Getting The Hell Out Of Dodge

{Missed the previous posts of our Journey to Faith story? start HERE}

~~~ Flashback Post ~~~
Getting the Hell Out of Dodge (March 6, 2015)
 
After nearly four months in bed, many hours of lost sleep, indescribable emotions, and an “all clear” from the doctor to take our long planned and anticipated anniversary trip to Illinois at the end of the month, my husband encouraged me to come with him to a hunting vendor show several hours away that he had been planning to attend for months.

He woke me up at 4:30am and we were on the road shortly after 5:00am. For someone who used to have a 3:00am daily work schedule seven days a week, I found this almost unmanageable. But I got myself out of bed, washed my face, got dressed, grabbed my pillow and blanket, and off we went for the day.

After the upgrade to smart phones a little over a year ago, our traveling adventures have gotten much more enjoyable. See, I never drive, which means I am the “navigator”… I’ve been told it’s usually helpful for those navigating to accurately give helpful turning and travel information. Great in theory, but unfortunately, I am one of those odd people who seem entirely unable to read a map unless I happen to be going due north. In the past, this has lead to many an argument and I have been known to snap the atlas shut and toss it over into my husbands lap and just say, “Find it yourself!” (you know, as he’s driving). And then along came our best friend Siri, and our driving unpleasantries suddenly nearly become obsolete.

We also, believe it or not, are not often overly "talkative” when alone together… I’m quite a Chatty Cathy myself, but my husband is my polar opposite, and his silence often makes up for my over abundance of words. After nearly eleven years of marriage, I often just have entire conversations with him while doing all the talking myself – inserting what I know he’s thinking but not saying in my little sing-song reply voice, and then answer back and forth in return. It will end with a smirk and a shake of his head, meaning I was spot on.

About an hour and a half down the road I found myself talking, even edging softly into that oh-so-close to the surface hurt that we’ve both been trying to not talk about, or been unable to openly talk about due to the fact that less than 1% of all the people we are living life around right now have no idea of this “journey” we are slowly stumbling through right now.  At one point I turned and stated “About five minutes ago you probably starting thinking to yourself ‘What was I thinking asking her to come along… be quiet already!'”… But surprisingly enough, he turned and said, “Actually, I was just thinking how nice it was talking with you.”

We talked about a few things I was hoping to find and purchase beforehand in preparation to what we knew was coming - a birth and a funeral, two words that should never go hand-in-hand.

I wanted to find a pink blanket for at the hospital, as well as for in the casket. I also stated we would purchase two matching blankets, one to go with her, and one for us to keep. I wanted to find a soft pink photo frame to put an ultrasound photo in. I wanted to find a little elastic headband with a light pink flower on it, and I wanted to purchase a special light pink scrapbook, because as hard as it might be, I felt we just needed to carefully document these few and precious moments and memories.

We ended up having a most enjoyable car ride and soon we were parking and heading in to join thousands of other camo clad hunting enthusiasts. We spent several hours there, and afterwards headed out into a beautiful 50+ degree early March sunshine. Thanks to my ever amazing covered bridge locator "app” that my husband had downloaded on my phone a year ago, I batted my eyes and asked him about maybe checking out the covered bridge that showed to be a fairly straight shot down the road we just happened to be on.

With my phone in hand, he easily navigated us right to it, and within ten minutes we walked hand-in-hand through a freshly updated covered bridge with it’s fresh wood and still unblemished red paint. We were only there a few minutes, took a few photos, but as we walked away I was filled with a fullness and smile knowing that while I will never physically get to share with our little Faith her moms great love of the magic and rich history of all things covered bridge, I smiled knowing that while she was still alive within me, we shared at least one walk together through one.

Next we decided to next to a head to a large chain hunting store, another favorite stop of ours, knowing there would be a purchase at their fudge shop, another trip tradition of ours. We also drove through a favorite fast-food restaurant for our usually car meal of chicken ranch wraps, fries, and a malt. We pulled into the adjutant Target parking lot and ate in the car with lighthearted conversation.  We slowing quieted as we finished up, knowing soon we would be heading inside.

