We are nearing the anniversary of our second unsuccessful cycle. Honestly, life happened so fast and I had so much going on after that cycle that I never took the time to process the loss. If I were to be even more honest, I doubt I have fully comprehended the impact of our first unsuccessful cycle. Throw in our third unsuccessful cycle in February/March of this year, and let's just say my brain did me a huge favor and shut itself down for a bit.
But the thing about grief is you can't ignore it forever. You can try to shove it into a back corner of your brain, stacking other things on top of it, like worrying about others or busying yourself with work. Eventually, things start clearing out and you're left staring at that box.
And this is where I stand now. Staring at that box. I can feel barriers breaking down as I frantically try to fix them by distracting myself. Unfortunately, one can only keep this up for so long before the deterioration starts to outpace what you can do make repairs.
I wrote something similar to this in a past blog post. But, I don't think I was 100% honest with how I felt. It was more of a hopeful approach. More of an approach of pride and wonder. There was sadness, but I tried to keep it upbeat. I focused on the embryos we lost. Not on how I actually felt.
I hand wrote this letter to my embabies we lost. I debated whether or not it would be just mine - even considered not sharing it with my husband. My original intent was to just let it be mine. Especially because I feel like people are telling me to just get over it and move on. That at this point, I should just move on to the next thing. That I should stop crying about it. That I should have processed this by now. That it's in the past and I can't change it, so it's time to quit the sob stories.
I feel like because of these notions that I should just "move on", you need to see a more raw side of what infertility and loss looks like.
So here it is, unfiltered. I know I'm not the only one who has been there. Even couples going through treatment who had a successful cycle can likely relate - because chances are during their process, they, too, felt loss.
To My Embabies in Heaven,
Hi there. I know we have never met, but I am your mommy. And while I never had you in my belly, a part of me was a part of you. Some doctors and people will say you never existed because you wouldn't have survived. I respectfully disagree.
From the moment I knew you existed, you were mine. You had a future. You had a family waiting to meet you.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry if there was something more I should have or could have done differently that would have allowed you to be in this world with us.
Even though you existed for a very short period of time, I still feel "mom guilt". I question what I did wrong. I secretly blame myself for your death.
I think about you every day. I wonder what my life would be like if you were here.
I don't know how I can miss, love, and grieve someone I never saw. Never felt in my belly. Never held in my arms.
But I held you in my heart. And I think that's where I feel the loss of you the most.
I would have given my life for you to live. I would have given up my wordly possessions just to see your face for a minute.
There are moments I wish I were dead because the loss of you is unbearable.
I feel like I have failed you. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I'm here and you're not. You would love your sister and daddy as much as I do.
My sweet angels - I love you. I miss you. I long to meet you. For those brief moments I knew you existed, you were already my world.
I hope one day I get to meet you in heaven. I feel like that is the only time and way I will feel at peace.
There is an empty place in my heart where you once were. Nothing can fill that hole.
I will try to be a person on this earth you can look down on and be proud of. I am already proud of you.
All my love,
Your Mommy
Showing posts with label Failed IVF. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Failed IVF. Show all posts
Sunday, September 17, 2017
Monday, January 2, 2017
Grieving Abstract Losses
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
Sunday, December 4, 2016
An Open Letter to The Children I Never Met
If you'd like a little bit if our backstory, click here. It's far from the full story, but I can't sleep and I think it's because this is weighing so heavily on my heart.
An Open Letter to the Children I Never Met
Hello, sweet angel. You probably don't know who I am, as we never really met. I never carried you inside of me. But I know you. I knew you came into the world on March 12th, 2015. You were the only one who made it. I'll admit. I was scared for you. Because you were it! THE one. Of 6 potential babies, you were the only one who made it. But I was also hopeful for you. I felt in my heart you were a fighter. I loved you from the moment I found out you existed. You want to know your nickname? It was Nemo. You were our Nemo. Before I even knew you existed, I started making plans for you. Your nursery was going to be Peanuts themed, with an emphasis on Snoopy. I bought a Snoopy special for your room and secretly pinned Snoopy-themed bedding, mobiles and other items on a Pinterest board only I could see. Your daddy and I were already discussing names. I was giving your daddy a hard time about what I pictured you would look like - his beautiful bright blue eyes, my thick, black hair. A perfect mixture of the two of us.
I imagined in my head the ways we would surprise your sister. True, by blood, she would be your half sister, but a sister nonetheless. She knew of our plans for you. She wanted you, too. We couldn't wait to include her in the plans, discussing which appointment she could come to where she could meet the doctor that helped make the miracle of you possible. An appointment for her to hear your heartbeat and see you the first time. Shopping trips together to help pick out clothes for you.
