Speaking Truth

Thanks to Holli for letting me share :)

When Holli posted that tweet about a week ago, I was struck.  The day before, I had finally worked up the nerve to write my last post.  It took so much for me to break the silence in the limited way that I did to begin to address what I have spent the last two and a half weeks trying to ignore.

What has resulted from that suppression is anxiety levels that have my OCD so out of control I am on the verge of panic attacks. Insomnia is rampant because all I can think about is the laundry list of things that need to be done in my house and at work.  I have been able to eat very little because my nerves are on edge.  I am focused on everything else that is around me to not have to focus on what is going on inside me.  My lack of control over what's going on has only served to create a circular problem:  the more control I try to exert, the less handle I have on it, the more anxiety I have, the more control I try to exert....and around and around it goes.

And so, this post is meant to take a page out of Holli's book and speak my truth out loud.  I have been testing it a little with people around me.  I can't say that it has been easy for me, because I am engaged in an internal war.  Okay, I realize that sounds a bit melodramatic, but I'm going with it anyway.

When Z was two years old, our attempts to use Clomid (which had previously resulted in two successful pregnancies) failed.   We decided to take a break and reassess what we wanted to do.  Last year, hubs and I decided to take our infertility treatments to the next level and visited a fertility clinic.  We wanted to see what our options would be.

After some fairly invasive tests for me and some very embarrassing ones for him, the road ahead for us was paved with three letters:  IVF:  in-vitro fertilization.   Since this post is about my truth and not IVF details, I will save that one for another post.  I think those dealing with it need to hear about it, but for now, I need to finish what I started.

On 9/6, after completing our second IVF round (the first one obviously failed, or this would be a COMPLETELY different post), I waited for THE call.  I had gone to Nashville to once again donate to the vampires (I mean, really, do they need THAT much blood all the time??)  I kept checking my phone, making sure I hadn't missed the call while the phone was on vibrate during my meetings.   

And then the call came. 

Hope, so dangerous.  So scary.

While I had the smallest glimmer of hope, I kept trying to prepare myself for what could be my reality.

What BECAME my new reality:  I cannot have any other children.

The IVF failed.  The science failed.  And I feel like I failed.

I feel like I failed my husband and my son.  I know I did everything I could: followed the protocol to the letter, stuck myself so many times that a pincushion had nothing on me, dealt with all the side effects, and dropped trou so many times I was ready to ask for dinner first.   I also know that I am blessed to have the child that I do, as so many others never have that joy.

And knowing all that logically isn't helping me one bit.

My husband is the oldest of nine children and has wanted more (just a couple more, even just one more), and my son has asked so many times about when he is going to get a baby brother that I am out of vague responses.    And I don't know how you tell a five year old "never."

So now, I am trying to deal with the hand I have been dealt.  I am struggling with wanting more than God has given me.  I feel guilty for being selfish, and I never want my son to think that he isn't enough. 

He is MORE than enough.  He is a bright, beautiful, amazing child, and I am lucky that God has entrusted me with his care. Every day, he follows so many of our traditions.  He asks me "Do you know what I need now?"  Then he falls into my lap for cuddles.   At bedtime, he asks me to give one of his stuffed animals extra hugs and kisses to get him through the night, and I become Mommy whatever-he-chose. The sound of "Night, Night Mommy Kangaroo" is ringing in my ears as I write this, and it will carry me through the night.

And I still want more.  I want more for him, more for his dad, more for me.  I see my mom and her siblings band together to do what is best for my papa, and I am pained by the thought that he might have to deal with any of our health issues in old age by himself.

I know the only way to move past this moment and to focus on our future is to own all my feelings and "to stay out of my own way."

And, at the top of it all, speak the truth and "let the truth speak through me."







 

A Dangerous Thing

image via http://www.bradleygauthier.com

I am starting to believe that Frank Darabont might have been right:

"Hope is a dangerous thing.  Hope can drive a man insane."

