My Simple Soundtrack

It would always take a long time for our water to get lukewarm.  So, my childhood mornings were partially spent in our only bathroom.  It was the 80’s--water conservation was not on my radar, and Boy George was my daily soundtrack.  The frigid water ran at full-force while I methodically brushed my crooked teeth.  By the time I was done, the tepid liquid would coat my round face in some form of readiness.  As I stumbled into an awkward trot towards teenagedom, my morning-routine-thoughts would be rampant.  Will I ever fill an A-cup bra?  Will I get in trouble for leaving class and climbing a ladder to the top of the high school?  A woman nursing a hungry man--Steinbeck is a genius.   Over time, the quiet dialogue of the running water became my daily sunrise companion. 

This evening, I stood at the sink to wash the dinner dishes.  The water heated quickly, and I got to work.  My heart warms and slightly aches.   Mom, you did this every evening, and it’s how I picture you most when I think of you.  Our single-wide did have a dishwasher, and it made sense to use it as a drying rack.  Remember?  The window before me overlooked our large backyard, and Jeremy was catching the girls at the base of the slide.   

Pandora was playing my constant singer songwriter station; however, the chortles, happy screams and occasional cries of my silly children jumpstarted my ears and filled my whole body.  Our evening was simple, and we needed it. 

While most use the final notes Auld Lang Syne as the catalyst for yearly aspirations, my annual start typically begins with the advent of school days.  As an educator, this is habit.  Sailors curse, Texans say “pen” for “pin” and teachers become afresh and anew with hot August days and 10 cent folder sales.  Our 2013-2014 was hard.  Our family unit basked in big losses and daily discomfort.  Our positive temperaments (barely) persevered, and we made it okay.  We have our health, the kids are happy and we still find ourselves busting out an occasional dance.  

Tonight, Jeremy grilled some chicken.   The evening prior, I took the time to make some homemade salsa.  Not one to typically enjoy the process of making food, as of late, I exposed another version of myself.  I made Mom’s banana bread last week, and now I made some salsa with a healthy dose of cilantro.  Who am I?  The girls took their place on the window bench, and Jeremy and I salivated at our creations.  

Our tongues awesomely burned with the moderate dose of jalapeños, and our palette happily sang as the sour crème soothed the heat.  The freshly grated Irish cheese took her place atop the tender chicken, and the homespun pico-de-gallo perfectly adorned the meal.  We filled our bellies.  With each bite, my yearly battery refueled.  The meal was perfectly interrupted by the demands of an evening jaunt in the backyard.  My kind Jeremy took them outside, and I gladly stayed inside with my thoughts and cleaning hands. 

On this evening, I let the water run.  Her sundown song brought the same ease and familiarity as her morning musings of long-ago.  I am still working on the Grateful that is still to be found from our last year, and I know that’s okay.  I am looking forward to the new and wonderful that I know awaits us, and I already have what it takes to make it a good year.  They're right in front of me—still chortling, happily screaming and occasionally crying on this lovely evening.

  

Om and Sh*t

I am a minimalist—I opt for paperless car insurance bills (because that’s all they offer), only take the number of napkins needed for one anticipated drink spill per offspring and do yoga poses every other week.  (Some may argue that I am merely stretching my arms.  To those people, I say, I do not put a great deal of mental energy into office-voyeurs.)  On the Consumption Scale, I would like to think that I am hovering way below average.  Just by living in Austin and owning a Subaru, I should have a few points of consumption-cred knocked off my overall score, right?  Recently, I was sitting at our kitchen table drinking my morning coffee.  Since I am of the minimal-sort, I just let my mind be in the moment.  I am the essence of zen (or I may have had nodded off).  My children were yelling about booby cracks (cleavage), and I simply let the screech of their voices go into my ears, accepted their passionate stances, and embraced their inappropriate conversations..   My sitting-śavāsana was interrupted by the various clanking of crap being poured onto the table. 

