Sunday, December 19, 2010

48 Hours

For 48 hours, I was living a miracle. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. All my previous struggles somehow seemed insignificant. My mantra became, "It was worth the wait." And it was. It really was. For 48 hours, I was living the happy ending I had envisioned so many times. All those times I had tried to make it happen through sheer will. Closing my eyes tight and thinking that if I visualized myself holding a baby, it would soon become a reality. But my miracle was short-lived. With one phone call, it morphed into a nightmare.

Miracles had happened to me before. About 9 years ago, I suffered a stroke and went on to recover pretty much 100%. The miracle wasn't necessarily in the recovery itself, but rather in the details of what was going on at the time of the stroke: I was in a big city (Las Vegas) with top-rate hospitals, I was with friends who had the foresight to call 911, I accepted treatment with IV meds that had a 10% chance of killing me but ended up saving me, and the clot was situated in the right side of my brain (leaving my right-dominant hand unaffected, my speech intact, and my cognition as flawless as ever). Six weeks later, I was back at work as a third-grade teacher. Nine years later, you would never know I was a stroke survivor unless you saw me do side plank pose in yoga. Trust me. It really isn't pretty.

What I'm trying to say is that I've experienced the glory of success before. Unfortunately, when you're going through a tough time in your life, it's easy to forget the miracles that have long passed. Or even the miracle that is staring you right in the face. After 2 years of failed IVF attempts and lost pregnancies, I'm just beginning to realize how profoundly miraculous my child is. Daniel is happy, healthy, smart, and beautiful. When you've lived through tragedies as I have these past 2 years, you don't take those things for granted. But I'd be lying if I said that my miraculous child makes this current tragedy any less painful. Loss is loss.

Don't feel sorry for me; feel empathy for what I'm going through. Reach out and tell me you care. There's nothing you could possibly say that would upset or offend me. Saying something stupid is better than saying nothing at all. Let's acknowledge together that this really sucks for me. There's nothing else you need to say. Just tell me that you understand what it must feel like to be in my shoes. To live a 48-hour miracle and have it all snatched away in a moment. To mourn the loss of a pregnancy while you're still mourning the loss of the previous two. If this weren't my life, I wouldn't believe it was real. But I'm still here. And today I laughed. So I know that I'm going to be okay.

4 comments:

Unknown said...

It does suck to the nth degree. No other words capture it more eloquently than you expressed it in your blog. As I read it, I saw Daniels pictures along the side and kept thinking that, though you went through such agony, your son (your miracle) had numerous hugs, kisses, smiles, and snuggles for you. And you treasure him...you are a beautiful mother and Daniel is a very lucky little boy!

Unknown said...

Your words say it all!! You express yourself with such heartfelt and truthful thoughts.You are so fortuntate to have that little boy and he is so lucky to have you as his mommy!! He is such a gift form GOD!! Love you with all my heart and soul!!

XO MOMMY XO

aliwilbur said...

I'm here with you, as always :)

Unknown said...

I'm so sorry you have gone through all of this. It is a beautiful thing, like you said, that you have Daniel. It takes strength and courage to share your trials and tribulations. While it has helped you get through these past two years, it has helped others get through their own sorrows too.

Melanie