It happens every year. As we get closer to Korbin's birthday the flashbacks to moments leading up to his birth resurface and I'm suddenly lost in a moment in time, stuck remembering some of the worst parts of the day leading up to his birth and death. I'm in school now, just started Monday, and so my mind is being pulled away from the usual more constant flashbacks that occur each year and leave me emotionally and physically drained. But alas, here we are again.
This time, it was school that triggered it. Part of a discussion board had me thinking about how we talk to patients before procedures, such as retrievals and transfers. My mind went quickly to focus on retrievals and how much we, the embryologists, attempt to keep the patient's attention and distract them while the anesthesiologist puts needles in and starts their IVs. It's a welcome distraction for the patients, and sometimes they express such gratitude for what we are able to do for them. Collect something so precious and safely tuck them away till it's time for icsi, blast development, and hopefully transfer as an embryo back in to the patient's uterus.
My mind suddenly flashed to the moments before Korbin was born and being whisked away by wheelchair as someone (a nurse? an MA?) was telling me to call my husband. But I was done. The single worst thing I could never have imagined was happening, and I lost all thought and function. I just held up my cell phone and fortunately was able to spit out his cell number. I shut down, and couldn't even ask all those in the operating room to take good care of my son. Of course they did, but being so lost blocked all hope that all would be fine. This same hope we try to instill in our patients daily as they submit something so precious to our care.
I want to tell them I understand their anxiety, lying there on the operating table hoping to have a baby. But it's such a different stage. They are still at the very beginnings of life happening for a baby, and I was on the other end of the pregnancy spectrum. And I often fear that sharing my experiences could potentially place more fear in those wanting so badly to take a baby home with them. No matter the connection in understanding loss and wanting a baby, it is so isolating as well. We don't want to place our fears and anxieties on others, and tread lightly, tiptoeing around each others' emotions never wanting to tip them over the edge. Even though we know that in sharing, we open ourselves up for healing, and helping each other heal as well.
But I'm there, and my experiences allow me such deep and strong empathy for who I am working for, the patients. So despite the triggers and flashbacks this time of year, I still got a lotta love to give.
Friday, May 24, 2019
Necklace
I'm sure I've talked about my necklace before. It has become a piece of me just as much as my tattoo of Korbin's footprints. And yet, I knew the day would come when I'd have to take it off. Various (thankfully) minor health issues have been needing more and more attention, and testing for them requires taking off my K necklace thankfully for just a short period of time.
My first encounter with having to take it off was when I was referred for a chest x-ray of my lungs to prove I don't have active TB (tuberculosis). It never crossed my mind that the necklace would get in the way of the x-ray, and I was so unprepared to be asked to take it off that I started having a panic attack. Thankfully those don't happen often, and very thankfully the x-ray tech took a moment and then suggested I hold it in my mouth to be sure it doesn't hang down and obscure the picture. Crisis averted! But just that time.
Recently I was referred for an MRI of my brain with and without contrast. I called early to get scheduled (whew boy, that was saga trying to figure out insurance coverage and who I could schedule with even though several offices are within network...) and made sure to ask about removing jewelry. This was my first MRI, so I seriously had no idea what to expect. And of course, as probably many out there already know, it all has to be taken off for the test. What was incredibly to me, though, was how quick the test itself actually is! 30minutes from changing in to scrubs to finish. Incredible!
Asking ahead of time gave me about a month to come to terms with having to take off my K necklace. I thought about it daily, and would close my eyes and tell myself, it will be okay. It's funny, it seems most out there would be so worried about the test itself. My anxiety couldn't even focus on that because it was so consumed with how I'd feel when I took off my necklace.
I never realized how attached I was to this necklace, until I had no choice but to take it off. Part of it is stubbornness. It's like, there was this unending cycle of wearing the necklace, constant and unbroken, and this brought me so much comfort as it was something I could control. I've said to so many people that it's never come off since my coworker put it on me. And now I can't say that any more. The cycle's broken, but does that change it's meaning?
It's wild the attachment we can have with objects and they symbolism and meaning they come to hold in our lives. They can't replace people, until those people are suddenly and tragically gone from our lives forever. My K necklace is a symbolic representation of my first son, the son I wish to hold and cuddle, to listen to his laugh and voice, and see who he would become. And none of that will happen, ever, so all I have is my K necklace. (As well as various other objects that I hold with great importance in our Korbin "shrine.") Wearing my K necklace keeps him alive in my heart, it keeps him close. It's this tangible thing that I can touch and hold and keep close to me in dark times. And this is part of how we keep his presence in our lives even though he's physically missing.
