The Power of Love

Back to the Future has been on cable a lot these past few weeks.  I feel like every time I turn on the TV, a very young Michael J. Fox is staring back at me.  Next thing I know, "The Power of Love" by Huey Lewis and the News is stuck in my head all day.

So what about the "Power of Love"?  What do those words mean?  Is it more than just a catchy tune from the 80's?

I remember when Gary and I were still a new couple and everything we did was so adorable (to me!).  I remember wanting something and saying to him, "Be your best friend!" as a way to entice him to give it to me. He replied with "You already are". I melted...and then I felt like an ass!  This man LOVES me!  He really loves me!  Talk about the power of love!

After work this evening, I got my hair done.  I love the few hour ritual of the color being applied, the scalp massage/shampoo, the cut and then the style.  But the best part is my stylist.  She has become a true friend over the years and were were laughing so hard today that at one point she had to put the scissors down and just let it out.

Somehow we got on the topic of that feeling you get when you are in a new relationship.  The butterflies in your belly, the desire to be around one another ALL THE TIME, the lust and the excitement of something new. The physical connection that makes you  feel like your very own Fifty Shades...long before that book was published!  And while all of that is fantastic, what's even better is what comes next, if you are lucky.  The hug at the end of an exhausting day.  A wink from across a crowded room.  The way you hold hands when you walk into an uncomfortable situation.  The strength you give each other when tragedy turns your world upside down.  That's the power of love.

We took this picture last week when we went away for few days.  Some might see a simple sun glare. I see parents and a child.  I see the child looking over her parents.  

I see the "Power of Love".

If you know me well...

You know I have this uncanny ability to remember what I was wearing at various times in my life.  I do not always remember the who or the what or the where, but I know on September 11, 2001, I was wearing a black skirt with a magenta top that I adored.  Open toed shoes, too, as it was unseasonably warm that day.  But ok - that was a big event.  Let me try something more obscure...I remember the outfit I wore when Gary and I went out on our first date.  I did not know it was a date at the time so it was what I wore to work on that casual Friday.  Still, embroidered jeans that I had just fit back into (may or may not have been in style but I was losing weight and going to wear all the things that had eluded me during my heavier days!) and a white off the shoulder sweater with a camisole underneath.  The first time he brought me home to meet his family?  Why that would be brown pants and an off- white turtleneck sweater.  First day at this job over 6 years ago?  Black and white skirt, black top...closed toe shoes as I was not sure exactly what the dress code at my new company was yet.

I have always had this knack...it goes back to the shorts I was wearing when I broke my leg, which was the summer before 6th grade.  Grey shorts with a pink stripe down the side that they cut off of me in the Emergency Room.  So sad to lose them.  They were a favorite indeed. 

And to add to that list, I remember what I was wearing when the doctor told me that they had trouble finding our baby's heartbeat.  By the time we got the official news, I was in a gown, but on the way to the hospital and when I was first hooked up to all the machines, I remember what I wore. And I remember what I wore when I came home without her.

My fun little game is now a little bit of torture when I look through the closet and remember what I was wearing when.  I wore this top to my baby shower.  I wore that top to the funeral home.  This was what I wore the first time we saw the fertility specialist.  That is what I wore the first time they called and said they wish they had better news...we're sorry - you are not pregnant.

Yesterday we went to see the doctor once again to talk options, ideas, touch base...and I did something different for me.  I grabbed what was clean that I had no attachment to whatsoever and off we went.  We had a good meeting, talked for close to a half hour and decided to go at it again.  There is no reason that the doctor can see that we should not keep trying and he wants us to get pregnant almost as much as we do.  We left his office feeling positive and hopeful - with me still feeling a little sad that we had to have that meeting at all. Sometimes I feel stabs of pity but I try my best to see them head on and shove them away.  We do not have time or space or energy for pity these days.  (Or any day, I suppose!).

