Seeing the forest through the trees

I haven’t written (well, more accurately, posted) anything in over a month. As I look back on some of the posts since I started this journey 9 months ago, I feel like it happened to someone else. I read the heartbreaking news of the loss of a twin. The rollercoaster of emotions regarding baby A and baby B. The questioning of what determines life, the facing of fears, the necessary goodbyes. I found myself in tears reading some of the posts, recalling the anxiety and fear deep in my soul when the words were first written.

I have a friend that used to always remind me how important it is to see the forest through the trees. Basically meaning that when we are so focused on the details, on the specifics at hand, we forget the big picture. Now, re-reading the blog, I can see that that’s exactly what happened to me. As I got deeper into the pregnancy, the drama surrounding each ultrasound and the fear of the unknown, made me focus on the details. On the exact size of baby B, on the level of fluid around baby A’s heart, on the likelihood that I would need surgery. I was holding my breath from ultrasound to weekly ultrasound. And the more I focused on the details (and what the internet had to say), the more I became anxious. Full of worry.

Many of the posts are an attempt to release that anxiety, to trust God with the results, and I was often able to do so but the moment I began to focus on the details, I would once again get weighed down with apprehension.

The term ‘full-circle’ came to mind as I read the early posts. It was interesting to see that when I sat down today to write, the main things that I wanted to express were the ideas written, ironically, in a post from August – before most of the drama had unfolded. I think it sums up how I feel now – a whirlwind of 4 months later. It’s about perspective and here is an excerpt…

Sometimes a little perspective is all you need to bring yourself out of fear, depression or self pity. Perspective means ‘the ability to perceive things in their actual interrelations.’ The danger of losing perspective is that you see your experiences in relation to YOU, to YOUR life. And that’s not reality. It feels like reality, but it’s not.

When I first heard about TRAP syndrome, I read that this rare condition happens to 1 in 350,000 women. It came after a week of crazy not-so-good-news and I thought, “What in the world is going on? Why is this happening to us?”

I was then reminded of the promise that God gives us – the promise not to spare us from pain, but to comfort us in the midst of it. I was reminded of, and humbled by, situations of people I know and love around the world. Rather than being 1 in 350,000 women with a rare pregnancy condition, I could be 1 of 7 - the number of people in the world who go to bed hungry. Mia could be 1 of 50 – the number of American children that are homeless each year.

A little perspective reminded me that my blessings far outweigh the challenges in my life. That I don’t have any reason to complain. To ask for prayer? Yes. To complain? No. I was talking to Paul about this and he said the best way to keep your perspective is to be thankful. He’s right; it’s hard to complain, be in self pity, or be depressed when you look around you and see all the gifts you have been given. When you begin to count your blessings.

I don’t think I could ever count that high.

Seeing each ‘tree’ as an obstacle made me start to doubt the purpose of this journey. I lost perspective, I didn’t see the bigger picture. As I tried to navigate through the trees, I nearly forgot about the forest altogether. In reality, we have been through a beautiful journey – one that has grown Paul and I closer together, one that has given us a new appreciation for life and the sanctity of it, and one that has refocused our trust on God. Not on the internet, modern medicine, or ourselves. I am surrounded by blessings and have another incredible one right around the corner.

Summer is coming.

And with all the warmth that Summer brings. With the promise of new life. With the promise of new growth for all of us.

I can’t wait.

Dear Summer Marie,

You are due to arrive in 8 weeks. For months, I prayed that you would not come early – that you would remain in my tummy for as long as possible. Now, I can barely wait to meet you! These 8 weeks seem to be going so slowly and I secretly hope you come just a bit early.

For so long you were my baby a. A part of a pair. You represented so many things to your daddy and I. And so much about you has been wrapped in question marks. Questions about your health, your viability, your future.

We named you early – mainly so that we could pray for you by name. Summer Marie. I love your name and everything it represents. Your aunt helped us see the spiritual implication of naming you Summer when are due to be born in the middle of winter. Maybe God’s favorite season in our life is when we grow and learn the most – that’s his summer. And this season of our life, awaiting your arrival, was certainly a season of growth for us.