We remembered our rushed trip to a Target nearly seven years earlier after we got the call from the adoption agency that our birthmom had gone ahead and signed her paperwork, signing her rights over to the agency, and while she still had another 96 hours to change her mind, it was a promising go-ahead to tell people of the little boy in our arms that we’d quietly driven home from the hospital as a “high risk placement” two days earlier. We had immediately driven to the closest Target (an hour away) and stocked up on all things baby we needed that we had not allowed ourselves to purchase prior to placement.  Always a fun story to recall.

This time we did not carry smiles and excitement as we slowly walked to the baby and infant section. The blanket isle was disappointingly empty, no pink blankets in multiples. I stopped and slowly put a pink floral headband in the cart, and when I looked up, my husband was no longer next to me. I was pretty unemotional as I continued to walk through a few more isles. No pink scrapbooks, no pink photo frames. I continued to look for my husband and later found him by the checkout. He simply told me he had to leave the baby area, he couldn't do it. I paid cash for the tiny headband and we walked hand and hand to the car. We crossed the road and walked into Walmart.

We walked through their photo frames and found nothing. We walked through their scrapbooks and while it wasn’t exactly what I was wanting, I did place a hot pink scrapbook in the cart. We turned slowly to the left and entered their baby and infant area.

I walked over to the blankets. I felt the tears start welling up in my throat and held up two different light pink plush blankets. I turned and asked which one we should pick, he looked at me and said, either was fine. I chose the one that had some fancy scallops, white backing and a small embroidered elephant on it.  I placed two in the cart, and as I turned to leave the area, I was suddenly and absolutely overcome with emotion. I continued slowly pushing the cart but I could no longer see. Suddenly my husband turned and saw me, and he grabbed my arm and said “Keep walking... wipe your eyes… you can do this... this exactly what happened to me at Target and I had to leave… Just keep walking… you can do this..."

And in the middle of the isle, in the middle of Walmart, with the two plush pink blankets resting quietly on the hot pink scrapbook, I nearly absolutely fell apart. My body was wanting to break down into loud choking sobs and huge tears were falling to the floor. My throat was knotted and almost restricting my entire airway.  But I kept walking, trying to suck in huge breaths of air, the pressure of his hand on my arm directing me forward.

I had no idea how I would make it through the checkout process as I numbly fumbled around trying to get them out of the cart and into my husband's hands who was bravely scanned them through the self checkout.  He double bagged it everything, heaven forbid anyone have to see or look at what we were purchasing. I ran the credit card through the machine, placed the receipt in the bag, and we walked back into the sunshine to the car.

We took deep and quiet breaths in the warm and safe silence of the van.  In time we pulled onto the road and started toward home.

We decided to make another Walmart stop in another town along the way to see if we could find some cowboy boots for youngest sons upcoming birthday, which had also been on our list, but we had completely forgotten to look for them on our earlier stops.  After finding no boots we decided it was time to be done shopping on this trip and we headed over to one our favorite restaurant Mexican restaurants. It was a restaurant we had first eaten at when we were dating and had gone to visit my husband's sister at college. Ever since, we have always made sure to stop there any time we were in the area. We ordered our favorite dish, chicken nachos, and ended up taking three take home boxes of leftovers home, because neither one was overly hungry. We spent much of our time there that night just enjoying the memories of days earlier and the day out together we had just shared.

As we drove home, we watched the sun set in front of us, and found ourselves each in quiet thoughts of our own. Each mind swirling with many of the same thoughts, though just not audible.

We were both incredibly glad we’d decided to get the hell out of dodge for the day, grateful for the conversations we’d allowed ourselves to have throughout the day, and while parts of the day were hard and heavy, we were also blessed with an amazing time of ease and freedom interwoven throughout. 

Living - while waiting on the dying.

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Amnio Appointment Part 2

{Missed the previous posts of our Journey to Faith story? start HERE}

