"About this time last year,
I was given a key. It was a beautiful key--heavy and gold with intricate
scrollwork and extravagant edges, a fine match for the collection of keys I had
already acquired in my House of Motherhood. And for nine months I held that
key, felt its weight in my palms, rubbed my fingers along the end that would
open the door to a room in my heart whose glory I was about to discover. I
dreamed of that room--how perfect it would look inside, how the light would
filter through the windows, how each corner of its blessed walls would hold so
much happiness someday. I imagined the things people would say when they walked
into that room...things like, "Oh, what a beautiful room" and "How
I wish I lived here."
I waited patiently and
passionately for the day I could use my key to unlock the door to the beauty
which was to unfold in that room. And on January 22, I turned the heavy key
into the lock of the door that separated me from that room and opened it to
find something I didn't think I wanted to find. But, what I didn't know was
that, although that room wasn't what I expected- wasn't like the model rooms I
had seen in catalogues and magazines- it was so much more. For what it lacked
in interior decor, it made up for in authenticity with its rich wood floors and
strong supporting beams, and since we have added this room to our home, we have
made it our own, sprawling inviting quilts across comfy chairs, hanging
pictures on the wall. It is ours and it is beautiful, and all of those we've
invited into its coziness have indeed proclaimed "Oh, what a beautiful
room" and "How I wish I lived here."
So is the House of
Motherhood. Full of a multitude of rooms, some open and inviting, some lived in
and comfy, some locked behind doors we haven't yet found the keys to. But we
all share the fact that we are part of this House. Of the many differences of
the billions of mammals here on this planet, there is one universal thing that
binds us. Motherhood. Even if we aren't mothers ourselves, we've, at one point
in our lives, had a mother. We shared her breath as she sustained our life
within her for nine months and were cradled in her arms, if but for a moment,
when we entered this world and severed that physiological bond.
And, out of this universal
truth, we've also shared experiences- some more than others. Over these past
weeks, as I've had the beautiful opportunity to connect with readers across the
world, I have realized how very ignorant I've been. How egocentric my thoughts
have been. My eyes have been opened to the very fact that, in any culture, in
any place, there are individuals who may have very different beliefs or ways of
life than me, but they too have loved a mother or love being a mother. They too
welcomed children who were different and loved them just like we did. They too
write about everyday life with their babies and from thousands of miles and
oceans away, they too tuck little hearts in bed at night and thank whatever
higher power they believe in for the blessings of life, being loved, and loving
another.
In each of our Houses,
there are doors. Doors which, upon our entrance, transform us into better, more
beautiful women. Doors to rooms which hold deep pains, pure joys, and truths
which will root themselves deep into our souls and change us for good…Some have turned keys to
find cold rooms that house the tears of infertility, of miscarriage, of wanting
and yearning for a room that didn't exist...And some, like me, have opened
doors to find rooms that were different than expected, perhaps painful at
first, but these rooms still held us while we cried, provided comfort while we
found we our way.
There are rooms we share
which we will never forget opening their doors. Meeting eyes in those first
moments with the extension of our soul who has just entered the world and been
handed to us, all fragile and flailing as the electric current of love begins
with the closed circuit of that first touch. Holding outstretched arms as our
little clumsily teeters her first steps with rewarding applause. The lurch of
our hearts upon hearing their feverish cries and our wish to take the pain away
as we hug their warm bodies and whisper it will be okay. Packing backpacks full
of crayons and colored pencils and kissing cheeks before littles walk out the
door to their first day of school.
We celebrate the House of
Motherhood and all its keys to rooms which hold secrets--secrets to
understanding life and bringing good to needy places.
We join in the common
rooms and dream together of places we will go and things we will do. Of
dancing, hand-in-hand with our children to the beat of the harmonies we create
in our Houses. We travel and take pictures, read books and cook elaborate
meals. We clean and complain about cleaning and plan parties and celebrations.
