A Crisis of Faith

Holding on to my faith over the past 2 years has been a constant battle for me. When Vivienne died, it forced me to re-evaluate the belief system that I’d been raised with. I had to find a way not to be angry with God. I had to find a way to still believe. I have to believe that I will see my daughter again someday. Some days, that’s the only thought that gets me out of bed and keeps me going.

And then we lost 3 more children. And I fought again to keep my belief that God is good, and I needed to believe.

And then we lost any ability to conceive a child naturally, followed by losing the ability for me to carry a child all together. And I fought again to not blame God. To focus on the idea that eventually, the randomness of the universe would have to turn in our favor. It has been a hard fought battle to keep my faith through all that we’ve been through. And I’m starting to lose the battle.

Over the past 5 months, I have changed jobs (a transition that has been more difficult than I expected), we bought a new house (with issues and expenses that were not disclosed or uncovered during inspection, costing us more money than we anticipated), we still own our previous house (that despite many showings, overwhelmingly positive feedback and a price reduction that is basically giving it away, defies all convention and will not sell), and we continue to pursue surrogacy, despite a failed attempt on our first try (a difficult, time consuming, terrifying and very expensive proposition).

Earlier last week, I hit my breaking point. I was completely overwhelmed by all that we have on our plate. I did not know what to do or where to turn. And so I did something I have not done in a long time. I prayed. As I decided to do this, I heard the sayings people have often said to me. Let go and let God. Give it over to God. And so I did, and I prayed. It was a simple prayer, but delivered in the most desperate tone.

God, I have more than I can handle, and I need Your help.

I let go, and I asked God to have mercy on us. I said this prayer for several days, and yesterday something happened.

My beloved cat, Oliver, who comforted me at the lowest points of my life died. It was completely out of nowhere – he was not sick, showed no signs of being in any pain, and was his normal self when I left for work. Yesterday afternoon, Gordon called me to tell me that he died. We don’t know what happened (our theory is either a stroke, he choked, or some combination of the 2), but it all happened in about 5 minutes. He was gone, and I am shattered.

I told God that I had more than I could handle, and I needed help. And instead, I got more pain. I hadn’t prayed for anything specific – just to have some stress taken off my plate. And instead, I got more. It’s like I can hear Him laughing “you thought you had more than you could handle? Well, how about this.”

At every bad news that we got, I fought against the idea that God was doing this to me, that I was being punished. I told myself that the universe is random, and sometimes, people have to play a bad hand. I told myself that eventually, the randomness of the universe would turn in our favor. But now, I have to admit, that I’m not so sure about that. I’m not so sure anymore that God is kind and loving. I asked for help, and I got the rug pulled out from under me yet again.

People often say to me that God will never give you more than you can handle. What complete and total BS. Do not mistake the fact that I am still surviving what we have been handed over the past 2 years as me handling anything. I feel broken on more days than not. God has given me more than I can handle over and over again. And when I cried uncle and said I could take no more, I got more anyway.

I don’t know how to reconcile this latest loss. I’m losing the will to fight for my faith anymore. I can’t quite figure out what I’m fighting for. In the end. I think all I’m really fighting for is the idea that I’ll see my children in heaven. And that’s what keeps me hanging on to faith. And wrestling with the idea that maybe God is doing all of this to us after all makes me feel like my ultimate punishment will be that I will not get to spend eternity with them. Wouldn’t that be quite the last laugh at my expense? 

This thought of never getting to see my children again cuts me to the core of my soul. It’s the thought that keeps me hanging on, but it’s also the thing that can make me curl up into a ball and cry so hard I can’t breath. The idea that I’ll never see my children again makes me wonder what the point is of anything.

And what am I supposed to do with that thought? Let Go and let God? I’ve seen where that gets me.

A Window Closes Too

This post should probably come with a disclaimer. This is not a happy, hopeful post. This is the harsh reality that is my life.

