stormy weather #2

I'm sitting at the computer watching a wind storm blow in across the valley.  The leaves are whirling through the air, and the rain is coming down in buckets.  I miss a good storm.  It rarely happens here, and I always feel so lucky that I get to watch a storm brew from the top of the mountain.  I have had my own storm brewing for the past week.  My emotional state has been completely up and down, and it's been a bit of a tumultuous week.  Now that the miscarriage is over, I've been trying to get back to my normal life, but it hasn't been as easy as I thought it would.  School has been challenging.  I have great students, but teaching a split has provided me with some interesting experiences, and I am trying to sort it all out.  There were many days this week where I left school feeling incompetent, and not sure if I could make it through the week.  My thirty-seventh birthday was on Wednesday, and I was glad to welcome a new year, but am really beginning to feel the ticking of the clock.  I know I'm not old, but in the world of fertility, I am the dreaded over thirty-five, approaching forty.  There are pregnancy books specifically written for getting pregnant and being pregnant if you are over the thirty-five mark.  It's so degrading and discouraging.  There are so many women my age having babies, but it seems like we are looked upon by the medical world as "risk-takers," because of our age.  This week, Michael and I have started opening our hearts and conversations to the next step in this crazy journey.  I want to believe that I still can become pregnant and carry a baby to term.  But, there is the underlying fear that it won't ever happen.  And so I fluctuate between exploring adoption, versus trying again. It is constantly cycling through my thoughts.  And then today, as I stood in the checkout counter as Superstore, a young baby began to cry. I don't know where it was coming from, but it continued, and it was almost as if the whole world went into silent movie mode, because all I could focus on was the crying of the baby.  It was the tiniest cry, but it filled the room, and I was taken right back to hearing Luka cry in the hospital.  I watched as a woman rounded the corner of the canned vegetable aisle, and the crying grew louder.  I just wanted to pick up the baby, and comfort it.  I remember holding Luka, as she cried, knowing that she was hungry and I couldn't feed her, because she was too weak to suck, and my milk wasn't producing.  As I tried not to sob in my line up, I watched the woman pick up her child, and the crying immediately stopped.  Suddenly, I was brought back into the world of Superstore, the beeping of the checkout counter, the buzz of activity, and I began to place my items on the conveyor belt.  Life goes on.  However, in that moment, I understood how deep my desire is to be a mother.  I'm not sure when or how it will happen, but as I drove up the mountain, I made the decision to persevere, and I won't let my age stop me.  I will hold a child in my arms before I am forty.  I will.  The wind has calmed down outside and the sun shone for a moment and created a beautiful rainbow in the valley.  Storms never last, and I know that next week is a new week.  Like the storm, this too shall pass, and somewhere in this journey there will be a rainbow, with a pot of gold, just for me.

blighted

It's a cool Saturday evening, and the rain has finally settled in after having battle with the sun all day.  The smell of homemade chicken soup is wafting through the apartment, and I just woke up from an afternoon nap.  And now I write a blog that I didn't expect to write on this journey.  Michael and I have experienced a miscarriage.  A blighted ovum, according to the medical world.  I was almost nine weeks pregnant, when due to some spotting, I went in for an emergency ultrasound.  They found a gestational sac, but no baby. My levels were tested, and they were falling. Apparently the baby never developed but my body believed it was still pregnant, and continued growing an empty sac.  We were just starting to get excited, and the promise of new life was giving Michael and I a rejuvenation in our own lives.  Every day that I woke up still pregnant, the layers of cautious optimism were peeling away to allow for hopeful excitement.  I was starting to look forward to showing my round belly, to take out the maternity clothes I had packed away, and was imagining the birth of a baby in April.   But those hopes have been blighted.  And the trusting process, of believing that I will ever have a healthy child of my own, has once again been taken away.  Yet strangely, although this was a huge disappointment,  I am not devastated.  I feel like I am stuck between totally giving up, and persevering until we succeed.  Maybe I take comfort in the fact there was never really a baby.  What I do know, is I need to take some time to heal my body, and move forward with my life.  I need some time to get back to the gym, and get my body back in shape.  I need some time, to really figure out if I want to take the risk of being disappointed again.  There are many questions that need to be answered.  Do we see a fertility specialist?  Do we think about adoption?  Two different paths, and I'm not ready to dive into either of them. Yet.  I'm going to take the next few months for me.  Last night we had our first improv rehearsal.  I wasn't going to go, because I was so tired from a rough week, and a stressful day at school.  But I am so glad I did.  It was so much fun to play, be silly and take creative risks. And I laughed.  A great way to end this week.  I woke up this morning, thinking how much has changed since last September.  Michael is making furniture and is happy being a teacher on call.  We have great friends and I still wake up and marvel at the gorgeous mountain view from my bedroom window.   The word blighted is defined as something that impedes growth,  or impedes progress and prosperity.  Something prevented this pregnancy from developing, and I will never know why.  What I do know, is that I am still growing and progressing as a person, and at this moment, that is what is most important.  Will I ever get pregnant and carry a healthy baby to term?  I hope so.  But life is a mystery, and for now, I choose to get back to my life.  Michael is cutting vegetables, and the soup is almost ready.  We will break bread, eat hot soup, while I drink and savor a big glass of red wine.  A toast to what may or may not come, but still filled with hope and possibility.