This is hard to explain to P who has been asking more and more lately where his footprints are on my body (as we have Korbin's footprints tattooed). I explain that he is here with us, we get to see his beautiful feet every day, but Korbin isn't here and so this is for our memory of him. P still wants me to get his footprints tattooed as well. I know he'll understand someday.
Though these objects will never be able to replace Korbin's presence in our lives, they are just one way we are able to show and hold our love for him daily. Because we got a lotta love to give.
My first encounter with having to take it off was when I was referred for a chest x-ray of my lungs to prove I don't have active TB (tuberculosis). It never crossed my mind that the necklace would get in the way of the x-ray, and I was so unprepared to be asked to take it off that I started having a panic attack. Thankfully those don't happen often, and very thankfully the x-ray tech took a moment and then suggested I hold it in my mouth to be sure it doesn't hang down and obscure the picture. Crisis averted! But just that time.
Recently I was referred for an MRI of my brain with and without contrast. I called early to get scheduled (whew boy, that was saga trying to figure out insurance coverage and who I could schedule with even though several offices are within network...) and made sure to ask about removing jewelry. This was my first MRI, so I seriously had no idea what to expect. And of course, as probably many out there already know, it all has to be taken off for the test. What was incredibly to me, though, was how quick the test itself actually is! 30minutes from changing in to scrubs to finish. Incredible!
Asking ahead of time gave me about a month to come to terms with having to take off my K necklace. I thought about it daily, and would close my eyes and tell myself, it will be okay. It's funny, it seems most out there would be so worried about the test itself. My anxiety couldn't even focus on that because it was so consumed with how I'd feel when I took off my necklace.
I never realized how attached I was to this necklace, until I had no choice but to take it off. Part of it is stubbornness. It's like, there was this unending cycle of wearing the necklace, constant and unbroken, and this brought me so much comfort as it was something I could control. I've said to so many people that it's never come off since my coworker put it on me. And now I can't say that any more. The cycle's broken, but does that change it's meaning?
It's wild the attachment we can have with objects and they symbolism and meaning they come to hold in our lives. They can't replace people, until those people are suddenly and tragically gone from our lives forever. My K necklace is a symbolic representation of my first son, the son I wish to hold and cuddle, to listen to his laugh and voice, and see who he would become. And none of that will happen, ever, so all I have is my K necklace. (As well as various other objects that I hold with great importance in our Korbin "shrine.") Wearing my K necklace keeps him alive in my heart, it keeps him close. It's this tangible thing that I can touch and hold and keep close to me in dark times. And this is part of how we keep his presence in our lives even though he's physically missing.
This is hard to explain to P who has been asking more and more lately where his footprints are on my body (as we have Korbin's footprints tattooed). I explain that he is here with us, we get to see his beautiful feet every day, but Korbin isn't here and so this is for our memory of him. P still wants me to get his footprints tattooed as well. I know he'll understand someday.
Though these objects will never be able to replace Korbin's presence in our lives, they are just one way we are able to show and hold our love for him daily. Because we got a lotta love to give.
Monday, February 25, 2019
Updates
Some things are getting easier to let go of. They're just material items, and they will be so much better loved when they are actually used. Sure, there are people who make special outfits or shirts in to a keepsake stuffy. But do you know how many stuffies my child has? His trunk is overflowing with them. The last thing we need is another stuffy to become attached to at this point. Marie Kondo has definitely been on one of my shoulders as I walk though each room and just ponder what can be pared down.
Recently, I found a pile of super adorable baby clothes that P wore at some point as a baby. We've already donated the majority of his baby clothes, and have a good rotation of clothes going to friends with younger kids who can then continue the love. And a few special items have already been set aside in a trunk as keep sakes. Part of me felt this newfound pile needed to be kept as well. The clothes are just so tiny! So cute! Queue the squealing and cooing. But this mentality will only, over time, fill every crevice of our home. Things will begin to overfill. And life will become too untidy for us (especially Ryan who has to have order in order to function in our daily routine).
Again, these are just material items. A reminder I have to repeat over and over and over again, as though it were my mantra. The clothes will go to friends. They will be used and loved and adored. Life will regain some order.
