XO, Isabel

Hope and Courage: Our Surrogacy Journey

I’m here, perhaps not present

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I’ve not been able to muster the strength to write anything. I’ve written to some privately and have spoken to others.

The truth is, I’m in pain. Emotional, no doubt, but, physical, too. It’s as if every inch of my physical self is manifesting the pain that I feel in my heart. I go through a range of emotions, from sadness to anger. Feeling alone and feeling suffocated. Wanting to move forward and pretend none of this happened. But, it did. I am working through it and it will take time. I know this. I know it all. It doesn’t make it easier to feel. There is only so much Ibuprofen can do.

It will get better, I promise me that.

XO, Isabel

What I did today

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A while back, after we thought we were in the clear for miscarriage risks, we started looking around and doing our research on baby products. Amazon is a favorite, and so we started working on a private Baby Registry. We never got very far. But today, I deleted it.

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I noticed that there were 7 items in my shopping cart. I checked the items, and it was filled with children’s books, bilingual (Spanish or Hebrew) ones that I had planned on buying for Leo. I was motivated by an article I had recently read on how the brain works with regards to language. How being bilingual or multilingual makes our brains more flexible and that even babies in utero could distinguish language differences. So, I had planned to read books to our son in English and Spanish, because my son would have a flexible brain!

I deleted my cart items, too.

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XO, Isabel

Poem: Little Leo

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While I’ve been working hard on expressing my innermost feelings through writing this blog, my husband has been diligently sitting quietly with his ears filled with music writing. I thought he was simply keeping a journal, instead, he was writing a poem for our son.

He wanted me to share it with you.

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Little Leo

We prayed for strength and courage at the Kotel and Mount Zion,
Leaving notes as maps of hope leading to our little lion.

Monumental was the day we were blessed with this surprise,
Unmistakable the joy and love emblazoned in our eyes.

Along this journey we would stumble but never fall,
Your healthy heartbeat a beacon of hope to all.

I watched your little hand wave hello or maybe it was goodbye,
Eagerly embraced by happiness I would always cry.

Your Mother’s beauty radiates like rays of sunshine,
Playfully peaking around leaves to see this treasure of mine.

Her colossal courage and sacrifices you will never know,
The greatest Mother I could ever want for our Little Leo.

You grew from enduring love and hope to flesh and bone,
My thoughts now tormented by myriads of memories never known.

Perpetually I have cried an ominous river of tears,
Unbridled my anger flows along with my fears.

I feel hopelessly lost in a labyrinth of despair,
Guided only by the pain of knowing that this isn’t fair.

As parents we have so much love to give,
The King in our jungle of memories you will forever live.

Little Leo we will never feel your tranquil touch,
You are eternally etched in our hearts, we love you so much.

XO, Dad

A day out

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Today was the first time in exactly two weeks that I’ve left the house alone. Today marked exactly two weeks that our nightmare began.

I needed to stop by work today to pick up some personal items of mine. I also went out to lunch with two wonderful women that I recently learned about that co-founded a project that I wish to stand behind. They are mothers that have experienced the types of losses that I have. Their stories are different, but the same. They had kind words to share, supportive hugs and lots of hope. I didn’t really shed a tear while I told them what happened to me. To Leo. To us. It was as if I was wearing a full-body brace to keep me upright and stable.

Part of my journey to meet them was by my usual means of transportation to the City; the train. It was bittersweet. The last time I rode the train, I was still pregnant. I had a bump and I had started to struggle a little bit with back pain and I always hoped I’d be able to get an empty seat. Today, the train was empty as I wasn’t riding during the usual rush-hour traffic.

All day I payed more attention to things. To people. I saw one man sleeping on the hard ground wrapped in blankets and surrounded by the warm comfort of his dog, his companion. I saw lots and lots of pregnant women. I saw lots of baby strollers and young children.

I also saw a woman in a moment of deep sorrow. She sat right in front of me. She was a pretty woman. She was wearing a white eyelet dress. She had a lime green cover on the iPad she was reading from that she pulled from her red backpack. Not too long after she arrived, a tall & handsome man showed up and he bent over to embrace her while she sat still. He kissed her on the lips and on her cheeks. He put his hands on her body, her thighs. Surely it was her husband, or lover, I thought. And then just like that, she began to sob. I could only tell after he separated himself just the tiniest bit from her body. Her entire body shuddered with pain, the tears just fell from her eyes and rolled off the tip of her nose. He held her closer. He took out a few tissues from his pocket and wiped her tears away. She looked so comforted by his presence. It looked like she was wearing her full body brace, but with the appearance of her friend, a loved one, she was able to shed the brace and let go.

