From Riches to Rags, and the Glory I Found There

Look at this lovely box full of children's goodies. This box seems to be full of hopes and dreams...and we are giving them away.  See that advent calendar? I bought it 6 years ago. I dreamed about setting it up with little ones running around acting crazy, hopped up on candy canes and egg nog. I dreamed about telling them the Christmas story and marking off days and celebrating Christ's birth with them. And now, we are giving it away. See that manger scene? I bought it 5 years ago. I dreamed of children growing up knowing abut their big brother, Kimber, and decorating his memorial garden. I dreamed of stories about Heaven and uncomfortable questions about death that both hurt and heal.  And now, we are giving it away. See that puzzle? I bought it 4 years ago. I dreamed of new traditions, of babies draped across bouncing knees, and of silly fights over missing pieces.  And now, we are giving it away. See those socks? I bought them 3 ...

There is an absence that never ceases. You feel it at every gathering, every time the “whole family” is together.  There is a fierce desire to have your baby remembered. And to have your struggle acknowledged.  I’m going to preface this by saying that it is no ones responsibility to remember my child, nor acknowledge my struggles. But you must understand that regardless of that, things still hurt, even if it’s no one’s fault.  People have all sorts of different ways of remembering Kimber. Some people remember him the way I do. Some people remember him less. And some people don’t remember him at all.  Today, I’m in the stage of letting go of the strong desire to remind people to remember Kimber.   I was in a protective state for a long time.  I brought him up when people forgot him. I brought his picture when I thought there was going to be pictures of the whole family. I included him in the number of grandchildren in our family. I did...

I’ve always tried to be an open book about our struggles. Since Kimber died I’ve encouraged everyone to ask whatever questions they’ve had, whatever things they’ve wondered, and I’ve always tried to answer openly and honestly. I’ve been someone who bursts with encouragement, thank you God for that spiritual gift, and it is second nature to encourage other women who’re grieving; both the loss of a child or the lack of the possibility of one.   So, have you wondered...What it’s like living with Infertility after loss?   It’s like you suddenly joined this ridiculously exclusive club, one where people are bonded by grief, but then, one by one, the other members seem to rise out of it, or to other levels. And you’re left alone. They can’t share with you the same way they once did. Partly it’s because they don’t want to hurt you, and partly because you just don’t have the same things in common a...

I've literally spent years learning how to be a barren woman.         It sounds strange doesn't it? Like I had to go to school and stumble through a bachelors degree in infertility and years later I'm still working on my masters in barren-hood. Obviously I started by majoring in motherhood but somehow flunked out and realized that my credits could transfer so I'm here just trying to survive finals.       Did I take the analogy too far? It was just to show you that this is a process, a process that does require learning new things, and re-learning old things. A process that forces you to re-evaluate where you thought you were going and makes you change your behavior to be successful.       I tend to be upfront and possibly a tad blunt when it comes to infertility. Why are we so secretive about such a defining part of our lives? If my leg was amputated I wouldn't be constantly hiding it under a blanket after I've h...