It has been 8 months since we lost Lyndon.  I originally wrote this at the 2 month mark but didn't have the strength to share it.

As I slowly move through my grieving process I find that my thoughts keep coming back to the same question. What now? I have always felt that there were more children out there for me and my family, that we have so much love to share. I have had blessings that say that more children will come into our home. But at the same time, I can't imagine putting my body, my mind, my husband, or my children through another pregnancy. It would be torture. In the last 2 years I have spent 57 weeks pregnant, spent approximately 300 days throwing up, spent around 45hrs in labour, I have gained and lost and gained and lost and gained about 40lb and I have broken 4 teeth due to the constant vomiting and stress induced teeth grinding. Those are just a few of the physical consequences. I'll choose not to go over the emotional and spiritual issues at this point. I have gone through all of it and have virtually nothing to show for it. Almost everyone would think I am crazy to even consider trying again. I don't want to try again.

The problem is hope. When you are a victim of infertility and/or pregnancy loss, people tell you stories. Everyone tells you stories. The stories of friends and families that have had a success after years of trying and have never been happier. The stories where the trial was worth the reward. The happy ending. No one tells you about the couples that gave up, the ones that couldn't keep going. People think that they are helping when they tell you about the triumph over heartache but I have now come to realize that for me, I probably won't get my happy ending. Accepting that is very, very painful.

So what do I do now? Who am I if I am not trying to have a baby? This pursuit has been the main focus of my life for the last 8 years and if not this, than what? I know I have a lot to work through, a long way to go and a lot of questions to answer. Time to hunt up my crystal ball.

Land mines

It has been one month since we lost our baby girl at 23 weeks and I am glad to say that I'm almost through what I have come to call the land mine stage. It's the stage of grief where the world is a mine field and you just don't know from one moment to the next what harmless thing is going to explode in your face to bring you back to that ugly torturous place where you can't control your grief, where you sob in public places, where you feel like the worst moments of your life are now on display for friends and strangers alike.

Case in point. For me Church is filled with land mines. On my first Sunday back after losing Lyndon, I sat down and I made it through the hymns and thought success, the hymns are usually hard for me after a loss, they are designed to bring emotions to the surface. But I made it through and thought "I'm handling this, I can do this." And then the first speaker stood up. A woman in our congregation who is due one month before I was due. I tried to look every where but at her belly. Her topic, being of good cheer during trials. KABOOM, My self control is gone. I lasted for about 3 minutes of her talk before I left. The next Sunday was even worse.

For a while it seems like everywhere you look there is some one who has what was taken from you and unfortunately the nature of the beast is that the don't talk like they appreciate it. Women who are pregnant complain. A lot. Women who have babies complain. A lot. They're entitled. They're uncomfortable, they're tired, it's not all sweetness and light. I know that, I remember. But for those of us that have had that taken away, those little complaints and comments are like explosions in our heads and our hearts taking us back to our grief as if it were fresh and new again.

Luckily the land mine stage doesn't last forever. While there are always going to be your personal mines that will explode in your face, probably for the rest of your life, but it will stop being a 10 times a day thing and it will slow down to once a day, then, once a week and so on. Eventually you'll be able to go out in the world just like everyone else and strangers won't know that there is anything wrong and friends will tell you how well they think you coping. Those aches in your heart will be yours alone to share if you choose to, not because you can't help it. And that is a good thing.

My Truth

I haven't written much over the past few years and the truth is that I've been conflicted. The truth is that the things that I feel compeled to write about are the very things that I don't want the world to know. But now it's time to come clean, to tell my truth.

I am a 5 time pregnancy loss survivor.

I have had 5 babies die in the last 6 years. 5. Dead. Babies.

I use the term survivor loosly. The me that I was before all of my trouble started did not survive. I have changed. I have started to look at it like the equivelent of a fertility lightning strike. I am still alive but I am different. I am not the same as most of you. I was struck by lightning.

In my heart I am the Mother of seven but I only get to acknowledge 2. When you meet someone and they ask you how many kids you have they don't want to know about the dead ones. Nothing stops a conversation faster than talking about dead babies. So I don't. I say I have two children, a girl and a boy, and it breaks my heart every time. So here, today, I'm finally going to tell the truth. My truth. I have 7 children and they are:

Megan, Daughter, Nov. 2001 age 10
Dallin, Son, Oct. 2003, age 8
Taylor, Unknown, Aug. 2006 14 weeks
Avery, Unknown. May 2008, 10 weeks
Elijah, Son, Aug. 2010, 18 weeks
Jay, Son, June 2011, 16 weeks
Lyndon, Daughter, Feb. 2012, 23 weeks

I miss my babies.