The Little Lotus Project Returns

 

December of 2022 was the last time I actually published a blog post. I have several drafts, but I couldn't find the wording. In 2019, we closed a big chapter in our lives - deciding there was no possible way we would have a child together. I know it was the right choice. Since 2019's excision surgery for endometriosis where the implanted an IUD, I have not had to have another surgery. Prior to that, within a five year span I had five surgeries.

After that, I felt like I had nothing new to say, so why bother?

Last year, I wanted to "revamp" The Little Lotus Project and change the name to "Redefining Our Rainbow". A rainbow baby (if you haven't heard this term) is a baby born after loss. Seeing rainbow baby stories gives me mixed emotions. On one hand, I am so grateful another couple did not have the same outcome we did. On the other...there is our outcome, which was nothing but a mountain of medical debt. We decided our "rainbow" could still happen. We just need to find ways to create our own rainbow.

This year, I keep getting signs that it is time to bring back the blog, but with a different twist. I want to share our "signs" because they are pretty cool (at least in my opinion)

In March, Branson and I visited Union Station in St. Louis. It fell on March 17th...and it was the 9th anniversary of our first failed IVF cycle. I have not been to Union Station in a very long time. But, they have a water / fire feature that includes lotus flowers. I don't remember the last time I saw a lotus that wasn't a picture or tattoo. The thing is, we weren't supposed to be at Union Station. Our tradition is to go to Red Lobster because that's where we went March 17th nine years ago to "regroup". But they had a long wait, and we had limited time. 

 

 

For our 11th Anniversary, we headed back to STL. We went to the Aquarium and the Zoo. At the Zoo, there were once again lotus flowers. Again, to me a "sign" that this blog needed revived and there's still conversation to be had about infertility.

 

We never truly rose from the murk and mud of infertility and IVF loss. Maybe one day we will, albeit we may be a little damaged still. 

 

In July, we went to my hometown. It was a wonderful weekend away. On our way back, it was raining a little and we saw a rainbow. At one point, we could see both sides of the rainbow. It brought me some peace and made me rethink my decision to stop this blog.

I started this blog so others would not feel so alone in their journey with infertility. I wanted to educate, advocate, and help others struggling with the same journey feel less alone. But the murk is more than just infertility. There are so many things we all endure that try our emotional, physical, and spiritual capacity.

So here is my new mission: to share stories and struggles that few people want to talk about because it is still "taboo", like certain mental health issues. The mission is to continue to help people feel less alone and  share what worked for me in hopes of providing a blueprint or "sparking" something in others that helps them heal.

I already have several posts in mind and I am excited to finally be back to blogging. I know it is a bigger trend to post quick videos, but I write too much or talk too much on each subject I tackle for that to work. Plus, I love to write.

Thank you to everyone who has supported our journey and who continue to support and encourage us to keep moving forward. We love you.

I'm Sick...

As you may know from previous blog posts, I have been battling endometriosis. I was officially diagnosed in 2015. I have had 4 surgeries in less than 5 years related to the disease. My last surgery was in December of 2017. Unfortunately, all of the symptoms and pain point to the fact that despite an 8.5 hour excision surgery, the endometriosis is back.

It's an invisible illness, which means I look normal, but on the inside, I feel like I'm being ripped apart.

I wrote this post on Facebook and have been meaning to get it up on this blog as it IS related to infertility. (But it also goes along with the theme that this page is no longer JUST for infertility - still working on changing up the description, main photo, etc.). And now - with the pain back in full-force and feeling judged and shamed for my invisible illness... I have decided I really need to get this out there.

Awhile ago, I joined a couple of endometriosis support groups on Facebook. After seeing more than one post from fellow warriors wanting to just call it quits... I'm angry and sick. At the time I wrote my original Facebook post about this in June, I was at that point, too. The point where I felt there was no end in sight and death was a better option than living one more moment on this earth with the pain.

