I thought I had a few days this month to prepare for what was coming, but I swear that as soon as I flipped the calendar page, I fell apart and haven’t stopped. I can replay almost every day from last year. I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not, because I want to keep those memories alive and strong forever, but each day was filled with so much joy, and it’s really hard to not be mad at how things changed so abruptly.

I may have touched lightly on this, but there are a few things that I carry an enormous amount of guilt over. One year ago today, February 12th, 2018, Layla had her 3 year preschool screening through the school district. We were late in scheduling the appointment, and there weren’t many great times available. I had to take a whole day off of work, because her appointment was in the middle of the day. Aaron was planning to come to the appointment, but had not been able to find anyone else to drive his dad to Mayo for an earlier appointment in the morning. He claimed that he tried everyone he could think of, with no luck.

As he was leaving to get his dad, I was bratty. Aaron’s dad was sick, and I was mean. For those that were were on the receiving end of Aaron’s incredible friendship, and know how generous he was with his time, know that he was an even better son. There had been 2 days since before Christmas that Aaron hadn’t been to his dad’s house to help him. He brought him groceries, he shoveled his driveway, he and Maizy and Layla went to clean his house every week. He ordered products online that he thought might help him feel a little better, and he brought him essential oils and a diffuser. Watching his dad become sick was incredibly difficult for Aaron. I remember him once saying “He’s the most stubborn guy I know, so I always figured he was too stubborn to get sick or get old.” And Aaron was happy to help. I remember once he was reading stories with the kids, and his dad called. Aaron jumped up and said he had to go help Grandpa John with something. I asked if he was okay, and Aaron said he had to go to the store to get some mouthwash for him. I laughed, and asked “Like right now? You can’t finish the book?” Aaron laughed, too, because he knew it wasn’t crucial, but they also enjoyed spending time together. There had been several weekends that I hadn’t seen much of Aaron, as he had been helping with projects at his dads house, but Aaron had always been able to care for the kids when he needed to, and for his dad. Until February 12th. I told him somewhat impolitely that I would have really appreciated him somehow being at Layla’s appointment, and was helping him brainstorm some other people that could help that day, and Aaron left to go chat with his dad. He was hoping that his dad would be okay with him leaving him at the clinic for his appointment while he met Layla and I at the Northrop building. As he left, we were both frustrated. We sent a few texts about the location, and after finally getting the okay from his dad, he said he would be able to meet us there.

I’ll always have regrets about how I handled that. I know I rolled my eyes, and probably questioned how hard he had actually tried to find someone else. What I will never regret is stressing the importance of being there.

We arrived at the parking lot at the same time, and he ran over to greet Layla and me. I had dropped Maizy at daycare earlier in the day. We had not spent much time together as a group of 3, and I remember it feeling really special for Layla. Right before the appointment, Layla found a book called “Toby,” the same book that Maizy had found at her screening the year before. I took a picture to send to her Papa (Toby), which is the last picture that I got of Aaron.

At these screenings, the Early Childhood screeners instruct kids how to do a variety of tasks. Aaron and I were sitting behind Layla, and after she completed each task, she looked at us, smiled, and proudly gave us a thumbs-up. When she turned back, Aaron and I looked at each other and laughed. However proud Layla was of herself, her daddy was at least tenfold. He beamed. That will be one of my favorite lasting memories of him. Proud, happy, and grateful. I told him how glad I was that he was able to be there, and he said it was one of his favorite memories with her.

I remember so many little details of his last couple of days, but that’s what I’ll always keep closest to my heart. I will always regret being annoyed that he almost missed her appointment, and I will always be incredibly grateful that he came through, and shared that beautiful hour with us.

I think of that so often. I ask myself “if this was it, this was your last memory with someone, how would you want to leave it?” And I try to roll my eyes a little less. I try to give hugs, tell people I love them, and let them know I appreciate them. I never expected those moments with Aaron would be some of my final memories with him, and none of us had any idea how the next day would change our lives forever.

They say time heals all wounds, but I disagree. I had an appendectomy when I was five, and when I sneeze, if I don’t tighten my abs a certain way, I’m in severe pain for about 12 seconds. I hear a country music song that reminds me of my grandma, which sends a slideshow of other memories along with it, and I get misty eyed. I smell something that reminds me of my grandparents house on the farm in northern Minnesota, and I long for the simplicity of spending time with them and my cousins and family, and I want to rewind time so badly. Time doesn’t heal anything. Memories can both haunt and soothe us forever, and for me, time pushes me along, but the healing comes from somewhere else.