We’ve been keeping a secret from pretty much everyone we know. Over the past few weeks, I have been preparing for a frozen embryo transfer. We didn’t tell many people because it felt private. I have taken countless pills, both orally and vaginally (sorry if that’s TMI – welcome to my world), been on a high iron and magnesium diet, and gone to acupuncture twice a week. All of this was in the hopes that it would thicken my endometrial lining, and we could move on to an embryo transfer. We’ve had mixed results throughout, but got a glimmer of hope earlier this week that maybe, just maybe, we could get there.

We found out today that this isn’t the case. My lining is pretty damaged from the D&C’s I had after Vivienne was born, and despite medications, diet, and acupuncture, it will likely never get to where it needs to be to sustain a pregnancy. While there are still some other options we could try, the doctor told us not to get our hopes up.

And so a month ago, I closed the door on ever getting pregnant on my own. Today, I attempt to close the door on ever carrying another child.

It’s probably for the best, in some way. My body has been nothing but a deathtrap for my children. It has failed me and them more times than I can count. To continue to try for a miracle feels incredibly selfish, like I would just be inviting more loss and heartache. To continue to try would only be for my own self-worth, so that I wouldn’t continue to feel like a failure. I can’t justify putting one of our precious embryos in an unviable situation just so I can feel like I tried.

I have never tried harder for anything in my life. I have endured countless procedures, 3 surgeries, pills that could fill your medicine cabinet, and shots and needles that fill 3 hazards containers. All of this in the span of 16 months. And ultimately, all for nothing. All that I have to show for it are 3 more children in heaven, a few extra pounds, a lighter bank account, and a heart that has been broken over and over and over again.

We will figure out a way forward from here. But for now, I am just exhausted, confused, frustrated, angry, disillusioned, hopeless, and most of all, unbelievably sad. I don’t exactly know how to accept that you can work so hard for something you want so desperately and come up empty handed.

The Grass is Greener

A while ago, I wrote a blog post about how the grass isn’t always greener on the other side. These days, I’m completely going back on that idea. Right now, it is impossibly hard to convince me that there aren’t a lot of people out there with much greener grass than mine.

I know that in some ways, my grass is greener. I have a pretty amazing and supportive husband who I actually like being married to. I have a good job, some financial security, and a loving family. Unlike a lot of people, I really know who my friends are – the people who I know I can count on, who support me and have my back even when it’s not easy to do. But when it comes to expanding our family, my grass could not be less green. And it seems like everyone around me gets to have it so much easier.

I know that I’m not supposed to compare my life to others, but right now I’m a bit trapped in this comparison dynamic. It’s hard not to be. I don’t think anyone could argue that our journey to add children to our family has been incredibly difficult. It seems that we have to fight for it harder than just about anyone else I know, which is hard enough to take. But when I sit back and see it come so easily to so many others, it is a very hard pill for me to swallow.

When something that you’re forced to really truly fight for comes so easily to people around you, it forces you to ask a lot of very uncomfortable questions.

Why them and not me? It is always the first on the list of questions. I have had a lot of times throughout my loss and infertility journey where I’ve seriously battled with my own self-worth. Every time I think I’m past it, I see someone else stumble into parenthood, barely even trying to get there. It’s hard not to start wondering whether you’re just completely unworthy of the privilege.

Why does it get to be so easy for everyone else? I wouldn’t wish my struggle on anyone. I would never want anyone to have as much difficulty as we’ve had in bringing a healthy, living child into this world. At the same time, I have to admit that it really bothers me when people have it so easy. Those people who “try” for a month or just wing it to see if it will work – that’s hard for me to watch unfold. I know that they appreciate their pregnancy and children, but I don’t think they can really appreciate how easily it came to them or how much harder it could have been.

Will it ever finally be my turn? We passed from saying “when we have another child” to “if we have another child” a long time ago. I have to admit that passing into the world of “if” is something that’s still very hard for me to accept.

When will life start balancing out a little more? No one knows more than I do (except maybe Gordon) that life is exceptionally unfair. I keep waiting for the time when things will even out a little – not a lot, just a little. And I always seem to get another round of heartache, so you’d think I’d learn to stop expecting it to happen.

