Our First Date

I want to continue our story. I really don't think that anybody can appreciate the extent of the situation if they don't know all the details.

I'm picking up here, after the wedding of my sister to his brother. At this point I was 16 years old. He was 20 (almost 21). Five years doesn't seem like much, but at that age it is an eternity. We would stay up all night chatting on AOL instant messenger for the remainder of the summer. We planned a date for a couple weeks after the wedding.

July 31, 2002, he picked me up in his beat up Chevy Nova that his grandmother had given to him for his commute to and from his University. We went for dinner and afterwords we saw the movie Chicken Run. Romantic first date isn't it? It was perfect for us. I remember the warmth I felt in my stomach when he reached over and asked if I wanted to hold his hand. Of course I wanted to hold his hand. ;)

He did not kiss me on the first date. That came later. At the end of the night he asked if he could give me a hug. Um, yes I wanted a hug! Under the stars, in the desert town that I am from, on the side of the road where he parked to drop me off after our date, he wrapped his arms around me. I'm significantly shorter so my face was buried in his chest. He smelled amazing. I knew then that we were going to be together, aways. I liked it. 

Maybe it's ok, if everything looks grey

Some days are better than others but no day is easy. These are words that I have said to myself and to others throughout the last couple of months. Usually, I have a string of awful days that dip to the lowest of lows and the very next day I feel kind of like myself again. I can usually induce an uphill slope of my feelings by remembering that “maybe it's ok if everything looks grey”.

Monday this week was especially awful for some reason. Most of the time am able to hold back the tears. At least I can hold them from actually flowing. I accepted a while ago that watery looking eyes is part of my cosmetic appearance these days. I slap the eyeliner on, the eye shadow, mascara (water proof) and top it off with tears. However, Monday was really hard. I wish I would have written that day but I spent most of the day struggling to hold back the tears.

I woke up this morning feeling a little better though. Last night, I spoke with my midwife about a doula workshop being held at the homestead that my midwife works at. I mentioned to her a couple weeks ago that I had always wanted to be a midwife.

When I was very little, my mom asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I replied to her in all seriousness “a girlnacologist”. A cousin of mine had recently visited and I over heard the conversation. She discussed her ObGyn and her plans for delivery. I took it all in and I knew then that I wanted to deliver babies.

The desire never went away but my confidence in myself did. I took nursing classes. I became a CNA. I have always had test anxiety and this caused me problems with the nursing classes. I essentially gave up and embarked on the only thing I knew I could do. That story is for another day though.

I told you all that so that I could tell you this. This Friday and Saturday, I will be attending a Dona-Approved Doula Workshop. I am really excited about this. I know there are people that are thinking to themselves “why on earth would someone that just lost their baby want to see a pregnant woman, or a mother and her baby? Let alone participate in their birthing process?” I have asked myself the same question. The answer is always the same. This is what I have always wanted to do. This is going to be a healing tool for me.

I did not choose to be infertile or marry a man who was. I did not choose to be the mother of a forever baby. Those are choices that I simply wasn't given. I can choose to use my experiences to help people. That is what I'm choosing. 

The "my baby died" club

I will get back to my story soon but today I felt compelled to share something else. When I was a teenager, my cousin experienced a stillbirth. It was distant to me. It was awful, but it was something that happened to somebody else. It always happens to somebody else. This cousin of mine went on to have four other live births. Her life decisions weren't always the best. To my knowledge, one of those children are in her care today. This cousin was someone that I became a little resentful of as I grew into my own infertility. I had allowed the idea that she lost a baby completely escape me because I was buried under my hard feelings for fertile mertile. 

Just today, I realized that my cousin and I, whether I like it or not, have a connection. We are a part of the “my baby died” club. This isn't a club that anybody wants to join. I don't even want to be part of this club now. Somehow, no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you potentially hate a person, this little thing in common brings you together, whether you like it or not.

She had told my mom right after we lost Jasper that I could talk to her if I needed. She said she had been there. She didn't say that she knew how I felt. I respected that. She doesn't. I don't know how she feels either. I was honestly annoyed when my mom told me that she offered to talk to me. We haven't spoken in probably 8 years or more. (We had a falling out which I would love to write about another time.) I was absolutely not going to talk to my cousin about anything, let alone losing my baby.

I contacted her today. The “my baby died” club has an unspoken rule which we all seem to figure out on our own. We stick together. We don't go through it alone. I realized that I needed to give her proper condolences. I never did when she lost her baby so many years ago. I didn't know how. It's easier to just say nothing. It happened. That's that. Easier for others perhaps.

This is what you say to a grieving mother. You tell her that you will not allow the memory of her baby to fade. You tell her that they mattered. They were important. This is what I said to her. “I will keep your baby girl in my thoughts with her cousin, always. I will never forget about her.”

My baby has made me a better person. This is his legacy. 

Our little project, ten years in the making....

Today is pregnancy and infant loss awareness day. It occurred to me that this might be a good day to tell you about my baby. I wrote something for him shortly after his birthday and I am going to share that with you. So, here it is.

On August 22, 2013 at 6:58 PM, Jasper Sagan  was born. He was 8 pounds 7 ounces and 21 inches long. We waited a long time to meet this little guy. I didn't get to see his eyes. I wish I would have looked. He had lots of wavy dark blond hair, but his eye lashes had a slight red tint to them. He didn't get that from me, that was all his daddy. His skin was so light, just like both of ours. He did have my long toe. He happened to be only one of two boys in the family with one. He had pointy ears like his Grandma Nanny and lips like his cousin Samantha.