We cry and we yell and we laugh. We say "I'm sorry" and "I'll
try harder" and "I love you" because these are all things you do
in the House of Motherhood. But, most of all we love. We love our House and all
its rooms, and we spend our lives opening doors and making the best of what's
behind them. We shake rugs and light candles and invite people in to our
once-daunting rooms so they too shall see the beauty of what we know. We sip
coffee and set our mugs down on worn furniture, resting our feet on soft
cushions and before you know it, we realize that this is exactly the kind of
room we dreamed of.
I didn't know that just a
few short months ago. I didn't know the room which startled me with its
unfamiliar colors and design would soon be a place of comfort, of beauty, a
place with secret passages that lead to other rooms in the House and connect us
in ways we didn't know existed. But, looking at my House now, with all its
experiences, with its lived-in rooms, with each precious, cherished family
member and the memories they will bring to these hallways, to these spaces, I
wouldn't have it any other way.
And we can say it together
today...Oh, what a beautiful House. How glad I am we live here."
It's January 17th. I am at Starbucks, alone, trying
to find the words to paint a picture of our emotions since December
31st. I can't find the words.
I first read this beautiful
illustration of “The House of Motherhood” the day after we learned that we had
lost our precious unborn baby. I cannot express my feelings of emptiness &
hopelessness in any more beautiful way than she wrote:
“In each of our Houses,
there are doors. Doors which, upon our entrance, transform us into better, more
beautiful women. Doors to rooms which hold deep pains, pure joys, and truths
which will root themselves deep into our souls and change us for good...Some (mothers) have turned
keys to find cold rooms that house the tears of miscarriage, of wanting and
yearning for a room that didn't exist. And some, like me, have opened doors to
find rooms that were different than expected...perhaps painful at first, but
these rooms still held us while we cried, provided comfort while we found we
our way...There are rooms we share
which we will never forget opening their doors.”
I will never forget
opening this “door” in our life, and learning that it wouldn’t exist – learning
it was empty – learning that what once was to be so magical in it’s walls, so full of
future pure love – was gone – completely empty, and dark. After imagining so many details of it’s
future beauty, and the joys that would be found within it’s walls, I was learning
that it wouldn’t exist. It was December 31st. The doctor couldn’t hear the heartbeat. Nothing. I had
heard the heartbeat so clearly at 11 weeks…and now, on a brisk New Year’s Eve
winter morning, what I thought would be a routine 16 week check up, was turning
horribly wrong. The doctor spent 20 minutes, trying so hard to find that little
baby’s heartbeat again. But the heartbeat was gone. And I was alone. Completely
alone.
Tears streamed down my
face as I left the clinic, knowing my whole life was about to change. I could feel the chill of the winter
morning on my face, but life seemed to stop. It wasn’t even 9 am on Monday
morning. We had just come home from Christmas vacation – and I had to make a
phone call to Nate, with the saddest words I’ve ever spoken, “Nate, the doctor
can’t find the baby’s heartbeat.” I have never felt so sad, so alone, and so
heartbroken. We went to an emergency ultrasound later that morning – with a
glimmer of hope still barely flickering inside our hearts – hoping they would see a
healthy baby. As we watched the ultrasound, and saw our sweet little baby on
the screen, I thought, “its ok…there’s the baby!!” and the technician was
taking a lot of pictures, so I thought, “everything is ok!”, until my world
suddenly crashed, completely. She said, so simply, “I’m sorry. I can’t find the
heartbeat either.” I fell apart. My heart was bursting with pain & sorrow,
longing for that baby to live.
The week that followed was
devastating. Nate and I spent so many hours crying together, longing for our
baby. Life felt so unfair, and I felt very punished. We couldn’t find joy in
anything. I was completely heartbroken.
And then Friday came
along. I hadn’t had a miscarriage yet, so I needed to go into the hospital for
a D&C procedure. Preparing for that procedure was one of the saddest times
in my life. Walking into the hospital still feeling pregnant, knowing I would
leave without my baby, was terribly haunting. My heart hurts so much thinking back on that day. I have so
much pain inside of me.
