Fragile. Seeking Forgiveness After Miscarriage

At two weeks we knew there was life. At nine weeks we knew there were two. At twelve weeks we knew something was wrong. At thirteen weeks, after a drive to Los Angeles for a long needle through my abdomen and meetings with specialists, there was hope. At almost sixteen weeks we knew it was too late. At what was supposed to be four months into our pregnancy I was sedated and emptied, and once again alone in my body.

Three. That's how many babies we've conceived and lost in one year. My new therapist offered to call them embryos if it would make me feel better, but it wouldn't. Embryos are what they would be if they were not intended, not loved, not cared and dreamed for. These were our babies and always will be. I consider myself a mom of four, even though three of them never made it past the second trimester. But I can't say that. When people ask me how many children I have the answer is, of course, one. One perfect 6-year-old daughter. And when other women who I know have had miscarriages and stillborns and infant losses are asked how many children they have, of course the answer is the number of living. But we all know the truth in our hearts.

I didn't name them. I probably would have if they'd made it to 20 weeks. For some inexplicable reason, that's the point where it made sense to me. Maybe because we were hoping to make it to 20 weeks, when fetal intervention surgery may have been an option to save at least one. But the mass growing in the chest of Baby A causing pressure on her developing heart and lungs grew too rapidly. With a shared placenta her sister couldn't handle the change in blood pressure, so within hours of each other we lost them both, much sooner than even our doctors expected. The routine visit showed not the squirmy twins I'd loved watching only two weeks prior, with beautiful profiles and feet that were kicking each other like I'd hoped they would do for years to come, but instead lifeless little bodies with still hearts. I felt my own heart stop for a moment with them, forever  just "the twins," our Baby A and Baby B.

Only weeks ago yet forever ago I was assembling hidden inspiration boards on Pinterest that I intended to make public as soon as we were confident enough to make our happy announcement. Clothes, registry items, products and advice we'd need in the coming months and years was being curated as I lay in bed or on the couch or on the bathroom floor, my body too tired and sore to do much else. I'd finally broken down and purchased a few maternity basics as there was no hope in buttoning any of my regular size jeans, and I often wondered if I would ever be able to again given my age and the multiple pregnancy.  Projects and trips had been cancelled, put on hold, or sped up to accommodate both the official due date and a more realistic expected one, and real estate in two different states was analyzed in the hopes of making some very big decisions quickly. I went to sleep at night with my hands on my belly trying to feel those first few flutters expected at any moment, and I woke every morning wondering how much they'd grown while I'd slept. Now I place my hand on my soft abdomen and miss them so much it's hard to get out of bed.

The last miscarriage was hard, this time was harder. Is harder. It will take longer to bounce back into the land of the living and although physically there is no permanent damage, emotionally that is not the case.  I am still getting promotional emails for formula and cord blood registries and car seats. Alerts pop up on my phone telling me that my baby is now the size of an onion and what nutrients I should make sure to be getting this week. I delete the apps and unsubscribe from the mailing lists but more keep coming. My body is late getting the message as well, ready to nurse infants that aren't here. There suddenly seem to be more babies around than ever before. And so many twins. And everyone I see seems to be pregnant. I resent the once forbidden wine, sushi and unpasteurized cheese that I'm now able to have after months of craving them.

I am heartbroken. I am angry. But mostly I am really really sorry. It doesn't matter how many doctors tell me that it wasn't my fault, that there was as a one in a million chance of the anomalies, or that neither my body nor our genes caused the problems. In my mind I failed these babies by not giving them the best chances for survival. I don't know how but somewhere something went wrong and it happened inside of me. I am sorry that my amazingly paternal husband still does not have his own child, one with features and gestures that he and his family can compare to their own. I am sorry that my daughter still does not have a half-sibling like we have now twice promised her she would have, and who instead has a mother who cries all the time.