~~~ Flashback Post ~~~
Amnio Appointment Part 2 (March 4, 2015)

At the end of the amniocentesis appointment they told us to set up another appointment in a month. We would be getting another phone call in seven to ten days from our genetic counselor with the test results from the amniocentesis. At our next appointment there would be an ultrasound, an echocardiogram to look closer at her little heart, there would be a walk through of the birthing wing, and an extended meeting with the palliative care team to figure out our birth plan.

Palliative care. The definition of palliative care is: the relieving or soothing of symptoms of a disease or disorder while maintaining the highest possible quality of life for patients. A term four weeks earlier I had never even heard of, and it made me weep just thinking about. We should be talking about nursery bedding and cloth diapers, not the possibility of comfort and pain management options for the dying along with our hopes and wishes throughout the birth process depending on when she would pass away within that process.

Also at the end of the appointment the doctor gave us several more nuggets of information we would need to digest.

One – no matter when she would pass away, whether that day or any time to term, she would be vaginally birthed. This I was not prepared for. I had had an emergency C-cection with my oldest after two days of intense labor and delivery. I had had complications and I never planned to attempt vaginal childbirth ever again. I’d also heard stories of women trying to have a vaginal birth after a C-section birth and having extreme complications due to their uterus tearing at the scar area during delivery. I quickly mentioned the fact I’d had a C-cection, and was simply told that when a baby has a diagnosis where they know the baby is not going to live, they will not perform a C-section to endanger or put extra risk on mom or help prolong the life of the baby by allowing it an easier entrance into the world.

The reality of having to labor and deliver a stillborn baby, or one who would not survive birth was something that would take me a long time to wrap my mind around.

We talked about what would happen to her body after she had passed away and was delivered. We could call our local funeral home and have them come for her, or we could choose for her to be kept at the hospital and they would place her with other lost babies, which they processed and placed together periodically at a vault at a local cemetery. At least I believe that was the details of that option, I basically stopped listening after telling them we would have our funeral home come for her.

Two – the doctor made the comment that due to her initial growth and strength, we may be looking at needing a slightly longer plan if she were to not pass away immediately after birth.

I had only processed her life with her birth and death coinciding together. As he spoke these words, for some reason I was struck with utter fear. I had not thought about the reality of possibly having to care for a dying child beyond birth. The likelihood of that, of course, was very slim, but he felt it was something we at least needed to include in our discussion with our care team at our next appointment.

Immediate death was one reality. Prolonged death was entirely something else.

Three – my husband and I had planned a fortieth birthday / anniversary trip over eleven months earlier, and it was coming up in just a few weeks. We were unsure if we needed to try cancel or what we should do. The doctor gave us the ok to go, assuring us with the way the ultrasound looked and her current health and strength, he did not feel we had anything to worry about. He went as far as to encourage us not to cancel, that getting away together for a while might be the best thing we could do.

And then one last fact was laid upon us. In our situation, with the diagnosis we now had, the state we would be delivering in (which was a different state than we lived in) had the option to induce labor up until twenty-four weeks. In simple terms – we could chose to induce her labor and birth up until the point when we knew there would be no survival option outside the womb. We would choose her end.

And as black and white / yes or no of an option as that sounds – I guarantee, within a reality like we were in, it suddenly was not so black and white. While of course my initial answer was that would not be something I would ever consider, truth be told, it was something I wondered if we maybe should spend some serious time in thought, conversation, and prayer over.

This option would give us control. This option would give us a set time frame.  This option would put her birth in a controlled environment. This option was also mixed with all sorts of religious and personal conviction and belief issues I was sure I wouldn't be able to live with. And this option was something ultimately I had final say over as the mom carrying the child.  I didn't even want to think about it, and I surely didn't want to ever have to talk about it.

Dammit Eve... why'd you eat that apple?!?  Oh the continued sigh over the sin of the world.

