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Today at PALS we are going to feature a Focus on the Fathers day and provide resources, articles, and original work specifically to support the father in a pregnancy loss.  I’ll never forget the time I went to a meeting for bereaved L&D and NICU parents, and a man gave his perspective on returning to work after their daughter passed away after two weeks in the NICU.

“Everyone told me how sorry they were,” he remembered.  “They all asked the same question- how is your wife?  They had no idea I was hurting, too.”

In the original work category, I asked Noah if he’d be interested in writing something.  I was surprised and pleased- not surprised that he said yes, but that he’d share his feelings so publicly.  Where I am loud, Noah is quiet.  Where I share everything, Noah keeps things close.  I was proud of him for being open for the sake of helping others.

He wrote his piece and showed it to me.  It was fantastic.  It meant so much to me to read these words from him.  I hope that they help other fathers, too.  It’s not just a mother that aches when her baby dies.  Fathers, families, friends- they all feel the emptiness.

Here is the link to Noah’s piece, and if you’re not already following PALS on Facebook, you can do that here.

Quite often, in either casual conversation or in deep discussion, the questions always come up.  It’s natural to ask, and I probably asked many people the same ones before I became aware that they’re sometimes uncomfortable to answer.

1. “Is Elise your first child?” or “How many kids do you have?”
2. No, and two.
3. Yes.
4. Two kids, so no, she isn’t my first. I had a son, Hank, stillborn in October 2012. He’d be two and a half right now.

While simple answers, the first two either invite more questions or purposely don’t acknowledge my son.  I used to feel like I wasn’t honoring him, or forgetting him, when I gave this answer.  I realize now that it’s just the opposite.  My son doesn’t deserve to make others feel bad for asking, and I’d rather keep his memory private sometimes.

1. “Did it take you long to get pregnant?”
2. No.
3. Yes.
4. Yes, it did. It took us almost a year, and then I miscarried. Then it took us another year, and I got pregnant and had a stillborn.  It took us another eight months to get pregnant again.

Simple answers shut this question down (especially the no).  If you answer yes and someone asks again, I usually am comfortable telling about visiting fertility specialists, and all of the crazy tests they do to make sure things are working, and the stories of being too scared to give myself shots so I’d make my husband do it.  If you’re not comfortable telling people about your journey, or you’re still on it yourself, it’s ok to say no, and not offer any more information.  It’s your body, after all.

1. “Are you having more kids?”
2. No.
3. Yes.
4. Not sure. Depends on a lot of things.  Can I even get pregnant again without help?  Is my body able to support a pregnancy to term?  Even though I’ve proven to myself that I can have a healthy baby, the odds still are not in my favor.  What does this mean to my stress level and overall well-being when we try?

I told someone the other day, when they asked this question, that the answer was no.  It’s not really.  I just wanted to try it out.  Her response was “Well, why not?” I didn’t feel as though either one of us would benefit from my trying-to-conceive saga, so I just smiled and said that Elise kept me busy.

Some days all of questions are hard to answer.  Some days, they’re easy.  It’s not the answer that dictates ease.  It’s the day, or the person, or the conversation, or my mood.  I try as often as I can to be open and honest about my journey of trying to conceive, pregnancy loss, pregnancy after loss, and parenting because I want others to share their stories, too.

There are times when I’m not interested in sharing, and the reason doesn’t have to be significant.  I’m allowed to have a day where my mission is not awareness but rather self-preservation.  I’m allowed to not mention Hank’s name to a stranger and still love him.

The next time you feel like asking someone one of these questions, stop.  Realize that they may have been trying to conceive unsuccessfully for years.  They may have just miscarried for the second time.  They may have just buried their only living child.  They may have gotten pregnant accidentally, and struggled with the notion of being a parent.  And if you ask anyway, don’t be surprised or hurt by our answers.  We’re just telling the truth in that moment.  We are allowed to answer any of these questions any way we’d like, and that is always the right answer.

Ever have a moment of fantasy?  Ever have a moment of fantasy where you stop yourself, talk yourself back to reality, and tell yourself that it will never happen?  I took a workshop recently called Getting Things Done, and part of it focused on making a list called Someday/Maybe.  The idea was to write down the big dreams, because one day they may move to your To Do list.  Here are my ten reasons to always have something on that Someday/Maybe list.

