A final update.

I am sure most of you are aware by now, but just in case, I wanted to put an update here as well…Mo and her husband said goodbye to their beautiful Nadav and induced labor.  I apologize for the late update, it was difficult for me to believe this was real.  I wanted it all to be just a nightmare.

If you have not already done so, please head over to Mo’s recent post, “Nadav,” and leave your love and your support.

I have felt such a lack of words through all of this, in a perpetual state of shock.  There have been some absolutely beautiful posts throughout all of this, proof that our collective hearts could move mountains.

Nadav, Mo and Shmerson, you are so very loved.

Stay tuned for more information on a project we are doing and how you can help.

Update on Mo

They have decided to induce.  Please keep her, her husband and her baby boy in your thoughts and prayers.  She’s feeling it.

The outpouring of support and love has left me speechless.  You women are amazing.

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(I’m sorry if I have seemed at a loss for words, or strictly business….I’m feeling extremely helpless and incapable in the face of this.  I love her dearly, and to know someone I love like this is in this kind of pain, is almost unbearable.)

 

Mommy Odyssey

Yesterday evening I received some devastating news….Mommy Odyssey‘s water broke just shy of 24 weeks.  They are waiting to see if the water replenishes, but chances are they will have to induce tomorrow and her sweet baby boy will not make it.

Please send her some love via her contact page:  http://mommyodyssey.wordpress.com/contact-me/ or by commenting in her most recent post.

She is someone that I consider a dear friend, and my heart has been broken into a thousand pieces for her.  We can’t take away her pain or make this all go away, but we can give her all the love we possibly have.

As soon as I have an update, I will post it here.

Courtney

 

2 years.

Two years ago today, on February 11th, 2010, my life dramatically changed.  In the matter of an hour, the innocence I had once held, was stolen from me in a rush of blood.  I went on to experience an all-encompassing grief that I had yet to know.  It’s taken me two years and two additional losses to even come close to recovering from that night.  And in many ways, I know I never fully will, nor do I want to.  It’s too much a part of who I am now.  Of who I’ve become.

I had lost a pregnancy prior to then, but I lost it before I even knew there was something to lose.  And for me, that made all the difference in the world.  I was sad, but was able to move on quickly because I figured it was just a fluke.  As soon as I got that positive pregnancy test that next January, the hope of what was to come, took me over.  We were going to have a baby.  Everything else that had once mattered, no longer did.  That was it.  And now as I look to becoming pregnant for the fifth time in the next coming months, that hope that was once there has been been squashed, trampled, twisted and abused.  Left out in the cold and unloved.  I fear hope possibly more than I fear another loss.

Because with hope, the fall is so much further.

But it creeps in, no matter how hard I push it away.  That’s what happens when you want a family with every ounce of your soul.  Hope is a resilient little thing, constantly finding the cracks in your hand-built cement wall.

Except I’m onto you, hope.  I know you change forms and wear masks.  I know that if hope of a baby of our own doesn’t happen, that the hope will change paths.  I will create an entirely new hope for an entirely different road, one that might bring happiness in a different form.  That’s the difference between now and then, that’s what 2 years and 4 losses has given me.  And if the hope of a baby from Tim and I is taken away for a fifth time, I’ll be ready to follow it in a new direction.  I’ll succumb to the loss of this dream for the chance of a new one.  I wasn’t ready two years ago today.  I wasn’t ready to face a plan that was bigger than my plan.  I wasn’t ready to let go.

I’m proud of the woman this experience has forced me to become.  I’m stronger and more compassionate – not just of others, but finally, of myself.  I’ve learned to let go of the control in this space, I finally know it’s out of my hands.  And if that took two years and four losses to get to, I’m thankful for it finally arriving.

Because there is a plan bigger than my plan.  And I’m ready to believe in it.

Tags: grief, miscarriage, recovery

Two incredible women who advocate on our behalf.

