I am 20 weeks into my second pregnancy, and I haven't written a word since I found out. Written words make everything so real - so permanent, so absolute. And, because I've feared that this pregnancy would not be as permanent and real as I hoped, I've feared writing about it.
But today, I realized that I just need to. I need to process the many emotions that I've felt over the last 20 weeks. Part of me is ecstatic; I'm so excited and so grateful to have a second chance at all this. But another part of me is terrified. While I recognize that there is only a 3% chance that anything could go wrong with this pregnancy, I also realize that the improbable happens every day. The improbable seemingly happens to me all the time. Even another part of me severely misses the twins. I think about my boys all the time, and as excited as I am to meet my little daughter Sophia, I wonder if I will ever stop missing my sons.
There are not many people with whom I can talk about this. So many people are ready for me to move on - to have moved on months ago. But isn't there a way to hold onto the past and still work to move forward? Can the two work together to create a life? Isn't there some kind of balance to be struck between the children I birthed and lost and the wonderful little girl who is coming?
If there is, I haven't found it, but I hope to before I meet my little girl - I can't wait to meet her. And as Jr. High as this sounds, I hope she likes me. I know that I can't seem to get enough of her.
10/22/10
Bad dreams
Lately, I've had some horrible nightmares and, while I'm sure that most who read this blog are ready for me to stop "wallowing,"I hope you will allow me to explore this last phenomenon.
A few nights ago, I dreampt(sp?) that I was in labor: same room, same robe, same people. But, after I delivered the boys, I was still in labor. I gave birth to six more dead children before I woke up terrified, hopeless and miserable. This week was...bizarre. To say the least. I fought with my own emotions, fought with my own thoughts and the fears that have seemed to strong-arm me into submission.
People keep telling me that I will have more babies, and more often than not, I want to look at them quizzically, wondering how in the world they would know that. Lately I sense that I am clawing my way through mud, pulling myself up a hill that I can't even see the top of. I feel trapped in a baby-less world and I am pushing myself to trust that God knows, that he somehow has a plan and that I have a future.
There is one person, however, who seems to have all the confidence in the world, and in the same way that my fear is compounded by my dreams, his hope is compounded by his. My best friend in the world - my husband - had a dream while I was pregnant. In it, he was laying on our living room floor playing with a baby girl: his daughter. She was healthy, whole, happy, and beautiful. And because of this dream, he believes that we will have a baby.
This whole dream thing has taught me something. Simply, there are times when we just don't have what it takes, even to stand. And in those moments, I am thankful that someone else does. And I've learned that, in times like these, the best thing I can do is hold onto to someone else's faith until mine has the chance to mend and catch up. So until I can dream safely again, I'm gonna trust my husband's dream. And then, when my dreams start to mend, maybe someone else will hold onto mine. All together, we can make a chain that links the weak with the strong, the faithless with the faithful. And we can hold each other up. And we can survive. And we can keep going.
So to those like me, hold on and trust. Do that, and we'll all make it.
A few nights ago, I dreampt(sp?) that I was in labor: same room, same robe, same people. But, after I delivered the boys, I was still in labor. I gave birth to six more dead children before I woke up terrified, hopeless and miserable. This week was...bizarre. To say the least. I fought with my own emotions, fought with my own thoughts and the fears that have seemed to strong-arm me into submission.
People keep telling me that I will have more babies, and more often than not, I want to look at them quizzically, wondering how in the world they would know that. Lately I sense that I am clawing my way through mud, pulling myself up a hill that I can't even see the top of. I feel trapped in a baby-less world and I am pushing myself to trust that God knows, that he somehow has a plan and that I have a future.
There is one person, however, who seems to have all the confidence in the world, and in the same way that my fear is compounded by my dreams, his hope is compounded by his. My best friend in the world - my husband - had a dream while I was pregnant. In it, he was laying on our living room floor playing with a baby girl: his daughter. She was healthy, whole, happy, and beautiful. And because of this dream, he believes that we will have a baby.
This whole dream thing has taught me something. Simply, there are times when we just don't have what it takes, even to stand. And in those moments, I am thankful that someone else does. And I've learned that, in times like these, the best thing I can do is hold onto to someone else's faith until mine has the chance to mend and catch up. So until I can dream safely again, I'm gonna trust my husband's dream. And then, when my dreams start to mend, maybe someone else will hold onto mine. All together, we can make a chain that links the weak with the strong, the faithless with the faithful. And we can hold each other up. And we can survive. And we can keep going.
So to those like me, hold on and trust. Do that, and we'll all make it.
10/2/10
To wonder and to wander...
