My Best Yes

In the summer of 2016, I attended the She Speaks Conference in North Carolina.  This is a conference for Christian women writers and speakers and is a weekend full of inspiration for those of us who love the written word.  It was my second time attending the conference, a gift once again from my parents, who encourage me in my love for writing in any way in which they can.

Last summer, I was still in the throes of fertility treatment, healing after a devastating loss that occurred in the spring, and also going through trial cycles in an attempt to find my perfect implantation date.  To put it simply, I was taking fertility drugs and undergoing biopsies of my uterus to find the date, down to a 12-hour window, that would be the optimal time to implant my frozen embryos.  It was a challenging time because not only was my body healing from a loss, it was also on a hormonal roller coaster created by fertility drugs, without the actual hope of a pregnancy waiting at the end.  To put it simply, it sucked.

I was trying to stay positive, hopeful, and trust in God's timing, but it was most certainly a challenging time.  

Challenging times in your personal life are also the PERFECT times to attend a conference for Christian women, regardless of the topic.

During one of the seminars I sat in on, a woman named Wendy Blight spoke.  Wendy is a well-known Christian speaker, writer, and teacher.  I know she was wonderful to listen to, but in all honesty, I cannot remember the topic of her session.  I know that I gained insight and wisdom and that I earnestly took detailed and thorough notes.  I can't remember what her topic was because the way she ended her hour-long session was so moving to me, it erased all other information I could have gleaned from her.

As she finished her lecture, Wendy invited each woman in the room to stand in line and wait to be anointed by her, or one of her assistants.  I had never been anointed by anyone before, but it sounded interesting, and so I decided I would wait in the line for this holy ritual.  She told us the anointing would be accompanied with a single word.  Her hope was that the Holy Spirit would give her a word that would mean something to the ears upon which it fell.  

When I reached the front of the room, Wendy was miraculously the woman who was available to anoint me.  She was even more lovely up close than she was when speaking on stage.  She exuded peace and maturity.  I was in awe.

She gently put the oil on my head and then placed her hands on my shoulders.  She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them and looked right at me.  

"Your word is yes," she said to me.  "I'm not sure why, but it is yes."  

"Thank you," I whispered.  

I walked away feeling slightly stunned.  

For three years, God's answer to me had been NO.  

NO, your brother is safer with me than with you.

NO, that is not your cycle.

NO, that is not your implantation date.  

NO, that is not your baby.  

God's NO had been ringing loud and clear through a season that felt never-ending.  Dare I hope that Wendy's yes was finally an answer to our prayers for a baby?  

I left the conference that evening tired, overwhelmed, excited by all that I had learned, but most importantly with a glimmer of hope in my broken heart.

From that weekend in late July of 2016 until early November, I held tight to the yes that Wendy had shared with me.  I held onto it for one more trial cycle in late August, as we grieved the third anniversary of my brother's death in October, as I waited for my body to rebound and respond to the absence of fertility drugs and then again as we re-introduced them in preparation for another embryo transfer, and as we sat across from my fertility nurse and signed papers one more time indicating our desire to thaw and transfer two embryos at the proper date.  

Through physical and emotional trials of that late summer and fall, I clung to the hope and a simple word that a fellow Christian woman had shared with me.  Yes.

On a cold and snowy morning in November, I heard a loud and resounding YES as I took a home pregnancy test.  Two days later, my blood pregnancy test confirmed the positive result, and a week after that a fetal pole with a heartbeat soothed my anxious mind.  We were pregnant and our baby would come in late July of 2017.  

He is here.  I have a son.  He is sleeping peacefully in his crib upstairs, wrapped tightly in his favorite blanket, sucking contentedly on his pacifier with a puppy attached to it my husband has named Walter.  He has eaten twice and successfully this morning, smiled and cooed, grabbed at my glasses and his rattle, and endured the required tummy time.  He is meeting milestones every day, and each one is a little miracle to his mom.  The house is quiet and I can hear children playing happily at the school down the street.  Someday, God willing, my boy will join them.

God said yes to us at the perfect time.  As I look back on the past three years, the grief, the trials, the unknown and the fear for my future, I see exactly why He waited to say yes.  There was a time when I wasn't truly ready to be a mom.  There was a time when my family was not ready for joy, we were still too far in the depths of grief.  There was a time when my marriage was not ready.  There were times when my body, my career, or mind were not ready.  God knew all of that and when I was banging my head against the wall, not trusting Him, he endured my anger and my frustration.  He loved me regardless of my unbelief.  

God will say yes to what is best for us when it is best for us.  

He will not say yes to us falling into depression.

He will not say yes to us succumbing to addiction.

He will not say yes to us hurting those we love.

He will not say yes to purposeful financial negligence.

He will not say yes to us sabotaging our marriage.  