So today is a new day.  The sun is out.  The sky is blue.  We are still here.  We are honoring our daughter every day while trying to be compassionate to each other.  Soon I will log off and finish packing as we took this week off from work and are going on a mini-vacation. We are gonna sleep in and do touristy things and eat lazy big meals and laugh and talk and remember our past and plan for our future.  I better pack carefully as I might look back on this last vacation before we are pregnant and think about what I wore then...

Negative

If we got pregnant this month, our due date would have been April 22nd.  Now there is no way we would have gone 40 weeks, but I thought it was a sign!  It wasn't.

If we got pregnant this month, I would be starting to feel a new life inside of me.  I would have been tired and drained and happy and excited.  I am not.

If we got pregnant this month, I would find it easier to have hope.  I do not.

Today we got the news that yet another cycle was a failure and we are still trying to process it all.  I used to celebrate my half birthday but I stopped that this year.  For mid-July only indicated to me that I was THAT much closer to another birthday...and the odds of getting pregnant decrease the older I get.

I was so nervous at work waiting for the call that I packed up my laptop and came home.  Gary and I sat side by side and willed the phone to ring.  I hung up shortly after hearing the "I'm sorry I do not have better news" and started to cry.  Through the tears, I said to my husband, "I want to carry your baby. I want to give you a child."  His reply?  "You already did."  Oh man.  Crap!  That's right!  I did!  That's the fine line I wrote about last.  For as sad and angry and disappointed I am now, it does not hold a candle to the grief that we felt when we learned that Allie was never going to live in the same world as us.

So what now?  Now we plan a mini vacation as we both took off next week.  I am not sure where - somewhere close and reasonable - and then we come back and we try again.  We give it our all, while being kind to ourselves and remembering how much we matter to each others and those that love us.

A few months back, we looked into adoption.  We were so not ready then.  I am not sure we are now, either, but it might be time to revisit it.  I know several people who have been adopted and who have adopted and I know that families are formed in so many different ways.

So I am gonna take tonight and dwell on the negative and my puffy eyes and wild hair and general hot mess of a lump that I am and then I am going to wake up tomorrow, put a smile on my face and try my best to be positive.  If life is what you make of it, then I chose to make my life a positive one.  For my friends and family that almost blew up my phone today with their love and support, for my husband, for my daughter, for me.  And for the baby that we will someday have.  Cause I am NOT giving up without a fight.

A Fine Line

There is such a fine line between living in the past and living in the present.  Between mourning the child you lost and hoping for the child yet to be conceived.  Between feeling low and sad and down and also and optimistic and excited and positive.

I have mentioned before that we are seeing a fertility specialist and I feel like we are in very good hands.  More than that, I feel I am in very good hands with a husband who makes me feel like he is lucky to have married me virtually every single day.  I am starting to see my glass as half full - and I like what I am seeing so much better.

Last week I told my mom that I could not wait to be pregnant again.  For the past 15 months, pregnancy has scared the living daylights out of me and all I wanted was to bring home our baby.  While that is still the goal, I now feel like I am ready to feel the kicks and watch my body change and carry our baby.  It's a shift towards the half full glass, I believe.

And while this change has been slowly taking place, I find myself more desperate to find butterflies - to see Allie and have her know that I am not trying to replace her.  To make sure she knows that I have not forgotten her.  I found myself talking out loud to her sometimes. "Hi, baby girl.  Mama loves you!"  I still believe in a world where she can see us and love us and watch over us.

I was able to get away this past weekend for our annual Girls Weekend Away (GWA).  We realized halfway into the trip that this was our 10 year anniversary.  We are all so fiercely proud of our tradition and all had a very good time.  We laugh so hard that we are all in tears.  The few days of fun and frolic in the sun was fantastic.  I was surrounded with love and friendship so loyal that it could take my breath away.  To have girlfriends like I have - well, there ain't nothing like it!

