My Last Best Year: Applying to be a Mom

If I were to write a story about becoming a mother, it would not be this one.  It would have been more like this: birth one or two children, apply to adopt internationally from either China the Ukraine or somewhere southern Africa, birth another second or third child, welcome home our third or fourth adopted child, consider adopting domestically depending how our family was humming, adopt domestically depending on the aforementioned humming, and close down shop at 35 or 36.  Sound crazy?  This was my dream. 

In 9 months I will be 35…um…ya…scratch the record on that music...not happening.  But, however, and, did you hear that line though?  The hum always included adoption.  Why?  It is really hard to say.  I can tell you two things: 1. It feels I have always embraced the identity of an adoptive mother; 2. My life story is full of orphanages, world-wide (hence the countries I mentioned above). 

But as with all idealized dreams, reality brought the complexity of relationships, bodies, money, personal limitations, and, oh yes, time; the family dream engine broke down within five miles of home.  At points I have felt stuck on the side of a country road, in the pouring rain, by myself, no umbrella, with a smoking engine. 

On this side of reality, though, I am not alone at all.  Many people have come along and the story has continued.  For starters, I have a wonderful husband that I don’t have to dream about.  He is actual, a good person to share the driving load with and is actually, very handy.  

For secondly, in 2009 I started going down to the Dominican Republic with some new friends and I have kept going back with our little grassroots, non-profit called Project I See You.  And in the midst of those trips I have seen more stories of adoption, held more beautiful babies, and was given a doorway to walk through that I would have not imagined on my own.

Last week, Dan Wagner and I knocked on the door of an agency, applying for adoption from the lovely, loving, luscious country of The Dominican Republic.  Its like telling you all we are four weeks pregnant – its that fragile and nerve-racking.  But, I am keeping my commitment to transparency, and trust you will give us a lift if this car breaks down along the way.

My Last Best Year: Reorientation by Soaking

If it weren't for the Psalms of disorientation, I would have lost my faith a long time ago.  They are, in fact, the lion's share of the Psalms.

February was a blur.  Dan was traveling a lot, (a blessing in disguise).  I am pretty sure I breathed.  Walked some.  People sat with me.  I cleaned out my Netflix queue.  And got OCD with my Pinterest boards.

And then, I felt a movement to reorient.  Realign.  To Life.  With God.  So, the last weekend of the month me and my guy went to the best hot springs spot and soaked, and ate, and soaked, and indulged, and soaked.  It was wonderfully cold and snowy; the water was its hottest and the steam rose enough to keep your head warm, yet flew away for a view of the stars.  Our worries floated.  Our fears melted.  Our spirits warmed.  There at the foot of the grand Collegiate Peaks.  A blessed, holy spot where I went after I lost a job;  where you can sit in the river; where I bond with my (grand)mothers.  Where I went to soak away what was to be and soak in hope for what is to come.

But me he caught – reached all the way

From sky to sea; he pulled me out

Of that ocean of hate, that enemy chaos,

The void in which I was drowning.

He stood me up on a wide-open field;

I stood there saved – surprised to be loved! 

Psalm 18

My Last Best Year: Supporting Raw Grief

I joke with my people that there should have been caution tape on all entrances to my house: “Caution: Enter at your own risk.”  Grief in action is messy, by its very nature.  Because trauma, by its very nature is overwhelming.  As in all your coping skills, ways of thinking, and Christianese don’t keep up.  And the only way out is grieving and grief is messy.

In a society that values moving through things quickly, truncating even what emotions are “acceptable,” we need help!  Especially us emotionally-phobic Christians.  Not so that those of us that are grieving change, but so that we can enter into the mess well with each other.  Because those of us that are traumatized are not necessarily isolating, but may be self-protecting against others that are more afraid of our grief than we are.  (And we are terrified of it.)

My best friend, from her own overwhelming grief process, started a list of wise and simple advice for those offering support.  It got my wheels turning.  Because it is HARD to authentically grieve while still engaging community, and those are two passions of mine rolled up in one.  The first three are hers, the last two are from my experience and talking with other friends too. 

#1- Do reach out.   Write a note, leave a phone message, type an email or text message.

#2 – Don’t expect to hear back.  Instead, consider another kind note.

#3 – Don’t mention God.  Or – I would say it this way – don’t give advice.  Of any kind.

#4 – Don’t assume or draw conclusions.  Very little of what you see is permanent. 

#5 – Don’t take things personally. Grief is ripe with bucket loads of projection; enter at your own risk.

