The Dark Day

Six years ago, I walked into work fairly carefree.  I had just had an OB appointment where they had listened to Reagan's heartbeat and told me she was fine.  I worked an 8-hour shift treating patients, climbing all over things, bending/squatting/lifting/teaching, doing what I loved with patients I cared for.  I had never experienced mommy intuition before, so I kept telling myself I was overreacting.  That the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach was nothing.  I guess I wasn't quite convinced because I made a doctor's appointment, but I wouldn't leave work for it and I wouldn't have Andrew come with me.

What happened next I remember like it was yesterday.  I remember sitting in the office waiting, rubbing my large belly lovingly, telling myself she was just tired and sleeping.  I remember the doctor asking me why I had lost so much weight and scolding me for being concerned about appearances while pregnant - I guess a lot of thin women might get judged like that, but I was kinda pissed at him for the comments he was saying.  And I remember thinking this idiot, judgmental doctor doesn't know how to use a doppler, because he seemed to really be struggling with that.

But then I saw his face.  I saw the alarm in his eyes.  Those eyes still sometimes haunt me.  He reached out and touched my arm and said, let's get a quick ultrasound.  Except, they kicked out the woman who was in the ultrasound room to get me in.  And spoke in hushed voices.  And the doctor stayed in there with me, which had certainly never happened before.  I remember the exact moment I broke.  No words needed to be said, no one needed to explain.  I saw Reagan's still chest.  No flutter in there, no thumb sucking, no waving, no smiling.  My little girl, always so active before, was quiet.  The moments after that were a blur - calling my office to get Andrew's office number because he wasn't picking up and smart phones were newish, and I didn't have one.  Telling Andrew the horrific news over the phone.  Sobbing in the floor of the ultrasound room until Andrew got there.  I'm fairly sure they helped me out to the car, though I somehow managed to drive to the specialist office, where I met a doctor who would change our lives, but at the time I just sat there as he tried to explain what was happening.

Oct 30 is my 1st dark day.  There have been others since, but it was the first time my world was rocked.  I still sometimes have nightmares about the day.  And, every year, it my sad day for Reagan.  A day where I extend myself a little grace and allow myself to wallow.  Because tomorrow, well, tomorrow is her birthday.  A cause for celebration!  Tomorrow, we do happy things for Reagan, remember those precious moments we had together, teach our kids about Jesus and heaven and remind them that Reagan is happy and complete now.  Tomorrow is beautiful.  Today may be ugly and dark and hard, but I have tomorrow to look forward to.  And, at the very least, I can be so very grateful that, for both Reagan and Lucas, that their birthdays and death days were different, that I can have a day of sadness and a day of celebrating.  Because no matter how short their lives, they always deserve being celebrated.

Longing

I feel as though I am at an impasse.  Most families get to make a decision when they are done having children.  They have 2 or 3 or 4 (or 5) and say "I think we're done."  And I've always heard, "you'll know when you're done."  But here's the thing, I don't know.  In fact, I feel quite the opposite.  I have 2 more little babies out there, babies we have already prayed for and named and love, as crazy as that sounds.  My days are completely full, I am stressed to the max, I have more laundry than I can keep up with, more toys than storage space, and an endless amount of junk that I trip over.  Our home is messy.  I forget to meal plan and we scrounge for dinner, calling nachos and hot dogs a meal, and throwing in a few baby carrots for good measure.  It's not a glamorous life we lead by any stretch.

But, through it all, is this nagging feeling that our family isn't done.  Maybe, because of all we've lost, that feeling will never go away.  When Lucas died, we had 8 more freezer babies waiting for us.  And we'd never lost a pregnancy early, so I just assumed we'd still be facing the decision of when we'd have to stop because we didn't have a vehicle large enough for the family.  God had different plans.  And oh, that is so incredibly painful.  And I hate it.  And I kinda think his plans suck.  Surely mine were better.  And yet, I have to rest in the truth that His plans are good, even when it feels so so bad.  So bad.

