tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16966457098596030722024-03-13T08:37:05.693-04:00ChildlessOur journey in infertility, loss, and miraclesMeghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.comBlogger262125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-32019079832573259472019-12-26T08:31:00.003-05:002019-12-26T08:31:42.817-05:00BirthdayToday is my birthday. I am 35. Half way to 70. My kids still think that I am 27 - though Dean is catching on. Yesterday he said "now you'll be 28" and I realized he's getting too smart for this charade. I claimed 27 as my last birthday back in 2011, never realizing at that time that by the time I turned 28 I would become a mom of loss. My birthday has been extra hard during the last several years. In 2017, desperately missing Lucas and Noah, having lived away from Andrew, Dean and Warren for a week at the holidays to avoid sickness during the most dangerous part of pregnancy, I started my birthday morning with a miscarriage. The following year we expected to be holding our twins right around my birthday (though I was due the first week of January). I remember thinking last year that at least it couldn't get any worse. At least I couldn't add to the pain. But oh, was I wrong.<br />
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When we found out we were pregnant, we were shocked. Completely shocked. We'd been told for over 10 years that it would never happen without IVF, but God proved he was bigger. And when I put in the calculations and it spit out my birthday as a due date - what a gift! Though we knew this child would be taken at 37 weeks with my history, it just seemed extra special to be due on my birthday, of all the days of the year. And yet, here we are. Barren and broken again. Heading into a colonoscopy tomorrow so spending the day prepping and grieving. Literally the crappiest birthday in the world. The grief of losing Gabe has hit me so hard this year. The lost miracle. Some days it's just this dull ache, some days I can't catch my breath or stand under the weight of it all. And after all these years, after all these losses, time after time, I feel immensely alone. It's just too much for people to take on, I'm too much. The thing with grief is that it doesn't just go away. Every time I see an older girl take Hannah's had and I see the way she looks up at her with awe, my heart longs for Reagan. Every time I see a rambunctious 2-year-old destroying this and getting into mischief, I long for Lucas and Noah. Seeing a pregnant woman or a newborn breaks me to the core, because that is where I should be. And I can't understand or fathom why it keeps happening to me. Especially this last time with our miracle pregnancy that should have never happened in the first place, I just want to scream WHY??? Why would this happen just to crush me again. I was already barely standing. Today should have been a celebration, a joyous day for our sweet Gabriel. Oh, how I miss you sweet boy.Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-24787592240417375682019-10-31T15:30:00.002-04:002019-10-31T15:30:15.098-04:00Happy 7th Birthday ReaganSeven years ago, in a still and quiet room, we welcomed our sweet Reagan into the world. S.E.V.E.N. It feels like an eternity and yet a moment - funny how that happens. I remember every moment of that day like it was yesterday. The way it felt to be walking down the L&D hallway long before time. How scared I was once contractions begin. No where in any of my maternity books did it prepare me for this moment. I remember Andrew reading and praying over me, I remember how he held me close once those contractions picked up - hour after hour. I remember the way our day nurse cried alongside us, the strength it took for her to care for us that day. And again with our night nurse as labor continued late into the night. I remember the quiet steadfastness of our doctor, who sat there with us, who showed the grace of God in his demeanor and care and tenderness toward the situation. I remember not having a clue about any of it was going to go, how to breathe or push, how to face any of it but not having the strength to ask for direction or guidance. And I remember the overwhelming guilt that I had missed something along the way, that something I had done or not done had caused this, wondering if I might ever be okay again, never knowing all we would face again in the future.<br />
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But then, you were born. And in an instant, I was your mom. I had been your mom from the beginning, but there was something about seeing you for the first time, something about getting to hold you, that flipped a switch for me. I felt this love unlike anything I had ever felt before. I had known you for every second you were here, had cared and sacrificed for you all along the way. And I loved you so intently, with an almost innocence about it. I'm not sure that will ever make sense to someone who hasn't experienced the death of a child at birth. And I am so thankful that our doctor encouraged us to soak up those moments. We had about 5 hours with you. Five hours to make a lifetime of memories. Five hours before we had to say goodbye. Those hours brought us so much joy, and I am forever grateful for those memories. For getting to study your face and see your already long eyelashes, your big pouty lips, your little turned-up nose.<br />
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I wonder now how different our lives would have been had you lived. How our lives would have changed - Hannah loves playing with the big girls. She's in awe of them at church and dance, watching and learning from them. I imagine you in these cute matching holiday sister sets and it breaks my heart each time. We miss you in our lives constantly, miss the role you have as our firstborn and oldest child. <br />