Jasper loved when I would eat raw vegetables. He was always so excited afterwords. I know he would have loved to eat them himself. He also got very excited at the sound of his daddy's voice. He and I spent a lot of time awake together at night. I know he was going to be my little insomniac buddy. He wiggled around for the Doctor Who theme. We hiccuped together. Sometimes he liked to kick me in the stomach and try to make me puke but his daddy could always get him to calm down.

Those are the only memories we will have of him. I'm thankful for them but I wish there were more. I wish I could have seen him smile and heard him laugh and cry. I wish that when I held his little hand he would have squeezed my fingers the way that most babies do. I wish I could have seen him in his skull diapers. I wish he could have met the pups.

He's always on my mind. It took ten years to make the perfect baby. I'm honored to be his mom, even if our time together was short. I'm positive that he was smart like his dad and probably silly like his mom. As Chris has said a few times, he changed us. He made us parents. We will never forget him and we will love him always.

The First Wedding

This is my account of the first wedding that we danced at. Chris and I were to walk down the isle together at our siblings' wedding. We had met a couple times over the summer before the wedding to work on their invitations and such. I did the writing and designing, Chris did the computer stuff. (Kind of funny looking back on it. That's still how things go.) Our work payed off. Their invitations were beautiful. Not only was Chris given the task of printing, he was also asked to photograph their wedding. Photography has always been a hobby of his and they couldn't afford a photographer so it worked.

On the morning of their wedding, my sister, the flower girls (her daughters) and I woke up at the house of the maid of honor. We scrambled to get all pretty and big haired. All that girly stuff wasn't really my thing but I participated for her. I slipped into the blue dress that I worked so hard to fit into the whole summer. It was perfect. I left my hair at the mercy of my sister. If it were up to me, I would have brushed it out and called it a day.

When it came time to walk down the isle, I think Chris didn't have in mind that I was wearing shoes that I simply didn't know how to walk in. When it was our turn, he practically ran. I have no idea how I managed to not fall on my face trying to keep up with him. We made it though.

Finally, skipping forward to the reception. Chris was running around capturing moments. I didn't know at the time how many pictures he took of me when I wasn't aware. Little creep. We caught eyes a few times but I still didn't think he could possibly be interested in me at all. Until, he asked me to dance.

He walked over to me, I was sitting alone, pretty typical, and reached his hand out. He asked, “Can I have this dance?” I hadn't ever been asked to dance before. I was surprised. I took his hand and stood. He lead me to the center of the dance floor. I remember his mother and grandmother smirking at us. I felt awkward with everyone watching us but not awkward enough to stop dancing. My tummy fluttered and my heart beat quickend. We didn't talk very much. I don't even think I looked at him while we danced. The song was Open Arms, by Journy.

If you're wondering.. Yes. We played the same song at our own wedding.  

This is how we met...

I read somewhere that as a blogger, one should not tell a chronological story because it assumes that everyone is going to read all of your blogs but that is not the reality of it. Since this blog is a personal outlet for me, I am going to do just that. I'm going to tell the story, chronologically. I'm going to make an entry whenever the idea comes to my head. This is where I will start...

I met Chris when I was only fifteen years old. He was twenty. My first impression of him was that he was way smart and innocent. He had big glasses and he parted his hair on the side. He wore polo shirts and dress pants. He came off socially awkward to me which was fine because I was also. He was too smart to hold a conversation with us normal people. I had different reasons for my social problems. I just didn't enjoy the company of others. He was attending Cal State San Bernardino studying physics. I had no idea when I met him that he would have the slightest bit of interest in me.

Chris's brother and my sister were set up on a blind date. Thankfully, they hit it off and nine months later, he proposed to my sister. My sister thought that it would be a fun idea to introduce me to Chris. How cool would it be for sisters to marry brothers? Sure, maybe I was too young to be thinking about marriage at that point but it was a nice idea. Our siblings decided to partner Chris and myself up to create invitations and handouts for their wedding. This was our first project together and it was a success.

If you were to tell me that just a few months later, at sixteen I was going to be completely and totally smitten by the man that I was going to spend the rest of my life with, I would tell you that you're crazy. But, that is exactly what happened.

So, here I am.

My name is Amber. I'm 29 years old. I am the wife of 11 years to the nerdiest, sweetest and most caring man ever. Our king size bed is crowded with two pugs and three cats. We like it that way. I love photography. Well, I love all art. I just finished up my bachelor's degree in painting/drawing and graphic design with a minor in art history at the University of Nevada at Las Vegas. Most importantly, I am Jasper's mom.

I'm not new to journal style writing. While in person I am a woman of few words, I can't seem to shut up on paper. I would like to use this blog as an outlet for myself but I also hope that sharing my experiences may help others. I am guilty of being a silent viewer of YouTube vlogs concerning fertility. Because of this, I am aware that there is a very supportive and compassionate community out there and I think I am ready to participate.

This journey is not so openly discussed with family and friends. Some people just don't want to hear about your tracking system regarding BBT's and how exciting it is to see that mid-month drop. Loss is even less acceptable of a discussion topic. Nobody knows what to say. They usually say nothing at all as a result.

I intend for this blog to be a raw, unedited documentation as well as a place to reminisce my past decade of experience. I would love for it to be interactive, exchanging support and perhaps advice. So if you're up for it, be a fly on my computer screen. I will take you along as I write my story of infertility, loss and whatever comes next...