and - just like that - my family is incomplete once more...

I have obviously not been posting anything this summer, and for the most part, that has been due to our newest little family member keeping me busy, busy, busy. But for the past month, that has not been the only reason I've been quiet on here.

Just when our family had finally become complete with the arrival of baby Luciana, and just as I was getting settled into the new way of things with her, and enjoying the summer with her and Super Boy, terrible tragedy struck.

On the afternoon of August 8th, I received a phone call I never, ever wanted to get from my stepmom, saying that my dad had been in a motorcycle accident earlier in the afternoon and did not survive. My dad was gone.

Hearing those words was surreal. Unless and until you've heard them yourself, you cannot fathom the soul-searing grief that comes with them. In fact, there's those few moments right after those words curl up in your ears when you can't quite comprehend them, when your brain hasn't quite caught up with them yet. I had to ask my stepmom to repeat them at first because it didn't seem possible that she had really said what I heard.

I happened to be nursing the baby when the call came. I was sitting up in the baby's room, in the rocking chair, quietly feeding the baby and enjoying a restful moment. The phone rang; I could hear it, but the upstairs cordless was in my bedroom. I heard Super Boy answer it downstairs, and heard him coming up the stairs to bring the phone to me. He said, "Mom, it's Grandma R." Upon hearing it was her, I chuckled, because we had just emailed that morning and I told her to let Dad know I was going to call him that afternoon. In fact, the baby was falling asleep while I was feeding her, so I had planned to lay her down and then call him. When I took the phone, I greeted her the way I always did: "Hey, Bud! What's up?"

I don't know how she got the words out, I really don't. In the deepest depths of her own shock and despair, she had to call me, my older sister and my younger brother to tell us the horrible news that our dad was dead. I give her a ton of credit for finding the strength in those moments to make those phone calls; I don't know if I could have done it had it been me.

When it finally hit me what she was saying, that my dad was gone, I instantly felt like I wanted to get as far out of my own skin as I possible could, as far away from that moment, that news, as possible. My mind whirled and raced, making no sense whatsoever. I couldn't breathe. I didn't know what to say. Keening wails rose from my toes, out of nowhere, and wouldn't stop.

My dad was gone.

My stepmom kept telling me how sorry she was, and finally something brought me back into my right mind again so I could tell her how sorry I was for her, too, to lose her husband. As enormous a hole as losing my dad was leaving in me, I knew it was just as bad if not worse for her, losing her partner in life, the person she had planned to grow old with. My dad was only 62; far too young to be gone, or to leave my stepmom a widow.

I asked her what happened. She was still in such shock herself that she couldn't remember everything the sheriff's deputy had told her at the hospital, but she told me what she did recall.

My dad had been riding his motorcycle just outside of the small town in northern Wisconsin where they lived, on a two-lane highway, and the person driving the vehicle ahead of him had stopped to wait for traffic to clear from the north so she could turn left. Rosie didn't know whether the driver stopped at the last second or my dad hadn't been paying attention, but either way, my dad didn't have enough time to react safely. God bless my dad, he must have realized he couldn't brake fast enough, so instead, he tried to lay his Harley down, knowing he'd be injured to some extent but he'd be sparing whoever was in the vehicle ahead. Unfortunately, he hadn't worn his helmet that day. But the sheriff's deputy told my stepmom that he was unresponsive when authorities got to the scene and he died quickly.

What has haunted me since receiving that phone call, what has kept me awake at night, is wondering what his final moments felt like for him. Did he know he was probably going to die? Did he feel any of what happened between when he decided to lay the bike down and when he actually drew his last breath? What did he think of as it was happening? Did he know how much we all loved him?

Nothing can prepare a person for such a sudden loss, much less one so traumatic. Especially when one thinks one has at least another 20 years with their loved one, as I did.

Tomorrow will be one month since my dad died. Intellectually, I know he's gone. Emotionally, I still cannot believe it. It just doesn't make sense. It's not right. He should still be here. I need him; we all need him. Nothing else has changed except that he is not where he is supposed to be, and never will be again.

I dream of him. In the dreams, he is alive at first, and I am so happy to see him, but then I remember that I'm not supposed to be able to see him because he's really not alive anymore. And my heart aches, and I wake up in tears.



I miss my dad. I miss him so much, it hurts. I want to hear his voice, to get one of his great dad hugs. To tell him how much I love him and how proud I have been to be his daughter. He wasn't a perfect man, and he often drove me nuts, but he was my dad. And he was a good dad.

I love you so much, Pappy. I will miss you every moment of every day for the rest of my life. Wherever you are, I hope you know that. Thank you, for everything.



SW

remembering

Well, the day I had been dreading came and went without much fuss, although it was certainly on my mind from the moment I woke up until the moment I fell asleep. Still, it was hard to feel the crushing sadness and disappointment I might have otherwise felt given where I am right now.

The due date for my April 2010 pregnancy that didn't make it was 01/01/11.