I’ve got two big items on my Someday/Maybe list.  Accomplishing them would put them up in the top three things I’ve done with my life.  One I’d like to happen within two years, the other within five.  One sort of will be a catalyst the other but they can happen independently.  One has lots of dependencies.  One has none.  Both are scary and exciting and require me to test my own limits.  Both require lots of conversation, planning, and luck.  Both require a leap of faith and a realization of failure as a possibility.  That’s ok.  The risk is worth the reward.

I’ll let you know if and when I move these two items from my S/M list to my To Do list.  When those dreams manifest into reality, I’ll prove to myself that my accomplishments and blood, sweat, and tears (because they’ll be required) were worth it.

My PAL piece has been published for April.  Here is the link:

http://www.pregnancyafterlosssupport.com/presence/

Hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading.

At Pregnancy After Loss Support, we followed Minnesota’s lead and declared March to be PAL Awareness Month.  This meant a lot of work on the part of the fabulous women I work with.  They drafted letters as templates, wrote a proclamation, and put together lots of articles, resources, and ways to engage our community.  I had the easy part, and hit some buttons and asked some questions to solicit feedback.

Then, I got an idea.

If it’s PAL Awareness Month in Minnesota, why can’t it be PAL Awareness Month in Delaware?

I did a little research.  I used the proclamation my peers had drafted.  I set up a petition in case I needed reinforcements.  And, I reached out to a politically connected and ambitious friend who helped get my emails read and answered.

On Sunday, he let me know that Governor Jack Markell was going to sign the proclamation.  Did I want to come to Dover to his office to meet him, and take some pictures?  You betcha.  State Senator Bethany Hall-Long was there, too.  She’s kind of a big deal in Congress (said in my best Ron Burgundy voice), especially when it comes to legislature for health and human services.  We shook hands and talked for a few moments and took some pictures (I left Elise at home so there was no kissing of any babies).

I left with two copies of the proclamation, a racing and exhilarated heart, and wide eyes from being inside Legislative Hall and the governor’s office.

I also left more determined than ever to continue to raise awareness about Pregnancy After Loss, which may become my new direction for Hank’s Hope.

Thank you to all who supported me on this journey, and continue to do so each day.  We all are only as strong as the people behind us who hold us together on days we can’t do it ourselves.

I unintentionally vented to my friend this morning, who made the mistake of saying “how are you?”

Bad question to ask today.

Another friend told me once that women don’t take over the world, because we’re all too busy one-upping each other and pretending to each other that life is, as she so perfectly put it, “all rainbows and unicorns.”  We don’t have each other’s backs.  We just like to think we do, and then we passive-aggressively rub in the fact that we make our own organic baby food and have a perfectly kept home and we lost the baby weight by the time maternity leave is over and we picked up seven pair of Tory Burch shoes and a bag this weekend just because we felt like it.

Guess what?  Life isn’t all rainbows and unicorns.  Sometimes it’s a combination of stepping in gum, then dog poop, then mud—all in the same walk.  Sometimes it’s craving a PB&J and opening up the cabinets to realize no one has been to the grocery store in a week.  It’s having amazing seats to a concert, and right before you leave for the show, you realize you’ve lost the tickets, and you never find them.

It’s like going to bed, getting five hours of interrupted sleep, and waking up angrier than when you went to bed (and you were angry when you went to bed), which was my rant of the morning.

As women, we need a break.  We need to stop pretending life is perfect.  We need to talk about things like stillbirth, and baby loss, and sensory issues, and autism, and how we only bought seven pair of Tory Burch shoes because we’re depressed and we really can’t afford them and we’re just crawling deeper into debt.  We need to talk about how we all see a therapist, and if we don’t we need to encourage each other to do so.  We need to all talk about how we’re often scared that we’re not doing this thing called life right.  We all need to talk about how we’re trying as hard as we can.  We need to talk about how we all have problems and triumphs and bounce back and forth between these two ends, multiple times a day.

Next time I’m asked to have a jewelry party or something similar, I’m proposing something different.  Nothing to buy, no pressure to make food for a crowd.  Come over in your sweats.  No makeup allowed.  Bra optional (come on, you know we take that thing off as soon as we can).  We’re going to have some wine and talk about the things we all want to talk about but feel like we’ll be judged if we do.  We are going to say “how are YOU” and mean it when we ask.  And then we will listen.

And then we’re all going to take a nap.

I’ve written before about patience.  It’s a topic that always deserves a revisit, because a) we always need it and b) we never seem to have enough of it.

