Mommy Odyssey

I sit here and type this as my little baby boy lies down next to me and coos.

M*a*t*a*n was born safe and healthy on March 16th. I can’t wait to find out what kind of person he will grow up to be.

We’re slowly adjusting to being a family of 4, and remembering what it’s like to care for a newborn – we’re both a bit rusty since it’s been 3.5 years.

I’d be lying if I said things weren’t complex. With a little boy here and one gone. But the best thing we can do for him is to let him stand on his own. And this is what we’re doing.

This blog has had a few false endings. I’ve signed off only to come back. But I really think this time I’m done for good. We’re done growing our family and I’ve moved on to other ways of venting and expressing myself, and that’s ok.

It seems right to end it here.

But know that I’m leaving a light on. There are women who still find this blog through late night google searches involving miscarriage and loss. I want this to be here as a resource. I want this place to stand as a source for help and (hopefully) inspiration, and also as a way to preserve the memory of the little boy we lost 5 years ago.

I feel like this needs more context. Some grand gesture put together in prose. But I’m at a loss. I think it’s truly because I simply don’t need this space as an outlet anymore. It was an amazing place to build. It saved my life more than once. It started friendships that I cherish to this day.

But it’s time to let it go.

I don’t like looking at my life in terms of happy endings. And this isn’t one. It’s the beginning of a new chapter, and the end of another. I look forward to the next big adventure.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for standing by me. Thank you for everything.

Love,

Mo

I’m still here. Thank you to the people who have emailed to check in on me. Silence is never fair to this blog, but I admit I haven’t really been able to muster the words. It’s been a slog to get through the days, much more than anything else. I just haven’t been able to be eloquent.

Until now- because I have something to unpack, and this is the only space in which I can really do so.

29 weeks today. This puts me in a relatively safe space. I say relatively, because no one knows better than I that safety in pregnancy is an illusion. I’ve got a cerclage, a killer case of gestational diabetes, and more anxiety than any human can possibly carry without losing their mind.

That being said – I have to start behaving as if I have a baby on the way. Because if all goes well – that’s happening.

****

I kind of dislike birth announcements on Facebook that come with no advance warning. “Baby!?!? I didn’t even know she was pregnant!” is not a reaction I like to have. I don’t know why – I just find it dissonant and off-putting somehow.

However, I am well on my way to being one of those people that out of nowhere announces a birth. Because I have not said a peep about being pregnant.

Oh – I’ve wanted to. I’ve wanted to share a cute story or two about how my daughter is reacting to the news of being a big sister. I’ve wanted to wax philosophical. I’ve wanted to bitch and complain about sugar withdrawal.

But each time the urge to post a status comes over me, I stop short. Because – I can’t. I just can’t.

Social media gives a snapshot of a moment, without an iota of complexity and nuance. How many friends do I have on Facebook, who don’t know my history, who may be silently suffering through infertility or loss? How many of those will see these snappy musings and feel sick, because all they’re seeing is a snapshot without knowing the whole story?

They don’t know the complexity. They don’t know about the losses. They don’t know about the messy, tangled feelings that I’m grappling with at the moment because I lost a son, and yet I’m about to (please please please) give birth to a son.

They don’t know how I struggle with giving the little boy I carry his own identity. Or the fear I feel because I don’t want to lose touch with the little boy I lost.

All they would see are vapid musings. Little snaps of joy or grumbling with no true feelings. No complexity.

And yet – I don’t think I can stay silent. If all goes well I’ll want to shout about this little boy from the rooftops (please, please, please, please be ok). And then I’m guilty of a custom I loath. The pregnancy announcement blindside. Which often, for people suffering through IF or loss, can be just as cruel as those little missives and announcements in between.

Yesterday I composed a long facebook post, after quite a long time with little to no status updates. This is what I wrote:

There are moments that I’ve wanted to post some news here. It’s not bad news. It’s the kind of messy, wonderful, often sad and scary complicated thing that people don’t post because of all that baggage. But that doesn’t currently feel right to me. So bear with me if you can. This goes deep. 

I’m 20 weeks pregnant with a son. He will be the first baby brother to my furiously magical little girl. 