I'm sick... that for these 1 in 10 women, it comes down to the thought of suicide or enduring another day of this highly misunderstood illness.

I'm sick... because the sad thing is that it isn't always the pain that pushes endometriosis patients to the dangerous edge of wanting to choose death over life. The pain that has us begging for death - not caused by our own hands, but just begging God to let us die.

I'm sick... sick of the pain that lands us in the emergency room - knowing full well we could be treated like someone seeking pain-killers to get a high and not a patient in so much pain that we take that risk of being treated poorly in hopes of being treated like a human being in so much pain, the ER felt like the only option.

I'm sick... of the real world situations we face. Like being told to "suck it up", "it's just bad cramps", it's in your head", by friends, family, and even worse - doctors.

I'm sick... of seeking medical care and being brushed off time and time again by doctors who aren't educated enough about the complexities of endometriosis. Many women go 7 or more years before receiving a diagnosis. And I'm sick of this being acceptable.

I'm sick... of finally finding a doctor I like and having insurance deny the procedure that is needed.

I'm sick... of being unable to work due to the pain.

I'm sick of feeling judged for not being able to work - whether it's just in my head or I'm truly being judged.

I'm sick... of worrying about whether or not this disease is going to prevent me from providing for my family.

I'm sick... of missing events and not being able to commit to anything due to the unpredictability of flare-ups.

I'm sick... of feeling anxious and depressed or seeing my existing depression and anxiety worsen because I'm unable work, socialize, or make plans.

I'm sick... of the exhaustion I feel from being in constant pain.

I'm sick... of not being able to be intimate with my partner because of the pain it causes.

I'm sick... of feeling like a constant burden to my family, to my friends, and to my coworkers.

I'm sick... of feeling like I owe the world an explanation. Whether it's an explanation for why I can't do something or explaining for the millionth time my pain.

I'm sick... of feeling invalidated by so many people - including doctors.

I'm sick... of constantly having medical debt.

I'm sick... of letting down my bonus daughter because I sometimes can't do things or be at things because of the pain.

I'm sick... of missing events with family.

I'm sick... of using all  of my time off from work not for vacation, but for doctor appointment after doctor appointment and time off due to the worsening of my symptoms.

I'm sick... because we could do better about education and treatment - but we don't. Endometriosis is so misunderstood. It can only be definitively diagnosed through a surgical laparoscopy. Hormone suppressants like birth control, Lupron, and the new drug Orlissa, only mask the symptoms. Certain treatments used long-term, like Lupron, can cause long-term damage, including osteoporosis. It's not JUST retrograde menstruation. A hysterectomy is no certain cure - in fact, the only time you might find relief is if (1) you have adenomyosis where there are growths INSIDE the uterus or (2) your surgery was performed by an excision specialist who ALSO excised any endometriosis in your body. Endometriosis feeds off of estrogen - estrogen which the disease itself can create (interesting, huh?). Endometriosis doesn't always just involve the uterus, ovaries, Fallopian tubes. It can impact your bowels, and bladder. In more rare and severe cases, it can involve your diaphragm and/or lungs (thoracic endometriosis).

I'm sick... sick and tired of screaming (not literally... yet), begging for help, only to be brushed off over and over and over again. To me, that's worse than the physical pain, even on the worst of days.

And I'm not the only one who is sick of endometriosis.

If this speaks to you - or if you think it may speak to someone you know - please share this post. Help validate your own feelings or someone else's.

I'll share my latest Endo journey in a future blog post.

For now - to my fellow warriors, please reach out to me if you need support and validation. <3

Love,

K

To My Embabies in Heaven

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

An Open Letter to My Husband This Father's Day

Mother's Day often brings up posts about infertility... how we shouldn't forget about certain groups of women - those with infertility past or present, those who have endured infant or pregnancy loss, those who have lost their mothers, and those who have complicated relationships with their mothers.  But on Father's Day the usually rally for morale boosting or recognition and caution to protect those who may be hurting is rarely heard.

