An Open Letter to My “Son”

Dear Kirby,

It’s been 6 months now; I am still struggling to explain to others how hard it’s been since you’ve been gone. I’ve tried to write them down in some meaningful way about this grief I have for you, but everything just comes out hazy and incoherent. So instead, I decided to write you a letter. 

You’ve seen me pour over my laptop, writing on my blog. More so, you grumpily posed while I posted pictures and wrote “stories” of you on Instagram. Point is, you have always been at my side whenever I wrote something, whenever I wanted to share my life experiences.

You have always been at my side. Curled up in your bed. Next to my desk. 

It breaks my heart every time when I think of all the places you have been in our house, all the adventures we had, knowing now that these are just memories. 

Seeing cows or horses at the side of the road will always remind me of your soulful bark. Coming home after a walk or drive will bring me back to the all the time you got so excited knowing we were “almost home.” Turning in for the night and saying. “Big bed?” to you will bring back the times you eagerly jumped off the couch to run into the bedroom. Every single night. 

Everywhere I looked, heard, or touched made me wish you were at my side. I wanted my shadow back; I wanted my bathroom buddy, my toothbrush companion. I still look for you when I step out of the shower. I still dream of picking you up and holding you until you squirmed out of my arms. I still pray for the times you’d burrow into my lap or between my legs during “Ohana Couch Time.” Every night in bed I still reach out to my left side, hoping you were there sleeping next to me. 

You were my security blanket; having you was such comfort. I’ve missed your exuberant greetings when we came home. I miss your squeals and sloppy kisses; bad breath and all. You were the one who made me feel safe, and I never realized how much a presence you were until you were gone. 

After all, you were the one little soul I would go to for comfort when I grieved about my infertility and other losses. Except now, you are the one that I’m grieving about. 

We knew we were going on an extended vacation without you for the first time. Since joining our family 11 years ago, we never took a family vacation without you; we never wanted to exclude you from our “Ohana Adventures.” So, this two-week trip for an Australia / New Zealand cruise was the first time we wouldn’t have you by our side. 

We thought it would be easy to find a person to take care of you for 2 weeks, as our family and friends always offered to babysit you while we were gone. But when Kira joined us, we knew it would be too much to ask of them. Boarding was our only option, though leaving you with strangers who didn’t know you and your quirks didn’t appeal to us. 

We also knew you had kidney problems leaving you with little appetite. That’s why we prepared an extensive list for your caregivers at the kennel to make sure you took your meds. We even asked if they could sit with you during meals to ensure you would eat. Both you and Kira had been there for daycare before, so we knew we were leaving you in good hands.

Before Christmas last year, I started to prep the two of you. While cuddling, I would take your head and smooth your entire face and eyes (and those velvet ears, too) with my thumb. I would look into your eyes to say, “I am always in your heart, just like you are always in mine.” Which was eventually shortened down to: 

That was my mantra to both of you. Or for me. It just helped calm my anxiety about leaving you both. 

The last memory I have of you was the day we dropped you off; knowing it’d be a long time before we’d see you again. You & Kira were so eager to play; you were already squirming to get out of my arms. I held you tighter for a bit and told you to wait a minute so I could get one last nuzzle on your neck, one more kiss on that heart on your head; one last and “I am in yours, and you are in mine.” When the staff took you from my arms, I remember that you happily looked back at me as I called out, “Be good! Have fun! We’ll be back soon!” 

That memory repeats in my head daily. I watched as you looked back at me with those big brown eyes and silly smile of yours before turning forward. To date, I am still so hyper-focused on that moment. I realize that I must have been looking for some sign to tell me that this was the last time I’d see or touch you. 

I think that my heart knew you would be traveling to the Rainbow bridge this year, but I refused to acknowledge it. About two weeks before our trip, were more clingy than usual; staying by my side on your own accord more than normal. There was no more, “pretend growl” every night when I kissed that heart on your head. There was little resistance when I wanted to hold your paw while we cuddled. Suddenly, you were just there. I should have recognized your actions were trying to tell me something, but I did not. And that’s one of my biggest regrets. 

On the third day of our cruise, your caregivers contacted us. They said that they were struggling to feed you. We asked them to take you to your Vet, who quickly recommended that you should be taken to the Emergency Vet. 

I panicked at the thought of you at a new place being treated by unfamiliar doctors. I was anxious about them performing new procedures on you without a familiar face around for comfort. I wanted to be there to support you; to encourage you to get better. Instead, I was now on a ship. In the middle of an ocean. On the other side of the world. With a 16-hour time difference. 

