XO, Isabel

Hope and Courage: Our Surrogacy Journey

We are ready!

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It’s been 904 days. 129 weeks and 1 day. 2 years, 5 months, 21 days. It’s been that long since our Leo died. And during that time, we’ve experienced so many different emotions. Highs and lows, a lot of lows. But the highs were all the more meaningful. Our hearts broke. They broke wide open. They have broken wide open to the possibility of something new. A little spark of hope for a miracle that never did die. For the two of us, it has meant a lot of soul-searching. A lot of late-night pillow talk about our dreams and hopes and the what-in-the-hell-do-we-do-next talks.

Well, we’ve decided. After much thought and consideration (and a lot of hard work), we have opted to pursue IVF in hopes of creating embryos. And then we hope those embryos will be carefully transferred to a woman we have yet to meet. A Gestational Carrier. A dream-come-true. Our hope. Our gift-giver. A surrogate mother for our maybe-baby. Our bun, her oven.

The process is complicated. It’s scary. It’s filled with excitement. It’s filled with terror! Yet, this is what we’re doing. We’re doing it, guys. WE. ARE. DOING. IT! And we’re about to get started very soon! In just a matter of weeks, we’ll begin the IVF process. This will entail lots of testing. Lots of injections and other medications. And lots of visits to our Reproductive Endocrinologist (RE). Blood draws. Lots of ovarian monitoring. A minor surgical procedure for an egg retrieval. Then, we’re going to fertilize those eggs (he has the easy part!) And then we’re going to wait. We’re going to wish and hope that those little things turn into 100-cell embryos. And then we’re going to test those embryos via something called PGD. All in hopes that we can select the most viable little embryo(s) to transfer to a gestational surrogate that will carry the greatest gift we’ve ever known.

Photo by Stephanie Sarles

Photo by Stephanie Sarles

You see, I’ve had a history of recurrent pregnancy loss. I’ve lost five (5) babies already. Most of you reading this know our little lion, Leo. He reminded me just how much I have yearned to be a mama. And he, most of all, made me a mom. And, I’d like to take that one step further, and mother our own little babe here in the flesh. And, because I’ve had so many losses that have never really been explained, we are giving this all that we’ve got. We’re testing my chromosomes – karyotyping – to ensure that my DNA isn’t a tiny bit broken, especially since Leo was diagnosed with XYY Syndrome after his death. We’re going all the way.

We hope that you’ll join us along this journey. Making a baby is supposed to be simple and natural. I realize that this may be far from what you have experienced or know, and we can’t thank you enough for your support. Things haven’t come very easy to us in this department. But, we’re ready. We’re ready for our Rainbow Baby.

xo.

RESOLVE Walk of Hope 2013, Northern California

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On Saturday, September 21, 2013 a group of our friends and family joined us on Team XO for RESOLVE.org’s inaugural Walk of Hope. There were a few across the country, and we attended the one in Sacramento, CA (Northern California).

Together, our team ranked #4 raising just over $1,300. One of our team members was ranked #2 overall in the Top Participants category. GO Team XO!

Team XO

Each person that walked on Team XO has experienced or is directly connected to someone that has experienced infertility. It was nice to have this support while we all joined together. The walk’s message was simple: No one with infertility should walk alone.

And, it seems simple. Yet, it can be a very agonizing battle between being able to open up and share or simply hiding away in privacy. I mean, everyone talks about pregnancy, childbirth and babies. We don’t talk about HOW babies are made. Well, except for those awkward conversations you might remember with your own parents, or dread having to have with your own children. Or, from that permission slip you had to send home to your parents so that you could go to school later that week to learn about puberty AND how babies are made.  But, in our adult worlds and conversations, we don’t often talk about how babies are made. Frankly, not many of our friends need to know about our intimate moments. How, then, do you bring up the topic of infertility? When all your intimate moments lead to negative pregnancy tests? When all that baby dancing leads to tears when your period shows up? No, we don’t talk about that. When someone achieves pregnancy, one of our first questions isn’t “how long did that take you!?” No. We just assume that the baby was made the old-fashioned way. After only trying once. Just like how we’d like to imagine our parents with regards to our own conceptions.