As I left the hospital today after seeing you in a final ultrasound, I began reminiscing about the last 6 months. Wow, what a rollercoaster! There have been so many things about you in question. And yet, you have always been a constant.

Every week, as we frantically measured and calculated the images on the ultrasound, you were there. Pumping your little heart. Kicking your little feet. A reminder of life in the midst of loss. A reminder of hope in the midst of the unknown. Even now, you are constantly there. I feel your hiccoughs. Your kicks. Your summersaults. Thank you.

I wonder what you would have been saying throughout this time if you could speak. Would you say, don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Or would you simply and silently continue doing what you were created to do…grow, develop, live.

As I get closer to meeting you, I feel a certain anticipation. I felt it with your sister Mia too but this is different. I feel like I owe you something. Like I owe you my complete devotion because it has been split up until now. Like I owe you my gratitude because you fought so hard -and did- beat the odds. I know that what I owe you, what any parent owes their child, is unconditional love.

A phrase in a popular song right now always makes me think of you:

I will love you for you – not for what you have done or who you will become.

That is my promise to you. My promise that no matter what the answers to the questions are about you, we will love you for you. We will teach you. We will guide you.

I enjoy hearing the stories of when my mom was pregnant with me, the details surrounding my first few days of life and how exciting it was for my mom and dad to have a baby girl. I know one day, we will have those conversations. Where you will learn about the details surrounding my pregnancy with you. About the day I found out I was pregnant and how over the next several weeks I bought over 20 pregnancy tests just to be sure. I will show you the pictures of when we told the rest of the family by putting a shirt on Mia that said “Big Sister 2 Be”. And how I was sick for 3 months straight and what TRAP sequence is. You will learn about Cayden Marie and see her ultrasound picture. I will tell you how scary it was but how hearing your little heartbeat each week gave me the strength to keep moving forward.

I have heard parents say that they don’t know how they can love a second child as much as they do their first. And while I always understood that notion because of the fierce love I have for Mia, I am also keenly aware of how God opens our hearts to be able love without limitation. And that kind of love is meant to be given away.

I can’t wait to share that love with you.

I already love you with all of my heart.

See you soon baby girl,
love mommy.

8 weeks and a letter

32 weeks down, 8 weeks to go. Those numbers are significant when compared to the first numbers I was given. 70% chance of preterm labor. 20% chance of survival rate for baby A without surgery. Goal of 28 weeks.

We have beat each of those statistics; no preterm labor so far, Summer is healthy and growing, and I have passed the initial goal of 28 weeks by over a month now. Wow. Thank you, God.

I saw Summer on the ultrasound today and felt excitement to meet her and have her be part of our family. They showed me a 4D picture of her (yes, 4D) and I have to say it was actually kind of cute! She looks like she has chubby little cheeks and a perfect little nose. She yawned at us as if bored with yet another ultrasound peeking in on her snug little cocoon.

After the ultrasound, the technician left to speak to the doctor and came back to tell me that I do not need any more ultrasounds and don’t need to come to their office anymore. I can go back to my regular OB and spend the last 8 weeks of my pregnancy as a ‘normal’ pregnancy!

As I left, I felt lighter (not an easy thing to feel when you are 8 months pregnant!), but I felt as if a weight was lifted off my shoulders that I didn’t realize I was still carrying. I began to think about baby Summer. I am finally able to think 100% about her. And only her. To get the infant clothes sizes 0-3 months out of the basement. To put batteries in the baby swing and figure out how long to take for maternity leave.

I found myself talking to her, as I have so many times throughout the last several months. I was telling her things that I wanted her to know - about this journey, how excited her big sister is to meet her, how her daddy and I feel about her.

I decided it’s time to write her a letter.

I wrote her sister a goodbye letter.

Now it’s time to write Summer a welcome letter.

