Today is the day that our sweet bdub was due. If you know my heart, you know that I don't celebrate or choose to remember what I call "death days" - ie, the anniversaries of days that people died or really horrible things happened. My sister and brother are weird and take after my Mom and can pretty much remember to the minute, hour and exact weather of those days. And that is fiiiiiine. But me? Notsomuch. That's a bunch of sad and depressing and ineffectively circular references. Instead, I remember life days--like birthdays and signs of spring and days that I bought really great new shoes.
So today, while driving into work, it was only fitting that I noticed little peeks of green in the grass where the yucky, brown snow is starting to melt. And buds on trees that will soon flower and smell like God's perfume. And for that, today I celebrate life and new beginnings and robins chirping outside. And I'll probably go buy some new shoes, too.
Today I am not sad. Today I am thankful and hopeful and content. My prayer is the same for you!
Showing posts with label bdub. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bdub. Show all posts
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Monday, October 22, 2012
Our Angel Tree.
Joe and I kind of always knew we wanted to get something rather special and permanent to remember our sweet tWIPs and precious bdub. Tattoos are extraordinarily painful and since I am the largest wussie on planet earth, also completely out of the question.
We had a lot of ideas, but ultimately the idea of something living--that we could see every day--was a requirement. And, as luck would have it, we've got a big ol' lot of sod just waiting for some life and landscaping.
And so, a few weeks ago, we drove on over to a nursery (ironic, no?) and got us a tree. Alex calls it our "angel tree" and I think that's rather appropriate. Here it is:
It's a sugar maple, so it will turn really beautiful vibrant shades of red every fall. I love it for all that it is and all that it stands for. It really is a tree of life.
And so this post isn't all sappy-wappy, here are some obligatory adorable photos from the weekend: a tractor ride at Franklin Cider Mill and trying on Daddy's new glasses.
We had a lot of ideas, but ultimately the idea of something living--that we could see every day--was a requirement. And, as luck would have it, we've got a big ol' lot of sod just waiting for some life and landscaping.
And so, a few weeks ago, we drove on over to a nursery (ironic, no?) and got us a tree. Alex calls it our "angel tree" and I think that's rather appropriate. Here it is:
It's a sugar maple, so it will turn really beautiful vibrant shades of red every fall. I love it for all that it is and all that it stands for. It really is a tree of life.
And so this post isn't all sappy-wappy, here are some obligatory adorable photos from the weekend: a tractor ride at Franklin Cider Mill and trying on Daddy's new glasses.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Lightning strikes twice.
I’ve started this post about a hundred times, and it’s strange that I’m even hesitant to type it. I’m never at a loss for words from these fingers. Never. I’ve always maintained that this blog is for me. It’s my outlet, my therapy. So this one is really for me. Not you.
First, I’m sorry to my closest and best, who will read this and wonder why I didn’t tell you in person. Here’s the thing: I can’t. I genuinely cannot speak the words.
I had another miscarriage.
On Tuesday, July 17, Joe and I went for our 8 week ultrasound. Everything looked great. 1 baby. 1 healthy, strong heartbeat.
On Wednesday, I designed our “We’re moving!” postcards. They were super cute, and signed “Love: Joe, Kristi, Alex & Baby Van Wormer (coming March 2013!).”
On Thursday, we went to dinner as a family—at Alex’s favorite, Buffalo Wild Wings. He calls it the “macawoni restaurant.” We talked about which room he wanted, and which room the baby would get.
On Friday, I started bleeding. Joe took me to the emergency room. We’d been down that road before, so I knew the look in the ultrasound tech’s eyes when she discovered the unthinkable. She didn’t even have to say anything.
I’m not totally sure where to go from here. I was half laughing, half crying on the way home from the hospital, questioning to Joe how lightning could possibly strike twice. He offered a perspective of grace, saying, “Maybe lightning struck once, and Alex is simply our greatest blessing. Maybe he’s the miracle we weren’t supposed to have.”
Even with that, it’s still hard to understand. I know I’m not alone—but still, with miscarriage rates at 4.2% at 7 weeks after a heartbeat is heard, that’s a pretty inaccurate lightning bolt. A lightning bolt that I’m really, really pissed at.
What seems even more unfair and cruel is the physical process of the actual miscarriage itself. Last time, I didn’t have to experience the shittiest parts, because everything was removed surgically. So the “aftermath” was really just some light period bleeding. Nothing, really.