I miss Aaron ever single day. I do. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I sob, and sometimes I smile, and even laugh. The days that I smile I don’t miss him any less, but that particular day is a little easier for me. I feel him with me a lot. And I feel without him a lot. During the first few months, I wanted (maybe even needed) a sign from Aaron. I wanted to know that I was doing things the “right way,” whatever that is. I worried that I wasn’t doing things the right way when I didn’t get whatever sign of approval that I needed so badly. And after a few days, weeks, and then months, I realized that this sign might not be coming.

The thing is, in a marriage, as parenting partners, and as part of a team in general, we always had another person to bounce ideas around with. Making decisions alone was something that I wasn’t used to. Even small things “What sounds good for dinner?” “Which shirt looks better with these pants?” “Rom Com or documentary?” “Boating or a park?”

There were 2 votes in almost every decision we made, And making decisions alone was a really tough adjustment, especially when it came to our kids. There’s a fine line between being too lenient and letting them get away with too much, and being sensitive to their grief, their loss, and giving them a whole bunch of extra loving. I try to stay consistent, try to keep my composure, and I often fail. I’m a fairly patient person, but our four and six year old test that patience often. When Aaron was here, I could tap out as needed, could consult about appropriate consequences, and could talk about strategies and ideas to promote good behavior, and encourage our kids to be resilient, helpful, kind, and empathetic little human beings. Now, it’s just me. I know I’m not perfect, not anywhere near, and as much as I missed Aaron as my husband, I missed him as my parenting partner just as much. Aaron just had a way to bring joy to everyone, especially the kids. I see how much they miss that, and they probably sense that about me, also. We will always miss that.

After a few months of not getting the sign that I wanted so badly, I started to realize that it just might not be coming. And the absence of any sign from Aaron might have been the message I needed all along. From the time Aaron died, the decisions were mine. He couldn’t take credit or blame for the things that I did right or wrong. I felt so vulnerable, so scared, and so uncomfortable. I had been balancing and walking with 4 legs for over almost 13 years, and adjusting to 2 was very unnatural, and incredibly painful.

A few weeks after Aaron died I was in a conversation with another young widow who had lost her husband in a car accident almost 2 years prior. At some point in our conversation, as we were talking about parenting, she told me about her husband “the next time I see him, I want him to look at me and say “I knew you could do it, and I’m so proud of you.” I think of this from time to time when I need a reality check, and when I try to decide how badly I have already screwed up my children. There are moments that I doubt Aaron is proud of me, and there are moments I’m not proud of myself as a parent. But it’s really hard to look at my girls, even on their worst day, and think that he wouldn’t be proud of his family.

It’s been 11 months since Aaron died, and I can say with positivity that time won’t heal our wounds. The shock is gone, the times that I look for him in a crowd are fewer, and I don’t sob into my hands every time I am alone, but the pain is still very real. The only thing that has made this easier is the people. Our friends and family who have stepped up in a huge way, couldn’t possibly know how much I appreciate them, and as much as I try to tell them, my words fall short.

As guilty as this makes me feel, I approached Christmas with some dread this year. It’s a time that we normally welcome as early in the year as possible with Christmas smells, food, and a plethora of holiday music to accommodate impromptu dance parties and sing alongs throughout the day. This year was met with less gusto, and some sadness of the memories that we have from the past. Nostalgia comes along often, and sometimes we expect it, but other times we don’t.

The day after Thanksgiving the kids and I pulled out all of our Christmas decorations. This was a task that I had been dreading, and at one point had considered not doing it this year. I knew that the two little ladies living with me would notice the lack of excitement, and so much of the fun part their lives has disappeared. It would have been cruel of me to deprive them of the joy of the Christmas season, and I knew that decorating would be fun for them.

Last year, Aaron put all of the Christmas stuff away when I was at work one day, and as much as I appreciated it, he did things a little differently. When I put some stuff away that he had missed, I rolled my eyes as I noticed stuff shoved in random boxes, not where it belonged. I knew there was a hot mess on the storage area, which didn’t encourage my lackluster excitement.