We found out that you were weak and extremely dehydrated. An X-ray showed that you had acute pancreatitis. Worse, it showed you had a large, slow-growing tumor in your belly … which was likely the cause of your kidney issues. The immediate plan was to give you fluids overnight and monitor your response. If you recovered well overnight, then you should be strong enough to eat on your own. 

The next day, the Dogtor told us that despite all the fluids, you were still very weak and could barely lift your head. They tried to stand you upright, but your legs would buckle prompting you to lay back down. She offered to put a tube down your nose to get the necessary nutrition you needed. Unfortunately, she didn’t think this treatment would be sustainable for more than a week, and we’d be gone for the next 2 weeks. She even told us that she wasn’t sure you’d be strong enough to have surgery to remove the tumor. 

Though she didn’t say these exact words, I knew (as a nurse) she was describing a medical term called “Failure to Thrive.” After answering all our questions, we told her we would call her back soon after we made our decision. 

The thing is, Kirby, that as a nurse, the moment she hinted at “Failure to Thrive,” we knew what our decision would be. We both broke down and sobbed knowing we couldn’t be there to physically hold you and hug you at that moment. 

It killed us knowing that Dad & I couldn’t be there with you, Kirby. We really, really wanted to be the one to hold your paw. To stroke your head. To kiss that heart on your head one last time. It should have been your Daddio and me. 

That’s why we sent your Lola and Auntie to be next to you, to be there in our place as someone who loved you almost as much as we did. We asked them to Face Time with us so we could see and speak to you one last time.

We saw in your eyes how frightened you were; how exhausted you looked. We’re pretty sure you heard everything we said to you as you lifted your head slightly and looked at us with those beautiful eyes of yours. We talked about how much of a Good Bubba you were and how much we loved you, remember? 

Maybe you heard or saw it, but after your last breath, I broke out into sobs. All I kept saying was, “My baby! My baby boy is gone!” I felt my whole world crumble underneath me.

My first “child.” Gone. 

This brings me to why it’s so hard to explain to others why you are extra special to me. I felt that you were ours the minute you were placed in my arms. The warmth of your chest, the slap of your tail on my right arm, the complete happiness you exuded … I just knew you belonged to our Ohana. Then somehow you became something more; you became my spirit animal. You became part of me, part of my spirit. 

Since we couldn’t have kids, you became OUR son. You were the child we couldn’t have; the one we hoped to nurture and love. You gave me a reason to wake up every morning. You (and Daddy, too) were the only motivation I needed to put one step in front of the other. That made me so very happy, and it had been a long time since I felt that happiness. 

Though it’s a generalized assumption of mine, I honestly don’t think anyone, not even past infertility friends/couples who have found closure with infertility (either with or without kids, by choice or not) could truly understand the belief of treating a “pet” as a child. I felt that even though I didn’t physically give birth to you, you were a part of me. We shared the same spirit; we embodied parts of each other so closely that I felt we could read one another’s emotions. I truly feel we embraced the whole “I am in you; you are in me” part. 

Having you helped with the grief I had when I thought about being “childless.” You and Kira had been a great excuse when people asked if we have kids. Better yet, you were also a GREAT excuse not to stay out late. (“Gotta get home to the dogs!”)   

You were TRULY the most helpful whenever we saw or heard about births and corresponding “First” announcements.  Even news about graduations, weddings, showers, and grandkids — — all those things I can only celebrate as a guest or be participant — were much easier to handle. 

Your gift (and Kira’s, too) of the unconditional love amazed us. We saw how excited you both were to greet us whenever we returned home. You both were such good sports whenever I dressed you up and take pictures; allowing me to share your antics on social media. 

Your complete trust in us fulfilled my dream of being a Mother. I finally felt that maternal instinct; the the responsibility of caring for someone so deeply and unconditionally. I finally knew how it felt having someone’s livelihood depended on me. Though we may not have been genetically linked, you have and always a part of my heart … and I can only hope that you feel the same way. 

Before infertility, your Daddy and I used to enjoy speaking with others. Momma was a social butterfly at one time, but infertility made me reluctant to make new friends. At that time, infertility was a taboo subject, and it made those going through it feel ashamed and broken. The longer we lived through infertility, the more introverted we became. 

