Positively Adrift

The devastation felt after learning my baby had no heartbeat is indescribable.

The image of the embryo not moving or even wiggling during the ultrasound was a complete out of body and out of moment experience. Disbelief plagued me. It didn’t feel right.

In essence, I was carrying around a dead baby inside of me for two weeks. My body didn’t know yet, and I sure as heck didn’t.

How could I believe my baby was dead when every doctor said that this pregnancy would be different. Conjoined twins were an anomaly; a rare occurrence that holds no bar for future pregnancies.

Its seems that anomalies are not on a time frame. They don’t care what you have been through.

Soon my husband and I were ushered into my doctors private office to figure out how to proceed. The logical walls I built around my brain was now being pummeled by emotional torment.

He told us I had a missed miscarriage. For whatever reason my baby died and my body has yet to realize. Literally any day now my body could naturally decide to abort.

The pain would be similar to menstrual cramps but much more painful. The emotional toll alone would bring me to my knees, so the thought of going into essentially what would be labor is honestly a burden I don’t know I could bare. My doctor felt the same and recommended I have a surgery to remove everything out of my uterus. You know, “everything” as in my baby.

We scheduled a dilation and curretage surgery, commonly known as a D&C, a week from that day. This was the road I needed to take after the trauma of my last pregnancy. Other options included waiting it out so my body could naturally abort or a pill that would tell my uterus to abort immediately.

I carried my babe for another week in wake of a surgery that would suck it right out of me. Truly horrific thought. And that week was strange, like I was watching someone else’s life through a TV screen. I had a belly bump, and I looked pregnant, but not really.

And also, nobody knew, accept my mother and my sister. We told no one else for this exact scenario that we dreaded would happen. I anticipated my mothers familiar devastated reaction that honestly brought a validating comfort, for we gave her similar news a year and a half ago.

Post-op included blood work and a Covid test. The women administering the giant q-tip swap up my sinuses asked about what surgery I was getting. She could sense my devastation. I told her I wanted my baby, and she said of course you did. I appreciate the kindness and sensitivity this woman gave to me.

Two days later I entered the hospital anxious and alone.

Join me on my path back to hope~

What can I say about life…for one thing it is precious. I don’t take creating life lightly. The thought of having children at a young age was terrifying so I took precautions, and decided in my late twenties that I was mostly(ish) ready. Every child I have are intentionally and unconditionally wanted.

But not all of my children are with me physically on this earth. That pill is challenging to swallow on days where I am ok.

My children are my world created with intent so out-living them and grieving for all that cannot be has caused me to pause. I stopped writing my feelings and thoughts, but I certainly didn’t stop feeling them. I stopped exercising. I stayed home.

Spring 2020 unearthed buried grief and depression along with a global pandemic. My girls first birthday in heaven in May was subconsciously enveloped in sadness that carried itself into the summer.

In July I decided I was ready to try again for another baby. We were excited and hesitant to see a positive pregnancy test the following month. We told no one at first, and after several weeks we told two people. After what happened with our last pregnancy we were incredibly hesitant to tell anyone. The first 12 weeks are critical, and miscarriage is more likely in that gestational period.

I took life easy (as one does in a pandemic with carried over grief from a previous traumatic pregnancy). I stayed home, looked after myself and family, played animal crossing. The kind of self care that I never allowed myself to receive before the passing of my girls.

That pregnancy test is still in my medicine cabinet. I can’t seem to throw it out.

My first doctor’s appointment at 7 weeks gestation was routine and the heartbeat was strong. We were relieved and felt true joy for the first time in awhile. Given what happened with my second pregnancy my doctor wanted to see me again at 10 weeks.

You never forget the moment when your doctor says your baby has no heartbeat.

I sat with that knowledge alone for several minutes. That moment of time lives in my periphery; always there in my mind but slightly out of my vision, yet always lingering. The devastation lodged itself in my chest and my brain just couldn’t fathom what was happening. To protect my husband I didn’t tell him what the doctor said, who spoke very low and only to me, in case he was wrong.

The vaginal ultrasound proved our very worst of fears. The baby measured 8.5 weeks instead of 10, and still no heartbeat. No movement.

And yet….

It seems as if somehow I already knew. I wanted this baby with all of my being, but I just had this feeling.

As if things were going too smoothly. Something just had to be wrong even though this time around I should have zero complications.

Decisions needed to be made quickly on how to proceed. An all too familiar approach.

The courage I built up in order to bring another life into this world was now crumbling into dust and floating away on the breeze.