Wonder and wander: these are two words that students commonly mix up. Two words with similar spellings yet two totally different meanings. Yet, as of late, I have found that these words are strangely interconnected for often, one phenomenon leads to the other.
People wonder, asking questions, seeking answers, looking for reasons that don't exist. These wonderings often lead to real and metaphorical wandering. Some wander through caverns of darkness, depression, and despair; others travel the dusty roads of questions and confusion, while still others saunter through the meadows of blind hope and light. All of the wanderings, though differently painful and unclear, can lead to similar places of restoration and deep breathing.
I do not question those who wander; I question those who don't.
How can you know faith if you have never known doubt? How can you know love if you have never known brokenhearted loneliness? The philosopher Derrida argues that the absence of something makes its presence all the more evident. In this light, does not the absence of God in some places make the presence of God all the more clear in others? It does for me; what about for you?
Perhaps I am foolish, lost in my own ignorance. But I can so clearly remember the moments of my life when I felt so empty, despised, dirty and alone that I could not do enough to convince myself of the truth of God's existence. But these moments contrast so beautifully with the times when I felt so full of his nearness that I baffled at my own moments of doubt. My life is full of both faith and doubt.
That is what makes me human; the choice to keep wandering is perhaps, what makes me divine. Not divine in the deistic sense; in no way do I claim to be a god. But there is something of God's nature that, in some small, strange and unique way, must abide in me. That piece is called tenacity. Why else -- how else -- would I keep going? How else could you?
So to all others who wander through life, plagued by the wonderings and doubt so permanently attached to our human condition, take heart. You are not alone. I wander too.
People wonder, asking questions, seeking answers, looking for reasons that don't exist. These wonderings often lead to real and metaphorical wandering. Some wander through caverns of darkness, depression, and despair; others travel the dusty roads of questions and confusion, while still others saunter through the meadows of blind hope and light. All of the wanderings, though differently painful and unclear, can lead to similar places of restoration and deep breathing.
I do not question those who wander; I question those who don't.
How can you know faith if you have never known doubt? How can you know love if you have never known brokenhearted loneliness? The philosopher Derrida argues that the absence of something makes its presence all the more evident. In this light, does not the absence of God in some places make the presence of God all the more clear in others? It does for me; what about for you?
Perhaps I am foolish, lost in my own ignorance. But I can so clearly remember the moments of my life when I felt so empty, despised, dirty and alone that I could not do enough to convince myself of the truth of God's existence. But these moments contrast so beautifully with the times when I felt so full of his nearness that I baffled at my own moments of doubt. My life is full of both faith and doubt.
That is what makes me human; the choice to keep wandering is perhaps, what makes me divine. Not divine in the deistic sense; in no way do I claim to be a god. But there is something of God's nature that, in some small, strange and unique way, must abide in me. That piece is called tenacity. Why else -- how else -- would I keep going? How else could you?
So to all others who wander through life, plagued by the wonderings and doubt so permanently attached to our human condition, take heart. You are not alone. I wander too.
10/1/10
Filter this...
I was born without a filter. What I mean by this is simple: if you want to know what I think or feel, simply ask. I will be glad to tell you. In fact, many times, you won't even have to ask; I will simply offer my perspective for you to take, leave, chew on, or spit out.
Over the years, I have worked to put a filter over my mouth, trying to say what was respectable, intelligent, not-awkward, and "Christian," but no matter the filter I temporarily applied, eventually, the truth comes out. Why? Because I see the world in a special and unique way, and although my perspective is not always correct, godly, or accurate, I am a verbal processor. The more I talk/write, the better I cope/understand.
Because of this, facebook presents a unique challenge. Facebook is an open platform for often misinterpreted data to spread itself across the pages of everybody else's lives. People can then take, leave, chew on, or spit out my thoughts, feelings and observations without even knowing what I mean. And often, without even questioning to try and figure it out. I suppose this is the nature of the beast, but I wonder if I couldn't ask for a little more grace.
For example, this morning, I posted that I often felt like I was turning into a deist. Does this mean that I don't believe in God or that I don't trust that s/he is actively involved in a relational endeavor with me? No. Not at all. What it does mean is that, while I believe in God, I often wonder where the hell s/he is.
Raised in a Christian home, I have memorized and recited chapters - even full books - of the Bible. I have studied theology, though not diligently, enough to know what is true even if I don't understand how that truth operates or what it should look like. Knowing this does not leave me without questions, doubt, and often, I admit, unbelief. That said, I have been through enough in my life to know that God is ever-present; but, I have also been through enough to wonder where God is and why things happen the way that they do.
This is not sin; it is not worthy of damnation or even condemnation. It is simple, human vulnerability in its most raw and ugly form. It is the place where my filter-less mind takes me, a place of trust and pain mixed with hope and loss.