The Point

A few years ago, I saw a Grey’s Anatomy about a pregnant woman who fell and broke her arm. In true Greys’ fashion, she had not only broken her arm but the fall had caused her to lose the baby as well. There was a scene of the doctors watching this woman and her husband as they examined her new cast amidst smiles and laughter. Just before the doctor went in to tell them that they had lost the baby, a nurse said, wait. Give them a few more moments of happiness before you shatter their world. And so the next few minutes were spent watching this happy couple thinking everything was right in the world, complete with dramatic music that, on its own, would probably be enough to make you cry. The next scene was this woman, in labor, working so hard through the physical pain and yet knowing that the outcome would be her stillborn child.

I watched this years before I ever got pregnant with Mia. Yet I thought about it for weeks to come. I just couldn’t believe that you would have to actually give birth, go through the pain of labor and give birth to your stillborn child. It just seemed like adding insult to injury to me. I don’t know how I thought they would get the baby out otherwise, I had never thought about it before, but I was just so surprised that she had to go through all that pain and for what. To go home from the hospital empty handed. To walk into her nursery and know that for at least a year, there would be no infant lying in that crib. No baby dripping in pink or blue.

When I told Paul about it, thinking he would be as appalled as I was about the injustice of it all and the seemingly pointless suffering they went through, he just shrugged it off as another overly dramatic storyline of Greys. He’s not a big fan. Ok, that might be an understatement.

But these stories are real. They happen. To people we know. I have heard from so many people about how they delivered their baby knowing they had already lost her. Or delivered knowing that he would only live a few days. And what took me by surprise was that there is no bitterness in these stories. They all seem to have an underlying sentiment of gratefulness. Of being thankful for the opportunity to have the baby. To meet the baby. Even to just have the privilege of carrying the baby.

The last several weeks I have been wondering what the point of the journey is. I feel like I am being prepared for something. But for what? I think I am starting to see some of the possibilities of purpose.

I went to an event tonight with Joni Eareckson Tada (a quadriplegic from a diving accident who started the non profit Joni and Friends which serves people with disabilities and their families all across the world). Paul used to work at her organization and is now on the board. As we were talking, she said that one of the things about going through a cancer scare was how it brought her closer to her husband. She lamented about the challenges of suffering but stated that it is in those times that the splashovers from Heaven are seen. Meaning, that is when God is closest to us. It’s when we get a taste of him, his mercy, and his grace. We sang a song that goes “This is my story, this is my song. Praising my savior all the day long” and she stated that our life is our story but the point is God’s story being told through our lives. I think she’s right.

If suffering is what brings us closest to God, then it is in suffering that we can most closely know who God is – and if our goal is to be more like him (like Jesus), then, right there, is a good reason to go through suffering. The things that we go through develop character traits that, if processed correctly, can replicate the character of God. We can become more compassionate, loving, accepting, humorous. All traits of God’s.

I recently received an email from my brother that said thank God for God’s Hands. That’s it, I thought, that’s the point.

The point is Gods Hands. His hands that guide, that mold, that protect, that heal. It’s the whole idea about life being more about the journey than the destination. And just like the stories I have heard from other moms and dads who lost their babies, they are not asking what was the point. They are thankful, grateful for the time they had with their baby. Even if it was just for 9 months in mommy’s tummy. There is learning in that. There is suffering in that. And suffering is what brings about compassion and healing. Not just for ourselves but so that we can share it with those in our lives that will inevitably go through suffering too.

Just like when riding the roller coaster, it’s not about the end. It’s about the whole track. The scary parts. The parts that allow you to catch your breath. And the comfort of knowing that you are strapped in. Held. By God’s hands. Its exhilarating.

And what changes is you. Is me. The shaping that takes place. The learning that takes place. The walls that come down or the thick skin that is grown. That’s what’s important. Those changes are what grow us, develop us and make us the people we become. But we have to accept it – the whole thing. We have to accept the path. And we have to accept the changes. If we don’t, we protect ourselves with a layer of resentment which quickly turns into bitterness. Cynicism. That is certainly not the point of suffering.

It can be painful to accept the process of change in you. But it’s worth it. I think that’s why the moms and dads I have heard from are free from anger. From resentment. From bitterness. They have accepted it. Sure there are questions that they still have but there is also an underlying peace. They are choosing to rest in God’s hands.

Thank God for God’s Hands.

I couldn’t agree more.