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But, though there is grief in today, though my heart feels like it's breaking as I relieve all these moments, today is mostly about celebrating that sweet and precious time we had together. For being thankful we had any time at all, for cherishing those few moments. It reminds us that life is short and can't be taken for granted, that we are only guaranteed this moment and to make the most of it. So, we celebrate you, year after year. With cake and cards, with a therapeutic morning spent building a new garden space for you, with a meal together as a family, with sharing this intimate day together as a family and taking a timeout from all the work (homework, housework, and work-work) to just be still and rest. And then, of course, because you chose to make an appearance on Halloween, we have an evening of gathering large amounts of candy that we never actually eat and we will throw out around Easter when our candy stash is replenished. <br />
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It's not what I would have ever chosen as a start to motherhood. And I would give anything to have you back in our daily lives. But you, my daughter, have made a profound impact on our lives, and I certainly wouldn't be the woman or mother I am today without you. I love you so much and miss you desperately. Happy SEVENTH birthday my sweet Reagan!<br />
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XOXO,<br />
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Mommy<br />
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<br />Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-71092896989813498342019-06-27T15:48:00.002-04:002019-06-28T07:30:50.317-04:00GabeWith each of our losses, there has been some unknown component. Either we were too early for testing, we denied testing, or everything tested normal. There have been lots of guesses as to what is happening, but nothing concrete. And for me, that's given me extensive amounts of guilt. Maybe I did too much. Maybe I ate the wrong thing. Maybe I lifted the kids too often. Maybe I didn't rest enough. Maybe I simply WASN'T enough. Ten years worth of guilt and questions, never with an answer. For our sweet little miracle, I needed that answer. And since, for once, my body didn't recognize what had already happened, we were able to get a few answers.<br />
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First, we were having a boy. Of course I already knew this, I wasn't nearly sick enough for this little one to be a girl. I was still functional (barely) so I told Andrew the week prior in 100% confidence that this baby was a boy. Glad to know my mama instincts are spot on with at least this little detail. Since our last transfer, we've talked extensively about our girl and boy names. We've had a top for each gender, a plan. Of course, in my mind, it was a twin set that I was naming. But in reality, that didn't happen, and we will never get to call out or sweet boy's name in our home. But it felt wrong to save the name for a potential future adoption. I would never be able use the name again, knowing full well that had this child lived, it would have been his. And so, we have given this child, this little boy, the name Gabriel Preston Savant, aka "Gabe".<br />
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But we also learned that Gabe would have been a very sick little boy. He had trisomy 13. I had never heard of trisomy 13 (we've heard of 21, 18, even 16, but never 13). And this is because, babies with this diagnosis don't survive. They don't live. Had Gabe been born, he would have been in significant physical pain. He would have spent his little lifetime either having multiple procedures or withdrawing treatment to allow the inevitable to take place. And that would have broken me for sure. I already know there is little worse than having your child in pain, that watching helplessly as they fight. We lived through that for 3 months with Dean and Warren - but there was a different goal in sight for them. For Gabe, no matter how the pregnancy turned out, we would have said goodbye to him in his first year of life.<br />
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But today, today he is whole. Today he is healed. Today he is complete. That doesn't take away the pain I have. That doesn't take away the questions of why he would have that in the first place, of why we were chosen for this. But I can rest in knowing that one day I WILL know him without the pain between us. And that helps a tiny bit.Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-63747201578373040692019-06-10T08:01:00.001-04:002019-06-10T08:06:22.812-04:00Happy 2nd Birthday Lucas!Two years and 1 day ago, our world crumbled. I fell asleep to a kicking baby and woke knowing something was wrong. And on June 9, a sweet nurse at the hospital sobbed alongside us as she gave us the news. Our baby boy was gone. We just struggle to get through June 9 each year. But on June 10, we can celebrate. Today, my sweet Lucas turns TWO!<br />
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Lucas was born in the wee hours of the early morning. Unlike Hannah, Dean, and Warren, there was no team of doctors there. No NICU staff standing by. No big lights and excited voices. With Lucas, all was still and silent. A single doctor, a single nurse, and his mommy and daddy. There were tears all around. But, there was also joy. That's such a hard thing to explain, but I so much loved the little time we had with him. I love that I got the opportunity to know him a little bit, to study his little face - his cleft chin and pudgy cheeks and unibrow. I love that I was able to read him a story, to sing him a lullaby, to hold him. I have about 8 hours of memories with my sweet Lucas to last me a lifetime.<br />