He will be my sixth baby. 

My fifth, of course, being the amazing creature you see popping up on my feed on occasion My fiercely unique and extraordinary daughter. 

My first three were lost too soon. My Fourth was lost too late. A boy – our son – who entered this world at 22 weeks and didn’t make it.  My eldest son, who I never got to introduce to the world, because there was no celebration to be had. 

I am due March 27th. A month before – February 21st – would have been my son Nadav’s 5th birthday. 

How do you mourn a person who you’ve never truly met, but loved so deeply? How do you embrace joy and celebrate the love you have when there is so much underlying grief? 

How do you do that while leaving space to celebrate the life that is about to come into this world? 

All I know is this: The next few months may have some cute pics of my daughter marveling at my growing frame. Or cynical throwaways about physical symptoms. Hopefully ending in a wonderful post introducing our little boy. Hopefully. Hopefully. Hopefully. 

But that’s not a simple and straightforward thing.
On February 21st I will be mourning the little boy I lost while still hoping to embrace the little boy about to (please please please)  enter the world. 

Trying to do everything in my power to make sure that each of them is loved on their own, as individuals. 

So whatever you see here from me, know that it’s messy. And scary. And is making me unendingly grateful for everything I have, had, and have lost. Grateful and terrified. But grateful. 

Thank you for taking the time to read this. 

*****

I wrote it. I posted it. I deleted it about 20 seconds later.

Because just as social media is fit for bite-sized missives, I think it’s unfit for long and complex musings on loss, grief, and joy.

Maybe. Or maybe I’m wrong.

Or maybe, (hopefully, if all goes well), sometime in the next few months, there are going to be a whole lot of people thinking “Baby?!? I didn’t even know she was pregnant!”

For better or for worse. And I don’t know how I feel about that.

I’ve been debating for a few weeks about whether this is a safe space. I guess I’m posting this to test the waters. Am I safe here?

The truth is I’m currently not safe anywhere.

I thought this time would be easier. It’s not. It’s harder.

I’m just going to come right out and say it.

I’m 9.5 weeks pregnant. For those of you not following along this would be pregnancy number 6. With 1 living child.

The HSG did it. Just like with the Bunny. I guess all I needed was to get my pipes (well – pipe, actually. Singular.) cleaned out.

We’ve seen a heartbeat. It’s all in the right place.

I’m a mess.

I swear I thought having gone through on successful pregnancy would make this easier.

It’s so much harder. Now I know. I really know what it looks like on the other side. How much I really have to lose.

Last time I didn’t have a child. I didn’t have a full-time job that required me to show up at an office every day. I didn’t need to actually function.

I locked myself up in a house for 6 months. I didn’t talk to anyone. I just sat. And sat.

I can’t hide away in life, so I figured I should see what happens when I stop hiding here.

I’m fucking terrified.

Dr Fertility: This is a little weird, but I’m on the fence between doing nothing and sending you directly to IVF.

Me: Why?

DF: Well, you’ve needed very minimal intervention in the past. How long have you been trying now?

Me: About 9 months at this point.

DF: So yes, I think you should go directly to IVF.

Me: Why not Clo.mid or IUI?

DF: Because the last thing you need is multiples with your history. At least with IVF we can control how many fertilized eggs try to implant.

Today I had a hysterography, all clear. In two weeks we come back to get the ball rolling. Unless by some random miracle I get knocked up naturally between now and September, I can add IVF to the list of shit I never wanted to do but I’m now forced to deal with.

Yay.

PS: No, I don’t plan on using this space as a medical diary chronicling the ins and outs of the quest to get an embryo into my ute. There are enough people doing that on the web, thankyouverymuch.

PPS: Fuck.

Every year I come to this space on this day, trying to capture the moment of grief and memory and harness it into coherent words.

I think that as the years go by (4 now, if you can believe it), there’s one thing I haven’t managed to truly capture.

It’s lonely here.

A couple of months ago, a co-worker lost her baby girl at 20 weeks. She and I had had “the talk” about a year before – so she knew about Nadav.

I tentatively reached out and asked if I could call.

