Another Hurdle Cleared

Well, it’s been a while. I feel a little embarrassed. You know how it is when you’ve gotten so wrapped up in life that you’ve neglected a good friend…and the more time passes, the easier it is to just ignore that nagging feeling in the back of your mind? That voice telling you what a jerk you are? That’s how I feel. So many of the people reading this blog have been extraordinary…supportive, encouraging, fantastic friends. And I’ve gotten so wrapped up in my life that I’ve neglected all of you. So, for that, I am sorry. Okay – I’m glad I got that off my chest. 

The last month or so has been one of the most difficult I’ve endured since Ian died. I’ve been in a very dark place, but I couldn’t have explained why at the time. It started before the holidays. I kept thinking that if I could just make it through Thanksgiving, then Christmas, then New Year’s, that I would be okay – I would begin to feel some semblance of “normal.” (Whatever that is.) I was wrong. I began to feel such a bleak hopelessness that it started to scare me. I was able to fake life for awhile…get the kids to school, go to work, joke with my co-workers. The only people that knew the depth of my depression were my husband and my best friend. But even they didn’t know how to help me. 

Through hours with my counselor, and even more hours reflecting on the emotional place I’m in and writing in my journal, I have discovered that my profound depression had two roots – both brought into focus by Ian’s death. Brandon and I began to argue a lot – both of us feeling such a heartbreaking desperation, but helpless to stop fighting about things that didn’t really matter. I knew that the things we were fighting about weren’t what the real issues were. I began to fear we were going to be a statistic – that group of couples who split up after losing a child. Fortunately, we were able to put a halt to the fighting before it began to chip away at our relationship. We upped our sessions with our counseling and began using the communication techniques our counselor gave us. I am happy to report that we are doing much better and I feel like we are closer than ever. 

The second thing that I discovered just hit me one day a week or so ago. I was going through old pictures, choosing my favorites for a digital photo frame that Brandon got me for Christmas. After looking through thousands of pictures of me and my kids smiling, full of life, happy…Disneyland, snowboarding, riding our dirt bikes, trips across the country on a Harley, laughing and playing and just enjoying being together…well, I realized that I’ve lost the joy in my life. I realized that when I lost Ian, I also lost the person in those pictures…the one who loves to laugh and love and embrace life wholeheartedly. And by allowing that, I have deprived my living children of the mother they love, and my husband of the wife he fell in love with. When I realized this it made me melancholy and I slipped a little deeper into the sadness. But when I finally realized how easy the solution was – or how easy it seemed – it was like a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. 

I’m not sure why I have stopped doing all the things I love doing. Somewhere in my grief-stricken brain, perhaps I feel like I can’t enjoy life without Ian. Like it’s being disloyal to him, somehow. The logical part of me knows that Ian would want me to enjoy life…he would want his mother to be happy. But, well…convincing my heart that life can be happy and joyful and “normal” again…that’s been a little more difficult. 

Lexie, Hailey and Garrett on our "family weekend."

The good news is, I’m making an effort. When I realized that my depression was partly because I wasn’t enjoying life, I took action. We started making plans to do joyful things as a family. The only thing Garrett (he just turned 10 this month) wanted for his birthday was to go snowboarding. So, even though we couldn’t really afford it, Brandon, me and all three kids went to the local mountains for the weekend and snowboarded for two days. We played games by the fire and watched movies and laughed. It was exactly what I – what we all – needed. Of course, there were several times over the weekend that I thought about Ian…it snowed several times, and I wondered what Ian would do in the snow. Would he lift his chubby little face up toward the sky and catch the snowflakes? Or would he wrinkle his precious nose when the cold wetness hit his face? Would he be babbling by now? Crawling? What kind of personality would he have? But, for the first time, these thoughts made me smile – not cry. I can think about him and smile – even though I still feel that painful twisting in my chest. 

So, once again, forward march. Another step toward “normal” – another hurdle cleared. It’s exhausting but encouraging. I’m also happy to report that we will be jumping another HUGE hurdle on the 20th of this month. My surgery is scheduled! I’m trying to remain realistic about our chances of success, while staying optimistic. I was able to save a little more than half of the amount needed for the surgery and travel. The other half of the money was raised through donations generated by this blog – which were overwhelming. I am still in awe of the generosity and kindness and love that has been shown to Brandon and I. It is inspiring and humbling. So, to all of you who have supported us – both emotionally and financially – we are truly and profoundly thankful.

