Grief

This is infertility

/ Missi / 11 Comments

When I first went off birth control I was hopeful and naive. I assumed we would get pregnant immediately. I counted out nine months and started wondering how I would tell Andy the news, and then how we would surprise different members of our family. I am a sucker for both planning and surprises.

When we didn’t get pregnant the first month, I figured we would the second, then the third. I kept this up for eight months before I started to wonder if maybe something could be wrong. I had a friend who was in the midst of infertility and I thought it couldn’t hurt to see a doctor.

The Doctor didn’t seem too concerned about my questions and said we hadn’t been trying long enough to worry. She told me it was perfectly normal for someone in their late twenties to take 6-9 months to get pregnant. I mentioned I had recently bought a book on charting to get a better idea of my cycle, ovulation, etc. She encouraged me to use it for a while and start our 6-9 month clock over, now that we were what she called, “actively trying.”

One year later I had 12 pages detailing my daily basal body temperature, date of ovulation, how many days after ovulation my body temp was raised and when it dropped back to normal again to indicate no pregnancy. 

In that year I became all consumed with controlling every aspect I could, in an effort to increase our chances for pregnancy. And I was becoming torn up from the inside out. I lived my life in two week cycles. We were either trying to get pregnant, or waiting to see if we were pregnant. I wasn’t carefree and optimistic anymore. I was a control freak.

Add to that the fact that we had been married for a few years and everyone and their brother was asking us when we were going to have kids. We finally landed on an answer that was honest but not too vulnerable, “We’d like to, we’ll see!”

When I finally went back to the doctor we were diagnosed with infertility because we had been trying for more than a year without a pregnancy. I hated that word. I felt branded. I pictured a big scarlet letter on my chest, but it was an I for infertility. I didn’t want anyone to see it.

Each new pregnancy announcement I heard felt like a personal blow. It didn’t matter if the pregnancy was announced from a co-worker, friend, family member or celebrity. In fact, even pregnant strangers on the street stood out like sore thumbs of what I wasn’t able to get my body to do.

I was becoming bitter and angry and I didn’t know how to stop it. I added jealous and resentful too, for good measure. Each month that my period came I would sob in the bathroom. I felt like a failure. Women had been getting pregnant and delivering babies for thousands of years and I couldn’t figure out the secret. I felt alone.

Fast forward 7 plus years and we’re still not pregnant and never have been (as far as I know). We’ve done several unsuccessful rounds of IUI. I’ve taken various meds, shots, ultrasounds and tests. Our chances of getting pregnant without medical assistance are significantly lower than the average “normal” couple.

And with all that, I still have this stubborn faith that knows God could start a little life in my womb, any day of the week if He so desired. Somehow I’ve moved past the anger and bitterness. Time has helped with that. The first four years of infertility were hands down the hardest. But the good news is, it didn’t stay that way. Day to day life got better. I’m not all dark and twisty over the infertility anymore. It’s a part of my story, even if I didn’t want it. But I’m learning to live with it.

The things that used to be so soul crushing in the beginning, I barely flinch at anymore. When my period comes, I don’t shed a tear over it. It’s just annoying.

When I hear that someone is pregnant now, there’s usually a brief blip of a “really!?!” moment between me and God. But it is short lived, honestly a minute to have that quick feeling expressed and then life moves forward. I don’t dwell or mope about it like I did in the first days of infertility.

One thing I’ve learned in all of this, is delivering a baby is really hard to do! There are so many things that could go wrong, even in just the getting to the “pregnancy” part, let alone having a baby grow in the womb and come out on the other side alive.

I have a deeper happiness and genuine excitement now when people in my world have babies. And that feeling grows exponentially for the ones who have had seasons of infertility and loss first. I’m over the moon for them. I usually cry tears of relief when their babies are born. It’s nothing short of a miracle.

I still love kids and yes, I’d be thrilled if one landed in our laps one day. And there is this other side that’s growing in me too. It’s a little sprig of contentment with our life, as is.

This is infertility.

When to go to a funeral

/ Missi / 1 Comment

I usually go to a funeral because someone I love has died, and that sucks because death sucks.