When we talked, this is what I told her:

This is a horrific loss, because it’s a loss that is abstract to everyone but you. You were the only one that felt her presence physically. To everyone else she was an abstract. At the end of the day, that is the hardest part.

*****

I’ve had more than one person “helpfully” tell me that I should be ok because we have Lili now.

How in the world can I explain to them that having Lili makes the loss all the more complex and hard?

She was born as a result of his absence. She is a miracle. She is a joy.

But she also represents what could have been. It’s hard to explain, but in the darkest moments, every smile of hers could have been his.

Even writing the above sentence leaves me riddled with guilt.

She is perfection, she is love embodied.

But she doesn’t fill the gap he left behind. That’s both impossible to do, and an unfair expectation of her.

She’s not here to fill a gap. She’s her own being – full of rolling laughter and song. But all her own. She doesn’t deserve the burden of making up for an absence. I do all that I can to shield her from that.

Which leaves me here. Another year passed and I feel more alone than ever. The wound in others seems to have healed fully.

But not mine.

He was not an abstract to me. He was real. And physically present.

******

A few days ago I came to this space and ended up reading posts from my pregnancy with Lili. Amidst all of the anxiety there was also a very clear description of her as a person. Even before she arrived, her presence was felt. Her personality shone through. At least to me.

I felt her. I knew her. I understood her before she was present to anyone but me.

How was he any different? I knew him. I understood him.

But he was present to me and me only. He was a picture and an abstract thought to everyone else.

To me, he was physically present.

******

As the last few days have gone by I see how everyone around me, though respectful of my grief, is removed from it. Some, it seems, have even forgotten it completely. Or maybe just forgot the date. Which is fine. It’s been 4 years. I’m  not even sure I’d want to talk about it if they called.

Even my husband, who felt the loss so immensely when it happened, just doesn’t feel it as strongly as I do anymore. He tries his best, but I know that for him, it’s just not as hard as it is for me.

A few nights ago I went on Facebook and looked for my co-worker – now my friend.

It was 4am and I was crying, and I knew she was the one who would understand. And sure enough, there she was, where nobody else was.

*******

I don’t think that anyone has abandoned me. I’m not upset with any of my friends or family.

Like them, my grief has also waned through these 4 years. But it hasn’t disappeared. It has steadied. It has become measured. Others’ grief has as well – but for them, that measure is just much smaller than mine.

They didn’t know him like I did.

So while they abide and support – they don’t truly understand.

Even though I am surrounded I am utterly alone.

******

My son Nadav was born and died on February 21st, 2012. He was here. He was loved.

HE WAS HERE.

There’s a little-known version of Let It Be  by the Beatles. The last verse has different lyrics.

And when the night is cloudy

There is still a light that shines on me

Shine until tomorrow

Let it be.

I wake up to the sound of music

Mother Mary comes to me

There will be no sorrow

Let it be.

When Lili was just a few months old I’d sing Beatles songs to her, and this one was always present. It was the one I used to calm her down.

I’d always sing that line – “There will be no sorrow”

I had googled the lyrics when she was a few weeks old and found this version. Something about it struck a chord. So this was what I sang.

There will be no sorrow.

By the time she was a year old, I’d phased out the song. No particular reason. Maybe the use of “Mother Mary” gave my atheist sensibilities a sense of unease. Maybe I just thought she didn’t like it anymore.

Lili is almost 2 and a half now. Over the last few weeks I’ve started singing it to her again. My voice always cracking at the end.

There will be no sorrow

Let it be

She’s been asking for it when I tuck her in. “Sing lettibe mommy”

So I do

Last night I sang it to her and she asked “what is it?”

“What’s what baby?”

“What lettibe?”

“It means to leave something as it is. To… To keep it the same.”

I struggled to find a definition because it’s not something that can easily be defined.

Maybe it means to leave something alone. A pushback against the conformity.

There will be no sorrow

Let it be

Let the sorrow live. Let the sorrow wash over me and stay a while.

I haven’t been able to stop crying today.

And it’s not even his birthday yet.

There will be no sorrow

Let it be.

This week I’ve been teetering between being on the verge of tears and working so much I don’t have to think or feel.