Anyway, we got to work. I knew there would be tough moments, and there were. As we unpacked the ornaments, we looked through the “just married,” “baby makes three,” “new baby,” “our new home,” etc., and the sting was there. In 2005 Aaron’s parents got us snowmen and ice cube ornaments. They couldn’t find one with my name prestamped on it, so they sharpied it on. Every year it makes me smile. In 2005 Aaron and I had known each other for only 7 months, but we knew that it was probable that we’d get married. When his folks gave us the ornaments, it showed us that they recognized and appreciated the rarity of what Aaron and I had. They thought that there was some permanency, that we’d be celebrating together indefinitely.

The tree looked silly, decorated in clumps all under 3 feet, but it was perfect. The kids laughed, sang and danced as they found spots for decorations. There was a box that Aaron had labeled “X Mas, No Kids Allowed,” that we saved until the end, we assumed that it was fragile decorations. As we opened the box, there were some fragile items. And underneath, there were some new pajamas that Aaron bought for Maizy and Layla last year. When I pulled them out, I cried, and sobbed. Layla hugged me, then cried a little, too. Maizy got very excited when she realized what was happening, so soon they were both jumping up and down squealing with delight, and jumping into their new jammies shouting “I can’t believe we got a present from Daddy and we didn’t even know it was coming!” “I’m going to keep these forever!” They were both overjoyed with the surprise gifts, and I felt the spectrum of emotions. This was truly a gift from Aaron. It was so like him, to surprise us with a sweet gesture- and although it wasn’t a sign that I’m doing things right or wrong, it was definitely a sign that he’s still with us, and always will be.

The rest of the holidays went nicely. We were given so many blessings from our friends, and some amazing, shocking, and wonderful surprises as well- I’ll share more about that later as I’m still in shock and soaking it in. But we spent time with family doing what we have always done: enjoyed our time together, made memories, and celebrated all of the things we have to be grateful for.

So here we sit, 11 months after losing Aaron. The next time the calendar shows #13, it will have been a year. Most of the time, it still seems unreal, and yet, sometimes it seems like it’s been forever since I last saw his face. Time itself has healed nothing, but people, generous with their hearts and their time, certainly have guided us through the last 11 months. Thank you all for giving us your love and your hearts- that is what has tended to our wounds.

I just realized that this post will be much lengthier than I imagined.  It’s been almost a year since I have posted on here, and for those of you that don’t know, I regret to tell you why I’ve been absent.  On February 13, we lost the fearless leader of our crew.  Aaron had a heart attack, and died very unexpectedly.  We have been doing our best to navigate life on our own. Some days I think we are doing an okay job of it, and some are clearly epic failures.  This will be our first Thanksgiving as a crew of 3, and like every other day, we are using the trial and error method… figuring out what works and what doesn’t.  I wrote the post below this morning, as I was trying to sort out the thoughts bouncing around in my head.

Ahh, sweet holidays.  I knew you were coming, I had my eye on you, and here you are.  Today marks the beginning of the holidays that we normally meet with smiles, jolly music, smelly candles, pumpkin pie, and love and appreciation for the incredible lives that we have been blessed with.

I knew that the holidays were going to suck. I have been preparing, subconsciously I suppose, for over 9 months for this.  This morning, I woke up (very early) to Layla crawling in bed with me, asking if she could rest with me.  Of course, I said yes, wrapped my arms around her, and smiled as she scratched my back.  About 2 minutes later, a sweet little girl with massive bed head crawled onto the other side, and we held hands, giggled, and snuggled until we finally decided nobody was going back to sleep.  Of course, a few minutes later, Layla cried because Maizy turned on a light and “hurt her feshal (special) eyes.”  That’s my life with a 4 and 5 year old.

They are stubborn, demanding, sassy, and absolutely perfect.  They have been handed some terrible cards this year, and they are absolute troopers getting through this. A lot of my time is spent hoping and praying that I am doing the right things for them, but they are the ones that keep me sane (and drive me a little crazy) every day.  I truly can’t even imagine finding the strength to get through the last 9 months without them.  They were the reason that I had to be okay, and I made sure that I was well for them.  Without them, it’s unbearable to even imagine.