That’s just not the case for the 1 in 8 couples that are dealing with infertility. It’s simply not the case. More and more men and women are sharing their stories. It’s easier now with the help of blogs, Twitter feeds, Facebook and now even Pinterest. Oh, and you can share and still maintain anonymity. How much easier is that? As more and more are opening up about their family-building journeys their openness is allowing us to learn a lot about the emotional and physical toll that infertility takes for those affected men and women and the friends and family that love and support them. Yet, there are still so many that suffer alone. That cry alone. That swing between a myriad of emotions about their own fertility. Some have to weigh their pain over others that they know. Some negotiate with their emotions, that they should be satisfied with already having a child or two and for feeling as though they are selfish for wanting more children. There are so many different scenarios and ways to cope and just “deal” and I think you get the point. No one with infertility should walk alone.

If you’re someone that feels like you’re walking alone; you’re not. If you’re not ready to share your story with the world, try sharing it with someone you trust. To unburden yourself with your secret, you will lift a mountain off of your shoulders. Chances are that the person you share with knows someone that has experienced infertility. Chances are it’s her (or him). I mean, it’s 1 in 8. That’s almost a game of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon (okay, okay, fine, Six Degrees of Separation).

How you choose to unburden yourself is up to you. Try it, though. You’ll be surprised at the support that is available to you. Maybe it’s your best friend. Or, maybe it’s more official, like a therapist or a coach or a member of the clergy. The point is, infertility hurts. Staying silent can hurt you, too. Feeling alone can make you feel worse about your situation and you shouldn’t feel alone.

Here are just some ideas to break the silence or to begin to unburden yourself about infertility:

– Talk to your partner, perhaps both of you need something from each other
– Start a personal diary or journal, art journals are great, too
– Write a blog. Don’t feel like telling the world who you are? Do it anonymously
– Talk to a friend or family member that you trust
– Reach out to a stranger! No, really! Have you read a blog about someone that is sharing a story similar to yours? Reach out to him or her
– Look for a counselor or life coach
– Look for support groups, there are many available in your local areas and tons of them online
– Create an anonymous Twitter account and tweet your heart out
– Create a private board on Pinterest and share all the images that mean something to you
– Join some private groups on Facebook or create your own and invite a few close friends to support you through this
– Create art (I prefer photography and mixed media)

Have any other ideas? Share them.

Guest post: My Friend, Isabel

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A few years ago, I met my friend Stephanie. We became fast friends and I am thankful to have her friendship and love. When Leo died and I began to write about this experience, I had asked her if she would consider writing a post for my blog. She is a writer, so it seemed like a natural idea. She had already started writing it.

She sent it to me about a week after Leo died, but it hadn’t felt like the right time to post it. I thought today would be the perfect day, since it has been one month since my son left my body. I’ve decided that today will be the anniversary of his “birth” and also the anniversary of his death. August 14, 2013. The day we found out he died, August 12, 2013 now belongs to someone else. Adopting August 14th feels better.

I wanted to share her perspective as my friend, one of many that has been by my side every single day and has had to experience her own emotions during this time.

XO,  Isabel

Isabel & Stephanie

Isabel & Stephanie

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My Friend, Isabel

I’m sitting with my son and we are watching the original Dumbo. In the opening scene, animals at the zoo receive gifts from storks in the night. My son says “Moon.” When he sees the storks, he says, “Bird-teet, teet.”  As all the animals receive their babies, he says “Baby…Mama.” Then the elephant looks into the sky for her baby. It never arrives. My son says “Where’d it go?”

I burst into tears.

A week ago today, my best friend lost her baby boy. She was just shy of five months pregnant. His name was Leo, and he existed. He was loved.

“Straight from heaven, up above, here is a baby boy for you to love,” says the stork. I can barely keep it together. My son is squealing and I try to smile but I cry because he will never know Leo, and my friend and I had just started to make plans for these boys. We hadn’t done that for 16 weeks. We were cautious. We thought she was past the point of miscarriage. We were wrong.

