A Post Of Answers

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 anymore. 

They’re off, raising their children, they’re busy and...they have other friends who are moms too.

It’s not that they can’t be bothered. You just don’t fit together as well anymore.

 

Have you wondered what you do when you’re in the club alone?

I haven’t quite figured it out yet...but I’m continually working on it. Believe me. It’s confusing and complicated and frustrating and heartbreaking and hopeful all at once. 

 

Have you wondered what it’s like to be surrounded by pregnancy announcements and baby pictures when, after 8 years of struggling, you only have one precious stillbirth to show for it?

 

It’s amazing...and it’s terrible. 

 

Every part of me is so glad for you. Glad that you were able to conceive, after however long. Glad that your child is healthy and alive. Glad that we do not share the same grief. My husband and I are connected with you, whether you even know it or not. Long before our son died, God burdened my heart with the desire to be praying for you, whoever you are. Every single night, John and I pray for every single person we know who is pregnant, or trying to conceive, or adopting. 

Do you know us? Then, by golly, we have prayed for you and your child since the moment you announced your pregnancy, all of you.

 

Have you wondered how hard it is?

 

 I know that I’m the poster child for the horror stories that you dread while you’re pregnant. It’s not something I can forget.

I know that people avoid telling me that they’re pregnant. I’m the dark lining on their otherwise light and fluffy cloud. No, not for everyone, but some. I know that most don’t want to hurt me, but awkwardly finding out you didn’t tell me...hurts worse.

 

It makes me feel like I need to apologize because I want to be pregnant as well as you (not instead of you) to feel the kicks and tumbles and to plan and hope. Like I need to act like I don’t miss my little would-be-4 year old red headed boy. As if I don’t miss holiday outfits and Christmas mornings or daytime snuggles and someone who calls me ‘Mommy”. 

But I do...I miss it all a whole lot, and I long for all of that. You being pregnant doesn’t remind me that I’m still broken and that it still hurts. 

I don’t forget that my son died, or that we’re currently unable to have more children. It’s a constant in my life, something I try to gracefully embrace as a child of a loving God who has a beautiful plan for me. But it’s not an easy one...that’s for sure.