...and I still think about you every day. A year later...and I still miss you every day.

A year ago today, we found out we lost you. A year ago today, we said our first good-bye to our first child.

We love you, LJ. Always.

-Mama and Papa

It's a term I didn't even know existed until recently: shadow babies. I always knew about this "phenomenon," the sometimes-painful realization at seeing babies who are around the same age LJ would now be. It started right away, after I returned to work after the miscarriage. Women who I'd been pregnant "with" were still pregnant. My belly was deflated, and the first glimpses of these women in all their glowing fertileness rendered me unable to breathe. As their pregnant bellies continued to grow, I regained my ability to breathe (or, gasp!, speak to them), though I'm not sure it ever became easy. Finally, the pregnancy announcements started to come.

I now regularly check the blogs of the parents of some of these shadow babies. I look at the photos of those beautiful, smiling four- and five-month olds, and I imagine what our own baby would've looked like, what new milestone she'd be going through.

Some days, peeking in on LJ's shadow babies hurts like hell, and I just look at pictures and cry, think of LJ, and mourn all over again.

Other days, peeking in on them allows an unspeakable joy to well up inside me.

I can continue to be sad for myself--for us--and be joyful for these other parents (thank goodness). I can look at the precious babies and imagine LJ, in heaven--whole and healthy and radiant and beautiful. These shadow babies will always be important to me--they are just one way for me to keep LJ alive in my heart.

-Em

I read this passage from a post on A Glow in the Woods today and found myself relating to it all too well. Here's an excerpt:

"I read Deborah Davis’ Empty Cradle, Broken Heart: Surviving the Death of Your Baby about 4-6 weeks after Maddy died.  I found it . . . redundant.  I guess it was nice knowing I didn’t exist in a void, but confirming that I’d be feeling . . . exactly what I was feeling?  Thanks?  I guess?

But there was a gem in there that helped me significantly, and rolls around in my head to this day.  I’m sorry I can’t quote it verbatim because I sent off my book to another grieving mom, but it went something like this:  it’s actually a good thing that the major decisions we make during the time from hell are made while we’re sleep deprived and loopy and trying to juggle a million different balls and exhausted from crying because that way, they come from the gut.  Davis suggests that it’s a good thing we don’t over-think the major decisions, and that instead, because of our circumstances, they come from somewhere subconscious rather than based on intellectual reasoning."

I have often wondered how much LJ's death influenced the major life decision I made last year to resign from my job of 6+ years. I do remember--after finally returning to work after the long road to healing--thinking "this can't go on for much longer." All the stupid shit that plagued my thoughts every day ("Are people following the process?" "Are people reading the documentation?" Will anyone attend this UCD session?" "And who the eff cares, anyway?") seemed completely insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I knew that I needed a new career--a new life--in which I felt like I was making a difference and helping people. Though I am not in a classroom with students every day, working in education has been more rewarding than I could've ever imagined. People's gratitude for an article I've written to publicize their role/work, a program, or an event amazes me. Not only do I get to really, truly write every day, but people appreciate that I do my job. Imagine! Being thanked, regularly, for doing what you get paid to do. Imagine! Getting pulled aside by co-workers who "just wanted to tell you that news release was fantastic." Some days it doesn't seem real; it seems almost too good to be true: I get to do what I enjoy, and people are grateful for it. How is this possible?

When I resigned in October, I felt a lot of mixed emotions. It would be weird not working at the same company as Drew anymore (he has since left for a different company, though, too, so no biggie there, anymore). I never quite accomplished all that I hoped I could at that company (though I am realizing getting re-orged every couple of years made that nearly impossible, anyway). I didn't want to leave my colleagues high and dry (they hired a replacement relatively quickly, and from what I hear, she is probably a better fit in that position than I ever was in the first place). As time has gone by, all of these unsettling feelings have been put to rest. Things have worked out. For the better. On both sides. I am a happier person. I don't hate my job.

Why does it sometimes take a tragedy for us to have the rawness of emotion--or is it just the courage?--needed to make the difficult decisions? I think part of me must have felt as though, "My God, I somehow survived the loss of a child, why the hell couldn't I survive a job change?"

I guess I can thank my LJ for that. Thank you, little one, for giving Mama courage.

-Em

...to all of those wonderful mothers out there (including my own, who's the best one ever). I am constantly amazed and humbled by all you mothers do for your families. I hope that you feel truly loved and appreciated today. You deserve it.

I feel silly and even a bit inappropriate sharing this next part. This morning when I woke up, the first thing Drew said to me was "Happy Mother's Day." He saw the tears instantly begin to well up in my eyes and held me close to him in a tight bear hug while I cried. I tried to break away from him, to brush off that I'm not "technically" a mother, but he was having none of it. "I don't think LJ would agree with you on that," he said.

