Written on a cloudy (literally and figuratively) day:

Don't go looking for the sun just yet.

The rays will reach you where you are.

It's okay if the warmth causes the steam to rise from the tears on your cheek.

Goodbyes are so hard

My Grandma Lock passed away a week ago yesterday. It's hard for me to write about this particular loss for some reason. Maybe it's because she never liked to be the center of attention. Maybe it's just because I'm not ready. Since I know I'll never be ready, I'll just give it a go.

Now that I'm thinking about it, I believe that it's hard to write about her because she was too essential to describe. It's like trying to describe the ocean just by talking about the waves. Or describing a quilt just by using color. I can't find the right way to describe what she meant to me because every time I try to pin it down, it slips away. Here are my best efforts.

Grandma was as constant as the stars. Always there with a cup of tea and an ear when you needed it. She was the best listener. It must have been the practice of living with an epic storyteller. She always seemed to know when you had a story to share and just how to draw it out.

I will miss her whimsy the most. When we were kids, she loved to tell us stories about the fairies and the sprites. All of her favorite recipes included a good story as their most important ingredient. With the practical, and sometimes hard, life that is farming, my grandparents - especially grandma - made sure to take time out to have light-hearted fun.

Service was her daily bread. I don't know that she went a day of her life, at least as long as I knew her, without doing at least one thing for someone who needed it. She was always thinking of others, trying to ease the burden of someone else. It's what did the most to ease her own.

The surface has been scratched. I hate saying goodbye. Sophia and I are baking up a storm and sharing it with our world. Grandma made the world a better place every day, and I'll try to do the same.

Grief and Joy

This isn't really going to be a post about grief. I haven't done one of those in a great while, but I'm not going to focus on that part today.

This weekend, Sophia, Erick and I went to his family farm to say goodbye to his grandma. We hadn't seen her in about three years, as she has been living in Oregon, but Erick did get a chance to talk to her occasionally. She would have been 97 this week! What a long, full life she lived.

The weekend was, in turns, heartbreaking and joyous. Sophia and I have not had the chance to get to know Erick's extended family well, with just a few exceptions. When I asked Sophia about her takeaway, she declared that it's a family of "unique individuals." Not a one would disagree with that, nor take it as slander, since that's certainly not how she meant it. There's very little that she values more than individuality. So what a treat to find that she comes from such interesting folk.

As families always do, we ended the weekend by saying that we mustn't wait for the next sad occasion to bring us together. I truly hope we can keep to that as I'd love to get to know these guys and their families!

We sure will miss him

Grandpa passed away this morning. I am so sad. Not for him, of course. He was ready. He was dissatisfied with life away from the cattle and the land.

No, I’m not sad for him, but for the rest of us. The rest of us will miss that strong man. Always ready to wrap a protective and fond arm around your waist and say “we” when he really means “I”. “You know, we sure are proud of you kids.” In the last few years, even a “We love you.”

He was the first adult to teach me what it felt like to be trusted. None of us ever wanted to disappoint him because he gave us the freedom we craved. Freedom in the form of money at the State Fair to spend and a few hours without adults around to do it. The keys to an old car and an open pasture before we knew how to drive. The reins to an unruly pony that he wasn’t sure you could handle.

Trust is what I learned from him. Because he trusted me, I began to believe that I was capable. I was willing to take risks because he seemed to think I wouldn’t fail, or that failure wasn’t the worst thing.

He was a farmer who kept horses and carriages. It didn’t make any sense, but he did it anyway. He didn’t care what other people thought about the things he did. He always knew better than anyone else. It’s one thing that most of us inherited from him, for better or worse. We tend to be the type of people who stick with our plans in spite of common wisdom. Common wisdom has nothing on us.

If you find us unwilling or unable to see when we’re wrong, you have him to thank. Of course, he gave us other qualities. Some got his ability to tell and stretch a good story. Some got his love of the land. Some can judge character in a person with stunning accuracy.

