I understand that many people don’t agree with discussing such personal things as this in a public forum, but I hope you will understand that this is part of my process… I am not trying to compare my experiences to anyone else’s, this is just a part of me that I need to be made known.
I am a Mom. Sometimes I feel like I am just a girl who use to be pregnant, and sometimes I feel even less than that because no more than a dozen people even knew my baby existed. That’s why I feel an overwhelming need to speak up, because if there is anything as painful as losing a baby, it’s acting like it never happened, like I never had a baby to begin with. Brad and I had never been so happy in all our lives and to pretend that didn’t happen, or to not talk about it–not to remember…is like losing the baby twice.
In my grieving process, I have also learned that I will never be able to lay to rest the idea that I am a Mom. Regardless of whether or not I got to hold my child or even give them a name, I became a mother from the moment I saw two pink lines on a stick in my bathroom on a Sunday afternoon. From that moment, in my mind, my future had changed; my plans and my heart were altered and when I miscarried my baby, those dreams and plans–that future was miscarried as well, but my heart stayed the same and that love didn’t go away and I have been changed because of it…we both have. I know a lot of people don’t talk about it, but we just need you to know because we feel like this is so important to us and such an important part of who we are now, that none of our friends and family can really know us or be close to us unless they know.
You see, I saw my baby, and it’s heartbeat–my baby was alive and it died. I can’t make myself think of it abstractly–that I was pregnant and now I’m not or that it was merely cell and tissue that weren’t viable–or even that my baby is an angel–don’t get me wrong, I believe with my whole heart that my child is in heaven worshiping God in compete bliss, but I can’t bring myself to think of my baby as a cherub, as hallmark card as that is to believe. I fully understand that other people have to think whatever they need to to get through something like this –but for me, I need to do whatever I can to make this feel real, to feel that it happened, to make it feel less of a dream, no matter how heartbreaking the truth of it is… maybe that’s where talking about it comes in…
So now you know,
I was pregnant,
and I loved that baby from the second I knew it existed
and everyone who knew about that baby loved that baby
and it felt like I was going to be that happy forever and then I wasn’t so now I’m not the same and I need everyone to know why…
so I can honor that life, however short it may have been–
because that baby was my dream
and it became a reality, and then a memory–
but it happened
I bit off a chunk too large
of Black Mountain,
Tuff Buff,
Long Beach Blend Red,
Tenmoku.
My nails were too long and
my hands were not strong enough
To find the center
–Speckled Gray,
Fake Ash,
Kentucky Special. Not strong enough
to wrestle with this mud
this sand,
these words.
I bit off a chunk too large
and my fingers were too long
for Celedon, Coronado White,
Terra-Cotta Slip;
Potters’ paper clay was more
than I could chew.
**all content property of Serenity Rogers-Hanna and is not for copy, re-use, or publication apart from this blog without author’s consent
If you’ve read any of my earlier posts, you know how much of a nerd I am and how I miss being in college more than any normal person would and since I’ve been feeling better, I’ve been looking for a creative outlet to get my feet wet before I start writing seriously again.
…to get my hands dirty might be a better expression.
I’m taking a class. Brad and I are taking it together–it’s a ceramics class held at the high school around the corner from our apartment (we ride our bikes). I signed us up through the city’s adult school catalog– out of desperation for anything that resembled school.
Plus, sitting at a potter’s wheel is on my bucket list…okay, I don’t have a bucket list.
Anyway, as the instructor swung open the door, looked straight at me and enthusiastically announced, “I’ve been waiting for you!”–I knew I found what I was looking for. Our class consisted of a mother and son, an older man, a woman in a wheelchair, a painter, and about 20 other people. I can not tell you how inspiring it was to see people of all different skill levels just hanging around and making stuff. I wont get to sit at a wheel for a few more weeks, but I was content to be working with my hands, practicing creating. Oddly enough, many of the tools I used reminded me of pens and writing utensils– my literal and figurative muscles are being warming up, like stretching before a good run.