These days leading up to Mother's Day have been more difficult for me than I thought they'd be. After all, I do not care for a child each and every day, so how can I really, truly count myself as a member of that important club? I feel like a fraud even considering it.

Still, as I've see the sentimental Mother's Day commercials on television, an overwhelming sense of sadness and loss overtakes me. I feel like a mother. More than that...I was a mother, once, to our never-to-be-born child. No. Even that does not cover it. I am a mother, still, to our precious angel baby. Last year at this time, right before our first child had begun growing inside of me, I remember thinking, my heart filled with hope, that Mother's Day next year would be so special for us...when I'd legitimately be able to celebrate the day with my baby who, now, would be almost four months old. However, that was not to be.

Days like today are a painful reminder of the child we lost, but, somehow, at the same time, they also make me feel closer to our precious LJ. I hope it is not offensive to anyone who has a living child that we are celebrating Mother's Day in our household today. It is not to lessen the real, tangible things you do each and every day to care for your children. I admire you all more than I can say.

-Em

Kate and I have been discussing infertility a lot lately. Shocker, I know...  Of course we would be, right? It is something that is at the forefront of both of our minds right now--as we each struggle to conceive a child of our own. It is so comforting to talk to someone who's done the same research, gotten similar information from doctors, and basically just understands the ins and outs of infertility more than the average person.

In addition to information sharing, story-swapping, and sanity-checking, we've also discussed "reasons" why we think we might be going through this struggle. I think, as humans, we always try to make sense of things like this. Maybe there is no real reason, I don't know, but I guess I'm not really willing to believe that (at this point in my life, anyway). I need to believe there's more to it than that. I need to feel like I was chosen to endure this for some sort of reason--not because I'm being punished, or merely because I'm the "lucky" random person who got picked out of the hat.

Today, Kate brought a post written on a message board by another infertile to my attention:

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"What God meant when he gave me infertility..

Couples experiencing infertility often receive well-meaning but extremely insensitive advice. We can list all the most popular ones: Just relax and you'll get pregnant, or adopt and you'll get pregnant, of the most painful from those who think they've got the goods on God's plan; maybe God never meant for you to have children. The sheer audacity of making a statement like that never fails to amaze me.

These same people would never walk up to someone seeking treatment for cancer and say "Maybe God never meant for you to live." However, because I am infertile, I'm supposed to get on with my life? It's hard to understand that people cannot see infertility for what it is; a disease for which I have to seek treatment. What if Jonas Salk had said to the parents of polio victims, "Maybe God meant for thousands of our children to be cripples, live in an iron lung, or die." What if he'd never tried to find a cure? Who could think for one minute that was God's plan?

What do I think God meant when he gave me infertility?

I think he meant for my husband and I to grow closer, become stronger, love deeper. I think God meant for us to find the fortitude within ourselves to get up every time infertility knocks us down. I think God meant for our medical community to discover medicines, invent medical equipment, create procedures and protocols. I think God meant for us to find a cure for infertility.

No, God never meant for me not to have children. That's not my destiny; that's just a fork in the road I'm on. I've been placed on the road less traveled. I've gained more compassion, deeper courage, greater inner strength on this journey to resolution and I haven't let him down.

Frankly, if the truth be known, I think God has singled me out for a special treatment. I think God meant for me to build a thirst for a child so strong and so deep that when that baby is finally placed in my arms, it will be the longest, coolest, most refreshing drink I've ever known.

While I would never have chosen infertility, I cannot deny that a fertile woman could never know the joy that awaits me. Yes, one way or another, I will have a baby of my own. And the next time someone wants to offer me unsolicited advice; I'll say "Don't tell me what God meant when he handed me infertility. I already know."

Take hold, ladies, that God has a greater plan for us as women and as mothers. We are in for the longest, coolest, most refreshing drink we've ever known! Take hold ladies...God will not forsake us!"

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Besides this woman's thoughts being, well, extremely relatable to someone like me, I also want to believe that the "singling out" she mentioned is true. I want to believe that I was chosen to go through this because, perhaps, I'm unafraid (not always, though, I must admit!) to share this experience with others. Kate and I have both discussed these yearnings (for meaning) and agree that along with this struggle comes a responsibility: to help remove the "stigma" and/or misconceptions that accompany this "disease," to educate people, to help people learn to be more empathetic and understanding to those who suffer. 

If we can help just one other person feel less "abnormal" or "broken"--that alone will be enough to have made this all worth it. Like the woman above said, I never would've chosen infertility. Not by a longshot. It often doesn't seem fair that it took us so long to get pregnant with our first child, then, once we did, to lose that child. It doesn't seem fair that the miscarriage was so long, drawn out, and painful. It doesn't seem fair that it's taken nearly a year to even return to the point where we can begin to start trying for a child again. It is a long, slow, and heart-breakingly excrutiating process.

That's why there has to be more to it. I refuse to accept that there is no reason.

-Em