I don’t like comparing my life to others, especially when they are being handed something that I am desperate for, and I certainly don’t like asking myself these uncomfortable questions every time it happens. I avoid it as much as I can, but there is only so much I can do. Sadly, I’m getting kind of used to it.

It Will All Work Out

I can’t tell you the number of times someone has told me “everything will work out” or “you will have a child someday.” I so appreciate the good intentions behind those words – it tells me how very much people want Gordon and I to become parents again, and this time with a child we get to raise. But, I have to admit, I really struggle with this sentiment.

It’s visible on my face when someone says it to me – I’m not projecting the hope and optimism that I’m supposed to. If only I could think more positively about it and see that this was in my future! But in the end, I don’t know that this is in my future. I never would have guessed 2 years ago that I would be sitting in the position I’m in now – 4 pregnancies, 4 losses. That makes it very difficult to see a future with a living child, hard as I may want to.

I know it’s hard for people to respond to me when I seem so hopeless. I wish that people could see that it isn’t lack of hope that causes my reaction to be the way it is – it’s hard doses of reality. I live in a world where I know first hand that a positive pregnancy test means nothing. That getting to a certain point in a pregnancy means nothing. That just because I have been through devastating losses does not mean that I am immune from more loss. It may seem like pessimism that I don’t whole heartedly nod and agree when I’m told that I’ll have another child, but it’s really just knowledge based on the education I have received.

I want to believe that you are right more than I could ever tell you. I want to believe in a world where the universe deems that some people have paid their dues and been through enough and now things can work out like they hope. But I can’t. I haven’t deserved a single one of my losses, so I know that there is no great scale of justice in the sky that will attempt to balance those out with the blessings of a successful pregnancy and healthy, living child. It’s not pessimism – it’s reality. Life isn’t fair. Babies die. Runners die of heart attacks. Non-smokers get lung cancer. It doesn’t all balance out, and it doesn’t always work out.

I know that it must sound harsh to say all of this, and I understand that it’s hard for people to accept. We want to be positive, believe that if you want something enough to work at it, that it will be yours, and that life gives us all what we so richly deserve. I want to believe that too, but I can see countless examples of how this isn’t the case. I know it’s hard to accept, because if we are forced to accept that life isn’t fair, then we are forced to accept that these tragedies can happen to any one of us. Hard work, diligence, hope, and optimism don’t make us immune from tragedy. Nothing does.

For some people, life just doesn’t work out like we’d hoped. There is no rhyme or reason why this happens and who it happens to – as my therapist likes to tell me “it’s just dumb luck.” Sometimes luck isn’t on our side. Sometimes that luck turns around, and sometimes it doesn’t. Just know that as much as I want to believe it, it's hard for me to get on board with the idea that things will work out for Gordon and I, and we will get our happy ending. Being dealt a year and a half of the worst possible luck will do that to a person. It’s not negativity – it’s learned response.

A Case of the Should-Have's

This past Sunday, many of our friends (my husband included) participated in the Cleveland Triathalon. The event benefitted United Cerebral Palsy, and we have friends who have a daughter with CP who organize relay teams to participate and raise money for UCP in her honor. We are always happy to donate and participate to honor how hard they work to get the best for their daughter.

This year, this family, who has been incredibly supportive to Gordon and me, asked if they could also race in memory of Vivienne. We were so touched by the gesture (and I still cry when I think about it). We all wore our Team Payton shirts, and on the sleeve of each one were Vivienne’s initials and a rainbow. It was a means of support to us that I will never forget.

The triathalon was a moving event – so many parents who have worked so hard to make the best possible futures for their children, and so many children who worked so hard to be able to walk across that finish line. You couldn’t watch and not shed a tear. It was a really emotional day, on so many levels.