Maybe these journeys are in preparation for something else. Maybe they’re not. Maybe it’s just to become a little more like our Creator - a little more sympathetic to those that miscarry, a little more compassionate to those that cannot get pregnant, a little more thankful for the family members we have already.

A way for God to tell His story through us. And His story is one of love, compassion, mercy, grace, and power. As our stories unfold and we allow his hands to mold them into his story, these are qualities that we begin to reflect. We start to share them with the people in our lives. And we all begin to live with more love, more power, more intention than ever before. It changes us, our interactions, our purpose.

That’s a good enough reason for me to go through a journey of any kind.

Dr Jekyll / Mr. Hyde

I told Paul recently that I feel like I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. That either I will go into preterm labor, or it will be a dramatic delivery, or that there will be something wrong with Summer. When he asked why, I explained that it doesn’t make sense to go through all of this drama – which has actually only been theoretical - without an actual dramatic result. If I had never had an ultrasound, never knew about the twins, never heard about TRAP, or the possible complications…the outcome would be the same. I would still go on to deliver whenever I deliver and have the baby that I’m going to have. So what is the point of the last 6 months?

I have been trying to figure this out. Trying to reconcile the ‘why’ of it all. Is it just to add some flavor to my life? Was it to start a blog and connect with other who have been through something similar? Is is just because that’s life and life happens?

It’s like I am being torn in 2 different directions. What I know is not reconciling with what I feel. It’s the same division of heartstrings that were being pulled before- half of them excited to see Summer and half of them sad to lose Cayden.

Today’s appointment was great. I saw Summer, she is doing great – even saw her face in the 3D ultrasound (which, truth be told, are kind of freaky looking). The fluid pocket on her brain has disappeared. Her arm and leg bones are measuring perfectly. Her little hands are opening and closing and she was already sucking her thumb. She even had the hiccoughs – I had been wondering how she can kick me so frequently! Now I know why!

So the angel on one shoulder tells me to feel so thankful. I dodged a bullet! The drama is over! The fear and anxiety is relieved. I am now in my 3rd trimester and everything is looking good for the next few months! Great! But there is a nagging voice on my other shoulder…

Why do I feel so…hesitant? Why can I not accept the good news and forget about the last several months? Why did I ask the technician to show me baby b? And when she couldn’t find her, why did that make me sad? Like something was over? And then when she finally did find her, why did my eyes fill with tears that I quickly wiped away before anyone saw them?

It’s because…I don’t get it. I still don’t get it. What was the point? Why go through all of that for nothing? Of course it’s great that it is nothing but…I still don’t get it. I don’t understand the purpose. And of course I feel terrible for feeling that way since it makes me feel like I’m ungrateful for the good news. Which of course I’m not! I just feel like this journey was preparing us for something…for the procedure I didn’t have, or the burial we won’t have, or the preterm baby that we won’t have (hopefully). Again, I’m thankful that we won’t have these things, that has been the prayer the whole time, but I feel like I’ve been preparing…but for what?

It’s just a weird feeling. Like standing at the edge of a cliff with all the adrenalin rushing through you, ready to take the jump because you have a parachute and you are ready, but when you look down you realize… you are on flat land. There is no cliff. Phew… right? But what do you do with that adrenalin? With all the preparations you have made? I guess you try to figure out the lessons to learn….and I just don’t know what that is yet.

So I ask you, what do you think the point is?

What is the point of so much drama, fear, anxiety, sleepless nights, cumbersome prayers if everything was going to turn out ok anyways? (I feel bad even writing those words – like I am totally unappreciative but…)

Is there a point? A purpose?

Is it preparation for something that I might deal with in the future? A way to help others who have gone through it? Simply one of lifes events that I can choose to grow closer to God through?

Or is it that just life; bad things happen and hopefully, by God’s grace, you can dodge some of the tragedy – is that just the way it is?

I’m not asking why we lost Cayden. I can accept that. I’m just trying to navigate through the purpose of the journey.