As an infertile couple, we were less relatable. It was hard to find childless people around us who could be empathetic to our struggles. We couldn’t relate to old friends; those who were newly married, starting their families, or committed to their professions. And many women or couples felt uncomfortable when they found us childless. 

But WOW, that changed when you became part of our family. You gave us confidence by instantly winning everyone’s heart. We constantly had people stop us and ask if they could pet you. You always wanted the attention, and we usually obliged as we were so proud to show you off. These interactions led us to speaking with people, and having conversations about topics other than kids, sports, or the weather. 

It was your personality that helped us come out of our shells. With you and Kira, we felt comfortable relating to other people. You were always a good conversation-starter.  You made us feel less socially awkward. 

Eventually this led me to create your Instagram account. Showing off your HUGE personality though social media brought new friendships through the #GrumpyBeaglesUnited 💪🏼 community. True fact: We have met so many of your “friends” and their owners in real life during our road trips. I even went on a California vacation for a “Grumpy Beagle Parents” meet-up. To date, I consider those we’ve met very good friends. These same friends were the ones that help us with our grief. 

Since hearing that you’ve passed, countless other Instagram followers have expressed how much you meant to them. (I truly can’t believe the number of people that followed you for all these years!) They’ve told me that you brought smiles to their faces with all your silly #KirbyThoughts 💭 and antics. That just confirms what we’ve already known; that you are pure unadulterated joy. That’s how special you are, Kirby. 

You, Kirby. You … my Spirit Animal, my Baby Boy. 

I hope you have everything you want at the Rainbow Bridge. I hope you’re having the best zoomies of all time. You deserve it. You have provided unwavering, unconditional love to our Ohana. You’ve rightfully earned your wings. Run free, my child. 

You will always and forever be in my heart, Kirby. 

Love, Momma 

Wanted: Child-Free Infertility Support

I wasn’t planning on posting anything on my blog today; didn’t have anything scheduled to post. In fact, I had other plans to work on another writing project I’ve been working on.

But then I saw something on my Facebook newsfeed in response to a RESOLVE posting. And, well I just had the need to address it on my little corner of the world.

You see, I subscribe to RESOLVE’s fan page so that I can get the latest infertility news that they post on Facebook. It’s been useful in reminding me to vote for my favorite infertility book and my favorite “What If” post from NIAW 2010. And it tends to post articles from their website about various topics dealing with infertility.

Since I’ve subscribed to RESOLVE’s page, I had seen multiple articles in regards to treatment options for Infertility ranging from IUI to IVF; donor eggs/sperm, surrogacy. But never had I seen anything about child-free living … until today.

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You *bet* I "like" this!!

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Which of course, I immediately “liked.”

Of course, that was swiftly followed by the first commenter.

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Name erased to "protect the un-informed" ...

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<sigh>

Sometimes people don’t get it. And what’s sad is that sometimes it’s people within our own Infertility Community.

As I’ve mentioned before, there are reasons why child-free living is right for Hubby & me.  We have deliberately and carefully thought through our other options, including adoption.

It’s so easy for everyone to say “just adopt” when there are thousands of hurdles (both tiny and large) to overcome. It’s financial. It’s emotional. It’s stressful.

I can tell you for myself that I could easily open my heart to a child; easily let a child into my life. But knowing the heartache I’ve experienced from infertility, I just don’t know how much more my mind and body … and quite frankly, my spirit can handle. It’s already been shattered to pieces and glued back together many times over.

It’s a matter of how many more times do I want to put my hand in a pot of boiling water and not know if my hand will be able to grasp onto something … or if I’ll come up empty-handed and burned yet once again.

As if the infertility diagnosis isn’t difficult enough, we’re faced with others who constantly feel as if having children by “whatever means necessary” is more important than simply moving past something that in my heart, I’ve already grieved. It’s like pulling a band-aid off when the wound is just about healed; making it seem to the infertile couple … that has invested a lot of time and energy (not to mention money) we spent on having children … was all for naught.

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Even Ellie & Carl from "UP" decided to live Child-Free after Infertility ...

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I just find it frustrating that even amongst our own Infertility community that there’s a lack of support for those couples trying to decide if a Child-free life is the right choice for them. It’s as if it’s taboo to speak of moving on with your life sans-children.

Even in the RESOLVE Infertility Support Community boards, there are only two communities of which you can choose. One is “Finding a Resolution for Infertility” and the other is “Living After an Infertility Resolution.”

