next steps

it's been nearly a month since we lost our little ones, and i've been hearing a lot about "next time."  what we should do in the next round of IVF.  how i should rest my body the next time around.  advice on what to prepare for next.

 

all this talk of next, next, next, reminds me that i have to move forward.  move on.  make a move.  and the thought of doing that makes me want to SCREAM that i'm not ready.  how can i move on without having to let go?

 

i also get a lot of the usual stuff about staying positive, keeping our spirits up, not giving up.  i know our family and friends mean well, but i never intended to give up.  if i gave up, we wouldn't have gone through all the crap we did to get here.  we wouldn't be here.  we wouldn't be doing this.  but we are, and the only healing element that seems to make sense is time.

 

that's the thing -- we need the time to heal, which seems at odds with how quickly life moves.  it's impossible to explain this to anyone who isn't going through it, let alone to ourselves.  i don't know what to do to make the pain go away, except to pray for time to do its thing.  and that won't happen overnight.

 

as with most things, it's so hard to convey this to someone who hasn't experienced what you have.  an understanding.  and that's what seems to be missing in all of this.  we don't know anyone in our lives who have gone through IVF.  we also don't know other couples who have ever experienced a late miscarriage or who have lost twins.  it's no wonder we feel very alone in this, despite our incredible support system.  the fact is, my husband and i are the ones who have to determine our next move.

 

so what's next?  only time will tell.

who knew?

we finally received our babies' cremains yesterday (and yes, cremains is a word i recently learned, who knew?), and it's given me a sense of closure.  it had been really difficult for me because our children weren't with us and we weren't able to lay them to rest.

 

we hadn't been receiving much communication from the funeral home, and since we'd never been in this type of situation before, weren't sure what to expect either.  how long did it normally take to receive remains?  what needed to be done?  what needed to be processed?

 

then we were asked if we wanted the remains as they came out or more fine.  not knowing the difference, we were told that when they came out as is, they would look more skeletal.  yikes.  we decided to go with fine, so we wouldn't be able to see pieces, but seriously, who knew??

 

when the funeral director dropped by to hand over the cremains, i was surprised by how light the box was.  he explained that the ashes wouldn't be white, although i wasn't expecting them to be.  i'm not sure what i was expecting.

 

now it's time to shop for urns, and i never realized how many kinds there are: pewter urns, bronze urns, ceramic urns, marble urns, glass urns, wood urns, biodegradable urns... not to mention the sizes: adult, child, pet, companion, keepsake?  really?  who knew?

 

and don't even get me started on how to settle on a headstone.  or two.

 

just another set of firsts we never thought we'd be encountering.

another first though, was last night.  it was the first night (probably not the last) that i went to bed with dry eyes.  i think having the kiddos with us gave me some peace.

mother hens

my dentist is a family friend; she has known my mother for ages and i've been seeing her all my life.  whenever it's time for my six-month check-up/cleaning, we chat for awhile about my life, my plans, and my mom, since her office is in the next town over to my parents', and i usually stop over to see them afterwards.

 

i enjoy these little visits.  even after i moved a good distance away, i continued going to her for my care because i couldn't imagine going to anyone else.  my sisters must feel the same way, because they've stuck with her also.

 

she has a daughter who's a bit older than me, and when i was planning my wedding, she gave me her daughter's gift box which i've in turn passed on to my cousin, my sister, and my friends.  once, during a holiday dinner and shortly after i'd had my wisdom teeth out, i felt my stitches had been bothering me so she held my mouth open with a spoon to check on them.  needless to say, she regularly goes above and beyond the call of duty because she's watched me grow up, and i've felt she's like another auntie, or a mother hen (in a good way).

 

recently, i felt some sensitivity in my back molar, and since it's one with a filling i thought it would be a good idea to check out.  it turns out that my filling had cracked and there was some decay under it.  luckily, it was caught in time before the decay had reached my nerve, so the decay was removed and a new filling was put in.

 

after my appointment, my dentist asked if i wanted to stay and eat the food my mom had dropped off earlier, since her office is in a converted house (where her and her family used to live), and there's a working kitchen and living room in the back.  at first i said no, but she insisted, even heating me up a plate and giving me hot water to drink (what is it with chinese people and warm beverages?), so i stayed.  she asked me how i was doing and didn't pry, although i was pretty sure she was up to date on my current state.  after i finished my meal, she said i was welcome to sit for awhile and watch TV, but i was ready to go.

 

originally i thought the gesture was due in part to my mom, but when i called my mom and she didn't seem to be behind it, i was really touched by my dentist's generosity and caring.  it was incredibly cute and sweet.

 

on the ride home, i thought of the mother hens in my life, and realized they weren't just in my personal life.  yesterday, my OB called just to see how i was doing and to let me know she was thinking of me.  and my boss called this afternoon to do the same.