Today, we talk about all of the things we are thankful for.  We still know that we are very, very lucky. We have friends and family who continue to show us their love, and still have us under their wings.  They understand that our loss didn’t just affect us in the beginning.  They are available to talk, listen, and have been our shoulders to cry on countless times.  We have strengthened many old friendships, and developed new ones as a result of the events of this year.

We are so grateful for Aaron. We talk about him every day.  He truly was the best person I’ve ever known.  I got to be his wife for over 10 years, and those 10 years certainly made me a much better human being than I was before.  His patience, his compassion for other people, and his peaceful and joyous spirit are the traits I hope that both of our children inherit.  Even though we all miss him terribly, Maizy and Layla, even at 5 and 4, understand how lucky we were to have him. His face lit up any time he could share a story about his daughters, and they were absolutely loved, cherished, and adored by him for every second of his time as a father.

Although I have plenty of questions for God when it’s my turn, I will endlessly thank him for the gift of Aaron’s love.

As we all approach the rest of the holidays this year, please consider inviting an old friend over, spending time with an elderly aunt, calling an old neighbor who crosses your mind from time to time, or just reaching out to friends and family that you are missing.  Help someone if you can… drive someone to the grocery store, buy a small gift for someone who might not receive many others.

This time of year can be so lonely, and we are learning how important the little things- dropping a hand written note in the mail just to say “I’m thinking about you,” a phone call from a college pal- these are the powerful things.  I can’t count on my hands how many times I’ve thought to myself “when things slow down, I’m going to call that person.”  And as we are learning, time rarely slows down, it just keeps speeding up.

Make that call, write that note, give that hug, ask her out, book that trip, make someone smile, join the gym, find a cabin… whatever you have on your to-do or bucket list, get started.  Tomorrow is never promised, so please, please appreciate today. Xo

 

To most, today is an ordinary day.  Here in Minnesota, it was a beauty, almost 60 degrees, sunny, and had a spectacular sunset.

My day was pretty average.  I left for work before anyone else was awake, and had plenty of time to prepare for my day.  I had the date written on the board, the calendar ready to go, classroom supplies stocked, and I greeted my students more refreshed than I do on most Mondays.  After a five day weekend, it’s hard to complain.  We had a fun nonfiction reading lesson, the kids made posters to teach others about even and odd numbers, and had a tech lesson with their iPads.  All in all, it was a good day.  I picked my daughters up from daycare, chatted with their provider, took a few pics of them with their pals by the sunset, and came home.  Maizy has been asking for a pizza party, which just consists of eating pizza, and tonight her wish was granted.  Layla doesn’t love pizza, but she found some other morsels to enjoy.  Just another day.

Except it’s not.  It’s the due date of our twins.  I will admit that with each year that passes, it gets a little easier.  I haven’t even cried today.  Obviously, 2011 was the most difficult, and each year it does get easier, but it never really goes away.  I don’t write it on the calendar, or count the weeks or days until it’s here, but every year, I wake up with a sting in my throat filled with what might have been.  Had they lived, had they thrived, they would be celebrating their 6th birthday.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of them.  I still talk to them often, and thank them for looking out for all of us, especially their sisters.  Today, we will celebrate their tiny existence, and the enormous piece of my heart that they will always hold.

Ordinary days, that’s what most of them seem like.  But every broken heart has a day, or many days, to remind the heart’s keeper of what was, what could have been, or what was hoped for.

I am at a really good place.  I will never understand why they weren’t here to stay, but Savannah and Charlie’s lives have helped me to appreciate every blessing, every moment, and every miracle a little more.  Tonight I’ll look at pictures, watch Maizy and Layla play, dance, and eat more junk food than they should.  When I tuck them in, I’ll kiss their grubby hands and chubby cheeks, and thank God for each of them, and I squeeze each of them a little tighter than normal.

And tomorrow, I will wake up to another day.  It will be somebody else’s day.  Their day to remember, to laugh, to cry, and to hug their loved ones a little tighter. I’ll try to remember when I see a grumpy old man in the grocery store, it might be his day.  When a lady flips me the bird for driving too slow in the fast lane, it’s probably her day.  I’ll try to remember to be understanding and kind, because most of us have some of these days.

