Life On The Other Side: Healing, Grief, & Friendship

Howdy Humble Readers...

***Warning... for those of my humble readers who read my blog to keep up with Beloved, Ginny and me in our day to day life, and who don't want to know about certain, ahem, parts of my life, you might want to skip this post.  Just so ya know...***

I've been thinking about this post a lot over the last few weeks.  Yes, this the the 'I'm-a-mom-now-am-I-still-an-IFer/RPLer?" post. 

And I have known the answer for quite some time.  It's a resounding 'YES'. 

I have been blessed with a beautiful baby girl, and while her presence has gone a long way to heal certain hurts in my heart, there are places that I could never expect her to fill. 

The baggage is still here, just a little bit lighter. 

IF/RPL will always be a part of who I am.  It's with me every time I wake up from one of those ridiculous nightmares, or when I stand over Ginevra's cradle watching her chest rise and fall.  It's a part of why I'm dealing with anxiety in relation to our sex life... the idea that we could get pregnant again right away is not totally undesirable, but it is still shit-scary nonetheless.  (It's the whole not knowing if/when I'll be ovulating and all that's stressing me out, among other things)

Thoughts of my identity as a mother and an IFer have been brought to the forefront even more so recently, as I have had a good friend go through the agony of a miscarriage (her second loss).  Understanding the pain, physical and emotional, that she is dealing with is one thing, but knowing how to provide support for her from this side of the delivery room is another.  How do I have the right to voice my care for her and my understanding, when I have just given birth?  (And how self-centered is that?  Worrying about me, when she's the one dealing with a loss... ugh! Sometimes I disgust myself.)  My heart broke for her when I got her email after the ultrasound that showed an empty sac, and I remember how I felt about people with babies when I was going through it, and I didn't want to push in. 

When we lost our angel babies, I was angry with people in my life who avoided me or the subject of our losses.  But knowing what to say is a hard thing... harder than I expected.

*sigh*  Nothing in this life is ever easy, tho, is it?

On a slightly different note, next week marks the second anniversary of our loss of Olivia Noelle.  I miss her.  I miss who she might have been.  But it doesn't hurt quite as much as it did.  It's amazing how so much grief and love can exist in a heart at the same time. 

In Memoriam - Dad C

R.L.C. - Dad C.

May 14th, 1936 - August 25th, 2009

He went peacefully, and likely felt very little pain. We missed him by a little over an hour. Mom C and my Beloved's sister were at the airport when we all arrived.

Some highlights from Dad's life:

• married to his high school sweetheart for just shy of 52 years (their anniversary is on Monday)
• father to four sons and one daughter, grandfather to 10 grandchildren (and two angel-grandbabies), great-grandfather to one great-grandson
• as a young man he played semi-pro hockey for one season
• he was inducted into the Saskatchewan Sports Hall of Fame for all of his volunteer work (coaching, etc)
• he loved curling, hockey, Canadian football, game shows, crossword puzzles, playing cards and he grew the best tomatoes I've ever eaten
• he was king of the power nap, taking a nap after lunch and dinner every day

We will be celebrating his life on the Saturday of the long weekend, at the curling club where Dad worked for many years, making the ice. My Beloved and I came home yesterday. In total we were only gone 29 hours, but it feels like an eternity. Everyone else will be coming back tomorrow.

Thank you so much for all of your prayers and warm thoughts over the last few days. They mean so much!

Hobbit-ish Potpurri: Roadtrip Rant

Good Morning Humble Readers...