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Amnio Appointment Part 1

{Missed the previous posts of our Journey to Faith story? start HERE}

~~~ Flashback Post ~~~
Amnio Appointment Part 1 (March 4, 2015)

We returned to the specialty clinic for our next appointment, four weeks after our first visit there. I wasn’t sure what to expect and if I’m completely honest, I wasn’t sure what reality I even wanted to find.

We knew what we were dealing with now. Trisomy 18. But we did not know if she was still alive. We did not know if we would be leaving in an hour after a standard appointment, or if we would be checked in and leaving after whatever would have to happen next. At sixteen weeks – I wasn’t exactly sure what would happen if she had passed away. The only thing I knew, was that I was not going to allow them to send me home like they did after my miscarriage sixteen years earlier. I had not been able to pass naturally and had hemorrhaged. The acute memory of that horrifying event left me wide awake and filled with fear each and every.

Part of me honestly wanted it to be over and done with, and part of me prayed there would still be a precious little heartbeat still pulsing on the ultrasound screen.

We were greeted with the same warmth and kindness as our first visit, with an additional level of care and gentleness, as they now knew we were on a level beyond a standard high-risk upper age pregnancy. I again had tears and overwhelmed emotion as we sat waiting for the appointment.

I carried an uncertainty and fear knowing there would be an amniocentesis procedure administered during this appointment, if she were still alive. I was all too familiar with daily shots and needles, but this was in a realm all of its own in my mind, and I was scared.

We were soon back in the same exam room as the first appointment. And soon the same the ultrasound tech entered and got me ready. The lights went dim and the tv screen on the wall lit up and nearly immediately my husband leaned forward pointing, “There she is – wow, look how big she’s gotten!”

Heartbeat. There was a heartbeat. For a split second, disappointment washed over me.  But as we watched her move and her little heart beat on the monitor before us, I couldn’t help but start to cry in awe and wonderment at this precious little life who was continuing to defy all odds by her simple existence.

For a little longer, the journey would continue.

The doctor came in and looked the information over. The fluid around her head had again grown, over doubling in size, and this time she was showing initial signs of a heart defect. She was measuring small for what she should have been at, and yet he was quite surprised by her growth and how strong she seemed to be.

Again it was a crazy mix of extreme emotions for me, and a small little voice questioned if perhaps… just perhaps… the blood work results could have been wrong. Maybe she just had a heart defect causing the fluid. Maybe they could perform heart surgery after she was born and save her… Maybe she really had Turner Syndrome and not Trisomy 18, and if we could get her to term and through birth, she would have a chance to live. Of course medical results don’t lie… but I just couldn’t help but wonder…

The doctor left the exam room again so they could get everything ready for the procedure. Nurses were in and out with trays full of medical supplies and it was soon spread out over the counter along the wall. At one point, my husband and I were alone in the quiet room and I looked over at the cluttered counter of sterile supplies and I was filled with an intense anger and awareness. This baby had not even been born yet, was not even outside the womb, nowhere close to being able to make her own conscious choice to willfully sin or not sin… and yet she had already been greeted by its ugliness. The only reason she was the way she was – was because she was created within a fallen, sinful world.

I pictured Eve handing Adam the ripe, red apple from the tree of good and evil in the garden, the sun shining warm upon them as they chose to take and bite... to eat. At that moment I cursed Eve for eating that damn apple. That very act all these years later was a direct cause for this innocent, not even fully formed baby’s early demise.

A death sentence signed already at chromosome split number eighteen. Damn Eve. Damn that serpent and his evil wiles.

I laid there gripping my husband’s hand with my eyes shut, tears quietly dripping into my ears, as the multi-person team of nurses and doctors carefully plunged the largest needle I had ever seen to gather the required fluids to perform one more set of tests to confirm our initial blood work test results. There was physical pain mixed with deep emotional and spiritual pain, something I was becoming far to accustomed to over the last month.

I breathed in deeply somehow willing myself to remain calm and strong...

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Miracles

{Missed the previous posts of our Journey to Faith story? start HERE}

~~~ Flashback Post ~~~
Miracles (February, 2015)

Over the last several weeks the topic of miracles have been brought up more than once. I work at a church, so it's not that this is an unexpected topic, but I also would say it's not something talked about much beyond the basic Bible stories.

The initial conversation was the day following our phone call with our blood work results. That dreadful next day at my desk, where I sat as unemotional as possible, giving those I work with a brief update of what we now knew would be happening. This updated including the words funeral home, setting up appointments with a special team to make our birth plan, and a possible palliative care plan… 

My friend stopped me and just stated “But you don’t know that that’s really what’s going to happen, you don’t know what God has in store”… basically the “don’t put the cart before the horse” logic…

Which I get.. I do. But I continued the conversation with my rational.  It's not that I don’t believe in miracles, I honestly do. I completely and totally KNOW God is ABLE and CAPABLE to perform miracles. I also believe He “more than likely” will NOT grant us the miracle of a healthy pregnancy and baby after birth.

I’m not naive enough to boldly say “I believe in God, and I believe in miracles, so I believe this WILL turn out perfect and exactly how me, myself, and I want it to turn out, because God CAN and DOES still perform miracles..." Only then having to reel in the reality and disappointment at the end (or at whatever point this comes to an end) because my believed in miracle was in fact NOT granted.

I believe, but I’m also a realist, and I have a long track record with God, and in all my years, I have learned the hard reality that my earthly hopes and wishes are rarely the realities God is going to grant me. My heart hurts enough already right now, I cannot set up myself up for any more hurt on purpose that I could have shielded myself from.

About a week later we began talking about miracles again. This time initiated by our pastor, as we were talking about his upcoming sermon. He had a statistic about how many people don’t believe miracles still happen, and we again continued on a conversation very similar to the week before.