But what about the other reasons to go to a funeral? What if someone I love has lost someone they love? What if I only knew their loved one casually, or not at all. Does it make sense to go?

I was in my early thirties the first time I was hemming and hawing about whether or not to go to a funeral. My friend’s niece had died. She was eight years old.

My justification for not going was simple, I had never met her niece. I thought this was a pretty compelling reason until I considered the other side. My friend lost someone she loved. Still, I went back and forth trying to figure out if I would be out of place or in the way of the family if I went.

As I was wrestling with this, I asked my co-workers what they thought. One said, “People don’t remember everyone who was at their wedding, but they remember who shows up at a funeral.” So I went. And it was beautiful and heart wrenching at the same time. I found my friend after the service and I hugged her and talked with some of the other family before leaving. 

Since attending that service, my uncle and brother died. I was blown away when five friends showed up for my uncle’s funeral. It was then that I realized what my co-worker said was true. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what it meant to see familiar faces who cared enough about me and my family to be there. Most had never even met my uncle, but they still showed up.

At my brother’s funeral, even more people came. I don’t think I can remember them all. It was a bit of a blur that day. The funeral director said in 30 years he had never seen more people turn out for a funeral than for my brother’s. The sanctuary was packed to standing room only. Another crowd listened in the lobby through speakers. Several dozen motorcycle buddies stood guard outside until the service was over. They rode off together completing the memorial ride they had started that morning in Justin’s honor. The whole day was beautiful and heart wrenching.

I remember many of the people that came to show their support and love. Family friends I hadn’t seen in a decade or more, a friend from junior high, old youth leaders from when Justin and I were teens, Andy’s best friend from college and his wife, and so many friends I can’t possibly list them all (I tried and my eyes started filling with tears so that I couldn’t see the screen anymore). To each of you that came that day, thank you, your presence was such a gift on an extremely difficult day.

It’s overwhelming when people show they love and care about you in a such a simple way.

A month after my brother’s memorial service, our friend’s dad passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. Because we understood how much it meant to have people show up, we checked the newspaper and googled for days to track down the service information. We got the time off work and drove up north. When we walked into the small country church, our friend’s eyes welled up and we hugged for a long time.

When we show up at a funeral we are saying to our loved ones that their pain matters and we are standing in it with them.

I felt love, support, and we’re-standing-with-you-in-this-crappiness from each person who showed up at my brother’s service.

I recently saw the grandmother of the little girl whose memorial service I attended three years ago. We were talking about grief and perspective and about showing up at funerals. She got a serious look on her face as she said, “Because now you know! You know you always go!”

I couldn’t agree more.

Things that remind us

/ Missi / Leave a comment

It’s interesting the things that remind us of someone after they’re gone. My Grandma died 14 years ago, and there are a few things that always make me think of her. Amish furniture- because she loved it and owned it. Car phones- because she was the first person I knew who had one. And I had no end of excitement of calling my Mom from the car. Oh, and open house signs. She was a Realtor and I would help her lug them around and push them into the ground. And then recently there were two distinct things that had me thinking of her.

Last week we had a really windy day. It was especially noticeable to me because it was trash day and the whole neighborhood was filled with everyone’s recycling and garbage as it flew around. Much of it landed in our yard. As I drove home, my car was being swayed by the wind and I heard my Grandma’s voice, clear as if she had just called me on the phone like she used to on days like this- saying, “Did my girl blow away today?”

I could count on it like clockwork. Any windy day and Grandma would give me a call to ask the same line. It surprised me how clearly I could still hear her voice in my head after so many years. She was a tough woman with a strong voice, but gentle when she spoke about, “her girl.” As the only granddaughter (at the time) with 7 grandsons, she loved to introduce me as her, “favorite granddaughter” while she drew out the word favvvorrrrite for emphasis. That was my cue to roll my eyes and say, “I’m her only granddaughter” which would elicit a polite smile from the new acquaintance and a proud, beaming grin from my Grandma.

This past weekend we sang an old hymn at church called, “There is a Redeemer” written by Keith Green’s wife Melody. I can’t remember the last time I heard this song, but the words were so familiar they came right out.

