This Old House

We said goodbye to our old house this week. Well, truthfully, it was a long, drawn out goodbye, which started when we put it on the market, unexpectedly sold it only ten days later, closed on it in April, rented it back from the new owners for a month, and then finally moved into the new house last weekend. But earlier this week, we went back, cleaned out the few remaining remnants, fixed a couple of things, vacuumed it one more time, and turned over the keys to the new owners.

It was a good house for us. It was the first house we owned together as a married couple. We bought it a few months after we married, more for the financial sense of it than anything else. We knew we would eventually need more space, but it was a great price in the right part of town, so we bought it anyway.

We had big plans for that house. We had rooms we were going to paint, things we were going to buy, upgrades we were going to do to make it feel more like us.

And then, four days after we moved in, I found out I was pregnant. Almost as soon as we moved in, I felt the clock ticking towards the end of our time in that home. When out-of-town guests visited, for the first few months, they slept in Reagan's room, while Reagan slept in a bassinet by our bed. As he got bigger, it became more and more tricky to accommodate everyone. Within six months, I was thinking about our next house, already feeling the restrictions of a two-bedroom home.

We had been in the house a little over a year when we started talking about adoption, and then the clock ticked a little louder. Walls went unpainted. The gallery of photos we planned on hanging on the stairwell remained unhung. I stopped looking for things to add to our home, and started thinking about how much we were going to have to pack up, eventually.

By the time we found our current home, I had spent weeks looking at homes with our realtor. I think the official count was 37 homes I walked in and out of, not counting ones we drove to and didn't bother going in because it was the wrong neighborhood or looked too rundown or any other reason. As soon as I walked into our new house, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was meant to be ours. It just felt like home.

Suddenly, the old house was just that ... the old house. We had a shiny new house, with newly-painted walls before we even moved in. We bought new furniture, and other items to make it feel more like us. We made plans for upgrades and minor renovations, like expanding our deck. Before we spent a night in the house, it was ours. I imagined Reagan running around in the backyard, I planned the bedroom for the daughter we haven't met yet, and I looked for furnishings that would add our own personal touch.

I didn't think much about the old house, even while we were still living in it while packing up boxes, and throwing out bags and bags (and bags) of items we were discarding. By the time the movers came, I barely gave a thought to what we were leaving behind.

It wasn't until a couple days later, when I dropped Reagan off with a friend and drove to the old house to do a few last-minute things, that it hit me.

This was the house where I'd lay on our old couch at night, very pregnant, because some smell made me so nauseous during my pregnancy. It's where my husband fed me apples and milk shakes at night to get me through until the next morning (when I'd sometimes have more apples and milkshakes).

This was the house where we brought Reagan home for the first time, all six lbs. of him, afraid we might break him because he was so small.

This was the house we took turns rocking and rocking and rocking him through his colic phase, when all three of us were in tears because nothing was working.

This was the house where he took his first bath, laying in his tiny little blue plastic bathtub with his arms up like he was ready to box anyone who came too close to him.

This was the house where he started to crawl, took his first steps, said his first words, said his first sentence.

This was the house where he had his first big boo-boo, when he tripped over his toddler feet and landed head-first on the concrete.

This was the house where he splashed in his kiddy pool on our patio, and ran up and down the hill behind our house until we were both worn out.

This was the house where he went from being the worst sleeping baby to the best, seemingly overnight, and would sleep for 11 hours straight, sometimes more, before waking up and saying, 'Up, please. Up, please. Up, please.'

Reagan turned one in that house, and then he turned two.

And then we moved.

He probably won't even remember the old house, except through pictures. But we will. We'll remember the great memories, and the not so great ones. We'll remember the sleepless nights, the baby giggles, the explosive diapers, and a thousand other things.

I'm glad we moved. Reagan has a yard, and trees to play in. We have more space, more room to grow, and a place to bring our little girl home.

But it was a good house for us. It was good to us. It holds some of our best, and maybe a few of our worst, memories. The walls could tell countless stories.

Goodbye, old house. You will be missed.

A Letter to My Mother

Today (May 4) marks the 10-year anniversary of when my mother lost her battle with a brain tumor and passed away. But 'lost' really isn't the right word. For my mother, a woman of great, great faith, who seemed to have a direct line to God, she would say she won. She believed, as I do, that our last breath on Earth is immediately followed by our first breath in Heaven. In fact, in a letter she wrote to her family, ironically written one full year before her diagnosis, to be read after she passed away, she said "Do not weep for me. I am more alive now than I have ever been."

I have no doubt that she is.