I kept thinking about it long afterward.

And then it hit me. A miracle DID happen. The miracle of this moment, this journey... was the actual moment of conception. For over a decade we tried to achieve a pregnancy with years of intentional doctoring and treatments. With my total history of nearly seventeen years of infertility after miscarriage, achieving a pregnancy in-and-of-itself is, in fact, an absolute miracle.

It was just the split second after, that everything went drastically wrong. The fall of man, the envelopment of sin, occurred immediately after the granting of the miracle. The first seventeen chromosomes split in two and then bam...

Chromosome eighteen was struck with destruction as it split three ways instead of two. End of miracle. Beginning of utter disaster and heartbreak.

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Trisomy 18

{Missed the previous posts of our Journey to Faith story? start HERE}

~~~ Flashback Post ~~~
Trisomy 18 (Feb 24, 2015)

It was day seven of "the wait" as I sat at the conference room table at my weekly staff meeting. My heart was a little racy and thumpy in my ears as I turned off my phone and turned it over… I sensed "the call" was coming.

We finished the meeting two hours later, and as I began walking back to my desk, I felt the phone vibrate in my hand. I looked down to an unknown phone number with the correct area code... My heart lept, knowing it was "the call."

I answered with a shaky breath while grabbing paper and pen.  I swiftly walked back to a far room and closed the door.  I sat down at the table, where only a few weeks ago I had sat scrabpbooking, a day filled with conversations and laughter with friends.  Now it was quiet and clean, my little piece of paper the only thing on the table.  I longed for the carefree time of life before all "this."

I blindly redialed numbers and we got the three-way call set up, and soon our genetic counselor began giving us the results.

I was waiting for the “Turner Syndrome” words, fearing the “Down Syndrome” words, and was shocked to hear the words “Trisomy 18…”  The whole world fell out beneath me.  I had no idea what Trisomy 18 even was, but I knew it was bad, and I knew it was the ultimate “worst case scenario" diagnosis.

She continued to talk, I blindly scratched a few quick notes, trying not to cry. At the moment of conception when the cells divide, for some reason the 18th chromosome splits three times instead of two. The further the conversation went the worse the information was.  90% of these babies die in the womb before nine months.  Those that do make it to term will either die during childbirth, or very shortly after.

No chance of survival.  Our baby would not live, and would not be going home with us.

I could hear my husband through the phone, and I knew he was crying, which only increased the intensity of my emotions. There we were, once again, both trying to absorb this barrage of information coming at us faster than we were able to process. What a utterly horrible moment in time.  Horrible.

At the end of the phone call I asked if they knew what the sex of the baby was.  There was a pause and then the quiet words... "Yes, it's a girl."

I could hear open sobbing on the other end from my husband, and I just couldn’t go on.  I could.not.go.on.

The phone call ended and I just sat there alone, sobbing loud, ugly, snot-filled sobs for what felt like hours.  The call had ended with both of us crying and I wasn't sure if I should call my husband back, or what I should do about him. I was suddenly filled this odd fear for him for some reason. Picturing him in this big muddy masculine world of construction, in all his tears, all his weakness, and his unknown mindset.  I didn't know exactly where he was, I didn't know if he was alone, I didn't know the level of his stability...

I just didn't know anything anymore... It was like there was a screaming tornado inside me pelting with me paralyzing shrapnel with a darkness enveloping me outside from all corners.

I sent a text and then just called him, not even waiting to see if he would reply. Through his tears I made out the words that he was going home.  I told him I’d meet him there, but I didn't honestly know if I had the capisity or willpower to get myself there.

I finally walked to the office still a sobbing mess.  I put on my coat and others came over, hugging me.  I said I just needed to go home, unable to talk, continuing to sob… I finally got out the words that it was worse than they thought – there was no chance of life – and it was a girl.  I pushed off the arms holding me and blindly bolted for the door, overwhelmed by the desire to escape the building... escape the moment... escape the reality... escape the life I currently was caught in.

But the building was the only obstical of that moment I was able to momentary, physically escape from.  Everything else came with me. Suddenly everything inside me was swirling, screaming, and panic filled. It was a crisis-mode reality spinning out-of-control within every cell of my body, and I was unable to escape.

I got in my car and made it from the building to the end of the parking lot before I found myself gasping for breath and filled with complete and utter anger at God. A real, shaking rage. This was the most unfair, most unjust possible thing.  I screamed obscenities through a clenched fist to the Heavens.  In absolute disgust, filled with snot, tears and spittal I spat “This is the ONE THING you DO NOT FUCKING mess with me with!  DO YOU HEAR ME?!? This is the ONE thing that I have desired MOST and You have denied me all these YEARS!  WHY THIS?!?  WHY in the world would THIS be Your answer to my wish, my dreams, my prayers?!?  WHY THIS?!?"