He will not say yes to us falling to sin.

He will not say yes to self-destruction.

Sometimes, we have to get our life in order for a yes.  Sometimes, we are not in the right mental, physical, financial, or relational place for that yes.  Sometimes we are, and it is still a NO.  This I know....there is a reason for that NO, and we might not understand it until we meet God.

In my season of joy, this truth is more palatable.  I know that when I am next in a season of trial, and there will certainly be one, I will have to reread my words to remind myself that God is faithful and all-knowing of what is best for me.

The peace that comes after enduring a season of grief is far greater than the peace that comes from a period of joy.  

This peace is a relinquishment of control over our lives.  It is the knowledge that we can endure but we may have to wait patiently. However our prayer is answered, it is with our best interests at heart.  Whether God's answer is a yes, a no, not yet, or when you are ready, have faith in the final outcome given by the ultimate provider.  And when the answer is a long-awaited yes, it will be oh-so-sweet.    

Sleeping sweetly in his crib upstairs is my best yes......One year, one month, and 25 days after Wendy's gift.

Fertility and Empathy

*This post is dedicated to my sweet friend, Jessica....the eternal optimist, one of the strongest women I know, and mother-to-be.  

About a year ago, I attended my first session of an infertility support group.  I went several times after that first session, but that is the one that really stands out to me.  It made the greatest impression on me, most likely because it was my first to attend, but also because I remember the facilitator's final question:

"What is something that someone has said to you during this time of infertility that has been helpful?"

I immediately knew what it was and who had known the most comforting words I needed to hear.  My friend Kathleen said to me (repeatedly and in every circumstance),

"You're doing such a good job.  I'm so proud of you.  You're so strong."

If I could reach every, single woman trying to become a mother and tell her ONE thing, it would be that.  

"You're doing such a good job.  I'm so proud of you.  You're so strong."

If I could, I would say this to the woman who is in the middle of a miscarriage (unbeknownst to many, they are not a one day and done type of phenomenon), the one who just met with her infertility specialist for the first time, the girl who was told she will only get pregnant through an egg donor, a friend whose marriage is rocked by the struggle, the lady inspecting her bruised stomach and bottom where injections have gone, the woman who is newly pregnant and terrified out of her mind, the girl in her very first cycle of trying and also to the one who is on her sixth.  

"You're doing such a good job.  I'm so proud of you.  You're so strong."

I would say this to every woman in every infertility situation because the truth is this;

With infertility, we cannot compare.  We can only have empathy.

Throughout my struggle to become pregnant, I learned that we all have war stories.  I could tell you my journey from beginning to end (There is an end, I promise. I'm 33 weeks pregnant with a baby boy), and it might terrify you (or give you a great amount of hope).  However, I know with certainty that there is someone who has had a more challenging story.

From the minute a woman realizes that her negative pregnancy tests are not just a disappointing trend, to the day she sits across the desk from her ob or infertility specialist, to the very first needle she pushes into her soft flesh, she is strong, she is doing a good job, and she is bad ass.

We cannot compare journeys or put one woman's struggle above another's because as females desiring to become mothers, we are all on an equal level.  The minute you decide that you are ready to have a baby of your own, that feeling is ingrained in you, it is innate, it is unstoppable.  When you realize that your body is not cooperating with your brain, there is a let down so great that the only thread of hope you have to cling to is the story of your best friend's-neighbor's-daughter's-niece who saw Dr. So-and-so and he was a miracle worker and, "don't worry at all because he will do the same for you."

Here is the problem; this miracle worker doctor or acupuncturist or hypnotist or yoga teacher or whoever it is that promises they will be the one to gift you with your greatest desire has to first understand your body's own personal failings that are vastly different from the woman before you.  You know that, and all you can do is pray that your body's (which you hate at the moment) inadequacies will be easily "fixable".

In some cases, they are.  In others, they are not. However simple or challenging your diagnosis is, you have to live with the pain of the unknown, the fear of what might happen, the waiting and hoping, and the way in which you feel different from every other stroller-pushing, swollen bellied, crabby with her kids in the grocery store, Facebook family-picture sharing mother.

Several weeks ago, I had dinner with a new friend.  When I asked her how her school year was going, and what her plans were for next year, she happily announced that the following year would look different for her because she was pregnant, her attempt at IVF had worked.

Miraculously, this was her first attempt at IVF and she had many many more embryos frozen and waiting for her should she desire more children.  Her experience with infertility treatment is vastly different from mine.  We are both pregnant, but how we got there could not have been more different.  However, I did not feel bitter or jealous or ask myself, "Why was this so much easier for her?"

Why not?  This girl across from me was so excited about the new life she was bringing into the world.  I know she had a big box filled with ice packs, drugs, needles and a Sharps container delivered to her doorstep in preparation for her one cycle.  I know her husband had to give her injections, she was probably on supplements, her blood had been drawn several times, and she had been through more scans than most women see in a lifetime.  All of that is hard.  Whether you do it one time, or eight, it is brutal.