Yesterday at the office, work was no longer enough. I locked myself in a room and cried until I couldn’t any more.

Lucky my little corner of the open space hides my face.

He’s been moody. Blaming work stress, but we both know that’s an excuse.

She’s been clingy. Maybe she’s taking her cues off of me and him. Maybe it’s because I went away for five days and she’s still recovering from that. Maybe it’s because she’s cutting another tooth.

Last night she woke up crying and I went in to comfort her. I started singing, but my voice broke. I cried and cried until he heard me and came in to take her.

This afternoon as he slept, we played. Puzzles. Play dough. Dr. Seuss. Looking at her through a fog. Smiling, but not present.

It was my turn to read her stories and put her to bed. But he did it. I didn’t think I could manage it.

She wakes up crying. Once. Twice. Three times. When he goes in, she yells “momma”. When I go in she yells “aba”. Always both of us. One is not enough tonight.

The fourth time she’s burning up. He asks her if her mouth hurts. She points at it and says “mouth”. We give her something to break the fever. Put her back down in her bed.

Up she goes again. Five times. Six times. She’s feeling better now. But is too wide awake.

The seventh time comes and she’s screaming.

“Maybe I should just take her to our bed and let her fall asleep on me?”

“That hardly works any more.”

I insist.

“Well, nothing else is working.”

“Will you be ok?”

“I think so.”

I go in and pick up my baby girl. She’s red and raw with tears. I take her to our room. She calms.

I hold her on me. She rolls next to me. I put my arms around her and start to rock gently.

“Shhhhhh”

She gently starts whispering a song to herself about the rain. She claps her hands quietly. She strokes my face.

“Shhhhh”

Her breathing slows.

As February 20th ends and the 21st begins, she grabs my finger with her tiny hand and whispers “momma” as she finally drifts off to sleep.

I whisper back.

“Lili.”

I put her back in her bed. Deep in slumber. Quiet.

1am on February 21st and the tears come back again.

Not sure if they’re happy or sad. Not sure if they’re for her, for me, for her father.

But I am sure of one thing.

They are always for him.

Happy third birthday, precious boy.

These tears I’ve cried
I’ve cried 1000 oceans
And if it seems
I’m floating in the darkness
Well, I can’t believe that I would keep
Keep you from flying
And I would cry 1000 more
If that’s what it takes
To sail you home
Sail you home
Sail you home

I’m aware what the rules are
But you know that I will run
You know that I will follow you
Over silbury hill
Through the solar field
You know that I will follow you

And if I find you
Will you still remeber
Playing at trains
Or does this litte blue ball
Just fade away
Over silbury hill
Through the solar field
You know that I will follow you
I’m aware what the rules are
But you know that I will run
You know that I will follow you

These tears I’ve cried
I’ve cried 1000 oceans
And if it seems
I’m floating in the darkness
Well I can’t believe that I would keep
Keep you from flying
So I will cry 1000 more
If that’s what it takes
To sail you home
Sail you home
Sail you home
Sail
Sail you home

**Disclaimer: This post was written with the consent of only one other person, though I believe is respectful to other people’s ownership of the Bitter Infertiles podcast. I have made every effort to do so.

Two and a half years ago, in an attempt to find some healing, I had an idea. That idea later became a podcast. It was a podcast that originally started with four hosts, then down to three, then down to none.

There were a lot of reasons we stopped doing it. Some would say it was “drama” because there was a backlash that the three remaining hosts were all pregnant. Some would say there was “drama” behind the scenes.

But that’s not the truth. Yes, there was backlash. There was some drama behind the scenes. But I think most of you know me well enough to know I can deal with backlash and I thrive on drama.

That’s not why we shut down. Not really.

We shut down because I, being the primary driving force behind it, was very down. It was February. I was just heading into bed rest and dealing with Nadav’s first birthday. I was struggling. I couldn’t keep it going because I just couldn’t find the energy.

Then other stuff happened. But we won’t go into that.

A couple of months ago, me and one of the other hosts had a lovely discussion about possibly passing the torch. The BI podcast was important to us. It was important to a lot of people. It should have a chance to thrive.