I was angry.  I was furious.  I was heartbroken.  I was utterly devastated.

I had so many emotions I was left emotionless.

I arrived at home and sat on the couch until my husband walked through the back door.  We met in the kitchen, hugging and crying together.  We sat down on the couch in utter silence, on our phones, each typing in the dreaded words in the search engine.  I clicked on the webMD website link.  I read one small article, with all the horrifying details of the condition and a few heartbreaking photos. I sent a copy of the link, with no other words, to my best friend at work.  I clicked the window shut and turned off my phone.

I swore I would never read one more article, not one more word about it again.  Ever.

 

A little while later, my boss, who is also our pastor, pulled in the driveway and came in.  It was all still so fresh, so intense, so unprocessed.  We talked, but I was an emotional mess, and rational enough to know it, which made me even more mad.  I didn't want to be a total babbling lunatic. I didn’t know what to say... what to think... what to pray.  Everything was muddled and repeated, a tangled web of raw emotion.  I repeated over and over my immediate anger at God. We were less than an hour into this diagnosis and I was already fearful I would end up old, bitter, and separated from God. I did not want my faith to be lost, jeopardized, or even minimized, but I had no idea how I was going to prevent that. This is the deal breaking kind of crap that can cause the rift of separation from religion, leaving one on the brink of insanity, addiction, and suicide.

God had just assigned us to a journey neither one of us chose, and neither one of us wanted to be on. And there was no off ramp.

We were soon alone again and aimlessly pacing around the house. I commented through my tears that no matter what, we could not let this end our marriage.  We could not let ourselves get messed up in anything. Yes, I apparently watch too much television… too many Discovery Channel “Intervention” episodes, too many reality shows of bitter, angry, divorced, failed marriages after some traumatic event in their lives occurred which they just couldn’t process and get through together.  I made him promise me no matter how mean, how ugly, how unkind I was going to be (because that’s how I get when I’m upset and trying to deal with things I don’t want to – I lash out on others in an ugly and selfish manner).  He promised me he wouldn’t, although at that moment I can’t say I totally believed him.

We sent a message to my parents to pick up our youngest from daycare, and to bring him home at 7:00pm…  When they arrived we started his shower and as he splashed and sang in the bathroom we sobbed and hugged my parents telling them in a few short words what we’d found out earlier.  They returned home to process the news within their realm of reality, and we put on our normal faces and finished up showers and bedtime routines and climbed into bed.

There was no sleep that night for me.  There was a horror show on repeat within the deepest recesses of my mind, body, and soul.

I got up in the morning not knowing what to do with myself.  Do I go to work? Do I stay home?  Do I tell everyone? Do I tell no one?  Do I figure out how to live?  Or do I figure out how to die?

I put on a hoodie and my best “all is good” face.  I got Isaiah to school.  I got myself to my desk at work.   And I faced the new reality of being caught in the crazy vortex of having to live, to go forward, to face the next moment, to face the next day... when I had no idea how to get my feet to put one foot in front of the other in any sort of forward direction.

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The Trickiness of Mother's Day

In a few days the world is going to be celebrating Mother’s Day. Oh yes, that “magical” day of picture perfect families smiling and celebrating with their perfect love plastered all over social media, filling church pews, restaurant booths, and emptying flower shops all over the country.

I dread Mother’s Day.

Don’t get me wrong, I love and adore my own mother and want to celebrate her greatness. I love and adore my mother-in-law and also want to celebrate her greatness.

And then things start to get a little dicey.

I’m a mom myself – but to be honest, I don't often feel “celebrated”. Yes, there may be a homemade card from school and there might be a last minute gift my husband could pick up on his way home from the lake to greet me with after my long morning of working at church, but overall – I’m just in this overlooked and under appreciated vortex of motherhood right now filled with long days at work outside the home, sandwiched between meal planning, laundry, cleaning, and traveling to and from pee-wee sports on the home front. And yes I am fully aware that being “celebrated” does not have to include the mushy cards and expensive gifts portrayed on all the tv commercials right now. But a mom can dream can't she?  I guess, I just long to be noticed, appreciated, and thanked for all the things I do... (But I don't think I'm actually supposed to admit that out loud.)

