Stupid people rule the world

I am fortunate that I have the privilege to travel for work. My job takes me all over Florida and on occasion around the Southeast.

This week my job takes me to Fort Lauderdale, which is absolutely awesome. I don’t visit this city often and when I do, I go to my local office, work and drive to my hotel in Miami or drive home to Tampa.

This week I decided to spend some time in the area – get a hotel on Las Olas, walk around and explore an area I am not familiar with.

After dinner with a colleague, I walked down from my hotel and did some urban exploring.

I found a cute wine bar, bellied up to the bar and ordered a Pinot Grigio.

I was quickly met with two Scotsmen, a German and an Englishmen. This would make for the perfect set up for a joke — if only I had the perfect punchline.

I am not that funny.

Instead, I entertained the drunk Scotsman and watched how he wobbled from the bar to the restroom and back again. His brother and sister-in-law were with him. The only thing I was truly worried about was if he was going to use my lap as a waste bucket for his dinner.

Gratefully he did not.

As the crowed thinned, the man next to me (from West Palm Beach) asked me what the most important work I’ve ever written was.

Now, mind you, I used to be a newspaper reporter. I wrote for a living. I’ve won dozens of national and state-wide awards for my story-telling abilities.

So I told him, “the writing I’m most proud of is writing about my son.”

I paused knowing and waiting for the questions that would come.

He asked very little and listened.

Few things get me as heated as when someone says “it was God’s plan” that we lost Wilson.

It’s been 25 months since we lost our son and I still get angry when someone says something that stupid. I’ve learned the art of grace and (trying) to tactfully correct them. I’ve learned from my beloved friends our Tampa support group, Jennifer​ and Kevin Hanson​ that sometimes people just don’t know any better.

But tonight – ugh maybe it was just the right amount of wine- but I just tore into this unsuspecting person when he told me it was part of “God’s plan.”

I then brought it back to him and said “OK, what if your daughter Jordan gets in a wreck tonight and she is killed instantly. Is that part of God’s plan?”

Perhaps I should not have been so rude or crass. His face whiten, his eyes welled and his nose got red- he buried his face in a nearby cloth napkin and wept.

He said “it’s not the same.” My reply? “Of course, it’s not. You have 22 years with her. Our son never lived outside my womb, we lost him at 39.5 weeks.” I then told him, “look it’s not a contest, I just want you to realized your words hurt.”

So now I’m back in my hotel room It’s doubtful I will ever see this man again and I wonder did I do the right thing?

Perhaps my words were too harsh, 25 months ago I probably would have slapped him and gone to jail for assault. I don’t really know how I would have reacted.

Broken body

Dear broken body,

Every scar on you has a memory and serves a purpose: Like the tiny scar on my right index finger I got when I was playing with a sharp corner as a kid, or the knee scars from being caught in an undertow and them scraping on the rocks as a friend pulled my arm out and helped me swim to safety or even the shaving scar on my ankle I covered up with a now faded tattoo. 

Every scar I have tells a story. 

But then there are the scars not one sees but me and my husband. The six inch scar right below my belly where the doctor sliced me open and took out our stillborn son, the scar around my navel where a surgeon removed a mango-size benign tumor from a Fallopian tube. And then there’s the big one, four inches long above my navel, when the reproductive endocrinologist opened me up to figure out why we could t get pregnant. 

Two years. Three major surgeries. No live baby. 

I told someone the other day “we have a nursery for a baby that never came home from the hospital.”

Most days I try not to let my broke body bother me. Most people don’t know – after all they can’t see the deep wounds and have no idea what our life is like after losing Wilson and being faced with infertility. 

Today, broken body, you suck. Should I be proud of you? I guess. But right now I’m not. I’m disappointed that even on the month we didn’t “try” I was still hoping to be pregnant only to have my cycle come again. I hate you broken body. 

I can deal with the chubby, the scars of growing up and my sometimes scattered brained-ness. 

But broken body today you suck. I hate you. 

Laboring without

One of my best friends is in labor right now. 

I’m a wreck. 

That is all. 

Surgery, complications and trying to keep a sense of humor

On February 9 I had a very complicated and serious surgery on my uterus.

My husband and I have been seeing a very good reproductive endocrinologist here in Tampa. We probably started seeing him in the fall.

Each time I would see him I would cry. He was our second opinion doctor – I didn’t like the first repro despite being highly recommended by my Obgyn. But after two failed IUIs and a crappy attitude, I had enough and took charge of my health.

Our “new” doctor has been kind and supportive and comforting. During one of my very first sonograms he noticed a problem- he couldn’t get to my left ovary.

Meanwhile the first doctor didn’t have a problem, so that still confuses me.

But when the sonographer at the new doc’s office spent 45 minutes trying to find the left ovary and the doctor still couldn’t do it I knew we had a problem.