The thing we all got was the benefit of his love. For us, but most of all to witness the love he had for his wife. Over 70 years of starry eyed devotion. It will stay with us always. 

I am so glad I am one of his. We sure will miss him.

My Prayer for the Grieving

I originally posted this in June 2011. But I wanted to post it again today because it's what I'm praying for today. A few blessed moments of peace for those who feel like they won't last the day without them. For the families of the victims in Newtown, CT, and for the survivors and first responders.

I'm no more an expert on grief than is every person suffering the beautiful and awful human experience. But I know enough about it to know what I want for people when I hear they are grieving.

There are moments so pure and tender that I believe they are reserved for those in pain. These are the things that I pray will be in plenty when a grieving soul is ready to receive them. It could be a long time before any of these moments are meaningful because the first gift God gives those who are grieving is absence of feeling. A numbness and distorted vision that lasts long enough that a moment of clarity will not destroy you. Once the numbness wears off, even for a brief moment, these are the things I pray a grieving soul will know.

~The moment, after hours or days or only minutes of downcast eyes and knit brows, that you can open your eyes, look straight ahead and you feel the lines fall away as if someone has just smoothed your brow.

~A fragrant breeze that cools your skin and dries the hot tears.

~Looking into another's eyes and not finding pity.

~A gentle embrace from one who knows well enough to leave trite comfort, and even words full of wisdom, for a day other than today.

~The freedom to weep in public without shame.

~That one day, in a future that will feel like an eternity away, you will hear in the foreign sound of your own laughter, the redemption of what you lost.

Dyspepsia

Occasionally, I have been known to write a few words about grief. Here is a LINK to some of those posts.

I was reading Major Pettigrew's Last Stand, about which I'm undecided as to how much I loved it, and came across this gem. The Major reflects, "This was the dull ache of grief in the real world; more dyspepsia than passion."

Sometimes true, I think, but regardless, I just loved this sentence. Thought I'd share it with you.

Also, just for kicks, my second favorite quote of the book. A young friend of the Major's asks, "But I must ask you, do you really understand what it means to be in love with an unsuitable woman?" To which the Major responds, "My dear boy, is there really any other kind?"

Gotta love the British.

Zootastic

 

My nephew Henri had his first visit (that he could really participate) to the zoo yesterday. It was absolutely fantastic. Really enjoyable to spend time with him, his brothers and, of course, his parents. I hope I'm learning to live in the moments we have together. Blissful as they sometimes are.

Still, I can't deny the bittersweet reality that he's pointing at me...

Homesick

I thought this would be the week that I started focusing more on the new world than the old, but it turns out the old one wasn't finished with me yet.

Remember a long while back when I shared a lot about my ideas on grief? We're right back to that. With all the busyness and distraction of the actual move and settling in, not to mention visiting the old world a couple of times, I realize now that I had managed to feel the minimal amount of loss associated with this life twist. (I'm still searching for the proper term to describe what just happened as "move" and "change" don't seem to fully embody the situation.) I still had plenty of feeling, but it was just a pressure release of the feelings beneath.

This week, I have slowed down. There is little or nothing to do to continue the settling process. I knew I was stalling in putting up those pictures, but I didn't realize I was stalling the grief.



But here I am, looking out at a view that I genuinely appreciate. The animals were placed strategically by Sophia. In a room that is warm and feels like home. With a girl playing quietly with her animals on and around me. And here it is. Loss. Grief. Confusion. Hope? Yes. I've got it all. With a stuffed nose and a clogged ear. There is no point in describing what I feel here. You have all felt it at one point or another. A sudden recollection of an unfulfilled dream. A sweet memory of a moment impossible to recapture. Eyes filling with tears for no reason in particular.

It's going to be a long winter. Strap in. I'll try not to drag us all down. There is plenty to share that is beautiful and funny and exciting. I'll let you in on all of that too. But I have to be real. I'm homesick. For my sick neighbors, for my healthy neighbors, for my friends, for my church, for the gym I haven't been to in months, for Sophia's preschool, for Hy-Vee and my stove and my back porch. To name a few. Okay. I feel better. Here's photographic evidence that I feel better. Sophia took this for you.