You would think that God would have a little more mercy for the process, you know? I’ll talk about it here in gruesome detail because I don’t think many women (or doctors, for that matter) do. I realize that the body is expelling something, so it’s not going to be easy or pain-free. But my GOD it hurts. It hurts like the fury of a thousand gnomes clambering at your pelvis. When you go to the bathroom you see and smell things that cannot be unseen or unsmelled. And then, to top off this entirely shitty and painful process, you then have to actually pass the mass that used to be your baby. And look at it sitting in the bottom of a toilet. And then flush it down that toilet. Forever. And if you are lucky enough to do that last part at work like I was, you sit in the bathroom shaking for 20 minutes until you have to courage to hit that asshole of a toilet handle and walk away. That might seem like an extremely callous way to put it, but it’s the honest and painful truth.
And then, somehow, I prayed. Well, it was less of a prayer and more of an interrogation with God. I genuinely cannot understand why considering the circumstances He couldn’t make the physical part of this process easier somehow. The emotional part I can get through. This baby simply wasn’t meant to happen. Strangely, I can very easily wrap my head around that. And maybe I’m in the minority with that acceptance, but it’s simply how I feel. The physical reminders are simply unnecessary if you ask me. I give them the big, fat middle finger.
So here we are again. It’s a whole new set of emotions and I am absolutely furious that I have more babies in heaven than I do on earth. I honestly never thought I’d be here, in this place. But with time comes healing, and I know we’ll see the other side eventually.
I’ll repeat what I said last time: Forgive me for being so bold as to say I don't want your sorry. So don't give it to me. Instead, send a smile, hug, or a large Diet Coke from McDonalds. And if you put a little rum in it, I won’t tell.
First, I’m sorry to my closest and best, who will read this and wonder why I didn’t tell you in person. Here’s the thing: I can’t. I genuinely cannot speak the words.
I had another miscarriage.
On Tuesday, July 17, Joe and I went for our 8 week ultrasound. Everything looked great. 1 baby. 1 healthy, strong heartbeat.
On Wednesday, I designed our “We’re moving!” postcards. They were super cute, and signed “Love: Joe, Kristi, Alex & Baby Van Wormer (coming March 2013!).”
On Thursday, we went to dinner as a family—at Alex’s favorite, Buffalo Wild Wings. He calls it the “macawoni restaurant.” We talked about which room he wanted, and which room the baby would get.
On Friday, I started bleeding. Joe took me to the emergency room. We’d been down that road before, so I knew the look in the ultrasound tech’s eyes when she discovered the unthinkable. She didn’t even have to say anything.
I’m not totally sure where to go from here. I was half laughing, half crying on the way home from the hospital, questioning to Joe how lightning could possibly strike twice. He offered a perspective of grace, saying, “Maybe lightning struck once, and Alex is simply our greatest blessing. Maybe he’s the miracle we weren’t supposed to have.”
Even with that, it’s still hard to understand. I know I’m not alone—but still, with miscarriage rates at 4.2% at 7 weeks after a heartbeat is heard, that’s a pretty inaccurate lightning bolt. A lightning bolt that I’m really, really pissed at.
What seems even more unfair and cruel is the physical process of the actual miscarriage itself. Last time, I didn’t have to experience the shittiest parts, because everything was removed surgically. So the “aftermath” was really just some light period bleeding. Nothing, really.
You would think that God would have a little more mercy for the process, you know? I’ll talk about it here in gruesome detail because I don’t think many women (or doctors, for that matter) do. I realize that the body is expelling something, so it’s not going to be easy or pain-free. But my GOD it hurts. It hurts like the fury of a thousand gnomes clambering at your pelvis. When you go to the bathroom you see and smell things that cannot be unseen or unsmelled. And then, to top off this entirely shitty and painful process, you then have to actually pass the mass that used to be your baby. And look at it sitting in the bottom of a toilet. And then flush it down that toilet. Forever. And if you are lucky enough to do that last part at work like I was, you sit in the bathroom shaking for 20 minutes until you have to courage to hit that asshole of a toilet handle and walk away. That might seem like an extremely callous way to put it, but it’s the honest and painful truth.
And then, somehow, I prayed. Well, it was less of a prayer and more of an interrogation with God. I genuinely cannot understand why considering the circumstances He couldn’t make the physical part of this process easier somehow. The emotional part I can get through. This baby simply wasn’t meant to happen. Strangely, I can very easily wrap my head around that. And maybe I’m in the minority with that acceptance, but it’s simply how I feel. The physical reminders are simply unnecessary if you ask me. I give them the big, fat middle finger.
So here we are again. It’s a whole new set of emotions and I am absolutely furious that I have more babies in heaven than I do on earth. I honestly never thought I’d be here, in this place. But with time comes healing, and I know we’ll see the other side eventually.
I’ll repeat what I said last time: Forgive me for being so bold as to say I don't want your sorry. So don't give it to me. Instead, send a smile, hug, or a large Diet Coke from McDonalds. And if you put a little rum in it, I won’t tell.
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