On your third day in this world, I found out you were still fighting. You were our bright star, just as I was my parent's bright star. Your daddy and I waited with baited breath at the church in my hometown while your cousin was getting baptized. I got the call just before the service started and broke down in tears of joy. I told your daddy, MiMi and Papa, Aunts, great aunts, great grandmas, and other important people in your life that you were fighting, and that in just two short days I would be carrying you in my belly.
On March 17th, 2015, I was preparing for you to be transferred to me - my first contact with you. But I got a call from the nurse. A call I wasn't expecting. You stopped growing. You were what they called "arrested". In that moment, sitting in my car in the parking lot while your daddy was working until it was time to transfer you to me, I broke down in tears. As much as I wanted to believe you were maybe just delayed a bit, I knew deep down God had already called you home.
For months, I thought of you. I still think of you. Every milestone we would have had together - every trimester, the time we had expected to hold you in our arms... I mourned. I cried. I loved you and I lost you before you even had a chance to know me. It was a very hard year for us, because we thought you would be here. Our little Nemo.
One the one year anniversary after you went to heaven, we lit a candle for you. I picked out as close to Aquamarine as I could. Your light shined brightly and burned for more than 24 hours. That candle now sits in our house, with a onesie I bought for you after we found out you went to heaven. I'm not sure why I bought it, other than I felt compelled to as a symbol of hope. That's your onesie, though. You may never wear it, but it's yours and always will be.
This year, in October, we tried again. Don't worry, I never forgot about you. I found myself terrified that we would get the same calls.
I was terrified, but I kept up hope. We didn't tell your sister this time, though. We didn't tell many people because it was very hard to have told your family and our friends about you, only to have to tell them we lost you and there would be no baby in our arms.
You had two siblings join us on October 24th, 2016. Once again, like you, these two were special. Because of 14 potential babies, only two of them made it. Two more fighters, just like you.
To our October babies... we knew that one warrior had gone before you. We prayed and prayed and waited anxiously to find out how much you had grown. We had plans for you, too. We had new names picked out. And, although your sister didn't know about you, we had plans to let her paint a picture in your nursery, because she loves art and does beautiful work.
We planned on having you tested to make sure we knew you would make it once you were transferred to me. We had a transfer date set. I was excited about possibly transferring both of you. I pictured telling our family on Christmas that you would be joining us next year - either as one or as a pair.
I was also scared for you. You see, we lost your older sibling more than a year ago. We were so scared we would lose you, too. But we kept up the hope, and continued to make plans. I diligently researched names, trying to find names with the perfect meaning. You were going to be our beautiful, bright flowers.
We also decided we wanted a video of you. From day one to day five we wanted to watch you grow. We couldn't wait.
Both of you fought to day three. They told me one of you was looking better than the other, but I chalked it up to maybe one of you was just a late bloomer, and kept holding onto my hope that soon, we would be finding out more abosbut you.
I had to wait the weekend to find out how you were doing. It was torture. Waiting is the hardest... I hope you have more patience than I do.
On October 31st, I found out that two days before, you stopped growing. They gave you another day, and I know you fought as hard as you could to be with me, but God called both of you home to be with Him and the sibling before you.
I cried. Your dad cried. I couldn't believe that we would never hold you. I would never be able to count your fingers and toes. I would never be able to see your eyes open for the first time, waiting with anticipation to see if they were a deep brown like mine or a bright blue like your daddy's. I wouldn't be giving your big sister a teddy bear with your heartbeat recorded in it for her to listen to.
I still can't believe you're gone.
All three of you will be remembered. How could I forget you? You were part of your daddy and me, regardless of the fact I never carried you in my belly.
It's comforting to know that all three of you are together in heaven, waiting for us to one day join you. I can count your fingers and toes then. I can hold your face then. I hope you've met your great grandparents and your great Uncle Jay. I know they'll look after you until we get there.
Soon, I will carry a physical symbol of you near my heart. All three of you. I love that. It was your daddy's idea. He's a pretty amazing man, and I know you would have made him - us - proud.
I may never have met you on this earth, but this is just a resting place - you were just called home sooner.
And, until we meet you in heaven and can tell you ourselves... I want you to know we love you. You were loved the moment we knew you came into existence. Actually, we loved you before then. Nothing will change that.
