Another Curve Ball

About a year and a half ago Micah and I decided that we were ready to add another child to our family. We have always gotten pregnant very quickly and we expected it to happen within a few months. 10 months later we found ourselves seeking assistance from a fertility clinic. I was approaching the age of  38 and wondered if our chance had already passed. Blood work revealed that I was right. My egg reserve was low, very low. We were told that without fertility treatments we would most likely not conceive. So we ventured down that path. Several months of medications and injections and ultrasounds. All fruitless. We gave up and with heavy hearts we accepted that our family was complete. Then one day, several months later I was late. It couldn’t be! But there were those two lines staring back at me. Pregnant. 
We were shocked and elated! It surely was meant to be! I had zero anxiety. Sure that this would just work out. We spent the next two weeks texting each other Baby names and sharing a secret excitement. I don’t know where my optimism came from, but I was sure that everything would be fine.
Then the day of our first ultrasound arrived. We couldn’t wait to get a glimpse at our little embryo. Just over 6 weeks pregnant and we should be able to hear a heartbeat via ultrasound! The appointment was full of disappointment. No baby was to be found. Just a small empty sac. No heartbeat, no baby, no baby names, no fifth Fuerst.  I cried, hard. The Doctor explained that it didn’t look promising, but there was still a chance. I knew there wasn’t. We scheduled an appointment to come back three days later. Another ultrasound and another round of lab work. All confirmation of what we already knew. No baby. An “abnormal pregnancy “. “Not viable”. 

Why? Why after finally coming to terms with our family being compete did my body decide to get pregnant? Why trick us into believing that we could actually welcome a third child into our home? It’s cruel and unfair. I am so angry with my body. It has once again failed me. Failed our family. Our fertility journey has now come to an end on this sour note. I am all out of optimism. No more medications and shots. We are done, we are complete. This is not how I pictured any of this. I miss the naive woman who believed that she at she had control over her fertility. She believed that she could decide how many children she would have. Now I am a passive receiver of information. Talking to a fertility specialist about my “poor pregnancy history” and “mature eggs”. It’s all too much. I am so grateful for my two living daughters. And as much as I would have loved to bring home a sibling for them it is just not a reality. 
So now we hone in on our family as it is. We are a fabulous family of four. Two parents and two living children. This is not what we pictured, but it is our reality. And as much as we want to add another child it is simply not our reality. Once again we find ourselves facing the reality that we are done. Two beautiful daughters and twins that we hold in our hearts. 

I Opened Their Boxes Today

I opened their boxes today.  Gingerly pulled them out of the closet of the guest bedroom and set them on the bed. It's been about a year since they have been out. Each time I bring them out it’s as if I am pulling my heart out of my chest and laying it out on the bed, vulnerable and raw.

The first item that I pulled out was a soft knitted pink blanket.  Made by a volunteer that I will never know.  Below the blanket is the endless stack of sympathy cards, full of “I’m so sorry”s and  “Deepest sympathy”. Nobody knows what to say when a baby dies.

My face starts to flush and I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my throat.  Hot tears stream down my cheeks meeting under my chin and creating a grief waterfall onto my chest.  I peer over at the dresser and see the two matching urns sitting on the shelf and I feel a strong need to move them and make sure that they aren’t collecting dust.  Just a mother, caring for her babies.

My fingers find their way back to the boxes.  A blue knitted blanket, a set of Social Security cards that instruct not to sign until the card holders 18^th birthday, a day that will never come.

Tiny matching gowns, both white in color.  One with tiny blue flowers and the other with pink.  The pink gown has a stain on the inside, perhaps blood.  The only outfits that they wore.  I regret not have them cremated in the outfits.  Were they naked?  Were they cold?  A good mother would have ensured that they were properly dressed.

Ultrasound pictures from a lifetime ago.  A life when I was pregnant with two healthy babies and caring for a one year old at home.  A time when I was preparing our home for two new additions.

Death certificate, birth certificates, newspaper obituaries, funeral handouts, charity donations made in their honor.

