Sr. Iphielya: Oy Vey, Christmas Can Be Difficult

Sr. Iphielya
Hello, there.  I’m just getting the hang of this email and, oh my, there is a lot to learn.  So many buttons!

Well, it seems there are more than a few of you out there that could stand a little more empathy and understanding in your lives.  Sr. Iphielya is here and in the motherhouse, so let’s spend a few moments together, shall we?

I received many, many letters since I made my debut on Mary Tyler Mom last week.  I love her, don’t you?  Such a nice lady.  Where was I?  Oh, yes, the letters.  I do wish to respond to all of them, and I will, but it will take some time, please.  Single file will do nicely.

Christmas is just around the corner.  Seven days and counting, my friends!  This time of year is difficult for many of us.  So much to do, so little $ to do it with, so many dramas with the family, and lots and lots of deep seated feelings of grief and loss bubbling up to the surface.  In the convent, I learned that efficiency is a virtue, so I am going to try and address two letters with one post!

During this season of joy, merriment, family and office gatherings, many of our hearts hang heavy with the things we don’t have, but wish we did.  For some, it is toys for the little ones.  For others it is that little one — the little baby we wish to hold and call our own.  And for others still, it is the one who held us when we were babies.

The holiday season often means we spend lots and lots of time with cookies and cousins.  There is small talk and good cheer, but there is also forced cheer.  You know what I mean, don’t you?  That gathering where all together are doing their level best to ignore the sadness that is shared, but so often not discussed.  One of my letter writers wrote to me in hopes of finding another mother, as she had lost her own this past summer.  Oh, dear.  Losing a mother is hard.  I know this myself.  For those of us lucky ones, our mothers were all they should be.  They loved and cared for us, cheered us up, prodded us, poked us when needed, and held us when things weren’t going too well.  There is no other soul that does quite what a mother does for us, is there?

If you’ve lost your mom, these holidays of family and cheer can be difficult.  And as hard as Christmas Day will be, Mother’s Day will hurt you, too.  I like to think that the holidays turn up the volume of our hearts.  All that we feel is just a little more intense this time of year.  And that first year?  That first year when your mother won’t be baking the cookies, wrapping the gifts, encouraging her flock to behave as they should — that is one of the hardest of all.

I’ve some words of advice for you.  Nuns always do, you know, have words of advice.  I do hope you will consider them in the spirit in which they are offered — with love and empathy.  Consider remembering your Mom that day.  Be it with the green and radish Jell-o mold you told me about, or with a toast before the feast.  Talk about her.  Mention her name.  Acknowledge that she is missed.  If tears are shed, offer a Kleenex.  There is no shame in a tear being shed for a loved one gone before us.  We miss them.  It’s okay to talk about that.

Other gatherings may include a loss that is more personal.  Like for the reader who shared the difficulty of infertility.  Unlike losing a mom, a grown adult who all recognize and miss when gone, the loss of a child through miscarriage, or even the idea of a child, the desire of a child, is not always as well recognized.  People don’t understand it, do they?  There is no great way to grieve that loss publicly, or even with others you may be close to.  I might suggest, when the well intentioned (one hopes) comments come about, as they most certainly will, you act as a duck and let that water roll off your back.  Talk to your partner about your pain.  He, or she (it is the 21st century, even for us nuns), will understand in a way others will not.  Or, at least, I hope they will.  I suppose even your partners don’t always understand that pain.

My point is, dear one, is that the insensitive comments you receive are uneducated, but not malicious.  They want for you what you want, these folks free with the advice, and think their comments might just help.  You know and I know they do not.  This week of celebrations will no doubt provide ample opportunity for the “well intentioned” in your life to trot out their advice for you.  They don’t want to know of your medical difficulty.  They just don’t.  They want you to have a child, because they know you want one.  It is sad, to be sure, but I believe it is true.

Harsh, perhaps.  I am sorry for that.  I know from experience the holidays can be brutal.  Sr. Iphielya wants to prepare you for that brutality.  Arm you with some coping skills that will help you get through the day.  Some years, that is the best we can hope for, right?  Get though the day.  I assure you that come January, that volume on your feelings will eek down just a bit.  You will feel a little more yourself and less vulnerable.  I do hope so for you.