I found myself thinking during much of the event that this day was supposed to be so different. At the tri last year, I was pregnant with Vivienne, just 2 weeks away from unexpectedly giving birth. This year, I should have been there with my daughter. And then I would think to my 3 losses earlier this year. With our first, I should have been there 8 months pregnant. With our second, I should have been there 7 months pregnant. And with our latest, I should have been there secretly knowing I was pregnant and about to pass the meaningless milestone of the first trimester mark. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. There are countless ways that this day should have been different.

As with most women my age, I have a lot of friends with young children and a lot of pregnant friends. As a person who struggles with infertility and multiple losses, I am almost always in a situation that makes me uncomfortable and sad. Generally, it’s no one’s fault. I can’t ask people to hide or not talk about their children. I can’t ask them to deny they’re pregnant. And I can’t help that it’s always painful for me to be around.

At Sunday’s triathalon, many of our friends were there with strollers and children in tow. Several remarked how we looked like the “stroller brigade.” I stood to the side, feeling bitter that I was denied my membership in this group. I should have been there with a stroller too, keeping my daughter entertained, and both of us cheering on her Dad. Instead, I have to stand there and choke back the tears so that no one sees how it’s tearing me up inside. I know that these are benign comments – no one means to upset me or hurt me. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

There were also the pregnant friends. I need to preface this by saying that I know they are grateful for what they have. I also know that pregnancy isn’t all sunshine and roses. I also have to say that it is incredibly difficult for me to hear women complain about pregnancy. Every time I hear it, all I can think is how I would cut off my right arm to feel nauseous and uncomfortable or to not be able to drink because I’m pregnant. That’s where I should be right now, but I’m not.

So Sunday was a very emotional day. Having friends that are so supportive that they are willing to share a day dedicated to their daughter with our daughter. Watching the pride on the faces of children with CP walk across the finish line. Remembering where we were on this day a year ago. And the serious case of the should-have’s that I walked away with. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It should have been so different.

I Must Be Doing Something Wrong

Recently, I wrote about how I’ve stopped asking myself “why me?” I have to admit, I was pretty proud of myself for getting to that point – to a place where I stopped asking why bad things kept happening to me. Lately, I’ve been consumed with another question, and it was disheartening to realize that the question is just a variation on the “why me?” theme. I can’t seem to escape it, and it’s always running through my head.

What am I doing wrong?

It happens every time I see a pregnant woman or a baby. Every time a friend or acquaintance announces her pregnancy. And every time I see happy baby pictures. What am I doing wrong that having a living child constantly slips away from me? What am I doing wrong that I don’t get these happy moments that everyone else does and that I want more than anything?

I should state that, logically, I know that I’m not doing anything wrong. I get great medical care. I research and read. I continue to do everything I know to do to get a happy outcome. And yet, it still does not seem to be enough.

I recently returned from a work trip to Chicago. I flew into Midway and took the el to/from my hotel downtown. For any of you that have taken the orange line in Chicago, you know that it is inevitable that you will see many teenage mothers or very young women with multiple children. I had a physical reaction each time I saw one. It took a few instances before I recognized what it was. It wasn’t anger, jealousy, or sadness (although, I did feel all of these things). What I felt was shame. I wondered how a 16 year old with little means could have a healthy pregnancy and child and I couldn’t. What was I doing that was so wrong?

There must be something I can’t see or recognize that makes this keeps happening, right? I must be doing something wrong and just can’t figure it out. I’ve received lots of unsolicited advice on this topic. Stop trying so hard (I’m pretty sure that not trying will not result in a pregnancy, just saying). Stop stressing and just relax (my personal favorite – this one really does tell me that I am responsible, and if I could just calm down, everything would turn out differently).  Even well intentioned people tell me what they think I’m doing wrong in an effort to help. They must ask themselves the same question “what is she doing wrong?” We all want a solid, logical explanation that doesn’t exist.

My doctors, who are among the best in the state, are kind of stumped. All of the tests (and I’ve had MANY, MANY tests) indicate there is nothing that should cause any problems. For the most part, my losses are completely unrelated. “Unfortunately, you just come out on the bad side of the odds” our doctor recently told us. From a medical perspective, we are doing all of the right things. And still, here we are.