I will never forget my very first cycle, three and a half years ago.  It was a stimulated cycle in an attempt to get a few extra strong eggs that would work with only an IUI.  In my heart, I knew that was not going to be the time I got pregnant.  As women, we have very strong intuition and that didn't feel right.  It was a very simple approach and a starting block doctors use for so many women.  It didn't feel right and my diagnosis and treatments became a heck of a lot more complicated and it took several attempts and two different specialists to finally figure it out.  I didn't always feel strong, and I certainly wasn't always proud of myself.  I hated my body and how it was failing me.  However, I did always believe that there would eventually be a cycle that worked, which is why I never gave up. I had to believe.

When you don't feel so strong, or tough, or like you are doing a good job, just believe.

I hate that cliche saying that so many people tell women in fertility treatment, "It will all be worth it in the end."  It minimizes the struggle in the midst of pain and fear and the unknown.  It's not that it will all be worth it in the end, but I can promise you this:

When you are at the end of your journey, no matter how you have gotten there, you are NO LONGER a fertility patient.  You are still so strong, you are still doing such a good job, and I am still so proud of you.  BUT, now you are a mother.

Know in your heart that this sad label you have given yourself and this suit of armor you have created to push through this war zone will all fall away and none of it will matter and you will only think of yourself as a mother.  I promise.

And when you are ready, you can tell another woman, "You're doing such a a good job.  I'm so proud of you.  You're so strong."

She will need you.   

  

Life-Changing

"There are moments that the words don't reach.  There is a grace too powerful to name.  We push away what we can never understand.  We push away the unimaginable." -Hamilton, "It's Quiet Uptown"

A few weeks ago, Jeremiah took me to see the oh-so-hyped-up and well-loved musical, Hamilton.  Since last November I have been listening to the soundtrack on my commute, while cleaning my house, or cooking dinner.  I knew all of the songs, a lot of the words, and the premise of the storyline.  Throughout the entire show, I probably had a goofy smile on my face  as I was so enraptured by the live performance of the music I had come to know and love these past months.  However, as the actors took their final bow, tears streamed down my face.

I know that I was moved by the plot, the courage and intelligence of our forefathers, the forgiveness and grace of Hamilton's wife, and tragedy of loss of love and life that was also an underlying theme of the musical.  However, my tears also fell because of the sheer awe I felt of the talent and creativity that exists in our world, that brings us such beauty, opens our minds, and moves us to the point of overwhelming emotion.  I cried for the experience of the performance and knew that witnessing such talent, on so many levels, was life-changing.

So many more experiences, on a deeper or more substantial level have changed my life, in joyful and painful ways.

As a young child, having my brother and sister enter our family made me a big sister for life.  This is a blessing and a title I carry proudly.  I am the older sister of two people who I adore and am immensely proud of.  They are siblings and best friends.

Moving towns and making new friendships twice broadened my little world and expanded my circle of friends.  My life was made richer by these varied living experiences.  I have been lucky enough to live in my beloved city of Chicago as a child and an adult, the North Shore also as a child and adult, and the northern suburb of Wauconda.  These are three very different, but very special places to me as I assimilate to all three, and feel at home in each environment.  

I grew up knowing and loving the Lord, but as an adolescent, a devoted friend invited me to his father's church.  He picked me up in his family's minivan every Sunday morning and we sat in the front row while his father taught me on a deeper level than my Catholic upbringing had about Jesus.  I avidly took notes and sang my heart out to non-denominational Christian songs.  I joined the youth group and went on mission trips.  My high school friend, by making the effort to welcome me into his family's church, helped my life to change by bringing me closer and into a mature relationship with God.

I would be remiss to not mention the life-changing experience of living and studying in another country for a semester my junior year in college.  How could I not be changed after spending Valentine's Day in Paris, St. Patrick's day in Dublin, and Easter Sunday in Rome?  I had my luggage stolen from a British train, ran along the ocean shores of Wales, hiked in the Swiss Alps, spent hours in the museums of Prague, fell in love with London, and spent an entire day is reverent silence as I toured the concentration camp of Auschwitz.  While I probably put my poor father on the verge of a heart attack with each e-mail home detailing my European adventures, I was blessed to be supported through such an eye-opening, soul enriching experience and I am forever grateful.

On a chilly November night in 2005, I knew that my life and heart were forever changed when a tall and handsome younger brother of one of my best girlfriends walked into Joe's Bar on Weed Street, bought me way too many rounds of my favorite cocktail, and danced with me all night to my favorite country songs played by the cover band.  We were engaged within a year and a half and married seven months later on a snowy day in December.  Jeremiah loves laughter, has an unwavering moral compass, is ridiculously kind, and fiercely loyal.  I love what Jeremiah stands for.  Having a spouse is life-changing, having a spouse like that is life-enhancing.