So, where does that leave me?  And how can you support me?  Pray.  Pray that God would open a door, that we would know where to go from here.  With my last surgery cancelled, my odds of conceiving are hovering right around 0%.  And, my odds of loss if we were to defy that first statistic are right there around 75%.  So, it's pretty bleak.  Basically, I cannot carry another child.  The decision to be done has been taken away and put firmly in the hands of an uncaring doctor and crappy insurance plans.  We know God is bigger than all that.  But we also know all too well that God doesn't always work the way we want him to.  That wanting it isn't enough.  So, pray that God would work a miracle.  Or that he would take away the desire for me to carry my own child.  Or that he would bring a surrogate into our lives and work out those details.  Or that he would bring a birth mama into our lives.  Most days, I am too weak to pray for these specifics.  Because, as the months go by and they don't happen, it only seems to deepen the wound.  And that is where my village comes in.  That is where and how you can help us as we continue to walk through the grief and guilt that comes after losing so many little ones.  And the ongoing pain and sting of infertility.

Grief

I've heard a lot about grief over the past 6 years.  I've walked through it every day.  Some days I can live in the moment and enjoy my children and genuinely smile.  Some days, I do a pretty good job of faking it.  But there are other times when it is still crushing, when it's overwhelming, when I don't know where to turn.

It's been nearly 2 months since I last sat for a few minutes to process through and blog, since Lucas' first birthday.  In that time, we had a wonderful family vacation and the twins 5th birthday.  F.I.V.E.  It's kinda a big deal.  And yet, I let the moment pass.  The pictures are still on my camera, unedited.  The sappy blog post is buried somewhere in my mind, but I haven't found the strength to write it yet.  Every moment in my life is tainted with the despair of missing my children.  It's not fair.

Much of this blog has also been about my faith.  About learning to trust God in the journey into motherhood, then the loss, then the horrors of my pregnancy, and then rejoicing.  But the ugly truth of it all is that now, well, now I am too broken to believe anything I have written before.  The walls are too high, the grief too intense.  I don't doubt God's existence.  I know He is there, that He created me, that He sent Jesus.  I believe in heaven, I trust that my children are there.  But I don't really know what I feel about God's character anymore.  I don't trust that He has planned good for me.  It sometimes seems like He is kicking me while I am down.  I'm not sure how to reconcile with that- the truth of my life,  what we have endured,  the pain and heartache that goes with losing so many children - with the God of love I hear so much about.

And here's the other things I've learned.  Grief is lonely.  You walk this road alone.  I carry the burden, the guilt, all on me.  I can't look at another pregnant woman without catching my breath, even complete strangers.  Walking past someone with a baby does the same, and I find myself trying to find a way to hide.  It's not that I'm angry with them, most of the time I don't even know these women, it's just that I'm so sad for me.  But I'm past the point where it's okay to be sad, past the point where people understand that it's still hard, and so I just have to stand there, expressionless, pretending all is okay.  But it's not okay.  And I'm not sure it ever will be again.

Happy FIRST Birthday!

Happy 1st birthday my sweet little Lucas!  It is hard to believe a year has already come and gone.  That one year ago I welcomed you into my arms, snuggled you tight, and said goodbye.  That is has now been 1 year since I last saw you.  Oh, how I miss you so very much.  More than I could ever put into words.  But you are still so very much a part of our family.  We remember you all the time - every holiday, ever special moment, every time there is another little boy that would be about your age.  And we wish that we were able to know life with you, to watch you grow over this past year - see those first smiles, comfort you when you cried, watch you figure out sitting and crawling and walking.  It would have been such an incredible year.

But instead, you are celebrating BIG TIME up in heaven.  You have so many little brothers and sisters there to have a party with.  And I'm sure Reagan is showing you the best things to do on a first birthday.  And Jesus is there too, that must make for an extra special birthday.  I cannot wait until we can celebrate with you one day.  Until then, we do the best that we can.