Hope I didn't make you feel worse.

I'm crying again

I'm not going to try to describe all the things that I'm going to miss about Columbia. And by things, I mean people. Sure, I'll miss Booche's and Murry's and being here on home football weekends. I'll miss the feel of a small town with big city ideas. But more than all of Columbia put together, I'll miss my friends, my neighbors, my spiritual community. So I'm not going to even try to tell you about all the people that I will miss and why.

I miss them already. The rainy gray day with spots of red and orange is a perfect setting for how I feel. A sad and lonely atmosphere surrounding pockets of hope and positivity. I am so grateful for the people who have helped me to find who I am. The people who have loved me and stuck with me in spite of the challenges that being my friend inherently presents.

(Deleted positive paragraph because it was unnecessary to the day. We'll get to that later.)

One Goodbye at a Time

Here's the thing. With my friends and neighbors/family, I have to prepare for a goodbye or a farewell or something of the sort, but at the same time, I am confident relationship will continue. It will be different, with much more time between face views, and not as awesome in many ways, but relationship will be there.

That's people. But with some things, there is no continued relationship. Like Sophia's preschool. Her first preschool experience was brief and stellar. I had my parent/teacher conference on Tuesday. "Sophia is the class social butterfly." "She is friends with all of the other kids." "Sophia is a great presence in our class because she encourages the other kids to participate." Those are obviously awesome things. I loved hearing that about my sweet girl. I just hated that we are taking her away from a place that recognizes and encourages those traits in her. Miss Katie is her teacher, and Sophia and I both adore Miss Katie. Sophia said that she would miss her most of all. I don't worry about Sophia making new friends. I hope beyond hope that we can manage to find a teacher who sees Sophia for who she is the way that Katie did.

At Sophia's last day today, she got lots of hugs from the other kids. They each made her a painting with sweet goodbyes, and Sophia assured them that she would miss them and be back after Christmas. Yep. We have talked a lot about finding a new school that she will start after Christmas. Apparently, she heard that she was going back to her school after Christmas. Damn.

So, on the way home from school, Sophia said, "That was a fun last day of school. I'll be back after Christmas, right?" I told her again that she'll go to a new school with a new teacher and friends after Christmas. "Oh. I told them I'd be back." Then she told me how much she would miss Miss Katie and that she wished they could always be together. Then she cried. Now, with Sophia, I'm used to tears. She has the dramatic gift to create them on a whim. But I could see the difference. These were tears of realization. They mixed with my tears of grief. Grief over the fact that no matter the greatness of Sophia's next preschool, it won't be the one that my friends send their kids to. It won't be the one that Aaron and William graduated from. It won't be the one where they already embrace her for exactly the tutu'd, bouncing, dramatic girl she is. Tears.

She's moved on for the moment. Currently living on the high from having been the center of the classroom for the day. Oh, she was all about that. I know that she'll be sad about it again. For now, we'll just take one goodbye at a time.

Selling Our House

It's not news, I know. We're selling our house. Last week, we put it on the MLS with our friend and excellent REALTOR David Townsend. Since being relieved of the responsibility of actually selling the house, I feel more able to grieve the fact that it's happening. Not the move, in general. That's a different kind of grief. But the fact that we are selling this house.

I wasn't blogging when we moved in, so I can't just link to a post that tells you how we felt. I'll have to try to put it into words. We moved when I was six months pregnant. The week before we moved here, Erick and I went to Memphis for the weekend. It seemed like a good idea at the time. That's because at the time, we didn't know that I was a human water retention basin. Seriously, I swelled up that weekend in July and never returned to normal size until Sophia was here. There are advantages and disadvantages of moving while pregnant. The very obvious advantage is that I didn't move a damn thing. The disadvantage was that the huge deal of buying our first house was overshadowed (literally and figuratively) by my pregnancy. The room I was most excited about was the nursery.