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Rolling Into 2010

Today is the first day of 2010. I was both relieved and saddened to say goodbye to 2009 last night. I’m having a hard time reconciling these mixed feelings. I’m ready to leave behind the pain and heartbreak of 2009. But, in an odd way, it seems like I’m leaving Ian behind, too. 2009 was the only year Ian was here…I can’t take him with me into 2010 in any way other than in my heart. So a part of me wants to stay in 2009 with him. Obviously that can’t happen – but I’m having a difficult day accepting that the year that our sweet angel both joined the world, then left it, is over.

It still seems so bizarre to me that one single year can hold so much happiness and so much pain. Two of the most beautiful things in my life happened in 2009 – I married Brandon and Ian came into our lives. And, of course, the worst thing that has ever happened in my life was in 2009 – our sweet boy was taken from us. I feel like the last year has been more like a decade. And, even though it’s painful, I know I have to move forward.

I have so many hopes and dreams for 2010:

I hope that by this time next year we are all healthier. I know I need to set a better example for our kids and, in my grief, I have been ignoring my health. So, I hope that this year I can find the gumption to get myself into shape.

I hope that my marriage continues to grow and gain strength. Brandon and I have been through more in the last year than most couples endure through their entire marriages. We have been to Hell and back, but have somehow managed to continue to hang onto each other. I feel so blessed to have Brandon as my partner, and my love for him becomes deeper all the time.

I hope our little angel will stay with us through the year and help us through the tough times to come…and I hope he stays with us and shares our love and happiness. I hope that our love for our sweet Ian will continue to inspire all of us to be better people. I hope that we can continue to honor him by making a mark in the world in his memory.

Last but definitely not least, I hope that by this time next year we are either expecting a new baby or will have a new baby. I hope that we are blessed with the opportunity to share our love and our family with a precious new life.  

Whether I like it or not, life rolls on. I can’t stop it. I can’t slow it down. So I just have to roll with it. So, here I am…rolling into 2010. Still grieving, still struggling…and still hoping.

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My Christmas Angel

Christmas has always been my favorite time of year. I love the music, the cheer, the shopping, the decorations…even wrapping the gifts in beautiful paper and ribbons. It has always triggered warm, homey, content feelings in me. Growing up, my parents always made Christmas special – even when we didn’t have much money. It was family time – eating, playing games, singing songs. I’m of the generation that actually grew up going caroling on Christmas Eve! Christmas has always been something precious, and a time that I feel brings out the best in people. And when each of my children were born, I was always so excited to share those traditions with them. I look forward to this time of year. This year, though, I’m struggling.

One tradition I started when my oldest child was born was buying a Hallmark ornament every year. Of course, the first five Christmases were the “Baby’s First” collection. After that, the ornaments always reflected an accomplishment or a hobby or a special interest. So, my first two children have quite a collection going. Lexie has 19 ornaments. Garrett has nine. And this year I should have been choosing a “Baby’s First” collection for Ian. Instead, I searched everywhere – stores, the internet, catalogs – for the perfect memorial ornament. I finally found it. I always called him my little Frog Face because when he smiled while he slept he looked like a happy little frog. I found an ornament of a cute little angel frog with wings. It’s perfect for our sweet angel. But it’s just so wrong that he’s not here celebrating his first Christmas with us.

I did most of my Christmas shopping online this year. That’s unusual for me. I normally love the ritual of Christmas shopping. Making the lists, trying to be creative and choose the exact right present for everyone. But this year I have had a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit. I finally decided that my kids that are still here with me – including Brandon’s daughter, Hailey – deserve to have a “normal” Christmas. So I decided that if I went through the motions – if I decorated and listened to Christmas music – that the feelings might follow. And it worked somewhat. I have had moments of Christmas cheer and excitement. And I’ve been able to play at being cheerful when I didn’t actually feel that way – I’ve reserved my breakdowns for private moments in our room with my husband.

So, given that I’ve been able to handle Christmas okay up to now, today I ventured out with the Christmas crowds to finish shopping for the kids. It was much more difficult than I had expected. It’s hard to put into words…I was happy to be choosing gifts for the kids. But, at the same time, I felt incomplete. I felt that nagging feeling you get when you’re at the store and you know you’re forgetting something important. Then it finally hit me. Every time I passed the baby toys…every time I passed infant clothing…every time I passed a mother with an infant in a shopping cart – it was like a little squeeze on my heart. I should be shopping for a six-month-old baby. And I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I rushed to the refuge of my car and needed to talk to someone. I called my sister and just bawled. And she just listened. Thank God for sisters. She listened until I was done crying. Then she listened while I babbled about gifts for the kids. Then she told me she loves me when I thanked her for listening.