I’m at a loss on what to do with this question. I certainly don’t want to feel ashamed for doing nothing wrong, but I really can’t escape it. Much like everyone else, I want to fix what’s wrong. And in order to fix it, you need to find out what to fix. So when doctors tell you that there’s nothing wrong, how do you not believe that it must be something that you’re doing? It’s not intentional, but it’s there nonetheless. I must be doing something wrong. I don’t know how else to explain it. 

I’m not asking for any of you to answer this question of what I’m doing wrong – trust me, I have thought long and hard about it. I don’t have any answers, but I still keep torturing myself with the question. 

Getting What You Deserve

Over the past few months, as we experience loss after loss, we’ve had many people say to us “you deserve for something good to happen.” There’s certainly an element of feeling that we’ve paid our dues. At the same time, I have a hard time feeling like that entitles us to something good. We didn’t deserve the bad things that happened to us, so how does that make us deserving of good?

I've spent many, many days since losing Vivienne and the 3 babies after her asking “why us?” Lately, I’ve started asking “why not us?” I don’t think any one of us has done anything to deserve such horrible things, but I also don’t think we’ve done anything that makes us immune from tragedy. It would seem that bad things have to happen, and they can happen to any of us, and none of us would deserve them.

We’ve been through a lot that we don’t deserve. Holding our much loved, and much wanted daughter while she died. Three consequent pregnancies that brought much fear and worry, with only sadness in the end. And with our latest pregnancy requiring surgery, I’d say that’s a pretty full load of bad things we don’t deserve. But does it mean that now we've earned some good?

I’ve struggled a lot with the randomness of the universe that I believe to be behind all of our losses. I’ve seen some amazing women and families be put through hell, while seeing many people who we could call “not deserving” get everything they wish for and more.  I can only chalk that up to the universe being completely random. If good things happen to bad people and bad things happen to good people, how else can I see it?

There are many aspects of religion that teach us that God has complete control – we are living out a plan that we don’t understand and God is giving us everything we need, whether we know it or not. I’ve written before about how I don’t believe this anymore, and with each blow we take, I become more resistant at putting this all at God’s feet. I don’t blame Him, because I don’t think He’s responsible. I think God is giving me strength that I never even imagined I had (otherwise, I don’t know how I’m surviving this), but I don’t think He is DOING this to my family. The randomness in the universe has given us some very unlucky hands, and God is helping us to survive them.

I’ve had a very hard time coming to terms with this. In a sense, it feels sacriligeous because it violates some tenants of religion that are seared into my brain. Accepting that it doesn’t work the way I was taught as a child has been very hard to overcome. It’s also been hard to accept that life is, in many ways, random. You can do good things and live a good life and still draw the worst hand. So, what’s the incentive to do good?

I’ve come to accept that the reward for a well-lived life comes in the afterlife. While we may be punished on this earth for doing nothing wrong, I believe that the reward and justice comes when we get to heaven. I have to believe that this is where God does have complete control and the good people receive their just reward. Honestly, this is what gets me through the day most of the time. I’ve learned the hard way that this life isn’t fair. I have to believe that there is good coming to us down the line – it just might be farther down the line than I’d like.

Life Doesn't Play Fair

Remember when we were little and if there was something we wanted and couldn’t have, our parents would tell us that “life isn’t fair”? I never knew how true that statement was.

Since we lost Vivienne, and the 2 babies after her, a lot of people have told us how unfair it all is. For a while, I accepted that at face value. But lately, it’s making me angry. It isn’t fair, and what am I supposed to do with that?

I’ve always believed that if you’re a good person, then good things happen to you. You get what you give. Karma. Whatever you want to call it. I know I’m not perfect, but I certainly can’t think of anything that I’ve done where losing my daughter is the appropriate equalizer. I try to be a good person. Turns out, that doesn’t mean that good things happen to you.