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Happy 2nd birthday Lucas! This year we are in the mountains for your birthday. I'm sitting out on the balcony while Dean and Warren fight inside. Daddy and Hannah are looking at pictures of us all together. It's like any other day, except it isn't. Because today is YOUR birthday! We had big plans for today - a hike in the morning, a picnic in our favorite park, cupcakes and cards for your birthday party. But the weather isn't cooperating with us and it's cold and wet today. Which means, a dinosaur museum (which at 2, you probably wouldn't have enjoyed. But by 5 you would love) Don't worry - we are still planning on those cupcakes! Mommy even made them gluten free so I can enjoy too! But mostly, today is a day when we get to think about you a little more, get to talk about you more freely, get to remind your brothers and sister that not every day is about them. I have missed you so very much over these past 2 years. So much. As Dean says, I so wish you were able to come live with us. But ultimately, I know you are cared for and safe and loved now. And so I'm resting in that on this dreary mountain day. Knowing you are celebrating yourself with Reagan and Noah, with your 12 brothers and sisters in heaven. What a party! But don't grow up too fast, k?? Save something for Mommy to teach you. I love you fiercely my boy, always and forever.</div>
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Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-43547843045392220532018-10-30T09:24:00.005-04:002018-10-30T21:29:00.418-04:00The Dark DaySix years ago, I walked into work fairly carefree. I had <i>just </i>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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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 <i>and</i> a day of celebrating. Because no matter how short their lives, they <b>always</b> deserve being celebrated.Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-47580751113700179772018-10-19T16:54:00.000-04:002018-10-19T17:00:31.593-04:00Longing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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 <i>don't</i> 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.<br />
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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 <i>feels</i> so so bad. So bad.<br />
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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.<br />
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<br />Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-67331596477483775712018-08-05T10:35:00.001-04:002018-08-05T10:35:13.672-04:00GriefI'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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<img alt="Image result for weight of grief sculpture" src="https://charlieandoliver.files.wordpress.com/2016/06/img_7897.jpg" />Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-62436392518444242292018-06-10T21:28:00.000-04:002018-06-10T21:28:02.422-04:00Happy 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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Mommy<br />
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<br />Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-38562055710104387072018-06-08T10:45:00.000-04:002018-06-08T10:45:05.614-04:00AnticipationThe 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?<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br /><br />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. <br />
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Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-75056733398850719822018-05-13T14:52:00.002-04:002018-05-13T14:52:49.721-04:00The Hardest One YetMother'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.<br />
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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 todayMeghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-38161402261657286452018-05-06T14:05:00.005-04:002018-05-06T14:05:40.445-04:00Bereaved Mother's DayThe 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<br />Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-41882769675679834792018-04-27T10:30:00.000-04:002018-05-06T13:31:45.665-04:00Babies 13 and 14Yesterday, 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.<br />
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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. </div>
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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.<br />
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Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-15440481026170389602018-04-01T16:28:00.001-04:002018-04-01T18:07:09.504-04:006 monthsToday 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 <i>feel</i> 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.<br />
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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 <i>choose</i> 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.<br />
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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.Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-44787462206555277962018-03-09T14:13:00.001-05:002018-03-09T14:13:42.591-05:00All the feelsToday, 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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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??Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-75372684054097716182018-02-08T15:05:00.001-05:002018-02-08T15:05:11.539-05:00Menopause: Week 1I 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?<br />
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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.<br />
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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.Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-90912081444002223322018-01-28T14:22:00.002-05:002018-01-28T14:22:34.036-05:00And yet againWell, 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. <br />
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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...</div>
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Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-14030041695073139502018-01-10T22:20:00.003-05:002018-01-10T22:20:25.111-05:007 monthsThe 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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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.Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-25386581086755249352017-12-29T18:06:00.002-05:002017-12-29T18:39:33.227-05:00Broken againThis week, we said goodbye to another 2 baby Savants.<br />