Isabel and I met in 2008 at work. I had been a temp there for a few months when she was hired. We were put into the same orientation class together and coincidentally sat next to each other. Within the first few words, I was drawn to her on a spiritual level. I don’t know why, but there was energy there.

During our lunch break, Isabel left and I went back to my desk. Everyone wanted to know about the “new girl.”  I happily announced to my co-workers “Her name is Isabel and I love her. We are going to be best friends. You’ll all love her too.”

And there it was.

Isabel joined our team and we became fast friends and everyone loved her. For the next three years, we shared lunch and lots of talks. Our life stories, secrets, love for Coldplay, new realizations, religious beliefs and disbeliefs. I went to her wedding; she came to my family BBQ and my house for New Years Eve.  We had so much in common, including infertility.

Her struggle is a deep, long battle between her body and science. She suffered miscarriages and had undergone several rounds of various treatments before meeting me, all were unsuccessful. I myself had struggled with secondary infertility after having one child and trying for ten years for another. When I met Isabel, I was at the end of my hope.

We both have family members who seemed to get pregnant with apparent ease and with each pregnancy, we would console one another. Not because we weren’t happy for our family member, but because the sting of not being pregnant, the thought of attending another baby shower, the pain of watching others’ create families and grow children—that pain that we may never, ever feel that, is too hard to describe. Infertility is a constant reminder that our bodies didn’t work.

My struggle was emotionally tough, but not nearly as tough as hers. I always felt guilty because hey, “at least I had one,” but that wasn’t enough for me. I never really had anyone talk about or addresses secondary infertility. But Isabel did. One particular dark day for me, I explained my guiltiness to her. She said I had nothing to feel guilty about and that she totally understood the frustration that comes from “wanting our bodies to do the one natural thing they were made to do.” We felt broken. Even though I had a daughter, there was void and Isabel helped me realize that it was ok to be sad.

In 2011, I got pregnant. I couldn’t believe it. I drove to her house and told her face-to-face. She deserved that. And she was happy for me. I know she was. I was sad, guilt-ridden, happy and vulnerable. I love my friend and as much as I wanted this pregnancy – I wanted it for her first. Early on, we had difficult conversations about my feelings that our friendship would change. The fact that we discussed these thoughts together created a boundary that helped us get through the following nine months, and maintain a close friendship to this day.

I had my baby, and she was there for me. She took his photos as a newborn and again at six months. We talked candidly about my guilt. She reassured me, but didn’t minimize her sadness. This is one of the things I love about my friend. She will not minimize her suffering. It is real. She will simply converse and explain that today isn’t a good day, etc. and I completely, totally respect that.

A few months ago, she texted me a photo. It took a while to download on my phone and I remember being frustrated with my phone … and then there it was. A positive pregnancy stick. I lost my shit. She was pregnant!!  BUT, I knew better than to celebrate my friend, for her track record isn’t the most positive. So I called her and tried to hide my excitement. I couldn’t.  As soon as I heard her voice, almost immediately, I felt something different. The past year, she had done SO much work to get healthier, be more active, and evolve mentally and emotionally. In my heart, I felt that this was it—this was her time. She was more cautious than I, but I know part of her felt the same.

For the next few weeks, our conversations were timid. At times, our words walked on eggshells. With each week that passed, we just wanted to get to week EIGHT – Then TWLEVE—then THIRTEEN—and then FIFTEEN. Yes, we were encouraged that the rates of miscarriage significantly decrease after these monumental weeks. I cried happy tears when she heard the heartbeat. I saved the ultrasound picture. I bragged to mutual acquaintances. I cried when I saw her announcement on Facebook. Then, she found out the gender, a boy. And the tears poured again. My friend would be a mother!  Our boys would be buddies.

“So how’d you guys meet?”
–“Our moms are best friends, we grew up knowing each other our whole lives.”