After more sonograms and an abnormal HSG test (both tubes now had issues), the doctor, my husband and I decided surgery to remove the left tube and repair the right would be our only option.

The thought of losing my tubes and my fertility was terrifying. No one seemed to understand.

So on Feb. 9 we went in for surgery. I was convince my left tube was going to be gone and so scared about the right .

Well the doctor was able to save both my tubes and in a complicated and difficult 3.5 hour surgery he also found would could have been the problem – my uterus was at 90 degree angle.

We meet with the doctor on Tuesday to learn more about what caused the issue and our next steps. I know he wants to do IVF but I am just so stubborn – we were able to get pregnant the first time no problem. Now after a year of trying — I have my hope back.

So over the Valentines Day weekend we decided to reprise our Christmas season traditional of baking and decorating sugar cookies.

We also continue to try keep our sense of humor through the difficulty of trying to conceive a healthy and live baby.

How we walk

Saw this and thought I would share. It certainly spoke to me

Boundaries

Nothing ticks me off more than not respecting my boundaries.

Before losing Wilson, nothing was off the table. I was an open book and OK with allowing people into my inner circle or just sharing.

I’ve always believed there is a line between being private and staring in your own reality show. I never wanted to be too private – seemingly rude – or outside the box and sharing everything.

Frankly, I would often just say stuff – and I really didn’t pay much attention to boundaries.

For 20 months now I’ve set my boundaries.

Rude? Probably but it also is how I protect myself.

My colleagues know not to bring up Wilson or babies.

A colleague here in Atlanta even asked if he could bring his infant around for me to hold. Super sweet ask.

My original thought was ok, but have changed my mind. I will feel vulnerable and feeling vulnerable around colleagues is unacceptable, especially those who don’t get it.

I have boundaries and expectations.

My colleague has honored that, well so far anyway.

Walking into a session I overheard someone talking his one year old, how he isn’t getting sleep and how his new baby has just changed his life completely.

I don’t think he was saying it to be malicious. And to be honest he didn’t know about our loss. I stay away from all baby and toddler talk completely. Frankly, I just don’t care and if there is talk around me I walk away OR remind them of my boundaries.

As for my colleague complaining about his new baby, I excused myself and came back to the conversation after he was done.

Another colleague – my boss- just looked at me.

I simply said “I’m not in the mood to hear anyone complain about their baby.”

My boss just looked at me. This look like “oh well, shouldn’t you be over it?”

Perhaps I’m reading into conversations and body language too much.

When faith collides with “truths”

As many of your all know, I have a fractured faith life. Most people know not to quote scripture, “Job” stories or other silly little things that tick me off. My walk is my very personal walk – questions, wrestling, broken, raw and fractured. I set boundaries and expect others to adhere to them, even if it means losing a friend or trusted loved one.

If I don’t question God in every blog post I write, it is certainly an underlying theme. The questions I have answers to don’t have answers — or at least not good ones. Even if God came down right now and said “this is why Wilson didn’t survive” it wouldn’t be good enough.

Call me selfish – but I’m an angry, grieving (and sometimes) bitter mom. I’m a mommy who should have a 20 month old. Instead, an empty nursery with the door permanently shut.

I have a hard time believing in “God winks” and “God moments,” mostly because I think they trivialize the “faithful” into the “haves” and “have nots.”

All this to say, I had a very unusual to call today at work. Given the nature of what I do, it isn’t unusual for me to get phone calls from random people – a homeless person, a complaint about a shelter or someone wanting to reach another Salvation Army in another part of the state or country. I take it all with a grain of salt – while my primary responsibility is communications, it hurts absolutely no one for me to go the extra mile for clients, even when I’m busy.

So today I received a call from a woman wondering why she hadn’t received a receipt for a donation. My first thought was to give her a number to the correct office. But then she started talking to me. Crying, she told me how she lost her son in December 2013. She put a check in a red kettle in memory of her son. She picked up a part-time job over the holidays – the donation was everything she earned.

It broke my heart as she talked about her son, how he died and how she wasn’t there when he took his last breath.

She complained her friends don’t understand her grief, her remaining son doesn’t get it and how she just cries and cries. As tears slowly streamed down my face, I briefly told her about Wilson. I probably listened to her for 30 minutes. Slowly, I found out it wasn’t about a receipt for her donation (which I will follow-up for an answer) it was about having someone to show kindness and just listen. The fact we shared the saddest bond of all – losing a son – was an interesting, gut wrenching, coincidence. Or…was it one of those “God winks,” the spirit gently and gracefully nudging me to be more open, kind and loving.

So my faith is colliding with truths – what ever those truths are.