My Last Best Year: Hannah Hannah Keith, Ya'll

This is my dearest friend, Hannah!  I have loved her since the day I met her freshman year of college.  But we really bonded as two night owls in a house full of sleepy roommates.  (Camelot was deemed Sleepalot for our tenure.  Little did others know, Hannah and I were running preschool-style telephone lines between our house and the Six-Two-Five guys next door all night long...).  She has walked with me through the darkest hours of life and I have laughed my hardest laughs with her. Hilarious, smart, beautiful, and wise are just a few descriptors.  (And she should have her own style and design column in a major magazine).  She has a blog you should follow!  Start here:
http://nvrhaveievr.wordpress.com/2013/02/21/vulnerability/

My Last Best Year: Anna's Story

Anna is my mom's, sister's, daughter.  We have been friends since she was born; I was 9 years old.  I remember carrying her when she was a toddler, because no sensible grown up would; only a preteen who was attached at the hip to her adorable cousin.  Never were there two more different people out of the same family tree; it's awesome!  We have hung out all over the world, and now we regularly eat bad Chinese food in Denver.  I love her!, and she has a story to share:

If you look at my life, it can be fairly enviable. I grew up in a strong, loving Christian family that has always valued me and helped me be the best I can be. I have a wonderful husband, adorable dog, and a brand new home. We have two running cars, stable jobs, and get to go on vacation periodically. Not too shabby.

This is all true. It’s also true that I struggle with debilitating panic attacks and anxiety. I lay in bed at night, awake for hours on end imagining all the awful things that could happen to me and my loved ones. I sit in my boss’ office bawling my eyes out for no reason at all. I have to pull my car over because I’m afraid that I’m shaking and breathing so hard that I might wreck. You give me a scenario, and I can give you the top ten worst things that could happen in under a minute. I wake up crying from sleep from dreams I can’t, and don’t want to, remember. For almost a year, fear has ruled my life. And I’ve let it. 

I told myself it was fine. How could I admit that I’m afraid all the time and claim to believe in a sovereign God? Won’t everyone think I’m a hypocrite and have no faith? Look at what other people have to live with, who am I to be a pessimist?! Just pull it together, damn it. 

Thankfully, I am now seeking help. I have started seeing a counselor who is helping with the “roots” and “shoots” of the problem. I have a prescription for the exceptionally bad days. I am having many honest conversations with God, friends, and family. There’s finally a light at the end of the tunnel. Everyone has experienced trauma, many people suffer from it, and only a few get the help they need.
 

My Last Best Year: Shame and Miscarriage

Have you ever had that feeling that you should NOT have said what you just said?  Not because it was inappropriate or hurtful to someone else.  (Not the mechanism that teaches us about social norms and who is safe and who is not).  But because you have a sense that you should have kept that truth about YOU hidden because now people know that there is something wrong with YOU.  The reflex that says – “Run and hide!  Now they know how messed up I am!”

I have felt the shame reflex quite a bit as I have shared my story of infertility/pregnancy/miscarriage.  Not just after I have hit “post” on my blog, but as I have shared with family, friends, groups.  I get that this could be because of my own story and wounds, (and some of it is), but as I talk to women about this more and more – worldwide even – I get a sense that it is something bigger. 

Could it be our culture’s uncomfortableness with grief, pain, and emotions in general?  Or could it be an even older, broader story?  A story about women’s truest glory?  And women’s shamiest shame?

I won’t pretend to have enough knowledge or wisdom as an ambivalent, freshman feminist to say anymore.  But I do pose the question: what is women’s truest glory?  That maybe childbearing is an analogy of, but not a full expression of?  Because I have a sense that once we get some taste of that, shame and miscarriage will no longer go hand in hand.

(And by the way, blogging about it is one way of me giving shame the finger.  For more than just me).

My Last Best Year: Recurrent Miscarriage

Two days after I posted My Last Best Year’s initial blog, I had a positive pregnancy test.  Glory!  The raw truth is that conception has not been our primary burden, but it had been a while since I had seen that plus sign and the joy was overwhelming.  I Sarah-laughed at the irony of it all, receiving what joy I could; bracing myself all at the same time. 

I have been pregnant before.  Twice.  Now three times.  I am familiar with the first trimester and all the joy and barfiness it brings.  I am also painfully familiar with a burden it brings…oh, I weep as I write…the fear and fragility that it brings…I weep and I realize even more…the loss that it has brought.  This is not as it was meant to be.  Lets do away with that platitude.  (In case you missed it, “I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”)

This is not as it was meant to be.  We knew our babies were at a high miscarriage risk since the loss of our second one a few years ago. Yes – we know that we have a balance translocation (chromosomal) issue.  We know it is an “uncommon” translocation and therefore the probability of a “live birth” has to be drawn from family history.  We know each of our babies has a 50/50ish shot of making it past the first trimester.  And we know that none of ours has.  This is not as it was meant to be. 

For the last few months I have been doing life and trying to keep from tossing my cookies because I, in fact, was pregnant.  And today, I am, in fact, not.  What terrible news.  But there is a glimmer of hope: I watched one less episode of Friday Night Lights yesterday than I did the day before.  (Thank GOD for Netflix).  I went to the gym today.  I am increasing my hours at work day by day.  My laughter is as spontaneous as my tears.  And I feel Faithfulness rising up like fruit from a tree. 

We lost a baby.  Our third.  And for now, even with all the problem-solving that is available to me, I am grieving – sheltered and as God allows.  Strangely thankful amidst the anger and certainty swimming in a sea of doubt.