September

September.  A time of reflection, hope and new beginnings.  It's strange, how when the leaves are falling and everything is going dormant for the winter, everything in our lives is beginning anew.  School, new classes, new seasons of television shows, and trying new things.  I love this time of year.  Always have. The sun setting a little bit earlier, crisp fall apples from the Okanagan, new clothes, and yes, I was one of those children who loved going back to school.  As least from what I can remember.  August was a good month, and one of the first month's since Luka died, where I haven't cried every day.  In fact,  I've been pretty happy.  Enjoying the hot summer, meeting new people, spending time with my husband, and just focusing on the now.  In the last few days, as we've rolled into September,  the memories of Luka have begun to surface again.  She's never far from my mind, but it was nice to feel free from the thoughts and the pain for a while.  Putting that in writing, makes me feel guilty.  I don't want to forget, but the lightness I have felt has been so refreshing.  And as I go back to school, and feel the fall evening air, I wish she was here.  Last year, we were so freshly mourning, that I wasn't even aware of the arrival of fall.  Now that I am so much more present, I wish I could share my favourite time of year with her.  I'm nervous about school this year.  My first year teaching a split class, lots of changes at the school, and Michael being a teacher on call.  It's going to be very different.  But I know it will be a good different.  It's just going to take some adjusting.  My goal is to just enjoy the students I have in my class, focus on them and their wonderfulness, and try new things outside of school.   I'm going to try my hand at improv, and will continue to go to yoga.  And of course, continue to hope for new life.  In all this newness,  I hope that a seed will grow.  I just have to continue to believe that it will happen.  In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy evening walks with Michael and Sassy, cool weather, macintosh apples, Sunday morning pancakes and bacon,  and the gentleness of Luka in the fall wind and the changing colour of the trees.

I found this on my pillow one evening before I went to sleep.  It is now posted above my pillow, to remind me that anything is possible.  I love my husband.

bravery

Last night as Michael and I were talking in bed, he asked me if I felt braver because of losing Luka. It was a great question and it has me wondering and thinking about it as I eat my breakfast and watch the sun shine through the clouds.  It has been a crazy journey, and I honestly feel the most peaceful and calm I have in a long time.  I haven't been teary, and the memories of Luka aren't invading my mind as prevalently as they did before July.  Like yoga, when you return to the breath,  I am trying to turn my thoughts to the now, the present.  When I get caught up in memories, or hopes for the next pregnancy, I have to remind myself, that all I have is the now.  It's been a great mantra.  As I thought about Michael's question,  I decided to look up the definition of brave in the dictionary.  Possessing or exhibiting courage or courageous endurance.   Have I been courageous?  There have been days where I have felt like curling up in a ball and never leaving the house, but I have also felt limitlessness potential to live an amazing life.  Loss has a funny way of making you want more out of life.  Yes, grief can consume you, but at some point you have to make a choice.  To shut down, or to open up.  I believe many people think it's easier to shut down.  But, really it's not. There is something beautiful about honouring the grief, and coming out on the other side, stronger and more vulnerable at the same time.  I know Michael is much braver than before Luka.  He has opened up his creative spirit, and is trusting who he really is.  So often in life we don't do what we really want to do because of fear of rejection and what others may think.  It's wonderful to see my husband pursue his creative path.  I don't doubt that losing Luka, was a huge catalyst for his new journey.  I also have seen strength in me, that I didn't know existed.  I barreled through a teaching year, and decided to share my passion for theatre with my students, and it paid off both professionally and personally.  I used to worry if I was good enough, or if my philosophy and teaching style were acceptable.   Losing Luka, has ignited my belief that creativity and the Fine Arts are the core of who I am, and that my passion lies in teaching this to my students.  It's what makes me interesting.  Life is too short to compromise on your own belief system.  So, to answer Michael's question, I would say yes, I am braver.  We both are.  But more importantly, we have opened up our hearts to the possibility of life and loss.  The joy, the laughter, the hopes, the dreams, the pain and the sorrow.  This is the foundation of art and creativity.  Without joy and sorrow, we wouldn't have Mozart, Van Gogh, Lady Gaga, or any performer, artist or actor.   Earlier this summer, I asked people if we have more joy or sorrow in our lives.  My favourite answer was from Darren who wrote, "Joy. Sorrow is what we remember."  I do think we have more joy, and we forget it so easily because it comes so naturally.   And I think we need to remember sorrow, to truly experience joy.  As I move forward in my life,  I am trying to live bravely in the moment, by embracing the waves of sorrow, and opening my heart to the beauty and joy of daily life.

The artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him.  At that point he is in business. 
                                                                            John Barrymore
 

lightness

We are home.  The beautiful mountains surround us, and all the rain we missed as we enjoyed sunny Saskatchewan, has brought green lushness to the valley.  The sun shone brightly today, and for the first time in two months, I put on my running shoes and went to walk the mountain.  It was a beautiful morning, and a gentle doe watched me as I tackled the big hill, encouraging me with her gentle presence.  When I turned around to go back, she had disappeared.  A quiet gift, on a summer morning.  For the first time since I was pregnant with Luka, there is lightness.  In my heart and in my thoughts.  Michael and I had the best trip home we have ever had in our married life.  Every moment, and every visit, was profound and relaxing.  We laughed, cried, remembered, and philosophized about life, death, joy and sorrow.  Something has shifted.  It happened slowly, but on Luka's birthday, Michael and I both felt at peace. We took a beautiful walk in Wanuskewin Park,  a First Nations sacred territory.  The wind was blowing, and it was lighlty raining. There was no one else on the trail, Luka's gift to us.  We walked in the wind, took in the beauty of the land, and remembered our daughter coming into the world.  As I stood on the prairies, where you can see for miles, I felt my heart soften.  In the gift shop, we bought a piece of art, to remember our daughter and celebrate our journey of this year.  In the evening, we gathered with family and friends, ate fish and chips, and strawberries and whipped cream.  As the setting sun streamed in, and the laughter of little children echoed throughout the living room, I knew that Luka's spirit was playing in the lightness of our hearts.  It was perfect.  Now that we are at home, I am ready for the next chapter in our lives to unfold.  Yes, I want to be pregnant.  But I don't know when it will happen, and I need to live my life.  My goal is to try and live in the moment as much as possible.  We have spent the whole year living in the past and hoping for the future.  And that was how it needed to be.  And now, my focus is the now.  Beauty. Laughter. Love. And Light.  I share with you all, some of the beauty and lightness we encountered on this very healing journey. Thank you to all who have supported us and loved us through a very difficult year. 

 

 