First up, I want to say thank you for all the support yesterday. It means a great deal to know that there are others out there who understand that these days are challenging, but need to be commemorated. Thank you for all your kind words, prayers, and virtual hugs. They really helped me get through the day.
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Yesterday's gong show of epic proportions actually started on Monday night, when I got home from work to find Lake Linoleum in my kitchen. After pulling everything out from under the sink we discovered that the cold water line to the sink was leaking pretty badly. Of course everything under the sink was wet and nasty... cardboard boxes that the garbage bags come in disintigrating as we tried to move them. The plumber is here now, and I'm sure I won't get out of this one for less than $150.
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Sleep was in short supply on Monday night, so needless to say I was fairly grumpy yesterday morning. When my Beloved knocked the towel rack off the wall in the bathroom, AGAIN I was more than a little perturbed. I love the man, but he certainly isn't a handy man, so before I took my shower I had to deal with the pain in the butt (the towel rack, not my Beloved).
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Due to some poor planning and lack of attention to detail on my part, I had to make a spur of the moment mad dash to Calgary to go to the Passport office. Driving almost two hours just to deal with downtown Calgary traffic, a half hour trying to find parking, to spend a whopping ten minutes in the office going over my application. That's beyond irritating. My passport will be here in two weeks, thank the Lord.
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I knew vaguely where the passport office was, as I had been there once before 8 or 9 years ago. I typed "passport canada" into our GPS, expecting to get the address and directions. The silly thing came up with the passport office in Edmonton, and then the one in Regina (that's in Saskatchewan). Nothing for Calgary. Piece of crap gadget. Thank heaven for smart phones.
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There is a new shopping mall on the north side of Calgary. I thought, after my frustration at the passport office I would treat myself to a little retail therapy. I'm still looking for the perfect purse for our trip, and I wanted to see the new store from my store's chain that is an anchor for the new mall. I finally get out of the downtown core, almost out of the city, find the correct turn off, and make my way toward the mall... only to get into the parking lot and see signs that it opens to the public today. I was one day too early! Grrr
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The rest of the trip home was a challenge. I was in a foul mood, and I thought that some loud music would help. I was bouncing back and forth between a couple of country stations and a top 40 station. While on one of the country stations I heard a song that put me over the edge. I don't know the title, and I didn't recognize the artist, but there was a line about how the singer was so thankful for the son his wife had given him. I started bawling and it didn't stop for more than an hour. I'm just thankful that highway 2 is pretty much a straight shot from Calgary to Red Deer.
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One other thing from yesterday that would have been just a minor irritation on any other day... I wanted to listen to a book on cd while I on the road. I grabbed the right cd before I left the house, but when I put it in the car stereo it wouldn't play. I was so pissed that I almost chucked the cd out the window.

Really, it's almost laughable now. Almost. Today is another day, and once the plumber leaves I will be able to maybe do something with my day. I will be back later with my Show & Tell post...

In Memoriam - Olivia Noelle

Today was my EDD for our second angel baby, Olivia Noelle.

Is it wrong that I haven't thought as much about my second loss as much as my first?

Maybe it's self preservation. Maybe my heart and mind remember the grief of losing Emily so much that when we lost Olivia I automatically went into a numb mode.

Whatever the cause, the approach to today has been different than the days leading up to Emily's EDD. Instead of the panic and intense sadness, there is a vague feeling of emptiness. I have had both a conscious and unconscious awareness that this date was approaching. (Like it's possible to ever erase the significance of these dates from our minds!) I've been dreaming about babies and IF related things more in the last two weeks than I have in months.

But the hurt is different too. It's the sad resignation that lightning does in fact strike twice, that being hurt once does not automatically preclude you from being hurt again. It is the fear, even though the doctors say it was just bad luck and that we still have a good chance of getting and staying pregnant, the fear that we are doomed to repeat this cycle of hope, joy, and despair over and over again.

You know, it's funny, with Emily I spent a great deal of time wondering what she would have looked like. With Olivia, I don't wonder that. I have a very clear image of her in my mind. It's of her as a toddler, with dark dark hair with a bit of a curl, blue eyes, and pink cheeks.

I only wish... well, to quote one of my favourite musicals... I wish a lot of things.

Infertility and a Crisis of Faith

Good morning, humble readers...

I will be the first to admit that my prayer life isn't what it 'should' be. My Beloved and I pray over meals, and we do go through times when we are very focused on praying... praying for our selves, for others, for our world leaders... but more often than not, my daily prayers are the last few semi-coherent thoughts that pass through my brain before sleep comes.

I should step back a bit and mention that I do believe in the power of prayer. I believe that God does miraculous things every day. The fact that my mom is alive today, after five encounters with cancer, is a testament to the healing power of God.

So, what does it mean then, when a woman who believes in the power of prayer prays for her unborn child... and that child never actually happens?

During the 10 weeks of my first pregnancy, my Beloved and I prayed for our little one. Prayed that God would keep her healthy and safe, that we would be good parents, that we would be able to provide the secure home that she would need. And when we lost her, in the midst of our grief, we were thankful that God had blessed us with her for even a short time.

When we got pregnant the second time, some connection in my mind went a bit wonky. No one said this to me, it was purely my own misdirection... but I started to think that 'last time' I hadn't prayed hard enough. Instead of focusing on the positive (actually being pregnant), I started to play this tape in my head... 'last time' I failed physically, 'last time' I failed spiritually.