But, the peace of where she is does not ease the loss of her not being here. Not one day has gone by in the past 10 years where I haven't mourned her loss again. Not one. Sometimes it's more like a dull ache, and sometimes it feels much deeper.

While there is much that I miss about her, my biggest heartache is that she didn't get to meet my amazing husband, and she didn't get to see my sweet son, who would undoubtedly have captured her heart. She loved my nephew Hunter with such a fierce passion and intensity, and it pains me that Reagan will never experience that.

Still, I believe the veil between here and there is very, very thin, and I believe -- I choose to believe -- that she gets glimpses of our lives. While I know our richest moments here are pale in comparison to any moments on the other side, deep in my heart I know she sees at least some of what we experience.

I can't pick up the phone and call her anymore, like I used to do multiple times a day. I can't send her an e-mail or a card or sit at her kitchen table or take her out to lunch (where she'd insist on picking up the tab anyway). But I can write to her. And so, to commemorate the day that was at once my worst and her best, I offer a letter that I hope in some way finds itself to her.

Dear Mom,

Happy 10th anniversary! I know time doesn't exist in Heaven, at least not like it does here, but for us, it feels like a big day.

I miss you. That is an understatement, but suffice it to say, I miss you. A lot. But I have no doubt that you are in a much, much better place, and I know our separation, while excruciating for me at times, is temporary.

You would love my husband, Johnny, and my son, Reagan. You'd love both of them, so much. Johnny because he takes care of me so well. He does a lot of the housework, he makes my coffee and breakfast every morning, and he supports my dreams and passions. We share a love of a lot of things, including road trips, good desserts and cooking. His culinary skills are pretty impressive. We have many things from your kitchen, and I always smile when I see him using something that your hands once touched. Those pots and pans could tell a lot of stories.

You would be completely enamored by Reagan, without question. He's two now, and such a joy. Even when he's fussy (which is very, very rare), he's cute. And when he knows he has done something wrong, he is quick to say "sorry," often without any prompting from me. He has a very tender heart, and likes to pray to Jesus -- sometimes multiple times while we're eating. For a long time, he looked almost exactly like my baby pictures, but now he's starting to look more like a mix of both of his parents.

I'm so proud to be his Mommy, but it is frustrating to me that I have to do it without you. I always imagined you would help guide me through the process, from his frustrating colic soon after he was born (I remember you telling me I was very colicky, so maybe it's payback), to teething and potty-training, and on and on. When he does something cute, like tries to 'hide' while saying 'Hi Mom! Hi Mom!' when I pretend to be looking for him, or when he talks to himself in his crib when he's supposed to be sleeping (and then makes himself giggle), I wish every single time that I could pick up the phone and call you to tell you about it.

I have no doubt you already also love our new daughter, even though we haven't met her yet. We are, of course, very anxious to bring her into our home, but I keep reminding myself that God's timing isn't ours.

You already have two grandchildren in Heaven -- children we weren't given the privilege of meeting here on Earth. I'm sure you're loving on them, and it comforts me to envision all of you playing together.

I have to confess that we didn't listen to a couple of the requests you wrote in your letter for your funeral. We did use the music you requested, and Pastor Alvin talked about the topics you wanted covered in his message, but we did have a public viewing, and while you wanted it to be a celebration of life -- and in many ways it was -- there were a lot of sad people there that day. Sad because you left such a mark on so many people, and they grieved that they wouldn't have the chance again to sit with you, talk with you, spend time with you. People came from all over to pay their final respects. You would have been embarrassed by all of the attention. Everyone from childhood friends to recent friends, plus so many people who were friends of Dawn and I and knew how much our hearts were hurting, showed up to pay tribute to your extraordinary life.

Per your wishes, we did not purchase an expensive casket that, as you said in your letter, "would just rot in the ground." But I did not sing at your funeral. Dawn and I both spoke, but the idea that I could actually sing at your funeral was, well, a bit beyond my abilities that day. All in all, though, I think you would have been pleased with how your life was honored.

We buried you the day before Mother's Day. For many years, that day was the worst day of the year for me. Now that I have a son, it is a bit better, but truth be told, I'm always glad when the day ends. While it's a reminder of what I have, it's also a reminder of what I've lost.

No one will ever replace you. No one. But regardless of how old you are in life, you still need a mother, and a few woman have stepped in, in some form or capacity, to try to fill that hole in my life. Of course, your sister Millie is at the top of the list. She has endured so much sorrow, including losing her own son Dwayne to cancer only 17 months after your passing, but she is always willing to talk when I need to, and she dotes on Reagan whenever we are home in PA.