I was fundamentally changed as a woman when I became a fertility patient.  Every needle, pill, check-up, blood draw, painful procedure, disappointing phone call from my nurse, uncomfortable side-effect, my two D&C's, blighted ovum-miscarriage-biochemical pregnancies broke my heart a little bit.  These experiences also taught me most of what I now know about perseverance, and faith in God's timing.  Becoming a fertility patient sure as hell made me tough.

My life was changed forever the Sunday morning that my father rang my doorbell, sat across the breakfast table, reached for my hand, and told me that my beautiful little brother had gone to be with the Lord.  There is literally not one, single hour that I do not think of Matt, how much I love and miss him, and how different life would be if he were still here with us.  I miss him with a consistency that might never fade.  Matt changed my life for the good when he was born, and his absence created an ever-present longing.

I've been changed by education, hobbies, experiences, travel, music, and interactions with others.  I've been altered by love; love lost and love that still remains.  I've made mistakes that have changed my heart and soul with consequences that I never deemed possible in the moment.  However, I stand by the age-old belief that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.  I also believe that every mistake, every misstep, every falter in our character creates deeper and more beautiful souls.  Those mistakes must be embraced and carried with us not as scars, but as increased wisdom.

Yesterday morning, I was awakened not by the rain pounding on my roof, but by the slight but sweet little kicks and punches of our baby boy inside of me, letting me know that he is there.  I love feeling him move, wondering what body part it is that I am feeling, picturing his little body and how he is growing every day, stronger and stronger, so much that I feel him on a consistent basis.  I think of him, and who this little person will be.  As of right now, he seems like he might love dancing, soccer, or even boxing based on his movement.  My greatest hope is that he is kind, loves Jesus, and knows how much his father and I prayed and wished for him.

In that moment, I realized that of all the life-changing moments and experiences, becoming a mom and nurturing this little life will be my most profound and is my greatest gift.  My life will be changed forever when I become a mother.  Yes, I will forever be Matt and Colleen's big sister, a Chicago girl at heart, a U of I and DePaul graduate, Jeremiah's wife, a lover of travel and music and tennis and friends and family, an educator, and all of the other identities I carry based on my experiences.  However, I am adding a new name and a new title to that list and it will take precedence over all else besides "follower of God".

I know that God orchestrates our life events.  The painful, wonderful, and life altering are part of his divine plan, shaping us for who we are meant to be.  That is comforting to me as I look back on the past three decades.  I am confident that every life-changing event was really a stepping stone taking me to where I am now, to where I am meant to go, and that so many of those moments were creating me to be the mother I am meant to be.

Of all my life-changing experiences, becoming a mother is the one that I really cannot imagine or have any expectations of, except that I will feel extreme love.  I knew the songs of Hamilton ahead of time, I packed a suitcase and had big dreams for a semester in another country, played with my baby dolls in preparation for becoming a big sister, and did the required pre-marital counseling required of becoming a wife.  All of our birth classes, nursery prep, baby showers, and lovingly bestowed advice cannot prepare for me for what I will feel when I first see our son's face.

I'm OK with that.  I prayed for this little boy for a VERY long time.  I know that the way he changes my life will be inexplicably beautiful, that God has it figured out, and that this little miracle baby will amaze me a million times more that Hamilton ever could.

I'm ready for the change.

Hamilton

April 11, 2017

The Year of the Unbelievable

*Note: I have not written in a long time....the age old advice, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all," ran through my head every time I considered writing.  While I have tried to weave hope through even some of my most challenging entries, I felt a strong pull to not write again until I had good news to share....and so now....my hiatus is broken....

In the dark and early morning hours of Thursday, November 3rd, I drove west on I-90, headed towards my doctor's office in Shaumburg.  As I listened to the radio announcers excitedly replay the events of the evening before, I blearily tried to keep my attention on the road.  I adjusted the radio volume, put my hands at 10 and 2, and looked up to see a caravan of police cars with flashing lights, and big black tour buses with the windows tinted drive past me headed east.  The radio confirmed my suspicions, the World Champion Chicago Cubs had recently landed at O'Hare and were headed to Wrigleyville.  I had driven right past them.

The night before, surrounded by some of our nearest and dearest, at a friend's condo in the city, Jeremiah and I watched the nail-biting, stress-inducing, disbelief-shattering Game 7 of the World Series.  As the Cubs secured the final out, my husband and I turned to one another and almost simultaneously said very simply, "Believe."  That night was unbelievable.

That morning that I drove past the Cubs' caravan, I arrived at my doctor's office, had my blood drawn for the one millionth (it felt like) time, and hours later received the phone call with instructions and the "A-OK" to move forward with our embryo transfer.