Now when I signed up, I logically chose the latter group. After all, I had found my resolution to live child-free and I wanted to find others that came to that decision as well. Except, well … except when I started to see the message boards, I didn’t spot one single discussion about child-free living after Infertility.

So, okay … then I went to the “Finding a Resolution” community; thinking maybe there might be some discussion about making the decision to live child-free. Nope … struck out there, too.

What frustrates me is that I’ve already felt “different” than the general population by not being able to conceive a child; be a woman in all sense of the world … be able to procreate.** Now that Hubby & I have chosen a less traditional path … it seems as if the pool of couples out there, that are willing to talk or write about this chosen path is much, much smaller. And maybe they are out there in droves, but infertility is no longer the primary focus of their lives.

Maybe I’ll be there at some stage of my life, but right now I’m not. And right now it would be really great to find some other support out there to get through those moments. You know … the ones where I begin to question that decision again? The times where I feel pressured by others to “keep on trying” or “just adopt”?

Yeah, it’d be really good to have that support. In droves. Just like the rest of the general Infertility Community. The same community that helped me feel less isolated when I otherwise felt alone.

And hey … if you stumbled onto this post and are living Child-Free After Infertility and find yourself wanting additional support  out there*** … well, consider this blog or my Facebook page a place where you can hang your hat.

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** And yes, I’m aware that being a woman is not limited to whether or not I can bear children. I’m just using this statement to elicit an example.

*** Because there are resources out there; like Pam’s Silent Sorority site and, in particular her blog, A Fresh Start.

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Related Links:

RESOLVE’s Living Childfree Article

RESOLVE’s Infertility Support Community

Emily’s post about making the decision to live Child-free

Emily’s Thoughts on Adoption

Emily’s Reasons for Living Child-Free After Infertility

Emily’s List of Child-Free After Infertility Bloggers

Emily’s Facebook Page

Infertility Bets On Hold, Part 1

(I guess I need to start off by saying, no … things have definitely not changed in my barren world. And don’t let the title of this post fool you. Apparently I may have “freaked” a couple people out by both the title and the picture below … LOL!)

I’m not a betting person. Which, when you think of the many trips Hubby & I have taken to Vegas, is quite humorous. All those casinos, and the most we played were slots.

I mean, I’ve played poker and blackjack in my college years; but seriously, all bets were based on pennies. Or cigarettes, depending on who you were playing with (<cough> Tim <cough>). But to place actual money that’s more than a dollar (okay, maybe $2 max for a slot machine)? Can’t see myself spending that kind of money.

My odds with these tests were never good

Which, given the odds that Hubby & I were given when we did our one cycle of IVF, makes it ironic. We were given a 51% chance that we’d be successful in our pursuit to become pregnant. We knew the odds were only 1% more on our favor. We had hoped to win this bet — a bet in which we put a boatload of money into the pot — and we lost. And I was devastated.

That’s not to say that I regret ever having done our one cycle of IVF. Because even back then I knew that this was something Hubby & I had to try in order to feel as if we tried everything in our quest to reproduce. I’m just simply saying that the results of that bet, that one IVF cycle, was enough for me to know that I could never place another bet on another IVF cycle ever again.

So yes … the next logical step would be to go for adoption, right?

Except adoption isn’t a simple thing to just “think about.” First, there’s the process of grieving the fact that I can’t have a baby. That alone is nothing simple. That process involves never being able to experience pregnancy. In my case, it involved never being able to see two pink lines in a pregnancy test.  And it involves feeling as if my body’s failed, not only me and my Hubby (especially my husband), but our parents and our siblings. And our siblings children, too.

Then there’s the other part that I needed to grieve; which is outlined in more detail in this recent post. It’s grieving the fact that we will never be able to have our own biological baby.  A child that we could pass our genes to. A child to pass the Filipino traditions we were taught growing up; and finding a way to blend both our American and Filipino sides together. A child to carry on my Hubby’s last name.

And while I’ve pretty much begun to resolve those grief issues, there’s still that lack of strength that I feel I need in order to go through the entire adoption process.  Because it takes someone who really has enough strength to climb over the proverbial brick wall getting in the way of having a child. And specifically, I’m talking about all the rules and reg­u­la­tions and inves­ti­ga­tions into your pri­vate lives just to raise a child that is not bio­log­i­cally your own. Quite frankly, I know that I don’t have what it takes to go through that.

(Part Two continues tomorrow … )

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Related Links:

Thoughts on Adoption

Baby Picture