I think that is a big part of the reason that selling this house is not easy. It's all part of the biggest change in our lives. We became homeowners and parents within months of each other. This was the weekend before she was born. Enormous, I know. I was only 34 weeks pregnant. I'm not kidding.



Her first everything was our first everything in this house. Here we are enjoying our first Thanksgiving. Apparently, it was a balmy day.



What I'm saying is that it's not going to be easy to leave this house. It feels like another old friend who has seen us through some tears and has been our playground on the chilly or rainy days of the past four years.

But, do you want it? 'Cause, really, you can have it. It's a good place to make a life.

My Timing is Questionable

The week I chose to start potty training just happens to fall when I would have been expecting our second baby, had I not miscarried in April. Coincidence? An effort to distract myself? Who knows. The result has been a heightened level of emotion and tiredness that leaves me feeling uncomfortable, to say the least. I'm used to feeling emotion, but typically I feel it, process and move on. This week, however, has just been one big emotional grab bag. It feels like everything is just close to the surface. That lump in the throat that won't seem to fully show itself or just leave me alone.

So, as I write this, red-eyed and splotchy-faced, I couldn't even pinpoint the culprit if I tried. My life is brilliant right now. I'm not sure that I could be more content, but I am sure that my arms could be full.

Packing

Today we are packing to leave for a few nights. One in Kansas City and three in Orlando. We have been waiting for this trip for what feels like forever. We are nearly giddy with excitement! I know it will be over before I'm ready, but I plan to enjoy every moment, knowing full well that traveling with a toddler can be tenuous.

And then again, I'm back here where I started. At the risk of being a Debby Downer, I'm going to be honest. In the excitement of packing for our trip, I came across Sophia's "Big Sister" shirt, and it hit me all over again why we get to go on this damn trip to begin with. So, here I sit. Typing this out and hoping that my tears will all be shed this morning. It's the same old tune. I suppose I have to cry today so I can laugh until I cry tomorrow. At least that's what I'm holding out for.

Sorry to bring it down a notch. I really am excited to get away with the sweetest little girl and the funniest guy I know. We have the best time traveling together. We're a very good team. I just wanted to share. Why? I have no idea.

We are sleeping in the same room with Sophia, so I'm not sure I'll have any chance to post while we're gone. Maybe I'll post tomorrow so this isn't the last thing you hear from me for a while. I'm sure you'll be okay. Just take this moment to breathe it in. The good with the bad. Gotta love this ride.

Seven Years Today

Seven years ago today, I married my wonderful husband. Our love is stronger in every way today than it was all those years ago. I have had seven years with my best friend (corny but true), the best travel companion, Sophia's lovely dad and my devoted partner. Bliss. So why have I spent the day a teary and melodramatic mess, deep in the throes of a grumpfest?

It could be because we came home yesterday to an unexpected and sizable medical bill from my miscarriage. It could be because we stayed up too late this weekend, and I'm not great with little sleep. Or it could be because in order to be happy and feel my joy in our marriage, I'm opened up to feeling the losses that have been part of our seven-year journey.

Regardless, I can honestly say that I am content in my life today. I can also honestly say that I haven't had many sadder days. Wow, I'm complicated. Feel free to let Erick know what a champ he is for navigating through the labyrinth that is my soul.

Revisiting the Topic

One of the things that is more challenging to talk about in the discussion of grief is the way in which our lives change for the better in some way, shape or form. Sometimes this isn't true, but other times it is true. It's painful, but then again I don't want to miss the good things in life just because they were brought about by sadness.

Anyway, a few weeks ago when I started to realize how things are different than we planned, I couldn't help but detest the new conveniences of our lives that wouldn't be true if things had gone differently.

So here are a few things that I hated (and am working on being grateful for).

-In July, we're going to Orlando for vacation in a year that was supposed to be travel-free to save up for the coming baby.

-I don't feel the need to rush Sophia into potty training.

-Or getting into a big girl bed.

