An Open Letter To My Mom

Hi Mom,

I've been thinking a lot about you again.

It's funny how grief runs in seasons like that. At first, losing you was so overwhelming I could barely breathe. Your loss turned me inside out and nothing felt the same. Then, time marched on and, as it did, the sharp edges of grief fell off. A new normal arose from within.

Now...now there are entire weeks that go by where I don't think about what life would be like if you were here. My life is full of joy, and peace, and hope for the future. I'm the happiest I've ever been. I immerse myself in my days and live them for what they are, because that's really all any of us can do. And I know that you'd want me to do this very thing; I know that your greatest hope for me would be this very life that I am living.

But then there are the moments when something makes me stop and remember. Remember you. Remember your smile and your voice and your laugh. Remember how much I have lost by not having you here to see this life as it unfolds miraculously in front of me.

I'm not sure why I've had more of those moments lately. Perhaps it's because we had to say good-bye to your sister a couple weeks ago. Although I didn't know her well when I was a child, she tried so hard to establish a relationship with me as a grown-up. She loved to read my blog, and she encouraged me. Sometimes she shared stories about you, or about me when I was young. I didn't even realize it then, but it was nice to have that piece of you, that connection to you, through her. And now that is gone, too.

Or perhaps it's because my baby girl is growing up. She's not a baby anymore, she's a toddler, and she is marvelous. Sometimes I see you cross over her face, like a shadow...and then it's gone. Right now, she's at the very age I was when you took it upon yourself to write down the things that I was doing that made you smile. Every once in a while, I pull out that yellow lined paper where memories of my childhood are documented in your careful teacher's penmenship, and I smile along with you as I imagine myself doing those things. Then I see my baby girl do them, and suddenly I am you, smiling at her, like you were smiling at me. And although those moments help me remember that I am connected to you through her, I still feel your loss most profoundly inside of them.

So today, I was thinking about all the things I'd do if you were here with me.

First, of course, I'd grab you by the hand and introduce you to my babies. I'd tell you all about Joseph and how he's learning to read and write and how amazed and thrilled I am to be able to share our love of the written word with him. And then I'd let you hold my baby girl, and we'd marvel together in the memories of me as we talked about her.

Then we'd head to the kitchen where you'd insist on making me my favorite dinner, just like you always used to do when I came home to visit. Nobody makes me that dinner anymore, but even if someone did, even if the ingredients were measured carefully and the food was prepared as precisely as it had been by you, even then it wouldn't be the same, because the dinner was never really about the food. It was about the love with which the food was made. And I'd tell you how, in your absence, I've realized that the unconditional love that flows from a mother to her daughter can simply not be replaced. And when I lost that source of love, I suddenly felt very alone. And sometimes I still do.

After dinner, we'd grab a cup of coffee and I'd ask you how you survived when Kate and I were young. I'd tell you that motherhood is way harder than I ever imagined it to be. I'd tell you how much I've learned about myself, and how many mistakes I have made...and how much I regret them. I'd tell you that I'm sorry for not appreciating you, for not recognizing all the sacrifices you made for me, for not understanding how lucky I was to have you in my life. For taking you for granted.

After a while, we'd have to look for your cup of coffee, which you'd have lost somewhere along the way when you went to warm it up. We'd find it, still in the microwave, needing to be warmed up yet again. I'd log you onto facebook and show you around. You'd love it, but it would take quite a while for you to figure out how to make it work. We'd talk about our love of books and bemoan the likelihood that my grandchildren will probably never know the pleasure that comes from cracking open a new book and feeling the weight of that book in their hands as they read. We'd go shopping together and you'd find a way to convince me that if *you* bought me something new to wear, I wouldn't be breaking my current promise to not buy new clothes, especially if you used some of your magic $20s to pay for them. And then we'd play a game of Scrabble.

And I'd win.

I still remember the day the world took

you back & there was never enough time to thank

you for the thousand scattered moments

you left behind to watch us while we slept.

-Brian Andreas, Thousand Moments

Way Back When: The Journey Through Infertility

Although I haven’t been blogging for long, I have always loved writing. One of the reasons I wanted to start this blog was to have a place to collect the things I write about, past, present, and future. With that in mind, I’m going to share some of the essays that I wrote before I started this blog.

This one is about infertility and loss. Some people may think it’s too personal of an essay to share, but I would quietly disagree. Too many people are affected by infertility, pregnancy loss, and just loss in general. And yet we talk about it too little.