And now I have to learn how to let go.

Again.

Join me on my path back to hope~

Many emotions have filtered in and out of my brain over the past few weeks in June. Writing wasn’t an outlet I could or wanted to partake in.

I had a major breakdown that I didn’t tell anyone about accept my therapist. Keeping it a secret isn’t intentional or my goal. Talking about it requires too much energy and reminiscing that I don’t care to explore.

The root of that specific breakdown was miscommunication.

I don’t feel heard by the people closest to me. My loved ones aren’t intentionally misunderstanding; these are tough times, people are stressed, we are all grieving what we’ve lost and miss, etc. I’m very empathetic and understanding and try not to take it personally.

HOWEVER. There comes a time where I need that empathy and understanding reciprocated. And I shouldn’t have to show that I need it by having a mental breakdown.

Staying home has also become a pressure cooker for the grief I’ve shouldered, as well as for my husband. We are a couple, but we are also two separate individuals with separate coping mechanisms (or lack thereof).

Our grief is still new and fresh, and I’m STILL learning what that grief looks like for myself and for my husband.

This insatiable need to be a productive member of society has shadowed my real priorities as well, which should be taking care of my family first and my own health.

I am not working right now. This is very strange for me; its drilled into my brain that I don’t have value if I’m not working outside the home. This is a societal norm that’s been pushed on me, and not truly how I feel about my worth.

But grief has forced me to slow down and reevaluate my priorities. The pandemic on the other hand has officially slowed me down to a complete stop, like I’ve never felt in my life.

So what I’m getting at is that there are numerous battles dooking it out in my head.

I’m 33 years old and I’m still trying to figure out “what I want to do for the rest of my life” shpeal that you hear in high school.

I’ve learned from watching my mother as a child that time is the most valuable commodity that CANNOT be replaced.

I’m learning to be okay with not working, especially for reasons that are completely out of my control.

I’m learning what my grief looks like and how it looks from my husband’s perspective. Allowing him grace and as much time as he needs to heal. The same goes for myself.

I’m learning to separate societal “norms” and expectations from my own, and discovering what I really want out of this life.

And I’m learning that I don’t owe anyone an explanation for the things that I do, for the choices I’ve made.

Join me on my path back to hope if you like, but I might just take a hiatus from journaling my thoughts. Its emotionally exhausting up in here.

My twins have been on my mind a lot lately.

In an effort to not shut down or escape uncomfortable feelings, my heart is pretty wide open.

Even if I didn’t have any pictures, which are difficult to look at sometimes, my physical scar still holds tenderness.

The sensation in my scar and the skin surrounding comes on randomly. Thankfully, its nowhere near how sensitive it used to be though. Its an odd combination of complete numbness and hyper sensitivity.

So that feeling is a constant reminder of what I went through with my girls. How I fought for them. How I desperately wanted them.

Getting triggered, and just feeling sad, by all the babes born to parents without intention or purpose.

I have no ill will towards these parents and families. Life should always be celebrated. Plus babies are just so cute in their awkward and wrinkly sort of way.

None the less, on occasion, I get upset.

I could count on more than two hands the number of pregnancies that thrived in and around my own. Two of them were my sisters. Many were coworkers. Several were cousins.

And I think, my girls would have been one by now. The same age, if not younger, than those same babes.

My head spins with “what ifs.”

Then I remember that I was chosen to be their mom, out of billions of souls.

And I revel in that thought.

That I was chosen to be their mom because, despite how I feel, I’m strong. Stronger than most.

And I was chosen because they needed me, just as much as I needed them.

A metamorphosis of that need; blossomed into a new sense of being.

An enlightenment of the meaning of life.

Knowledge attained only through experience.

I still have so much to learn. But I’ve already tackled the first step.

By opening my heart.

By loving, loss, and letting go.

Join me on my path back to hope~

The just be mentality I relished in has somehow morphed into a manic energy.

Cleaning is a major outlet for said energy. I don’t sit still for very long, in any situation for that matter, so doing anything physical helps me to release it out into the ethos.

Gardening is a new favorite hobby. Digging in the dirt and exploring what’s underneath and natural is just in my blood. I’ve taught my daughter to collect objects found in the natural world just like I did when I was a kid. Rocks are our chosen menagerie and bugs are not something to be scared of.

But the manic energy penitrates me much deeper and lingers until it festers.

I’m fighting my own demons every minute of every day, trying to do better and be better.

Some of these demons are tiny and insignificant.