I am also sorry that when a woman sat next to me at the cafe with her beautiful baby in her arms, I didn't smile and ask her questions like everyone else did. Instead I turned away and tried to work through the suffocating emotion without making a scene. And I'm sorry that I abruptly stopped and walked the other direction when I saw a couple on the beach with twin toddlers. Sorry that I didn't attend the PTA meetings, dinners, and trunk shows where I knew someone would be pregnant or showing off their new family addition. Sorry that I couldn't really go anywhere, worried that the tears would suddenly start streaming down my face and I would have to explain why. Sorry that I couldn't bring myself to comment on friends' sonogram images, pictures of their babies in Halloween costumes, or their beautiful new maternity photos. So so very sorry that I can't share in their joy. But they have friends, family and strangers smiling at them, approaching them, touching their bellies and asking about sleep training and onesies and siblings and strollers. I have a void. Literally a void in my body where new life is supposed to be growing. Figuratively a void in my life that baby showers, kicking, mock-tails, registries and birth classes were supposed to fill right now. In a few months I will feel the void that infant crying, midnight feedings and diaper changes were supposed to fill. But how do I tell them, these happy sleep-deprived people, how bitter I am? I can't, and I won't. But the ache is constant. I miss my babies and the dreams I had for them. I miss being exhausted and sick but knowing it was all for a good reason. I miss the anticipation of their arrival in our lives.

I know that I am still living, that my heart is not the one that stopped. I hope to one day forgive my body for these cruel betrayals. I hope to receive forgiveness from the friends and strangers who didn't get the happy version of me they were expecting, and who didn't know why. I hope that one day my husband and I either find the strength to try again, or find peace in not taking the chance of more heartbreak. I can't comprehend either at this point but I am grateful that we do have options, knowing that it could all be much worse and is for so many. If our life consists of only my daughter, our beautiful marriage and supportive family, then it certainly isn't something to complain about. I know.

I am sorry that in my fragile heart right now, it's not enough.

Feel.

寧為太平犬，不做亂世人

For my non- Mandarin- speaking friends, this supposedly translates to "It is better to be a peaceful dog than a chaotic man," which is considered the basis for what we call "The Chinese Curse": 

May you live in interesting times. 

Anyone who really knows me, meaning that they've taken the time to do so, knows it's been one hell of a year in the life of Jayne. I don't really have any boring years in my adult life past, but this one could certainly win the proverbial cake. 

I married the man of my dreams. I now live in a city that I not only love, but that has welcomed me in a way that has been quite frankly overwhelming. My daughter is at the perfect age of 5, when we can have brilliant conversations but she still wants to crawl into my lap with her blankie. I have been allowed to use my creative personality to support the causes that I love, and I feel more appreciated and intellectually stimulated than ever before. Most importantly, my husband and his family have been so supportive and loving that it scares me more often than I usually admit. But...

...there has been what I would call a tragedy trifecta over the last six months. People who know me personally are probably aware of one. Some know of two. A select few know of all three. Suffice it to say, each one was truly and without exaggeration traumatic. Each one knocked me down hard, without having fully stood up again from the last blow. I keep getting permission from loved ones, acquaintances, complete strangers, and professionals to grieve; to mourn the losses that are very real, the ones hoped for, and the ones felt so deep in the soul they feel real. 

I have. I have mourned. I have mourned more in the last six months of my life than I had in the entire thirty-five years prior. I am pushing through, but with every few steps forward there's another step back. Another reminder: a song, a memory, a speech, an email... which inevitably lead to a complete meltdown of my composure. I sob on my knees on the kitchen floor. I sob while sleeping, and only realize it when I awake to a wet pillow under my head. I sob in the car on the way to a meeting, and in the bathroom while brushing my teeth. And I am so fucking sick of being sad. 

I'm told it's good. I'm told it's healthy. I'm told it's necessary. My sweet husband, my angel, keeps telling me I need to face it and let it out and that it's ok to cry. He encourages it and holds me and gets the tissues when the tears start flowing. He makes me feel loved even through the ugly cries. There are a lot of ugly cries. But I feel guilty, because I know I have so much to be happy about, and despite my outward appearance I really am aware of how blessed I am. Which makes it worse! It does, because I know how happy I should be, and to waste my time crying feels incredibly selfish and self-absorbed, which of course makes me cry more.

