Confusion

 It's been a hot minute.  For year, blogging, getting my thoughts out there and writing it all down, was so healing.  I used this website as a therapy surrogate.  Never found talking out loud to a stranger helpful but loved the release of writing it all down.  But over the year, it became redundant.  How many times can one person walk the same sad journey?  What new did I have to type out about my newest miscarriage.  I felt like I had said it all, so I let the words dry up and wondered if I might ever revisit this blog or if it had become irrelevant, lost in the daily grief of repeated loss.

And for a stretch of time, things improved.  Never exactly as I had planned, but in what I considered God's timing.  We continued to experience years of loss before my eventual hysterectomy in 2021.  Andrew finally decided to come on board with the idea of adoption right before that. I give him a hard time about the years I spent waiting for him to come around, but ultimate it lead us to miss Hope.  She is the picture perfect vision of joy - for the first 1.5 years we said she was the ultimate completion for our family.  A part of me always longed for that 5th child we had always planned on, but I also knew I could never enter the adoption world again.  We experienced 1.5 years of heartache and waiting - a mixture of not being chosen (and feeling inadequate/not enough with each rejection) as well as failed adoption attempts - being chosen and not being able to bring those babies home.  We eventually matched with Hope, a long term pregnancy and open adoption with a couple we fell in love with long before we met them.

Enter Hope - the spunky, sassy, amazing 2-year-old we are incredibly blessed to raise.  She is a perfect fit for our family - stands up for herself with her 2 older brothers, dances alongside her big sissy, and keeps us all on our toes.  She is completely full of joy and smart as a whip.  Anyone who knows her loves her.  And, though I always wondered about other kids, our family was complete.

Back in Feb, we sat behind a family at church.  At a new church, where we were finally finding our place.  And this family had older bio kids and a baby who was racially diverse.  This is the first time I had ever seen a family that looked like ours.  So of course, it was distraction.  No clue what that sermon was about.  We made small talk with the family afterwards, offered them use of any of our baby items we had outgrown, and moved along.  Andrew asked me on the way home if I had baby fever and I laughed.  "I would have to get a call telling me there was a baby for me before I would consider it" I said.  Not because I didn't want another baby, but because I couldn't handle the heartbreak of waiting and rejection again.  Literally the next day I got a call that Hope's bio parents were expecting again and wanted us to adopt again.  It seemed like the perfect opportunity.  We took some weeks to pray about it, to wait for them to go through counseling and sign paperwork.  But honestly, from the second I heard about it, before I knew gender, I loved that little baby.  I would have moved heaven and earth to help mama parent if that had been her desire, but I felt like we were finally getting our complete family.  I never doubted their decision for a single second.

I walked that pregnancy alongside bio mom - giving her words of support, financial support, emotional support, etc.  I love mama just as much as her kiddos and thought it was just the most beautiful picture of God's design for adoption that there could be.  "Hit the birth mom lottery" I say because I just adore her so very much.  When I got notice her water broke, I was nothing but encouraging.  When the nurse called as said our baby boy was here, I couldn't wait to get to the hospital.  Contrary to with Hope, this time I walked into that hospital room comfortable.  I kissed mama and gave her a big hug, held baby boy, helped her with postpartum recovery, interacted confidently with the nurses, etc.  And then, our world flipped.  And somehow, despite everything I knew, we were told we would not be taking this baby boy home.  That mama had changed her mind.  The initial confusion was overwhelming.  Knowing he wasn't going into a safe environment, knowing too much about his home/personal life this time was crushing.  We were told DCF would be stepping in and taking him, but then hurricanes and bogged down systems meant no check  ins were ever done.  And I'm left wondering.

Why in the world would God put this baby in our lives??  Why, when we already had a relationship with bio mom, would we not be just asked to be support people?  Why would He cruelly use this family to open our hearts to adoption just to shut us out later? Why would we walk the road of unbearable loss yet again, especially when we weren't even looking to adopt??  I have no answers a month later, only more questions.  This God I once served is cruel and awful and spiteful.

Birthday

Today 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.

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.

Happy 7th Birthday Reagan

Seven 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.

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.

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. 

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. 

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!

XOXO,

Mommy

Happy 7th birthday cake

Cherishing the moments

Gabe

With 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.

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".

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.

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.

Happy 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!

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.

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.

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.