Wednesday, May 06, 2009

The eyes have it

I've started about four billion posts in my head since April 13th, but none of them seem to find their way to the computer screen.

I'm stymied by my inability to figure out exactly what to say. This really is so unlike me. Truly. Just ask My Beloved.

I've also been busy in the garden and busy crocheting and busy getting on with things in general, in the profound absence of anything useful going on in my uterus.

And thinking. I've been thinking too. All. The. Time.

My conclusion? Really, I think it's over. I turned 39 a few weeks ago and it behooves me to face facts like the great big grown-up woman that I am. If I'm unwilling to submit to further surgeries and testing, it's very likely that I've had my last child. Seen my last second pink line. Announced my last pregnancy.

It's over.

And there is so much to say about all that, I just don't know where to begin. I could write volumes on that alone.

Life flourishes all around me. A child on every square corner of my street. Pregnant friends popping out of the woodwork. Multiples. Surprises. They're everywhere.

Except here.

And the thing is, I need to be okay with that. Because this is what it is. This is my life, for better or for worse. Every day I breathe in and I breathe out and the myriad possibilities of a clean, white day stretch endlessly in front of me.

I can write whatever I want on that page. Perhaps I can't be a mother to a living child, but I can still be.

I can grieve my lost babies and still be something more than just a woman grieving her lost babies. This is not the end. I am not finished.

Yesterday I had tea with someone I haven't seen in nearly three years. I've lost two more children since the last time our eyes met. And in those eyes I saw fear. She was afraid of me. Of the person she must be worried I've become. Of my loss and my grief and all the horror I've witnessed and felt. Maybe of the things I might say, the craziness I might suddenly exhibit, the tears I might spontaneously shed.

And it broke my heart. Because while there is an indelible story of grief written deeply in my heart, I'm so much more than that. And I want people to know it. I want them to really, truly know that I am devastated by the loss of my son and by my inability to carry the other four babies we wanted so very much, but I am alive and I have survived and I have thoughts and dreams and hopes that have nothing to do with the carnage of the last six years.

I want it to show in everything I do, and in everything I say, and in everything I don't say.

I want to be walking proof that there is life after loss.

A good life. A happy life.

38 comments:

Doodle - said...

((((HUGS))))

Mrs. Spit said...

Yes. Yes.

Inanna said...

Thank you.

stephanie said...

If anyone I know is that proof, my friend, it's you. I am struck, whenever we're together, by all the ways in which you are still the same vibrant, lively, alive girl you were back in grade two, lo these many years past. xo

loribeth said...

Amen. And (((hugs))).

Ann Smith said...

Yes. I'm right there with you, trying to live this way every day.
There is much to say. And as long as you keep feeling like writing, I'll keep reading.

B said...

I don't know why, this post brought me so many tears.

Maybe, I fear it too.

But I don't fear you. Not a single bit.

Thanks for this post.

It's great reading all the spring posts from the other side of the world.

stat763 said...

Beautiful post and I second Loribeth's Amen.

delphi said...

When I see photos of you, when I hear stories of your life, or, heck, when I read a FB status update there is one thought in my mind: if I could be so vibrant and full of life. I would hope that your oldest friends would see that, too. But change is hard on people, even old friends. Perhaps time will allow them to see the breadth of you that includes the changes in you over the recent years. As you said, you are more than that.

Warmest hugs, my friend.

Kami said...

Beautifully put. I wish you peace and joy in however your life unfolds.

Hennifer said...

Yay! Your words made the tears well up!

Hugs!

Meredith said...

You are more than a woman grieving her children. This post demonstrated perfectly how you are an incredible, strong woman with a lot to offer this world.

Pipsylou said...

Go to my blog and listen to the song. It's for you, too. I have been thinking alot about you.

Just wanted to say that, I guess.

AG said...

Your post really struck a cord with me. I'm 37 and wondering if I'm on the same road. And if that is my eventuality, I don't know how I'm going to handle it. How do we go on missing our babies and unable to produce anymore? It's just killing me.