reconnection

It's a hot sultry night in Saskatoon, and my entire family is watching the news in the very cool basement.  My mind is whirling with thoughts and memories, and I needed to write.  It's been only a week since we left Chilliwack, but I feel like I have come full circle in my journey.  At home, with family, still healing from our loss of our daughter, but a much different person than I was last year.  Stronger.  Lighter.  More at peace.  It's hard to believe that in two days, Luka would have been one.  Instead of having a birthday party, we are gathering with our family, to remember her little life, and honour the beauty and gift of meeting and knowing our daughter.  The last week has been magical, powerful, and extremely healing.  I left Chilliwack last Sunday, depressed and angry with the world.  I wasn't sure if I could handle being on the road in July, remembering all that happened to us last year at this time.  But what I have discovered has surprised me.  The first five hours in the car, I cried every half hour.  Listening to music, seeing the beautiful nature around me, and thinking of Luka and her time with us.  It was the first time in this whole year, where I truly felt like I was letting go of holding on.  If that makes sense.  To be away from our mountain, was the best decision that Michael and I have made for this summer. The last week has been a journey of discovery and reconnection.  It has been filled with laughter and crying with friends, silent and shared reflection with Michael about our lives, and the presence of Luka surrounding us in every flower, tree, and bird.  And in these experiences, I have come to realize three things that have helped me come full circle this year.
First:
  Our friends Leah and Steve in Nelson, live their lives so simply and beautifully.  They are gentle to their bodies and to their minds.  Being with them allowed me to see how hard I have been on my body, and how I haven't been taking care of myself in the last year.  It was so important to come to that realization, and I immediately felt lighter knowing this needs to be my focus in the next couple of months.  I need to start taking care of myself.  I am the most important person in my life and I need to live my life the best way I can.
Secondly:
 My husband is the most amazing man in the whole universe.  He has helped me to be a better person, and continues to inspire me every day.  In the last year, we have gone through the most tragic experience of losing a child, and yet we have become closer than we have ever been.
As we have traveled together, this past week, we have laughed the most we have in a year.  We have hardly fought.  We have shared our dreams and goals for the future.  We have held each other as we remember Luka.  And we have reconnected.  Something happened this week in our relationship which has been missing this whole year.  I can't explain it, but it's been magical.
Lastly:
 Luka is with us. In everything and everywhere.  As painful as it has been, she has blessed our lives with love and light.  Her little life has affected so many people, and I am eternally grateful for having known her, nursed her and held her.  And as her birthday approaches, I thank her for getting me through this year, whether it be in the beauty of butterflies, or the gentle wind blowing in the window on a hot summer's evening.

Here I am. A year later.  Still standing. Wiser. Changed. And continuing to live my life.

dear universe

Dear Universe,
                     It's July. A year has gone by, and last year on this day, the day Luka was due to be born, we put down our cat Mango of twelve years.  I remember, Universe, standing by the trees and asking you to bring us joy.  I looked up to the wind in the sky, and begged for you to bring us joy with the new little one on its way. Do you remember?  Because, I'm starting to feel like you didn't hear me.  I don't want to be negative, and I don't want to become jaded.  I believe in your power, your ability to give me guidance, and to show me the beauty of this world.  I want to believe magic still exists, and I know that I am being selfish for even asking, when war and pain rages throughout this entire world.  I am one small person, asking for one small thing. A baby. I wish it was Luka.  I wish she was turning one, and as we pack up the car to go on summer vacation, I wish the car seat, and the stroller were part of our stuffed car.  I know it is not possible, but I was just hoping for a bit of  joy this July.  Especially, after I take a pregnancy test and it says positive. It's a bit cruel, Universe, that three days later,  I find out from my doctor, that I'm not pregnant.  Very early miscarriage, or maybe never really at all.  Those three days of hoping, dreaming, thanking you for such a gift, in a month of such emotion and remembrance.  How can I continue believing?  I want to. I want to think that it's possible.  But, my heart has been broken again.  Aren't you sick of my tears?  I am. I don't want to cry anymore. Maybe you're testing me to see how much I can take this month. I'm trying to be strong, but the memories of last summer are flooding in with every moment.  Every smell, place, moment, clothing, food, is a reminder of last summer, as I waited for my new baby.  I know you are helping me get through this time, by providing  me with a loving and understanding husband, wonderful friends, and a supportive family.  And I thank you for the many gifts you have given both me and Michael over this very difficult year.  And now, as we head out on our journey to visit friends and family, I ask you to remind me of my ability to believe that it's still possible.  To show me the wonder of nature.  To help me embrace the sorrow and tears as Luka's birthday approaches.  To show me the magic that I know is there.  To open my eyes to what I need to see.  To hold my husband and give him strength.  To laugh with our friends. To share our memories of Luka with our family.  To watch the wind and the trees. To let go.  I don't want to be angry, Universe. It's just been so hard. Thank you for giving me the strength to go on and live my life.  All  I ask for now, is to help me continue believing.  To believe it is possible, and to trust it will happen. (and soon, would be great!)
Thank you for listening. Give all my love to Luka, whether she be in the wind, or the hummingbird that has been visiting every day.  Tell her I love her with all my heart and I miss her so much.

With deep respect,
Wendy