The fact of the matter is - whether they want to admit it or not - the men in our lives hurt, too.  They may not have physically gone through what the woman has... but that doesn't make the pain and hurt any less valid.  It doesn't mean that on this day that we shouldn't exercise the same amount of respect for boundaries or care that we do on Mother's Day.

So, with that in mind, here is an open letter to my amazing husband, Branson, for Father's Day.

Dear Husba,

Happy Father's Day.  Today is about you.  To celebrate you and how amazing of a father you are to your daughter.  I see how much she loves you.  How you make her laugh.  I see your caring heart and giving ways in her - those qualities were instilled by you.  She loves you so much, and you have earned that love.  I am so lucky to be with a man who is so loving, giving, yet sets the necessary boundaries to make sure she grows up to be the wonderful young woman we know she will be.

It's a little awkward for me to wish you a Happy Father's Day.  In fact, it kind of hurts.  Because I'm not the one who made you a father.  I'm the woman who was lucky enough to be brought into your daughter's life and get to play a role in helping take care of her and raise her with you.

At the same time... you and I have embabies in heaven.  Five little angels that God called home very, very early.  I know you would have been just as amazing of a father to them as you are to your daughter.  They would have been lucky to have you as a dad, and one day I know they'll be excited to meet you.  For now, I know they're watching you with pride.

Thank you.  Thank you for being my rock during the rough times.  I know that you often felt completely left out of the process during our IVF cycles.  I know you felt like a bystander - helpless when all you wanted to do was help.  And you need to know that you just being by my side was exactly what I needed.

I'm sorry.  I'm sorry that I often invalidated your feelings.  This process wasn't just about me.  It was about us.  But, because it was my body, a lot of the focus fell on me when in reality, I should have been focusing on you, too.  I'm sorry I didn't ask you more how you were doing.  I'm sorry you felt like you had to hide your tears to protect me when you were dying on the inside just like I was.  

Thank you for allowing yourself to be vulnerable at times.  I know you didn't like it - that you preferred for me to think everything was fine.  But I could see you hurting, and when you express to me when and how you hurt, it makes me feel closer to you and like together we can heal.

You were always there to remind me it's about us.  That while you wanted a baby, me making you a father wasn't the reason you married me.  I know I'm stubborn and my brain hasn't fully processed this, but I know that you feel and believe this with 110% of your being.  I know you didn't marry me just so I could carry future children.

I am lucky.  I am lucky to call you my husband.  My best friend.   An incredible father to a beautiful child.  And who knows... maybe one day the father to a child of our own.

In the meantime, I promise to think about you more.  To check in with you and ask you how you're feeling about our infertility journey.  I know you're not going to come out and say how you feel, so I'm going to ask.  And it's your job to answer, because I'm you're wife, and I'll ask you a million times if you don't answer.  You've seen me do it.  You know I will keep pestering you.

Oh, the animals are lucky to have you, too.  Those 4-5am wake up calls to feed the cat I insisted on adopting while we were going through our October 2016 cycle.  I blame the hormones running through my body.

I love you with all of my heart.  Happy Father's Day, my love. 

Love,

Kristy

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

Baby Jesus and Infertility

Christmas.  The time of year we celebrate the birth of a baby that was (1) not planned and (2) born of a virgin.

In other words, an infertile woman's yearly WTF, God?!?

Before you get offended by this, hear me out.  Here's a woman who wasn't planning on being pregnant, yet was CHOSEN by GOD HIMSELF to carry our Christ and Savior.  

Yet here we are... practically BEGGING God to bless us with a child... and getting seemingly nowhere.

Every Christmas up until this year, that's how I felt.  I halfway jokingly begrudged Christmas because God blessed Mary with a baby and here I am, still waiting for him to answer our prayers.

Here's a fun flashback photo for you.  This was from a Madrigal Dinner when I was in High School.  Babies were the furthest thing from my mind.  The song I sang as my solo that year?  "Breath of Heaven".  Easily one of my all time favorite Christmas songs.  