As we packed up our bags and headed for home earlier today, we started talking about next year.  Did we want to go back to the same beach?  Who else might be able to join us?  When do we want to go?  And my favorite question - will I be able to go for the whole weekend if there is a baby at home?  Will I want to?   

I do not know what next summer will bring.  I do not know what tomorrow will bring!  But I do know that to focus on the good times and the good people and the good friends and the good experiences can only lead to good things, right?  I sure hope so! 

Maybe there is no "line"...maybe I can just be who I am - a woman who desperately loves and cherishes the daughter that she had a woman who will desperately love and cherish the next child that she has as well.  I sure like the sound of that!

Story Time, Part 2 (and another guest blogger!)

Today's writer is a friend that I know through one of my family members.  We are not particularly close and we have never spent any time together one-on-one.  We have never had lunch or gone shopping or met for cocktails.  However, she knows me and she knows our story and that seems to be enough.  She has sent me lots of support over the past 15 months.  

Earlier this week, I received this message from her on Facebook.  While the goosebumps were still on my arms and the tears on my cheeks, I asked her if I could use it here.  She graciously edited it for a larger audience (and made sure to protect the rights of the person in the story) and sent it back to me this morning.  Please enjoy her story. 

I read your latest post a few days ago... As always, so touching and well-written. Truly. You tell your story so eloquently. The reason I wanted to send you this message is because there's a tiny part of your story you don't know about, a connection way off on a tangent of a tangent. 

As you may or may not know, I just started my clinical rotations in nursing school.  I'm currently on an ob/gyn rotation and I happened to be seeing a woman for a routine prenatal appointment who was about 8 months pregnant with her first baby. She had had an ultrasound a few weeks ago and all was well. But at this appointment, the little handheld doppler wasn't picking up a heartbeat. I took her myself up to L&D triage for an ultrasound. She lay on the stretcher as the nurse put the probe on her belly. I tend to suck at reading ultrasounds, but I could tell I wasn't seeing the one thing we were looking for. 

My stomach was in my throat and during the silent eternity of the ultrasound I could feel my heart beating so loudly that I thought someone would tell me to shut up. I put my hand on the woman's shoulder and squeezed. The nurse said she needed to get someone and left to get an ob/gyn attending, who repeated the ultrasound and confirmed the loss. She explained a few things then left. A nurse came in and out of the room and was supportive, but much of the time it was just me and the woman. I sat on the edge of her bed and we talked. We talked about what was going to happen next. We talked about her hobbies and her job. We talked about support groups. We talked about her dog. She asked me if she would be able to hold her son. 

The whole time, I was trying desperately to say and do things that would be helpful and to avoid saying and doing things that would make the situation worse, all while trying my hardest to hold back the tears that were coming. And the fact is, nursing school doesn't have any lectures on how to sit in a room with a woman going through this tragedy, how to be the only person there to support her for the hour before her family arrives. 

I have learned so much from reading your posts. I thought of you and I let the journey you have shared with such openness and candor be my guide. And I know I was better equipped to be there for this woman because of it. So thank you. I visited her in her room the next two mornings, despite being nervous to do so. I still worried I would do something wrong and make things worse or that she would think I was being intrusive. But the glimpse you've given me into what it means to go through something so terrible gave me the courage to overcome my nervousness and be there for her. After my second visit I hugged her goodbye and later that day she was discharged home. 

In the end I could tell my presence was appreciated, and I truly believe that I was a help to this woman because of you and your willingness to share your story. And I believe that it is one more way that Allie has made a difference in this world. I hope you don't mind reading the long story... I just wanted to share it with you and once again thank you.

Amazing, huh?   Thank you for letting Allie's story be your guide.   What a gift.  And what a nice reminder to me that although she is not here physically, my little angel is indeed making an impact on the lives of others.

Story Time

"Have you ever heard of anything so cruel in your whole life?" she said to him through her sobs.  Her face was wet, her eyes were swollen and what was once a tissue was a mangled mess clenched up in her shaking hands.