I havent run in a while.
It’s the same feeling being anxious to get my hands on a wheel, yet nervous knowing I’m guaranteed to mess it up at the start. Who knows, maybe I’ll find myself more of a hand-shaper than a wheel-thrower (look at me and my potter-lingo); maybe I’ll come out of this a better writer, or maybe just different….
How’s that for trying new things?
Is this actually happening? I’m I really blogging again–WRITING again! I am almost in tears at just the thought because of what that means….
I’m getting better.
For those who don’t know, I recently found out (after a year of feeling miserable and multiple mis-diagnoses’) that I have href=”http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hashimoto’s_thyroiditis”>Hashimoto’s disease. Which causes extreme fatigue, weight gain, brain fog, hormonal issues (among so many other things).
If you go back to some of my earlier posts, it makes so much more sense why I was struggling to write, or focus on anything, much less challenge myself! Not only that, but in a conversation with my new doctor (who God is totally using to change my life), as he looked at some of my labs and such, he essentially asked me if I had been experiencing any lack of creativity, or passivity with life—UUUHHH HELLO DING DING DING!!! YES! GIVE THE MAN A PRIZE!! Mind you, this was our FIRST meeting and he had no knowledge that I was a writer, much less that I have two degrees in writing and literature–he could tell merely from my labs and my other symptoms that I was lacking a brain chemical that is responsible for creativity, excitement, etc as well as severe inflammation in my body–including my brain– hello brain fog!
You mean it’s not my fault?
I’m not just lazy?
I’m not just lacking inspiration?
I can not tell you the relief that came simply from knowing that alone.
But it gets better
I get better.
I have to eat like a freak for the rest of my life,
But I get better.
My doctor is revolutionary. God has blessed him with a plan to treat this horrid disease of mine in a way that involves no medicine other than the food that God created….and avoiding the foods we have discovered that my antibodies are sensitive to–namely–all my favorite foods.
There is also a separate list of foods that I need to stay away from FOR NOW, but will be able to add back in once my inflammation goes down and I get closer to my goal weight. Can you guess what’s on THAT list?
Blueberries.
I was told to stay away… from blueberries.
The irony is not lost on me.
The best part, I’ve never wanted a handful of those ugly boogers so bad in all my life! When your diet is restricted as much as mine, anything that’s not a vegetable is idealized as the most delicious treat you can remember.
But it works. This post is proof positive that I’m on the right track. I still have sluggish days, but generally I am so much better–and I have hope! As of my last dr’s visit: I’ve lost 26 pounds, my hormones are under control, and the doc even said i get to add citrus fruits back in!
And soon, if I stay on track….
Blueberries.
I still don’t like blueberries…
I am hopelessly in love with my niece. below is some of her art and a poem I wrote for her when she was two years old.
We went to the park the other day and I gave her my phone/camera and told her to take pictures what she thinks is beautiful–a couple of days later I found these treasures in my photo library….I am counting this as my “something significant daily” for the next few days:
*
When she was two, her feet must have been different sizes because one shoe was always falling off–my dad called her “one shoe Penny”. So I wrote this for her– It’s cheesy, overly sentimental, and not edited enough, but that’s how I want it because it is how I was feeling in the moment–and that’s how I feel for her–and love should not be professional:
laying in the grass, a renegade shoe
always abandoning her
exposing her
to textured ground
carpet, concrete, grass.
shoe so small;
feet so small
heart so large
–too large
like shoe number two
rebel shoe
stranded on the carpet
on the concrete
on the grass
without movement
without foot.
shoe number one is faithful
it abides the slips and tumbles
it is humble
and willing to be walked on
through the grass
against the concrete
scuffing the carpet.
one shoe, two shoe
no matter the shoes
they are always one and two
green shoes
sparkly
pink princess shoes
first day of school shoes
mamma’s too big for me shoes.
they are always one and two
**all content property of Serenity Rogers-Hanna and is not for copy, re-use, or publication apart from this blog without author’s consent.