I felt as if I was watching the scenario that plays out in our bed almost every night. For, it’s every night that my brace starts to give out and my resolve to be strong is no longer there. It’s when my mind loses its guard and I’m no longer able to stop the images and thoughts and the deep longing for our son from flooding my entire being.

Today, that moment came much earlier. My strength started to weaken on the train ride home. There was a family with a cute little girl and a stroller. And it made me remember that before I made cremation plans for Leo, just a few weeks ago we were giddy with excitement at the Baby store testing out strollers. Then, everything just made me want to cry. Everything. I haven’t been able to shake it since then.

And then tonight at 11:11 pm, I said what I usually say … “Make a wish! It’s 11:11” — and then I remember that on my birthday, just two days before we learned of Leo’s fate, I had wished the hardest I had ever wished on the candle of my dessert; please protect Leo. Please let him be healthy. Please let him be born. Please let him be OK. Please let the tests be wrong. Please, just get us through this, just let it all be OK.

And I blew out my candle.

And my wish didn’t come true.

XO, Isabel

A crimson heart

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We’ve been waiting for news on Leo’s remains. We were told we’d be notified when the Neptune Society had taken possession of his little body.

Today was that day. We received a call about an hour ago and I paid over the phone for him to be treated with dignity and care. Our Funeral Counselor has been trained well. To treat others with compassion. Simply hearing her say “I wanted you to know that we picked up your baby this morning and he’s in our care…” was enough for me to exhale and feel like we’re not the only ones on the planet that knew that he was a baby. OUR baby. And that he was real and his passing has caused deep sorrow and grief.

I know this is part of the process, but, I wept after hanging up the phone. I wept because I was relieved that he was no longer at the hospital and could finally have some sort of rest, some closure. I weep because I am anticipating the next phone call: He’s ready to be picked up.

He’ll be in his permanent home, a tiny little keepsake urn with his name engraved on it: Leo.

It’s a crimson heart, because just like in our hearts, his name will be forever engraved.

XO, IsabelGrecian_Series___CRM 3-458x324

This time it was different

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This time it was different. My previous losses always happened so very early. Before the world could know. Before my body changed outwardly enough to even have a clue as to my delicate state.

This time it was different. This time, we did all the “right” things and waited until we were past the first trimester before announcing to the world (AKA Facebook) that we were expecting.

This time it was different. I picked out 3 pairs of shoes out so that I could photograph them and add my own creative twist on our pregnancy announcement.

This time it was different. I felt morning sickness. I felt him move. We saw his little heartbeat. It was strong. It was as strong as a Lion’s.

This time it was different. We knew what we were having. All the little ones before were mostly a mystery. Only a whisper of a dream. What-ifs and what-nots.

This time it was different. I had a bump. A very real bump. I had only started to embrace this dream. Embrace my growing belly and who was inside.

This time it was different. I went on a shopping spree for maternity clothes. My shirts were too short to cover the stretchy panel of my maternity jeans. I had to put them all away. I think “maybe I can use them next time” but, admit, I’m not sure if there will be a next time.

This time it was different. It’s a BOY!

This time was different. We had picked out his name. His name is Leonardo. Leo. Our son, always & forever.

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XO, Isabel

Photo: Empty

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One of the ways I deal with my grief, pain, experience, whatever-you-want-to-call-it is through creative expression. Whether it be with my camera, iPhone or my own hands, I love to create.

This particular image I took the next night after my D&E procedure. I remember I couldn’t sleep. I was tossing and turning until 4:30 am. I took this photo in the dark, because that’s where I felt I was. And after I applied some Instagram filter, it created the image I wanted to depict:
An empty womb.

XO, Isabel

D&E: What to expect when you’re no longer expecting

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This is my own personal experience, it may or may not be what you’re going to face or what you can expect. It may be difficult to read, please keep this in mind. I am writing this for those just discovering that they’ve had a second trimester pregnancy loss or anyone contemplating having a D&E procedure.

I minimized my great desire to Google search “D&E” or “Dilation and Evacuation” procedures. I knew the basics, it was all I needed to know. I strongly suggest you don’t Google further. You don’t want to know.