 

look around and be thankful for all your non-mother mother hens.

avoiding the void

the other day, i was staring out of the window at the trees swaying in the breeze.  it was a sunny day.  beautiful, fall-like.  i stood there for several minutes, unable to move, as if i were paralyzed.  perhaps i was listening -- for the sound of the wind whistling through the trees, the birds chattering, insects buzzing.  but there was nothing.

 

silence.

 

each day, i crave for the quiet, wish for solitude.  not the can't-get-out-of-bed kind, or wanting-to-curl-up-and-cry-all-day kind, but more like the going-through-the-motions, wishing-i-could-stop-my brain kind.

 

it's like standing at that window -- the world goes on, but i'm stuck in this place, watching life happen around me.

 

i've felt this void ever since i left the hospital, a hollowness that grows as my body heals itself.  sometimes i would catch myself absentmindedly rubbing my belly, almost like a soothing gesture.  other times i would mind my belly when i was bending over, or buckling myself in, then remembering that my belly was no longer there.  every day i would lose another pound, and as i gradually ease towards my pre-pregnancy weight i feel an overwhelming sadness.  a finality.  because once i stopped getting up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, once i was able to roll over  comfortably on my side, once i didn't need to eat every two hours because of my protesting stomach, i knew it was really over.

 

i want to move forward, but am not quite sure how.  so i get up every day and get through it.  facing people seems like an impossible feat, but our families and close friends have been persistent in visiting, which have been welcome distractions.  although i've told my mom not to, she's been coming twice a week to spend the days with me.  we talk a lot and go for long walks, and it was only recently that i realized she needs our time together as much as i do.  that she and my dad and our families are going through this too -- that our loss is their loss.  our children.  their grandchildren, our sisters' first niece and nephew.

 

the days pass slowly, filled with books and bad TV and a to-do list i created to keep myself occupied.  and then there are the nights.  i'll go to bed and spend several hours taming my wild thoughts, but the sting of tears still come, hot and rushed and heavy.

 

that's how i know avoidance doesn't work.

 

and so i have to let it all in -- in order to let it all out.

the after

nine days.  it only took nine days for the course of our lives to change.

i think back to the utter joy we felt when we realized that our first IVF cycle had been successful, never once believing that just five months later we would be grieving the loss of our twins.

sadness seems to be the ongoing theme these days.  pure, unadulterated sadness.  hubbie and i vacillate between crying spells to feeling okay and back again, trying to take each day at a time.  the days have never felt so long.

 

and the nights are the hardest.

 

every night when i go to bed, i realize that one more day has passed without our babies.  like we're pulling further away from their memory.

 

whenever i close my eyes, i can see their faces, and then it just hurts all over again.

 

we feel stuck between wanting to move on, but not willing to forget.

 

i asked hubbie if we could survive this, and every day he assures me that we can.  that we will.

after we said goodbye to our son, we were discharged the following (saturday) morning.  although i was relieved to go home, being in our little bubble in the hospital had been a comfort.  the world seemed big, and scary, and reality just wasn't something that was easy to grasp.

 

reality can be cruel sometimes.

 

i don't have the words to describe what it's like to leave our children behind.

 

we came home to the netflix movie on our coffee table, what to expect when you're expecting.  to maternity clothes i had just ordered the week before on our doorstep.  to the remnants of our daughter's unexpected birth in our upstairs bathroom -- blankets, a stethoscope, the aspirator.

to instructions to finish out my prenatal vitamins, which seemed so pointless in the aftermath.

 

on monday, my breast milk came in, a painful physical reminder of what we had lost.  on tuesday, an automated appointment reminder for the fetal heart echoes, made two months in advance.

everything else seemed inconsequential.  unsubstantial.  i felt like a different person, unable to go back to the way things were, because it simply wasn't possible.  or plausible.  it's then i concluded that i'd never be the same.

 

and then came the guilt.  hadn't i done everything as instructed?  eaten all the right things?  been super cautious, knowing this was probably our one chance, after years of infertility, after three surgeries and countless tests, after taking a chance on IVF, always knowing that every week we made it through was almost too good to be true?  because that is how i'd felt -- lucky beyond all reason, blessed.  blessed that we were finally able to conceive, and we were given not just one, but two, because of all that time trying to so patiently wait was paying off.  because all of our prayers had been answered for good.

 

i can ask myself why, why, why? countless times, but have realized that the reasons are far beyond my comprehension.

 

the grieving process is such a personal, respective thing.  it's difficult to share it with others, but we recognize the outpouring of love surrounding us.  we are lucky.  and blessed.  perspective is a wonderful thing.

 

so another day... another day closer.  closer to what, i am unsure, but hopefully one day i will know.

 

"Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things." 

--1 Corinthians 13:7