Jjiraffe just posted her second installment of her Faces of Adoption/Loss/Infertility series.  This time she shares the story of Sarah, from A Child To Call Me Mama — who after battling Stage IV endometriosis and the loss of her right ovary and tube, as well as years of heartache, finally ends up with a happy ending.  Please go and read this story.  Jjiraffe is trying to get over 1,000 visits to this piece in hopes that the real story behind adoption, loss and infertility can be heard.  Even if you’re not a direct part of this community – even more so! – please take the time to read it:

http://jjiraffe.wordpress.com/2012/02/07/faces-of-adoptionlossinfertility-sarah-in-three-acts/

And after you’ve done that, if you haven’t yet read the first installment of the series (featuring yours truly), you can do so here.  With this piece, a whole shift in my way of thinking changed.  She gave me something I had been trying to achieve ever since my first devastating loss.  I only hope her most recent piece has a similar effect on Sarah, because that’s what sharing these stories from her amazing series can do — they can heal hearts.  They have the power to make those women going through this in the dark feel less alone.  They can make those that have no experience in loss or infertility, finally understand what it’s like.  Women who have gone through something like this can finally get the compassion they need.

So what are you waiting for?  Go read it.

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And now for another woman who is making a difference in our little corner of the universe: Keiko Zoll of Hannah Wept, Sarah Laughed and Words Empowered.  A little while ago I entered a contest she was having as a way to promote her new launch of Words Empowered.  I won the “Follow Your Passion Prize Pack” and it couldn’t have come at a better time.  This morning Tim calls me from the post office asking if I can meet him at our gate because he has something I might want.  And this was what I discovered inside the package:

What a nice surprise to get today!  I am so excited to delve into these books and fill the pages of the journal (the photo above).  Keiko is an incredible advocate for the people in the ALI community.  She is a force to be reckoned with….who, coincidentally, is just who you want on your side when you’re battling this hell that is ALI.  And next month she will be launching The Infertility Voice, what looks to be an online resource center for infertility.  I’d go ahead and bookmark that right now, because knowing Keiko, it’s going to be incredible.

Case in point – this is the note she inscribed to me in one of the books:

” Live w/ abandon.
Live fearlessly.
Live w/ joy & honor.
Live like it matters.”

- Keiko Zoll

Doesn’t she sound like someone you want to follow?  I feel so honored to “know” both of these women, Jjiraffe and Keiko, one in real life and one from this community of ours.  They are the women giving us a voice when we have trouble finding our own.  They are the ones giving us the energy to fight and make our stories heard.  They are the ones that we want leading us through this place we never wanted to be.  We’re so lucky to have them.

Thank you, Jjiraffe and Keiko, for everything you’ve done and for everything I know you will continue to do.  You rock.

A song for you.

I was just in the car and the song that inspired my post title the other day came on on my iPod.  As I sang along, I realized I needed to share it with you here in case you hadn’t heard it before.

I love The Bens.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  I used to love Ben Folds until he was an ass to my friend’s band back in 2002, then I had to stop liking him.  (Although have you ever heard that song Gracie?  Oh my.  If that song doesn’t make your ovaries quiver, you’re a cold and heartless woman and I want nothing to do with you.*)  Ben Kweller, however, has been on constant rotation on my stereo computer iPod for over 10 years now (check out his Changing Horses album – listen to Sawdust Man and Gypsy Rose – it’s one of the best albums of 2009…and of course, there’s Sha Sha which is classic Ben Kweller), and Ben Lee is just the cutest.  He can sing to me in that accent any day (although, I do have to admit his albums are kind of disappointing….I think they’re just a little too pop-y sweet for me).

Anyway.  Here it is.  The soundtrack to your pretending.

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* This, of  course, is aimed more towards those of us not in the hell that is RPL and Infertility, because obviously everything under the moon makes our ovaries quiver.  But also, should you be in a dark and twisty place at the moment, consider this a warning — DO NOT go looking for that song, or you may never come out of the blackness.

Just pretend.

Sometimes, I just need to give myself permission to step out of this world for a little while.  After two years of it, it can be quite overwhelming.  When I step away, I try to pretend it never existed.  For a few days – a week – I pretend like my life is normal.  That I’ve never experienced a gut-wrenching loss, never mind four.  I try to pretend that the negatives on the pregnancy tests don’t bother me, that they’re what I want.  That I’m a thousand times joyful for everyone else who has a baby, and don’t care that I haven’t had one yet.  That the last two years have been spent blissfully with my incredible husband, that not a sad tear has been shed.  That come February 11th, the only anniversary it will be is the day after I met my husband, not one where my heart was ripped out of my body with the passing of my baby.