As I was sitting on my motherly laurels, Jeremy was using the morning time to clean out Ruby’s backpack.  For a human who has only existed in this realm for less than 40 months and weighs a mere 26 pounds, she has surely acquired a heavy load of kid-shit.  Let me present Evidence A: 

Visions of my sweet future-Ruby hoarding all brands of whitening toothpaste flashed before my almond eyes.  I could not bear to see her über-white teeth existing in a small apartment with various collections of doll heads, magical crystals derived from unicorn sweat and jars of Jiffy.  With my final sip of java, my maternal instincts kicked in, and I started to organize.  Zen-no-longer, my left brain kicked in and I grouped the items.  The bloody aftermath of my consolidation skills resulted in several collections.  Now, in my dictionary, a collection is when two or more items with similar characteristics are together.  For example, the other day I locked eyes with the man I married.  Our brood was simultaneously and loudly saying, “We won’t, we won’t back down!”  (Disney channel movie quotes are the devil.)  As we existed in the same space, a collection of tired, middle-aged parents fearing the impending Lord of the Rings-esque revolt occured.  Ruby’s collection entailed the following: 

1.  Buttons:  So boring and round

2.  Wooden blocks with buttons:  So thrilling, round and with angles!

3.  Creepy, little dolls:  Remember Dollhouse Murders?

4.  Writing utensils:  Ruby appears to steal these from various places.  Quick, little hands on that one.

5.  Various coins:  Thank goodness it's real money.  I accidently gave a homeless man Chuck E. Cheese coins last weekend, and he gave me a nasty look.  Bennet looked confused, and Jeremy appeared apalled at my (accidental!) stinginess.

6.  Small rocks:  Ruby loves to collect little rocks and carry them as babies--faceless babies with no limbs who are easily misplaced.

7.  Slinkies:  How does one acquire multiple slinkies in the year 2014?

8..Clothespins:  We use these to keep chips from getting stale not for drying our clothes like good   people do.

And, of course, there were also single items mingling:

1.  Used spoon:  This is so nasty.  Her parents must be unsanitary.

2.  Band-aid remants:    Because I am a parent who cares about open wounds (but not throwing away trash).

3.  Used napkin:  This is disgusting.  Her parents must be unsanitary and need to consider going green by using cloth napkins.

4.  Watch:  Understanding time and the ability to read a watch is overrated.

5.  Bag for magical crystals:  This item is clutch for any parent and wizard.
6.  A note in her lunchbox:  This makes up for not using cloth napkins regularly.

Okay, so I admit I have some work to do.  I am all about purging and simplicity, and I appear to be a walking, yogi hypocrite.  I must do better and teach my children the importance of nothingness.  In the meantime, I will clear my mind of this shit with a good ole tree pose.  Let me present Evidence B with little Ruby Lee: 

Om and om.  

You're Here

Today is like no other day.  My thoughts eventually turn down a path that is paved with small and big moments about you, Mom.  I’m not quite sure where you end, and I start.  It’s a race with no other runners, and I don’t ever win. 

I keep our stories to myself, and my inner-voice is laced with your messages.  I hear your words when Bennet is making another righteous argument, and I keep your messages in my already-packed head.  Every time I see Ruby sleeping, I say quietly to myself, “Love, you look so much like her.”  This is what I have done for so long.  My energy has been given to the lack of your existence in the girls’ lives.  Ironic how draining it is to give much energy to something that is not present on earth.   Let’s be honest—it’s not even about the children.  It’s about me, your eldest daughter, and I know it. 

Something has changed in the last few months.   I have been seeing Julie each week, and she has given me something that I have unknowingly needed this past decade.  She gave me permission to let you be alive in our lives.  I have been selfish, and I have kept you all to myself.  I am good at talking, and yet, I rarely speak your name in their presence.  You were nameless to them up until now.  Mom, they call you Ya-Ya.  It is perfect, and each time their sweet voices say it, my breath stops.  This has brought me much joy.  It also makes my heart ache, but it’s different.  There is hope in this.  There is peace in knowing that you are now alive to them.  It is starting to change, and I am finally beginning to heal. It's time.  

You’re here.  We were eating dinner not so long ago.   “Mama?” said Ruby, “Ya-ya loves the clapping song.  Remember the song?  Miss Alyssa showed us in school.”  She then put her small hands together to clap and scrunched up her round face to recall the tune.   (You always clapped when you sang to Kim, Dan and I.)  Then, she jumped off of the window seat, ran over to our family photos, pointed to your picture, and said so matter-of-factly, “There she is!  There is Ya-Ya!  See, Mama?  See?”

You’re here.  While sitting on the couch one evening, Bennet indignantly said, “Hey!   I am making Ya-Ya a picture.  How do I get it to her?!”  This moment reached into the darkest parts of me and shined the slightest sliver of light.  She came up with a solution, and I have no words for it. 

This morning on the way to school, she asked if you received your picture.  I took it upon myself to let her absolutely know that her artwork for you arrived timely and was well-received.