Every item that was ever touched by them carefully folded up and contained in a small photo box.  That is all that I have of my children.  These two boxes.  Where I keep my mourning heart that I carefully and quietly pull out every so often and then carefully and quietly put away as to not make others too uncomfortable.

A grieving mother is living on borrowed time. “This is a tragedy” they say.  “Take all the time you need” they say.  “No mother should experience the loss of her child” they say.

But in time they grow inpatient.  “Don’t let this tragedy ruin your life”, “Don’t take too long grieving, it’s not healthy”, “You have other children to care for”.

It’s uncomfortable, someone else’s grief.  It’s painful, and raw and ugly.  And it quickly grows to a point of discomfort.  Of disgust.  Just move on.

Play with your living children and enjoy.  Keep your grieving heart in the box where it belongs.

Don’t carry on so, it’s unbecoming.

You’re depressed.

You’re not grieving properly.

You should be okay by now.

You should have gotten past this.

You can’t dwell on this forever.

You must focus on your living children.

You need to move on.

You need to forget.

You need to be strong.

You need to be brave.

It’s been years.

It’s unhealthy to go on like this.

But don’t you see that I can’t?  Don’t you see the love that I have with every fiber of being in my body that I can’t?

I hurt.

I want to turn back time.  Even if only for one more moment holding them in my arms.  And with each passing year the memories grow fainter.  Each passing year it has been one more year since I have held my children in my arms.  Since I have gazed at their faces.  Since I have breathed in their scent.  Since I have stroked their cheeks.  Since I have touched their toes.  Since I have rested my hands on my belly and felt their gentle kicks and swishes.  Since I have lived in a time that they too had a future.

The pain is still here.  It is visceral and it is searing.  It comes in waves. Sometimes gentle waves lapping at my feet.  Other times a tidal wave comes and knocks the breath right out of me.

I go on.  Another day.  Another day with two of my children gone.  Another day of kissing two foreheads before I go to bed instead of four. 

I go on because there is no alternative other than to move forward.  And it is that in itself that is baffling and uncomfortable for onlookers.

How can this mother live her life and still be so grief stricken?

I have done the impossible.  I have woven my grief, my pain, my anguish, my tears, my anger, my raw devastation into my joyful life. 

I laugh every damn day.  I smile every time one of my daughters walks into the room.  I beam with pride when I see they have accomplished something new.  I am so incredibly happy.

I have the most amazing family.  My children are my everything and I am so joyful just having them in my life.  Sometimes I feel as if I may burst with love and joy.

How can joy and pain exist together?

How can a mother love the living and the dead simultaneously?

Yet it is this state of duplicity that all grieving mothers live in.  We are skilled beyond belief.  We thrive at having our toes in two bodies of water.  And in this way, we are wonders to behold.

It is not a skill that we have learned, but one that we have been forced into.  We have dug our way out of the trenches and come out  new women.  Emboldened by our pain.

Strong, yet weak.  Brave, yet terrified. Tired, but fighting. We are everything.

Our love transcends the explainable.  You will not understand unless you are.  And if you are, you are still not sure how you do it.

But we do it.  Every, damn, day.  Every hour, every minute.  We are.

We can, because we have to.

Nobody would choose this.  I did not choose this.  But this is where I am, and always will be.

Grief does not go away, we learn to carry it.  Some days we carry it with ease, like forgotten penny in a pocket.  Other days it is a boulder on your chest.  But it is always there.

I understand why the grieving mother is uncomfortable for our society.  It is not what we are used to.  There is no black and white with a grieving mother, it is all grey.  Happiness and sadness all blurred together into a messy blob.

But we are here. We have been here since the beginning of time and we will always be here.  Living amongst you in our messy joy and pain.

We didn't choose this.  But we are living this.  And for that we are extraordinary. We are the epitomy of love.  A love that trensends death and time. 

I put their boxes away today.  Neatly tucked into the closet of the guest bedroom. Eyes swollen and tired.  Heart tucked away neatly.