This transfer would be our second embryo transfer from our egg donor after eight stimulated cycles in attempts at IUI's and IVF with my own eggs, and three trial cycles to prepare for IVF.  It was my thirteenth cycle overall in three years.  However, this one felt different.  This one felt unbelievable.

One week after the Cubs won the World Series, I once again found myself driving to the doctor's office in the dark and early morning hours.  This time, I was bundled up, excited, nervous, and accompanied by Jeremiah.  Also this time, the radio announcers had a much different tone as it was Wednesday, November 9th and Donald Trump had just won the presidential election.  As we flipped between newscasts, this morning also had the feel of something unbelievable occurring, albeit also frightening.

The unbelievable was happening repeatedly in our world, in happy AND unsettling ways.  Did I dare hope that on a much more personal level, our miracle, our unbelievable was soon to come?

Dr. Miller transferred two beautiful and perfect little embryos that cold, November morning.  Jeremiah held my hand the entire time and when we were left alone in the operating room to rest, we prayed.  Then we searched YouTube videos of the Cubs and World Series highlights.

On one last cold and dark November morning, a week and a half after our transfer, I awoke and knew that I could not wait the two extra days for my doctor's blood pregnancy test.  I took a home test, looked down to see the clear blue "+" sign and fell to my knees.  Of the dozens of tests I have taken over the years, this was my first positive.  It was my first positive EVER.

This was my best unbelievable.

The journey was not over, and we had many weeks to go until my anxious and fearful heart felt safe to celebrate.  However, I will say with all sincerity that hearing our baby's heartbeat for the first time, watching him or her kick a little leg, or even the first time I threw up in a garbage can were even more wonderful than I ever imagined those moments to be.

In the years to come, I will look back on the final weeks of 2016 and have memories of a full and happy Thanksgiving table, a country in political turmoil, putting up Christmas decorations while fighting bouts of nausea, listening to Hamilton on repeat, wearing Cubs paraphernalia and crying over highlight videos, snowstorms and record cold, holding a big a beautiful secret, and re-learning something that my fragile and broken heart had forgotten:

God does answer prayers and the unbelievable will happen.  We will see miracles.

When I was only eight weeks pregnant, on what would have been my brother's 31st birthday, my mom and dad and I drove to the cemetery.  At Matt's marker, we left a little Christmas tree with a Cub's World Series ornament hung on it.  I also left a card with an ultrasound picture of the baby tucked underneath the stand of the tree.  Uncle Matt knew he was an uncle before I knew I was pregnant, but I had such an overwhelming urge to tell him myself, in the only way I could think to do so.

If you had told me three years ago, when I began  my journey with infertility that I would not be pregnant until 2016, and that my beautiful brother would not be here to hold his first niece of nephew, I would have never believed it.  That moment felt so incredibly unbelievable to me, that I honestly look back on it now and it does not feel like it has happened in my life.

The cemetery on December 19th, 2016 is a reminder of the simple truth that the unbelievable will happen in beautiful AND heartbreaking ways.  We will see them intertwine, they show us God's hand, and remind us to surrender control.

It is unbelievable to me still, that Matt is in Heaven.  Honestly though, that is where he is the safest.

It is unbelievable to me that it took me three years and thirteen cycles to become pregnant.  Honestly though, this is how it is the sweetest.  

I know that 2016 was tumultuous for many.  I know the pain of those around me suffering with illness, death, infertility, fear, and anxiety.

What I do hope to convey, is my very strong (and tearful as I write it) urging to remind, hope, and encourage those in the midst of the heartbreaking unbelievable that the miraculous and joyful unbelievable will come again.  Jeremiah and I are living proof.

Soul Space

Moraine Beach, Highland Park - May 2016

I am obsessed with Lake Michigan.  When I say obsessed, I mean that I absolutely love it, it is my happy place, it is where I find joy and peace and God all at the same time.  It is probably the first place I ever swam, as my mom and I enjoyed many afternoons on Montrose beach while I was still an only child.  When my brother and sister came along, we spent entire days at Rosewood beach in Highland Park.  We built sand castles, jumped in waves, searched tirelessly for beach glass, and ate sandy peanut butter and jelly while the sun burnt our shoulders.  My husband and I bought our fixer-upper in Wilmette for many reasons, but in all honesty I can say that a top priority was our proximity to the lake.  I had to be close to my soul space.

I am not a fair-weather Lake Michigan fan.  I run with my dog through the snow and slush of January to stand on the icy shores and contemplate the contrast between its foreboding presence of winter to its warm and welcome beckoning of July.  I see God's majesty in that juxtaposition.  I swim just as happily in the icy, still waters of June as I do in the warm wavy ones of August.  I have stripped and jumped in after a hot run in May when the water temperature feels like it will make your heart stop, and walked along the shores on a cold Thanksgiving morning with my husband; what better place to contemplate gratitude than in a place of absolute beauty in nature?