I finally rushed home and hugged our kids. And I realized that it’s still my job to make Christmas special for them. They are here, and they deserve everything important and precious about Christmas – even if my heart isn’t completely in it this year. So tomorrow night I will make Christmas Eve dinner, we will play board games and listen to music, and maybe even sing some songs. And when we head to bed to give Santa a chance to bring his gifts, I will say a little prayer, asking God to let our sweet angel come watch over us on Christmas morning.

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Finally…a name

I finally have a name for the monster that took my baby from me. Gliosarcoma. A short name for such a destructive, menacing beast. The average age of onset is 53 years. It usually strikes middle-aged males. Only 8% of all brain tumors are in the “glioma” family, and only 2.1% of that group are gliosarcomas. Very rare. Very deadly.  So how did this cancer find my baby? According to the statistics, we’d have a better chance of winning the lottery.

Oddly enough, having this information brings me some peace. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve once again been bothered by the thought that we gave up too soon. I watched the movie My Sister’s Keeper. That mother would stop at nothing to keep her daughter alive. Should I have been like that? In my heart, I have known that Brandon and I made the right choice. But my head keeps tormenting me. When I was finally able to see in black and white what had happened to Ian, when I could read what the doctors wrote about his diagnosis and prognosis, it finally hit me – our sweet boy had absolutely no chance. And rather than enduring more surgery and possibly terrible pain, allowing his little body to be battered more and more only to delay the inevitable…rather than letting him pass away surrounded by doctors and strangers during yet another medical procedure, our choice allowed Ian to pass away peacefully. Quietly. In the arms of his mommy and daddy, surrounded by love. No doctors or nurses in the room – just the two people who love him the most. And I know that we made the most compassionate and unselfish choice we could have made.

I feel stronger knowing that we did right by our son. I feel closer and closer to accepting the way life is now and moving forward. I guess knowledge truly is power.

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Giving Thanks

Me and Brandon last Thanksgiving - we had just found out we were pregnant.

Thanksgiving again. I can’t help but think about last Thanksgiving. I had just found out the week before that I was pregnant. Brandon and I were so thrilled. When we went around the table saying what we were thankful for, I remember Brandon got teary-eyed as he talked about how thankful he was for his new family – and how excited and blessed he felt about the new family member on the way. We were happy and thrilled about our future…with no clue what was in store for us in the coming months. In some ways, I miss that naiveté. I miss thinking that tragedy happens to other people. I miss the ability to just assume that healthy pregnancies and children just happen for me.

So now I sit here and try to reflect on the last year. I know that this kind of personal inventory is usually reserved for the New Year celebration. But, for whatever reason, Thanksgiving has me thinking about the things I’m thankful – and not so thankful – for. It’s still amazing to me that, in the space of one year, we could experience heights of profound, thrilling happiness – our pregnancy, our wedding, Ian’s birth – and also the deepest, darkest grief and despair. The extremes are, at times, dizzying…and disorienting enough to make me feel like I’m losing my footing.

So…what am I thankful for? I am thankful for my two beautiful children I have with me here on Earth. They are both turning into the most amazing people. Lexie is smart and independent and beautiful. She has her own mind, her own opinions, her own ideas about the world. She’s what my grandma would have called “spunky.” And Garrett…he’s one of the kindest, sweetest little boys I’ve ever known – yet still manages to be “all boy.” He loves baseball and football and video games and reading. He’s laid back and easy to be around. And then there’s my husband…someone who loves me and admires me for everything I am. All of the things that other people find annoying – my bossiness, my assertiveness, my odd sense of humor, my independence, my periodic vulnerability and neediness – those are all things my husband loves about me. He is one of the most amazing men I’ve ever know, and he makes me feel absolutely cherished. I don’t know what I’d do without his strength and love.

I’m thankful for my family…my mom and dad and sister. They’ve experienced everything right beside me – the joy and the pain – and they are still here. My family has always been a safety net that I know will be there for me when life knocks me down.