Prior to conceiving the baby girl I'm carrying now, I eyed the end of my calendar with wariness, dreading the year coming to a close and bringing that painful reminder with it, especially because I had looked at that due date as incredibly auspicious and apropos under the circumstances: entering a new year making a fresh start with a brand new baby. After losing that pregnancy, even just allowing my mind to momentarily alight on that thought was painful enough, much less thinking about living through a whole day of thinking about it.

But then I got pregnant again. And this one stayed. And thrived. And we found out we were expecting a daughter. And there was no going back.

And so, on 01/01/11, instead of wallowing in the depths of despair over my earlier loss, I was marveling in the miracle of this pregnancy, feeling my little girl moving in my swollen belly, knowing that things perhaps didn't turn out the way we had thought they were going to, but they are going to turn out the way they were always meant to.

Yes, I thought of the pregnancy that failed; I said a little prayer of thanks for it, because had it not been for achieving it - albeit briefly - I might've given up on continuing to try. The simple fact that I had achieved pregnancy after so many years of trying was a blessing and fortified me to keep going, gave me faith that we were right to keep trying. And here we are.

Another thought pervaded my mind that day. I thought back to when we tried for Super Boy, and how disappointed I was that we didn't conceive the first two months we tried for him (boy, was that short-sighted of me, given what awaited us when we tried for our second child together!). But then after Super Boy was born and I was marveling over him in all his glory, it occurred to me that if I had conceived in either of the other two months we tried, the baby I would've been holding at that moment would not have been HIM. And I wouldn't trade him for anything in the Universe.

I realized then that, yes, I had to "wait" a little longer to get pregnant, but it was so that HE would be the child I ended up with. It all happened the way it was meant to.

And even though losing my April pregnancy was devastating and horrible and not at all what I wanted, it had to happen that way so that my body would be ready to conceive THIS baby, my little girl, in August. I believe that it happened the way it did because that's how it had to happen, that was how it was all meant to be.

Prior to finding out that I was pregnant this time, I posted something on this blog in one of my first few posts, some excerpts from one of my favorite books, The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran, about joy and sorrow. I realize how completely and utterly true those words are as I sit here reflecting on this issue.

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

What that means to me is that, yes, I mourn the loss of my April pregnancy -- but without that loss carving such a deep swath of sorrow through my soul, I could not experience the immense and utter joy I feel now as I await the birth of my daughter. My capacity for sorrow was increased by the loss of that pregnancy because I knew what a joy it was to have Super Boy, but then my capacity for joy was also increased because I had suffered that loss. It's a circle: to have one, you must have the other, too.

So, to my pregnancy lost~ I love you and I am so thankful that you were with me, even though it was only for a short while. I believe that the spirit of you is in the Universe, with us always, and that your presence led us here. I will never forget that I loved you and lost you, and I know that every time I look at my daughter, I will be thinking of you, too. Thank you for existing, for keeping me on my path, for bringing us here. You're always in my heart!

Lovingly,
SW

power of prayer?

People have often told me over the years that they were keeping me/us in their prayers that God would answer our prayers and give us another child to complete our family. I always appreciated the sentiment and was grateful for their prayers, as I was of course also praying HARD AND CONSTANTLY for the same thing. Only it seemed like God wasn't listening. To any of us.

I'm Catholic. I'm ashamed to say I don't understand my religion completely, but I'm working on it. I have a few big issues with the Catholic Church, and sometimes I wonder if I truly am a Catholic then, or if I'm really "just" a Christian. I'm not sure that it matters entirely what my label is, though.

What I do consider myself to be whole-heartedly is spiritual. I DO believe in God. I DO believe there is a higher power that created us all and guides our lives in ways big and small, and that all of life MEANS something, whether we ever figure out the meaning or not.

So, through the past four-and-a-half years of trying for another baby, yes, I have prayed. Not just to God and Jesus, but to the Universe-at-large. I have prayed that we would find the last member (or members) of our family, somewhere, somehow.

When after three-and-a-half years of trying on our own under the care of my regular ob-gyn we were still not pregnant, I made an appointment with our fertility specialists. I had thought about seeking help from them sooner, but something always held me back. Admittedly for awhile it was a financial consideration, as our insurance wouldn't cover testing or treatment for infertility. But even when we came into new insurance that would cover testing and treatment (up to and including IUI but NOT in vitro), I hesitated to take that step. Maybe it was a matter of feeling ashamed that after achieving one pregnancy (Super Boy) easily and without assistance, we were now completely incapable of repeating our success; maybe it was a bit of resistance due to the sheer sterile mechanics of it all and not wanting to completely rely on medicine & science to make it happen at the expense of love and romance.

How silly of me, I know. For starters, while the love was always present, the romance was long gone! That went out the window after about Year #2 of trying to conceive without success. Beyond that point, it was like a critical monthly mission planned with military precision more than any kind of stolen romantic moments. I had laser-like focus on my window of fertile opportunity, and Super Man just jumped when I said jump. Or, well, you know.

Very hot, yes?