As I look at the world around me, I see how life isn’t fair all of the time. I now know so many women who have lost a child or who struggle with infertility, then I turn on the news and see how Snooki is pregnant (it pains me to even type that), or I look through the guide on my TV and see 10 back to back episodes of 16 and Pregnant. Nothing says life’s not fair quite like that. Here my husband and I are—in our 30’s, financially secure, as emotionally mature as we’re going to get, with so much love and support to give a child. And this unfair life keeps taking our children away. Meanwhile, there are people out there who have children they aren’t ready for, children they don’t even want, or some who abuse the ones they have. Life isn’t fair.

So what do I do what that fact? You can try to be a good person, be prepared before taking on something important like having a child, and do everything you’re supposed to do to make sure the baby is healthy. And it doesn’t matter. In the end, we don’t get what we give, we get what we get. There are bad people in this world that have good things happen to them, and good people who get the shaft. It’s unfair, and it sucks.

I’m really struggling with reconciling this cold hard fact. It can make you wonder why we should even try to be good and responsible. If, at the end of the day, it’s just random whether we get good or bad in return, why try? I don’t want to sound like I’ve given up on being a good person, and I’m about to start my life of selfishness and crime. But think about it—if you can try to do everything right, and it can still turn out bad, it has to make you wonder why you even try at all.

And that’s what makes me angry. I believe the world should be that you get what you give. When you are kind, you get kindness in return. When you do good things, you get some of that good in return. When you try as hard as you can to do the right thing, it works out. But that’s not how it goes. So when you’ve tried so hard, and life has knocked you down repeatedly, where do you find the motivation to try again and believe it will turn out differently? I’m feeling pretty lost on this one. I get it—life isn’t fair. But you know that other saying—life’s a bitch. I believe that one too.

Robbed

I know I’ve been feeling this way since Vivienne died, but this week, it feels very much at the front of my emotions. I have spent the better part of the week just wanting to scream “I got robbed!” Everywhere I turn, I see something else that my husband and I have been robbed of.

Every morning, I go on Facebook. Inevitably, someone has posted baby pictures. I either see ones from my friends or ones that my friends have commented on, but there is always at least one. I expect that to happen—those are happy and proud parents, and they should be. They can dress their little ones up in cute clothes or OU gear to celebrate the Sweet 16. They can post their first steps, first words, and artwork. And of course they should—their lives are more precious than most people appreciate, and that should be celebrated. But every single one points out something that we’ll never get to do with Vivienne. We got robbed of all of those everyday moments and the right to show them off to the world.

A couple of days ago, I was at a work lunch. There was a conversation at the end of my table with people talking about their kids at school—their grades, who they like to play with, and what they think they’ll be when they grow up. It’s everyday parenting talk, and I got used to it a long time before I tried to have a baby. But this time, it made me think about another thing we’ll never have with Vivienne. We’ll never talk about how she’s doing at school, how she’s progressing, and what we think she’ll be like when she grows up. We were robbed of all of that promise.

At the same lunch, people told funny stories about their kids. Again, the everyday parenting talk I’ve gotten used to. But as each one told stories about their children, I was reminded that I won’t get any more stories. I have all of the Vivienne stories I’m ever going to get, and no one really wants to hear them. I know you’re probably all wanting to say “but I want to hear them!” That’s a nice thought, but imagine sitting around a table at a perfectly pleasant lunch, and I break out the story of my daughter’s birth and death. Trust me—nobody wants to hear it. We’ll never tell a funny story about Vivienne where everyone will smile and laugh. The very mention of her name makes most people sad, including me. Once again, we got robbed. Robbed of the freedom to talk freely and casually about our daughter.