I’ve realized through this year what absolutely amazing friends I have. Friends who were there to celebrate our wedding and Ian’s birth…and were just as steadfast when Ian died. They somehow know just what I need when I need it…lunch with “the girls”, gossiping and laughing…a good cry with my friends…talking about Ian and what I miss about him…a good racquetball or softball game to distract me. And they know when I need to talk about the future and bounce ideas and feelings off of them. I’m so thankful for my small, close-knit group of friends.

As I sit here and think about the good things in my life, I realize that this list could get very long…I’m a fortunate woman in so many ways. It’s difficult to not let our loss overshadow all of these beautiful things in my life. I have tried to make peace with Ian’s death by resolving to let him live through me. By vowing to honor him through doing good things and being the best person I can be. Part of that is appreciating the beauty in my life. So for all of the things I mentioned – and so much more – I feel blessed and thankful.

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One Step Back

I thought I was strong. I thought I was doing pretty well. Maybe my confidence has been bolstered by all the “you’re such a strong person” comments I’ve been hearing lately (more about that later). I found out today that I’m not as strong as I thought. I had made a comment to Brandon a few days ago that I thought I was almost ready to pack up Ian’s room. But today I was at my parents’ house – where we lived until just after Ian died – and I went into his room. I sat in the recliner and looked around…the little baseball and bat decals still on the walls…the blankets on the crib still turned back like he’s going to be there tonight…the changing table still stocked with diapers and wipes. And Ian’s smell is still there – the hamper is full of his dirty clothes that I haven’t had the heart to wash. His blue pajamas – the ones with the little football on them – are still rolled up in the diaper bag. They were the last clothes he ever wore. I took them out of the diaper bag and held them to my face. I could still smell him. The keepsake scrapbook page the PICU nurses made the morning Ian passed – on it is his foot and hand prints and some of his hair – lies on the changing table where he should be. And the tears came like someone had opened the floodgates. I stood up and touched all the sweet little baby things that were still waiting for our son…all the soft blankets he never got to use…the adorable clothes that were so lovingly picked out for him…the precious little ball caps that were still too big but we put on him anyway. I felt an aching and longing that I can’t possibly describe. I cried so hard and so long that the front of my shirt was wet. So I guess I’m not so strong, after all.

Which leads me to an observation I made this week. Throughout this journey – and there’s no better way to describe grief than as a journey – I’ve noticed some of the things people say when they don’t know what to say. Some inappropriate. Some insensitive. Some just downright stupid. I’ve joked that I was going to write a book of what not to say to a grieving parent. I’m sure such a book already exists. And I realize that most people have nothing but good intentions, so I never say anything about how their comments make me feel. But the one I’ve been hearing a lot lately is, “You’re so strong. I couldn’t handle it if my child died.” And it always makes me wonder…does anyone ever actually think, “Oh, you know, it would suck…but if my kid died, I could handle it.” I’m sure that I have read about some tragedy in the newspaper – someone’s child drowning in the family pool, or dying in a car accident – and I’ve thought, “Wow…I don’t know what I’d do…I couldn’t handle that.” But, you know what? We have no choice. We must handle it. I suppose the only difference is in how a person handles this short straw that we’ve drawn. And I’m not sure it has anything to do with strength. It’s just survival.

There are lots of ways to handle grief. Some people ignore it – they bury it and don’t talk about it. Some people dive back into their lives so they keep busy and have no “down” time. They may grieve privately – they may not take time to grieve at all. Some people – like me – talk about their grief with anyone who will listen. Even suicide is way to “handle” grief. (Not a good way to handle it, but a way nonetheless. And I’m pretty sure that it’s something most bereaved parents have thought about, even briefly.) So, no, I’m not strong…not any stronger than any other parent who has lost their child. All any of us are doing is trying to figure out a way to move forward when our lives and our hearts have been shattered.

It seems it’s true that this path – this journey through grief – is crooked and is never just one step after another. It’s two steps forward, one step back, and so on. So today was one step back for me. The depth of the sorrow that hit me today slammed me back a little bit. But I picked myself up and took a deep breath – and hopefully the coming days will allow me to take two steps forward.

