When I Realized I Am Somewhat Healed

As I'm sure many of you know, this past Tuesday, October 15th, was Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.  I knew that too but I didn't actually realize it until after 10pm that evening and even then I didn't come to that realization on my own.  I happened to be reading a book with the local evening news on and bam! there was mention of pregnancy and infant loss remembrance.  It got my attention immediately and just as quickly I felt like a schmutz.  Here the whole day had passed and I did nothing.

It's okay, judge me.  I know what an important day this is to the community of us who have lost pregnancies and/or infants.  I never dreamed it would be possible to forget this day.  While wondering how this could have happened, I realized that for me it is a signal that I've healed - some.  I no longer want or need to announce my loss to the world which was a big part of my participation in October 15th in years past.  I wanted everyone and anyone to know how much I had suffered.  I needed to have some kind of explanation out there for how freakish I felt inside.  As the days, months and years have passed I have assimilated that suffering into myself and at some point unknown to me it just became a non-defining part of me.  I no longer define myself as bereaving mother though I know I will be one until the day I die.  It is another hat that I wear underneath all of my others.  It's a hat that I can't take off but one that I also don't show off.  It's something I hold close to my heart like the other weekend when I ran my first 10k and woke up to a day of snow mixed with rain and 40mph+ wind gusts and instead of seeking refuge in my warm, comfortable home I went to that race and I ran it because I knew no matter how difficult it would be physically that I have suffered so much worse in my life and I would absolutely make it through.  And I did.

I do so much for my boys now without even giving it conscious thought.  They are my rock and keep me grounded when everything else is in the air.  I just keep telling myself that I've suffered so much worse and I can get through whatever is dragging me down.  I no longer need my pink and blue ribbon but I know exactly where it is. I'm sorry October 15th, I'm sorry that you didn't get the attention you deserve from me this year.  I'm also incredibly grateful for those of you who gave it more attention that most, for those who make sure it is declared a day of remembrance, for those who place beautiful white roses and poems on all of the baby graves in my cemetery, for whoever got it on the local news that evening.  Because October 15th is about more than me, Wyatt, or Eli - it's for recognition of the pain those of us who have lost little ones carry, it's about letting others know how and why they can help us bear that pain, and it's about letting anyone who has carried that pain know that it's okay to recognize the pain and that it's never too late.  So I may be late, but to all those who have lost pregnancies or infants, God bless you, your families and your little ones.

Healing is a Recurring Theme

I'm Mandy, I've had six children, but only enjoy two on earth because my two precious sons died the days they were born almost eight years apart due to Potter's Syndrome bilateral renal agenesis.  This blog is my story and in telling that story for the past two years I realize that I have a recurring theme - healing.  That's because in the almost ten years - yes, ten years (which caused me to tear up when that hit home today) - since I lost my firstborn, Wyatt, I have been in the process of healing.

I'm preparing to go under the knife (dental bone grafting to help fix a lovely congenital defect on my side of the family - ugh!) today and find myself thinking a lot about healing.  My gums will close up around the graft and with the most minimal help from me and my hygiene, they will heal and hopefully grow lots of bone thereafter.  Most wounds will do that.  They just heal so long as we keep them clean and undisturbed.  Which makes me wonder if the human brain has a similar capacity.  How does our mind heal from such a damaging wound as a child's death?  Would my brain heal these wounds much easier if I would just stop sticking my finger into them?  But how can I not?  How can I not remember the days of my sons' births?  How does a time of year, outfit, flower or even a scent not remind me of moments when I carried them in my belly?  I don't know but it interests me.  The human body has a remarkable capacity for healing so it's logical to believe that the human mind does as well.

I'm a healing in progress.  Imperfect.  Broken.  But healing.

I Heart my Heart

Wikipedia defines the heart as "a hollow muscle that pumps blood throughout the blood vessels by repeated, rhythmic contractions.  Gray's anatomy goes on to say "the rhythmical action of the heart is muscular in origin." But most of us probably don't think of the heart in this way.  If we even think of it at all.  That's because the heart goes on beating around 70 beats every minute of every day without any effort from us.  Yet for something so unnoticed, it's role in our lives could not be any more important.

Yet it's still a muscle, one that can be weakened by a sedentary lifestyle and unhealthy habits and strengthened through exercise and healthy living.  A healthy heart is a happy heart.  Except that the heart is more than just a blood pumper.  It is a vital organ of emotional health too.  One that just like the beating drum in our chests needs exercise and healthy habits to function optimally.  After Wyatt and Eli's deaths my heart needed a break and so I tucked it away somewhere safe for a while.  I needed to protect it and keep it from any more hurt because I just didn't know how much it could take. 