We still hadn’t figured out the semantics of how to pass on the torch without hurting feelings. Because we knew it didn’t just belong to the two of us. It was a discussion. We were getting there.

Then another host decided to beat us to the punch without thinking about others’ feelings or discussing it with us. Which inevitably has forced our hand.

Notice I’m not naming names. If you know, you know. That’s fine.

I am not writing this to start a flame war. Because the truth is the person who “forced our hand” had a darn good idea, despite the very bad way she chose to go about sharing it. The past is the past. I have bigger and more productive things to do. And I don’t want this amazing thing, which a lot of people worked very hard to make happen, to be marred with bitterness and BS.

Here’s the thing: This podcast was and is bigger than egos. Bigger than passive aggressive BS. Bigger than drama. It meant a lot to a lot of people It meant a lot to me and the other hosts.

So after discussing it at length with one of the hosts, I am passing the torch, because I know I am no longer built to hold it.

I am passing it on with fairness and love of what it was, what it can be, and the good it has done.

Here’s how it’s going to work:

If you want to take up the Bitter Infertiles brand, complete with iTunes approval, blog and gmail access, podcast hosting service password, EVERYTHING, send me an email and tell me why you want it and what you’d like to do with it.

I will forward your email to ALL FOUR ORIGINAL HOSTS of the podcast. Because we all deserve a say. There will not be drama, we will vote on the merit of the person who wants it. Nothing more.

When a consensus is reached – and it will be reached because I don’t intend on making any of this personal –  the new owner will be announced on this blog and on the BI blog, and will be handed the keys to the kingdom.

A few things to keep in mind:

1) Running a podcast costs money, and the more popular it gets, the more it costs because of hosting and streaming costs. At its peak, I was spending $300 dollars a month to keep the podcast running. You can try to crowdfund it, but whatever you do, you need to find a way to fund it.

2) This will take a lot of time out of your week. I spent an average of 5 hours a week planning, answering emails, and booking guests, 2 hours recording, then anywhere between 5-10 hours editing the podcast every week.

3) Running it requires a minimal knowledge of audio editing and exporting.

4) This podcast meant a lot to a lot of people. Please be willing to take my baby and nurture it for the long haul. I can promise you the rewards are worth the hard work.

When something is created, all of its creators deserve credit and a say. This is the way to do it. I want this podcast to live on. I can’t keep it going myself.

Though I hope whoever takes it over will let me and the rest of the girls drop by for a visit every once in a while.

So… Who’s up? Feel free to share this post with anyone who you think would be a good fit.

There’s a community I used to belong to. A community that saved me on my worst days. A community I left with a protesting whimper.

Every once in a while I check in. I pop into the old reader and see what’s going on. Every time I see why I left. Every time I understand it was the right decision for me.

But I still check in. I see the debate. The infighting. The pain. The ongoing triumphs and tragedies.

And when I do, I get thrown back to the days I was a train wreck myself. I find myself being what made me so angry so long ago. A spectator.

So on nights like these, when I go through and click on links from the yearly list I stopped being a part of…

Nights like these are when I cry for my Nadav.

I cry for him and sneak into Bunny’s room, just to see that my little girl is breathing.

Then I pick myself up and realize that I am still glad I left.

I left because I have chosen to move on. This space is still my space, I am still a part of that club. But I choose not to be an active member.

I choose to forget the meaning of BLM and TTC and PCOS and TWW.

On nights like these, if Shmerson is up, I usually tell him I miss Nadav. Because on nights like these I do.

*****

I read about a mother telling her four year old son again about the older brother he’ll never meet. And I wonder – will I tell my four year old daughter the same?

No. She is here and ever present. He was here and fleeting. He was and always will be a gap. An abstract. Something that could have been, that never was. Someone I loved more than anyone I loved before him. Until now.

Had he been there, my lovely amazing wonderful little girl would not be.

And she is here. And she is present. And messy. And scary. And wonderful.

No. I won’t tell.

There will be a day, when the time is right, when I will tell my little girl the reason her dad was the one who dropped her off at daycare every day.