"Yes", he whispered.  "Burying our daughter was the cruelest thing in the world."

"No, she said.  "Burying our daughter and then not being able to make her a big sister seems even more cruel, if you ask me."  And then the tears started to fall again.

There is the grief of losing a child and there is the agony of infertility.  Never in my life did I think I would experience both. 

My glass is half empty lately.  Month after month with no baby on the way...how can this be? 

I never really did the "why me" thing when Allie died.  I know others around us asked and wondered, but we really didn't.  She was here and then she wasn't and there is no way to predict the future nor prevent certain things from happening in it.  But lately I find myself wondering why.  What did I do to deserve this anguish?

Why am I not pregnant again?  Gary and I are good people and we have so much love and passion and fun to share with a child. 

Why are there no midnight feedings?  Why do I throw out the Babies R Us Coupons before even looking at the brochures anymore?  Why is the 10,000 Baby Names book collecting dust in the basement next to an unused crib and changing table?

Inevitably, the tears come.  Pity parties are exhausting.

Yesterday, during a routine exam, the nurse asked me for a list of all prior surgeries.  Wisdom teeth, a broken leg...and oh yeah, my c-section.

"When was that?" she asked in a kind voice.
"April 22, 2011", I replied.
"My how time flies, huh?" she said. 

My guess is she did not look at my chart to know that no - time does not fly for us as we are not home raising our baby.  We are here, testing and trying and praying and hoping that somehow I can get pregnant again.

"I want to grow old with you" he says to me, not for the first time.  I want to be the woman he loves, the woman he fell in love with.  "You are" he says. 

It's time to lift my head above the waves that are trying to drown me and brush off the sand that is trying to bury me and put myself first.  My health, my heart, my soul.  Haven't I made myself suffer enough?

"My story is not over yet" she types.  She already feels better as writing does that for her. 
"We know it's not" you say in your heads and you read this blog.  "Not by a long shot."

My Spartan

Please welcome my very first guest blogger tonight, my husband and Allie's dad, Gary.  If you are friends with us on Facebook, you know he had a big race this weekend.  It was an emotional day for both of us, but I think it's better explained in his words.  So here goes:

By the end of the Spartan Race, I was bruised, bloody, and battered. A day later, I am more sore than I have even been, can't fully move my right arm, my left leg looks like a prop from a horror film, and I'm popping ibuprofen like they're candy. Yet, I had a wonderful day yesterday . . . during the four grueling hours of the race, alone with my thoughts -- I found my daughter again, and got to spend the day with her.

 

Nothing is ever the same when you lose your child, and it was no different for me and my wife, Sam. April 22, 2011 -- our world stopped when our daughter, Allison Paige, was delivered stillborn. We knew she was gone already . . . a day before, we received the news there was no cardiac activity, but we had to go through the birthing process which took nearly 24 hours. When Allison arrived, the lack of a baby's cry . . . the complete and utter silence . . . was so LOUD, it was incredibly painful.

 

Our lives changed that day. We survived . . . a combination of our own personal strength and a wonderful support system of family and friends who constantly monitored us and helped nurse us back to . . . normal?

 

Normal. That word. Six letters, but what does it mean? Who defines normal? There are countless other people who have gone through basically the same nightmare Sam and I have . . . some of these people shut out the rest of the world and pull away from everyone -- doesn't that sound like a normal reaction to you? Some people embrace life at this point, and pull friends and family together like a security blanket. Doesn't that sound like a normal reaction too? How can two completely different reactions (practically extreme opposites) both be normal?

 

That answer will always elude me. Sam and I have leaned toward the "embrace life" part of the spectrum, but we've spent some time on the other end as well. The decisions we've made, and the successes and failures we've had as a result since then, aren't suitable for everyone. Quite frankly, I don't know how we've done it, but it almost boils down to a simplified philosophy of "You can't change what has happened, you can't predict what will happen, you can only take care of what is happening now." So, that's what we do. We try to take care of what is happening now.