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I was given two choices with how to deal with our great loss. They were as follows:

  • – Dilation and Evacuation (D&E) procedure under general anesthesia
  • – Labor induction and delivery

I went with the first option. The second option was only barely whispered to me. I’m sure the pain in my eyes spoke loudly for me. I wanted to move forward. I wanted our Leo out of my body. It was not fair to either of us. The second option seemed incredibly painful for me to imagine. For me, laboring and delivering my dead son would be too much to bare. I want to remember him as he could have been and within the protection of my womb. Not as the tiny little being that he would have been in my hands. I wanted to preserve the sanctity of birth for myself in due time. This may not be what you would choose or would have chosen, but, it was right for me. For us.

Very quickly after we were diagnosed with Fetal Demise at 18 weeks, the attending Perinatologist (Dr. DM) made a call to my then-OBGYN Dr. J. He told her that they didn’t perform the D&E procedure in his office, I also assumed they didn’t perform it in the hospital that I had planned on delivering our son, either. Who knows, I was glad I didn’t have to see Dr. J’s face ever again. They referred me to a Dr. K. Late on Monday, August 12th, someone from her office called me to start preparing me for what to expect. They told me it would be a two-day procedure beginning on Tuesday and the D&E would happen on Wednesday. At the very end of our conversation, she told me that I had the option of having Leo cremated. It, too, was only a fleeting whisper, as she wasn’t sure I wanted to even talk about that. I’m SO very glad that she did, otherwise, nobody would have mentioned it to me at all. I just remember the words Neptune Society.

Tuesday:
Went in for my appointment, I filled out my medical history paperwork and the standard HIPPA notice. I was then given an Ibuprofen pill and a Valium. This was the first time I’ve ever been given Valium. Within about 15 minutes, I was lead-legged and dopey. Whoa. I think I barely listened to anything anyone said to me beyond that. I was then given an exam and had Laminaria sticks inserted into my cervix and was packed with gauze. These are sticks made of seaweed that gently dilate your cervix over several hours and prompt labor. The main purpose of this is to prep your cervix for the D&E procedure. I was given lots of prescriptions for pain medication, antibiotics and medicine to stop heavy bleeding (if needed) for the next day and days. I was given thorough warning on what to expect. I could expect cramping and pain as my cervix began to dilate. Thankfully, I really didn’t have any. I could expect for my breasts to engorge and produce milk in the days proceeding and was given instructions on how to prevent that.

I mostly rested the most of the day. Then, we went to our counseling appointment. It was perfect in timing as we prepared for the D&E the next day. We discussed the option of cremation. We hadn’t really thought about what would happen to Leo if we just left him at the hospital or lab (pathology). We discussed that he would more than likely be discarded as medical waste. I’m glad we had that frank discussion. It was then a no-brainer that we would have him cremated. I could not imagine him just being thrown away. We walked away feeling strong enough to face the next day.

Wednesday:
Thankfully, our procedure was moved up to 9:55 am instead of 1 pm. We walked into the hospital and registered with outpatient surgery. I gave my husband a list of items to do while we were at the hospital, including trying to get paperwork completed for my medical leave. I did this because I know my husband would be sitting in anxiety for well over an hour and I didn’t want to think of him as being in fear for me. I wanted to give him something to occupy his mind.

I was called back and my husband stayed with me the entire time. I had to change into a hospital gown. At first, they had given me a Bair Paws gown, but it proved to be quite itchy for my already-sensitive skin. I was wiling to suck it up, but the nurse offered a regular cloth gown so that I could be comfortable. My vitals were taken and they prepped me for an IV. They took more blood to be tested and then we waited for the doctor to arrive and be walked to the operating room. But, before I forgot, I told the nurse that we wanted our son’s remains to be cremated. And she said, “Oh, there was nothing in your chart. Let me go grab you the paperwork you need to sign.” So, she did, and I signed a document asking for him to be held and be released to a mortuary. This is VERY important if you wish to have your child cremated. ASK! It appears they don’t volunteer this information.