But something tiny, is in fact, significant. It can impact the world, like the butterfly effect.

A tiny crack in a dam over time can snake its way into catastrophic devastation for the dam.

So I know that negative ways of thinking can harm the vessel. And with time hardens the heart.

As I battle my own demons, the world seems to be battling their own all at once, in real time, and in technicolor.

The social economic circumstances that people are born into, with a layer of the global pandemic on top of that, and continued discrimination as the cherry on top since the countries inception weighs heavy and pushes people to the breaking point.

In my years so far on this earth I have learned to humble myself, for I have been wrong countless times. To reflect on the privileges I was born into, and how those privileges have impacted my life.

Self reflection has taken me years to accomplish, and the process is still continuing and in motion.

And there’s really no end to learning and discovery.

The death of my girls has opened my heart and mind to a level of grief previously unknown before.

I try and think about them every day. Some days I just shut down, and don’t feel anything at all.

But shutting down doesn’t change anything. Nothing gets accomplished.

I don’t need to accomplish something every day, but I still should be engaged.

The grief that’s now a part of who I am, that reaches every atom of my body. Shouldering it, reflecting it in my eyes, manifested in my energy.

I can’t imagine carrying that grief into generation after generation. Being born with it, and having no say in the matter.

And if that isn’t enough, being told that the grief/racism/discrimination isn’t real. It doesn’t exist.

Gaslighted to shut people up.

That realization propels and catapults me into the arms of knowledge and learning as much as I can.

To listen with my heart.

Not to judge another person’s experiences based upon my own.

There is no more time to be complacent with injustice. People have had enough.

It’s time to wake up.

BlackLivesMatter.

As I sit in my backyard I can feel the little hairs on my pale legs flutter in the wind.

Most people aren’t impressed with the wind that blows continously throughout the year in our small city. I’ve lived here for twenty years, you just get used to it. Then I realize that the wind is gusting from the Pacific Ocean, maybe ten miles away, and I feel pretty lucky.

I contemplate why I haven’t written much in the past few weeks. Why I’ve pulled out some of my hair.

I don’t have complete thoughts, or even answers. Just repressed feelings.

Furthermore, its incredibly exhausting trying to figure out why and how I’m feeling on a daily basis. Just don’t want to do it anymore.

I suppose subconsciously I’ve decided to just be.

Be in the moment with my family, in conversations. Whatever task needs to be done, I either tackle or not. If its imperative then it gets done sooner.

I’m done feeling overwhelmed with the days bleeding into the next, mirroring the movie Ground Hogs Day.

I didn’t ask to stay at home and not work. Shit I’ve had five jobs in the past two years, if that doesn’t show my passion for working outside the home then I don’t know what does. There are reasons for so many jobs and I won’t get into it; a difficult pregnancy, one job going out of business, and me going back to school are just to name a few.

But I think not working is exactly what I needed.

I’m not the best judge of my own needs, so the universe gives me a swift kick in the ass every once in awhile to get me back on track.

So I’ve been focusing on my girl and my husband, and keeping my twins in my heart.

Really and truly practicing patience, to where it is second nature.

Sure I could get mad and pissed off all day long. But that’s the easy road, the one I’ve traveled most of my life. I don’t like who that person is on that path.

I get more out of living life on this earth by sowing seeds of compassion and empathy, and humbling myself. Without sarcasm or patronizing.

At this time, I’m going to just be~

Join me, shall you?

The ever present rattling in my brain has subsided, only to be replaced by displaced anxiety.

But it does mean that sleep hasn’t evaded me entirely so I’ll take it.

My over-the-phone therapy session really made an impact this week.

She made me realize that the new habit I reluctantly told her I created over the past few weeks is deeply woven with threads of anxiety.

As far back as my mind let’s me remember I have always played with my hair.

I grasp long strands from the top of my head and run them between my thumbnail and underneath my index finger, until I reach the ends of the hair.

Sometimes it ends there. Other times I twirl long strands with my thumb and index finger until knots are created loosely or tightly. Always with my left hand; occasionally the right hand gets in on the action.

To me it’s normal to play with your own hair; I’ve seen many women do it out of boredom or meditation. My sister also plays with her hair.

What took a drastic turn is pulling it out. I can’t explain why I’ve been doing it, so I haven’t really told anyone.

I’ll start from the beginning.

I’ve decided recently to stop coloring my hair. I took advantage of not being around people because of the pandemic to just let my hair be free, and see what it looks like without being shamed.