The reason he talks to her teachers and not me. The reason I cry sometimes when I read her a story. And sometimes when I tickle her. And sometimes just when I look in her eyes.

The reason the paintings hanging on our walls are abstract.

That they are what he is to me. And abstract that hangs on the wall in my daily life. Often overlooked, sometimes lingered upon.

I will tell her one day. But she will no longer be my baby girl when she learns the reason her momma used to be a much sadder person.

*****

I read about a mother about to lose her son at 19 weeks. I click to her home page and see she now has another on the way. I see how slowly she is embracing the physical. The present. The “what is” and not the “what should have been.”  I am happy for her.

I read about a mother visiting her daughter’s grave. I wonder where my son is buried. I cry and cry and cry for him.

But then I stop. I look at my daughter sleeping. I pick up discarded pacifiers from the floor. I straighten her blanket and feel a sense of calm.

********

Loss broke me. Loss shattered everything i was. I am still picking up the pieces. I am rebuilding. Trying all at once to capture what once was and reconcile it with what is.

I am building up. Slowly. Slowly.

Building my career. Building my sense of self. Building my identity.

Nights like these I dive back into a world I lived in for years. A world I loved and hated. A world that saved me. But a world I am no longer a part of – at least not in the way I used to be.

A world I choose to stay away from because I am building bridges over gaps rather than staring at them.

I build and build. Sometimes the bridges fall. But mostly they stay up.

Nights like this a brick falls off of the bridge, into the big gap. The one that had to happen for us to be here. In the present.

Building bridges, building contentment.

******

Today I was folding laundry. Bunny can’t stay away from our bedroom when I fold laundry. She loves climbing on the bed, getting eaten by the tickle monster and bouncing up and down to the horsey song.

Shmerson and I look at each other and smile as she struggles to stand on the wobbly bed so she can bounce.

I look at him and say:

“You know another great thing about waiting another year or two? By then she’ll be in municipal preschool so we won’t have to pay for daycare twice.”

He nods.

I start singing the horsey song and Bunny bounces until she falls back, giggling.

There is no gap when that laughter is heard. There is only her. Only us.

“Abba. Mama. Una. Yiyi.”

Shmerson, and me, and Luna and Lili. There is no gap when her voice fills the hallway, squealing those names gleefully.

“Abba. Mama. Una. Yiyi.”

Lili.

I look up at his paintings. Wipe my nose. Long day tomorrow. Wonder what I’ll make Bunny for dinner.

Good night.

I’m still here. And I don’t plan on leaving.

I think that’s important to say.

I know updates here have been few and far between. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that there weren’t times over the last few months that I considered boarding up the windows on this blog. I considered it, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do it.

Between Bunny and putting my nose to the grindstone at work, blogging has fallen by the wayside. I want to write, but I don’t have a moment to do it.

Things are hectic, and complex, but all around good. I have so much to say about becoming connected to my ambition again, working mom guilt, my anxiety rearing its ugly head again…

But I just can’t find the time to say it. And for now, that will have to be ok.

A few weeks ago I talked to Shmerson about shutting this space down, but before he even had a chance to put in his two cents, I already realized that the truth is that I know that the day will come where I will need this blog desperately again. I know that day will come. And I want this space to be here then.

Yesterday I took Bunny to the pediatrician because she was running a fever. In the waiting room there was a couple with a boy, around two, and a baby girl.

The boy’s name was Nadav.

I looked at Bunny and looked at that family, and for a clear moment I saw an alternate reality – where Bunny’s big brother was there, wreaking havoc in that waiting room.

Needless to say, last night was a hard night.

Hard nights these days are fewer and further between, and for that I’m grateful. And I know that it may be “wrong” for this space to be a wailing wall, where I come to in crisis, but abandon otherwise.

But that may just have to be what this is for now. And I’m going to have to be ok with that. Because honestly – I have enough to feel guilty about. I don’t need blogger guilt on top of it all.

So bear with me while I deal with occasional contentment, continuing complexity, and routine. Forgive me if I only engage during a crisis. It’s just the best I can do for now.

I hope you drop by sometimes to check on us. I promise to do my best to keep the lights on.