This morning, daddy made a special breakfast, just for your special day!  He cooked eggs, bacon, and breakfast potatoes.  Then omelets and toast because, well, Savant boys love to eat!  We made smoothies to drink from Dean's new cookbook.  And then we worked outside in your garden - we fixed your flowers, pulled out the weeds, pruned everything so it didn't get overgrown, and put out some new mulch.  Then we had a little pool party.  You're big brothers are learning how to do cannon balls, you wouldn't have been far behind them!  Hannah still doesn't like to jump, but she will soon.  She follows whatever her brothers are doing, loves to copy them.  I imagine you would have, too. 

After lunch your brothers made you the sweetest cards.  They wrote every letter themselves.  Dean drew a snake and a goose and a lion with trees and a rainbow.  Warren drew you an amazing sunset and a rainbow cake with lots of candles.  They finished up while I took Hannah to her dance recital.  When we got home, we made homemade pizza and cooked it on the grill.  Then we enjoyed your birthday cake and sent you up some balloons with messages from each of us.  I think you would have enjoyed the special day we created for you, and I hope you were able to look down and see how much we love you. 

I miss you so much Lucas.  So very much.  Sometimes it still catches me off guard, takes my breath away, even a year later.  I'm sorry we couldn't keep you here with us.  Always know that you are loved, you were wanted, and that you are so special to us.  All my love, always and forever sweet boy.

Mommy

Anticipation

The anticipation of the first birthday in heaven is always the hardest part.  With Reagan, we had the distraction of tiny baby boys who were still learning how to eat and life was about measuring their volume intake and making sure they hit their minimums, and trying to get them to sleep for a few minutes at a time before the pumping/nursing/bottle feeding schedule resumed.  But I still remember breaking down almost constantly in that week leading up to her birthday, not knowing what to expect, unsure if I would make it through the day.  Her actual birthday was a really sweet time, a chance to celebrate her life and remember our time together.  Maybe it helps that she was born on the day after we learned she had passed away?

This year is much the same, only it's been followed by grief upon grief.  Only this year, I have learned I will never have that rainbow baby, never carry another child.  It's been 1 month since we officially learned that our last babies were gone.  There are too many "should have beens" to even keep up with anymore.  And I find myself feeling panicked about the weekend, about our sweet Lucas' first birthday.  Because he was the last baby of mine I will get to hold.  And so, in addition to grieving everything we are missing with him, in addition to trying to help his birthday feel like a special time just for him (while juggling dance recitals and whining 4-year-olds - because when you're baby #5, that's what you get), I am also still grieving the loss of 8 other babies and the reality that we are done.  Even my body is reminding me of the failure.

I miss my Lucas so much.  These reminders, pictures of him at his last ultrasound healthy, remembering that one year ago, we were happy and completely unaware.  That one year ago was the last time I would every feel him kick.  I am still a bit in shock by it all, even a year later.  I know I have given everything I have to these babies, given them the best that I had to offer.  It's just so hard knowing that it wasn't enough, that I wasn't enough.  Though I know there isn't anything I could have done differently, I live with that guilt every day. 

If we had known something was going wrong, if we had known about the cord, we could be celebrating our sweet boy's first birthday today - on the last day he was healthy.  I keep thinking that I somehow missed a warning sign, that I should have known.  I'm the mommy, that was my job.  But I didn't know until he was gone, didn't have a clue.  And so, this weekend, we will celebrate our sweet boy.  We will make him cards and bake him a cake.  We will look through our pictures and have a special day to remember what it was like to hold him for those few hours. 