For the first 8 weeks of my second pregnancy, I was berating myself constantly because 'last time' I hadn't prayed enough, and I wasn't praying enough 'this time'. My prayers 'this time' took on a desperate intensity... make me a better person, help me be more faithful, make me good enough. And our 8 week ultrasound confirmed my deficiencies... in my mind. I failed again 'this time'.

At the same time as all this was happening, there was the logical part of my mind (that was probably shouting it's lungs out) that knew blighted ova are not a punishment from God for not praying hard enough, for not being good enough. I knew that. I know it. But that doesn't mean I felt it. My grief the second time around was harder, I think, because of all the self-blame I was heaping on my head.

Somehow along the way I had forgotten the most basic truth about prayer. Prayer does not change God. Prayer changes me. It opens my heart and mind up to God's leading, and brings me into deeper relationship with him. Prayer is the communication that feeds my relationship with him.

This past winter and spring haven't been easy. My prayer life still isn't what I would like it to be, but that tape that was playing in my head seems to have been stopped. I have been blessed with a good pastor who has walked this road (she had two miscarriages before going on to have twins), and a husband who understands one's faith journey goes through ups and downs, and sometimes having a partner on the road is all that's needed to keep moving forward.

My prayer for 'next time' is that I will be at peace. When and if I get pregnant again, I pray that I will find the joy in the moment. And if the worst happens again, I pray that God will help me to lean on his strength.

Emily Hope

Today is what was my estimated due date for our first little one.

I can't help but think about what she would have been like... her personality, her eyes, her little fingers and toes. It's funny, I don't really have a mental image of her, like I do for Olivia. I can't help but think about what my life would have been like if she were here now. *sigh*

I'm sad, and the grief is still there... just not so sharp edged as it was. My life is a good one. I have a wonderful loving husband (who willingly does the laundry), a good secure job (even if I do complain sometimes), and I'm healthy (weight and fertility issues notwithstanding). We are proud owners of our little condo and Petey the PT cruiser is paid for. Both our families are healthy and happy. We have started to look forward to other things... other than a baby that is... a trip to visit my parents in the early summer, and our much-delayed honeymoon in NYC.

But those little bean-shaped holes in my heart are still there. I don't imagine they will ever go away. I don't want them to go away.

Cooking As Therapy... or the Lament of the Dusty House

Ok... So while I'm not as strong as I thought I was, I think things are slowly moving in the right direction.

Of course there are always speedbumps on the road to healing... and we have had our fair share. A week and a half ago, my sister's father-in-law passed away. While I didn't know the man well, I know that my brother-in-law would be devastated and wanted to do as much as I could for them, even from a distance. This amounted to a lot of listening as my sister ranted about her husband's screwy family and the craziness that ensued their patriarch's passing. I will save you the drama, but suffice it to say their family has Jerry Springer on speed-dial.

Then, just a few days ago, my Darling One's great aunt passed away. This was not unexpected. She was 91 and had been in slowly declining health for the last few years. But nonetheless, she was a rock in the family and her death has hit us all. Auntie K was the closest thing my Beloved has had to a grandmother, and she was a second mother to my mother-in-law (she was actually the mid-wife at my MIL's birth). Today there was a beautiful service to commemorate her life.

Now, any of you who know my mom know that when she is upset she cleans. So does my sister. I imagine my sister's house is spotless right now with all the stress she's been under. To my chagrin, I don't clean when I'm stressed... instead I cook.

I have been blessed to have the last week off work. I had great grandiose plans for what I was going to do with my week off. I was going to clean out the storage room (I swear it's getting done tomorrow morning!), reorganize the linen closet, and tackle the spare bedroom that has never really been dealt with since we moved in. I was going to do some reading (have only made it halfway through a reread of Memoirs of a Geisha) and writing (story ideas don't come until the end of my vacation time... I should know that by now). And in general I was just going to get my life back to normal.

What did I do instead? Watched waaaaaaaay too much daytime tv, spent too much time with Mario and his crazy brother Luigi trying to defeat Bowser and rescue Princess Peach, and listening to the same CD over and over while playing Mahjongg.

BUT... I did have a productive day in the middle of the week. Instead of dusting and vaccuuming like I had planned, I suddenly felt inspired to cook. I mean really cook. I love cooking for my loved ones. I love trying new recipes. I love experimenting (as this evening's dinner can prove, my experiments don't always work) and I love feeding people.