On the shores of Lake Michigan, I've sat in beach chairs for hours with my mom and sister or girlfriends and discussed life, and love, and laughed.  I've read books and magazines, viewed countless fireworks displays, drank glasses of wine and vodka cocktails from water bottles, and maybe even danced a little.

I've stood and gazed at the waters and prayed.  I've prayed for the loves in my life, for myself, for hope, peace, healing, understanding, for babies and for miraculous healing from drug addiction for my beautiful brother who broke my heart by succumbing to its power and leaving me.

Another summer is here and for the first time this week, I went alone with my chair, my lunch, my books, and my SPF 30 and 50 as I am getting very serious about protecting my 35-year-old skin, a little too little and a little too late.

A very dear girlfriend lent a book to me that I can only describe as a collection of a woman's musings of her heart and soul.  Each chapter is a new thought based on an experience she has had.  As she and I have so much in common, even though she is a stranger, I am connected to her and the words that she artfully shares.  As I started a chapter titled "What Could Have Been" I knew I was going to be moved.  The chapter spoke about the due date of a miscarried baby, and a woman who cried a little bit at every wedding she attended as her sister had died and the dancing reminded her that she would never celebrate with her best friend again.

This author and I, we connect.  

Tears literally poured out from under my sunglasses.  As an avid reader, I can say with absolute certainty that no book has made me cry since I was 11 years old and read Where the Red Fern Grows (about the little boy and his hunting dogs who die saving his life).  Today, I cried again because of the words an author so eloquently compiled.  I was touched, validated, connected, and so very thankful to my girlfriend for sharing this book with me all at one time.

I pulled myself together, stood from my beach chair, and walked down to the water to compose myself and feel the cool waters soothe my hot feet and emotional soul.  A sweet little toddler crossed my path.  He was wearing a Superman t-shirt, had bright blond hair, blue eyes, and was irresistibly chubby.  It cut to my heart as he looked so much like my beautiful and Heaven-sent little brother did as a baby, and also because I so want to be a mom to a son.  Part of me is so drawn to having a son as I desperately wish for my family to have the presence of a young child who reminds us of my brother, and also because I know the bond between a mother and son is indescribable. The desire is multi-faceted.

I could have looked at today's time at the lake with sadness.  I could have wished for the past when Matt was still with us, or longed for a future when I am there with my own children, particularly a little boy who looked like my path-crossing toddler.  I didn't feel that way today.  I felt peaceful in knowing that today, this is where God wants me to be.  Every day that goes by is another day of learning to live with the loss of one of the most important people in my life, and every day that passes is another day closer to a time when I will become a mother.

I've learned a lot in these last few months about myself, about time, about God's plan, and about the heartbreak that comes for wishing for something that isn't meant to be.

If God agrees with the desires of my heart, it will happen.  If it is not in His plan, I cannot force it. 

I could not force Matt to get better, because God knew that he was safer in Heaven than he was with me.  I'm pretty damn sure God wants me to be a mom as I'm confident I would be really good at it, if not slightly overbearing due to my years of wishing and praying for as child so fervently.  I do however, have to be patient and cannot force the process.  I have to see how He wants that desire to take shape.

I read a quote the other day on (my favorite) Pinterest.  It said:

You have to find that place that brings out the human in you. The soul in you.  The love in you........

I am in that place now.  Physically and superficially, my lake brings out the soul, human, and love in me.  Emotionally and with depth, life's experiences brought me to that place...

The truth about grief, a broken heart, about pain is that you never "get over" the experience.  It changes you fundamentally and you live with it as a part of who you are, as a part of your soul, what makes you human, and what inspires you to continue to love.

Once again, my time at the lake was well spent.  Lake Michigan, a lovingly shared book, and a toddler stranger affirmed that right where I am is where I am meant to be, my human place, my soul space, my place of love.

A Little Bit of Miracle

Miracle: (noun) a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency.

In "googling" the word miracle, this is the definition I found.  I agree with the given descriptor, but it is missing a disclaimer: 

*Miracles do not always end the way we had hoped for... 

Throughout my journey to become pregnant, I have prayed fervently and tirelessly for a miracle.  On March 2,  I was granted that miracle.  On April 1, I lost it.  

A positive pregnancy test was a miracle in itself for me.  What happened between the dates of February 22 and April 1 were what I believe to be a true miracle.  Unfortunately, my miracle wasn't permanent.