The Hardest One Yet

Mother's Day.  It started with the world's biggest hug from Dean, as he called out Happy Mother's Day and ran toward me, jumping into my arms.  Oh my sweet, big boy.  He was quickly followed by Warren, who informed me that gluten free pancakes were coming my way.  These boys are obsessed with baking me gluten free goodies.  And so, I was sent back to my room to wait on the breakfast.  In toddles Hannah, with her hair all a mess, her soft curls bouncing every which way as she climbed up into my bed and arms.  "Happy Mudder's Nay" she says.  Sweet girl, and my heart melts a bit.  It was as promised, gluten free pancakes (of which I get about 3 bites before little hands reach in and grab the rest).  Served alongside some sweet handmade cards.  Dean's was my favorite this year, as he chose to draw our family.  Cue the tears.  There in a line are the 5 of us, plus Lucas, Reagan, and Noah.  No one ever has to remind Dean to include those 3, he does it automatically.  They are as much a part of our family to him as those siblings he gets to fight with every day.  I LOVE that, the sweet innocence of it all.  Often Jesus is in our family pictures too, since that is who is taking care of the others.  He probably would sit and draw all 11 if he knew about those babies too.  And, here's the thing, I waited so many years for these moments, for the chance to have handmade cards filled with the things the kids love.  I wouldn't change that, our morning family time.  It was exactly what I needed.

But as the day has gone on, it's all getting to me.  The physical pain of this miscarriage is worse than I expected.  And way later than the others.  And it just feels like a slap in the face to be facing it today of all days.  And it makes me angry.  And immeasurably sad.  Last Mother's Day I was pregnant with Lucas, woken by his little kicks.  I remember feeling overwhelmed with it all at brunch as I struggled to picture myself being able to manage a 4th kid when the oldests were only 3.  It seemed impossible.  And now?  Now, I will never know.  I'll never get the chance; it was taken from me.  The finality of it all seems to be pushing me over the edge today.  This deep longing for the children I never got to know.  It's like this whole last year has been a complete waste, full of nothing but pain and grief and agony.  Part of me is still stupidly hopeful for a miracle, part of me is so jaded and bitter with it all that I am overcome with hopelessness.  It's a constant back and forth until the emotional ups and downs get the best of me, and I return once again to numb.  I don't know how to get through this one, how to go forward from here.  It just all hurts too much.  Especially today

Bereaved Mother's Day

The first Sunday in May is the International Bereaved Mother's Day.  A day you just don't really even know about unless you have lived through some sort of trauma related to being a mother.  For us, that trauma just seems to keep piling up.

There have been so many Mother's Days over the years when it has been a struggle to even get out of a bed.  So many years of longing to be a mother and being barren, years of having a day where I wouldn't receive that flower at church, where I had no handmade art or breakfast in bed.  And then, my first "real" Mother's Day, our sweet Reagan was gone and I was hospital bound with the boys, still being told they would not survive.  I'd like to say it got better from there, and to some extent it did, but the scar of those early years in our marriage certainly never left.  But, between last year and now, I have lost 9 babies.  This time last year, I was pregnant with Lucas and had 8 embryo tucked away in the freezer.  Today??  Well, I have nothing.  No babies to hold, no babies growing inside of me, no babies in the freezer, and no hope of ever carrying one again.  The agony of it all is almost unbearable.  I am broken - my spirit and my body.  I have failed again.

There are few things worse than watching the positive pregnancy line fade into nothing as the days go on.  To have those moments of hope and joy come crashing to a halt.  No matter how many times I told myself "don't go there yet," no matter how many times I repeated the statistics to myself, no matter how much I tried not to get invested, well, I was lying to myself.  I jumped right into this again, like a big stupid idiot, thinking that THIS time would be different, that THIS would be our happy ending, the miracle we had been praying for.  I let myself get swept away in it all.  And I don't know where to go from here.  The idea that I wouldn't have more children never even crossed my mind until a few months ago.  After 5/5 successful transfers, I just assumed the others would work too.

So, I end my journey as a new mother.  A little ironic that it falls on this day.  No more maternity clothes, no more baby gear, no more night feedings.  The last child I will ever birth was our sweet Lucas, and I only got a few short hours with him.  I'm not sure how to do this.  How to keep moving forward when there is just so much pain.  How can any person lose so much and ever be normal again?  How could I have carried 11 babies that I will never get to parent?  So today, on Bereaved Mother's Day, I get to be sad.  I get to cry the big ugly tears on the bathroom floor and let everything fall apart around me.  Today is my day.  Today is about the 11 that are gone.  Because next Sunday, well, next Sunday is really about my living kids, about doing something special with them, about celebrating the 3 we have here.  I have to pull myself together and go on.