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I am so ANGRY to be typing these words. I fully planned on talking about the miracles growing inside of me and the anticipation of a better 2018. Now, the only positive I seem to come up with is that in 2018 I can only lose 4 children instead of 5. Cynical? Sure. But I'm just not sure how much more one can endure. I keep thinking that I've suffered enough, that it can't be my turn yet again. But the truth is much harder than this fantasy I want to live in, and we are left ending this year in the same way we started it - barren.<br />
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We had a very brief 24 hours of hope. Twenty-four hours when I had a faint positive on my pregnancy test. I've been there before, walking the line of faint tests, which always darkened as the days went on. I had years of negative tests, month after month. I know what those look like and the heartbreak that accompanies them. And, because of that, the faint positive is SUCH a huge thing, something I never had in those years of waiting. So, for 1 full day, I clung to that. And then the next day - it was gone. These babies existed for only a few weeks, I'm not sure that they ever count in my medical charts. But for us? They were everything. They were our hope at the end of a difficult year, they were a promise of something to look forward to, they were two little people we loved so desperately. Miscarriage isn't easy at any stage. I used to think that miscarriage before that first ultrasound wasn't so bad. But, here's the thing, from the MOMENT you see that faint little second line, you make plans. You dream. You talk about names. You hope. And to have that all come crashing down is hard, whether that child is loved for a few weeks or months. We knew these babies for 12 days, saw them for the first time 12 days ago. Not long at all. And yet, still so painful. To make it all worse, two new big boy beds were delivered this week. Two new mattresses, new accessories, new bedding. I have a once-nursery, now spare bedroom, filled with unused cribs and changing tables and baby gear...<br />
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I'm not sure what lies ahead for us, I'm not sure what our plans are. We have 4 embryo waiting for us, so I am confident we will meet all 4 in some fashion. But I'm also coming to grips with the reality that this big family we have dreamed of may not be what God has planned for us here. That we may continue to watch our extended family grow while also watching our own children die. That I may only be raising these 3 crazy ones here - a Warren, a Dean, and a Hannah. And we may not know our other children until they are grown. I have a pile of maternity clothes that I ordered while pregnant with Lucas that came in a few days after he passed away - those may never be worn. But, I still feel like our family is not complete. Like something or someone is missing. And I still feel like it's a set of boy-girl twins. As much as having twins again terrifies me, that's still where my heart is. I just don't understand why there has to be so much pain in the journey to get there.<br />
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Our only picture of this set of twins</div>
<br />Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-28926145046430493752017-12-10T09:35:00.000-05:002017-12-10T09:35:01.697-05:006 monthsI cannot believe today marks 6 months. How is that even possible? Six months since I gave birth to my sweet son, in the silence of a delivery room. Six months since I held my boy, since I rocked him and sang him songs, since I gave him his last kiss, since I said goodbye. Our whole story is written in past tense as I look back to our one, final day together. Oh how my heart breaks, as I cry these ugly tears and try to figure out what to say. Because for the most part, there are no words.<br />
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Oh Lucas, I am so very sorry. I'm sorry I failed you, in the most permanent way. I make mistakes all the time as a mother - some based out of my own sinful nature, so simply because I don't have a clue what I'm doing - but I get to apologize, give hugs and kisses, share about grace, and ask for forgiveness. I never got to do that with you. I'm sorry son, I'm sorry for every moment I complained about feeling sick or tired or run down. I'm sorry for feeling disappointed for a second that you were not the girl I had planned you to be. I'm sorry for not buying you much of anything special, things that were just for you. And most of all, I'm sorry my body failed and I couldn't keep you alive. I wish we had known to try things differently.<br />
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June 10, 4:41am, you entered this world, my only child to ever be handed right to me. You were so small, just shy of a pound, but perfectly formed. We have the most amazing hand and foot prints from you. And, in those first few moments, I tried to soak up every tiny little detail. The cleft in your chin, the slight pudge in your cheeks, your long feet and even longer finger nails, your little unibrow, your 2 single eyelashes, and your pouty lips. Little pieces I can see in Dean, Warren, and Hannah every single day since. In the short hours that followed, we attempted to create the only memories we would have in this lifetime. We tried to make every second count. I don't really remember too many tears in the delivery room after you were born. It was like mommy instinct took over and I didn't want to waste a second of our time together being sad and missing out. I knew from Reagan the importance of soaking up every single moment together. The other emotions came later, but in the moment there was mostly joy and peace. I kind of forgot that until now, how strongly I felt God's presence at the hospital. Because, since coming home, there has not been a lot of peace or joy. More angst and despair than anything else. So, I am grateful for that day especially, and for the memories I have.<br />