So, in one day I am proud to say that I made:

• 1 dozen Crusty French Rolls
• a pot of Beef Stew
  
• a ginormous pot of Italian Sausage & Tortellini Soup (zucchini, carrots, onions, garlic, tomatoes, etc)
• a medium pot of Beef Barley Soup
• a loaf of Brioche (which turned out amazing for a first try)

And I just have one word... YUM! Considering the veritable multitude of things that could have gone wrong with making that many different recipes at once, I am proud to say that they all turned out and turned out well. I now have two weeks worth of homemade soup in my freezer and a husband who is ecstatic that I have promised not to order pizza again in the next month.

I found something in the process of chopping veggies and separating eggs. I found a moment of contentment. I had some peace, in the midst of the chaos I created in the kitchen. I felt like me again. I may never be a mom, but damn it I can cook and I can be proud of that.

And that humble readers is the point of this rambling story. Come for dinner any time. I'll hook you up with some pretty good food, if I do say so myself.

(Oh, and Mom, if you are reading this... I did the dusting and vaccuuming after I cleaned up the kitchen)

Where to begin?

(Warning: The content of this post may be a bit too personal/graphic for some readers. I give my friends with low TMI tolerance permission to just skim this post.)

I have started this blog post a dozen times now. Each time I think I know what I want to say and that I am strong enough to actually say it... and then I hit the wall. I lose it, and I have to stop. I am hoping that this time I will be able to get out everything that I need to say, and maybe get some closure.

For those of you who don't know yet I guess I should start at the beginning, or more appropriately the end... last time.

When we lost our Emily Hope in September, I can honestly say that I had never experienced emotional pain of that degree before. I had lost friends and family members, but to lose a child... even one you never held... it is something no one should ever have to experience. I felt lost and trapped in my grief for what felt like forever. The act of naming our lost little one seemed to be a hugely cathartic process, and once we knew who she was I felt like I began to heal.

I truly believe that I was well on the road to feeling like my old self again. I was back at work, and was looking forward to the busy Christmas retail season. My Beloved and I went to a very long awaited concert (for me anyway... I know that New Kids on the Block aren't his thing, but he showed the dignity that only the husband of a boy band freak can show, and laughed at me the whole time), and decorated our new condo for Christmas.

On December 6th, after having a mysterious case of hives for a couple of weeks and feeling even more tired than usual for the maddest time of year, I caved and peed on a stick. The second pink line showed up and I was thrilled. I knew that it was likely that we would be pregnant again soon and that the odds were in our favor that this little bean would stick. The percentage of first pregnancies that end in miscarriage is high, almost 25%, but for second pregnancies things improve greatly.

I found myself thinking things like, 'This will be my last Christmas in retail for a while!' and 'Next year we will have a little one to plan Santa Claus stuff for'. We were excited, and decided on what we thought was a very clever way to tell our parents our news. We bought silver elephant-shaped frames and I took a picture of the positive pregnancy test.

About a week and a half before Christmas, I had a couple of truly panicky days. I was terrified. Last time I didn't know for a full month that the baby had stopped developing. How could I trust my body? How could I know for sure? What if the unthinkable happened again? Somehow, through prayer and the encouragement of my Beloved, I was able to snap out of it and got very excited about our doctor's appointment on Christmas Eve morning.

We went together, and the first thing that tipped me off was when the nurse asked if I had had a positive home pregnancy test yet. This was three and a half weeks after I had gotten my first positive at home. I told her I had had five (I'm nothing if not thorough). She just nodded, weighed me and told us to wait for our doctor.

The doc came into the room, and immediately I was worried. He opened my file and told us that my HCG (that's the pregnancy hormone, for those of you who aren't obsessed with procreation) levels were not as high as he would like. The were rising, but very slowly. That seed of doubt took root in my heart, but I tried to brush it away. Maybe I ovulated later than I thought or the bean implanted later... both of which could affect HCG levels. When we left the doctor's office I was in posession of another requisition for two more blood tests and a date for an early ultrasound to confirm my dates.

We celebrated Christmas... our families each having their own reactions to our news. My in-laws were over the moon excited. My mother-in-law cried and thanked us for the only gift she really wanted. My mom was a little more reserved, but I know it was just her way of trying not to get too excited after last time.

After Christmas, I began the countdown to the ultrasound. I was nauseous and tired. Parts of my body ached like no woman's body should ache. I had all the typical early pregnancy symptoms. On January 6th, after drinking a ridiculous amount of water, we went to the clinic to see the first glimpse of our new little blessing.