Alrighty, dear ones!  Sr. Iphielya is being called to mediate a squabble over who will peel the potatoes and who will mash the potatoes for Sunday dinner.  Please do take care of yourself this holiday season.  And remember, the motherhouse is just an email away!  sriphielya@gmail.com

 

 

The Freshman 15 Grows Up: The Miscarriage 20

So my friend and fellow blogger Real Mom Nutrition posted this week about her “Freshman 15.”  It was a good post, kind of a weight gain memory lane, and brought me back to the days when I worried about things like five extra pounds and wondering if I should switch to skim milk (I did and still drink two glasses a day). 

And then the thought “Miscarriage 20” popped into my head.  I’ve had four miscarriages now.  There won’t be another.  My uterus is closed for business.  I am done, which is a shame, as Mary Tyler Dad and I make exceptional kids.   Six pregnancies, two babies, and one child.  Not a great track record. 

With each miscarriage (all in their first trimester) I put on 15-20 pounds.  That makes sense, as with both of my babies I put on 38 pounds, 15-20 of which were in the first trimester.  With the earlier pregnancies, the weight came off quickly.  I would indulge in some Portillo’s and chocolate for a few weeks afterwards, licking my wounds along with my french fries, and then I would get it together.  The weight would fall off. 

After this spring’s miscarriage, the weight did not fall off.  It’s tenacious, this particular Miscarriage 20.  The Universe’s latest laugh.  “Ha,” it chuckles at me, the cruel Universe, reminding me of who is boss.  Not me.  I get it, Universe.  You win. 

I shared the post on my facebook page with the tag, “I am struggling with the ‘Miscarriage 20.’  Are you struggling too?  Can we struggle together?”  The responses were sobering:

  • Stillbirth 50
  • Miscarriage 45
  • Infertility 60
  • Four Pregnancies, One Baby 40
  • Three Pregnancies in Two Years, Two Babies, One Miscarriage 30
  • Putting Self Last 60
  • Single Mom 60
  • Bipolar 50
  • Annual Holiday 15
  • Dysfunctional Family/Grad School/Two Major Depression/Marriage 30
  • Self Esteem Issues from Teenagedom 25

That’s a lot of weight.  And a lot of sadness.  And a lot of french fries.

More than a few comments expressed gratitude about the honest discussion of miscarriage and what it does to us who have experienced it.  Honestly, I am not a good person to ask about this, despite my obvious familiarity with it.  For me, miscarriage does not equal the loss of my daughter.  Four year old Donna that I helped lower into the ground. 

After my third miscarriage, my OB called me at home one day and gently asked if we would try to conceive again.  She expressed concern about my “psyche.”  Now that is good practice — a doc to call you at home just to see how you are — but I didn’t need her to worry about my psyche.  I needed her to worry about my uterus, and leave my psyche to me.  I tried to explain to her that, for better or worse, my husband and I simply have a different continuum of sadness, pain, and loss.  YES, miscarriage is awful and sad, but we’ve known deeper sadness.  Our perspective is inalterably changed.  Sigh.  We gave it one more shot this spring after six months of uber-expensive out-of-pocket acupuncture.  No luck.  Another miscarriage.  Another ultrasound with bad news.  Another D and C.  Another Miscarriage 20.

I am tired of it.  I am tired of looking in the mirror and not liking what I see.  I am tired of the science of “strategic dressing.”  I am tired of the up, down, up, down, up, up, up on the scale. 

Seeing all the empathy shared on yesterday’s facebook thread was a good wake up call for me.  The Universe can have its laughs with us, but there is something mighty powerful about universal experience.  One of the commenters discussed her own recent weight loss, the work of it, but the joy of it, too.  “Self-forgiveness is golden.  Self-loathing must go,” she wrote.  Word. 

I am all about the Transcendentalists.  Have been since I first discovered them in college.  Walt Whitman and Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau are prophets to me.  I will work to remember Emerson’s Self-Reliance in the coming days.  Ain’t nothing gonna change until I do, so it looks like it is time to change. 

Wish me luck.