 

July has always been a favorite month of mine.  I am a summer fan, even though the mosquitoes feast on me and the sun gives me blisters and hives.  Still, I have always been a huge fan of summer.  July is the time of year of my childhood county fair, where as a youngster I would reconnect with many of my 4-H friends form across the county, and where I would bump into my friends from school.  My other childhood memories of July include summer camps, swimming lessons, hikes and swimming days at a local state park, and (sometimes reluctantly) helping my parents on their farm.

After meeting in Aaron in 2005, July continued to be a favorite.  We went to a country music festival, camping, and to a few local concerts together.  In 2006, after over a year of dating, he proposed on July 4th, at the fireworks.  And the following year, one of the most significant days of my life, we married on July 7, 2007.  But, then came some tough times as well.  Two years after we were married to the day, I took a pregnancy test, and I screamed, jumped up and down, and called my best friend when I realized it was positive.  I had cooked a meal, decorated our home with wedding memorabilia, and made a CD, filled with romantic dinner music, and then a few songs in, some pregnancy related songs to see if Aaron would get the drift as we ate.  About 30 minutes before he arrived home, I started bleeding, and I spent the night crying.  We had wanted a baby for two full years, and I was devastated.

Two years later, in 2011, I had July 1st circled on my calendar with a red pen, although  it wasn’t even close to necessary.  Finally, after 4 years of marriage, and after two rounds of IVF, I was pregnant with twins.  We had known for a few months that there were two sweet babies, but we didn’t know the genders.  We would find out on July 1st at the anatomy ultrasound.  We had a party planned for later in the day, with a gender reveal cake.  Aaron had bought two pink cakes, and two blue cakes, and we were going to share the news that evening.  I can remember the long wait in the waiting room, going back to the ultrasound room, my heart racing, as we waited to find out what we thought was the most important aspect of the ultrasound.  After scanning Baby A.’s brain, heart, other organs and extremities, the sonographer finally revealed the gender: a girl.  I laughed as I heard Aaron start to breathe funny, and I swear I saw sweat beading up on his forehead.  After Baby B.’s scan, the kind lady who had laughed and joked around with us finally told us, this was without a doubt, a boy.  We laughed again, and I silently thanked God, as we knew this was likely our only shot at having children.  Then I glanced over at the sonographer, who looked suddenly uneasy, and told me not to move.  A few minutes later, a high risk doctor came in and introduced himself, and I could feel the room spinning as they explained that my cervix was opened, and that I would have a rescue cerclage placed as an emergency effort to keep these babies in as long as possible.  Aaron called our families to cancel the gender reveal party, as I would be hospitalized and watched closely for a couple of days.

The next few weeks are a dark blur.  I was on bedrest, spending my time begging God to keep these babies safe, watching Grey’s Anatomy, and was eventually hospitalized.  This was the most emotional 4 weeks of my life.  I googled obsessively, curious of babies’  survival chances at 20, 21, 22, and then 23 weeks gestation.  I researched and prepared myself for an extended NICU stay, read all about brain bleeds, strokes, and the realities of bringing home extremely premature twins.  None of this was necessary, as I ended up in labor, and ultimately losing both Savannah and Charlie after an hour of giving them all of the love we had in the early hours of July 28th.  It’s been nearly 6 years, and I still can’t go back to that time without sobbing.  Maybe I never will.

One year later, to the day, we celebrated Lyndsay’s 30th birthday.  She couldn’t celebrate too obnoxiously, as she was 4 months pregnant with Maizy.  We had found out earlier that month that she was a girl. The next year, July 9th, 2013, we found out I was pregnant with Layla.

July, it is filled with memories of the highest of highs, and the lowest of lows.

This year, Aaron and I decided to celebrate our 10th anniversary by renewing our vows in our backyard with Maizy, Layla, and our families with us.  I can’t think of a better way to celebrate the last ten years than with our beautiful daughters.  They are too young to understand why we cry tears of happiness, or why we stop at the cemetery to visit Savannah and Charlie, or why we hug them a little extra tight as we thank God for them.  They are our sweet reminders that miracles do happen.

Tomorrow we will all head to the fair together. It’s fun to watch Maizy and Layla squeal with excitement at seeing an animal look their way, ride on the rides they are tall enough to get on, and play with their cousins near the tractors.  They will leave sweaty, whiney, and filthy with sweat, sugar, and dirt.  And my heart will be full.  Sweet July.

