the dichotomy of tears

April 29, 2015. The week we found out!

My wee little babe is the size of a peach this week. Since we just announced our pregnancy publicly yesterday, I have a lot of backlogged thoughts, emotions, experiences, vomiting... and I suppose this is the time to share some of those things. (I'll skip the vomiting).

For a while, I had to fight against my initial urge to feel guilty about being pregnant. It felt like I was painfully breaking out of the cocoon of heartbreak, a place that I felt was safe and familiar. I had friends there. Other mothers who had been permanently bruised by the loss of a beloved child. It was a congregation I didn't take lightly. I felt comforted by them, held by them. Sharing about my miscarriage with others who had experienced that same loss opened up my heart in a very raw and very real way. When I found out I was pregnant again, I had a rush of fears. Would I be banished because of this new life? Should I have waited? Would my friendships change? Would they feel a twinge when I told them the news, or be able to share this happiness in all of its complexities? I felt torn between rejoicing and grieving anew for the baby I had lost. I wanted to stay the same, but push forward. I wanted to hold onto the memorial I was holding in my heart, but I also wanted to celebrate new life. I was two different people, two different desires residing on a crossroad of complex emotion.

On June 3rd, at my 10 week mark, my husband and I were able to go to my very first prenatal appointment. We saw the same doctor that I had visited right after my miscarriage, and she was ecstatic to see me again and to congratulate us. It was incredibly nerve-racking. I still felt full of fear. I had this weird, irrational fear that they would tell me I wasn't actually pregnant after all - my body had tricked me. I had tricked myself. But in that bright room, feeling naked and vulnerable in my thin fabric patient's gown, my doctor navigated her handheld monitor across my skin until we all heard the whoosh whoosh whoosh of our miraculously tiny baby's heartbeat. We just cried and cried. We cried tears for Poppy, and we cried tears for our new baby whose heart was beating for us, with us, within me. The tears all looked the same, and they all came from us, but they meant very different things.

I have learned that complex emotion, that layered and turbulent crossroad, is beautiful. And I don't mean that in the fluffy, hippy way that people sometimes use the word "beautiful" (I mean, people love to say that birth is beautiful, but I'm certainly not paying anyone to see that business, not even my own). I wish there was another word, a better word. Complex emotion is...worthwhile. The fight, the questions I ask myself, the answers I discover, it's all worthwhile. I can't quite bring myself to say that birth itself is actually beautiful because it totally freaks me out, but it is worthwhile. It's not pretty, it's worthy. Because it hurts and it's earned and it hurts hurts hurts and it produces stunning, glorious, fresh life. The complexities of life are hard and they're worth feeling. They're the dichotomy of tears.

I own the grief and I own the joy, crying tears for both and feeling for both.
I don't have to choose, because I am all of it all at once.

mother's day for all

This Mother's Day I am observing an acute kind of revelation. For me, Mother's Day has never been anything but light, cheerful, loving and celebratory. It has been a holiday solely for my mother. To reward her, in some small way, for her time and love that she has invested in all of us throughout our lives. I have a wonderful mom. She feels deeply but doesn't often show it, she remembers all things and can find anything that's lost, she shows love through gifts of hard work and dedication, and is always loyal, funny and steadfast. I am who I am because of her constant presence in my life, which has always included stellar advice and lots of pedicures. I am thankful for her this Mother's Day and always.

This year, possibly for the first time, my eyes have been more personally opened to a much more complex Mother's Day. Emotions that are both bitter and difficult. Empathies that reach out to a much larger audience of people in the world that may view Mother's Day with something other than lighthearted, celebratory vibes.

I miss Poppy today. My heart and mind is filled with thoughts and pangs for the other women I know (and the many thousands that I do not) that have lost children through miscarriage as well. I fight against the overwhelming sorrow for so many lost dreams and shattered hopes, for the families that should have been. For the broken women that feel so alone, even though there are so many of us that have experienced this loss. My eyes fill with tears as I type, because we often don't get to be celebrated as mothers. We dare to feel like mothers, to miss our children and to grieve their loss daily, but we are the silent moms of children destined to surpass this earth before they even have the chance to breathe in its air. It's the one comfort, really, that they are in heaven before us. But while we wait here without them, today can be a very lonely day.

source

I have begun to see, and perhaps better understand, the complexities of Mother's Day for so many of us. For hearts that yearn to be mothers, but have been unable to have that dream realized. For those who have lost their mothers, whose grief is magnified on this day meant to honor them. For children who were abused or abandoned by their mothers. For mothers whose children have passed away, or whose children are far away from them in other ways. For stepmoms and foster moms and adoptive moms. Complexities.

Many of these thoughts were prompted by an email from my cousin, who wrote me the most thoughtful and tender message to let me know that she was thinking of me this Mother's Day. She wanted me to know that my feelings matter, my lost baby matters, I matter. And as I write out all of these thoughts that echo or respond to her message, I feel a strange sense of camaraderie with the world. I feel less alone. We all have mothers, and it's a relationship that defines us all forever. It's a relationship that matters immensely, and whether this day brings joy or pain it is a day that we all feel. Those feelings matter. You are not alone.

Even those of us who have been hurt by mothers or motherhood in some way or another have also been blessed by it. Motherhood is one of the strongest strands of our existence, whether it's directly related to our DNA or not. We observe motherhood daily and see its effects on people, ourselves included. I wrote a post once about us all being velveteen people, made real by love. I suppose that means I am a velveteen mother. It is embedded in my identity now. I am defined not by my loss but by my love.

To the velveteen mothers in my life and beyond, I am thinking of you and your little ones today. I am missing them and looking forward to holding them. If I get to heaven before you, I promise to cover them in kisses. For those who are hurting or remembering or grieving anew, know that your feelings matter, your heart matters, and you are not alone. There is hope and there is healing. I long for you to have the beauty of joy on this Mother's Day. For those that are celebrating mothers and motherhood in all of its forms this morning, God bless you and your beautiful moms, both here and in heaven. We are so blessed to have mothers that have enriched our lives in so many ways.

(I love you mama dearest, you are the most supreme blessing. Happy Mother's Day). 

Happy Mother's Day for all.