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So today, sweet baby Lucas, we celebrate you. We remember you and love you and want to do something special for your 6 month birthday. We are baking you some cupcakes, that each one of us can decorate with whatever makes us think of you. I imagine this will entail SO. MANY. SPRINKLES. My child, your siblings love some sprinkles. I will be sure to take some pictures for you. Warren wants to send you a balloon, because that is what he knows. So, be on the lookout for a few blue balloons headed your way. And we'll make you some cards, carefully decorated and written on. Probably at least one of them will get crumbled in a ball. But don't worry, we'll flatten it out and place it gently in your memory box.<br />
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Oh Lucas, how I love and miss you. I wish these last 6 months were filled with memories with you. I wish I could be sharing about what your favorite book is and what calms you down, how well (or not well) you are sleeping, and new milestones you have reached. I will never have that post. I will maybe never know these things. But know this, you are loved beyond words, my son.<br />
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<br />Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-34400029730995326152017-12-05T20:34:00.000-05:002017-12-05T20:34:15.226-05:00Tentative stepsWell, it's been a difficult 6 months for sure. Nearly 6 months ago, Lucas was born. Since then, it's been a whirlwind of medical procedures, tests, surgeries, and more pain. Some days I'm not quite sure how to go on, how to get out of bed and face the world and all the painful reminders. My heart aches for the feel of our son safe in my arms. Oh, how I long for those sleepless nights. August brought another surgery to ready my body. In September, we did transfer, saw another 2 little baby Savants, fell in love. Only to have everything come crashing down again just 7 weeks later. Those sweet babies I never even got to feel kicking inside of me. Then, we planned on doing another transfer at Thanksgiving, only the testing leading up to it lead us to a dead stop. Everything looked great, but I had retained some placental tissue from Noah. My body was not yet ready.<div>
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Fast forward to December. We are mid cycle again, and facing more problems than I would like. Tomorrow I head back to the hospital for yet another surgery, this time to remove an ovarian cyst. Why? WHY?? I want to scream at it all. It's not the procedure itself, it's fairly simple. It's not the inconvenience of it. It's just the accumulation of one more thing, one more obstacle. Some people just get to have sex. And just like that, the bitterness takes root. And I find myself questioning over and over again, what's wrong with me? Why is it always me? At this very second, I should be nursing my sweet baby. Or, 17 weeks pregnant. Instead, I am barren. Empty. Prepping for another medical procedure with the hopes that I will one day be able to raise those sweet babies.</div>
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So, here is how you can pray for us. First, the surgery tomorrow. It's being done by a doctor I've never met in a practice I've never heard of. He says he can do it, no problem, so we'll see. I'm also electing to only have local anesthesia as the hubs is out of town. Anyone who knows me knows that I HATE all these things, and that I much prefer to be completely out for anything that happens in an OR. Second, we have a transfer on the books again. On 12/19, we'll be meeting 2 other little baby Savants. This is hard to share in advance. I blogged my way through the entire process with Reagan and it was a really beautiful time. Since then, we've been fairly secretive about the process for some reason, choosing not to share until late in the 1st trimester, after several ultrasounds and labs confirming everything looks good. And through that all, I've learned it's certainly not any easier that way. More times than not, my babies still die. This time, I feel like I need an army of prayer warriors surrounding me, so I'm choosing to be vulnerable instead. I'm saying goodbye to the cute little surprise facebook announcement because this is infinitely more important.</div>
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As I look into the future, I have a hard time imagining that anything will work. Testing has revealed some things that may or may not be treatable and may or may not be contributing to our losses. That doesn't leave me with any warm and fuzzy feelings. Statistics are scary, with up to a 25% chance of recurrent stillbirth. That is very high, too high some might say. But, we were given these embryo for a reason. I have 6 more babies, babies I've never met, babies I would love to know. So, less circumstances change and close this door to us, we will move forward with the transfers, trusting that God is good even when He doesn't appear to be. Trusting that He knows best, even when I think I could do it better. It's not a fun place to be, but it's where I am called right now.</div>
Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-744261919107062062017-11-23T14:48:00.002-05:002017-11-23T14:48:44.700-05:00The second 1st Thanksgiving<div class="MsoNormal">
Holidays, family reunions, weddings – they’re all so
hard. Not because of something our
families have done, not because it’s hard to be around them, not because we don’t
like them. I hear people grumbling about
these events simply because they don’t wish to be around their families – that’s
not me. For me, it’s a huge reminder of
everything I am missing. I feel this
deep hole so much more so when “all” the family is gathered. Because I know it can never be ALL.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We were reminiscing about some interesting Thanksgiving
stories earlier this morning, some carefree times. Know what they all had in common? They were 2011 or earlier. Because 2012 was 3 weeks after Reagan died. And that year, and every year since, I’ve
felt this hole inside of me that at times only seems to be growing bigger. My children are not here with me. I’m missing seeing the joy on their faces as
they taste pumpkin pie for the first time.