I learned this last week that the human heart can take an awful lot.  It can be poked and prodded, shocked and even endure having tiny pieces of it literally killed off and still keep beating.  So too can the metaphorical heart.  I have endured hearing that two of my children, while each in utero, would most certainly die before, during or shortly after their births.  I have carried those little boys to term and watched each one die in my arms within hours of their birth.  I have stood at a tiny bare grave site to bury my first child and then eight years later at my oldest son's grave site by my very own headstone to bury my second son at his feet.  

I have also learned of the heart's incredible capacity for healing.  Both physically and emotionally.  At the age of 25, approximately one percent of the heart's muscle cells are replaced yearly, falling to one half of a percent by age 75 according to Dr. Jonas Frisen of the Karolinska Institute in Stockholm.  What I can take away from this is that the heart really heals, inside and out.  The heart that I had ten years ago is not the heart that I have today, neither one of them.

Resilient Like the Hair Band

"Resilience" is defined by the Merriam-Webster dictionary as 

"an ability to recover from or adjust easily to misfortune or change."

I am resilient like a hair band.  Not the kind that sang "UnSkinny Bop" or "Welcome to the Jungle".  No, the kind of elastic band for holding hair.  In our household there are three of us girls with hair long enough for ponytails (not me) which results in, oh, about a couple hundred elastic hairbands floating around the house and cars at any given time.  They are all shapes and sizes, every color under the rainbow.  Some have ribbons, others spirals, some have glossy balls at the ends but those aren't me.  

I am the hairband that is stretched a little thin in the middle.  The one that is no longer symmetrical.  The one that shows signs of weakness to the point where it's questionable whether it will just snap in two one day while twisting around the hair.  Yet it's still in one piece.  I have resilience, the ability to recover from or adjust to misfortune or change.  But that ability does not come easy.  The easy way is not to recover, to avoid making any adjustment for change.    Some changes are much easier than others - when it snows you wear a parka and gloves or mittens, when the sun is too bright you wear a hat and or sunglasses.  When your child or children dies the answers are not so obvious and the solutions are not so obtainable.

But the ability - the resilience - is there.  Just like that hairband, which is a little stretched out and a little thin in the middle, I too am a little different but we're both still capable of not just holding on but being functional and pretty.

Swimming

My daughters all began swim lessons for the first time this week. They are seven, five and almost three years old so it is different for each one of them. They each have their own fears, physical capabilities and limitations as well as their own comfort zones which seem to be unique to their personalities. The littlest refuses to put her face in the water, the oldest nearly refuses to jump into the water and the middle one does pretty much whatever she's told to do. I struggled for a long long time with fear of water and swimming after a near drowning experience as a child so I can relate to those fears and how paralyzing they can be. For a long time I only did the minimum necessary to enjoy being in the water by using arm floaties and holding on to the edge of the pool. Through repetition of beginner swim classes over the course of many summers I learned the basic skills of floating, stroking and kicking. It wasn't until college that I really attempted to do much more. Determination got the better of me and I went into the deep end without holding onto the edge and without a flotation device. I still don't feel totally comfortable in deep water but I make it work.

Watching my daughters and recollecting my own troubled history with swimming drew a parallel with the grief I carry over my sons' deaths. Initially I struggled just to keep my head above water. I learned to dope with the feeling of drowning by doing some sort of free float through life, just skimming the water and not feeling too much. After some time I began to want more, to go in my own direction not just where the water took me so I began to move against the water. Eventually I became comfortable enough to make it work which is likely as good as it will get. Just as my daughters have successes and more often, failures, in their lessons so have I in my grief. At some future date they will reach a point and want to go no further, it will be enough for a while. That is where I am now.

My Scar

At my two week follow-up after Eli's birth my doctor examined my scar and seemed disappointed in her handiwork. Sure, the left edge of my scar was a little puffy and rigid, but after five c-sections I'm not exactly a bikini model and I could really care less. Funny this is, I remember at one of my follow-ups after Wyatt's birth she was also displeased with his scar. So much so that she literally cut it out when our first daughter was born and I have to say the new scar was better. The appearance of the scar doesn't phase me one bit. It's my physical reminder of the birth of all five of my children. It is imperfect. A bit jagged, a bit rough. Just like me. Just like life. It has its ups and downs, its smoothness and ragged edges.