What I just can't seem to get rid of, even though it doesn't necessarily bring me joy any longer, is the app I used to track my pregnancy with Korbin. As phone memory space gets larger and larger, just like computer and "cloud" space for photos and videos and documents, my need to clean out old apps and make room for more pictures lessens. Most apps are flushed out with a new update. The completely unused gone, just in time for the next best thing to take their place. This app, however, sits on my phone. Untouched since I last looked at it, the Monday of 24 weeks. I checked Korbin's size, pondered what the next steps were for testing in my pregnancy, and then exited the app. Since then, the app continually wants to be updated. But I can't bring myself to even update it, let alone delete it. I don't think I even have the one I used to track Ps progress any longer. We're just so far beyond it, we made it through that stage and have been through so many other trackable stages at this point.
But Korbin's progress was so suddenly halted, it feels wrong to see a piece of that go away. Updating this app would most likely mean deleting parts of the data that could potentially still be held there. Details I had jotted down, or questions I had flagged for my OB. Maybe it's the potential I'm still holding on to. It's not even by a thread any longer, a glimmer of a far away dream perhaps? Either way, the app remains and reminds me with every mass update time what was possibly going to be.
It's hard to let go of past possibilities. Especially when they held such a hold on your heart. But maybe sometimes it's okay to hold on, even when the hope is gone. Because there's still so much love wrapped up in the memories and what ifs.
And I got a lotta love to give.
Recently, I found a pile of super adorable baby clothes that P wore at some point as a baby. We've already donated the majority of his baby clothes, and have a good rotation of clothes going to friends with younger kids who can then continue the love. And a few special items have already been set aside in a trunk as keep sakes. Part of me felt this newfound pile needed to be kept as well. The clothes are just so tiny! So cute! Queue the squealing and cooing. But this mentality will only, over time, fill every crevice of our home. Things will begin to overfill. And life will become too untidy for us (especially Ryan who has to have order in order to function in our daily routine).
Again, these are just material items. A reminder I have to repeat over and over and over again, as though it were my mantra. The clothes will go to friends. They will be used and loved and adored. Life will regain some order.
What I just can't seem to get rid of, even though it doesn't necessarily bring me joy any longer, is the app I used to track my pregnancy with Korbin. As phone memory space gets larger and larger, just like computer and "cloud" space for photos and videos and documents, my need to clean out old apps and make room for more pictures lessens. Most apps are flushed out with a new update. The completely unused gone, just in time for the next best thing to take their place. This app, however, sits on my phone. Untouched since I last looked at it, the Monday of 24 weeks. I checked Korbin's size, pondered what the next steps were for testing in my pregnancy, and then exited the app. Since then, the app continually wants to be updated. But I can't bring myself to even update it, let alone delete it. I don't think I even have the one I used to track Ps progress any longer. We're just so far beyond it, we made it through that stage and have been through so many other trackable stages at this point.
But Korbin's progress was so suddenly halted, it feels wrong to see a piece of that go away. Updating this app would most likely mean deleting parts of the data that could potentially still be held there. Details I had jotted down, or questions I had flagged for my OB. Maybe it's the potential I'm still holding on to. It's not even by a thread any longer, a glimmer of a far away dream perhaps? Either way, the app remains and reminds me with every mass update time what was possibly going to be.
It's hard to let go of past possibilities. Especially when they held such a hold on your heart. But maybe sometimes it's okay to hold on, even when the hope is gone. Because there's still so much love wrapped up in the memories and what ifs.
And I got a lotta love to give.
Monday, February 18, 2019
Gearing Up
As winter moves on and the promise of spring comes closer, my fears of loss swell up as if to swallow me once again. After last spring, grief left me so incredibly low. I was angry more often than not, jealous of others' perfections, and just plain blue. Participating in the October month of healing through the Capture Your Grief project dug me out of the hole I was falling down further and further. And I learned that I don't want to repeat last year.
Each spring has been a struggle. It starts with anxiety and fear of how I'll react this year to the overwhelming emotions that come in waves and try to drown me. Last year I felt I was literally drowning in my pain, in Korbin's deeply felt absence in our lives. This year, he's still gone, and I'm still left wondering where we'd be with him and how he'd be P's big brother. But I feel as though I'm gearing myself up better this year for the upcoming emotional battle. There are new tricks up my sleeves, new coping mechanisms I'll be putting in to use a great deal as the sun shines a bit more each day.
It's funny, spring time is usually thought of as full of renewed and restored life. Leaves budding, seedlings sprouting, the earth turning green yet again after the darkness of the winter. For me, however, spring time feels quite the opposite. It's death. Death of the life we were supposed to have, of the son who should be with us, of the love we should be sharing with him daily. Each year since Korbin has been dealt with by feeling his death over and over and over again. As my body physically relives every one of our moments together, him growing inside me, hearing his heart beat for the first time, feeling first movements after an 11mile hike at 18weeks pregnant, the fear of losing him comes back full force. I can remember the anticipation of that spring, the excitement and how I really truly felt the growth and change of spring time through being pregnant. As we did not experience pregnancy through spring with P, the spring season now holds no other meaning to me than loss. This time of new life and joy has been reduced to nothing more than death, something to live through unbearably instead of enjoy.