But despite all of this, which I suppose was somewhat expected given what has happened, there has been an unforeseen side effect: I also break down at beauty. I break down at joy. I break down at anything that topples my already-at-capacity emotions and I feel. everything. to it's fullest, even the really great things. It's odd, because it is such a thin line between joy and sorrow that sometimes I can't tell the difference. Frustration and overwhelming emotion all feel the same; it just needs to burst out of me. But the part that makes me feel better is that I feel hope when I cry for beautiful reasons. 

I cried a few nights ago while cooking dinner, watching my husband carry my daughter around the living room as they played "Olympics" (it was the luge, you see).  I cried when I looked around the table at a benefit that hit really close to home yesterday, realizing that the people around me were the most beautiful human beings, inside and out, who contribute to their communities and to each other in a way that is unsurpassed, and who love me and each other like family. I wasn't exactly happy, in the traditional sense, but I was hopeful.  

I cried tonight, witnessing what I could only describe as "magic," as a brilliant author and a team of brilliant theater professionals described how they took a novel and turned it into a musical that is sure to bring so much to so many in the coming months and years. That creative energy, the possibilities, and the emotions that will come out of the work that they are doing is so much bigger than anyone realizes. My heart was bursting. How could it not? 

The world is full of so much beauty, and we have so much to be happy about and to appreciate. We are growing as a species; we are developing beautiful works of art every day. I wouldn't wish my tragedies on my enemies if I had them, but I will own what I do have like I own my short stature and my less-than-voluptuous backside. They are mine, and they make me me. 

My tragedies have shaped me, and based on the surge of emotions that consume me fairly often these days, they will continue to shape me. Would I let go of all of this beauty in order to lessen the pain of the awfulness? Probably. Because it really hurts. But while I work through it I will let that painful joy consume me as well, and hope that in the end, it will be victorious. 

Home.

As far back as I can remember, I dreamt of distant cities and countries, places where people talked in different languages and accents, where food and fashion were foreign and nothing was assumed or expected as normal. I dreamt of an adventurous life moving around like a gypsy with a bounty on my head. I dreamt of a string of international lovers, never settling down in one place or at one job or with one person for long. That life, that lack of connection to any place or person, was what I thought I was meant to live, and I sought out to fulfill that destiny.

The place that I was supposed to call home for so many years is a place that, regardless of rights or wrongs or truthfulness or memory, I never felt that connection to. Everyone's memories are clouded by their own experiences and perceptions, but as the Good Prophet Doctor Phil teaches us, the only thing that matters is how you felt, and how those feelings shaped you. And the simple matter is that this home was a place I never felt welcome or comfortable. It was useless to try to explain why, no matter how hard I tried. Obviously, I thought, the reason that I couldn't connect to any places that were supposed to be my home was the common denominator: me. I had to have been the problem so there was no escaping this destiny.

But something remarkable has happened in recent years. I stopped searching. I stopped running. I stopped trying to find where I was supposed to be, and instead I just was. Maybe I was simply ready. Maybe I'd gone through enough and was just too tired to keep trying to be something I wasn't. But I know that when I met the man who is now my husband, I let myself learn for the first time what it was like to not be judged on what I was or what I was supposed to be for other people, but instead to be appreciated for who I am. Instead of a life where nothing I did was right, no matter how hard I tried, I found myself in a life where everything was right because it was truth. It was me. I did what felt right and so it was.

And I found peace.

The life that I have found in the city that became mine exactly two years ago is a life full of amazing people doing incredible things. Supporting their friends, their families, and their community, and allowing themselves to be happy. It was hard to accept for a long time and I still find myself doubting it occasionally, but thankfully at increasingly longer intervals. I know that I have never felt so free to follow my passions and dreams, and I have found others who feel the same way. Maybe it's this specific place that was founded by crazy dreamers who wouldn't take no for an answer. Maybe it's just that I subconsciously choose to find people who are like me. Or maybe I just notice these things now and hadn't before.It doesn't matter why I feel this way, only that I do. And now that I know what it feels like, nobody can take it away from me no matter where I go.

I will always have wanderlust, but I no longer travel in search of that elusive connection or in search of other options. I have finally found what I was always looking for, what I thought I would never have. And although I found it here, it no longer matters where I am, whether it's Dallas or New York, Atlanta or Miami, California or Paris or Cape Town or Shanghai...