Babies 13 and 14

Yesterday, we met our final two embryo.  We started this IVF journey six years ago. Six. And so, these babies have existed for us for the last 6 years. It’s really crazy to think about that, how the science of it all works. This time last year Andrew and I were wondering what in the world we were going to do with all of our extra embryo. At that time we still had 8. It was a huge question mark in my future. And felt like it was going to be so much pressure to decide. How could I ever turn my back on any of these little ones?? Yet how could I keep having babies. The last year has been the hardest of my life by far, as we lost 7 in a row. Each child took a little piece of me with them, broke me a little bit more. And here we are, at the point of having no embryo left. Babies 13 and14 are now tuck away inside of me. And we wait. For 12 long days, we wait. And pray. And hope.

Going in to the transfer, I felt surprisingly calm. There was no moment of stress, no anxiety. I’m sure a good dose of Valium helped, but even before that there was peace. A peace I know only comes from above. Even when I have these doubt of God’s goodness towards me, He shows up, holds my hand, and carries me through. It’s a beautiful picture of Him as Father. One I could miss if I wasn’t looking. So, for all those who were praying for me, for us, thank you. 

I also just realized this is National Infertility Awareness Week. I’ve just had a few other things on my mind recently and missed that. A little ironic we end our infertility journey this week, one we really started 8.5 years ago, long before we ever decided on the IVF route or met the team of doctors who would hold our hands through the process. For us, our infertility issues could never be fixed, despite numerous surgeries and medications, despite diet changes and supplements, there was no way for us to conceive on our own. We didn’t have a low chance, we had a no chance. But now, we have 3 healthy, happy, crazy kids who bring so much joy (and frustration) into our home. Though my years of being childless are over, my infertility is not. We are still here in Charlotte doing our transfer, my body is scarred from the daily injections, my emotions are all over the place from the roller coaster of hormones. And we still don’t know if we will get to bring either of these little ones into our home. Infertility is a silent struggle, it permeates so many areas of your life. For years, we lived with this constant longing.  Every time I saw a pregnant woman, every time I saw a diaper commercial, every time I saw kids playing down the street, and every year on Mothers Day, always this ache. I broke the silence 2 years into our walk because I was tired of pretending and tired of being asked when we were going to have kids. And I am so glad I did, because I couldn’t imagine the pain of walking through this alone.

6 months

Today is Easter.  If I were stronger, I'd dig deep and do another Easter post.  Because ultimately, Christ's sacrifice on the cross and his resurrection are the only hope I have.  I know that because God lost His Son, He can relate to my ongoing pain.  I know that this is not the end of my story, that one day there will be a happy ending.  It is only because of what Easter symbolizes that I am surviving, that I am waking each morning and doing what needs to be done and living a life as a functioning human being.  Otherwise, I would be completely broken.  Otherwise, I would live life in utter despair.  Don't get me wrong, I often feel as though I am living in utter despair, but I know the truth.  And, so, I chose to cling to the cross.  Even when it's hard, and even when I'm angry at God, and even when I don't understand, I cling.

But, today marks 6 months since I went into the hospital with Noah.  Six months since we said goodbye to a child I would never know and never hold.  And the first day of the month in which he would have been born.  To add to that pain, today we packed up the last booster seat for the table.  Stacked it right on top of the empty infant seat.  Right next to the box of baby clothes, the brand new rock-n-play, and the never worn maternity clothes.  All things purchased for Lucas, all things we expected to use with Noah, all things that are simply collecting dust.  I now have no kids in diapers and no kids in need of being strapped in for eating.  They're all big enough to choose their clothes, to brush their own teeth, to get their own water, clean up their own mess.  (NOTE: when they choose to...).  This is a moment that most mothers celebrate, the beginning of some extra freedoms.  But for me, it only makes the emptiness more profound.  It only makes the longing stronger.  Holidays always hold a special but difficult place in my heart, as I wonder what Reagan would have looked like, 5-years-old and dressed to match little Hannah; Lucas, nearly 10 months old and matching Warren and Dean.  All these precious moments I will never have.