You’re here.  I told Bennet our favorite story.  I told her about how great-grandma left her husband when grandma was just a little girl.  I told her about how they lived in a mud home in the forest.  Were they lonely, Mama?  Then, I told her about how thieves would try to dig tunnels into the mud house.  She was very upset about this.   The robbers are the s-word!  They are stupid and mean.  I then told her the brilliant plan.  “Bennet, there was a plan.  Great-grandma had lots of different men’s shoes in the house.  So, when they heard digging, she would put a different shoe on each foot.  She would tell grandma to do the same.  Then, they stomped around the house.  And, you know what?  The robbers would hear the shoes and think that big men lived in the house.  So, they would go away!  They left?!  Great-grandma used her brain!  Here is the picture she drew after I told the story.  Mom, do you see me in the picture?  She drew me as an angel.  Mama, that’s you.  You were not born yet.  So, you’re still in heaven, okay?

Then, she went to my bedroom, found two of Jeremy's shoes, put them on, stomped around her room and quietly muttered about silly robbers. 

Mom, you’re finally here.  I've missed you.  

My Pride (and Prejudice)

The day I found out I was having a daughter, I cried.  What the hell am I supposed to do with a girl? I prefered jeans, never owned a Barbie, flirted as well as a bucket of fried chicken and occasionally (or daily) smelled my armpits.  With every cell in my body, I could not bear the thought of having my first child be a girl.  I was my mother’s first daughter, and our relationship was passionate in the best and worst of ways.  History, I felt, was repeating itself, and I was not emotionally and physically prepared.  Then, I decided that my daughter would be resilient, smart, autonomous and ooze gumption.  Ann Richards, the badass, would be a dim light next to my kid.  On a Tuesday, at exactly 11:00 pm, the world granted my wish.  Bennet, named after the loving and self-assured Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, has rocked my world since that April day.  I am  a woman wizard--I willed my kid’s personality.

She is the most complex, passionate and prideful (other than my mother) human I know.  I do not yell, and I stumble upon some beast version of myself that is roaring words at her face.  Working with children feels natural to me, and she makes me work so damn hard.  I naturally labored for 10 hours on Pictocin (similar to being repeatedly punched by warlocks falling from the sky) with her, and every interaction since then has remained the same—honest, from-the-gut, passionate and effortful.  She can bring me my highest highs, and she has shown me the lowest of valleys as a mother.  And you know what, I cannot contain my excitement for the woman she will one day become. 

I cannot wait for the day you let go of you pride to see your full, wonderful and bountiful worth.

I cannot wait for the day you show your true dancing, loving, emotional self without abashment.  

I cannot wait for the moment you realize how much the world needs you.

Sweet dear, you are my Amazing.  Today, I want to thank you for your wisdom.  You have taught me much.

Don’t put up with people’s shit  Since day one, some may say that Bennet is fickled when it comes to letting people in.  What I have come to realize is that she is open and honest with those who approach her without an ego.  If you try too hard, it ain’t happening.  Use lies?  She’ll see through it.  Try to coax her with lack of sincerity, she’ll just walk away.  However, be truthful, be kind and give her your time, and you have sealed a friendship for all days.  She does not have time for anything less than uber-meaningful.  This, folks, is life-efficiency at its best.  Give time to those who matter most. 

Find another way  At the age of one, Bennet wanted a cookie.  So, I gave her one.  “Mama, more cookie.”  On this day, I was not willing to agree to her conditions.  “No, Bennet.”  My father then came to the table, and Bennet quickly said, “A cookie for Popeye.”  She reached for another cookie and placed it in front of him.  As he was about to grab the treat, she simply said, “Popeye share,” and looked at him straight in the eyes.  My dad was so tickled by her selfish and brilliant antics that he gave her the whole damn thing.  She got her way, and she used her brain. 

(Really) Listen to music  Bennet loves, loves, loves music.  She can differentiate between all of the singer-songwriters.  “Mama, Passenger, Ed Sheeran and Ben Howard sound a lot alike.”  When a beat is dropped, sheesh, you best get out of the way.  Her body will start to shake, convulse and move with as much force and energy as the Beastie Boys (one of her faves).  At 13 months, Bennet would start to tear up and cry if we played a ballad.  Whether it was a slow lullaby or a perfect classical piece, her whole body would respond.  She takes the time (and heart) to find beauty in one of life’s greatest pleasures.  Music is good for the soul, and she lives this daily.