In my opinion faith doesn’t follow like lemmings – off the edge of a cliff without the least bit of questions. To me faith – at least my faith – are the deep, soulful question of “why” to a grieving parent, the tear stained flag as it is presented to a widow or the martyrs who instill fear.

The truths are that there are grieving families, parents like my husband and I (20 months later) still have an empty nursery and trying in vain to have enough baby only to be told no nearly a dozen times by doctors. More truths: The tear stained flag and terrorists attacks nearly everyday of every year.

So how do I reconcile?

I don’t.

I just think of the phone call I just had at work and hope what I shared mattered.

Grief spurt

I can’t remember when exactly it was – a month or a few weeks after we put Wilson’s ashes in the ground, I saw his name plate on the wall in our church’s memorial garden.

Upon seeing Wilson’s name on the wall I just started wailing.

All of our hopes and dreams on a cold plastic plate:

Wilson Monroe Kimrey IV, July 1, 2013.

There’s not even a dash.

Just his birthday.

As my husband and I stood staring at his name plate a retired church pastor came by. He lost his sweet wife of more than 50 years in February.

He just stood there with us, wrapped us in his arms and prayed.

He then said something interesting: “Grief Bursts.”

He said a grief burst is a wave of grief that just comes over someone and they can’t control it.

Here’s the more academic definition:

Shadow grief is the intense sadness that overcomes us when least expected, like a shadow from the past that darkens the day, the moment or the mood.(1) Often called a grief burst, this reliving of grief may occur at any time, usually at the most unexpected moments, and comes and goes for a lifetime. While shadow grief is often associated with mothers whose children have died, anyone can experience this type of grief burst

I am struggling today.

I am struggling today with this grief burst.

Our son would be 20 months old Feb. 1. I miss him with every part of my being.

Twenty months later and I am still struggling. Everyone else seems “normal.” Or at least “back to normal.”

What is normal when you’ve buried your son? What is normal after a year of trying only to be told you were “lucky” with your first pregnancy.

Lucky?

With a dead baby? In what world is that lucky?

Some days I just want to melt into the furniture at work.

Today is one of those days – grief burst.

Hyde Park United Methodist Church

The plaque at the memorial garden where our son is buried.

New Year, New Hope, Same Loss

The holidays hit me hard.

I was ready for them – I did so much Christmas shopping, planned every second of everyday. The sweet aroma of banana bread and peanut butter cookies wafted in the air.

Sugar cookie decorations were piled high on the kitchen table.

I ordered special Christmas gifts for everyone in our family.

I thought of everything – or so I thought.

Turns out the gifts, the cookies, the food was all a distraction.

By Christmas eve – when everyone was in bed dreaming of Christmas day presents – I was laying there, holding my husband’s hand as he helped me through a very paralyzing panic attack.

All the distractions in the world – and there I was – without our baby.

So hard.

New Year’s Day I had the same experience – laying in bed, a wave of “I’ve disappointed everyone” came over me. Again, my sweet husband held my hand and aided me through the attack.

So here we are 2015: We should have a 19 month old.

He would be so silly by now – showing off his spry personality – probably dancing away at sing songs, babbling baby babble, saying things like “mamma” and “daddy” and probably even “I love you.”

I’ve never had a new year so painful: Usually the dawn of the new year is full of so much hope.

I just have sadness – another year without our son.

The pain of losing our son only marred more by the realization that we may never get pregnant again. That, my friends, is what scares me the most.

So we are looking at other options – adoption for one.

Some days I’m really good about it – even google “Adoptions” and Tampa, other days I put it off and off. Most days are just filled with the need to just not think about it anymore.

I’m dreaming of a happy Christmas

This Christmas wAs rough.

I mean last Christmas was the first Christmas without Wilson. However, dad died Dec. 21. We spent the entire Christmas holiday planning dad’s funeral. I was prepared to mourn our son last year, just not my dad and our son. I stuffed my feeling about Wilson and concentrated on what we needed to do with dad.

So last night, Christmas Eve, my husband made me go to church. I knew I didn’t want to go. But I put on a brave face and went.

I couldn’t walk two steps into the church without completely shutting down. I saw babies. Toddlers. Happy families. In that moment I just wanted to melt into the floor and go away.

My usually supportive husband gave me the most hateful look- he thought I just didn’t want to go to THAT church. Well I didn’t. But all the children and babies and toddlers. I just couldn’t be around it. I had a meltdown. Probably the worst meltdown I’ve had in a very long time. Of course once my husband realized I wasn’t just pitching a fit because of that church, his face turned to genuine concern. He had not idea – since as he said – I was doing really well.

I am not.

After spending Christmas Eve night I was still sad. Today I am still sad.

I guess all the baking and shopping was just a mask – masking my broken heart.

We should have our son.

We don’t.

I used to love Christmas.

Now I just want to sleep and drink it away.