This week marks the beginning of the end of menopause, and a quick shift and hormonal transition on Friday as we begin estrogen medication.  My heart is so fragile, already broken.  I often feel like I'm just hanging on by a thread.  I know that I will not get through this process without prayer, and I'm out of words.  We're looking at a transfer at the end of this month, our last attempt.  I keep telling myself it probably won't work, but honestly I don't know how I will not completely break if it fails.  If our story ends with the loss of 9 children in a row.  If the last delivery I have, the last baby of mine I hold, is Lucas' still, silent, but beautiful body.   I just can't.  I can already feel the bitterness creeping in alongside the tears as I anticipate what it will feel like to get that negative result.  To learn that my hormones are dropping instead of doubling.  To go in and see the empty chest, yet again.  How many times can I do it??  I know that God can carry me through, I know that he can heal my body and I can have a "normal" pregnancy with a healthy baby - He did it with Hannah.  But it's hard to wrap my mind around the fact that I have been pregnant 7 times with 12 babies and have only made it to full term once.  That I've only had an experience with "normal" once.  That every other time, there has been immense heartache involved, even though Dean and Warren survived, I lost a huge part of who I was during that pregnancy and their NICU stay, living in constant terror.  I may never feel safe again.  But, I know without a shadow of a doubt, that our family is not complete, not yet.  So, we're praying fervently for babies #13 and 14 in this IVF process, that they get to spend a few (or 60) years with me here before we are separated.

All the feels

Today, I start menopause month 2.  It also happens to be Reagan's due date, 5 years later.  And 9 months to the day since Lucas passed away.  So many things should be true that are, in fact, not true.  I should be huge and uncomfortably pregnant with Noah.  I should be ~15 weeks pregnant with the next set of twins, or even just announcing my pregnancy with our most recent transfer.  Instead, I am barren.  Empty.  I have 3 kids whom I love and adore, and yet our family feels woefully incomplete.  And I am already beginning to have panic attacks about the last transfer, because it is the LAST.  I don't ovulate, so I know pregnancy without intervention isn't in our future.  Add to that my "advancing maternal age" and, well, it's a bleak picture.  I'm in need of another surgery before our final transfer and find myself still fighting to get a doctor who is qualified to perform it as we are rapidly approaching the deadline.  All the hurts and emotions and stressors seem to collide today. 

And then, our fish died.  A stupid little fish I have no emotional connect to.  I took him to our preschool "pet shop" this morning and he did just fine.  But on the drive home, his bowl flipped over.  I'm still not quite sure how it happened, I was going about 10 mph.  The kids kept asking if there were old people around (they equate old people with slowness in the car, can't imagine where that came from...) but NO, I was just going slow to keep our fish water from splashing.  Yet, somehow this bowl turned completely on its side and dumped out the water, the rocks, and Tiger2.  I was about 30 seconds from the neighborhood so we raced home, but no luck.  Tiger2 was gone.  Dean sobbed for about 30 minutes over this fish he had ZERO interaction with.  But, it was his Lucas replacement.  It was the one thing he cried about the day after Lucas died, that his fish had died.  It broke the tension for Andrew and I, helped bring a bit of light into that day, but it was Dean's way of connecting with death, his way of grieving for his brother.  We brought home Tiger2 that day, a replacement for Tiger the original who had died right before Lucas.  It seems like such a silly thing, but it's kind of a slap in the face too.  For it to happen on this day in such a weird way.

So, here I am, continuing to grieve Reagan and Lucas (and Tiger2) while riding the emotional highs and lows of menopause and anticipating what I only expect to be failure in the future.  Better days have to be coming, right??

Menopause: Week 1

I think the anticipation of this is the worst.  I am having flashbacks to 6 years ago, when I entered into my first round of menopause.  It's all coming back to me now.  The intense road rage, the way I could actually visualize myself ramming my little car into the back of people who drove even 1 mph under the speed limit, the way my body tensed so much with every little annoyance.  And, here's one big change.  Last time I didn't have kids.  I didn't have little people around me every second of every day, already pushing me and stretching me to my limits.  How am I going to survive that while still allowing them to rest in the fact that their mommy loves them?  What if they hate me by the end of this process?  If they're scared of me?  If I can't seem to control my emotions and take it out on them?