Love and love and love  She has so much love to give.  She thinks about the homeless, dogs who are lost and those who love her most.  Recently, I told Bennet about my miscarriage.  She is a baby whisperer.  She wears a real Bjorn around the house and in public.  Her favorite smell is baby (and books).  She carries her babies in a real infant car seat (this makes us look like lazy parents) and puts it in the trunk of the Subaru (this makes us look like criminals).

After several days of Mama crying and  being sad, I knew it was time to bring her in.  After watching Up, Bennet knew that sometimes babies don’t live here on earth.  She has asked a lot of questions, and we have answered them all.   I took a slow breath and told her my story.

Bennet:  Mama, your baby is in heaven?

Me:  Yes.

Bennet:  How big was the baby?

Me:  She was small, love.

Bennet:  That’s why you’re sad? Because she's not here?

Me.  Yes.

Bennet:  I love you. 

She proceeded to give me a hug and subsequent hugs over the next several days.  For some reason, her hugs consoled me the most.  She could sense when I needed one, and simply gave what she could at that very moment—her awesome and honest compassion. 

Be comfortable with YOU For the last several months, Bennet has become Simon.  She cut her hair, buys clothes from the boys’ section and spends her time correcting those who call her by the wrong pronoun.  While there are moments when she wants to be Bennet, Simon is the one typically hanging out at abode la Palafox.  I know I did not find this kind of self-honesty until I was in my twenties (same time I discovered brie —another life gift).  He has already stumbled upon this self-comfort and makes no excuses for it.  This blows my mind.

And, you know what, history is repeating itself.  This relationship is my most passionate.  We will both be better for it.  I just know it.

Personal Purgatory: My Natural (Miscarriage) Birth Story

I just want to tell my sad story.  For the last week, this one act is my consistent comfort.   If not for social graces, appropriate conversational topics and my (typical) positivity, I would likely be shouting my horror for all to hear.  I don’t want to hear about your party plans.  I want to talk about how I labored over the course of two days.  I don’t want to hear about how other miscarriages were much harder.  I want to talk about the passing and birth of my third child.  I don’t want to see the sunshine.  I want to hold the darkness that has swallowed me.  

Part of me wants validation that I worked hard. 

Part of me wants to let people know that something really shitty happened to me. 

Part of me wants others to free me of life’s daily obligations.

Part of me wants to share my story without any shame and blame.

Part of me wants to help those who have walked/will walk the same path.

Part of me wants to think or talk of nothing else. 

All of me wants to have my pregnancy and my baby.

We found out on a Tuesday that there was no heartbeat.  As if my body was just waiting for me to know the truth, that very evening the spotting began.  For the next five days, I was in my own personal purgatory.  The doctor said it would just be like my two previous labors—contractions, breathing, clenched fists, the whole shebang.  Now, waiting for a baby to come is hard.  Anticipating a labor and delivery for a baby who did not make it on our earth is messed up.

On Monday morning, I woke up to go to work.  As I was drying my hair, the familiar tightening I felt during the births of my girls came.  It was starting, and I was grateful for it.   From experience, I knew there was much work ahead.  So, I went back to sleep while my body could still rest.  The contractions never came back.  Jeremy went to work, the girls went to school and I rested that day.  When it was time to pick up the girls, I went.  I picked them up, we got in the van and the contractions started again.  Maybe it was a fluke?  The next two rounds of contractions, twenty minutes apart, confirmed my reality.  I let Jeremy know.  So, with the girls by my side, we got to work.  The strange thing about contractions is that they build over time and they are intense.  You instinctively want to curl into a ball in a dark room.  Instinct, in this case, is wrong.  Grateful for my experience, I knew to keep moving and breathing.  We went on a long walk.  As the girls chatted, I would walk.  “Girls, Mama needs to stop.  Can you find me the biggest leaf?”  As they bantered about who had the largest piece of foliage, I would breath, breath, breath.  The contractions were now ten minutes apart, and I needed to get to a bathroom.  As we walked up the driveway, Jeremy came home.  I waddled as quickly as I could to the restroom.  For the next four hours, the contractions, bleeding and passing of clots continued.  I kept walking around in my bedroom, swayed my hips as I breathed through the tightening and let me body rid itself of something no longer viable.  At 9:30, as I was reading a story to Bennet, I had four contractions, one-minute apart, and then it all stopped.  Nothing.  It was over.  Or so I believed.  