They won’t be helping me in the kitchen.
Reagan would certainly be old enough to this year. Their little sweet faces will not be sitting
around our dinner table, will never entertain the other kids at the kid table,
will never fight over who gets the biggest piece.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is our first Thanksgiving without Lucas. And it’s catching me off guard with how hard
it is. With Reagan, it was SO recent, it
was all I could do to get through the day.
But Lucas? He was born 5.5 months
ago. The pain and grief is not quite as
raw. But, here we are. Unable to get through the day, unsure how to
go on. I so desperately want my sweet
boy back. I want his cries to be adding
to the chaos of the day. I want these
tears to be simply because I’m overwhelmed, not because of overwhelming
grief. Knowing there is a good chance it
was my fault makes it so much worse, adding that layer of constant nagging
guilt. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But this is also the first Thanksgiving without Noah. Without his twin. Knowing that I <i>should</i> be pregnant, 17 weeks.
Knowing that, if I didn’t have my Lucas to hold anymore, we should be
celebrating these lives growing inside of me.
Instead, I am empty. Barren. Broken.
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Of course I am thankful for my children that I get to
raise. I am learning more each year just
what a miracle they are, how special they are, how blessed we are to have
them. But it does little to take away
the pain of so many children we’ve lost through the years, named and unnamed,
public and private. I so long for that
day when I will be reunited with my babies and our family will once again be
complete. Living in this broken world,
well, sucks. The only hope I have is the
Hope in our future together because of our Savior. Some days that brings me great peace. Some days are still very much a struggled to
even get through the requirements of the day.
Today happens to fall in that second category.<o:p></o:p></div>
Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-85495040422939625262017-11-03T16:06:00.001-04:002017-11-03T16:06:53.155-04:00Hannah Grace Turns 2!!Happiest of birthdays sweet Hannah Grace! <br />
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I'm not sure I've ever met a child who is so full of joy! This past year has been a difficult one, but you have continued to bring joy and excitement into our lives. I love playing tea parties with you - and hippo and puppy. I love the care and thought you put into exactly how you set each place and who gets what food. I love seeing you interact with your brothers, holding your own with those big boys and yet still being so sweet. You love those boys so much - they're the first people you ask for each morning. Dee? Yaya? And you go running into their room, sure to be knocked down, but fearless nonetheless. <br />
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I love how you still cuddle with me, my only child who is calm enough to just rest with her mama. I love how you need me - how you cry out for me when you can't sleep or reach up for me when you are scared. I love that you still cling to my legs when I try to drop you off somewhere. I love reading you books, hearing you learn new words and point out new things on the familiar pages. I love rocking and singing to you each night. Even though you sometimes look up at me and quietly say, night night mama.<br />
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You are such a happy little girl, waking each morning with a smile. You've spent much of your live just along for the ride, and seem content to do that. And today?? Today, my precious girl, you are 2. TWO. How can that be? How can you be growing up so fast?? I had so much fun celebrating your birthday this morning, having a special date morning with my now big girl. In the past year you've learned so much - you've started to run and throw and tackle with your brothers, you love to ride your bike or the wagon and just take in what's going on around you. You play dinosaurs and roar with the best of them, yet you are never without a purse and especially love shoes. <br />
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I am so very thankful for you, Hannah Grace. I'm so blessed to be your mommy, and only beginning to realize what a miracle you really are. And I love you even more for that. Thank you for being you - my sweet, spunky, stubborn, adorable little girl. Happy birthday baby!!<br />
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XOXO<br />
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Mommy<br />
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<br />Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-85478291994447910752017-10-31T21:55:00.002-04:002017-10-31T22:08:58.258-04:00Happy 5th birthday!Happy 5th birthday my sweet baby girl!<br />
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I cannot believe it has been 5 years since I met you for the first and only time. I remember having so many fears as I walked into labor and delivery, so unsure of what was going to happen. I was afraid it was going to break me, the emotions and the pain of it all. How could anyone survive? I remember walking up to the desk, holding you protectively in my belly, praying that this wasn't actually happening. I vaguely remember them talking me through the process but I didn't have a clue what to expect - you never should have come that early. We weren't ready for it. Throughout that day, your daddy was my rock. He rubbed my back with each contraction and read to me for hours. As labor intensified and I knew you were almost here, I got so scared. I didn't want you to be born yet, because then it would be over. I would never physically feel any of you anymore, and that just seemed too much to handle.<br />