-We'll be much more financially prepared to have a second when the time comes.

-I can enjoy adult beverages and hot tubs this summer.

-I won't be swollen (literally) to twice my normal size by September.

-I can exercise all I want and get a better swimsuit body (I'm not really taking advantage of this one, though)

There are more, but you get the point. These are all things that I am grateful for, but the alternative would have been exponentially more to my liking.

Back to the Battle

Nope, we're not through with this discussion on grief. I definitely have some more things to say about it. I just needed to process some first in my head before I bare them to the eyes of the world (yeah, right, the world).

Simply stated, my current grief has changed my state of mind. This particular loss, with its slow, draining march, has combined with the recent loss of two grandparents, along with other peripheral losses and reminders of loss to produce a marked effect on my state of mind, or attitude. Is that the same thing?

My predisposition is one of contentment and laughter. I am certainly not saying that I'm happy all of the time. I am saying that my state of mind is typically one of seeing the humor and of choosing to focus on the brighter side of the human condition, even while venturing into the darkest of places. Over the past several months, I have experienced consecutive losses of varying degrees. My inability to take the time between to experience these at a deeper level has left me in a darker state of mind.

Those of you who know me at all know that sarcasm is a natural bent of mine. Many would suggest that sarcasm is never appropriate, but I still enjoy it. However, at times like these it becomes my enemy. I have to be more careful of my tongue because it tends to deal a larger dose of hostility. When I am in this state of mind, I tend to think of myself as a "realist," which is to say a pessimist. I see the negative more clearly than the positive in the photographs of daily life. It's not really depression, although that tends to kick it off. It's just a general state of malaise.

I am not afraid of this current lack of positivism in my life. I've been through it before. I'll get through it this time, too. Exercising my mind and my emotions. Using words to express how angrily I meet this loss and all the losses of my past. Reminding myself of the joys of being a human. These are the remedies for my soul.

I don't know if this is typical of grief or not. How about you? Does a particular state of mind accompany your grief? Is grief a state of mind of its own?

Healing Words

As many of you know, this is not our first loss in pregnancy. Before Sophia, we experienced another, dramatically different loss. In November of 2005, I found out that I was pregnant about three hours before I was in surgery to remove an ectopic pregnancy (an embryo that implants and grows outside the uterus).

We were shocked at the depth of our grief over a child that we had never known about or anticipated! With that loss, our grief spiked early and hit us like a ton of bricks. This time around, it was a slow march to an inevitable black hole. I stifled all feelings for weeks. Grieving this loss has been a much larger challenge in itself than our previous loss. This process doesn't "look" the way I feel it ought.

I guess the truth that I have found nestled in this drastic difference is that grief cannot be predicted. I kept expecting to have some sort of dramatic end to all the waiting. I thought my d&c would leave me devastated and finally able to feel. Quite the opposite. After coming home, I felt even less than before. I comforted myself that it was due to the pain meds, but it was really just emptiness. Emptiness that I have to live with.

Along with the difference in circumstances surrounding this loss, is the fact that we are different people. In the intervening 3 1/2 years, we have experienced much life - both beautiful and dreadful. Sophia is one very obvious change in our lives. While her presence has changed our grief, I can't say that it has made it easier. We no longer grieve the fact that we are not yet parents, but now we know from experience the unparalleled joy that is embodied in holding an infant that moments before was kicking me in the ribs. We grieve also for her in that she will have to continue to wait to know the joy of being a big sister.

This loss is different, certainly, but not easier.

Both times writing has helped. I write to process externally. Sometimes it's good, mostly it's just me. So if you like me, you like my writing. If you don't, well....

In 2005, I wrote often to cope with our family's first loss. Here is my favorite:

Yahweh, Hold My Baby

Yahweh, what do you call our baby?
Please, come whisper it in my ear.
I know that it cannot be heard aloud
At least not while we're still here.

Yahweh, can our baby see us?
Please let her sit by my side.
I don't need to see or feel her
Just to let her know we tried.