Perhaps my profound lack of filtering is my greatest weakness, and perhaps that same lack is my greatest strength. You will never have to wonder who I am or what I am all about and, while you may not always like what you see, I will at least allow the privilege of the view. So, if my comments bother you, please accept my humble apologies. I hope you will give me the benefit of the doubt, knowing that my heart and faith, though not perfect, are true and honest. And more than that, I hope you will not drop the hammer. The hammer just makes me want to hide, and the more likely I am to hide, the more likely I am to close the curtain altogether.
But for now, the curtain remains open.
Enjoy the show!
Over the years, I have worked to put a filter over my mouth, trying to say what was respectable, intelligent, not-awkward, and "Christian," but no matter the filter I temporarily applied, eventually, the truth comes out. Why? Because I see the world in a special and unique way, and although my perspective is not always correct, godly, or accurate, I am a verbal processor. The more I talk/write, the better I cope/understand.
Because of this, facebook presents a unique challenge. Facebook is an open platform for often misinterpreted data to spread itself across the pages of everybody else's lives. People can then take, leave, chew on, or spit out my thoughts, feelings and observations without even knowing what I mean. And often, without even questioning to try and figure it out. I suppose this is the nature of the beast, but I wonder if I couldn't ask for a little more grace.
For example, this morning, I posted that I often felt like I was turning into a deist. Does this mean that I don't believe in God or that I don't trust that s/he is actively involved in a relational endeavor with me? No. Not at all. What it does mean is that, while I believe in God, I often wonder where the hell s/he is.
Raised in a Christian home, I have memorized and recited chapters - even full books - of the Bible. I have studied theology, though not diligently, enough to know what is true even if I don't understand how that truth operates or what it should look like. Knowing this does not leave me without questions, doubt, and often, I admit, unbelief. That said, I have been through enough in my life to know that God is ever-present; but, I have also been through enough to wonder where God is and why things happen the way that they do.
This is not sin; it is not worthy of damnation or even condemnation. It is simple, human vulnerability in its most raw and ugly form. It is the place where my filter-less mind takes me, a place of trust and pain mixed with hope and loss.
Perhaps my profound lack of filtering is my greatest weakness, and perhaps that same lack is my greatest strength. You will never have to wonder who I am or what I am all about and, while you may not always like what you see, I will at least allow the privilege of the view. So, if my comments bother you, please accept my humble apologies. I hope you will give me the benefit of the doubt, knowing that my heart and faith, though not perfect, are true and honest. And more than that, I hope you will not drop the hammer. The hammer just makes me want to hide, and the more likely I am to hide, the more likely I am to close the curtain altogether.
But for now, the curtain remains open.
Enjoy the show!
9/29/10
The pearl necklace
My step-dad is an amazing human being. He loves my mom, treating her with care, deference and respect and above everything, I am most grateful for that. But beyond loving my mom, he shows consistent care and love for me and my sisters too. In fact, every Christmas, he gives each of us - me, my sisters, and even my little niece - a piece of jewelry. About 4 years ago, he gave us each a pearl necklace. Mine is a beautifully thin, gold chain with a single pearl dangling from the end.
I love this necklace. I wore it in my wedding, and it was the perfect accessory for a beautiful day. And when I came home, I tucked it back in its velvet box, to be taken out for the next meaningful occasion. But lately, I seem to feel that many days are special. You see, I found out that the pearl is the June birthstone, and that realization has given my pearl necklace - and subsequently, every day - new meaning.
There is no way I could rewind the last year even if I wanted to. And quite frankly, there is no way that I would want to go through this all over again. At the same time, I don't regret getting pregnant and I don't regret having twins. Yes, I'm heartbroken at the way everything turned out and as my due date approaches, I feel that pain a little more acutely than I did before. But in it all, I can't believe that my sons were a mistake and I never want forget them. And I want to build a way to remember, a memorial of sorts.
So that is what my pearl necklace has become. It's a silent reminder that two precious, beautiful twin boys lived for as long as they did -- and they lived for a reason. So every morning that I open my eyes to the familiar ache of loss and every morning that I wake up from a dream of lost motherhood, I will put on my pearl necklace - the one that their grandpa gave me - and I will silently acknowledge that my sons lived.
I love this necklace. I wore it in my wedding, and it was the perfect accessory for a beautiful day. And when I came home, I tucked it back in its velvet box, to be taken out for the next meaningful occasion. But lately, I seem to feel that many days are special. You see, I found out that the pearl is the June birthstone, and that realization has given my pearl necklace - and subsequently, every day - new meaning.
