How do you know when to stop?

Recognizing personal limitations is one of the hardest things to do.

My husband’s grandmother is elderly and sickly.  She lives alone in a home that needs repair.  She forgets to eat.  She forgets to take her meds.  Yet, she wants to remain in her home.  How can she tell herself it’s time to stop?  Time to stop caring for herself, and let someone else help?

My uncle has been diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s Disease.  He’s cognizant of most things, but has momentary lapses in memory or presence.  His favorite thing to do is drive his old truck.   It’s too dangerous for him to do this at all, much less alone.   Yet, he feels capable.  How can he make the decision to stop doing the one thing he loves?  To give up his independence?

It’s easy for other people to see when it’s time.  When loved ones have had enough.  When they’ve reached the limits of their capabilities.  When they need to move on, walk away, let go.

It’s not so easy for the person holding on.

This weekend was tough for me.  It was the one year anniversary of my miscarriage.  Last year, on Good Friday, I found myself in the ER at almost 6 weeks pregnant, in excruciating pain.  Last Good Friday I was released from the hospital and told there was nothing to do but wait out the inevitable.  Last Easter, through a painted on smile, I soldiered through Easter celebrations at my home as my uterus shed all evidence of a pregnancy no one knew about.

A year later, the wound has healed, but the emotional scar remains.  A year later, we celebrated Easter with the same family members again.  A year later, on Easter Sunday, I got my period.  A painful, bloody reminder of what I haven’t been able to achieve over the past year; of what I lost a year ago.

A painful reminder of the past 16 months of unsuccessful attempts at having another baby.  Of giving my sweet boy the sibling for which he continues to ask.

How much more can I take?  How many more months do I try, and fail?  How do I know when it’s time to stop?  Every time I think I can let it go, to settle in to the life we have and accept the cards I’ve been dealt, I find that I’m wrong.  I see the signs of ovulation, and think “maybe, maybe this is the month.”

I think it would be easier to let go and move on if I was just harboring the pain.   But, I’m harboring pain mixed with hope.  That’s a strange cocktail to imbibe.  When the bitter pill is wrapped in the sweet coating of hope, you keep swallowing the pill.

How do you know when to stop?

Photo: Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day

Here’s Sunnywide’s Wave of Light:

And Scrambled’s Wave of Light:

She lit one for each of us. How sweet is she?! XO

Email us your Wave of Light photos and we will post them 🙂

toogoodeggs@gmail.com (watch the spelling)

And just because: 

Wave of Light TONIGHT!

Don’t forget to light a candle tonight at 7pm in all time zones in loving memory of babies lost in infancy, miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy, and still birth.

Keep the candle burning for at least an hour. Please join us as we light the world in honor of our sweet angels.

For more information, visit http://www.october15th.com

Guest Post from IVFMale: Losing the child that never existed

We have already made so many friends and been touched by readers’ stories of loss, hope and miracles.  We asked IVFmale to be a guest blogger during Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, as he has a very unique perspective.  Here is his story:

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October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month and the two lovely ladies at Two Good Eggs requested a guest post talking about our unsuccessful IVF attempt. I’m honored they asked me and it got me thinking…what have I lost?

I never watched a child be born only to lose it as an infant. I haven’t heard it’s heartbeat only to suffer a miscarriage. To be perfectly honest, I’m not grieving the loss of the embryos any more than I would grieve the loss of my sperm wasted in a cup, only to be counted and discarded. It may sound cold, but I couldn’t look at them as anything more than potential life, until one of them implanted. Yet, I’m still grieving the loss of our unsuccessful cycle. Why?

I’m grieving the loss of the child I always pictured in my future. A child I could see my wife and myself in his or her features. Watching its first steps. Hearing it call me Dad. Guiding it through the struggles of life. Teaching it to swing, play sports, write its name. Helping my kid with math homework. Annoying friends on Facebook with stories of my kid. All these hopes I had during the process of our IVF cycle, lost with a negative test result.

I can only imagine the pain of those who suffered a miscarriage or lost an infant child. But we should not trivialize the loss felt by an unsuccessful IVF cycle simply because the pregnancy never actually took place. The loss is still very real.

Who knows how many times in nature an embryo never implants and dies. It might be more common than we realize, but it’s all hidden away from view. Completely unknown. With IVF you know fertilization took place and there is an embryo or two in the womb. You hope they implant, but you can’t help to start thinking of your future child. It’s for that nameless future child we very much grieve.

We love you, and we’re sorry you couldn’t be in our lives.

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Be sure to follow IVFmale on his journey over at his blog, too.