Yahweh, will you hold our baby?
She needs love like every child.
Please hold and kiss her now and always,
And tell her it's only for a while.

Yahweh, I'm so sad and lonely.
Won't you please come and stay?
I try to have hope for tomorrow
But all I want is yesterday.

Yahweh, you know all the pain.
You've seen mine and every other's.
With broken hearts and empty arms,
Our greatest desire, just to be mothers.


I am still sad when I read this, but the grief is just a shadow of its former self. Three months after my ectopic pregnancy, we found out we were pregnant with Sophia. Knowing that her life would not be possible had I carried this first child full term does not make that grief any less real or important in our lives. I think people want to move so quickly to what we have and what our loss makes possible that we miss the entire point.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I have written while grieving our current loss as well. Something that is interesting to me and is evident in the words below, is that I am less personally invested. I am writing to a general audience rather than to God or our baby. I think this is the difference in my grief, and this will be the main obstacle to truly grieving the loss of my child. I have to say that out loud to myself far more than I did in 2005. This was my child.

On Sunday I felt for the first time in over a month, at least as it concerned our baby. I had long lost hope of a healthy pregnancy, although I hadn't admitted its truth. So I went to the cemetery next to Grant Elementary on Broadway. It drizzled, and I was finally alone. I was desperate just to feel something. I did.


-I came alone to the quiet cemetery where my tears could be understood. By whom, I guess I'd rather not know. My jeans got wet from the rain on a bench marked 'Windmiller.' I feel sure that Eugene's wife would forgive my intrusion. I assume she would recognize the posture of one needing rest. There is no grave of my own loved one to sit near and mourn. The tree in bloom between me and my car will have to do. Our baby was too small to merit a resting place.

It's too soon for peace. That is certain. But as I look around me at all of these monuments - some old, some new - meant to mark life and death, I feel an odd relief that our baby will never come here to cry alone. If a monument would help, I would put one right here, but it won't make my love more true or my loss more tangible.

Some may seek a cemetery to find God. I came here to escape him. Today's rain may very well be God's tears shed for my baby's unfulfilled promise. I know in my heart that my god did not have this loss in his "larger plan" for my life or this child. But I still cannot seek his face. It is too soon to experience the peace that I would find there.-



If you have written to move past your own grief and would like to share it, please do.

Starting from the Same Point

After a very good conversation with Erick last night about the topic of grief, I realized that today's post should be about how I define grief, particularly as I'm relating it to different areas of life.

Grief as people normally think of it relates to the large and often crushing losses of life: death, divorce, loss of livelihood, unexpected and unresolved end to relationship, disability, and the list goes on. This type of grief is large and takes up a great deal of our energy for at least a portion of our lives. Well, at least it does if we allow it. If not, we end up living only partially. Grief of this kind, most experts agree, seems to involve five stages: 1. Denial and Isolation, 2. Anger, 3. Bargaining, 4. Depression (Sadness), 5. Acceptance. I don't like assigning these stages numbers because each process seems to move in and out of all of these stages, even simultaneously. While all of these stages seem to be present after these greater losses in life, I believe they present themselves differently for each person, even within that person - differently for each loss.

The second point I was trying to make is that grief is often short-circuited, if acknowledged at all, in other areas of life. I would agree these other losses are not as threatening to one's existence, but they still have the potential to derail us. For example, I said that choices we make leave others untried or unexperienced. An extreme example that I hope will help others understand what I mean is this: When Erick and I chose to begin starting a family, we were ecstatic and joyful to welcome Sophia. However, we had made a choice that our lives would never be shared between only the two of us again. No more running out for pizza at 10:30. No more sleeping in till 10:30. No more freedom or ease or uninterrupted conversation. I would not trade our current reality for any amount of riches, ease or opportunity; however, if I don't acknowledge the choice we made, I could become resentful of Sophia's presence in our life. Marriage is harder when children are present. Is it worth it? Of course! But even asking that question is a form of grief - particularly of the final stage of acceptance. I don't think that all the stages of grief are necessarily present in this second type of grief. Even if they are present, it seems that they could be less apparent and vital to the process.