Yes, as I stated early, I am a mom myself and some of you are wondering why any mom would dread Mother’s Day. Well, I have a biological adult son, from a previous marriage, who is in college and whom I don't see much of these days. He might realize what day it is and show up for a few minutes to chat, but he might not, and that’s ok. I have an adopted elementary age son who has both me and a birthmom to consider when he talks about his mom, and that's ok too. And he is too young to shop or take on any kind of “celebration planning” on his own so that all falls primarily on my husband, and let’s just say, as hinted upon earlier... he is not a pre-thinking gift-giver kind of guy, and that's just who he is... so that's ok too. And I have a daughter who was stillborn (after sixteen years of infertility) and is forever asleep in the cemetery across town, which I'm not ok with, but I can't do anything to change that.

Needless to say, Mother’s Day is not one of my favorite days of the year.

What I think is hardest for me on Mother’s Day is this crazy odd mix of wanting to really be celebrated and recognized for what I all do without having to actually do it myself, yet fully celebrate the gift of my mother, my mother-in-law and my children, while also being very aware of various degrees of pain and hurt within me and many others around me that revolve around the word “mother”.

That’s like a tie-dye of emotional messes right there.

There are so many that will lie in bed not wanting to get up. Not wanting to face having to go to church and family dinner. Not wanting to breathe in the social media onslaught of another Mother’s Day. Our hearts are heavy, our eyes are wet… and while we do want to celebrate those who are and can be celebrated, it’s just not always that easy. And for many, it’s another benchmark of another passed year. Another year when you hoped things would be different by… but they aren’t.

There are the strong and amazing single women waiting for God to answer their prayer for a husband and someday start a family of their own… Mother’s Day is hard for her in the wait. There are single moms who do it all themselves day in and day out… Mother’s Day is hard for her amid the unbelievable weight of her wait. There are wives who are waiting for God to answer their prayers for the gift of child… Mother’s Day is hard for her in the hopeless and empty wait. There are birthmoms who chose life and gave the gift of motherhood to another woman… Mother’s Day is hard for her as she thinks of the child that she didn’t keep in her arms and raise as her own, and she waits and wonders if someday she may get the chance to re-unite. There are adoptive moms who became moms because of someone else's loss… Mother’s Day is a bittersweet mix of gratefulness and utter heartache over the magnitude of loss that she knows was given to her. There are those who were adopted… Mother’s Day is hard as they celebrate their adoptive mother while wondering about who and/or where their biological mother is and question some of their own identity issues. There are mothers who have lost their children to death… Mother’s Day is hard for her as she struggles with the “whys” and having to wait until she will be reunited with her lost precious little ones again someday in Heaven. There are mothers whose children have rebelled, made poor choices, walked away, are in jail or some other personal prison… Mother’s Day is hard for her as she waits and prays diligently over the lost and broken, longing for their return. There are those who desperately miss their own mothers who were lost to old age, cancer, or other illness or tragedies at a much younger age… Mother’s Day is hard as they wait to be reunited again in Heaven and oh how they long for just one more day to hug her and tell her how much she was loved…

To all of you who are sad, lonely, hurting, and confused amid the various levels and degrees of the “celebration” this Mother’s Day, know you are not alone. Many will not voice it, many will remain silent and smile with a little smile trying to convince ourselves and the world that all is fine…

But it’s not all fine… and that’s ok.

It’s ok to hurt. It’s ok to be sad. It’s ok to be a crazy mix of emotions on Mother’s Day.

It is my prayer that this Mother’s Day we can somehow figure out how to conquer all this “trickiness” and celebrate all our own mothers in some special way. I hope we can honor and remember all those mothers who are gone, and I hope we can all be mindful and filled with grace, love, and compassion for those who are struggling with whatever mama hurts are in their hearts. The world at large will celebrate with a big hurrah this Mother’s Day, but just because the calendar states it’s a national holiday, doesn’t mean it’s going to be one hundred percent perfect and filled with reasons to celebrate on the grander scale of things for every single person.

Watch closely for those at church or in your family or friend gatherings with tears, recognize those who are absent from regular activities, reach out with purpose to those who you know might need a special touch or little word of encouragement and hope, and within all of your lovin’ and celebratin’ with your families – just remember not everyone has been granted the gift of motherhood yet that has asked for it, and not every mother is filled with the full desire to celebrate (but I guarantee every mother probably IS filled with the desire TO BE extravagantly celebrated). {wink wink, hint hint}

Ohhhh please, don’t read this and feel guilty or bad... I simply ask to just be aware and sensitive of all those around you.  Be kind, be loving, be considerate, and be gracious in all your thoughts, words, and deeds on this wonderfully awesome and oddly not-so-awesome holiday of Mother’s Day.

And to my mom - I {heart} you to the moon and back {#rockstar}!

{ next blog post, "Trisomy 18" HERE }

{ Previous blog post, "Waiting on Test Results" HERE }

Waiting on the Test Results

{Missed the previous posts of our Journey to Faith story? start HERE }

