really letting go

It all seemed silly really.

I never saw 2 lines. I never had a due date. I was never pregnant.

The logical part of my head had trouble categorizing this as a loss in any traditional sense. Maybe if there was a sympathy card about the loss of one’s embryos who never implanted, the rest of the world (including myself) might be ready to recognize it too. I mean because if Hallmark doesn't make a card for it, it doesn't actually exist right??

I felt so awkward for even thinking about doing anything to say good bye to 11 embryos that never fully existed, but our new therapist suggested we write them a letter and figure out a way we were comfortable with saying good bye.

Right. Easy enough.

We had 2 weeks in between appointments and my emotions ran the gamut about writing that letter. In her office I thought it sounded like a great idea. A couple days later I was debating the usefulness of it. A week into it and I was adamantly refusing to participate (all within my own head anyway).

Finally, I wrote it over my lunch hour at work a couple days before we were to return (because nothing says good bye like a letter written under pressure over a bagel sandwich, right?) It was where I had to do it so I wouldn't over think every word and analyze what I should/shouldn't say. It was the only way I could get it done and have it be directly from my heart without all the extra chatter from my head.

It was an excuse to avoid all the emotions I was feeling...

Marveled that I had done it at all, I folded up the letter and threw it in my purse.

Now what to do with it... Crap.

When my dad died, people flooded my childhood home. They brought food and flowers, gave hugs, shared their stories or thoughts about him, and listened while we shared ours. They cried with us, laughed with us, took care of things we couldn't, and helped us grieve while we said good bye. They told us how sorry they were for our loss.

His death was the end of my life with a father and I got there was no chance of him coming back. The dreams I had of him escorting me down the aisle at my wedding, of placing my child in his arms for the first time, of simply having an adult-adult relationship with him were over.

We had a viewing, funeral, and burial. Our overwhelming feelings were comforted through these familiar traditions, community support, and incredible memories. We were not ready, but together we faced our loss as we were forced to say good bye.

After 4 years of infertility, countless doctors, surgeries, medical procedures, and nearly seventy grand in uninsured medical expenses, M and I were facing another type of loss. The biological children we longed for and had fought so hard to have would never be. This time we were making the decision to say good bye.

Nobody showed up with casseroles or thoughtful words with hugs or condolences. Nobody stopped by to share our grief, wipe our tears, or listen to us share our thoughts. There were no traditional ceremonies to follow, no road map of sorts to help us pave our way, yet we had to figure out a way to say good bye to our weren't-meant-to-be children.

We I decided to tie our letters to helium filled balloons and let them go. It seemed simple enough, but when I walked into Par.ty City my thoughts were suddenly jumbled with what to get.

Would 2 be enough to take our letters up? What colors? Doesn't every one of our embryos deserve their own balloon? Is M going to think I've lost my mind if I buy 11 balloons? Why are there so damn many children's balloons?

It was finally my turn and I blurted that I needed 11 without much thought: 4 blue, 4 pink, 3 white. Done.

As they were being filled I noticed a woman (who was buying balloons for her 16 year old daughter's birthday) glance and smile. Oh no. I knew what she was thinking and couldn't possibly let her ask the question. Why had I not analyzed this one some more? Pink and blue? Really? Stupid. I wandered to the nearest aisle and found myself in a sea of baby shower party favors.

Fuck. And there they were. The tears I had been avoiding all throughout this part of the process had found me. I could feel the burn in my chest and the pressure building in my throat. I had no control at this point and just let the tears roll while I stared at plastic pacifiers and tiny stuffed duckies.

When the balloons were done I practically ran out the door, tears still freely flowing. I hated the stares and little grins that I saw and wanted to tell everyone that I was not about to give my husband some good news, that these were not hormonal happy tears, that this was not at all what they thought it was. "These are all dead ones!!" I wanted to scream to the very pregnant woman holding hands with her husband behind me in line or to the sweet older couple who held the door as I took all the balloons back inside after 2 popped from the hot summer day - yes, really.

Finally, it was done.

When M got home, we drove to a secluded area in the Angel.es Nation.al Forest and said good bye to the babies who would have shared our genes – dark haired, blue eyed little cuties dotted with my freckles and cursed with M's crooked toes. There weren't any memories or stories to be had, but they held a lifetime of hopes and dreams.

We read our letters. We laughed. We cried. We tied them to the balloons and held one another as we let them go – our balloons, our letters, our babies, our dream of pregnancy and shared genetic parenthood, our life that was not meant to be.
Suddenly it wasn't all so silly...