I have multiple friends who are pregnant or who have had babies recently—some I’ve known since before Vivienne and some that I’ve met in the loss community since her death. As I look at the differences between the 2, and think about my recent miscarriages, I have to accept that I’ve also been robbed of ever having a normal pregnancy. I see the non loss Moms who are so excited—making plans, having baby showers, and going about their everyday lives pretty normally. And then I look at my loss Moms. Forty weeks of anxiety, terror, and worry. We don’t say things like “when the baby comes home.” We say “if I get to keep this baby.” I know it’s all worth it in the end, but it’s another thing we’ve been robbed of. We’ve been robbed of a happy, carefree, and hopeful pregnancy. I’ll never know that feeling again.

So I guess this is my scream. I GOT ROBBED! I don’t want the loss of my daughter to make me a bitter person. But it’s hard to watch the rest of the world (or so it seems) enjoy all of those things that we’ll never have with Vivienne and not feel some bitterness and anger over all the things that were stolen from  us.

More

I just finished reading a book, Choosing to See by Mary Beth Chapman. It’s the story of losing her 5 year old daughter in a tragic accident and how she coped with the loss. There was a line that she said a couple of times that really spoke to me and that goes through my mind over and over again. I wanted more.

Shortly after Vivienne died, someone told me “she lived her whole life.” It hurts because her whole life was 8 minutes, and she’s gone. But it also helps to think that Vivienne had a purpose, she fulfilled that purpose, and now that she has, she’s gone. And even though I can find some solace in that Vivienne lived her whole life, I wanted more.

I want to hear her cry, coo, laugh, and say her first words.

I want to watch her as she learns to roll over, crawl, and take her first steps.

I want to watch her sleep, watch her play, and watch her grow.

I want to hold her and hug her.

I want to watch her Dad hold her, read to her, and rock her to sleep.

I want to help teach her how to read, ride a bike, and do her homework.

I want just one more minute to hold her, kiss her cheeks, and tell her how much I love her.

In the end, we had 22 weeks and 1 day, and then 8 minutes with Vivienne. I’m grateful for every minute we had. But I still wanted more, more than I can even articulate.

The Great Plan

Seems like everyone believes there is some plan for my life. Either that God has a plan for me or that they hold this belief that things will “work out.” I don’t know what to believe right now, but I do know this—if this is all part of some great plan, I hate this plan.

It feels a bit sacrilegious to say that I hate God’s plan for me. Maybe someday, I’ll be able to see things more clearly, but right now, I can’t. It’s hard for me to believe that God’s plan for me involves so much pain. I know that part of having faith is believing in a greater plan—that while things might not work out the way we want them to, God is wiser and knows what we need more than we do. I just can’t understand how what I’m going through represents any “God knows best” knowledge. How can this pain represent something that I don’t know that I need?

Then there are the “it will work out” comments. I know that they come from a good place—people want to make me feel better and feel like they are helping. But, we really don’t know that things will work out, do we? No one knows what the future holds. And if there are any people out there who can see the future, and can tell me with confidence that things will work out, I really wish you’d warned me about what was going to happen with Vivienne.

It’s becoming harder and harder for me to respond to the “it will work out comments.” Sometimes, I wonder what that even means. Most of the time, it means that people are trying to tell me that I’ll have another baby. I usually respond with “we’ll see,” which is not the optimistic and hopeful response that people want. But the harsh fact is that I don’t know if I’ll have another baby. I actually have very little control over that outcome.

I need to be honest about why these comments are so hard for me. Very few people know about this, but if I’m going to share on this blog, then I have to be honest. We’ve been pregnant since we lost Vivienne, and miscarried. Twice. Both losses were early and devastating. Each loss makes the hope a little harder to find. And when people keep telling me that things will work out, and I’ll have another baby, the forced smile gets harder and harder to plaster on.

I try to be hopeful and believe that there is a purpose to everything that is happening to us, but with each blow, that gets harder and harder to do. I do hope that someday, I can look back at this time and realize these horrible moments got me to the place I am supposed to be. But, I also recognize that there is nothing that can happen in my life that will make losing Vivienne an acceptable sacrifice. While hindsight might give me the gift of some perspective about everything, I’d still rather have my daughter alive and with me. And I don’t think that will ever change.