I went to work the next morning, and I was sent home.  The crying did not stop.   The physical part was over; however, the emotional counterpart  was starting her crescendo.  Again, I spent the day resting.  Again, I picked up the girls.  Again, the contractions started again.  This time, Lady Contraction quickly escalated to being five minutes apart.  Again, I let Jeremy know.  He was in South Austin.  I took the girls outside to play and kept moving by watering the lemongrass plants.  After an hour, the contractions were right now top of each other.  Jeremy was still 15 minutes way.  Completely fucked.  “Girls, Mama’s tummy does not feel good.  You girls can watch a movie on the ipad on my bed.  I will be in the bathroom.”  The elation shown on their faces did give me slight comfort as I thought about what was about to happen.  The second the girls settled onto our bed, I went to the bathroom, sat down and felt something large pass.  I looked, and I saw the sack that harbored my baby.  There she was.  This time, there was no birthing music playing.  There was no husband comforting me.  There was no joy.  Much like my other births, however, I was on complete autopilot.  There was no thinking taking place.  I washed her off, walked to the kitchen, reached over my dad to retrieve the prettiest bowl I could find and placed her inside with utmost care.   I felt like this was the least I could do for bringing her into this earth in a tiled bathroom with a window that opened up to a world with those who were laughing, cutting the grass and buying purses.  

Our baby girl was buried in our garden by a jasmine, my mom's favorite plant.  Jeremy, Bennet, Ruby and I said our "see you later."  Bennet, my wonderful Bennet, said, "I hope you come back (she feels that all babies who go to heaven come back to earth somehow), and I hope you feel better."  It was perfect.  Ruby, the lover of all small, tiny things, said, "I will find you the smallest piece of dirt."  After finding the perfect speck of earth to put over the box, she said, "Thank you."  Jeremy quietly spoke his words, and I could find no words.  The same hands used to wash the blood from her quietly and gently filled the hole.  

Bennet and Ruby’s birth story is written down in beautifully decorated journals filled with sonograms and well-wishes from family and friends.  This story will only exist here.  This story does not bear less worth.  It does not make a smaller imprint on my heart and my memory.  

This story holds no optimism.

This story empowers anguish. 

This story needs prayers.

This story needs love.

This story is whole-heartedly mine.

Tips for Those Who Have Procreated

I am a mother.  It happened on a humid evening in New Orleans after a few beignets.  Little did I know that 10 months later, I would be parenting a female offspring.  And, truth be told, on days when my memory is shot, I have two little people now saying, "Mama? Mama!  MAMA!," as every third word from their language repertoire to remind me that I am, in fact, responsible for these strange and loving little people.

Lately, I have been thinking about the language used to describe parents.  I read posts and social media ooblyjunk about the state of parenting.  It's all about how to be an involved parent, how to not be a helicopter parent and how to consciously ignore your children's needs in order to listen to Coldplay.  

I get it.  It is all well-intentioned; however, at times, I feel we give too much language to this whole procreation aftermath business.  I would bet my entire collection of Laura Ingells Wilder books that my mother never thought about whether her actions were in the "bad" or "stellar" parenting groups. So, unless you intentionally hurt your children or make them drink bitter melon shakes, I will not judge your choices. 

So, since I have told you to not listen to other people's parenting advice AND all parents are hypocrites, here's my three cents on this business of little humans.  Here's all I have to give as a multiple-time procreator:

1.  Park by the cart return.  It makes the end of a grocery jaunt more bearable.  You make it back to the car before calamity ensues.  And, buckle the kid in before leaving the vehicle.  Be smart, parents.  Unless harnessed into something, they will MOVE.

2.  When going on trips, put your stuff in your children's suitcases.  Then, teach them responsibility by carrying their own stuff.  This is a win-win for everyone.  Just happens that their win is much heavier.

3.  Play with your children.  Specifically, play hide-and-seek.  This game teaches life skills, folks.  

  

• Teaches counting skills.  Is there really a reason to count past 20 in real life?
• Teaches patience.  In a world of I-need-it-now!, it's important to give them delayed gratification.         To really give them an opportunity to delve into this skill, I typically hide in a really obscure place (with pillows and blankets).  It takes them a bit o' time to find me, and I get a power nap in.  Again, we all win, and, by win, I mean well-rested.