That I’ve never buried a tiny little being, in it’s once-hopeful sac, under an old oak tree in a field nestled between hills.

Sometimes, I want to pretend that my life went as planned.  That it didn’t take a detour down the dark and twisty road of pregnancy loss, that I’ve been on the sun-filled road all along.

And the thing is, sometimes it works.  It works for a few days – a week – and I wake up happy for once.  But the reality always creeps back.  That relentless longing for a child never seems to disappear, no matter how much I pretend it was never there.  I start to miss the people in this little virtual world of mine, the people that I am invested whole-heartedly in their lives and their cycles and their collective uteri.  I can’t turn my back on it now.  I can’t pretend it away.  It’s who I am, it’s who I’ll always be.

But I’d be lying if I didn’t say: I can’t wait to be the fuck out of it.

Trying to believe

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I’m sorry if I owe you an email, or haven’t been commenting, or seem to be MIA…I’m okay, I think I just need some “me” time.  Or something.  xoxo

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Image credit: patrick costilow via oh, hello friend who found it via Sacred Lotus

Whew.

It’s been a long week.  Both good and bad things happened…but here I am, still standing, and it’s finally Friday.  As a bonus, just today I found out I have the holiday off on Monday, when all week I’ve assumed I’d have to come in.  That was quite a pleasant – and much needed – surprise.

I’d give anything to spend a day this weekend doing nothing but reading and snuggling with this guy:

Let’s hope I can make it happen.

Happy Friday, everyone. Thanks again for your incredible support and wonderful-as-always comments on last week’s post. I wish I could thank each and everyone one of you by hand-delivering (arm-delivering?) a hug and some baked goodies.

Have a wonderful weekend, dear friends.

Courtney

An unintentional gift.

If you haven’t already, please head over to Jjiraffe’s post to read “The Devastation of Pregnancy: A Profile of Courtney…,” where she describes my history with pregnancy loss in order to profile what it really means to live with infertility.  If you’re not familiar with Jjiraffe and her fantastic and inspirational blog, for months she has been tackling the New York Times’ inaccurate coverage of what it means to be infertile.  She is a brilliant writer.  I’ve been trying to figure out why they’re not busting down her virtual door and begging her to write these profiles for them.  Oh wait…that’s because she’s not interested in highlighting the 1% of infertiles who can afford unlimited IVF treatments just because they thought it would be cute to have another baby well into their forties.  Right.  So please, if you haven’t yet read her piece, please do so now.

I was lucky enough to get a chance to read this before she posted it, and as I read each beautifully crafted word, tears fell in a steady stream down my cheeks.  For the first time in two years, I was getting to view my story from the outside looking in. As I read about this woman and her devastating pain from each of her four losses, I was profoundly sad for her.  I cried for her and what she had gone through.  I was awed by her resilience.   I wanted to reach out to her and wrap my arms around her, to tell her how very sorry I am for her losses.   Not once did I get angry at her for “allowing” those babies to die.

Ever since that fateful day in February of 2010 when I lost my second pregnancy, I have blamed my body for being inadequate, for not doing what it’s supposed to do.  That blame, of course, was heightened when I went on to lose a third and a fourth.  I refused to be kind to the body that stopped my babies’ hearts.  Through what feels like hundreds of sessions, my therapist has been urging me to be kind to myself, to nurture my body and support it like I do for so many other women going through this.  But despite our work, I’ve been unable to find the compassion for myself and for what I’ve experienced. I can’t get past the fact I feel like I’m to blame, that my body failed me.

When I read Jjiraffe’s post, the compassion I’ve been seeking for myself and my unimaginable loss, came flooding in.  Although the post was meant to highlight the inadequacies in the NYTimes’ coverage, it did so much more for me.  It was a gift.  After reading her words, I want to take care of that woman and her grief.  I want to nurture her and love her, not berate her and blame her.  The woman in her story doesn’t deserve that.

Jjiraffe, I will never be able to properly thank you for the gift you gave to me with this post.  The woman inside of me that has had to deal with my lack of compassion for two years straight, thanks you.  I’m wrapping my arms around you, too.

Now, if you still haven’t read it, what are you waiting for?  Go now.