With the first IUI, we sort of knew what to expect, having talked it through with the doctors, but we both felt a little weird about the whole thing, given that we wouldn't even be in the same room when the insemination actually happened. Super Man would go in to the fertility clinic early in the morning, do his thing in a specimen cup, and drive his usual hour commute to work. Two hours later, I'd show up at the fertility doctors' office, strip from the waist down and the doctor and his med student assistant would attempt to impregnate me, with Super Man's swimmers.

Tres romantique, eh?

The only thing that remained spiritual about our new, more scientific attempts to conceive was the praying. As I'd lay on the table for the required 8 minutes after each IUI, I would pray the entire time that our prayers would finally be answered and I'd get pregnant with another baby. I'd cry, too - I'm a hyper-emotional person on my best days, and trust me, the fertility medications only "enhanced" that aspect of my personality. Think PMS ALL THE TIME. Between the praying and the crying and the enormous hope bursting forth from my chest, I felt convinced each time that we would MAKE this happen, by sheer force of will and want.

And yet, I was let down time and again.

And then something happened.

I met a wonderful woman through the new church we joined at the same time we began seeing the fertility specialists. This woman happens to be a nun. And I felt an instant spiritual connection to her.

I can't explain it, and believe me, I've tried to understand it. All I can say is that she reminds me very much of one of my grandmothers, the one I lost too soon, when I was only 10. That grandmother is the only member of my family that I closely resemble, and I always felt I had a special relationship with her, as a child. To see Sister A. and see so much of my grandmother in her was astonishing.

But the connection I felt to her went beyond that; it was like I knew we had been brought together on purpose, at that time, for a reason. I knew she was there to help me as I continued on - and will eventually finish - my journey to try to have another child. What I am meant to be to her, I don't know - but I suspect she does.

I felt compelled to tell her about our struggle, and to ask her for her help in the form of prayer. It was so weird, how strong the urge was, because I usually get to know people a little bit before I bare that part of my life to them. But I shared our situation with Sister A. and asked for her help. She didn't judge me, she didn't make me feel bad or guilty for pursuing fertility treatment; she just told me sincerely and with great kindness and respect that she would be praying for us, and would ask her sisters from her Mother House in Ohio to pray for us, as well.

Over the following months, as we continued on our fertility treatment path, Sister A. would periodically approach me or email me to see how things were going, and to assure me that she was still praying for us constantly. She would send me special prayers in the mail and via email, and include us on the weekly prayer list (without naming us, per my request).

I found out earlier this year that she was leaving our parish and taking on a new ministry in Kentucky, working with the poor in the mountain communities. I was devastated to learn that she was leaving, considering I'd just found her a few months prior, but I knew in my heart she had to answer her call. It was embarrassing how strongly I was reacting to her news, with tears and true sadness to lose her. She assured me she'd stay in touch, and wasn't leaving until summer besides, and she put me at ease. Still, when the end of the religious education classes came around in early April and the going away celebration was had for Sister A., I couldn't stop crying. I was truly heartbroken to know she'd be gone soon.

When I found out that IUI #3 worked at the very end of April, Sister A. emailed me the day after to see if I had any news, almost as though she KNEW I did. I shared the happy, long-awaited news with her and she was thrilled for us. Her sisters back in Ohio emailed us their congratulations as well, and I was so incredibly touched. Over the next two weeks, Sister A. sent me adorable baby-themed notecards so I could continue to write her and update her on the pregnancy after she left for Kentucky, which I was so touched by.

Unfortunately, I lost that pregnancy just a few weeks after it began. I immediately wrote Sister A. to tell her the devastating news. I told her that I was heart-broken, numb, struggling with turning to God for comfort, after He had given me the gift I'd waited so long for only to take it away. She told me how sorry she was, but encouraged me to keep faith, not to give up, to trust that there was a reason. I resisted embracing that thought, but it turns out, she was right.

When I tried to get pregnant with Super Boy, it took us three attempts. I was terribly sad when the first two failed, but after I got pregnant with Super Boy and delivered him - my beautiful, healthy, wonderful little boy - it occurred to me that if I had gotten pregnant on either of the other two attempts, I wouldn't have HIM -- I'd have a different child. And how could I wish for that when the child I ended up having was so perfectly wonderful and lovely and everything I could have ever dreamed of and hoped for and more?

I believe now that the pregnancy in April happened to make me realize that I was right to keep trying, even though everyone around me seemed to be losing faith that I'd ever get pregnant again. That all-too-brief pregnancy happened to keep me from giving up. And I believe that I lost that pregnancy because the child we're meant to have is still coming to us. I firmly believe - and always have - that there IS another child in the Universe destined for us. When it happens, it will happen because THAT is the child we're supposed to add to our family.

Sister A. was right to encourage me to keep faith in God, to trust that He has His reasons. I see that, and I believe that.

Sister A. emailed me right before our fourth IUI attempt from late August, to let me know that she continues to pray for us, always, and that I'd been in her thoughts. I think that was a very good sign.

And I still believe.