Happy New Year!

I have always loved the start of a new year.  The freshness in the air, the possibility of what lies ahead, and even the resolutions that few of us manage to keep all year.  I love that we try to make ourselves better people, and it seems to happen most frequently right around January 1st.  I met several new friends this week at my gym, some new faces that may or may not stay all year.  I read how many of my friends declared on social media would improve their lives in 2017 (good luck with creating a better budget, freezer meals, getting into shape, creating a healthy relationship with family, and quitting smoking- you can do it!)  New Year’s Eve used to bring such excitement, as I would chat with many friends and decide what was the best plan (although looking back on a few, I seriously question my judgment) and plan outfits, coordinate schedules, and enjoy ringing in the new year. 

I will always remember the end of 2010.  I had imagined 2011 being the most magical year of my life.  After years of struggling to get pregnant, then stay pregnant, (because it was not in the right spot) Aaron and I had taken a huge leap of faith, and decided to undergo In Vitro Fertilization.  We spent an enormous amount of time and effort with my medical team, and the day I was to begin my fertility injections, was January 1st, 2011.  I had practiced on a fake belly, and had done all I could do to prepare myself.  I knew it would be difficult, as needles and blood make me a little squeamish, but I knew what was at stake.  Aaron and I stayed up past midnight, and somehow I fell asleep knowing that the next day was the first step in our plan to finally become parents. 

I woke up to my alarm at 6:00.  I turned the light on, sat up, and Aaron was immediately sitting next to me.  He knew that he was the back-up belly stabber if I flaked out.  The deal was, I had three chances, and then it was his turn.  I knew he would have no trouble doing it, and that he wouldn’t flinch I suddenly screamed “STOP!” so it would be much better if I could do the job myself.  I gave myself a countdown, and turned away and laughed, and the same thing happened on my second try.  On the third try, I somehow managed to push the needle through my skin, and then emptied the syringe into my belly.  I now considered myself a bona fide superstar, and  I continued the ritual until  the time came for me to stop.

Even though that cycle was cancelled, as the meds had created one mutant follicle on my ovary, instead of many super eggs that we all hoped for, even though the next attempt, a month later, didn’t have the outcome we hoped and prayed for, that year was significant.  Losing Savannah and Charlie was absolutely the most difficult loss imaginable.  But they were absolutely loved and cherished for every second of their existence.  The year of 2011 also brought us another miracle.  In the same IFV batch that created the embryos that would become Savannah and Charlie, were 4 other grew in Lyndsay’s uterus.  That embryo became Maizy, who was born in 2012.

The following 2 years would give us other miracles, ones that we didn’t plan or expect.  In 2013 I found out that I was pregnant with the biggest surprise of our lives, Layla.  I remember when she threated to arrive early, begging, pleading for her life, that she would stay put until the New Year (2014) when she would have a chance at surviving.  Little did we know how stubborn she would be, and how she would make it one day past her due date, just to show off a little. 

Now that our dinner table is full, now that I no longer wonder if the next year will be the year I finally get to become a Mama, and no longer make secret deals with God in hopes that He would just give me a child, my New Year’s are much different.  Since 2012, I haven’t ventured out of our home to celebrate, because everything I cherish is inside (okay, and because I am an old lady who doesn’t like to be out after the bars close and the crazy drivers are on the road.)  This year, both girls were naughty and snuck out of bed no less than one hundred times (well, maybe ten) and we watched Jenny and Donnie make out on TV when the ball dropped.  I thought back to 2010 though, and six years later, remember that excitement, the hopes, the anticipation, as if it were a few weeks ago.  My belly stabbing days are long-gone, but the ache in my heart might always be there. Those of you who are hoping that 2017 is your year, my heart is always with you. 

 

There are two separate, but equally valuable months devoted to raising awareness for separate, but awful, experiences.

A friend of mine recently posted a link to a site devoted to “October: Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.” Her friend, who obviously meant no harm, and by all accounts is a lovely person replied “I think we just celebrated this in April.  Is it every month now, lol?”

YEEEOOOUUUUCH!

Just an example of people typing to their screens without thinking.

