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.

no matter how small

This post is one of the hardest things I've ever had to write. I know I don't have to write it, but part of me needs to. I have struggled with these words for days. But in the end, I needed to write them down as a part of my personal grief therapy. Maybe I won't hit that Publish button, and this will simply sit in the archives of my unpublished posts until blogging is no longer a thing. It will simply be a long-lost cyber diary of my heartbreak.

But if you're reading this, here it is.
There is an ache that far too many women know: the ache of losing a child you never get to hold.

Part of me knows that miscarriages are incredibly common. I've been continually hearing phrases like, "they're completely normal", or "they're nothing to worry about." That breaks my heart. I also know that it's quite common for women that suffer through miscarriages to go on and have healthy, happy children. But even so, the statistical probability of having a miscarriage is crazy high, which is why I was always terrified of them. As soon as we found out we were pregnant, that fear gripped me like a physical force. It was something I dreaded and continued to pray against and lose sleep over. And then it actually happened, and I wished that I could go back to sleep and live in that world instead. I think a small subconscious part of me thought that if I was afraid enough, and prayed enough, that God would spare me from it. A very sad, naive thought, but it was there nonetheless. I felt betrayed and abandoned by my own body, grasping at smoke and screaming at no one in particular for the injustice of my absolute helplessness. I had no control, no ability to save my baby.

I didn't have any children until about one week ago. That's when that little miracle happened, and I received the promise of one. That positive pregnancy test (5 of them, actually, because I couldn't actually believe it) threw open the doors of dreaming and scheming and squealing. My husband and I had one perfect week of picking nicknames and slowly sharing our happy news with our family. I have a list on my phone of 21 little nicknames we called my stomach in those first few days. The name that stuck was Poppy Seed, because at 4 1/2 weeks that's exactly how big our teeny baby was. Indescribable, to think of life at that scale. 

On the morning of February 19th, about 80 hours after that first positive pregnancy test, I wrote this:

Sometimes I'll wish myself into thinking I have felt something in my belly. Oh my gosh there's a baby in there. But really it's just gas. It's a big letdown. I also love it, because it's mystifying that life exists in there, so small and invisible. I can hardly sleep and I'll wake up and shock myself by whispering, "you're pregnant, lady" and myself responds like, "WHAT".

There's also a lot of fear involved. We've told a really small number of people, mostly just family, and I'm terrified of having to tell them I made a mistake. That I somehow had a rather record-breaking number of false positives. I'm afraid that if I snore too loud or stand up too fast the baby's just gonna fall out. Peace out, mum. 

On a more serious note, we've known and loved and grieved with a lot of women who have been through miscarriages. That is a very deep fear of mine, one that I simply have to pray through. I was halfway through a turkey sandwich today for lunch when I had this crazy epiphany that pregnant women aren't supposed to eat deli meats, and I practically spit out my food mid-chew and proceeded to only eat the bread and tomato. I then Googled turkey deli meat for way longer than necessary, scaring myself silly with all of the horrors of deli meat poison. I guess it's a thing. I'm already making mistakes and I just have to remind myself that humans make babies. Therefore the process is never perfect. I am just another freaked out mother-to-be that is resting restlessly in the hands of God, hoping that I get to meet this little alien on this earth and love him for as long as possible.

It turns out that my wishful "as long as possible" was just that one perfect week. In the wee hours of February 22nd our Poppy Seed went smoothly to be with Jesus. I am now a mother with a ripped-away promise, like a rugged square of quilt torn away from its center. Some people may think that a single week isn't long enough to be so attached to a child, to fall in love, to actually be a mother, but I disagree. I think that's the core of the tragedy for me, this absolute emptiness I feel, the sharp and painful halt to all of our hope and love. I am torn between loving and hating the comfort I have received from beloved friends that have experienced this same pain, knowing they share and grieve my loss but also wishing that none of us had to. I felt an instant connection to a teeny, tiny life growing inside of me, and that baby will be a part of me forever. A person's a person, and Poppy was our person. I don't know if she would have looked like me, if she would have had Dusty's eyes, if she would have loved cats. I have no answers, about gender or anything else. I just know that I loved our week together, that it was far too short, and our hearts are broken without her here.

My husband and I have been clinging to each other. Through the pain and the sadness and even the embarrassment that I feel, which is silly but it's there. I have never felt this close to him, this intricately connected in the complexities of happiness and grief. Our dear Poppy was the flower that brought us immense joy. We were completely unprepared for this goodbye, but are doing our best to embrace the stages of it. It's so important to us to grieve her as a person, as our child, because that's what she was and will always be.

My sweet brother said, "Praise God for the hope we have in Christ. Our family in heaven is growing."

That is as solid a promise as I could ever possibly hope for. Poppy, my darling, we will never stop waiting to meet you. This world is dimmer without you in it, and heaven is blessed to know you first.