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The Selfishness of Grief

I had my hair done yesterday…I hadn’t had a haircut and highlights since before Ian was born. I had been putting it off because 1) the last time I had my hair done was one week before Ian was born and I didn’t want to explain to my hair dresser what had happened and 2) I haven’t really cared what I looked like. (As it turns out, my hair gal has been in frequent contact with my sister, so she already knew what had happened.) So, anyway, I was sitting there getting foil put in my hair when my gal asked me how my family – the people outside my husband and children – were handling everything. And it occurred to me that I don’t know. Then I went to get my eyebrows waxed for the first time in months. The girl who was waxing my eyebrows knows my mom. She asked how my mom was doing. Again, it occurred to me that I don’t know. I talk to my mom a few times a week. I talk to my dad just as much. I talk to my sister once a week or so. This is my family – the people with whom I’m closest – and I don’t know how they are handling their grief. How selfish is that?

For the rest of the afternoon, it bothered me. I thought about a recent conversation I had with my sister, during which I realized that she is having more difficulty dealing with Ian’s death than I thought. I remembered how it struck me that I should be checking on her more often – maybe sharing what I’m doing to try to heal. I felt guilty that I could be such an uncaring  and selfish sister and daughter. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own experience – pouring over every book on grief that I could get my hands on, talking about my feelings to anyone who would listen, drowning in my own sorrow at times – that I haven’t noticed how the people I love (outside my husband and children) are doing. I’ve been so preoccupied with my own loss and just trying to survive that I haven’t come out of my cave long enough to see how the rest of the world is doing.

After pondering this for hours, I realized that I can’t worry about everyone else. This is one time in my life that I’m giving myself permission to be completely self-centered. In many ways it seems like grief is similar to the “parallel play” of toddlerhood. You experience it side-by-side – you know the other person is there, and you take comfort in that – but there isn’t a lot of exchange involved. The same event – Ian’s death – started all of us on this journey. But we each have our own feelings and experience the whole thing differently. Grief is a very personal journey and there is no other way to take the journey but with yourself at the center. There is no other way  to grieve but selfishly.

I’ve been told it was selfish of me to start this blog. It was selfish of me to put something that effected our whole family and is so painful and private “out there for the world to see.” I feel bad about that. I feel deeply sorry that I may have caused someone in my family pain or embarrassment in my effort to work through my grief. But, in this case, at this point in time, it truly is all about me. And that’s okay for now.

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Milestones

I’m not sure why, but I feel compelled to write. To somehow signify this day. It seems appropriate that today is the beginning of The Day of the Dead celebrations – El Dia de los Muertos. The day many Hispanic cultures happily and lovingly remember relatives who have passed on. Today seems like a sort of milestone to me. Today is eight weeks since Ian left our world. Almost to the hour, actually. He has been gone for as long as he was here. Sixteen weeks ago life seemed perfect. Eight weeks ago I wanted my life to end. And now here I am…slowly making my way from one end of that spectrum and trying to settle somewhere in the middle. How can everything change so much in such a short amount of time? If life had gone as planned, I’d barely be returning to work from maternity leave. The speed with which my world has been altered is dizzying.

This is the last picture I ever took of Ian...it was his 8-week birthday that day - the day he got sick.

I don’t have any observations or specific thoughts to share today. I just somehow wanted to acknowledge this eight-week milestone. It seems significant to me, but I’m not sure why. Perhaps because Ian’s life was so incredibly and unfairly cut short. Eight weeks is such a small drop in the bucket of time…but it seems to have been long enough for him to leave an indelible mark. It was long enough for him to make  profound changes in his mommy and daddy. He wasn’t here long enough to make an impact on anyone outside of our family. But because of him, the people who love him are trying to have an impact on our part of the world. That’s the only way that I can keep my sanity – by letting him live through me. Three weeks after Ian died, I remember coming across a quote and thinking it was so beautiful. I wrote it in my journal at the time. It said:

“As long as I can I will look at this world for both of us.  As long as I can I will laugh with the birds, I will sing with the flowers, I will pray to the stars, for both of us.”

My sweet angel, I mourn that you will never share the beauty of the world with us…but I’m so thankful that you felt our absolute love for eight weeks. Love, Mommy.