I wanted to address my definitions of grief because if you are reading this with another definition or confusion about the less threatening types of losses, then we can't get very far. I hope that this post has been less confusing than I think, but I welcome questions and the chance to further clarify my position.

Maybe in the mean time, I'll take some pictures of Sophia. Nothing like a little distraction to ease the tension.

Thoughts?

Good Grief

Earlier in this blog, in a post or comments that I'm too lazy to search for, I believe it was alluded to that our culture does not spend enough time actually talking about grief. Or death. Or pain. We let the artists take care of that. We shed a few unexplained tears at an emotional, even if poorly written, movie - and feel better. A book or song that holds no obvious emotion for us, gives us the excuse to let the waters flow, if only for a moment.

I am going to make an argument that we (humanity) do our best living when we are grieving. Not just loss of life, but of comfort, innocence, understanding, friendship, opportunity. The human experience is full of choices, paths taken and others not taken. Each choice we make leaves a whole path of opportunity that we must grieve. Of course there are many things that happen in life, which were not a product of choice, and those leave empty spaces that can only be filled with the tears of true grief. Now, I'm not the type that wants to live in a pit of blackness, reliving each misery or mistake of my own or others. I don't find satisfaction in dwelling on the losses of life, but it's my opinion that by actually grieving our losses, we give them far less power in our present and future.

All of that precedes my saying that I am grieving, and I am going to share it with you. This is a risk on my part. I hate leaving myself open to being pitied. Please don't do that, and if you do, keep it to yourself. I want to use my grief as a starting place for our conversation. I am not an expert on grief, although I (like each of us) have had many losses. I am not asserting that my loss deserves more attention than any other. On the contrary, my tendency is to remind myself of those who suffered infinitely greater loss than I and seem to endure with a tender spirit. That is true, and it's not the point either. I simply want to talk about grief. What better way than to walk you through some of my own process.

That's all for today, but I do want to set a few ground rules. Obviously, I want this to be a conversation, so please comment if you have something to say about grief. Please do not comment if you feel the compulsion to tell me that you're sorry for my loss. I know you are, and I appreciate it. That's not the point. So in the next days or weeks or whatever it takes, I'll share with you some writings and thoughts and random ways that I process. Enjoy. Or don't. Either way, you'll need to grieve the path you didn't take. ;)

Poop Stinks

This post has nothing to do with poop, but it just seemed like the only way to start.

I've been on radio silence for a while for one main reason. We've been having a rough stint. Last Monday, almost two weeks ago, I was planning a very fun post. I had an ultrasound scheduled to make sure that everything was okay in my - yep - early pregnancy. I was 8 weeks, and the ultrasound technician could only find an empty sac. That was not good news, but it wasn't necessarily the worst news. The basic idea was that I could have been off on dates and less pregnant than I originally thought or it could be something called a blighted ovum. That means that an embryo implanted but only the sac continued to grow. The only way to know for sure which we were dealing with was to wait nearly two weeks - until yesterday morning - and have another ultrasound.

Two weeks of waiting was pretty miserable, but we managed to carry on with life in the most normal way we could. I worked so hard not to think about what we were waiting on that I ended up not doing much thinking at all. That's why no I couldn't think of any posts.

So yesterday morning was the ultrasound. Poop stinks gives you an idea that it did not turn out like we had planned. The sac was still empty and hadn't grown at all. So this week I will need to have a procedure to end the process.

So that's where we are. After two weeks of stopping feelings in their tracks, we are finding it to be a challenge to access them now. It will happen when we least expect it. With people who care close and each other closer, we'll make it through this as we have anything else.

Most of you already knew about all of this, but it always helps me to get things out in writing. I appreciate you hearing me out, but I don't really need feedback. I've disabled comments on this post. I just don't want anyone to feel the need to find something to say.