4.  Throw efficiency and planning out the window.  The best thing I learned about post-procreation is letting go of your own agenda.  Without expectations, we are all much happier.  Case in point -- I always thought I was the kind of mother that would listen to a doctor's directives concerning my children's health.  So, Ruby had a stomach virus.  Doc said it was likely a virus.  But, just in case, she wanted me to collect 9 stool samples to make sure it was not giardia.  I thought giardia was a sexually transmitted disease (I was confusing this with gonorrhea).  So, I begrudgingly collected 5 samples (more than 50%!) because I am a mother, and striving for mediocracy is okay. What does planning and efficiency have to do with this?  I did all the work, put the shit in the fridge and was so involved in parenting that I missed the deadline for the excrement to be considered good-excrement.  It was expired shit. So, now, I have a fridge of spoiled poo.  Nasty, ineffecient and poorly planned.  And, I am okay with (sh)it.

5.  Play music.  We listen to music constantly.  The girls can differentiate between all the male singer-songwriters:  Ed Sheeran, Chris Martin, Aloe Blaac.    When we play it, we play it loud and we sing along.  The other day, as I was driving the girls home, we were blasting an awesome song with a pump-your-fist-in-the-air beat.  "All the commotion!  The kiddie (this is so good!  this song even references children!!!)  likes play.  Has people talking.  Talking.  You.  Your sex is on fire!"  So, okay.  Parents should sort-of sensor music, eh?  Don't get me wrong.  I am all about talking to children about the birds and the bees.  I was just really hungry, and it was not the time for Mama to delve into a lesson about fiery sex.  Lesson learned, people.  

That's it.

Miscarriage Mayhem

Growing up, I always felt out of place.  I was nervous when I was among a group of girls.  I did not know how to talk about make-up and boys.  Gossip made my heart ache.  And, not until I had children, did I ever really feel like my body represented the XX in my genetic makeup.  Somewhere along the way, I found other females who liked books, silliness and hip-hop.  Then, I found assertive women who made no apologies for their actions.  These are the same women who showed me that compassion, gentleness and kindness go hand-in-hand with strength and intelligence.  Alongside these women, I found comfort and solace.  I learned to speak honestly, and I learned to speak humanly (to always use words that comfort the heart and confirm daily effort). 

Today, I am thinking about a word that is only whispered by (amazing, passionate, gifted, vulnerable) women—miscarriage.  For the last several weeks, this word started as a brief thought for me.  Then, it became a reality when the sonogram showed lack of a heartbeat.  For the last week, this word has brought depths of anxiety and sadness that I have never known.  And, for the last few days, this word meant hours of labor and work. 

As I take one step forward (and three steps back), I keep thinking of the number of women who have shared their experiences with me.

I had three before I ever had my first child.

I had two.  It was awful.

Me, too.

I am so sorry.  It happened to me.  

Me, too.

Me, too.

According to my doctor, it happens 35% of the time in pregnancies.  I have been reading and reading and reading, and some say it is 50%.  Others state it’s about 20%.  None of this matters for the women and men who fall into this horrid, dark cavern.  The truth is that it happens often, and we are left to mourn by ourselves.  At dinner each night, I will ask my girls, “What made you laugh today?”  I will also ask, “Did you feel lonely today?”  If someone would ask me this question, based on what has happened in the last several days, my answer will always, always be, “Yes.”  The words used to describe this event, “I had a miscarriage," does not, in any way, convey the feelings and thoughts I have.  To me, it will always be, “I lost my baby.  She did not make it, and I am so, so sad.”  I have been through loss before, and this death feels the exact same.  However, I have nothing to show for it.  My belly looks like I ate two, too-many breakfast tacos.  My newly purchased maternity dresses are still draped across my chair.  I did not have the opportunity to make memories with my child outside of my body. My reality was completely discounted by a black-and-white photo of what looked like a black hole.

What has brought me much comfort is the stories of friends.  They shared the horrible, physical events that transpired.  More importantly, they validated the forever emotional journey that has been placed before me.  They unknowingly consoled me when I could not stop crying entire days that were sandwiched in between productive, hopeful (and healing) work days. 

It has been strange and validating. 

It has been draining and empowering.

It has been lonely and loving. 

It has been brutal and healing.

This is my personal journey.  It is a private journey that is my own, and I have opened my heart to let those who understand help me heal.  I need the support, and I am grateful for it.  Though I wish this path for no one, I want to tell other women and men, “I understand, and I am right here with you.”  To my earth angels, I want to tell you, "Thank you for sharing your pain and your love.  I am forever indebted."  To my husband, I want to say again and again, "Your love knows no end.  You are enough.  Giving and Needing will ebb and flow, and we will walk through this hand-in-hand."