Isabel is family to me. My family loves her. And her husband is my husband’s buddy. And our boys would be lifetime friends. Cautiously, we let ourselves dream a little. I was SO HAPPY for my friend and her hubby, at times I couldn’t resist the urge to text her my dreams….she was 16 weeks—way past 13, things were moving along just right.

One night last week, she posted a photo of her belly. She doesn’t do that often and I took it to my husband. He said “WOW, she’s showing! I’m so happy for them.” And we were. But the next day, I received the news. Leo had gone still. Sometime in the past few days, his little heart stopped beating.

When I found out, I was in my car.  I burst into inconsolable tears, and sat on the side of the road for a few minutes.

What do I say?  What do I do? Why her? I cursed God. I wanted to hug my friend. I wanted to hack into her Facebook account and just delete it. Her most recent photo was of her growing baby and the one before, the gender announcement.  I wanted to drive to her home….I wanted to make this go away for her.

NOT HER. NO.

I wanted to protect her. I wanted to comfort her. All of these things came to mind within 30 seconds. But I could do nothing.

I eventually got back on the road and I ugly cried all the way home and for the next three days, I cried.

What do you do when your someone you adore experiences this type of loss? What do you say?

I Googled what to say and found a great list of things to avoid:

http://moms.popsugar.com/10-Things-Say-Say-After-Miscarriage-27333906

It helped.

So I simply said “I don’t know what to say. But I love you.”

For the next three days, my friend had to carry her deceased baby in her tummy. My spirit was with her. I was consistently trying to put myself in her shoes. I would have shared the burden if I could. But I couldn’t do much. It gave me comfort knowing that her husband was by her side, but my heart broke for him as well. He’s such a softy.

For three days, I just checked in with her. I never once asked ”How are you doing?” Not in the beginning and not during that first week because if you even try to imagine her loss – you would know, she was NOT ok.

As much as I wasn’t prepared for her loss, I was oblivious to the horrific details of what a mother goes through in those 72 hours. Induction or D&E? Cremation or discard as medical waste? Instead of picking out a going-home outfit, my sweet friend and her husband picked out a crimson heart urn.

I tried to stay strong, but I couldn’t. When your close friend is in so much pain, and there is nothing you can do, you feel so helpless.

“What can I do?” I asked her. I know it’s on the no-no list of things to ask. But we live pretty far apart and she didn’t want me to come see her yet. She said just knowing I was here was enough. But it’s not to me.

I spent countless time reading people’s condolences on her Facebook account. Most were genuine and thoughtful, but some, “it’s God’s will” – “God is preparing you for something great” — these messages drove me INSANE.

I have advice for people who don’t know what to say—JUST FUCKING SAY THAT— “Isabel & Randy, I don’t know what to say. But I am thinking of you. I care.” THAT is enough. When you take the GOD’S WILL route, you exasperate the unanswered WHYs—questions that will never, ever be answered and it’s not enough to say it was up to GOD. Because if GOD knew my friend the way I do, she would be a mom to her own child. So, don’t.even.go.there.

A week has passed since my friend suffered this unimaginable loss and trauma to her body that no one talks about. Unsurprisingly, she has already started a blog and joined a group to bring awareness to miscarriages, stillbirth, loss, and grieving parents. This process of losing a child in utero is one that no one talks about enough. Women aren’t encouraged to grieve. They don’t know their choices in the hospital. They don’t know the questions to ask. This is going to change. Isabel will help change that, the world, you watch. Isabel is going to be heard. Leo was a lion, and even if he isn’t coming back, you’re going to hear him roar through his mama and I’m going to be there for her forever.

I still cry for my friend. I do pray. But most importantly, I am just letting her know that I am here. I am available. I check in with her daily. I will listen when she wants to talk. I don’t have advice per se, but I will do my best to honor my friend through this process and into the future. And through our most intimate conversations, I do not judge her decisions or feelings, I will not ask her how she’s doing, and I will never tell her what to do. I will never know what she’s gone through and I won’t pretend to. I am a friend, and my friend is in pain. I just need her to know that I don’t know what to say. But I am here and I always will be.  That’s what friends do.