About a month ago, mid stride, I noticed a sudden tightness in my left foot.  I chalked it up to not stretching enough, or too many ankle rolls on the tennis court.  I’d rest when it hurt and plow on when it didn’t.  The pain never fully went away, so I made an appointment with a great podiatrist and on I went with life.

Last night, I got the news that I had a peroneus longus injury- an injury that calls for a cast for three weeks, and a walking boot for four.  I can’t get it wet, so no pool or ocean (thank goodness it’s not summer yet).  No tennis, no gym, no parkour.  I don’t parkour, ever, but if I woke up this morning and decided to launch myself off of a wall, I couldn’t.

Sigh.

My thoughts immediately went to the things I couldn’t do.  No swimming lessons with Elise, no pulling her around in her wagon.  I couldn’t walk my dog, even though I don’t do that enough anyway, and he’s so old he can barely make it around the block anymore.  I’ve got a life of one shoe for the next month, and limited on pants that fit over a boot (come on, capri season!).   Glad that my car isn’t a manual anymore- I’d be out of luck for driving.

What about if I think of the things I can do, though?  I can be present with my daughter, instead of turning my back to throw in a load of laundry or empty the dishwasher.  I can partake in more Netflix bingewatching.  I can read or write.  Maybe I can still go to the gym- I can sit and work on upper body and core weight training, doing exercises that don’t involve weight on my leg.

I can have some patience with myself, with my body, and get my foot healthy again.  I can take this time to do activities I push off, because I feel like I’m wasting time and energy if I’m stagnant, both in body and mind.  Maybe I do need to slow down.

As I’m writing this, a friend sends me a link to a post that may be worth sharing on the Pregnancy After Loss Support Facebook page.  I open it and scan it.  It’s not about loss or grief specifically, but about checking in with yourself, asking why you’re feeling the way you’re feeling, and some things to do about it.  They’re all somewhat obvious, but if there is one thing I know for sure it is that when I’m in the moment, it’s hard to objectively assess what I need for self-care.

Here is the link, but I am sharing this part with you.  “You’ve made it this far, and you will make it through.  You are stronger than you think.”

Yes, I will make it through sitting still, taking some deep breaths, being present, and creating patience for my situation, within myself.

  

I’m watching my daughter try to figure something out.  She has a little car, and it has a trunk (it must be European, since the trunk is in the front).  She loves to open the trunk, put in a toy, and close it.  She waits for me to ask her where it is, and she triumphantly pulls it out.  Cheers and applause ensue.

I changed the configuration of the car so it’s not as easy now to get the trunk open.  I watch her struggle, and then I do it for her.  This repeats many times.  Then, I stop doing.  I let her get frustrated.  I let her start to whine and bounce up and down.  I let her turn to me with a puzzled expression.

Am I helping her?

I see myself in her.  Easily frustrated, whiny when I can’t figure something out instantly.  Then I get over it and dig deep and plow ahead.

My daughter isn’t there yet.  She isn’t developed enough yet to realize what challenges are, and she hasn’t figured out yet how to overcome advanced obstacles.  The foundation is being poured, though, for lessons and acts of perseverance.  

She’s now moved onto something else.  The trunk is no longer holding her interest.  We’ll come back to it, I’m sure, very soon.  Maybe she’ll have a touch more patience.  I can only hope that I can continue to watch the frustration dance, grabbing her when she needs the help but letting her figure out complicated steps on her own.



“Let your heart guide you,” said the teabag to the girl.

“What if my heart is broken?” she asked.  “Will it take me down the right path?  Can I trust it?  Is its judgement clouded?”

“No,” responded the teabag.  “Always follow it, broken or not.  It will eventually heal along the way.”

See this?



This Pangea of plastic is the pride of our kitchen.  Well, maybe not.  But we’re awfully proud of this drawer.

A year or so ago, we went out and bought a “nice” set of plastic (is there such a thing?).  We trashed lids with no mates and scrapped the stuff that was stained.  We slimmed down.  Everything fit.  It looked, well, perfect.  To my slightly OCD mind, when I opened the drawer, I saw order and peace and calm.

A year later, we’ve grown.  We’ve had to make room for new stuff.  Sometimes it doesn’t look like what we had.  Sometimes it doesn’t even look like what we were expecting to have.  But it’s here and we like it.  We just change our configurations to accommodate.  We are flexible and as much as we hate to admit it, transparent to a degree.  It’s new for us, but we are learning and we love it.

Just like life.