My reply, which was another result of reacting without totally thinking it through, was:

“While I’m glad that you haven’t had a reason to “celebrate” either month, I do think it’s important for you to know a couple of things. First, April is Infertility Awareness Month (April 15- awareness day.)  Infertility is when someone has the inability to conceive a child.  A lady, begging to become a mother, tries for a few months after “removing the goalie” and is upset when she fails to become pregnant.  Every month, she cries, but keeps moving on, as strong women do.  She knows women who sleep with random men after drinking too much at a bar continue to become pregnant.  She tries a little harder the next few months: tracks her ovulation dates, pounces on her mate, and hopes the timing worked.  With still no luck, she buys ovulation detectors, and pees on them each morning, finding the very best conditions before the pounce.  After a year, she finally goes to the doctor, where she takes a medication called Clomid, which forces her to ovulate, all but guaranteeing she’ll get pregnant.  When that still doesn’t work, she goes back, and tries a few more things, like Intra Uterine Insemination, hoping that this will be the last step.  And when it isn’t, she begs her husband to borrow everything they can against their home, so they can have enough money to afford the expensive In Vitro Insemination.  This is infertility.

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month (more specifically- October 15^th is the day.)  Pregnancy loss and infant loss is when a baby has been conceived and the mother miscarries, has an ectopic pregnancy, blighted ovum, or for some other reason the pregnancy didn’t thrive, and the baby dies.  Or that a mother goes through labor, gives birth, and learns that her child is stillborn.  Or that she goes into labor early, too early, and her baby (in my case babies) aren’t mature enough to survive.  Or that a mother brings her child home, and goes into their room one day, to find her sweet child is no longer alive.  Or that for any other awful, horrifying, completely unfair reason, her child is taken from her too early.

I hope that you never have to suffer through either of these scenarios, and I hope that you are now able to differentiate between the two. In the future, it would be nice if you don’t include “lol” on topics related to infant loss or infertility.”

 

Yeah, oops. I am not perfect, and feel badly when I fly off of the handle.  I admit that I am passionate to a fault at times.  I did private message the lady, and apologize for the rudeness of my reply.  I only hope that people, including myself, can think before reacting and ask “Is this hurtful?”  and act accordingly.  Had I been in different shoes, I might not know the difference myself.  I hope my emotional story hasn’t depicted me as a bitter, angry, righteous pig, like my response above did.  My goal is always to help, to understand, and to support, because those are the things I truly appreciated while going through infertility and infant loss myself. Message of the day to myself: be kind to everyone.

 

 

There are so many things that I get nostalgic for.  During the spring and summer, I miss being in my parents’ farm.  At Christmastime, more than any other time, I miss my sister, who lives in England.  At the end of summer, I miss my 4-H buddies, the time I spent at the State Fair, and the simplicity of a former life.  I always miss my friends.  I miss my elementary school pals that I have lost touch with.  I miss my middle, high school, and some college friends who I have drifted apart from.  I mostly miss being able to jump in my car or bicycle and go visit my pals on a whim, or hearing an unexpected doorbell ring, and see a smiling face ready to hang out with me.  I can still get together with my friends, but it’s a lot more work to coordinate now.  Anyway, I’ve always been this way.

Now that I am a parent, it’s even more obvious.  Last month, we potty trained Layla.  Yay!  No more diapers.  No more diapers. Ever.  We will never buy diapers again.  Obviously, it’s not the diapers themselves I will miss.  It’s the freshness of a newborn, who curs up like a caterpillar on her mama.  It’s their little arms, when outstretched barely reach past their heads.  It’s the sweet breaths they take, when they see a familiar face, but can’t yet speak or cheer to show their pure joy.  I will hold many newborns again, I hope, and will love all of the freshness of a newborn, but they won’t be mine.

I miss Maizy and Layla practicing sitting, then flopping over a few times before mastering balance.  I miss their rocking back and forth on all fours before they could crawl, and their contagious laughter once they figured it out.  I miss them pulling themselves up onto things, and their faces showing “Holy cow, I did it!”  I miss their first few steps, , their learning to run, to gallop, how to hold their bottles themselves, their first few bites of solid foods, their fist taste of cake, climbing steps, their stroller rides, the first time in a pool.  Gosh, I miss everything!

It’s so irrational.  And I know it is.  I love them both so much more than I knew I could, even when they were newborns.  And I know I will love, and then miss, all of the things they haven’t even done yet.  Maizy asked me the other day “Mommy, when I am a baby again, will you rock me to sleep in the yellow rocking chair like you used to?”  I explained that being a baby is a one time deal, but I rocked her for a while anyway.

