Time-out #1

I’m taking a time-out from sharing my story to pause and show my gratitude for the blogging community.

Talking about myself is exhausting. I started this blog because the compulsion to share my story is strong, and even though it takes a lot out of me to relive my experiences, it’s important to me to help someone who might be going through something similar.

So I’m here, soldiering on, taking it one day at a time. And today I’m taking a break from my story to share what’s on my mind now: community.

I started this blog because writing is therapeutic. What I wasn’t seeking, and have come to appreciate, is the community of supportive, like-minded folks. I want to give a special shout-out to two bloggers whose stories have lifted me up and reminded me that healing takes time and it’s OK to lean on others, even strangers.

Gritty Momma

From parenting to emotional health, the Gritty Momma describes her every day life with compassion and finds higher purpose in the mundane (a true gift). Her writing is genuine and full of gratitude, even amid the sad bits, and that has made me a loyal reader for life.

Awakening Wildflower

Amy is a mom to a beautiful boy named Julian. She’s also mom to five babies heartbreakingly lost to miscarriage. This woman is a well of strength whom I admire beyond words. She writes about the beauty she sees in the world in perceptive detail.

Because community is about sharing, I created a new page, “Morphine.” It’s a resource list highlighting books, blogs and podcasts that either taught me something about waiting for babies, or made me laugh. Both are equally important when life pitches a curveball you didn’t expect (or want).

Please share your favorites in the comments.

Agony (Part 4)

[This is the fourth post in a series about my first pregnancy loss. Here are the links to “Agony” Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3.]

Noun
Extreme and generally prolonged pain; intense physical or mental suffering. The struggle preceding natural death.

Two days before Christmas

Making spritz cookies are tradition at Christmas. And no pending miscarriage will stand in the way of tradition.

We’re making spritz cookies, my husband and I, because it’s a Christmas tradition. First for me and my family, and now for our little family of two desperate to be three (and almost are).

My mom made dozens of these cookies each and every holiday. For us, for cookie swaps, for the hosts of the holiday parties we attended. She made trees and wreaths decorated with candy hearts and green sprinkles to make them look like holly.

My husband washes the cookies press in the sink and I take out the ingredients one by one lining them up in order on the kitchen counter, just the way mom taught me so many years ago.

Challenged by Alzheimer’s, my mom has silently, if unknowingly, passed the spritz cookie tradition on to me. I’m reluctant to embrace it without a child of my own to share it with.

My longing to be a mom has reached epic proportions, and the universe is dangling the carrot.

That’s the tricky thing about being a little pregnant, pregnantish or lil pregs. You wish, hope and might your way to a healthy baby, but it’s not a sure thing.

It’s so much less than certain, and though the doctor hasn’t crushed every last ounce of our hope, it’s highly unlikely the outcome we want so terribly is what time will bring.

Afraid to jinx any potential miracle, we don’t talk about it. But it’s always there, in our hearts and minds, in the cookie batter I stir furiously by hand.

I squeeze droplets of green food coloring into the blonde mound of butter, sugar and flour. My husband assembles the cookie press and fastens the tree disc.

He’s figured out how to push out a perfectly formed cookie without a branch or trunk sticking to the press.

This small feat is our Christmas miracle.

Agony (Part 3)

[This post is the third in a series about my first pregnancy loss. Here are the links to “Agony” Part 1 and Part 2.]

Noun
Extreme and generally prolonged pain; intense physical or mental suffering. The struggle preceding natural death.

The days leading up to Christmas

Searching for the perfect Christmas tree during imperfect times.

The holiday spirit is lost on me.

Who wants to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ this year?

Not this lady with the pending miscarriage.

Is my baby alive? Does she have a chance?

The relentless, haunting refrain. My hope is unraveling.

My husband and I go to a tree farm to select the perfect specimen for our home with tall ceilings.

“We need a big tree,” my husband says with such conviction and enthusiasm I can see the face of the little boy he once was. “A 9-footer this time. Minimum.”

One of the seasonal staff at the family-owned farm will cut down the tree for you, wrap it in twine and carry it to your car. All this after you take a wagon ride to the bottom of the valley and browse the fields where all of the most mature fir trees are rooted – Douglas, Fraser and Balsam.

It’s a magical place. Endlessly fertile with flora and generations of families bundled in their winter coats and wooly hats, oversized mittens hiding small, delicate hands. It’s cold and gray, but there isn’t much of a breeze.

We wander through the fields with careful footing to avoid stumps and divots. Many trees are already tagged, claimed weeks or months earlier. We’re late to the party but there’s still plenty choose from.

Suddenly someone breaks the silence and shouts, “Mom, are you OK?”

I turn around to see a grandmother on the ground, fallen victim to one of the stumps. Her family surrounds her, assessing hips, legs and ankles. She lies there motionless waiting for help, her son covering her with his jacket while her daughter-in-law runs for help.

“Watch out for the stumps,” I want to call out after her.

Next year at this time that family will talk about that time grandma fell at the tree farm. Next year at this time I imagine us here, three of us instead of two. Our family tradition evolving into something even more meaningful, a new generation to share it with.

I hope with all my might.

My husband and I choose our tree – a Fraser – and wait for the twining process. I go in the gift shop to browse pegboard walls covered in Christmas ornaments and help myself to a styrofoam cup of homemade cider. Baby’s First Christmas ornaments abound among the selection. So does the assortment of pet ornaments – we already have plenty commemorating our pair of beloved orange tiger cats.

I want one of the Baby’s Firsts, but I move on.

We bring the tree home and decorate it top to bottom.

The next day, the cats knock it to the ground.