Being a natural planner (read: control freak), I like to be prepared.  This creates an ongoing struggle between me, hope, and faith.  Focusing on hope and faith do not allow me to focus on control.  It means I can't have control of my own agenda.   

I will grant you, it is nice to consider that I could make my own choices in all things.  I could choose to make my family healthy.  I could choose to make the struggles in my life and in the lives of those that I love go away with a simple wish.  And that might work if I remain altruistic through my entire life.  And if that was available to everyone, what if altruism went out the window and greed and retribution were allowed to seep in?  Yeah, not so nice to think about it that way.

As of late, hope has failed me. There are new aspects of my life where I can no longer cling to the hope that things might be different. What I want to happen will not, and I must accept my new reality and move forward.

After suffering both a heart attack and stroke, my grandfather is vastly different than he was just over a week ago.  The strong, independent, outspoken man I have always known is now in need of help and patience.   While I could hope that one day he will heal and be exactly like the man I have known my whole life, reality says that while he may get better, he will be changed.  We all will be.

A few days prior, I was forced to face another new reality.   That wound is still gaping and raw around the edges.  The pain of that reality is so fresh for me that it is hard for me to speak of it outside of my close circle.  Even then, I struggle with the words.  Each time I try to reassure those who love me that "I'm going to be fine,"  I wonder if I really am.  I know that I will have to be eventually.  I will have to accept what is and move on and make adjustments.  I know it will take time and patience, and patience has never been one of my strengths.

And this leads me to why hope has been and could continue to be dangerous.

I want to cling to what was, to a time when I didn't have answers and hope was still feasible. Hope allowed me to imagine a different reality. It allowed me to envision a different future for myself and my family.  And while that hope allowed me to function at that time, it didn't prepare me for the reality that was to come. 

So now, when I would normally be moving solidly into Plan B (or C or D or...you get the idea), I'm not able to do anything.   There are no plans that I can make or lists I can check off that will change the reality for my Papa, my family, or myself. 

And I feel lost.  

I know that in time I will take the lessons learned and be stronger for them.  My brain can logically tell you all the steps, all the motions, and the eventual outcome.  Because, for all my realism, I am still an optimist.  I still count on God and those I love to get me through and to provide me strength when I am at my weakest. 

And some day soon I will have the audacity to hope again.

Just not today.



 

Five

Today, Aidan turns five.  He is hopping, skipping, and jumping.  He knows his colors, the alphabet, and can recite his address.  He is getting ready to start kindergarten.

All of which he is doing in Heaven.

Five years ago today, I said goodbye to my son.  I said goodbye to all of those dreams of watching him grow, of walking him to class on his first day of school, of blinking back tears as I wondered at how he had managed to grow up so quickly.

I still remember waking up on July 25, 2005 and wishing that it wasn't real.  I remember thinking that God wouldn't hand me a dream just to snatch it away.  I was so...angry.  I wanted to lash out.  I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs.  And at the end, I wanted to crawl up in a hole and disappear.

But I couldn't.  As much as I wanted time to stand still, it wouldn't.  As much as I wanted life to stop, it didn't.

Life and time are funny that way.  No matter how much you think you need time to stand still, however briefly, it doesn't.  And now, five years later, I look back with amazement.  I am amazed that I survived, when I didn't think I would.  I am amazed that I write this without a resurgence of resentment towards the Almighty.  And I am amazed that God would give me a second chance when I spent a great deal of time lashing out at Him for taking away my first.

And I am amazed that I can breathe.

The pain is still there.  I know it will always be there.  I will never fully recover from losing Aidan.  Five years later, I cannot look at his first pictures.  They are stored away; a box of memories that I will one day be able to open.

When Z is old enough, I will share that box of memories of his big brother with him.   I will tell him how sad I was to lose Aidan, but that it was in that loss that I found the strength to move forward.  In that loss, I found compassion and understanding, and in the end, hope.  

So today, five years later, I think back on my son and realize that he IS hopping, skipping, and jumping.  He knows his colors, the alphabet, and can recite his address.  He is getting ready to start kindergarten.

He is just doing it in Heaven.