Love,
Your mommy and daddy
Heavenly Father, please watch over our angel babies. I may not understand now, but deep down I know you brought them to you after five days for a reason. I will try my very best to trust in You and Your plans. Please also be with all of the other babies called home all too soon. Called home too soon for those left here on earth, with parents still here trying to understand why You brought them to heaven so early in their lives. Please be patient and understanding with the loved ones of these angel babies, as we don't always understand why You work the way You do. There are days we feel it is unfair and we find ourselves angry at You. Please have mercy on us during those times, yet help us not to lose sight of You. It's in Your name I humbly pray, Amen.
An Open Letter to the Children I Never Met
Hello, sweet angel. You probably don't know who I am, as we never really met. I never carried you inside of me. But I know you. I knew you came into the world on March 12th, 2015. You were the only one who made it. I'll admit. I was scared for you. Because you were it! THE one. Of 6 potential babies, you were the only one who made it. But I was also hopeful for you. I felt in my heart you were a fighter. I loved you from the moment I found out you existed. You want to know your nickname? It was Nemo. You were our Nemo. Before I even knew you existed, I started making plans for you. Your nursery was going to be Peanuts themed, with an emphasis on Snoopy. I bought a Snoopy special for your room and secretly pinned Snoopy-themed bedding, mobiles and other items on a Pinterest board only I could see. Your daddy and I were already discussing names. I was giving your daddy a hard time about what I pictured you would look like - his beautiful bright blue eyes, my thick, black hair. A perfect mixture of the two of us.
I imagined in my head the ways we would surprise your sister. True, by blood, she would be your half sister, but a sister nonetheless. She knew of our plans for you. She wanted you, too. We couldn't wait to include her in the plans, discussing which appointment she could come to where she could meet the doctor that helped make the miracle of you possible. An appointment for her to hear your heartbeat and see you the first time. Shopping trips together to help pick out clothes for you.
On your third day in this world, I found out you were still fighting. You were our bright star, just as I was my parent's bright star. Your daddy and I waited with baited breath at the church in my hometown while your cousin was getting baptized. I got the call just before the service started and broke down in tears of joy. I told your daddy, MiMi and Papa, Aunts, great aunts, great grandmas, and other important people in your life that you were fighting, and that in just two short days I would be carrying you in my belly.
On March 17th, 2015, I was preparing for you to be transferred to me - my first contact with you. But I got a call from the nurse. A call I wasn't expecting. You stopped growing. You were what they called "arrested". In that moment, sitting in my car in the parking lot while your daddy was working until it was time to transfer you to me, I broke down in tears. As much as I wanted to believe you were maybe just delayed a bit, I knew deep down God had already called you home.
For months, I thought of you. I still think of you. Every milestone we would have had together - every trimester, the time we had expected to hold you in our arms... I mourned. I cried. I loved you and I lost you before you even had a chance to know me. It was a very hard year for us, because we thought you would be here. Our little Nemo.
One the one year anniversary after you went to heaven, we lit a candle for you. I picked out as close to Aquamarine as I could. Your light shined brightly and burned for more than 24 hours. That candle now sits in our house, with a onesie I bought for you after we found out you went to heaven. I'm not sure why I bought it, other than I felt compelled to as a symbol of hope. That's your onesie, though. You may never wear it, but it's yours and always will be.
This year, in October, we tried again. Don't worry, I never forgot about you. I found myself terrified that we would get the same calls.
I was terrified, but I kept up hope. We didn't tell your sister this time, though. We didn't tell many people because it was very hard to have told your family and our friends about you, only to have to tell them we lost you and there would be no baby in our arms.
You had two siblings join us on October 24th, 2016. Once again, like you, these two were special. Because of 14 potential babies, only two of them made it. Two more fighters, just like you.
To our October babies... we knew that one warrior had gone before you. We prayed and prayed and waited anxiously to find out how much you had grown. We had plans for you, too. We had new names picked out. And, although your sister didn't know about you, we had plans to let her paint a picture in your nursery, because she loves art and does beautiful work.
We planned on having you tested to make sure we knew you would make it once you were transferred to me. We had a transfer date set. I was excited about possibly transferring both of you. I pictured telling our family on Christmas that you would be joining us next year - either as one or as a pair.
I was also scared for you. You see, we lost your older sibling more than a year ago. We were so scared we would lose you, too. But we kept up the hope, and continued to make plans. I diligently researched names, trying to find names with the perfect meaning. You were going to be our beautiful, bright flowers.
We also decided we wanted a video of you. From day one to day five we wanted to watch you grow. We couldn't wait.
Both of you fought to day three. They told me one of you was looking better than the other, but I chalked it up to maybe one of you was just a late bloomer, and kept holding onto my hope that soon, we would be finding out more abosbut you.
I had to wait the weekend to find out how you were doing. It was torture. Waiting is the hardest... I hope you have more patience than I do.
