I lost count of how many times I have started this post then deleted literally everything I wrote. I don't like to write just for the sake of writing. If the words aren't just right and the message isn't on my heart in a way that is meaningful, I can't pull the trigger on it.
Ever since our first failed cycle, I have struggled with processing loss. In reality, this difficulty knowing how to properly grieve can really be traced back to my childhood. I was adopted, so I never really "knew" my biological parents. I lost them, but I never knew them. So I guess in a way, my entire life has been spent trying to figure out how to grieve an abstract loss.
I'm sure there's some scientific or psychological definition for abstract loss or grief, but quite honestly if I research it myself I think I'd drive myself crazier than I already feel. Instead, I prefer to put it in my own words, on my own terms. Maybe my definition matches yours - maybe it won't - and that's ok.
Abstract loss... that gut feeling you have that cuts into every fiber of your soul. Feeling like your heart is being ripped into shreds, the backs of your eyes burning as you fight to hold back tears. You have all of the physical symptoms of indescribable sadness... yet your brain has trouble pin-pointing why you're feeling the way you do. Your body aches and your brain hurts from the natural desire for it to KNOW and to PROCESS what is happening to you. But you can't. Because you can't exactly picture what you lost. At least not in a way that is black and white, right in front of you. Not in a way where you can say, "YES - I see it... this is what is making me sad, and here is how I fix it."
I couldn't do that with the loss of my biological parents. I lost the two people that, as a baby, I thought were supposed to be there for me. Poof. They were gone. I was too young to process what happened to me. Instead, as an adult, more than 30 years later, I sometimes find myself reeling from the pain of losing them. It's as if they died - but they didn't. All I knew - and know - is they're gone. Don't get me wrong - I am grateful for the life I had growing up - a life I wouldn't have if it weren't for my biological parents leaving the picture. It doesn't negate the deep-rooted sense of abandonment and mistrust the loss of my biological parents has left seared into my heart.
And so it is with the loss of our embryos. I never knew them. I never met them. I never carried them inside of me. But I know they existed. I prepared for them. We prepared for them. Not just physically, but mentally as well.
We picked out names. We had ideas for the nursery. I actually bought a bracelet for the little that said "Big Sister" anticipating that I would soon get to give it to her. I bought a giant bag of miniature Tootsie Pops to give to my husband to celebrate.
I walked past aisles of baby items, mentally making notes of what I would put on our registry. I looked lovingly at the "Baby's First" items wondering which "Baby's First" would happen - well, first. Would it be Easter? Halloween? Christmas? I thought about buying maternity clothes. I pictured the happy looks and tears and hugs that would happen when we announced to our families that we were having a baby. Honestly? I think this can be said for anyone who is longing for a pregnancy - whether reproductive therapy is needed or not.
It has been almost two years since our first failed IVF cycle. And I'm still struggling with how to grieve that loss. In a way, I'm getting there, chipping away little by little. But there's still a part of my brain that hasn't quite caught up to my heart - or vice versa.
Abstract loss doesn't have to be this extreme. I bet at some point or another you have gone through an abstract loss.
- Not getting the job you had hoped.
- Not getting the role you auditioned for.
- Not getting the wedding proposal you were hoping for this year.
- Not winning the championship with your sports team.
- Not winning the pageant.
All of these things were events that in your mind - at some point - you envisioned as a full-fledged reality.
And when that reality didn't pan out? It hurt. It hurt like hell.
So what advice do I have for those experience an abstract loss?
It's pretty hard to give solid advice while I'm still mucking through it, but I do have a few things that come to mind - some told to me by others that took several months for me to fully believe.
1. You have a right to grieve. Just because you can't see or feel your loss right in front of you does not mean you aren't allowed to hurt. Just because you can't put words to it, you still lost something. And when we lose something, we feel broken.
2. What you have lost is your dream. Your plans. Your hopes. Just because it wasn't an item or something you had in your possession doesn't mean what you experience isn't a loss. It is.
3. Give yourself time. Not only does your heart need healing, but your brain's ability to process your loss is hindered by your brain already being busy trying to figure out WHAT you lost. Be patient with yourself. Understand that the waves you feel are normal, and that it's normal to take steps backward and even get sucked right back into the whirlwind of confusion.
4. You may never quite understand your loss and therefore never quite recover completely. And that's ok. It is extremely difficult to completely heal from an abstract loss when a piece of your heart is just stuck in utter confusion.
I hope what I wrote makes sense. Part of the struggle to get this far without completely erasing what I wrote was that I'm still going through this myself - grieving the abstract, the unseen. So I didn't really feel equip to offer much to you.
This video clip is courtesy of my friends at The Lavin Production Company (check them on out Facebook here). They shot and edited a very candid interview with us. This clip is brief, but is my reaction to our first failed IVF Cycle.
Please, as always, feel free to reach out to us if you need prayers or just need to talk. Don't forget we are on Facebook. As always, you are welcome to share our story. Sometimes, just reading the stories of others going through the same thing has been the biggest inspiration for me. I just hope I can provide that for others.
Love,
Kristy
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