February 22: First HCG blood test after embryo transfer, positive result

February 24 (my birthday): Second HCG blood test, levels dropped, nurses informed us it was not a viable pregnancy, stopped all medication, began grieving process

March 2: follow up HCG blood test, HCG numbers inexplicably rose, nurses told me this was not a good phenomenon and to not get my hopes up, worried there was something seriously wrong with my body

March 4: follow up HCG blood test resulted in numbers appropriately doubled, gestational sac detected on the ultrasound, nurses and doctors shocked and in disbelief 

*felt we were witnessing our miracle, Jer brought home flowers and a balloon, I tried to breathe through shock  

March 5-March 14: numbers rise and gestational sac continues to grow, concerns over not enough growth regularly voiced by doctor and nurses, fear sets in, multiple appointments, countless hours of worry and prayer

On March 15th, Jeremiah and I walked into the doctor's office for another HCG blood test and ultrasound.  We knew this was a pivotal day, that if the sac had not produced a yolk or fetal pole, the pregnancy was not going to continue.  In the ultrasound room, Jeremiah had to hold me up as I was so nervous I fell while getting undressed for my exam.  He held my hand while the doctor and nurse peered intently at the ultrasound machine.  I watched their faces for any sign of hope.  I knew by their furrowed brows and murmuring that they were not seeing what they were looking for.  

My doctor walked away from the machine.

"It's empty.  Shit," I heard him say.

You know your doctor is on your team when he swears at your undesirable results.  

My heart sunk, my blood froze, I went numb.  I was in shock yet again.  The weeks behind me had been filled with highs and lows, shock and disbelief, joy, hope, and fear.  It was over.  The D&C had to be scheduled.  

In an effort to not ruin our upcoming vacation, we scheduled the procedure for the week after we came home.  Because of this decision, I had to stay on my shots and medication so that I did not miscarry while away from my doctor's care.  As I look back on it now, there was a part of me that still held onto hope that growth would occur while we were on our vacation and the miracle would continue.  It was unrealistic, but my understanding is that is the magic of miracles.  

On the day of my pre-operative blood work and ultrasound, I went by myself.  I sat on the exam table and waited for what felt like hours to see the doctor.  When he came in, he was done in two minutes.  He saw my collapsed gestational sac right away.  It was a flat blob.  My beautiful little miracle, my hope, my baby, was a flat black blob inside of my belly.  It hadn't grown.  It wasn't safe inside of me, it wasn't the miracle I had wanted it to be.  

Three days later, on April 1, I had my D&C.  I cried from the minute we got to the hospital, until eight hours later when they brought me ginger ale and cookies.  At one point, a nurse asked me if she should get a chaplain to pray with me, as I was in such a state.  Nothing could have stopped the tears that day.  

It is now several days past the D&C.  I was able to stop taking the medication that was keeping me pregnant, making me feel pregnant.  My butt is healing from where I was putting injections for 9 weeks.  My breasts stopped aching, I'm no longer nauseous, I can keep my eyes open long enough to finish a TV show in the evening, and I don't feel short tempered and annoyed at everything I encounter, not excluding my sweet golden retriever.  

When I think of a way to weave a thread of hope, an iota of strength, a lesson of faith through this experience, I can only come up with these words:

I still believe that miracles happen every day.  I also still believe in happy endings.  I know that even the smallest of miracles, in whatever shape or form they are given to us, are God's reminder that He is leading us to our happy ending. 

Sometimes I think my heart can't take any more loss.  In these last three years, I have lost more than I ever imagined I could endure.  I've had my heart broken more than I thought possible.  Sometimes, it is so broken that it physically aches in my chest.  In spite of these losses and heartbreak, I refuse to lose myself.

The core of my being has always held onto faith, hope, and love.  Having that make up in my soul means that I believe in miracles, I believe in happy endings.  I believe in the power of prayer.

Maybe God is allowing for another element to be added to my core: bad ass.  

Bad ass girls don't give up on miracles and happy endings.  We keep praying.  
    
*When I was praying for my pregnancy, I promised God that I would tell others about the miracle He gave us.  I promised that I would use this experience to share hope.  Lord...it is shared.

**Please pray for me, because the pain is excruciating, because I believe that God will hear your prayer, because I want to become a mom more than anything, because it is time for me to call in the troops...

Words to an Addict

In the dark and early hours of this morning, I awoke suddenly and with a gasp of breath.  I knew I had experienced something special, and in the dreamlike and foggy state of the first seconds of consciousness I could not remember what it was.

It quickly came to me and my mind raced to recall each and every detail.  It was so powerful and intense that I wanted to experience it again.  If only I could fall asleep and continue the moment, I would have.

Two years and two months since my brother's death, he will occasionally appear to me in a dream.  It is so rare, and so powerful, that it often sets me back in my grief.  Seeing his blue eyes and hearing his voice so vividly remind me of what is missing from my life; my little brother, my friend.