 

In the past, I had gone through some bouts of depression and taken prescriptions to help. With Allie gone, I knew it was likely I'd fall into a deep depression, and I didn't want the pharmaceutical help. I wanted to get things straight in a more healthy way. So, just over a year ago, I took up running. I was tired of being overweight, tired of having no energy, and tired of feeling out of control -- and running seemed to be a low-cost, easy-to-implement healthy approach to recovery.

 

It started slow. More walking than running until my body was ready for more. And as I started to increase my runs, started to build up my body, I discovered something else . . . I was connecting with Allie when I was running. I had time out on the road with only my thoughts for company, and I would think about her. At various times, I would feel like I was running after her . . . running with her . . . running for her . . .

 

The wind on my face became her light kisses . . . the sound of my feet on the ground became her clap . . . the noise of each passing car became her laugh. To the fullest extent that I could, I had my Allison with me on each and every run.

 

So, I ran more. I completed my first 5k . . . then my second . . . my sixth . . . a 10k . . . a Tough Mudder . . . another 10k . . . my second Tough Mudder . . . and more. I kept running. And then . . .

 

Then, I lost her. I don't know how. I don't know why. She was gone, and losing her again reopened the pain I felt at losing her the first time. I was crushed . . . my outlet for bonding with my daughter was suddenly useless. I was left with the wind, the ground, and the noise . . . but no kisses, no clapping, no laughing. No Allison.

 

I didn't know what to do, and I retreated into myself. I stopped running. I blamed it on my schedule or the weather or anything but the real reason. I just stopped taking care of myself.

 

By this time, I had already signed up for the Spartan race, and I didn't feel it would be right to back out of it. I hadn't been training or running, so I had no leg strength to get me through the first mile, no lung capacity to get me through the rest . . . but even in my darkest moments leading up to the race, I could still tell myself I had the willpower to get through this. Even though I didn't have her with me, I was going to do this for Allison.

 

The race started, and I went up the mountain. Within minutes, my legs and lungs were shot, and I was slowed to a walk. I climbed over obstacles, trudged through trails . . . the wind barely hitting me through the trees, the ground hard beneath my feet, and the sound of the ski lifts overhead grumbling in my ears.

 

I kept going.

 

At times, the pain was overwhelming, and I wanted to quit. But, without warning, I felt a light kiss on my cheek. A clap as I stepped. A laugh as I listened. Despite everything, she had found me again. My Allison was with me once more . . .

 

We kept going.

 

She never left my side the whole way. Throughout the course, I talked to her. Sometimes silently, sometimes out loud. We laughed, we cried. We just held each other . . . and sometimes, she carried me over the next obstacle or up the next hill.

 

Before I started the race, I had told Sam I might finish the race in two hours or so. At some point in the mountains, I realized it was long past that, and I knew Sam would be worried. I asked Allison to send her Mom a sign to let her know I was okay, and I was going to be there soon enough.

 

Allie and I kept going for about another hour, and then the end was finally in sight. As I expected, Sam was eagerly waiting for me as I made it through the last obstacle and across the finish line. We hugged and kissed, and before she even asked me about the race, she said, "There was a rainbow earlier! I took a picture and I have to show you later . . . I thought of Allie and I started to cry."

 

Tears started to run down my eyes, and I could feel the catch in my voice. I stopped her and said, "That was Allison. I asked her to send you a sign that I was okay . . . and she sent you a rainbow!"

 

(For those in the baby-loss community, a rainbow is a symbol of any baby you have after the loss. Sam and I also use rainbows and butterflies for remembrances of Allison.)

 

So, yes, I am battered, bruised, and sore. But it was worth every drop of blood, sweat, and tears for the time with Allie. I am not a spiritual person. But I have no issues in believing my daughter is looking out for us. Thanks for the rainbow, Allie-cat. I'm ready to lace up my sneakers, and see you on the road soon. Race you! First one to the mailbox wins . . .