There is a redeemer, Jesus, God’s own Son

Precious Lamb of God, Messiah, Holy One

Jesus my redeemer name above all names

Precious Lamb of God, Messiah oh, for sinners slain

Thank You oh my Father for giving us Your Son

And leaving Your Spirit ’til the work on Earth is done

When we got to the, “Thank you, Oh my Father” part I heard my Grandma’s voice belting out the lyrics in her loud church singing voice, as if she was standing next to me instead of Andy.

I’m a sucker for old hymns, they’re always my favorite. When I learned this song was written in 1977 I wondered if in 15 more years I’ll have sentimental feelings about DC Talk or Audio Adrenaline. Probably not.

I’m not sure why certain memories come to us when they do. But I’m really glad that they do. It’s funny the things that remind us of people after they’re gone.

Showing up in grief

/ Missi / 1 Comment

Just after my brother died, a new friend that I had known for a few months kept showing up. Literally. She would drop by the house again and again. I was so grateful. I had little desire to go anywhere or do anything, so someone stopping in unannounced was perfect.

I imagine I was terrible company. I would sit motionless and watch in silence as my friend took my dirty dishes to the sink and watered the plants I was neglecting. And then she’d sit down across from me on the couch and ask me about my brother.

While I was useless in most every other way, that was one thing I was good at doing. I could tell story after story, because in those first fresh days of grief, Justin was the only topic I could think about, and consequently, talk about. I knew in my head it was probably too much for others to handle, but I couldn’t seem to stop talking.

One day my friend asked me what it was like when he died. No one had asked me that before. And my apologies to my friends who didn’t ask, but I told you anyway. She asked with such a simple innocence that it didn’t seem out of line, or something inappropriate to talk about. It seemed honest, true and real. I am so grateful for her gift of presence and for not shying away from asking questions.

A few weeks later, another friend drove in from out of town to spend a weekend with me while Andy was on a getaway with his parents. He deserved it, by the way. Andy was amazing during the first part of heavy grieving. I could hardly stop crying to go to work (and even now 10 months later I still cry at work sometimes, yay grief!). He did all the cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, he really did everything. I was kind of aware of how much he was doing and how little I was, but I couldn’t seem to get up the energy to actually do anything that would help or contribute.

I was a real treat.

So, when Andy had the chance to get away to the mountains (his happy place) for a few days,  I encouraged him right out the door.

I think he felt okay going because he knew my friend was coming to town. And this was our weekend: My friend cooked our meals and cleaned the house. We took long walks outside by day and watched Netflix and laughed by night. I went into purge mode and found things we weren’t using and listed them online. We sold random things to people as they stopped by the house to buy them all weekend long.

One time we sat in bed and she asked me about the eight days in between knowing Justin was going to die, and his death. I recounted each moment of each day from beginning to end. When I got to the very last part, she was quietly sobbing. My friend kept apologizing for crying. I told her there was no reason to apologize.

In a strange way, her tears were validating for me. It gave permission to acknowledge that the whole situation was shitty, and was not how we had hoped it would end.

By the time my friend left to go back home, our freezer was loaded with homemade muffins and rhubarb crisp, our house was a little less cluttered, and my heart was full.

My friends taught me how important it is to show up when people are hurting. To physically drive to their house and sit there with them to be present in their grief. Words aren’t even necessary. In some cases, no words are preferred.

After I saw this modeled by my friends and I noticed how much it helped me, I realized I’m terrible at this. I want to be better at showing up for friends and family who are hurting.

I guess this is one good thing I’m learning from grief.

8 days of celebration

/ Missi / 1 Comment

Last month was my brother’s birthday. My mom tells birthday stories of me and Justin when we were little. She says I used to give Justin gifts on my birthday so he would feel included in opening presents. As he got older he coined the phrase (stolen from Hanukkah), “Missika” to represent my birthday week because to him the celebration went on and on, like an eight day festival of lights, he’d say.

This year as his birthday neared, I knew I wanted to do something to honor Justin, and an 8 day celebration of life seemed the most obvious. It was fun to think of some of the things he really enjoyed and finding ways to incorporate them into “Gussika.”