I was excited and hopeful. But that seed of doubt was still there.

I was nervous as the technician started the scan. I was uncomfortable, it felt as though I was going to wet myself any second. And I could see the screen. An empty screen.

That feeling... laying there, praying that something would show up, that we would seel that little bean-shaped miracle... the feeling of hope crashing down to the floor surrounded me. After another few minutes of agony, both physical and emotional, the tech stopped the scan and told me I could go to the bathroom. The doctor would see us in a few minutes.

The doctor, the on-call doc at the fertility clinic where we had the scan, came into the room and bluntly told us that there was no baby. Either my dates were wrong or I would miscarry. I explained that I track my cycles and that I had a positive home test in early December. He then said that I could wait until I started to bleed or I could have the receptionist book an appointment for the procedure to 'take care of it'.

We left the clinic heartbroken. I called in sick to work, and we made the calls to our parents to tell them that it happened again. I spent the rest of the day on the couch, bouncing back and forth between sobs and numbness.

We had an appointment already planned with our family doctor for the next day, and by the time we got there I was resigned to another D&C procedure. When our doc came into the room this time, he was surprised at the news we gave him about the ultrasound because my HCG levels had risen significantly in the last two weeks. He was adamant that we 'treat this situation conservatively'. I was to take it easy, try not to stress (yeah right!) and wait another two weeks. He was very hopeful that the baby was just hiding, or we were a little off on the dates. We left that appointment armed with yet more requisitions for bloodwork and another ultrasound.

And thus began the two weeks from hell...

How do you hope and not hope at the same time? How do you allow yourself to feel anything at all? Do I grieve? Do I let myself be swayed by the continued morning sickness and exhaustion? How do we tell the family and friends who are already grieving with us that there may yet be hope?

I don't know how, but I made it through. My Beloved was wonderful through this time. Our Pastor was checking in every couple of days to see how I was doing. My sister texted daily to check in and distract me. Work was a challenge, but at least for a few hours each day I was thinking about something else.

January 19th I drank the ridiculous amount of water again. We went back to the same clinic. I was even more nervous. What if there was a baby there? Would it be healthy? How would I react?

The tech we had this time was much gentler, but within moments I knew. There on the screen was the same empty black blob. She probed a bit and then asked if I would be ok with her doing an internal ultrasound (and yes it is as uncomfortable as it sounds). I agreed and after another few minutes she shut off the machines. She told me not to lose hope. The sac had grown in the last two weeks. Maybe I just had my dates wrong. (If I heard that one more time, I knew I was going to hurt someone badly.)

We left the clinic, and I went home and cried some more. Again, we had an appointment the next day with our family doctor and he told us what I already knew in my heart. My HCG levels had dropped. I was miscarrying. Again.

The rollercoaster I had been riding for the last two weeks came to a screeching halt at the bottom of the biggest hill. It was over.

He told us that he didn't recommend another D&C so soon after the last one, and that he would prefer that I miscarry naturally if possible. It could take up to six weeks to happen, but in that time he would get us a referal to the OB that looked after me last time, in hopes of getting some testing done to find the answer to my biggest question... Why?

Less than a week after that appointment the cramps started. Lower back mostly. Then the spotting. I forced myself to continue to go to work because I couldn't put that strain on my co-workers again. Last Sunday night, while I was at work the miscarraige happened. It was frightening, disgusting, and heartbreaking all over again. The only good thing was that it was almost over and I wouldn't have to wait another six weeks.

In a quirk of coincidence, I had heard from the OB's office on the Friday before and he wanted to see me first thing Monday morning. So the morning after, still in a great deal of physical and emotional pain, we went armed with my list of questions.

My OB is quite possibly the nicest doctor I have ever had. He seemed genuinely sorry to see us again, knowing that I would only be back if things had gone wrong again. He listened to my list of, at time ridiculous, questions and answered everything. There is nothing we could have done to cause this and nothing to prevent it. It was likely a genetic abnormality that prevented the baby from developing past the embryo stage and my body reabsorbed it. The clinical term is 'blighted ovum'. And this was number two. We are now at an awkward crossroad...

Normally, testing does not begin until after the third consecutive miscarraige. But because of my age, my pre-existing health concerns (read: weight issues), and my need for answers, he agreed that we can start some testing. But which tests? After a few more questions, we determined that the best course of action will be to ensure that everything inside me is structurally sound. So, in six weeks or so (whenever my body gets back into a normal rhythm) I will be having an HSG (some incredibly long name that I can never remember). It is a procedure where they fill my uterus with dye that is visible on an xray. This will help them to see if there are any malformations inside that may be contributing to this. After that test, we will look at the quality of the swim team and then finally some genetic testing to see if either of us have a chromosomal abnormality that may be the cause.