XO,  Stephanie

———–
About Stephanie:

Stephanie Garcia is a Comedienne best known for her quick wit, sarcastic sense of humor, and impersonations of “Drunk Girls.” From a young age, she was fascinated with sketch comedy. At the age of five, she would impersonate any SNL character and entertained friends and family for hours. Steph moved around often, attended several elementary schools and three different high schools and learned quickly how to make friends – by making people laugh. In high school, Steph wrote parodies about current friends, bad habits, teachers, and embarrassing situations. Eventually she turned these parodies into live entertainment by acting out the stories behind the songs. People started telling Stephanie that she should do comedy. So, with the encouragement of close friends and family, in 2004, she entered an open‐mic contest and placed second. Now, in her 9th year of performing on stage, Stephanie draws upon experiences from her drunken nights as a single gal to getting married to a U.S. Marine, to becoming a Mother. Professionally, Stephanie is a copywriter and is working on her first book.  She regularly appears on Good Day Sacramento and was a finalist for America’s Funniest Housewife contest on The View last year.

Walk of Hope

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xo-isabel-infertility-awareness

On Saturday, September 21, 2013 we will be participating in RESOLVE‘s Walk of Hope 2013 in Northern California.

We are so honored that some of our friends & family have decided to join us on this walk. We are walking to support Infertility and Recurrent Pregnancy Loss Awareness.

About the Walk

The mission is simple—to find a voice for the 1 in 8 couples battling infertility and bring this disease out of the shadows.

The Walk of Hope is a day to recognize the many ways in which families are built. People of all ages can participate as a walker or donor and raise awareness of how the disease of infertility impacts families nationwide. Funds raised from the Walk support local programming which includes support groups and educational events, public awareness initiatives, and advocacy efforts to ensure all family building options are available to all.

With your help, RESOLVE will continue to:

  • – offer hope to the 7.3 million Americans suffering with infertility
  • – provide RESOLVE events and support programs to the 1 in 8 couples diagnosed with infertility
  • – ensure that all family building options are available to all.
  • – break the silence of infertility. 

Other facts:

  • – More than 776,000 people in California are impacted by infertility.
  • – There are only 19 support groups in northern California.
  • – California has an insurance mandate that covers infertility treatment.
    (Personal Note: But employers aren’t obligated to choose a health plan that covers treatment and it does not include coverage for IVF, in my case, I have zero coverage for infertility treatments, not even to continue to diagnose my Recurrent Pregnancy Loss).

(Source: RESOLVE.org, Walk of Hope)

My Story

My husband and I have dealt with Infertility for many years. In addition to this, we have also dealt with Recurrent Pregnancy Loss. One without the other is incredibly difficult. Together, it’s almost unbearable at times.

Our son Leo was a spontaneous pregnancy; a miracle really. Combined, I’ve dealt with Infertility and Recurrent Pregnancy Loss for over 15 years. Over the course of that time, I’ve undergone fertility, or Assisted Reproductive Technology (ART) treatments that ranged from ovulation induction medication, intrauterine inseminations (IUI), InVitro Fertilization (IVF) with Intra-cytoplasmic sperm injection (ICSI), Frozen Embryo Transfer (FET) and countless poking, prodding, injections, blood work, ultrasounds, and visits to doctors. Oh, and acupuncture, lucky socks, fertility charms, baby dust (glitter!), birthday candle wishes, wishes on shooting stars and countless other things to keep hope alive.

I was lucky to have found a very good support system all those many years ago. Many of the women that I’ve met along my journey are still my friends. I’ve watched countless go through heartache after heartache as their own journeys to parenthood evolved. I’ve also seen so many children be born or find a way into the lives of these women and their families.

For many, the sting of Infertility will live with them for a lifetime. Even having a child come into your life cannot erase the journey that got you there, but it can make your outcome so much sweeter. So much more appreciated.