Justin was  a big coffee lover. He worked in lots of coffee shops over the years. He preferred his own coffee with several shots of espresso. He told Andy that three or four shots was typical for him, six if it was going to be a long day.  I knew coffee had to be part of his birthday week somehow.

Justin also loved giving things away to people. When he was in Indiana having his last treatment, he was able to give a hungry man his barely touched dinner. He talked about how much it meant to him to still be able to give to someone when he was relying on others himself. The idea to gift someone’s cup of coffee came pretty quickly in a way to honor two things Justin loved: coffee and treating others. I talked to him about it in the car on the way to the coffee shop and I think he would have loved this, conspiring for good.

I also wanted to watch a movie he liked. This was tricky to narrow down the options because there were so many. As a teen he’d watch anything with Jim Carey or Mike Myers. Before that,there were classics like Princess Bride, Monty Python and Spaceballs. I finally settled on Spaceballs having not seen it for at least a decade or two. I laughed at the best lines and imagined Justin quoting the movie with me. It was a bad habit we had from watching the same movies over and over again. Though for him, he only had to watch it once to be able to recite the entire thing. His memory was ridiculous.

Justin loved so many different foods this was a hard one to pick too. Andy and I agreed we definitely wanted to have bacon cheeseburgers on his birthday. From there though, the options were many: bacon, waffles with chocolate chips, eggs benedict with homemade hollandaise, cheesey hashbrowns, beef stroganoff, cheesecake, brownies, etc. I finally landed on double stuff oreos dipped in milk. I had them twice that week.

Music was another thing Justin loved. For a while he was obsessed with the song, “Shoulders” by for King and Country.  He would tell me to blast it to get the full effect. He also liked, “Soul on Fire” by Third Day and it was played by one of his best friends at his celebration of life service while his two year old daughter danced in the front row. Another song was played there that I had never heard before but have come to love. It’s “Good Good Father” by Chris Tomlin. I can’t hear any of these without thinking of Justin. When I turned the radio on during his birthday week, each of these songs was playing for three mornings in a row. I smiled each time.

Justin also loved being outdoors, doing some sort of extreme sport like ice biking in the winter or wake boarding in the summer. Motorcycles, four wheelers, jet skiing, basically anything with a motor, he was interested in it. I have a lack of athleticism but was planning to go snow tubing with our nephews, Andy and his sister. The weather changed that day and our plans were cancelled. So I just stood outside looking at the stars for a bit. Not what I had originally planned, but it was nice and peaceful and I thought of my brother.

On his actual birthday, my sister-in-law emailed a bunch of family and some of his best friends and with just a few hours notice, twenty-one people showed up to celebrate the day Justin was born. My heart swelled a bit looking around the huge table. Even in his absence his presence was felt because each person was there because they loved Justin. He brought all of us together that night. I looked around at the plates and almost everyone had a cheeseburger of some sort. It was a sweet way to celebrate the day that Justin was given life.

I don’t know how heaven works, but I hope he was able to peer over the edge for a minute to see all of us there, honoring the day he was born.

I didn’t do something specific on each of the 8 days before his birthday like I intended. But I did learn how easy it is to do something small to remember and feel close to someone when they’re not here. And that’s a pretty great gift.

My brother, the wordsmith

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My brother was a skilled user of words. Okay, fine, that’s the exact definition of a wordsmith- but I’m not the one with the impressive language skills, he was. Justin loved words so much that when an opportunity came up to take a vocabulary class in high school- he jumped at it.

The first story I remember about Justin’s abnormal vocabulary was when he was somewhere around the age of two. My uncle would show him off like some people show off a cute puppy. For full effect, he would gather a crowd around before asking, “Now Justin, what’s that thing called when you can see something out of the corner of your eye?” Two year old Justin, who could barely pronounce the words, would proudly exclaim, “peripheral vision!”

Once he took the vocab class in high school, he was off and running. Justin took a lot of joy in knowing the meaning of words that others didn’t. He would drop impecunious into conversation just as easily as circumambulate (two words he taught me that mean ‘having little money’ and to ‘walk all the way around something’, respectively). He had an incredible memory and only had to hear something once to remember it and repeat it for the rest of his life.