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But then you were born, and this switch happened just like I always dreamed it would. In an instant, I was a mother. I loved you so incredibly much. There you were, this little piece of me. You looked so much like me, even though you were so little. Same little nose, same eyes, same little crinkle in your forehead - Hannah actually has it too! There was so much joy in your birth. Daddy and I are still amazed at what a gift that was. Such precious time together, time I will never forget. I so vividly remember holding you for the first time, feeling you in my arms. I remember singing you your first lullaby in the rocking chair, reading you your only little book, holding you close. I am thankful for every second we had together. And I've missed you every day since. Even 5 years later, your absence is felt. I wonder what you are doing - do you love tea parties like Hannah? Do you run wild and carefree like Warren and Dean? Do you pick flowers for us like we do for you? Do you know how much we love you? Because, sweet Reagan, we love you immeasurably.<br />
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So today, on the day of your birth, we celebrate you. Well, we tried to anyway... I imagine if you were still here, the day might have been a good indication of what you could have expected. Temper tantrums from your brothers. Followed my more temper tantrums. Some potty on the floor and pooping in the tent. A little bit of trick-or-treating with fights over candy. We so desperately want you to have one super special day, but that doesn't seem to be real life at this point. So, we did the best we could. We made dinner and had some birthday cake. We made (well, started...) cards for you with all the glitter you could ever want. We sent you some balloons (only 3 this year - the kids popped 2 of them...) And now we're settling down to look through our pictures with you. Precious shots of us holding you exactly 5 years ago.<br />
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I cannot wait until I can run up to you in heaven and wrap my arms around you and have you return that hug. To feel your arms around me. I am so thankful that I was chosen to be your mommy, thankful for the profound impact you've had on my life and those around us. I love you so much Rea Rea. Always and forever.<br />
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Mommy<br />
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<br />Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-72296686640676754992017-10-30T22:05:00.000-04:002017-10-31T08:49:22.058-04:00Five years closerI cannot believe it has been 5 years.<br />
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Five years ago, my dreams of becoming a mother were forever changed. In an instant, I went from blissfully unaware to broken. I had never experienced such pain, never even knew such pain existed. I remember the moment I saw Reagan's final ultrasound, the moment I realized something was actually wrong. I will never forget seeing her perfect little profile, button nose, and relaxing for a half a second before recognizing that something much bigger was wrong. I still see that ultrasound image at night when I close my eyes, even with our recent losses. That image of her still - her chest empty. With Lucas, that was much less shocking. But with Reagan, that is the moment that haunts me to this day.</div>
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Five years ago, I realized that our family would never be complete. No matter how many of our children I would carry, no matter how many little feet ran through our home, I would always be missing one set. Now, I know that number will be much greater. Mothering after loss has been incredibly difficult. It's hard to find the right balance of joy and grief, enjoying the moment while still longing for what should have been. That is especially true on these weekends, when we try to get away to escape it all, try to step away from the grind of daily life to do something special as a family. Only to spend the weekend breaking up fights, diffusing temper tantrums, and trying our best not to completely lose it with our children. I so desperately want to make these few days special, to create happy family memories, to somehow prove that God was wrong and she would be better off with us than with Him. Mostly, it's a complete failure.</div>
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October 30 has been my "dark day" for the past 5 years. Her birthday tomorrow gives us reason to celebrate - to rejoice as we remember those moments together, that feel of seeing her for the first time, the joy of holding our daughter for the first and only time. But today? Today brings only pain. There were so many questions, so many fears in those hours after learning she was gone. In a way, it was the end of this innocence I had. A time when I was completely unaware that babies died outside of miscarriage and SIDS. </div>
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Five years ago today, Andrew and I were lying in Reagan's nursery. The last time it would be hers. Surrounded by all these sweet girly things we never knew if we would use. Most of which would be packed away for years, some were given away immediately. Because, who wants to pass an unused carseat or stroller? Hannah is wearing the last of Reagan's hand-me-downs, which only went up to size 12 month. We're squeezing her into them because they are special to us. But, after another month, all external traces of Reagan will be removed from our family. </div>