AND...hot flashes in the FL heat??  When it's in the mid 80s in FEBRUARY.  (When there should still be freezing nights and occasional snow...come on FL, get it together).  How does one survive hot flashes every few minutes when it's already sweaty hot weather outside??  Deep breath...  I keep reminding myself that this experience is TEMPORARY.  That I quickly returned to myself after stopping the medication last time, and that will happen again.  That I will be done by April.  That maybe I just hire some help to get through the afternoons, to allow my kids to still have the carefree days in the FL sun.  And that maybe we just avoid large crowds and outdoor activities that do not involve water and a bathing suit for the time being.  Yes, that sounds like a plan.

I think ultimately, my biggest fear is that none of this will matter.  That these months of menopause won't actually change the outcome, that the last 2 babies will share the same fate as the previous 7.  That I will put my family through hell only to wind up in the exact same place.  I have lost the innocence of the last time, the assumption that success would be in our future.  Because I only have 1 shot left.  Babies #13 and 14.  I never thought I'd get to this point, and certainly not in the method we did.  I miss Reagan.  And Lucas.  And Noah.  And I want to go back in time to those moments when I saw them healthy and happy on the ultrasounds, when I felt them kicking.  To those days right before they were born, when I was blissfully unaware of the crushing days ahead.  And to know that Lucas could be our last baby to hold, the last little Savant I birthed, it's crushing.  I feel like our story can't just end there.  But in reality, it definitely could.  We could never see another of our children.  And I could end our IVF journey with 9 straight losses with my living children anxious and afraid of who their mother became during the process.  It's terrifying.

And yet again

Well, it is a new year.  2018 started off rough as I spent New Years Day in bed as my body finally began to recognize the miscarriage we knew was coming for a week.  It was not the way I had hoped to start things, not the answer to our ongoing prayers.  But, "chemical pregnancies" are apparently very common and it was considered no big deal in the whole realm of things.  We were told we could start immediately into another cycle if everything had returned to baseline.  So, a few days later, I returned to the doctor and was cleared to begin a new cycle to transfer 2 more baby Savants.  Three ultrasounds, 7 blood tests, and 2.5 weeks later, we were back in Charlotte.  It seemed a bit surreal, how quickly it all happened.  There were no months of waiting, no months of testing.  And, for the first time since Lucas, no last minute surgeries that needed to happen in the days before the transfer.  It seemed like everything was going really well.  I felt good about it. 

And here I am, just 10 days later, kicking myself for letting my heart hope.  I get this weird scar pain with each pregnancy - intense c-section scar pain that gets worse and worse until I begin to worry that the baby has, perhaps, implanted into my scar.  I think I google that every time too.  Hannah, Lucas, Noah - all had this intense scar pain.  In December, I had it for 1 single day.  I knew, after that, with a fair amount of confidence, that it was over.  But this time?  Well, this time it lasted for 3.5 days.  Good days, where I allowed my mind to go there.  Where we talked about if we could make our house work with twins or if we would definitely need to move before they were born.  And then, came the pain.  And the cramping.  And the complete absence of scar pain.  Overnight, it all changed.  My pregnancy test was still positive yesterday.  But, not today.  Today, no matter how many little sticks I used, there was no second line.  And, just like that, our babies were gone.  Two more baby Savants, gone.  Two more children I will never know, never get to raise, never hold in my arms.