In the dream, Matt had never died.  He had faked his death and was still with us.  I lost my temper, pounded on his chest, and called him a bad person repeatedly.  He wasn't fazed by my anger and laughed and teased me until I calmed down.  This was a technique that he had always been so skilled at...one that probably made his girlfriends even crazier than it made his sisters.  He charmed his way out of catastrophe, countless times.

Matt could not charm his way out of the catastrophe of heroin, because he was an addict.  It was the one dangerous, crazy, mind-altering act that he could not twinkle his blue eyes at, joke into friendship, wrap in his arms and love, or grip in his hands and fix.

He didn't fake his death, and he isn't still with us.  The dream was just a dream.

In other dreams that I have had of Matt, there has been symbolism, metaphors, and sometimes even a little inspiration from my baby brother.  I desperately searched for some meaning in this particular dream, something that he or God wanted to tell me.  I simply could not come up with anything.  Instead, my mind began to focus on the meaning, severity, and pull of addiction.

I know what it feels like to come home from a long night of parent-teacher conferences and pour a glass of red wine.  I understand the way the alcohol almost instantly calms shaken nerves and slows a racing mind.  I know how it feels to do a kickboxing class, punch a little too hard, and wake up the next morning knowing that the pain of the pulled muscle will take my breath away.  I am thankful for the way a Vicodin will ease that intensity and allow me to breathe through the initial trauma.  I've been put under anesthesia several times for my fertility procedures.  I know how one little needle being inserted into my hand can put me to sleep instantly so that I do not feel the physical pain of the procedure, despite the emotional pain it causes me.

I understand the desire to be numb, or high, or happy, or to simply be put to sleep.  It is depressingly honest to say that losing rational thought sometimes sounds beautiful.  That is also my limited understanding of the power of addiction.

I understand the peace that comes from a mind numbed by a substance when one is in the midst of pain.  However, I also have seen the fear that comes from a loss of control, the surrender to something that will take a 27-year-old man from his family and friends.  There is no peace in that.

There is no peace in a mind so altered that it has lost control.  I understand, but I am angry.

And then I walked away from this post for several days...

...and went to the Daley Center in Chicago for jury duty.  There, a homeless woman sat with her coffee cups, shopping cart, lottery tickets, and her sun worn face looked around expectantly for a friend as she quietly mumbled to herself.  She was so clearly intoxicated on that cold Wednesday morning...

...and had tea with my friend Nancy who confided in me about her stepson and his struggle with addiction to alcohol, his homelessness, and the destruction that he is bringing on his family...

...and finally, I sat at my favorite bar on a Thursday night with Jeremiah and we split a burger and quesadillas.  I had my glass of red wine by the fire with the last sets of white twinkle lights still out and shining happily from a corner Christmas tree.  The red wine instantly calmed my shaken nerves and slowed my racing mind...

...and I told Jeremiah about the blog post that I had started about addiction on the previous Sunday that I could not finish.  We talked about the homeless woman at the Daley Center, and my friend's stepson.  We talked about how seeing the young lawyers at jury duty had been difficult for me as I felt the devastation that Matt was not with them, practicing law, loving his chosen profession that he had wanted so badly and worked so hard to earn.  We talked about how addiction had ruined all of his hopes and dreams.

Jeremiah reminded me of the story of the Pharisees.  Over my glass of red wine and his beer, he retold the story of the men who wanted to condemn.  Jesus wrote in the dirt and then told the men standing there whoever was without sin to cast the first stone.  The oldest men walked away first as they knew that they had committed the most sins.  The middle aged men stepped away next, and the youngest last.

Nobody knows what Jesus wrote in the sand when he told the men to throw stones.  What we do know is that no one was so flawless that they were able to cast the first stone.

John 8:7 says:

When they kept questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, "Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw the stone at her."  

We all have sin.  Whether we shot heroin, lied, cheated, intentionally hurt, or doubted it is all dark to God.  The greatest gift of all that He gave us is His forgiveness, but also the ability to forgive others.

The sin in our lives, it can break the hearts of those around us.  Matt's addiction broke my heart, over and over.  He didn't do it on purpose, but it hurt me every day that he was sick.  Addiction will do that to the people who surround the addict; it will break their hearts.  

I let go of the anger and replace it with understanding.  Understanding brings peace.  

We are a a work in progress, constantly needing to redeem ourselves, smooth our flaws, and ask for forgiveness.  We have to hold love at a higher esteem than anger, as withholding forgiveness can be as toxic as an addiction to heroin.

Heroin was toxic and powerful, but LOVE is stronger.  My love for Matt remains and the power of the drug died when Matt met Jesus in Heaven.

I will meet him there as well.  We will have forgiveness, a warm hug, and I will see long lost twinkling blue eyes.  In Heaven, there will be no need for a glass of red wine to calm my shaken nerves or slow my racing mind.