My favorite thing about writing the book, which is called “Way Past Extreme,” is that my daughters will know their story.  They will know it all, even if I forget over the years.  They’ll always know how much they were loved for their entire existence.

A few weeks ago, I realized I was hitting a wall with my book.  I have proofread it forty times, and every time I read it, I find more errors.  As I write, I am often unsure if I am giving too much information, or not enough. I struggle to split the book into chapters. I needed another person to sit with me and read it.Someone who knew me well enough to be honest about ideas, and who knew me well enough to keep my personality in my writing.

One of my best pals, Meredith, was the perfect person.  I don’t have to explain much to her, because she already knows.  She went to Penn State for English, and she reads more books than anyone I know.

We both have two young children, and trying to find a couple of days that we could be productive (aka kidless) sounded tricky, but once we tossed a few dates around, we each had two full days that we could commit. We looked for a few places cities where we could meet up and decided on Baltimore.  That way, she could drive, pick me up at the airport, and head to the hotel to get to work.  My only request was to stop and get some chai tea on the way.

We found a hotel that looked beautiful on the Internet, and packed a bathing suit, yoga pants, our computers, and two hard copies of the book.

I left on Sunday morning, had an uneventful flight, which I prefer. Meredith picked me up, and away we went.  We arrived at the hotel- much less beautiful than it looked online- and checked in. We looked at the pool from the 14th floor and saw a giant hair ball floating in it!  We should have left the bathing suits at home. We also noticed that our window didn’t lock, and fully opened, with no screen.  After a few laughs, we got to work.  I imagined us breezing through the book, breaking it into chapters, and finalizing a query letter to prepare to send out to my list of literary agents.

After figuring out a system that worked, Meredith reading aloud and me following along, we worked until we needed a lunch break.  Of the 160-ish pages, we were done with 6.  By dinner we made it to page 18.

The next day, we read and made changes all day long.  We read until both of our mouths were having trouble getting the words out.  We laughed at the funny parts, and cried at the sad parts.  We went to bed close to page 120.  The next morning, we worked until I had to leave for the airport.  We were nowhere near finished.

I am grateful to have a friend willing to pause her life and sit with me in a crappy hotel for 2 days.  I am grateful we were in a crappy hotel and not distracted by a clean pool.  I am grateful for an amazing husband and parents who can always hold down the fort for me. I am grateful to have a good chunk of the book edited. I am grateful for summer break, which always teases me with a little extra time, although there is just never enough.

On July 1st, I will send my first query letter out to prospective agents. Which means I have two weeks to get my ducks in a row.  Thank you for always being my team, and cheering me on, whether I falter or succeed.

When people ask me what my book will be about, the short answer is: my journey to become a mama.

There are a lot of pieces in my book that have nothing to do with becoming a parent, but my family experiences as I was growing up, and friendships that molded my life.

I explain how Aaron and I met, our relationship as it evolved, and planning our wedding and our future.

I wrote a lot about my feelings and viewpoint during the time that we were trying to become parents, and the losses along the way.

I explain the infertility treatments we went through, to the best of my ability.  There was a lot for me to learn, as someone with no medical knowledge.

The hardest part of writing the book was reliving the devastating loss of our beautiful twins, Charlie and Savannah.  I still cry almost every time I edit that chapter.  There are a lot of raw emotions that come flooding back, every single time.

There is a good amount about the next steps, moving on, and of course, borrowing my cousin’s uterus.

I tried to document all of the feelings and thoughts I had during our gestational carrier journey, and how our beautiful daughter, Maizy was brought into the world in an unconventional way.  My cousin, Lyndsay, who is the hero in my life, is a huge part of the book.  Of course, our surprise miracle, Layla, the final piece to The Dube family puzzle, plays a big part in the book.

Lastly, my book is about how life doesn’t always work out the way we plan it.  I did things I never thought I would do, as anyone in the same situation would have done.

My sole purpose in writing this book, is to provide comport, peace, and hope to the people struggling to create their families.  My heart has never left the pain and agony of waiting month after month, hoping to be pregnant, waiting, not so patiently, to become a mama.