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A New Eyeglass Prescription

If you wear prescription eyeglasses or contact lenses, you have probably had this experience: you didn’t think anything was wrong with your vision. It hadn’t changed since your last check-up. But the doctor found a slight difference and adjusted your prescription accordingly. When you walked out of the office, you couldn’t believe the change! The leaves on the trees were more defined. The colors in the flowers were more vibrant. Everything was more intense. It was both breathtakingly brilliant and painfully bright at the same time. That is how I described my world to my grief counselor two nights ago. Extreme – like every nerve ending is exposed and I’m at the mercy of whatever element rears its head. I am finding happiness in things I have taken for granted for so long – chopping vegetables with my daughter while we sing and dance around the kitchen. There was a time when those feelings of contentment and joy were so common that I didn’t realize that it was contentment and joy. And then the other extreme. Sadness where it doesn’t belong – going to my son’s baseball games. We spent four days a week last spring immersed in baseball. I was pregnant…we were excited and happy. We had so many conversations and dreams about the hours we’d spend at that same ballpark with Ian. Dreams of him watching his big brother play ball, and then learning to play ball himself. And it just feels so sad…so wrong…to be there without him. I imagine that eventually I’ll get used to this “new prescription” and the intensity will lessen somewhat. I look forward to that – I look forward to just moving through life without being thrown into darkness by some seemingly insignificant event. But I also hope I never lose the sharpness of focus – the ability to really feel and see the world around me – that has been a part of my life since Ian died.

Our kids, Garrett and Lexie

I have also begun to come to terms with that label – the bereaved mother – that I am so afraid will define the rest of my life. I received an email from a friend – a very smart one, obviously – that likened my life to an old-fashioned suitcase…one with stickers on it from everywhere it has been. She said that the “bereaved mother” label will always be there…but so will the labels of “devoted daughter,” “loving wife,” “cherished friend,” and about “a million others based on the lives you have touched…” She went on to say that the bereaved mother label won’t always be the largest, stickiest one. I’m not sure how I feel about being compared to an old, beatup suitcase…but what she said made sense.

So, today I’m on the upswing again. I’m moving forward again, focusing on healing my grief and reaching our goals as a family. Brandon and I are on the same page – experiencing our grief differently, but together as a mother and father – and still determined to come out of this experience stronger than we went in. We are still working toward expanding our family with another beautiful baby…and making sure that the family that baby comes into is whole and happy and full of love and acceptance.

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I’m Drowning

I haven’t written for awhile. I wanted the “tone” of this blog to be upbeat and positive…but very little about the past week has been upbeat or positive for me. This blog – the way I saw it when I started it – was supposed to be inspiring (for myself if for no one else). It was supposed to be a journey through my healing and the road back to happiness. So, I’ve avoided writing. But this morning as I was, once again, contemplating my misery, I decided that this, too, is part of our journey. The bone-crushing sadness that I’ve been waking up to every morning is part of the path, right? Right? I know that I am teetering on the edge of depression. I’m doing what I can to stay away from that darkness. I was listening to Sarah McLachlan yesterday – which is, in itself, a sign of depression – and one of her songs desribed my feelings beautifully:

I feel just like I’m sinking
And I claw for solid ground
I’m pulled down by the undertow
I never thought I could feel so low
Oh darkness I feel like letting go

So how do I get out of this? How do I begin to move forward again? I had some momentum going when I started this blog. I had some hope. I could see a future that included happiness. Today – right this minute – all I see is the gaping void of the rest of my life. And all I keep thinking is this isn’t me. I’ve had a fairly happy life…I’ve never considered myself one of those constantly-down-on-my-luck kind of people. I’ve been a lot of places, done a lot of cool things, I have a beautiful, loving family. I have a decent, stable job. I’ve always managed to be a “half-full” kind of gal, even when things didn’t look all that wonderful. Which is why it is killing me to feel so sad. I’ve never really grasped the true meaning of “sadness” before. I was sad when my old dog died. I was sad when my mom had breast cancer. I was sad when my Granny died. But those things were nothing – nothing – compared to this heaviness of the soul that I feel now. And I don’t know what to do about it.

One of the things I’ve been struggling through this week is that this label – “the bereaved mother” – is a label I will have for the rest of my life. No matter what else I do, or what future happiness I have, that label – that lifetime membership to the horrible club no one wants to be a part of – will always be there. Even if Brandon and I somehow come up with the money for the tubal reversal surgery and, by the Grace of God, have another baby…I will always be a mother who has lost her child. And it just. makes. me. sad.

We are seeing our counselor tonight. I hope that tomorrow will be a better day. I hope I can come back on here tomorrow and blog about something enlightening or positive. I hope I’ll have some quirky observation about life to share with all six people who are reading this. I hope…because that’s all I can really do at this point.

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