It's such a beautiful song.  If you're not familiar with it, I recommend you listen to it.  If you don't care to listen to it or can't at this moment, this is a song from Mary's perspective, asking God WHY he chose her, asking for strength, guidance, and the ability to understand His decision.

Tonight, on my way home from a wonderful evening with the little and some great friends of ours, this song came on the radio.  We almost always have the Christian radio station on in the car.  The little heard the intro music and said, "This is my favorite song."  So, I turned it up.  We both sang along.

The words have always moved me.  But tonight, they struck me me differently.  I viewed Mary's story in a way than I have not in the past.

You see, in previous years this song has stuck with me because I put myself in Mary's shoes... trying to imagine how frightening it must have been to be given this task.  To carry Christ's child. To be obedient to God.  Feeling isolated, scared, and alone. Yet she continued to ask God to help hold her together, to be near her.

I fought back tears because I hate crying in front of the little. And, in this situation, I didn't want to have to explain why I was crying.  We did not tell her about the failed cycle and don't plan to do so.

Tonight I realized that my journey, while different, is similar to Mary's.  Minus the whole being pregnant bit.

Like Mary, I feel isolated, scared, and alone.  Not because I don't have incredible support (I do), but because it's just the nature of infertility.  I'm asking God why - Mary asked God why.  Mary was frightened - I am frightened.  I am weary - Mary was weary.  Mary wondered what she has done - I wonder what I have done.

I could go on and on.  Please recognize and know that not everyone, myself included, feels convicted in Christ throughout their journey through infertility.  There are times I'm still questioning God, when I'm angry with him, when I shake my fist and stomp my feet and practically scream to the heavens that this is UNFAIR.  But in beautiful moments like tonight, I realize that God has a mysterious way of working in our lives.  

What if Mary hadn't been obedient to God?  What if she said, "You know what?  Forget this... thanks, but no thanks".  

How many times have we felt this way?  I'm not just talking to those battling infertility.  How many times have we questions God's motives?  Guilty here.  But, Mary and Joseph - even if at times they felt terrified and perhaps even reluctant - obeyed God's will and plan.  They trusted in Him. And because they did, Christ came to this earth and died for our sins.

And tonight, I feel called to share that conviction I felt.  I don't have to understand God's plan right now.  It may be months or even year's before I do.  During that time, I may become a lost soul, exhausted from feeling like He is constantly telling me no.  Frustrated that my tears and heartache and prayers fall on deaf ears.

I'm not saying my infertility is anywhere near comparable to Christ's story.  To the miraculous gift God gave, to the sacrifices that Mary and Joseph made.  What I'm trying to say is... tonight I understand. 

I'm going to say something that my Christian friends may not agree with.  If you're struggling and you're mad at God and feel angry and unheard and resentful and like your faith has dropped tenfold... it's ok.  The last thing you need during your time of grief is more grief and guilt.  But know that God is still there.  He's waiting for you to come back.  He wants you to come back.  But I'm not here to push you to that point.  As someone who has been there, it took ME on MY TERMS to get where I'm at today on my faith journey.

If you're even slightly open to this... I encourage you to read it, ok? Just a little prayer I have for you that I hope will bring you comfort and maybe nudge you a little bit closer to Christ during your period of doubt.

Heavenly Father, tonight she hurts.  Her heart aches.  For weeks now, she has walked past aisles of toys intended for children, past the racks of "Baby's First Christmas" onesies and ornaments and stockings.  She has seen the children in the mall waiting with awe and wonder to see Santa and the excited parents snapping pictures and adjusting hair bows and tiny bow ties.  She has shopped for her nieces and nephews.  And as she does, she hold back tears.  Her heart breaks with each giggle she hears from the children at the school program she went to for a family member.  Each exclamation from a child yelling, "MOMMY!" is like a dagger in her heart.  She yearns for the day she will be buying a "Baby's First Christmas" stocking and is fearful she will never get to experience this for herself.  She is broken.  So broken she isn't even sure how to turn to You.