It’s organizations like RESOLVE that are out there to fight for our reproductive health choices and family building options.

If you are local to the Sacramento, CA area, walk with us. Join Team XO on September 21, 2013.

If you aren’t local, consider a donation, however small, to help this organization keep doing the good work that they do. They’re speaking for so many whose voice is not heard.

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P.S. The top image is part of a T-Shirt I’m designing for Team XO!

Why do we wait?

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During the past week or so, I’ve stepped into myself. You see, I’m an introvert and I spend a lot of time in my head, with my thoughts. They quickly oscilate and would be hard to keep up with. Usually, I have an easy time of remembering things. Keeping calendars in my head. Remembering faces and names. During my pregnancy, it was the first time I had truly experienced what everyone dubs as “pregnancy brain.” I didn’t like it one bit, I’ll admit. Anyway, the point of this is because there is one thought that has been bothering me. And rather than keep it in my head or write it down to discuss another time, I decided to just stop what I’m doing and write about it now.

It’s about announcing pregnancy. So many times you hear someone give a newly pregnant woman the advice of “wait.” The advice is simply that you shouldn’t share the news of a new pregnancy until your second trimester. And most of us oblige. And I ask – “Why?”

Why do we wait to share such exciting news? Nowadays, we live in a world of Social Media where we live with Facebook and Twitter and INSTAgram. We want to share everything NOW. What we’re watching, how we’re feeling, what we’re eating and the color of our new nail polish. But, to share that you’re pregnant when you first find out is somehow taboo.

Why?

I understand, truly I do. As a woman that has now experienced five (5) pregnancy losses, all in different stages of pregnancy, I subscribed to this rule, mostly. But, the more miscarriages I had, the less and less I believed that this rule was actually any help at all. One could explain away the reasons for waiting to share news, and that would simply be so that we don’t have to explain to others that our pregnancy has ended, should we be met with being included in the most unfortunate of statistics; miscarriage.

But, why are we afraid to share? Why are we afraid to let people know of our loss? Do we feel shame? Do we feel embarrassment? “Oh no! I lost the baby, now everyone will think I was so stupid for sharing my news so soon, I JYNXED it!”

Bollocks!

I began to believe that I should share the news as early as I feel comfortable and with those I felt comfortable with. As much as I wanted to contain my news from others, I felt the need to share. And, yes, we did wait until our second trimester to share the news publicly via Social Media and the like. That didn’t make me any safer.

What it did prove to me is the immense support system that I have all around me. I didn’t need to apologize for my sadness and grief. I didn’t need to feel shame or embarrassment. I got to be the face of miscarriage and infertility to my family & friends. The same people that experienced joy at our happy news of expecting could also be an integral part of our healing as we announced the loss of our son. The same people that would be happy for us can also grieve with us.

And I think…what if I go through this again? What if I get pregnant again? Now waiting 13 weeks isn’t safe anymore. But is waiting until 18 weeks? What about 38 weeks? Sadly, a loss like mine and like those of countless others can happen at any time.

I refused to be paralyzed by the stigma that miscarriages should remain unspoken. That early pregnancies shouldn’t be celebrated. I’m not saying that should I ever get pregnant again that I’ll be out & about blasting the news over loudspeakers, but, I certainly won’t hide the fact that I am pregnant out of shame, fear or anxiety. I refuse to sit back and let the fear of the unknown overpower the great joy that being pregnant can be.

So, next time you are tempted to give the advice to someone, especially a daughter, daughter-in-law, sister or best friend, consider why. Revisit those reasons and consider other options. Analyze why you think she should wait to announce. Make sure it’s not because of fear.

You share your news with anyone you wish to share with. Allow those that can feel joy with you to also feel and see you through your fears. The biggest difference between sharing and not sharing is in who can be there to support you. For if you never share what happened, you will live with Unspoken Grief, and well, girl, that just isn’t fair.

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.

Screenshot_8_27_13_11_29_AM

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.