So many other women, too many to mention, have stepped in on your behalf. And they've done a great job. But while I'm so very, very grateful for each of them, they will never replace you. They could never replace you.

The day before you passed away, you couldn't talk because of the tube down your throat, but you could nod and shake your head. I asked you if I would be ok without you. You smiled, nodded, and squeezed my hand.

The truth is, you were right, and you were wrong. Life goes on, and I'm truly happier than I've ever been. Life feels so sweet and rich, and I marvel sometimes at how well my life has turned out.

But I'm never going to be really ok without you. I will always miss you. I will always wish for one more day with you. I will always wish things had turned out differently. I will always miss your cards, your phone calls, those long talks at the kitchen table, your amazing food and a thousand other things. There's an ache in my heart that never completely goes away. Sometimes I can think about you and smile, and even laugh as I recount things that seem funny now -- like how you always took the smallest piece of pie so there would be more for other people, or reusing something over and over again to not waste money -- but sometimes, unexpectedly, I still feel a wave of sadness over your absence.

I try, and I will always try, to honor your life by living life well. If I can become even half of the woman, wife and mother that you were, I will count my life a success.

I love you, Mom. See you on the other side.

P.S. Say hi to my babies for me.

The Blog I Didn't Want to Write

When I was pregnant with Reagan, I was adamant that I would nurse, at least for the first six months of his life, preferably a year. Partly for health reasons, and partly because formula is so ridiculously expensive, it never occurred to me not to nurse. Plus, I wanted that bonding time with my son. I envisioned me gently caressing his sweet little face while he happily nursed, content in his Mommy's arms. I even remember telling my husband that of course Reagan would bond with me more in the beginning, since I would be nursing, which is why he should try to do other things with Reagan to balance it out.

Unfortunately, Reagan never got that memo. We spent two painful days in the hospital, with the 'lactation consultants' assuring me that my milk would eventually come in, and Reagan would naturally figure it out. They (wrongly) advised us to just give him enough formula so he wasn't starving, and that way he would want to nurse more when my milk came in because he would be so hungry. (The ludicrousness of that advice, and the fact that I actually followed it, still makes me shudder).

By day 6, when it still hadn't come in, I felt like a complete failure, as a mother, a woman and a human being. Ultimately, after one very expensive pump, multiple phone calls to various health professionals, and a visit with his pediatrician where I confessed through many tears that I felt like the worst mother ever, we realized I was never, ever going to make enough milk to feed my child. We stumbled through the first five months, using mostly formula and a little bit of my milk, until one day it dawned on me that I was making everyone in the house miserable, including myself, and I just gave up.

It took me several months to tell anyone about it, because I felt like I had already failed my first, most basic role. But as I started talking about it, it seemed everyone had either had the same problem, or knew someone who had the same problem with nursing as I did. Who knew I wasn't the only one?

Since then, I've talked about it -- a lot. Especially to pregnant and new moms. And I realized that by not talking about it, I had harmed both myself by keeping it inside, and had not offered a supportive ear to others who may have been struggling with the exact same thing.

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson. Sometimes I'm a slow learner.

Our family went through something else last year. Something I haven't wanted to talk about. Something I try to avoid talking about, let alone blog about. Something some of the people closest to me don't even know about. But it dawned on me a few weeks ago that if I can bring myself to talk about it, I may be able to help someone else going through the same thing.

So.

Here goes.

Deep breath.

We had two miscarriages last year.

Two.

Ok. That wasn't so hard.

I really can't take all the credit for suddenly being willing to share this dark, dark chapter. Two of my sweet friends, Jolina Petersheim and Amanda Sims, who also happen to be fantastic writers, wrote about their own experiences (find their blogs here and here), and reading their stories helped me heal. A lot. Yet, I held on to this shadowed corner of my heart, not wanting to reveal it. To anyone.

We found out in January of 2013 I was pregnant. It wasn't planned, but it wasn't unplanned either. We knew we wanted another child, so it felt like a welcome gift. We were in PA for a belated Christmas celebration, and I spent the day with my very, very best childhood friend, Twila Ramirez. We had breakfast and a spa day, and then stopped by the drugstore to get a test. I was so sure I was pregnant -- that ALWAYS sleepy feeling, getting a wave of nausea by certain foods, yet feeling hungry 24/7 -- that I also bought a card for my husband for the big reveal. I took the test as soon as I got to my sister's and my hunch was right. I was pregnant.

Truth be told, though, something didn't feel right from the beginning. I couldn't put my finger on why, but I just had this uneasiness the entire time. When I went for my ultrasound, I remember feeling this sense of dread walking into my OB's office. I was right. The baby wasn't big enough as she (I knew right away it was a girl) should have been. We made another appointment for the following week, but only a few days later, I miscarried.