~~~ Flashback Post ~~~
Waiting on the Test Results (Feb 22, 2015)

Life continues and the days are slowly passing after our last appointment.

Our viles of blood are somewhere in a lab in California.  We are at the mercy of their time and their expertise.

Sleeping continues to be the hardest for me right now.  I lay down and all these images and scenarios flood my mind, overtaking my logic.  I have two roads of thoughts engulfing me at all times.  One, a reality I lived through sixteen years ago that still haunts my nearly every thought, and one an unknown chasm of made up horror stories cycling through thousands of different possible scenarios.

I carry this crazy fear of miscarriage, where I stand up and just bleed out. I fear the “when/where/hows” of that possible reality… It happened before. Satan has me convinced it will happen again.  I have towels and large garbage bags in all our vehicles.  I'm supposed to stay within a ten mile radius of a hospital at all times.  I carry a deep fear of my own death right now.  It's not death itself that I'm fearing, for I know I will be embraced into the glory of eternity, but it's more the fear of the life left behind on earth for my boys. What will happen to each of them, what fate will betray them if I were to die from the death of the unborn within me?

I also carry the unknown fears thinking through the details of a stillbirth and all the fears of that “when/where/how”… I think of all the different possible issues and birth defects this baby could have. Each possibility bringing a different string of life's reality woven amid it.  Many of my thoughts are focusing on Turner Syndrome, Down Syndrome, and the horror of miscarriage.  I have come to grips with the possible reality of Turner Syndrome, and feel that is a reality we could handle, a best case scenario of sorts in light of all we've been told it might be.  If I'm completely honest, I'll admit I don’t want the baby to have Down Syndrome, but of course will be more than happy to accept that if that’s what it is.  I don't know anything about Triosomy 18, and while that is something being tested, it isn't a likelihood really talked about as something the baby may have.

I just desperately pray I won’t miscarry.  Oh, I pray earnestly not to miscarry. I pray fervently the test results come back clear of all things.  Although, this would then indicate the baby may have a heart defect, which will be an entire different beast of burden to endure and enter into.

Oh the cycle of insanity just doesn't stop within.  Always turning, always burning.

I breathe in and out – willing myself to pray, to sleep, to stop thinking, to just somehow… continue.

In order to try trick my body into sleep, I take an over-the-counter sleeping pill at 7pm and climb in bed with our six year old with hopes we will both drift off by 9pm…  Most nights I wake up again by midnight, and I find it works well to then take the prescription sleeping pill they gave me, which kicks in quickly, but does not last very long, yet usually allows me to get to morning with my brain relatively silent.

I had to stop setting a daily alarm clock back at the end of January, as it is nearly impossible to get myself out of bed before 6:30am right now.  What a far cry from the seven-day-a-week 3am religious cake business work hours I have faithfully kept for the past six years.  Now, my husband showers and gets ready for work, wakes me up, making sure I know I need to get up and get going so I can get the kids and myself to school and work on time.

I find myself incredibly grateful for faithfully listening to God’s whisper back in December as I started cutting back on cakes. I was able to fairly easily step into the full time work position I was offered a few weeks ago at church.  I'm grateful my cake business, which is typically ramping into absolute overload by early spring, I have continued to to dial back on.  The days I do have to get up at 3am for cake work is absolutely killing me.

I've somehow managed to go from an overachieving, energetic, work-a-holic to a big, lazy, worthless lump-of-nothing every morning.  A big, lazy, worthless lump-of-nothing my entire day…  I feel sick all the time.  And not just a "morning sickness" sick... while I'm sure that's part of it, this is an all together different "unable-to-function" kind of sick. 

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