I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time. My natural is an ashy brown, and since my late teens I’ve had gray hair in the front of my scalp. The gray hairs have peaked in growth over the past several years, to where there’s significant clusters in my bangs and the side of my head.

I love my gray hair. Its unique, and confusing for people to see someone so young with it, even though I’m 33.

Since growing it out, I didn’t realize the texture had changed. Not only is there more gray, but also curly and heavily textured dark brown hairs. So playing with them doesn’t create the same satisfaction.

Its an odd combination of feeling something foreign and wanting to rip it off, but also loving what the body is capable of.

I seek out the textured hair, then pull it out. Feels like the root is ready to let go of my scalp, so I just help it along right?

Wrong. I don’t need to do this.

Unkempt anxious feelings channeled themselves through my hand and into the atmosphere.

I don’t claim to be without faults. I just don’t want to air out my dirty laundry for all to see.

But I committed to being honest with myself so I can heal, and writing honestly in this blog is part of that path.

I don’t believe in seeing the world in black or white; the universe is a myriad of gray tones and beautiful hues not seen by the human eye.

This situation, however, is black or white. There’s no benefit to this habit. I’ll just end up with bald spots.

All I can do for now is do better and be better.

And be realistic, giving myself time and grace to get there.

Join me on my path back to hope~

My head doesn’t feel like its screwed on just right.

I can’t focus more than half the time. Easily distracted. I’m doing my best, and when that’s all I can do but there’s more to be done, is when it gets frustrating.

The forefront of my brain is cheerleading me into positivity, keeping me moving forward.

But damn its been a rough year.

Fluctuating between who I was before my girls died and who I am now is exhausting.

Like a glitch in a video game. The terrain is comforting and familiar, but a new foreign thing is entering my brain wanting to take over.

That foreign thing, that glitch, is my grief.

But the familiarity of my terrain isn’t comforting anymore. Its vile.

That old terrain couldn’t even fathom the implications of death.

How losing someone affects every atom in my body down to the soul that inhabits.

The vessel that houses emotion, that once was empty, is overflowing and shows no signs of stopping.

I feel like I’m relearning how to breath.

Relearning how to walk. Putting one step in front of the other. Going somewhere with purpose and intention and not because that’s what my bipedal body is designed to do.

Learning for the first time how to speak my truth.

And when I sleep, there is no rest. No time for my brain to process what’s been downloaded.

What’s always been constant are my lucid intense dreams. My mother and I have that in common.

I dreamt of someone close to me dying, and for the first time I really felt the weight of grief pushed down upon me in the dream realm.

The challenge is not being able to relieve my emotions and thoughts, when I can’t physically go anywhere and distract myself for a few hours.

Since February last year, its been rough. I’m trying everyday, tooth and nail, to focus on positivity.

To focus on the light and not succumb to the darkness.

And, most importantly, embracing my glitch and learning how to live with it~

I just want to run, until my feet don’t touch the ground.

Push myself over the edge of exhaustion to get away from the heartache.

I’m afraid of where my sadness will take me, that’s why I never let it in before.

Even now I’m still pushing it away. I just want to run.

……………………………………………………………………………….

I started writing those thoughts the day after the girls birthday. The darkness that entered my heart was all consuming.

So I took a break from journaling. The last entry I made was on my birthday funny enough.

I didn’t plan anything for my birthday, nor did I care that it was coming up. The only thoughts in my brain were about my girls.

Considering everything going on, I let myself feel a little joy that day. I received a few fun gifts, cards, messages, and a happy birthday video that reminded me how much people care.

I’m still amazed how insensitive people can be though. No I’m not going anywhere to celebrate because I’m still grieving my girls, and there’s also a global pandemic going on where we are supposed to stay home.

Where would I go if everything is closed? Even so, my daughter would have to pee five minutes into the trip, and where would she go to the bathroom? Its just absurd.

People who haven’t lost their children cannot understand, and I don’t expect them to. But know I’m not going out of my way for anyone. Its hard enough to focus each day with grief, lack of sleep, no sense of time because of the pandemic, and an energetic toddler streaming through my brain.

So I’m letting go of everyone else’s bullshit and focusing on myself, my girl, my husband, close family and friends, and my home.

That’s all I can do right now. I’ve been getting a lot done around my home, and not just half-assing but really doing a good job and being proud of my work.

So let’s cheers to running.

Not running away from grief, but towards it.

Embracing it some days. And punching it in the face on others.

Join me on my path back to hope~