Lights

I have flown hundreds of times in my life. And yet, every time the flight attendant explains the safety components, I put down my book and listen. I can explain how to buckle the seatbelt, blow up the life vest, put on the oxygen mask (and always to yourself first before helping another), and the other handful of explanations he gives and yet I still feel like I should listen. Not so much because I will learn something new, but because I feel like I am being disrespectful if I don’t pay attention. Do I think he will give me better treatment in the event of a plane crash because I listened to him? No, I’m pretty sure that if there is a plane crash, much of these safety tips won’t really matter… However, I did learn something new today.

On the lifejackets, there is a little blinking light. I don’t know if that’s a new thing or the first time I have ever heard them say it. Either way, it was a minor detail that I had never caught before. It immediately gave me the image of being lost in the ocean, in the midst of the big black sea at night and yet the tiny flashing light can be seen from miles around – including by the rescue boat.

One of my biggest fears is being lost in the ocean, hence the reason I am not interested in ever taking a cruise. And this fear is of course tied to my fear of sharks. And yes, both of them are irrational. (Although, I should point out that when in Florida last week, I read an article about a recent scuba diver who came up to the surface only to realize that he was alone. In the ocean. With the sharks. And that the tour boat that he was with had left without him. Just like the movie Open Water. So….it does happen).

I think the basis of that kind of fear (besides the obvious) is the being alone. The complete isolation that encompasses you. With or without a life jacket, you are alone. But that light - it dramatically increases the chances of being rescued. As I was thinking about that, we began our treck on the runway as we prepared for takeoff. It was early in the morning and there was a heavy fog. Visibility was not great but on that runway all I saw were lights. Blinking lights, guiding lights. It made me feel confident about our safety even without visibility.

It also made me think of all of you. In your own way, as Paul and I have been navigating this journey blindly, you each have been little beacons of light to us through your beautiful messages of encouragement, by sharing your own stories and wisdom, and of helping provide ideas for each step of the way. It’s like you have been those lights on the runway helping us stay focused as we keep going to weekly ultrasounds. Or maybe we are the ones wearing the lifejackets in the big sea of the unknown and you guys see the blinking S.O.S. lights and reach out to us to lend a hand, a word of encouragement. A laugh.

I have received lots of good questions from many of you. Here is an attempt to answer some of them…

TRAP Sequence and Baby B
Any negative effect that may have happened due to TRAP sequence, has already happened. Baby b is still there, growing but slowly. With your encouragement and insight, we did name her, Cayden Marie, and are thinking of ways to commemorate her after she is born. Thanks for all your great ideas!

Labor and delivery
I may still go into preterm labor but it will be because I am/was a twin pregnancy – not so much because of the TRAP diagnosis. And the reason I would deliver early would be because the amount of placenta providing nutrients to Summer is compromised simply because baby b is still attached. FYI baby b is attached to Summer through the placenta (not baby to baby.)

I have another ultrasound Wednesday and then begin my 3rd trimester soon! Seems like the longest pregnancy in the history of all pregnancies but I can see the end in sight and am looking forward to that! To meeting Summer, to having the unknown answered.

One thing that keeps me going is that every morning, Mia kisses my tummy and says baby ‘ummer’.

Well…she might also be saying baby elmo….we’re not quite sure!

Memories

Mia had her first haircut yesterday. She’s almost 2 but her hair grew slowly. It was short in the front and long in the back and was starting to look like a mullet. It was time to put stop to that. So Grandma cut a little bit off in the back – no more mullet. She (my mother in law) asked me if I wanted to save her hair. Part of me wanted to say yes. Actually I did say yes initially. But then as I thought about it, I realized that there was no point.

The reason I said yes was that I wanted to want to save it. I felt like I was supposed to save it – like it was the mom-thing to do. I was supposed to save it, put it in a cute little frame, and immediately transfer it into her completely filled out baby book once I got home. Except, that that would never happen. It would go into a zip lock bag, sit in my suitcase until I had time to unpack (which on average is about a week after I have returned home from a trip), and then end up in some drawer in my bathroom until I found it a few months later and put it in a pile of other items that have every intention of eventually making it into Mia’s baby book that I haven’t started yet. Yes, she’s 2 and I haven’t started it yet.