I've thought about this scar a lot. What it means, what it symbolizes. Wyatt. It is there because of my precious first born son. If Wyatt didn't have Potter's Syndrome and had amniotic fluid to float in, he would have likely not gotten stuck in a transverse position. If he hadn't been in a transverse position, I would have likely delivered him naturally and not had a c-section. Had I not been so heartbroken and empty-armed we likely wouldn't have conceived our daughter so quickly and I would not have been almost thirty-nine weeks pregnant for Wyatt's first birthday. I would likely have not feared losing my second child to the small percentage of uterine ruptures for vaginal births after c-sections and likely not chosen to have a second c-section. Had those events not taken place I may never have had a c-section, I may not have this scar. This mark of my imperfect life.

My scar also represents healing. Time after time it heals with little to no help from me. Stitches and staples have held it together until it mends itself. Much like our hearts. Expressions of love, support and sympathy are the stitches and staples on my heart, holding it together until it can mend itself. Soon, like my stomach, it will be strong again.

Change

Outside my window, just as within my own heart, things are changing. Every day our ground becomes less white and more brown. There are even tiny sprouts of green here and there. It's April, it's time. However, for me it feels too soon. It feels too soon to change. I'm not ready.

I am healing. My body has all but erased any trace of Eli's presence. My outer scar from the c-section is now just a thin jagged line. The milk has dried up. Even my headaches, which had become a daily occurrence I contribute to grieving, have lessened. My heart, just four weeks ago shattered, seems to be gluing itself together. Tears fall fewer and farther between. I hear the sound of laughter, my laughter. I left the house by myself this week, twice.

Just as the ground outside, unable to escape the sun's warm rays, cannot hold onto its cool white blanket, I cannot stay wrapped in my own blanket of grief. Change is inevitable. The only constant in life is change and I am now caught within its tides.

Walking Away the Pain

After Wyatt died I was lost. I took four weeks maternity leave at the recommendation of my doctor. At the time, my husband and I had just completed college plus grad school and were only one year into our new careers. We lived in a two bedroom apartment. I spent the last three weeks of my leave alone in that apartment day after day. Afraid to leave, afraid not to leave. I lived in my sweatpants and "fat clothes", my maternity clothes packed away before I returned home from the hospital. After hearing my mom regale stories of how she left the hospital after I was born, her first, in her pre-maternity jeans, I was prepared to slip back into my old clothes, my old life. I acutely remember the shock and horror upon returning home and selecting the outfit I would wear to Wyatt's funeral only to discover that not one thing fit me. I collapsed into tears and my husband went shopping. He returned home with a few dresses a size or two bigger than my normal. I selected the turquoise dress with bright red poppy flowers, my funeral dress. One year and a few days later it became our daughter's baptism dress.

Less than a month after Wyatt's birth we moved into our first house, I returned to work and I embarked on a mission to lose weight - fast. I began parking on the top level of the parking garage at work and taking the stairs up and down. I cut calories. I did sit-ups and worked out on our stepper. Less than four months later when I got pregnant with our first daughter I had lost all but about two pounds of the thirty-four I had gained during Wyatt's pregnancy. I had succeeded in losing all traces of being pregnant and was able to embark on that new pregnancy with my sense of hope and my body intact.

This post about loss and alcohol at Glow in the Woods hit home. I asked my husband prior to Eli's birth if it would be kosher to bring alcohol to the hospital and was only half joking. I then planned on having a glass or two of wine after returning home. I have been thinking about that glass or two ever since. There is one bottle in the kitchen. The one bottle we did not drink before I got pregnant with Eli. I dusted it once during the pregnancy. I know it's there without having to look. I have never had a problem with alcohol. My husband and I can split a bottle of wine. I get fuzzy after just one beer and often don't even finish the one. Nonetheless, I'm scared. Scared that once that bottle opens it won't close until my pain is drowned and that is something I just cannot chance.

So I've turned to an old friend, my second best friend actually - my treadmill. My treadmill bears my weight, the physical weight of my pregnancies and the emotional weight of my losses. It bears my tears with silence. It forces me to move, even when my legs feel like lead. I exercised throughout my pregnancy with Eli, even used the elliptical the day before he was born. But c-sections are frustrating. I am able to exercise, lift weights, elliptical, treadmill, yoga, etc, throughout the entire pregnancy and then boom, nothing but walking for at least four weeks after baby is born. And all I want to do is jump on and run. Run from the pain, run through the pain. Sweat. Right now all I can do is walk. And walk I do, I'm up to about two miles a day already and it feels so good. It is probably the only time of my day when I am focused. I focus on healing and it feels like each mile is a step closer to where I want to be.