Tonight I ask that you tug on her heartstrings.  That you send her a small, significant message meant just for her to reminder her that you're still here, waiting anxiously for her to return.  Validate her pain, but remind her that Faith, Hope, Peace, Love and the birth of our Savior are the reasons we celebrate this time of year and that those things will remain steadfast.

You are the God of miracles.  I pray that one day, your miracles - whatever form they may take - will be clear to those women who are feeling so broken this Christmas.

Amen

Love, 

Kristy

More Than Just The Inability to Have Children Part 1: Infertility as a Homewrecker

So... weird lady on the blogosphere... what's with these pictures???  I'll explain at the end.  But first... a little back story.

It happened so slowly I didn't fully recognize it.  In fact, looking back, it has a lot of frightening similarities to an abusive relationship I was in years ago.

What started out as a medical diagnosis morphed into something just as frightening - a very real threat to my marriage.

Branson and I met in 2010.  At the time, we were just two people who knew each other through mutual friends.  After two years of him pursuing me (and me being blind to it), I finally wised up and realized that THIS MAN is someone special.  That he was what my heart had been looking for. We were head over heels in love.  Being together was easy - we come from similar upbringings, have the same taste in most music and television, both have a passion for performing, and he puts up with my quirky personality and... let's just call them Kristy-isms.  

I can't pinpoint a date or time it happened.  But it did.  We started growing apart.  I didn't want to talk to him.  I knew I was isolating myself from my friends and family, but I didn't realize how much I was isolating myself from my husband.

I would let things build up - emotions, fears, anger, frustration.  Then, for some stupid reason like a dirty sock or something being out of place, I would completely spaz out and then EVERYTHING came pouring out of me like white hot lava.  Tears I had been holding back or hiding, anger I had been bottling up.  And not just anger - an anger I couldn't really place.

I didn't want to be touched, I didn't want to talk about my feelings when he asked, I didn't want to be seen.

I was no longer in a relationship with my husband.  Yes, I still loved him and he still loved me.  Yes, we still had great times together every now and then.  But for the most part, we were two people living in the same house going through the motions.  No, my husband and I were no longer in a relationship, because I didn't feel like a wife.

I allowed infertility to reduce me to a shell of a human being. Key word there - I.  ME.  I allowed it to define me, to define us, and to define our marriage.

It wasn't until I wrote the blog posts about the Journey Pendant and the Open Letter to the Children I Never Met that the floodgates opened and I had a major "aha" moment. It felt like we were US again.  Because finally I put into words EXACTLY how I was feeling - and, more importantly, I recognized my husband's feelings.

Infertility, failed cycles, miscarriages, other family tragedies... these can ALL take a huge toll on a marriage.  It did on ours, and I thought our marriage was very solid.  (It is, but at times it didn't feel like it).  Infertility takes an emotional and financial toll on couples.  And I'm lucky - both of us were on the same page about what we wanted.  Not all couples are.  I recall being in a seminar once where the husband seemed less than thrilled to be there.  I'll never forget the look on the woman's face - crushed, heartbroken, confused, frustrated - I could see it all.  And my heart hurt for her.

Before you read what I have to say next... here's a disclaimer.  I'm not a marriage expert by any means.  I'm not trained in psychology or counseling or anything along those lines.  These are just pieces of advice I have learned (or had read previously and have now officially confirmed to be scientific fact)

Tips for Keeping Your Marriage Strong Through Infertility:

1.  Communicate.  This is true for any relationship or any marriage.  But it's even more critical when going through infertility. Talk about your feelings in real time.  Don't let them stay stuffed down.  Ultimately it will lead to a fight over something stupid and trivial that on a normal day wouldn't bother you one bit.

