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.
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