt bad for asking, but I assured her that I am so happy to live in a small town where people actually care enough to ask about your family. It reminded me just how much Keller was anticipated and wanted by people all over the state and especially in my little town of Deer Lodge.
One of the most difficult things that I did this week was attend my follow-up doctor's appointment. I walked in to the office and went through the routine that I had become so accustomed to over the past 9 months. When I met with my doctor, she was very kind and gentle with me. She explained that my blood work had come back perfect and so had Keller's. She said that we were both in perfect health and that Keller's death was being officially named as a cord accident. She asked about my physical, mental, and emotional health. I told her that physically I am healing fast and that I am actually doing okay mentally. I then told her that I am still very raw emotionally, but that I am seeing a counselor and writing about my experience. Then we talked about Matt and I's desire to have more children in the future. She asked that we wait a year, but said that she would be supportive if we decided to try sooner. She said that physically I would be pretty ready to get pregnant in about 6 months, but that I should make sure that I am healed completely both mentally and emotionally before trying to conceive. We then talked about steps that would be taken to ensure my health and the health of our baby the next time I get pregnant.
Following my doctor's appointment, Matt and I had a serious discussion about having more children. We decided that we are both still committed to going through the whole process again and becomming the parents that I know we can be. We decided that we would consider the doctor's advice, but that we would not put arbitrary time limits or constraints on when we would start trying again. I told Matt that I would know when I was emotionally ready to have another child when I could honestly say that I want to love a completely different and separate baby. At the moment, I just want Keller. When I think "I want to have a baby" what I am really thinking is, "I want MY baby, the one that I carried for 9 months and gave birth to." Thinking about a baby, without picturing Keller's beautiful face, is not something I'm capable of right now. I am optimistic that I will heal to a point where I am ready to move forward and love my future children with the same earnestness and devotion that I now focus on Keller.
When I think about going through another pregnancy, with all of its physical and emotional ups and downs, it gives me severe anxiety. I think about all of the prenatal appointments, the preparations, and the anticipation and I can feel my chest get tight. When I am able to get a handle on myself, I remember that nothing about this is easy, so why would thinking about getting pregnant again be easy? Maybe I need to continue to work on accepting the difficulty of this situation and remember that very few things, that are truly worth it, ever come easily. As Matt says, "Maybe things that you don't have to work for, that come easily, are things that you probably shouldn't have in the first place."
Perhaps it is time to give up the quest for the "easy button," accept the situation for what it is, and look at the future knowing that it will be the most difficult battle that I have ever faced. Perhaps it is time to look at those things that are difficult and realize that difficulty isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's our difficulties in life that give us our strength, our character, and our resolve to improve things in the future.
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