2.  Understand why your husband won't talk to you about it.  Men are fixers.  They see us broken.  Or maybe they look at us like a Lego set.  But one of the key pieces is missing.  And that is frustrating to them.  Recognize that men and women grieve differently, and just because your man doesn't appear to be sad does not mean that he isn't... (he is).

3.  Set aside time for you.  Once upon a time, you were acting like giggling junior high kids on a movie date.  Adulting is no fun.  And infertility means you're not only adulting, but you're now adulting with additional stress and major financial decisions.  Whether it's cooking for each other once a month, going to a special place, having a picnic... make it about YOU.  Not the infertility.  Not any other family members.  YOU and your SPOUSE.  Because without the two of you being solid, you aren't going to make it.

4.  Know there ARE going to be fights and stressful periods and IT'S OK!  Start to learn your triggers and learn when you need to take time to cool down so you don't say something you regret (GUILTY!).  Maybe have a safe word (they're not just for the bedroom!).  Bonus points if you make it phallic (i.e. Banana, Cucumber...)

5.  Decide in the BEGINNING how far you are willing to go with treatment.  Obviously both of your feelings may change.  For example, I was CONVINCED if the first cycle failed I would die of heartbreak.  Well, here I am, two failed cycles later, and I'm still alive.  It's expensive and you both need to be on the same page about how much you're willing to spend, what you're willing to give up, etc.  There is so much to take into consideration - that's a whole blog post in itself.  You both have to want it and both have to be on board with whatever decision is made.  If you're not, it will cause extra friction in an already static situation (see what I did there? #sciencejoke)

6.  Start something new together.  A new tradition.  A new hobby.  Something that's about the couple, not about the end of the journey.

7.  Remember WHY you're together.  I married my husband because he's loaded... with funny jokes.  You obviously are together for a reason.  And while yes, a baby is your dream, your desire, your hope... that beautiful rainbow at the end of your storm would not be possible without the TWO of you.

8.  If you are really struggling, seek counseling.  It's important for BOTH of you to have someone to talk to individually, whether it's a professional or a close friend.  Counseling helps get things out in the open where it needs to be.  And even if you're not struggling, it's still a great idea. Emotions run high, especially when on fertility medications.

Not all couples make it.  But I hope and I pray that if you're reading this, you do and you will.  I nearly let infertility destroy my marriage and other relationships in my life.  Don't let infertility or your infertility diagnosis become your new partner.  It does not define you or your relationship.  Allow it instead to strengthen your relationship (easier said than done).

So... here's the weird lady on the blogosphere finally answering "what's with the pictures".

I found out a friend of mine from High School was doing mini-holiday sessions in my hometown the weekend we were going to be there for my nephew's birthday.  

I struggled with this a little because I have a beautiful bonus daughter, and I felt horrible for not including her, but at the same time, I wanted something of just US.  Sort of an engagement session 2.0.  US - reconnecting, remembering, celebrating why we love each other and having that captured.  Lately, our focus has been on pretty much everything BUT us - the two people who stood in front of God, family and friends and promised to love and care for each other until death do us part.  So, while it wasn't an easy decision, we decided that this session was about us - no distractions.  We had family photos done last year, and I imagine that will be an every other year occurrence.

These pictures have additional special meaning to me for a couple of reasons.  First, it was about us.  Branson and Kristy.  It wasn't about our infertility.  It was about the couple that fell in love and got married more than 3 years ago.  We were taking time to reconnect and celebrate our love for each other as husband and wife.  Second, these pictures were taken in my hometown.  Where I grew up.  A park I had picnics and other events with my family.  Our engagement and wedding photos and even our family session with the little and Louie were taken in the Peoria area.  

Thank you so much to Kyle and his assistant at Forte Photography & Cinema for capturing these moments.  I looked very closely at some of them and just looking at them I can feel the emotion I felt that day and still feel.  The happiness.  The love.  The excitement.  And even some of the sadness.   

Keep fighting.  Keep fighting for your dream of growing your family.  But most importantly, keep fighting for your love for each other.

Love,

Kristy

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.

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