Screenshot_8_27_13_11_32_AM

XO, Isabel

A broken body

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Henry Ford Hospital (The Flying Bed) by Frida Kahlo, 1932

Henry Ford Hospital (The Flying Bed) by Frida Kahlo, 1932

Frida Kahlo is one of my favorite artists. Her work is incredibly powerful. Her art, to me, was born out of tragedy, pain and heartache. An eternal ache from love, both for her husband (Diego Rivera) and the babies she loved and wanted, but was unable to have.

This particular piece is of her, lying naked and vulnerable in a hospital bed after having a miscarriage. It’s a boy and she holds in her hand all the connections to the various parts of her experience. From this site, it goes on to explain what each of the items in the image represent. The tear in her eye is obvious, the visible boy in the image is the manifestation of love for her husband, a piece of him that she could never have, Dieguito. The snail representing the slow process that a miscarriage can be, the female torso, the “cruel” looking machine to represent the mechanical part of the whole process, and lastly, the image of her broken pelvis.

This broken pelvis in her world represented an incredible amount of physical pain and I would imagine an incredible amount of emotional pain. For this “broken” part of her took away so much, including her ability to carry a child to term.

With Frida, I identify. In many ways, I always have, on so many different levels. In this specific case, I identify because of my broken body. Outwardly, perhaps no one can tell just how broken it is. My blood holds all my secrets. All my illness. My blood is what contains the clues of how sick I am. How sick I have been.

This is the cause for my Infertility. This is the cause for my miscarriages. This will more than likely be the cause of an earlier-than-hoped-for demise. This is the cause of my feeling so old, even though I am still so young.

Today, I went to a new doctor, an OB/GYN, to follow-up on my D&E procedure that I had almost two weeks ago. I was not able to return to Dr. J. Well, that’s not true, I was more than able, I am unwilling to return to his care, and I use that term quite loosely. I felt from the start that he was not very comfortable with the nature of my high risk pregnancy. He didn’t have to say it outright, I could sense it. I could sense it in his body language. I could sense it in the way he promised to do certain things and never followed through. Why? Well, because this baby would surely die anyway, why bother? That’s the way he made me feel. And many times I wished to leave his practice, but, I felt like I had not choice as we were already so intertwined with his practice and other doctors were already involved in managing my care, that he was mainly only there to check the heartbeat from time to time or just refer me out to someone else.

So, I went out to find a new OB/GYN that would be comfortable with me. That would show me the compassion I so deserve and to also make me feel that they are an integral part on my medical team. Someone, that should I get pregnant again, would be by my side and help guide me and be able to ease me through the anxiety I’d feel should I ever get pregnant again. That won’t think I’m crazy because I want my blood tested every other day in the first few weeks of pregnancy to ensure my pregnancy hormones are going up as they should. Someone that will actually call me and check in after they learn of a loss and not just avoid me or send me away.

After my experience over the past few months, I made a promise to myself. That any professional I would seek out to have on my team, I would speak up and ask direct questions. I did that today. I needed to know if I was within her comfort zone. It’s okay if I wasn’t, I just needed to know now instead of when I needed the care and then felt treated as if I were a dirty dish rag that no one wanted to touch.

As delicately as she could put it; I am beyond her comfort zone. I was lead to believe that I’d be more than likely beyond any OB’s comfort zone. Perhaps I’d be better suited having all prenatal care in the hands of a Maternal Fetal Medicine (MFM) doctor only. I already have one of those, but he, like many MFM doctors, only co-manages care.

And although she didn’t bring it up first, I mentioned surrogacy. And was told that if finances were of no concern, it’s perhaps a more viable option to consider, considering my complications and medical history. This is the second doctor that has had recent contact with me that has said that perhaps surrogacy is an option I should consider. Pregnancy is already hard on one’s body, my body is already working hard enough. Pregnancy will only complicate it more. And afterall, she said, I still have to Mother my child after pregnancy. I got the distinct feeling that what she was saying is that my conditions could risk my life during pregnancy.

Talk about feeling broken.

Broken heart. Broken spirit. Broken body.

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.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / /

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