There is no way I could rewind the last year even if I wanted to. And quite frankly, there is no way that I would want to go through this all over again. At the same time, I don't regret getting pregnant and I don't regret having twins. Yes, I'm heartbroken at the way everything turned out and as my due date approaches, I feel that pain a little more acutely than I did before. But in it all, I can't believe that my sons were a mistake and I never want forget them. And I want to build a way to remember, a memorial of sorts.
So that is what my pearl necklace has become. It's a silent reminder that two precious, beautiful twin boys lived for as long as they did -- and they lived for a reason. So every morning that I open my eyes to the familiar ache of loss and every morning that I wake up from a dream of lost motherhood, I will put on my pearl necklace - the one that their grandpa gave me - and I will silently acknowledge that my sons lived.
9/28/10
Cruel People
This is not going to be one of those upbeat, hope-filled notes that you may have grown used to. Why? Because I feel like a boat parked in the middle of the lawn.
Yesterday, I had to email an adjunct to remedy some differences between the curriculum we approved and the curriculum she is using. It wasn't that big of a deal, but it sure wasn't taken that way. She emailed me back. Her email smashed me to pieces.
This woman who knows everything that happened to us this summer raked me over the coals for not being available this summer, for not responding to emails fast enough, and for not communicating at the pace I should have.
I felt like I got punched in the gut.
This is the most pronounced moment when I felt punished for what happened to us, punished for grieving my sons, and to be honest, I didn't even know what to say. But I had to respond, so I crafted a professional and concise response, had my office mate review it and I sent it off.
She repeated the insult, in more drastic a tone.
And I felt like I got beat up. For the rest of the afternoon, I was psyching myself up to keep working as I tried to keep a smile on my face and keep from crying. I kept the pretense up all the way through my class and I swear, the students couldn't tell at all that I was miserable and trying to keep it all together. Now I'm home and I feel achy...all over. And all I want to do is weep and weep and weep.
How can people be so cruel, so heartless as to assume that I could possibly stay on top of everything WHILE I was losing my sons? I did my best; I've worked hard to pick up and move on and to be honest, I feel like I've done a good job. But now, I feel deflated and lost and hurt. So, I'm going to crawl into bed, try to sleep, and wake up tomorrow to go back to work and try again. And tomorrow, when I want to curl up in a ball and hide, I'll remember the amazing people that surround me -- the generous people who care and give and support us. Those people far outnumber the cruel ones and for those people, I am endlessly grateful.
So, until tomorrow, I sleep. Goodnight, all!
Yesterday, I had to email an adjunct to remedy some differences between the curriculum we approved and the curriculum she is using. It wasn't that big of a deal, but it sure wasn't taken that way. She emailed me back. Her email smashed me to pieces.
This woman who knows everything that happened to us this summer raked me over the coals for not being available this summer, for not responding to emails fast enough, and for not communicating at the pace I should have.
I felt like I got punched in the gut.
This is the most pronounced moment when I felt punished for what happened to us, punished for grieving my sons, and to be honest, I didn't even know what to say. But I had to respond, so I crafted a professional and concise response, had my office mate review it and I sent it off.
She repeated the insult, in more drastic a tone.
And I felt like I got beat up. For the rest of the afternoon, I was psyching myself up to keep working as I tried to keep a smile on my face and keep from crying. I kept the pretense up all the way through my class and I swear, the students couldn't tell at all that I was miserable and trying to keep it all together. Now I'm home and I feel achy...all over. And all I want to do is weep and weep and weep.
How can people be so cruel, so heartless as to assume that I could possibly stay on top of everything WHILE I was losing my sons? I did my best; I've worked hard to pick up and move on and to be honest, I feel like I've done a good job. But now, I feel deflated and lost and hurt. So, I'm going to crawl into bed, try to sleep, and wake up tomorrow to go back to work and try again. And tomorrow, when I want to curl up in a ball and hide, I'll remember the amazing people that surround me -- the generous people who care and give and support us. Those people far outnumber the cruel ones and for those people, I am endlessly grateful.
So, until tomorrow, I sleep. Goodnight, all!
9/14/10
The bill
Life has gone on and on and on. It's been almost 3 months since I lost my boys, and I miss them. I've even found myself pulling out their pictures, just to look at them and wonder what they looked like. Yesterday, a bill came for John Kraus; I paused and held my breath for just a moment. It was as if seeing his name on paper made him all the more real, all the more alive, all the more dead. And it hurt. It really hurt.
Today, I don't have much to say. I just want to write their names and feel like they lived. Isaac Kraus. John Kraus. They are my sons, and I hope they know that I love them.
Today, I don't have much to say. I just want to write their names and feel like they lived. Isaac Kraus. John Kraus. They are my sons, and I hope they know that I love them.
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