With this knowledge, with this peace, I've found my home. And for that, I am truly thankful.

Choice: One Year of Deliberate Transformation.

The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our "stars" but in ourselves. 

~ Shakespeare's Cassius.

One year ago I, along with my young daughter, moved from New York, a city whose skyline adorned the walls of my childhood bedroom and whose scenes filled my dreams and veins for decades, for Dallas, a city I considered at best utterly foreign, and at worst nothing more than a collection of red state stereotypes best only considered at 30,000 feet when traveling between coasts. But it was the home of someone that I loved and his family and friends, and experience had finally taught me that this was so much more important than a city. And if I was going to live somewhere new, then I was going to find what made it wonderful and I was going to fall in love with it. I never would have guessed that this would happen so easily and so quickly. It was a combination of what Dallas actually had to offer and the place I was in my life that made this happen. 

Years before I would ever even consider living in Texas, shortly after my 30th birthday, I made the decision to live a more deliberate life in reaction to the realization that my life was on a counterproductive path of passivity. I had wasted too much time letting the proverbial chips fall where they may. On the theme of “excellence is not an act but a habit,” I knew I had to make some major life changes, and as I did my tastes and goals became clearer. With each new choice that I made, it became not only easier, but also more rewarding and more thrilling. What else could I do? What else could I learn? I started to realize for the first time the power within me, and that I had a responsibility to use it.

With a new long-distance relationship to a Texan becoming a larger factor, my determination to make positive conscious choices for us became stronger. And when the further development of that relationship eventually required a cross-country move, I knew I had to fully embrace my decision in order to avoid later misplaced resentment. Like everything else, I learned that starting over in a new city is what you decide to make of it. People loved Dallas, and I was determined to find out why and experience it myself.

Circumstances were not perfect. As I prepared for my move, life-threatening illnesses affected family on both sides. My first three months as a Texan were spent traveling for work and for family, including a week spent in Boston to donate stem cells. But with each struggle and deterrent that I encountered, I became even more determined to push past it and live a fuller life.

As a teenage exchange student in Greece, I learned to step outside of my own culture in order to understand and accept a new one, and I applied this practice to my new adventure as a Dallasite. I threw myself into the culture, pushing aside comforts of the familiar and trying as many new things as I could. Challenging myself at every venture, questioning old habits and tastes, I opened myself to new experiences, people, and ideas daily.

At first in the chaos I simply opened my heart to the people and activities that were automatically part of my new life. Some have stayed because I chose to keep them. Some I knew would never fit, and they dropped out organically as I expected they would. New people came into the picture, welcoming me with true southern hospitality and inviting me to join them in new experiences. It was a shock to my New Yorker sensibilities, but I grew to appreciate them exponentially.

Probably the biggest challenge of the past year has been learning how to drive for the first time. For various reasons that I won't get into now, I never had a drivers license, but I knew it was absolutely a requirement in my new state if I was going to have the life that I was trying to lead. This challenge required the encouragement and at times force by my fiance, I admit, but in the end it was the most important of my adventures and I ended up with my first driver's license 2 days before my 33rd birthday. 

Physically I have undoubtedly changed. Of course I am most definitely wearing brighter colors, more make-up, longer and, yes, bigger hair, and higher heels than I ever thought I would or could. At times a conscious choice in a "if you can't beat 'em…" mindset, and sometimes I even surprise myself. Occasionally I force myself to wear all black with my ponytail and glasses again, just feel like "myself." I was requested to gain weight for the transplant, and it wasn’t hard when adapting to the cuisine and car culture of Texas. The difficult part was losing it afterwards, so I made some new healthy choices, starting yoga and running my first and second 5K races. The results have been more strength, flexibility, and energy than ever before, despite not ever being able to shed those “Texan Ten.”

When my daughter wanted to take ballet, I signed up for whatever adult class was happening at the same time. When the studio later started offering Bollywood class, I couldn’t resist. I ice-skated for the first time, and that same evening walked to the middle of the rink and sang the National Anthem before a minor league hockey game. I was probably expected to back out from nerves, having not done it since high school. But I didn’t, and it was another successful attempt at something new.