On October 31st, I found out that two days before, you stopped growing. They gave you another day, and I know you fought as hard as you could to be with me, but God called both of you home to be with Him and the sibling before you.
I cried. Your dad cried. I couldn't believe that we would never hold you. I would never be able to count your fingers and toes. I would never be able to see your eyes open for the first time, waiting with anticipation to see if they were a deep brown like mine or a bright blue like your daddy's. I wouldn't be giving your big sister a teddy bear with your heartbeat recorded in it for her to listen to.
I still can't believe you're gone.
All three of you will be remembered. How could I forget you? You were part of your daddy and me, regardless of the fact I never carried you in my belly.
It's comforting to know that all three of you are together in heaven, waiting for us to one day join you. I can count your fingers and toes then. I can hold your face then. I hope you've met your great grandparents and your great Uncle Jay. I know they'll look after you until we get there.
Soon, I will carry a physical symbol of you near my heart. All three of you. I love that. It was your daddy's idea. He's a pretty amazing man, and I know you would have made him - us - proud.
I may never have met you on this earth, but this is just a resting place - you were just called home sooner.
And, until we meet you in heaven and can tell you ourselves... I want you to know we love you. You were loved the moment we knew you came into existence. Actually, we loved you before then. Nothing will change that.
Love,
Your mommy and daddy
Heavenly Father, please watch over our angel babies. I may not understand now, but deep down I know you brought them to you after five days for a reason. I will try my very best to trust in You and Your plans. Please also be with all of the other babies called home all too soon. Called home too soon for those left here on earth, with parents still here trying to understand why You brought them to heaven so early in their lives. Please be patient and understanding with the loved ones of these angel babies, as we don't always understand why You work the way You do. There are days we feel it is unfair and we find ourselves angry at You. Please have mercy on us during those times, yet help us not to lose sight of You. It's in Your name I humbly pray, Amen.
The Journey Pendant
***This post was originally going to be "An Open Letter to The Children I Never Met",
but I realized some background may be necessary. This is a small but
significantly meaningful part of our infertility journey together***
It's almost 3:30am and I cannot fall back asleep. I think I have a lot on my heart and my mind. As what should have been our transfer date nears, I find myself slowly realizing we failed a second cycle. My brain recognized it happened, but only as an event - it almost still feels like it NEVER happened. Or, something as normal as I had an appointment with a doctor, everything was standard, nothing to write home about.
I finally took the leap and requested our Embryoscope video and pictures of our embryos from our latest cycle be sent to us. (FYI - Embryoscope is a unique process in which the embryos remain in the incubator during the 5 days, allowing the Embryologists to get more pictures of the embryo. From here they can create a time-lapsed video of the embryo from fertilization to just before transfer.) Doing so - without even receiving a response yet (as I sent the request on a Friday evening) started to break down the walls my brain has built to protect me.
For those who aren't familiar with our story, particularly the beautiful gift my husband gave me when we started our first IVF cycle, here it is.
Our first IVF cycle was in March of 2016. Just before I started my medications that January, my husband (who was working for Helzberg Diamonds at the time) bought me a beautiful Journey pendant. It became the necklace I only took off when I had to. The necklace was a wonderful, thoughtful symbol of what was to come. It was exciting. Every stone was a diamond - pure, clear, beautiful.
After our failed cycle, there was a period of time I was upset with my husband. I felt like he wasn't hurting like I was and that he didn't understand the pain I was going through. He never expressed to me how he really felt. It seemed as though I was alone in my grief.
However, I know now he was grieving. He grieved not only the loss of our single embryo and the outcome of our cycle, but also took on MY heartache. He hated (and still does) that he couldn't take away my pain.
Just as I was beginning to vocally express my frustration with him for not opening up about how he felt, he surprised me.
I often visited him at work, and he usually took the time to inspect my jewelry (oh the perks!). He wanted to take a look at the Journey pendant. He told me a stone was loose and it needed sent off for repairs. I thought nothing of it. After all, I constantly wore it - loose stones seemed like a normal thing that would happen.
However, when I got it back... it wasn't the same. In the very center of the pendant where there was once a diamond was an Aquamarine stone. Aquamarine is the March birthstone, and he had it added to represent our angel embryo.
He also traded out two other diamonds for Amethyst - our birthstone (February). So, on either side of our angel embryo was "us". It was his way of letting me know he also constantly thought of the embryo we lost.
It was the most thoughtful gift he could have given me. It was his way of showing me he was grieving, too, and he thought of our angel embryo, too.