I'm not at the point where you are - wanting to be seen and known as more than a grieving mom. I still feel broken and if others see me this way, they're right.

I'll keep following your blog and maybe one day, I'll be more than a broken woman.

AG

Coming2Terms said...

I have a deep appreciation for the decisions you're making...here for you.

tireegal68 said...

you are a beautiful writer and the transcendence in your post is luminescent. I know that's too many adjectives, but I can't help it. thank you for sharing your wisdom and sorrow and your journey towards some kind of acceptance of something it is so hard to accept.

mrsmoore08 said...

If only there was a 12 step program for us. I know it can be a hard decision. I wish you the best.

Kristi said...

beautiful.

I often feel the same way, that old friends don't know what to do with me, but I am more than a grieving mother.

Artblog said...

SIGH! So sad to read this post, and so sorry it nevet happened for you, truly.

HUGS and lots of luck and courage for the future.

Catherine said...

At a colleague's farewell party at work (she was leaving for a new job), she said to me..."After all you've been through, it would have been so easy to become bitter and angry...and you are neither." And I knew then that I was going to be ok. Because I had made it. Sure, there was a long time where I faked it...but I'm not faking it anymore.

And you...you are graceful and beautiful and your friends are very lucky to know you...even now...even after "the carnage of the last six years."

Lollipop Goldstein said...

I could not cheer you on more. In all of the grief, there is also so much hope in your words and peace.

Silya said...

This is beautiful. I admire you so much for your outlook, and hope that I can emulate it, whatever my circumstances. Thank you.

Lorza said...

Wow. I am very moved by this post. Thank you for sharing. I am sorry for all your loss {{HUGS}}, and lifted up by your decisions.

Good luck.

Lorza said...

oh, yeah, here from Kirtsy via LFCA

www.ttc-wildride.blogspot.com

Christine said...

Came over from LFCA- I have no words to adequately express how deeply this post has moved me...

miraclebaby said...

*crying*
That is a beautiful post...

Heather said...

So sorry. Of course we have hopes and dreams outside of the carnage. Thank you for reminding us. I'm so sorry you are at this point in your life now. Sigh. (((HUGS)))

Sherry said...

Lots and lots of love and hugs.

Kim said...

(((hugs)))

Denise said...

((hugs)) Beautiful post.

Julie said...

(((((HUGS)))))

B said...

Still thinking of you msfitzia.

How you doing these weeks? Guess I better go take a look at your creations to find out.

take care

b

Kami said...

I find that I want to hear more. How are you doing? How is this new life? I hope you are doing well.

Valerie said...

I'm so glad to have found your blog and so moved by what you have written. It brought me to tears. You're an extremely courageous and beautiful woman.

Today I woke up just craving connection with someone who's been through something similar to my experience. I know people who have lost a child; I know someone who is infertile. But I'm both, and that's a double source of pain for me. Our son James Valentine died at the age of three days, in 2006. Since then I've been trying to conceive and have had no success despite fertility treatments. I'm now 46 and aware that my days of fertility are drawing to a close.

I also identify with not wanting to be defined just by this, and I'm determined to make the most of my life as it is. But sometimes I've felt very alone.

Thank you for sharing something so personal. You've helped me today. If you feel like writing back, I'd be pleased to hear from you, but will also understand if that doesn't feel right to you.

Warmly,
Valerie

Sassy said...

Your words are so beautiful.

I just stumbled over here... please know that they helped me in a time when I needed it. Thank you.

Hapi said...

hello... hapi blogging... have a nice day! just visiting here....

aliza said...

i just found your blog and am so sorry for your losses.

this post resonated with me, it's been almost 11 months since my son's still birth and it's been hard for me to feel like i'm more than this, but i am, we are.

thank you for this honest hopeful post. it's important to remember that we can grieve and continue living, that we are babylost mamas and so much more.

xo

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