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This is the first year I've faced Reagan's birthday when I've not been pregnant or nursing. It adds a layer of pain I wasn't quite expecting this year. I feel a bit caught off guard by it all. Because, for the first time, I am coming to the very possible realization that our family is done. That we will have no more living children. Our doctors are not optimistic. I have 6 more embryo, and there is a good chance that we won't be able to raise any of them. Once we realized how many IVF embryo we had, we thought we would be facing the question of what to do with the others. What would we do when we had 5 kids in our home, when I'd experience 4 c-sections and couldn't do another one. But instead, I'm afraid we'll go through this process 3 more times only to end up emotionally and physically drained, and still unable to carry a child to term. I've had some more tests run this week that may shed some light on things. Or, it may all continue to come back normal as doctors continue to struggle to figure out what exactly is wrong with my body and why I keep killing our children. There was so much guilt surrounding this day - so many unanswered questions - and that was before we experienced the loss of 3 more. When we thought Reagan would be an anomaly and not the norm for us. </div>
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This sucks. There is no beautiful or poetic way to put it. October 30 sucks. Always. BUT...today we are 5 years closer. Five years closer to spending our eternity with the little ones we never got to raise. And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow we break out the cake, send up some balloons, and celebrate our sweet Reagan, who made me a mommy 5 years ago. Here's to you, baby girl!</div>
Meghanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13371008012654883686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1696645709859603072.post-27717437703257452872017-10-15T14:04:00.001-04:002017-10-15T14:04:31.839-04:00Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day"When a child loses his parent, they are called an orphan. When a spouse loses her or his partner,they are called a widow or widower. When parents lose their child, there isn't a word to describe them" - Ronald Reagan, 1988<br />
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This month has typically been a month when our loss of Reagan becomes all the more real, when her absence is felt so much stronger. This year, we experienced more loss than we ever expected to. Lucas in June, Baby B in September, and Noah on Oct 1. Starting the month off Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance with a bang. I find myself today wondering how different life would be if we still had all the babies I've carried here with me. See, it's a little different when all your babies were conceived at the same time with IVF. We don't get the "well, if you hadn't lost so and so, you wouldn't have so and so." Not true, for us. They've all been around. Anyway, Reagan and Samuel would be gearing up for their 5th birthday. Dean and Warren wouldn't be 4, they'd probably be 2.5? Hannah would be less than 1 - oh, what sweet days those were. And Lucas, Noah, baby B - all tucked away in the freezer. And today? Well, today would be another Sunday, a trip to the pumpkin patch, maybe an afternoon nap. Today would be a blip on our busy schedule. I'd causally scroll past the 1:4 statistics that pop up here and there on my facebook feed.<br />
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1:4 pregnancies end before they really even begin, resulting in miscarriages our society has become so callous to. 1:160 end in stillbirth, delivery after 20 weeks. I never wanted to know these statistics, much less feel like my life has been built around them. I never expected to be the woman who loses babies. I kind of thought our infertility journey was long and hard enough that I would somehow be excused from these statistics. But life didn't work out the way I had hoped and dreamed. And, I am living that statistic. Defying it, really, to have so many different losses, never for the same reason.<br />
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Today has been declared pregnancy and infant loss remembrance day. This day has made such an impact on us in the years since we lost Reagan. It's been a launching point for Reagan's Garden - exactly 3 years ago today we launched in Charlotte. And 1 year ago, here in Winter Haven. I don't even have all the statistics anymore, as HIPAA makes things hard to track, but by last count we have reached well over 100 families, not even including families who have used the cuddle cots we have at various hospitals. Beauty out of the ashes. <br />
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I am part of an amazing organization of women. For two years now, I have been blessed to speak on this topic, to answer questions, to break the silence. I am so thankful that women are asking questions, wanting to know how best to reach out and support their friends/family who are walking this dark path. And this week, we have plans to make another 32 cards and 12 boxes, to prepare as we anticipate ongoing loss in our community.<br />
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