Something I'm finally latching on to as my grief journey continues to evolve, is how I need to be busy 100% of the time. And it can't be just busy watching a movie or favorite TV show, my mind has to be fully occupied or I begin to spiral out from anxiety of wondering what horrific thing is going to blind side us next. This is exhausting, but it means I sleep at night, at least for the most part.
Sometimes I feel as though I'm a bad friend, or daughter, or sister because I'm just so incredibly busy. Does everyone think I'm just blowing them off? That I don't want to see them? That seriously can not be further from the truth. I've just filled my day to day with so many activities that it's hard to find time to sit and have a cup of coffee just because. Even at work, when finally sitting for a moment on a break after going non stop for hours, I can't just unwind and look longingly at the amazing view of Mt Rainier we enjoy each day. There's something to read, to learn and absorb and research how it helps others and what's missing and how to fix it and why and what's the truth of it all and where's the source and can it be trusted. There are things to make, paintings and sketches, blogs or even books to write. Constant ideas and notes. Non-profits to join and contribute my ever-dwindling time to because others are in such need and I tell myself that I have so much of myself to give still.
It is so much, and yet it has to be done or I fear I may spiral again. That spiral is not an option this year. So forgive me if I seem absent at times. There's just not enough time in the day to do all the things I need to do in order to keep grief at bay. It's only a season, and everything is temporary. Or at least that's what I continue to tell myself.
Because I got a lotta love to give.
Each spring has been a struggle. It starts with anxiety and fear of how I'll react this year to the overwhelming emotions that come in waves and try to drown me. Last year I felt I was literally drowning in my pain, in Korbin's deeply felt absence in our lives. This year, he's still gone, and I'm still left wondering where we'd be with him and how he'd be P's big brother. But I feel as though I'm gearing myself up better this year for the upcoming emotional battle. There are new tricks up my sleeves, new coping mechanisms I'll be putting in to use a great deal as the sun shines a bit more each day.
It's funny, spring time is usually thought of as full of renewed and restored life. Leaves budding, seedlings sprouting, the earth turning green yet again after the darkness of the winter. For me, however, spring time feels quite the opposite. It's death. Death of the life we were supposed to have, of the son who should be with us, of the love we should be sharing with him daily. Each year since Korbin has been dealt with by feeling his death over and over and over again. As my body physically relives every one of our moments together, him growing inside me, hearing his heart beat for the first time, feeling first movements after an 11mile hike at 18weeks pregnant, the fear of losing him comes back full force. I can remember the anticipation of that spring, the excitement and how I really truly felt the growth and change of spring time through being pregnant. As we did not experience pregnancy through spring with P, the spring season now holds no other meaning to me than loss. This time of new life and joy has been reduced to nothing more than death, something to live through unbearably instead of enjoy.
Something I'm finally latching on to as my grief journey continues to evolve, is how I need to be busy 100% of the time. And it can't be just busy watching a movie or favorite TV show, my mind has to be fully occupied or I begin to spiral out from anxiety of wondering what horrific thing is going to blind side us next. This is exhausting, but it means I sleep at night, at least for the most part.
Sometimes I feel as though I'm a bad friend, or daughter, or sister because I'm just so incredibly busy. Does everyone think I'm just blowing them off? That I don't want to see them? That seriously can not be further from the truth. I've just filled my day to day with so many activities that it's hard to find time to sit and have a cup of coffee just because. Even at work, when finally sitting for a moment on a break after going non stop for hours, I can't just unwind and look longingly at the amazing view of Mt Rainier we enjoy each day. There's something to read, to learn and absorb and research how it helps others and what's missing and how to fix it and why and what's the truth of it all and where's the source and can it be trusted. There are things to make, paintings and sketches, blogs or even books to write. Constant ideas and notes. Non-profits to join and contribute my ever-dwindling time to because others are in such need and I tell myself that I have so much of myself to give still.
It is so much, and yet it has to be done or I fear I may spiral again. That spiral is not an option this year. So forgive me if I seem absent at times. There's just not enough time in the day to do all the things I need to do in order to keep grief at bay. It's only a season, and everything is temporary. Or at least that's what I continue to tell myself.
Because I got a lotta love to give.
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