Here's where my heart is struggling now...I have this huge desire and burden to have a large family.  I thought for sure we would have at least 5 kids, maybe 6.  And, as we went through our first rounds of IVF, I thought that's what we were headed for.  So, I find myself confused and hurting and wondering why this dream of mine will not become my reality, why that desire was there in the first place.  The reality of me only raising Dean, Warren, and Hannah is becoming very real.  We have one more chance, one more shot at having children, and then that chapter of our lives is completely over.  My head is still swimming with that thought.  Because, here's the thing.  I would have been completely happy with Warren, Dean and Hannah.  I would have always missed Reagan, but I never thought I needed to add to the chaos of my life.  We may have pursued adoption or fostering or something.  But instead, I had 14 embryo.  FOURTEEN.  And so, we transferred Lucas.  And then Noah.  And then 5 babies we'll never know anything about.  And here I am, facing our very last 2 embryo.  Knowing that they are the "lowest quality" of the embryo we had, that their likelihood of survival is incredibly low.  Hannah, my spunky 2-year-old, may be the last baby in our home.  This box of maternity clothes that arrived the weekend of Lucas's death may never be taken out of the box I've hidden in my closet.  The mountain of baby clothes and toys may never be used again.  If we had decided we were done in 2015 after Hannah was born, none of that would be a source of intense grief.  Instead, I've lost 7 babies since June.  In less than the time it takes most women to carry 1 child through pregnancy, I've lost 4 pregnancies.

We didn't really share about this transfer, didn't really say much of anything.  It wasn't a secret necessarily, just nothing I openly shared unless it was asked.  I didn't want to feel judged for jumping in again, didn't want to hear the comments.  Silently going through this is not any easier, that is for sure.  Pretending like nothing happened, well, that's not making it hurt any less.  I long for the flickering heart on the ultrasound, the little baby kicks in my womb, the sleepless nights and stressful feedings and endless crying that come with having a newborn.  I'm not ready for this stage to end.  One more chance...

7 months

The last 2 embryo transfers have started off with the need for emergency, last minute surgeries.  I have been poked and prodded and violated more times than I can count in our desire to grow our family.  When we first found out we had 19 embryo, when we were able to freeze 14, we didn't know what our future would look like.  We used to joke about a reality TV show if we had them all.  We used to wonder what we would do with those that were frozen toward the end, those we wouldn't ever know.  Especially when I was pregnant with Lucas, preparing for the 4th baby I would raise, knowing that we had 8 more embryo and I seemed to get pregnant no matter what and we were only transferring 1 at a time.  And now?  Well, now we have 4 left.  We have 2 attempts, and then we are done.  I am realizing this may be it for us.  And, then what?  Our family doesn't feel complete.  But, maybe that's just the circumstances, maybe it never will. 

Today marks 7 months since I delivered our sweet baby boy.  Seven months since we welcomed Lucas into the world, only to have to say goodbye.  Seven months ago I was able to hold my sweet boy in my arms, to soak up every second of time with him.  And now, seven months have gone by with empty arms and a broken heart.  Again.  I miss my Lucas, every second of every day.  I still twinge when I see a baby boy, still feel my breath catch as I walk past the baby section in the stores.  The difference this time around is that I have no shelter, no way to hide from it all.  And no babies growing in my belly.  I always thought pregnancy loss would be easier if I had other kids at home.  It is not. 

2017 sucked.  That's really the best word I can type out to describe it.  We lost so much, and there is so much pain there.  I will never see my son grow up, never hear his little baby cries, never nurse him to sleep, never grow exhausted with the midnight feedings.  I am missing so much.  And, I should be right at the same point with Noah, 23.5 weeks.  And instead, nothing.  I am back on hormones and all sorts of new drugs, an attempt to prevent the future loss of any more babies.  But, as I spoke with my MFM, with each loss our odds go down.  Now, I know better than anyone that the statistics mean absolutely nothing.  In the best and worst of ways, we defy the odds.  But, on days like today, when the grief and loss are so raw, my mind goes back there.  Oh, what I wouldn't do to have my sweet boys back.  To have them all back.  Reagan.  Lucas.  Noah.  These last 2 we didn't even get to name.  I lose so much of myself with each loss.  And the thing is, I keep telling myself that, at least I can only lose 4 babies this year.  But, with that is the end of our chances, the complete closure of this chapter of my life.  And that, that is terrifying.