I wrote this essay way back in 2004, right after I lost my mom and less than a year before we adopted Joseph. Although it was not a hard decision for us to choose to adopt (I had always dreamed of adopting at least one of my children and Anders and both thought it silly to waste time and emotional energy on treatment for infertility when there were so many children who needed homes), it *was* extraordinarily hard to come to terms with the fact that I might not also get to carry and give birth to a child.

I know now that things unfolded exactly as they were meant to. I wouldn’t change a thing, even if it meant experiencing every single broken heart all over again. Without a doubt, this is the family I was meant to have and it brings tears to my eyes to envision a world without my Joseph in it. And yet. The grief I experienced way back then was real, and grueling, and pervasive. To ignore or deny that would be to discredit the pain of all those who continue to struggle on their journey to parenthood. With that in mind, here’s what I had to say back then:

I have read the impact of infertility can be compared to losing a loved one. When I first read this, I thought it was a hyperbole; that infertility could never bring as much pain as losing someone you love with all your heart. I was wrong. I know, because in the past year, I lost my 53 year old mom to cancer and, in the same year, have realized that my dreams of conceiving a child will likely never be realized.

To those who have never experienced the emotions of infertility, it may be hard to see the comparison. It became crystal clear to me one night as I was sitting at a football game, surrounded by a new mom and an expectant mom. The game was spent reveling in the miracle of childbirth, chatting about where the best place to give birth might be, comparing the best buys for strollers and baby gates.

To many, this may not seem like a hard situation. For me, it was tough.

I was at the beginning of a new treatment cycle, and was still working through the fact that my last attempt to conceive a child, like the thirty before it, had not worked. With only one treatment cycle to go before we officially stopped trying to conceive, I was in mourning. Mourning for the little baby that I had always dreamed of growing inside me. Mourning for the infant that would have had my husband's eyes and my nose. Mourning the feeling of a tiny newborn, one that I had helped create, sleeping in my arms.

If it is still hard to imagine how difficult this situation might be, maybe I can compare it to losing my mom. Except, instead of the huge outpouring of love and support I got when I lost my mom, imagine if nobody acknowledged her death. Imagine that every day was Mother's Day, and everywhere I turned, someone was talking about what he was going to buy his mom. Imagine that I was sitting at that football game, a few days after my mom died, and my two friends spent the entire game talking about their moms; what they were going to do with their moms the next day, how much joy their moms brought to their life, how they couldn't imagine their lives without their moms. Tough situation, right? That's what infertility is like.

When I lost my mom, I couldn't imagine how life could go on. I had so many dreams for our future together. My mom taught me everything I know about life, and I needed her desperately for all I had yet to learn. As time passes, I am slowly learning that life does go on; that there is happiness here. It's not a bad life...it’s just a different one than I had imagined.

Grieving a loved one is a process of sorting through all your hopes for the future, and slowly untangling that person from those dreams. In the same way, experiencing infertility requires a slow release of the dreams that you had of conceiving, carrying, and giving birth to a child. It doesn't mean you can't have a child. It just means that you may have to untangle your hopes of conceiving from your dreams of being a parent.

As my husband and I let go of our plans to conceive a child, we are pulled in the direction of adoption. I can't help but feel that my son or daughter is out there, waiting patiently for us to help him or her find the way home.

Infertility *is* losing someone you love. I have loved my unborn biological child for as long as I can remember. It is heart-breaking that I will never get to meet her. But mourning also requires moving past the "should be" and learning to live in "what is". Should I get to have my mom as my guide for many more years to come? Yes. Should she have gotten to meet her grandchildren? Absolutely. Should I be able to experience the wonder of a child growing inside of me? You bet. But there is no "should be". Grieving is a process of letting go of the "should bes" to make room for what is.

There are good things here, too. I am a much stronger person than I was a year ago. I have learned the value of my amazing husband, my beautiful friends, and my supportive family. I see with amazing clarity how precious life truly is. I have very little fear left, for the things I feared the most are coming true, and I am still standing. My compassion for those who are suffering has deepened, and I am no longer afraid to comfort them. I have patience for the small trials we go through each day, because I know how hard life can be. I can see God's fingerprints everywhere. I have met many angels in my journey, most them disguised as people here on earth. I am grateful for the truths that have been revealed to me.


Yet, through it all, I grieve.

"There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning."

-- Louis L'Amour