We left the hospital that
afternoon, feeling very empty, knowing we had a long, sad road of healing ahead.
What we didn’t know was that our life together was about to become very
fragile.
We were at home for a few
hours. I was resting upstairs on our bed, and I realized I was losing a lot of
blood. I was very light-headed and weak. We started to get ready to head back
into the hospital. Unfortunately, we were a little too slow with our approach.
My brother, Mark, came over to watch the girls. We walked down the stairs
together, and when we got to the bottom, I passed out. I don’t remember much
after that moment, except when I came to, I could hear my brother’s voice, calm
& loving, soothing me and telling me to stay with them. He was rubbing ice
cubes on my forehead. I knew he would take care of me. I will never forget that
love of my brother. Nate had already called the ambulance, and we would soon be
on our way to the hospital. Riding in the back of an ambulance, while on
oxygen, was what I thought would be the most terrifying experience of my life.
I just wanted to be home with my girls and husband. I was completely
frightened.
We spent a little time at
the hospital by our home – and then were transported to a hospital in downtown
Minneapolis. I needed a blood transfusion. The doctor estimated I had lost
about 1/3 of my body’s blood at that point. I was so afraid. The details after
the blood transfusion are all very blurry to me. I think the blood transfusion
took place around 3 or 4 am on Friday night – and my next memories are at about
5 am on Sunday morning (over 24 hours later)…waking up, seeing my husband’s smile. He claims that I
wasn’t very pleasant when I first woke up from being sedated – but I remember
feeling so lucky to see his face. I had no idea what had occurred. The doctors
had tried to do another D&C procedure, with no success. The bleeding
wouldn’t stop. So they had to do uterine artery embolization. After the embolization,
they tried to take me off the ventilator, and I started coughing up fluid –
which was very scary. My lungs were surrounded by fluid (from all the fluids
from the blood transfusion). The doctors told Nate the news, and told him that
they had to manually keep me breathing for about 20-25 minutes. I think this
was the hardest, most terrifying part of the experience for Nate. I can’t
imagine hearing that news. He is so strong, and so full of love.
The funniest part of the
entire experience is that at about midnight on Saturday night, I pulled the
respirator tube out of my mouth! Enough of that! I guess I had been trying to
get it out earlier…and the nurses had to keep me from pulling it out, and
finally on Saturday night, when Nate went to the waiting room to get some sleep (he
hadn’t slept since Thursday night), I (while sedated) pulled out my tube! I
have always been strong willed & motivated – but that is surely the
funniest "determined" thing I’ve ever done.
When they told me I did that, I thought “yep, that sounds about
right!!”.
On Sunday morning, I woke
up to a world that was very confusing, very foggy, very lonely, and very hard
for me to accept. I couldn’t function. I was in the ICU in an extreme amount of
pain, and I didn’t understand what had happened – and what was ahead. I soon
was moved to a normal hospital room, to recover for a couple days.
The days ahead were filled
with moments of deep gratitude and extreme love – and very dark sorrow. I longed for my life
before. It was two weeks after
Christmas – and all I wanted was to return to that prior state of happiness.
But I knew it was gone. I knew our baby was gone, and I was learning what was
to be the hardest part of all of this: another "empty room"- rooms that couldn't be unlocked in my 'House of Motherhood': that we likely won’t be able to have any
more children – the saddest words I’ve ever heard.
I cannot begin to express
how devastating and heartbreaking this news was. It took days to process – days
for me to even understand the words. And I still have not come close to
accepting those words. I don’t know that I ever can.
My heart is broken. Our
baby is gone. There is a void in my heart that cannot be filled. My heart feels
empty. Nate and I were so excited for our third child. Adelie and Kennedi were thrilled
to be having a baby brother or sister. We were going to find out at the end of January if it was a boy or girl!
And the baby would be here in June…and now it’s all gone. The baby is gone, and
we likely will never have another.