The challenge now, besides the getting on with life, is waiting for answers that may not come. For all the advances in medical science, there is not a lot known about miscarraige and it's causes. We will likely not get a definitive answer. So, gentle reader you may be wondering why I am going to subject myself to these tests. The answer is simple... I need to be doing something. Anything. I need to know if and when I get pregnant again that I have done everything that I could to prepare myself for what may come.

So for now we wait. We grieve. We heal. Everyday there is another reminder that I'm no longer pregnant. A customer at work with a very pronounced baby belly, the Gerber commercial that has the power to disolve me into a puddle of weeping mess, the development emails that I forgot I signed up for and can't seem to stop. We try to look towards the future, not counting on a baby to complete our family. We plan our long-put-off honeymoon trip (New York in the fall).

And I try not to talk about her too much. I don't want to make people uncomfortable, but I need to let people know that I had another daughter. Another little girl (of course, it's only our assumption that she was a girl) to miss even though I never met her.

They say that motherhood begins with love. If that's the case, then I am a mother. I love my little girls. My little angels. I always will.

Olivia Noelle
Beloved Daughter
Gone, Forever Loved
January 20, 2009

Emily Hope

Today has been a day to grieve.

Our local health region hosts an annual memorial service for families who have lost babies during pregnancy, during birth, or shortly after birth. The service was beautiful. There were close to 100 people there... parents, grandparents, siblings, and friends... all grieving in one way or another. There were some comforting words said, some nice music played, and a lot of tears shed.

Today has been a day to celebrate.

My darling one and I made a decision today. We decided that we could no longer refer to our baby as the 'little bean' or just 'she'. She needed a name. I will admit when he first brought it up, my instinct was to say no. How could we name someone who we never met? But during the service today I spent a lot of time thinking about it, and a name floated to the surface of my heart.

Hope.

We never got to hold her. We never got to find out what color her eyes were, or if she would have her daddy's thick hair. We never got to discover her personality. We never heard her cry or laugh. But that doesn't make her any less of a person. She was real... is real. We had a daughter.

For the happiest 11 weeks of my life, I cherished the knowledge that our little girl was ours. I still cherish that knowledge. I always will.

Emily Hope
Cherished Daughter
Forever With God
September 11, 2008

Looking forward...

When I was first setting up this blog, I had some pretty big dreams floating around in my head and in my heart.

Or rather, they were little dreams.

Wee dreams.

Sweet, talcum powder scented dreams.

I was looking forward to chronicling and sharing this amazing journey that we were on together, my husband, our little dream-to-be, and I. I imagined being able to save this, and tuck it away for some distant sentimental day in the future, when our family would read it and smile. Maybe even laugh at my extreme cheesiness.

I was looking forward to being tired but happy. To laughing at my body and it's quirks. I was looking forward to choosing paint colors and furniture for what had originally been planned as the office, but now would have another purpose. To sharing these thoughts with close friends and family. I was looking forward to that day when I could introduce our little blessing to the world.

I was looking forward... and we got close.

We were so close to that invisible 'safe' line. The mythical twelve weeks... we were so close we could almost taste it. We had even felt safe enough to start telling people outside of our family. We were ready to invite others to celebrate with us.

Two weeks ago my dream turned into a nightmare. As quickly as our little angel came into our lives, she was gone. No, we don't know for certain that she was a she, but in my heart I knew.

The doctors talked about the percentages, about how this happens to so many families. They talked about the lack of a reason, and the absence of blame. They talked about acceptance and procedures and recovery.

People who mean well talk about how it's likely for the best, that there had to be a reason she stopped developing before she was even two months along. People who care talk about how this happens all the time and remind us that we aren't the first to grieve this loss.

But what do I do with these dreams? I can't pack them away like the sweet little stuffed elephant I found. I can't put them in storage like the stroller and car seat. I can't even bury them in the ground somewhere and mark the place because these dreams have no substance. They are like wisps of cloud that are blown across the sky.

There really is nothing to do with them. So, I must (not so) bravely look forward. I must look forward to the day when I can trust my body. I must look forward to when I can wake up in the morning and not feel this ache so deeply. I must look forward to a day without tears.

I must look forward.