I could now keep a symbol of our loss and heaven's gain close to my heart. I sometimes find myself holding it between my fingers, sometimes consciously, sometimes not realizing I'm doing it, but when I do, I'm thinking about the little embryo that fought until day 5 before God called him or her home.
Fast forward to today. In October, we lost two embryos. Today we went and dropped off the necklace two have two more stones switched out. There will be two pink sapphire stones (one of October's birthstones) surrounding the Aquamarine birthstone, and all three will be between our birthstones.
Three beautiful embryos, three beautiful babies in heaven. As we were standing in the store, as I listened to the squeals of children, I held the pendant and began to cry. Reality sinking in, little by little. I turned to my husband and said through my tears, "at least our first baby won't be alone anymore", to which he replied, "I'm sure they're in heaven having a party waiting for us." I found myself smiling through my tears and responding with some remark about how much trouble they're going to be in for throwing a party without talking to us first and that they're too young to be having parties.
So, that's the story of the Journey pendant. I'll post a picture once it comes back to us.
Romans 5:3-5 Not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope. Now this hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.
Much Love,
Kristy
It's almost 3:30am and I cannot fall back asleep. I think I have a lot on my heart and my mind. As what should have been our transfer date nears, I find myself slowly realizing we failed a second cycle. My brain recognized it happened, but only as an event - it almost still feels like it NEVER happened. Or, something as normal as I had an appointment with a doctor, everything was standard, nothing to write home about.
I finally took the leap and requested our Embryoscope video and pictures of our embryos from our latest cycle be sent to us. (FYI - Embryoscope is a unique process in which the embryos remain in the incubator during the 5 days, allowing the Embryologists to get more pictures of the embryo. From here they can create a time-lapsed video of the embryo from fertilization to just before transfer.) Doing so - without even receiving a response yet (as I sent the request on a Friday evening) started to break down the walls my brain has built to protect me.
For those who aren't familiar with our story, particularly the beautiful gift my husband gave me when we started our first IVF cycle, here it is.
Our first IVF cycle was in March of 2016. Just before I started my medications that January, my husband (who was working for Helzberg Diamonds at the time) bought me a beautiful Journey pendant. It became the necklace I only took off when I had to. The necklace was a wonderful, thoughtful symbol of what was to come. It was exciting. Every stone was a diamond - pure, clear, beautiful.
After our failed cycle, there was a period of time I was upset with my husband. I felt like he wasn't hurting like I was and that he didn't understand the pain I was going through. He never expressed to me how he really felt. It seemed as though I was alone in my grief.
However, I know now he was grieving. He grieved not only the loss of our single embryo and the outcome of our cycle, but also took on MY heartache. He hated (and still does) that he couldn't take away my pain.
Just as I was beginning to vocally express my frustration with him for not opening up about how he felt, he surprised me.
I often visited him at work, and he usually took the time to inspect my jewelry (oh the perks!). He wanted to take a look at the Journey pendant. He told me a stone was loose and it needed sent off for repairs. I thought nothing of it. After all, I constantly wore it - loose stones seemed like a normal thing that would happen.
However, when I got it back... it wasn't the same. In the very center of the pendant where there was once a diamond was an Aquamarine stone. Aquamarine is the March birthstone, and he had it added to represent our angel embryo.
He also traded out two other diamonds for Amethyst - our birthstone (February). So, on either side of our angel embryo was "us". It was his way of letting me know he also constantly thought of the embryo we lost.
It was the most thoughtful gift he could have given me. It was his way of showing me he was grieving, too, and he thought of our angel embryo, too.
I could now keep a symbol of our loss and heaven's gain close to my heart. I sometimes find myself holding it between my fingers, sometimes consciously, sometimes not realizing I'm doing it, but when I do, I'm thinking about the little embryo that fought until day 5 before God called him or her home.
Fast forward to today. In October, we lost two embryos. Today we went and dropped off the necklace two have two more stones switched out. There will be two pink sapphire stones (one of October's birthstones) surrounding the Aquamarine birthstone, and all three will be between our birthstones.
Three beautiful embryos, three beautiful babies in heaven. As we were standing in the store, as I listened to the squeals of children, I held the pendant and began to cry. Reality sinking in, little by little. I turned to my husband and said through my tears, "at least our first baby won't be alone anymore", to which he replied, "I'm sure they're in heaven having a party waiting for us." I found myself smiling through my tears and responding with some remark about how much trouble they're going to be in for throwing a party without talking to us first and that they're too young to be having parties.
So, that's the story of the Journey pendant. I'll post a picture once it comes back to us.
Romans 5:3-5 Not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope. Now this hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.
Much Love,
Kristy
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