No sadness will ever compare to this. I have never experienced pain like
this.
But, with all the pain that we
are experiencing, I am so grateful for my life. Nate told me a story that his
sister told him while we were in the hospital. While we were still recovering
in the hospital, Adelie and Alyssa had been reading a book (Tell Me Something
Happy Before Go To Sleep) about a bunny who was having a hard time falling
asleep. Adelie told Alyssa, “maybe the bunny can’t go to sleep because she
misses her mommy”. I have never missed my daughters so much. I adore them in
every way. I love each of them more and more every day, and being away from
them, and in such a sad state, was so hard for me.
There are "rooms" in my life that have never been more beautiful. Coming home to my
daughters was the happiest moment of my life. Every moment I share with them
seems more precious. Everything seems more beautiful with the girls and with my
best friend by my side.
I often say, “I never knew
my capacity to love could be greater”, but have really gained a pure
understanding of this, after experiencing all of this sorrow. When I married my
best friend three and a half years ago, I thought, “I have it all. I married
the kindest, most loving, selfless person I’ve ever known, and I love him more than I
ever knew I could love anyone.” I knew I was the luckiest. I knew that our life
would be happy, because we loved each other so honestly and so completely. And
then we had Adelie. I remember vividly the beautiful moments after her birth,
thinking, “I never knew my capacity to love could be greater than it was, but
it is!”. Everything about Adelie made my heart burst with love. She & Nate
made my life beautiful in every way, and I thought, “I have it all!”. And then
we had Kennedi. In the sweet, quiet moments after her birth, I knew without a doubt
that indeed my capacity to love had increased again. I cradled her, and kissed
her as a sweet newborn, and knew I would forever adore this little girl. I was
so looking forward to those moments again – of holding our child for the first
precious, magical moments, and feeling such a surge of love and gratitude. For now, my gratitude
will be focused completely on the four of us - and our love for each other. I never knew I could love Adelie, Kennedi,
and Nate more than I already did - but I do. I know without a doubt that "I have it all" with the three of them.
There is a definite void – and an emptiness in my heart, but I have a beautiful
life with the three of them – and my capacity to love them is now greater than it ever was.
Cuddling with Adelie the
first night I was home from the hospital was nothing short of magical. She laid
next to me, smiling up at me with the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen her smile.
I thought to myself, “I was so close to never having these moments again.” and
I cried. – tears of gratitude, tears of extreme pain and tears of extreme love.
I am so grateful for my girls. I will forever remember that night, holding her
close, and never wanting to let go. I love Adelie and Kennedi more than I could
ever express. Hearing Adelie say “I love you…so much!!” and sharing kisses and
snuggles with Kennedi makes me the happiest, most grateful girl. I never dreamed
life would be so beautiful for me.
I want more than anything to
find the greatest beauty in life, the greatest joy. I am hoping that as we
process the pain and grieving, that we can search for the “silver lining” in
all of it – that we can find a joy that can only be known by experiencing such
pain. Nate and I saw a movie last week, where the character lives by the
philosophy of “Excelsior” (Latin for “ever upward”). I hope to be the same – always trying to be stronger and more beautiful – and living my life “ever upward”.
Nothing will make me happier
in life than being the best wife I can to my husband, and the most loving
mom I can be to my children. I think everyone that knows me, knows that my
heart & soul belong to my daughters. I truly love them more and more every
day, and I cannot imagine a day without them. Nate is amazing. He was so strong
through all of this – and he has experienced just as much pain and sorrow
through all of this. I have never been more grateful to be married to such a
wonderful, strong, loving person. I told him last week, and I truly believe
this: I have never loved him more.
“In each of our Houses,
there are doors. Doors which, upon our entrance, transform us into better, more
beautiful women. Doors to rooms which hold deep pains, pure joys, and truths
which will root themselves deep into our souls and change us for good.”
I hope I can become a
better, more beautiful woman – and I hope to be changed for good. I pray that I
can find the “secrets to understanding life and bringing good to needy places."