Dr. K was waiting for me, as well as a nurse and the Anesthesiologist. Dr. K is a chipper little thing. I also told her that we wanted Leo cremated, and she told me she was glad I said something, because she didn’t know. She then talked to me some more about my PCOS and got to know me a little bit, even though she had barely met me the day before. She goes on to tell me that she was delivered by Dr. Michael Leventhal, made famous by the discovery of what was at first called Stein-Leventhal Syndrome, later PCOS, later Metabolic Syndrome. I found this fact fascinating and I stopped to think about it for a small little moment before I felt quite heavy with sleep and then I was OUT.

I woke up while being wheeled out to the recovery room. I was having a coughing fit. Someone, I can’t remember, comforted me and told me that the cough was normal and that I’d be okay. I was in some pain, with cramping. I was told this was normal, for they had started giving me Pitocin to help the muscles of the uterus contract and reduce bleeding. Very shortly afterward, Dr. K. came back holding Leo in a container. She told me “I have him.” She went out to speak to my husband while I recovered and eventually was wheeled into my own private recovery room while they continued to administer fluids and Pitocin. My husband was brought into the room to sit with me. I couldn’t be MORE comforted by his presence. The rest is just standard recovery stuff after your procedure. You will have bleeding. You will feel icky. You will feel a little sore. Your throat will hurt. You will be hungry. Most of all, you will feel sad. You will feel empty, as no longer having your 18 week old baby within you will feel like a void. Where your bump once was, it will be drastically reduced in that moment.

It was finally time to be released. My husband went down one last time to try and get my medical leave paperwork signed. And, thankfully, our Perinatologist, Dr. EM was around to personally speak to my husband. He talked to him and gave him a hug. He said that he knew we had lost our son, but he had no idea that the procedure was on this very day. He asked where I was and then he was off after signing the paperwork. I was then sitting waiting for my husband to send me a text that he was downstairs waiting so that I could be wheeled out. Instead, the door flung open and it was Dr. EM! I started to cry the moment I saw him. He sat down with me and talked to me about how sorry he was for my loss. That we would figure this out and we are almost there with “tuning up” my body. That he’s confident that we can do this again and I can have the family I so desire. He gave me a hug. He told me physically the recovery will not take as long as my emotional recovery process. That perhaps I should let the word slip about our loss at work, so that people know. He told me that well-meaning people will say stupid things. WHAT? Naaah! 😉

He stood up and hugged me.

I was wheeled down to the car and my husband drove us home as we both cried.

XO, Isabel

To be a man in grief

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I found this poem online today while reading through some posts on a support forum. I have been trying to find out who to credit, but I can’t find the source. If you happen to know, please leave a comment.

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To Be A Man In Grief

To be a man in grief,
Since “men don’t cry” and “men are strong”,
No tears can bring relief.

It must be very difficult to stand up to the test
and field calls and visitors so she can get some rest.

They always ask if she’s alright and what she’s going through,
But seldom take his hand and ask, “My friend, but how are you?”

He hears her crying in the night and thinks his heart will break.
He dries her tears and comforts her, but “stays strong” for her sake.

It must be very difficult to start each day anew
And try to be so very brave. He lost his child too.

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And, how very true. My husband hears me cry and I can see how helpless he feels. He tells me he feels lost, sad and numb. We do alternate giving each other comfort. It’s just not always easy. We talk to each other a lot, we sit quietly together and enjoy the company of our little bugger of a cat named Immie. She seems to just know that we are sad. She never leaves our side, she puts her paws on our arms or on our faces. She sniffs at the tears on our faces.

I know that my husband is grieving just as deeply as I am. He’s staying as strong as he can be for me.

I have been fortunate to have such an outpouring of support, but I think he feels left out. Very few are texting him to ask him how he is or sending him messages with sentiments about his strength. About his courage. About his bravery. About his loss.

He lost his child, too.

XO, Isabel

A blessing

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Part of my struggle with this experience is to find where my thoughts end and my faith begins.

I found an article that contained a blessing from Rabbi Goldie Milgram, and it said:

May you be blessed to speak of your experience in the community. The shock and trauma you have experienced, the isolation and grief, may no others feel alone while coping with life. In Psalms we read that even after the devastation of the Babylonian exile, they prayed for ‘those who sow in tears to reap in joy.’ May your harvest come to you, even if it is not the harvest you expected, but still a good and satisfying harvest. May we all move forward into life with compassion for those we see pushing a stroller with a child inside, for we know not the pain that lurks in anyone’s life, or what toll may have been taken en route to their moments of joy. May you long enjoy life in each other’s arms.

Amen.
XO, Isabel