I started seeking out more new opportunities. I did my first pub crawl, which included my first ride on a mechanical bull. I got my first pair of cowboy boots and actually wore them with a cocktail dress at a fundraising event with the cast of Dallas. I attended my first professional football games and fashion shows. I traveled to Orlando, Boston, New York, New Orleans, North Carolina, Berlin, Krakow, Frankfort, Shanghai, Beijing, Laguna Beach, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Cancun, Philadelphia, Phoenix, San Francisco, Chicago, and Austin. To facilitate these travels for a mix of work, family, and pleasure, I've tried to learn or re-learn Mandarin, German, Spanish, and Polish, spending hours in coffee shops and pubs with tutors.  I realized recently that I know exactly one perfect useful phrase in each now, and at least one in each to offend or amuse native speakers. 

Spicy food no longer scares me and football no longer bores me. My new circle of friends is beautifully varied, full of fascinating people that I chose to be there and feel honored to have in my life. People from my old life that once held me back are no longer prominent, a choice that was difficult but with the help of loved ones and professionals became all too clear.

Arriving in Texas one year ago, exhausted from moving and goodbye celebrations, I was greeted with a bouquet of yellow roses and treated to a classic barbeque lunch. I knew if I was going to do this, I was going to do it all the way and I welcomed the challenges ahead. I know now that the things I've learned, the experiences I've had, and the love I've felt since opening my heart and mind and purposely living outside of my comfort zone are irreplaceable. I am a better mother, a better partner, a better friend, a better professional, and a better person because of the events of the past year. I know that I never would have felt the joy that I do now had I not chosen to live this deliberate life, and I’m proud to have done it here in Dallas.

Spirit.

I come from a family of geniuses. My joke has always been that if I'm good they let me set the table pretty. I am the oldest of four children, born to parents who are still, 33 years later, happily married (and sometimes disgustingly so).

One of the many differences between me and the rest of my family is that I seem to be the only one who did not get the running gene. I briefly gave it a half-hearted shot in junior high, but I was much more interested in aesthetics; always content with music, dance, food, and decorating the world in various ways.

My father is a cross country coach and a past president of his local running club in Pennsylvania. He has been running for forty years, including 22 marathons (7 Bostons) and several 100-mile ultra marathons (including something ominously called the Canadian Death Race just last year). My mother has also been running for most of her life, often alongside my father, and ran her first marathon- the Marine Corps in DC- when she was 48. One brother ran the Dublin marathon and the other has run two 50K trail races. My sister has run seven marathons, including the Marine Corps, New York, and Cape Cod.

I will be running my very first 5K tonight on the Katy Trail in Dallas, Texas.

When my Texan and I first started dating seriously and I flew to Dallas to visit, he took me to Luke's Locker to get a real pair of running shoes, my first pair since college. We went for a short run on the Katy Trail and although my body was in a bit of shock, it was nice to get out of New York City and breathe in some fresh air. Back home I only ran when trying to catch a train or a cab and that was wearing 4-inch heels. But after my Dallas visit I starting running through the streets of Astoria, Queens whenever I got the chance, which wasn't often, and when I did I loved it. I started to think that maybe I did have that gene after all. When nightly talks with my Texan got to the point where we were discussing a life we would have together in Dallas, runs and walks on the Katy Trail were often mentioned.

The weather since I moved here last November has been perfect for running (I know this will change soon), and with my constant traveling and drastic lifestyle changes since leaving New York it has been necessary to get outside and get some exercise. It has been good for my body and also my mind as I've worked through so many of these changes in my head while on the trail. I have been grateful for the West Village entrance only a few blocks from my new home and have used it at least several times a week over the last few months. We recently signed up to be Friends of the Katy Trail in appreciation of the park, and of course the Ice House is one of my favorite places in the the city to meet up with friends.

The rest of my family signed up to run a marathon in Florida together in 2014. When I mentioned tonight's 5K to my dad he informed me that if I increased my running by one mile a month, I would be ready to join them by then. I am not optimistic about that one, but who knows? Tonight you can watch me crawling towards the finish line in a desperate attempt to finish my first race. I will be number 614.