I was devastated. Heartbroken. An emotional mess. But, not very surprised.

My OB encouraged me to try again. She said I was healthy, everything looked good, and there was no reason to believe I couldn't have a successful pregnancy.

Only a couple months later, we found out I was pregnant again. This time, I was excited. Elated. I felt great, other than that pesky nausea. I had to go in for a lot more tests and -- horror of horrors -- almost daily blood work.

With much fear and trepidation, I went for an ultrasound, and there it was. A beautiful, beating heartbeat. I wept tears of relief. Finally. The ultrasound tech said once there's a heartbeat, the chance of miscarriage drops to 5%, so we should be ok.

Whew.

One week later, I went for a follow-up ultrasound, this time with my doctor. Because she hadn't done the original one, she just wanted to see for herself, she said, although she added there was absolutely no reason to think there was anything wrong.

Except, there was.

There was no longer a heartbeat. I was between week 11 and 12, and there was no heartbeat.

For all the weeks I knew I was pregnant, I loved her (I also knew this one was a girl) with a fierceness that surprised even me. I was determined to do everything in my power to give her as comfortable a home as possible while in the womb. I felt more protective of this pregnancy than my other two. This child, I determined, would live.

The next few days and weeks are a blur. I had to have surgery, since I was so far along. My options were to have it the next day, or to wait a week, since my doctor was going out of town. I opted for the next day. I wanted it over with as quickly as possible.

I told so few people. We went to PA the week after my surgery, and I didn't talk about it. I felt ... embarrassed. Embarrassed that my body betrayed me, twice. Embarrassed that, like nursing, I couldn't do the one thing I was supposed to do.

Ultimately, after a few tests and one very, very expensive visit with a geneticist obstetrician, we learned that the miscarriage actually had nothing to do with me. At all. Since they had to do surgery, they tested the fetus for abnormalities, and learned that it (and most likely the baby in the first pregnancy), had a very, very rare disorder called unbalanced reciprocal translocation. It affects chromosomes 1 and 5, and makes carrying past week 12 impossible. And, I wasn't the carrier of it. My bloodwork came back clear, so that meant my sweet husband was the carrier. (He gave permission to share this part of the story).

It wasn't my fault. It most definitely wasn't his fault. It was just a teeny tiny mix-up in the DNA.

The same week I found out I was pregnant, not one, not two, but THREE of my friends found out they were pregnant. I'm not going to lie -- seeing them with their babies still pangs me sometimes. I still picture what our daughter would look like, I think about how old she would be by now, and I grieve as I pack up the tiny baby clothes that once held so much hope.

Right after we found out about the unbalanced reciprocal translocation, which gave us about a 50-50 chance of having a healthy pregnancy, someone innocently said, 'It's about time Reagan gets a brother or sister, isn't it?' I cringed, smiled, and said nothing. Until we announced our adoption, I stumbled over words when someone asked when we were going for Baby #2. One woman, who I barely knew, asked why we were waiting so long to give Reagan a sibling. I blurted out, 'I just had a miscarriage.' She replied, 'Well, you can always try again.'

Ok. Thanks for that.

But, as I've slowly shared my story with people, much like the whole nursing saga, someone inevitably reveals they dealt with the same thing. Or their sister/best friend/co-worker/niece just had one.

I don't have many words of wisdom or pearls of knowledge I've gained from the experience. But, much like I experienced with the passing of my mother, I have learned that time doesn't take the pain away, but it does make it shift. I imagine I'll always feel a bit of sadness when I think about the experience. I definitely am much more sensitive with women who are battling infertility or struggling with a healthy pregnancy, and I never, ever, ever ask when someone is planning on expanding their family. We don't know what the reasons are behind their family size, but there's a strong likelihood that there may be some hurt behind their lack of pregnancy.

Meanwhile, we are adopting. That doesn't take away the pain of the lost pregnancies, but it does give us something to look forward to. However, the adoption was in no way a decision because we couldn't stay pregnant. The adoption was decided months before my first miscarriage. But now that we're in the middle of the adoption, we have chosen not to get pregnant, as that would stall the adoption (per agency requirements).

For anyone who has had a miscarriage, or is battling infertility. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. And I'm sorry that people have unintentionally said insensitive things and made you feel bad for a situation that is not at all your fault. I'm sorry that your life isn't turning out the way you envisioned, and I'm sorry that your arms feel empty and your heart hurts.

And if you need someone to have a cup of coffee with ....