One of my favorite memories where Justin’s imagination and love of words came together was one winter in elementary school. We had a large sledding hill in the back yard and he made up a creative game called, “Hi, Jack- bye!” or it could also be known as, “Hijack, bye!” through a little wordplay. Justin loved a good pun.

The rules were simple.

If you were on a sled going down the hill, you were, “Jack.” If you were, “it” your job was to run and jump onto the moving sled once Jack was midway down the hill and hijack their ride. First, you had to greet them with, “Hi, Jack” then you had to try to shove them off their sled while yelling, “Bye!” If you were successful, you rode their stolen sled the rest of the way down the hill like a boss while Jack watched on from the middle of the hill.

It still makes me laugh to think about it. It was a physical game and it usually ended with someone in tears, what with all the snow, ice, running and wrestling on a moving sled kind of stuff.

I’m glad I was able to grow up with a brother who came up with such fun things for us to do. Love and miss you, Gus.

The people before me

/ Missi / 2 Comments

When I am in a new situation I don’t know much about, my default mode is research. I dive into books, articles, anything I can get my hands on to learn more. And when possible, I love to learn from people who have been through the same or similar situations.

One person  who had a death in her immediate family told me that people stopped asking how she was doing after six months. She didn’t know if they were tired of asking, or if they thought she should be further along in her grief by that point. She wished people still asked how she was doing with missing her loved ones.

Another friend described her experience following her Mom’s death. The people she thought would be there for her, weren’t. And the people she least expected showed up out of nowhere and were amazing, present and helpful.

Others talked about shifts in family dynamics after a death in their family that were truly heartbreaking.

In a weird way, I’m grateful for the people who went before me in grief. It sounds terrible to say that, because I would rather they never had to go through the loss and I wish their loved ones were still here. I guess what I’m actually grateful for is that they were willing to share with me what their experience was like. To give me a glimpse of what I might find in my own grief.

Many people sent cards after Justin died and I have read and saved every. single. one. There was a card with a handwritten letter inside that I can’t stop thinking about, even nine months later. A friend shared about what she noticed and appreciated in Justin’s life through reading his CaringBridge for almost two years (she had never met him). She also talked about things she learned in the three years since her granddaughter died. When she talked about her grief, I treasured each word, because I knew I was hearing from someone who had suffered a deep loss and was still working through it.

One thing in my friend’s letter stood out. She wrote that she was sure Justin and her granddaughter had already met in heaven. She said maybe Justin had already given her granddaughter a motorcycle ride. It was such a simple sentence, but I haven’t been able to get the idea out of my head. And I don’t want to.

I can picture Justin in my mind, laughing and racing down the streets in heaven, maybe even with a couple kids in tow.

It’s hope found in small things like this, that help redeem a bit of the hurt in loss.

Nicknames

/ Missi / 2 Comments

When I started writing, I figured it would be mostly current events in my not so interesting life. But recently, every time I sit down to write, words upon words about my brother come out. I decided that’s okay. At some point I will naturally talk about him a little less, and that will be okay too.

But for now, he’s often on my mind.

When he is especially on my heart and mind, I wear my “Team Justin” bracelet from his benefit two years ago. When I want to be slightly more discreet about it, I wear two bracelets my friends gave me after he died. One has a motorcycle charm, and the other a personalized name of, “Gus”, my brother’s nickname from when he was young.

When we were teens my brother and I gave each other the nickname, “Fatty” and greeted each other with, “Hey, Fatty” for years. Soon after Justin died, I just wanted to see his handwriting again. So I pulled down a box of letters from my closet and found a card he had mailed to me in 2003. He had listed, “Fatty” as his return address. I smiled and laughed as I read it because he always sent me the most inappropriate cards. I loved it.

About a year ago he asked me to stop using that nickname for him. I asked him if Gus was okay. He replied, “that works.” And so I switched. My friends took note of it when they decided to give me something to wear when I’m missing Justin.

Sometimes people’s thoughtfulness is overwhelming in a good way.