For all runners, I share some words of wisdom from my father, Coach Chobot in Reading, Pennsylvania:  

"Just remember; the challenge of distance running stems from the inner conflict between mind, body, and spirit. Whenever the spirit (or soul or heart or whatever you want to call it) prevails, the runner has succeeded regardless of caliber of runner or difficulty of race. Running is the purest form of the celebration of the human spirit."

I'll see you on the trail.

Home.

I have spent my day running around like a madwoman in preparations for the next two weeks of constant travel. This is nothing new. I am very fortunate to have a job that requires me to go to some really great places and I do get a thrill from running through airports and getting those stamps in my passport. But a strange and foreign feeling came over me today: I don't want to leave.

It has nothing to do with where I'm going or why. While true that much of it will be spent working, that doesn't bother me. In fact I like that quite a bit because it gives me a sense of purpose and allows me to experience cultures in ways different from the tourists. I am traveling most of the time with the love of my life and am absolutely thrilled to get some time with him away from other stresses in our lives. I will be going places I've never been before, which is always a plus; for even if the travels are bad, I still get to cross a few more cities and countries off of my lists and there will always be stories to tell.

The sinking feeling came because I'm finally feeling like my new home is actually home. Every day somebody asks me how I'm liking Dallas and a smile always comes instantly and I can honestly say that I love it. I have family here, and a support system that I've never had before in my life. I am meeting some really amazing people, making real friends, and having a great time in the process. I am trying new things and discovering new things about myself every day. There is a sense of community here that, although at times off-putting because of the lack of anonymity, is actually really nice. Who knew this cold-hearted New Yorker could like this?

So although I look at my schedule for the next three months and the gypsy spirit part of me is thrilled to be hopping around the world again, there is part of me that wants to throw a 3-year old tantrum, stomp my feet and cry out "but I just got here"! I know I will regret saying this in a few months if I end up finding a job that doesn't have me traveling at all and I am begging for a reason to go somewhere, but right now an extra few weeks in my own bed would be so welcome. 

I suppose I will take it as a blessing that I am sad to leave my new home. Because that means that it is in fact my home. And I know that at the end of my next set of adventures, instead of being sad that they're over I will be happy about what I'm returning to. And that is another brand new experience for me.

I am so grateful. 

Fleeting.

So happiness is and was fleeting. Proof that when you have it you have to soak it up and drown yourself in it as long as possible. I did get there since my last post. For several glorious hours I allowed myself to feel positively joyous. My partner was by my side, my professional situation was promising and fulfilling, dear friends surrounded me in a celebration of a life beginning a new chapter. In a sexy midtown lounge forty floors below my office, I felt pure contentment. For those brief moments, I was truly happy.

And then a phone call. I had to go outside to hear what was being said. I stood on the sidewalk on 48th street trying to understand what it meant. The bouncers asked if I was alright. I said no. It didn't make any sense. Everyone was fine. We made it through what we thought was the worst tragedy we would face for at least another decade. Only two years earlier we'd been hit too closely. Surely another hit would not come so soon?

It did. And it's hard. The tears were immediate. I wanted to collapse under the weight of the news.

So now what? The battle.
His fight. The plan was already decided and the first phase was well underway.
Our fight. All of us who are close to this and who have come so far together and are not going to let this consume us.

We were all doing so well. Beautiful life-altering moments had filled our lives over the last few months. To prepare us for this? Maybe life has set us up to be in peaceful and safe and stable places in our lives so that we could be strong enough to handle this.

I have to believe that.

I am stuck between the cynicism of my recent past and the rediscovered optimism of my distant past when thinking about my future. I want to believe this was all planned in some way and the end result will be more beautiful than we could have ever imagined. Tragedies led to affirmations which led to another tragedy that we are just simply better prepared for now.

I know that amazing and wonderful lives are lost every day. I know this. But this one is simply too gifted, too unique, too rare and beautiful. The odds are good. The support is there. The resources are there. This one will fight and win and bring us more revelations and beauty and precious precious laughter.

And we will have all passed another test, and earned more happiness still. More bliss. Perfect bliss.

And then, then it will be truly appreciated.