This may seem completely obvious to everyone else, but it has only just become clear to me. This blog has chronicled my experience becoming and being a mother, through IVF, the gift of twins, and the horror of child loss.
It started as a way for me to get rid of all the pent-up residual frustration I had about infertility, IVF, and those years of let downs and longing. I wanted so much to be a mother. Though IVF was costly (finacially and emotionally) it was worth it, because look at what I got, my Bug and my Elbow. During the years I went went through IVF, I didn’t make all of the suffering I felt obvious to most people. It was a very private pain. I didn’t even share with most people in my life that I was struggling with having children. I somehow thought I knew they wouldn’t understand. That is how it felt. My husband and I were alone in it. After I had my beautiful babies, I felt the infertility wound inside me start to fester and I knew I had to get rid of it. So, I started this blog. It was was completely anonymous. No one read it and that was fine with me. I was writing for myself, like a journal, but somehow sending all of it off into the void felt more gratifying than simple scribblings in a book on my dresser. Like crying or screaming, it helped.
After I was done ridding myself of the poison left behind by infertility, this blog shifted. It became my platform to show the world how remarkable my little girls are, how they changed my life in the best way imaginable, how amazing it is to be a mother of twins. It went from IVF was so hard to Oh my goodness this is amazing. Motherhood? Amazing. Mother of twins? Twice as amazing. I lagged in the writing department at this point because I was too busy adoring my children and taking in all the beauty in my life. The beauty was magical.
In November, the blog took a stark turn. I lost my little girl, my Bug, during a surgical procedure. Unexpected and sudden, it ripped my life apart. My blog became an outlet (again) that I needed in order to survive. It was the only way I could get the terrified screaming in my head to stop for even a moment. That’s when I decided to share the blog with my friends and family. I found that the more people who read it, the more understood I felt. Grief and child loss are isolating. Death is difficult for anyone to cope with. The death of a baby is nearly impossible for everyone. I shared my torture. Again, it served the purpose of purging the pain, to a certain degree. I would have gone mad if I had kept it all inside. There is only so much I can talk over with my therapist in my one-hour sessions once a week. I wrote when I had to, when I couldn’t keep it in anymore. My blog had once again become a purge machine for bad feelings.
For those of you who follow this blog, you have certainly noticed another stark change. I am no longer screaming and tearing my skin off over the death of my daughter, Bug. Does that mean I am done grieving, I don’t miss her, don’t love her, don’t ache for her? No. None of that can ever change. Any grieving parent will tell you that the pain of the loss of one’s child will never leave you. But, I learned something. I learned that loss of my sweet girl didn’t erase anything. It didn’t change, or even tarnish, the love she brought into my life. When I gave myself a moment to remember that, when I felt the where-with-all to look that love square in the face, the love was all I could feel. It was like my dear sweet Bug was whispering to me, Mama I love you and I know how much you love me. It freed me. I was able to just love my babies again. Too much had come between me and that love, and now I have it back.
This blog does not chronicle my whole life. It chronicles my motherhood journey. I am still on it. The journey is still happening. I am a mother of twins, forever. I have my sweet little Bug who I will carry in my heart forever, and I have my sweet little Elbow who amazes me every day. I have a feeling you’ll be reading about how amazing Elbow is in blogs to come.
I do want to take this opportunity to thank all of you who read about the torture and hell I was living. It was difficult to write, so I am sure it was difficult to read. To all of you, my friends and family, and my followers, most of whom I do not know and will probably never meet, thank you. Though you didn’t know it when you were sitting at your computer in India, the UK, Australia, Romania, Italy, Germany, Turkey, or anywhere else you sit and read my words, you were helping me with my grief. A grieving mother doesn’t need advice. A grieving mother needs a listening ear, someone who isn’t afraid to give her a hug, and someone who keeps coming back to listen, even though the story is painful. All of you did that for me. Thank you.