So with that realization and with my 2 sister-in-laws admission that they didn’t save their baby’s hair either, I threw the hair away before the haircut was even completed.

That’s not to say I’m not sentimental. In fact, I’m a little too sentimental and I save everything. But the problem is I’m not organized enough to actually put all this stuff in a special place. So it all ends up in a pile. I have programs from every funeral and wedding I have ever been to. I have movie tickets from nearly all the movies Paul and I went to the 1st year we started dating. I even have my 8th grade graduation t-shirt with the names of all my classmates on it! Why? Is it because I might find the time to scrapbook one day? Or what if Mia might want to wear that t-shirt from 1994?

Ideally I would have scrapbooks and photo albums and journals with the memorabilia complete with commentary on the dates, times, people and purpose. But that will never happen. However, the point behind keeping these items for me is the same point as it is for the Type A mother and creative scrapbooker that I will never be – to keep the memory alive. To be able to look at the wedding program and remember how the pastor said the wrong name in the ceremony and how my dad wore his sunglasses through the whole thing. To look at the seashells and remember the romantic date that Paul took me on at the beach. To be able to look at the hair and remember when Mia was 2 and in the bathtub in Florida with her mullet that was begging to be cut off. It’s all about keeping the memory alive.

Of course we don’t need that to remember – but we need it to remember to remember. In other words, if we don’t have that visual reminder, sometimes we forget to reflect and take time to think about these past memories. We miss out on the enjoyment of reliving them or even on learning from them now that we are seeing them with hindsight.

When I first learned about TRAP and that we had lost Cayden, I researched all the medical info I could. But eventually I just got to the point of wanting to hear real stories about it - not from medical journals. I started searching out blogs until I found a few that had the stories of people that had been through TRAP deliveries. Most of them ended up with pre-term labor and the delivery of at least 1 stillborn baby. I was most intrigued with the photos of the acardiac twin. Of their baby b’s. Though they were malformed and didn’t look like babies, there were photos taken of them. With baby hats on, a small body wrapped in a baby blanket, with booties if there was a foot to put a bootie on. I could see how special these photos were to the parents. So I asked Paul to call our good friend and photographer, Jeremy (www.studiothisis.com) and ask him to be ‘on-call’ so to speak. This was when we figured that we would be delivering both babies early. I wanted pictures of Cayden. I wanted that memory.

We have now learned that baby b is growing slowly enough not to cause high risk for pre-term labor, and that she will be delivered with the placenta – as part of it. Recognizable as baby b (a mass of tissue different than the placenta), but not something that would be given a burial. Therefore, not something that will have pictures taken of.

So today I spent some time talking with my sister-in-law about how to commemorate Cayden. I have been feeling lately like there must be something special that I can do. Some initial research provided ideas such as hanging a special ornament at Christmas, or planting something in her name, etc. But nothing I’ve read seems quite right. I think I understand now why people get tattoos in honor of someone – it’s so permanent, and so undeniable that it seems almost ceremonious. Reverent. Funny to use that word when I can name many people who think tattoos are the opposite of reverent. But when you think about it this way, it’s hard to disagree. I have a friend who lost her mom as a child and she has a teardrop on her wrist with her mom’s initials. I think that’s beautiful. I can see how that makes her feel like her mom is always there with her. And my friend who lost her baby – her tattoo is so full of symbolism that I’m sure when she looks at it she feels every emotion that eventually ends with the hope and promise that she’ll see him again. There is comfort in that.

I’m not really interested in getting a tattoo but I am interested in hearing other ideas of ways to remember Cayden. Something special. Simple yet special. To be that reminder of a beautiful girl waiting for me in heaven. Something that I can touch or see or think of when I look at Summer and get tears in my eyes imagining her twin sister. Or maybe something special for Summer to 'know' of her sister.

Maybe something to just help provide comfort during the first month after their birth.

I didn’t think I would need that until today when the tears, once again, came out of nowhere as we talked about delivering Summer.

And Cayden.

If you have any ideas or thoughts, I'd love to hear them.

And, once again, thanks for all your words of encouragement, prayers and thoughts!