On October 15th, Break the Silence…

October 15th is tomorrow.  A day that marks ‘Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day’.  I’m re-posting a post from a couple of years ago because my online reach is far greater than it was then, and because of that, there’s an opportunity for greater awareness and less taboo.  Sadly, many friends have shared in this experience over the past year, so this is for them.  Here is my story:

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I struggled to write this post.  Really struggled.  Not just with the emotion of it all, but with the feelings of vulnerability and complete exposure that this topic brings out in me.  But that’s why it needs to be written…..to break the silence, prevent the stigma, and end the taboo surrounding miscarriage.

I had a miscarriage last year.  We lost our baby on April 6th, 2011, at 11 weeks and 6 days gestation.  One day shy of the magic ’12-weeks-pregnant’ mark where the stats on miscarriage decrease dramatically.  I was wrapped up with the excitement of another baby, and we were already envisioning life as a family-of-four.  In a cruel twist of irony, we had signed the papers for our bigger-with-an-extra-bedroom-house the weekend prior.  I had told friends and family of my pregnancy, even casually mentioned it to acquaintances, and sorted through bins of my maternity clothes.  And then it all ended.  My miscarriage was very sudden, very graphic, and very traumatic.  There was no doubt what was happening to our baby as we rushed to the ER, and as I laid on a triage bed next to my heartbroken husband, the loss overwhelmed me.

Those next few weeks are a haze of tears and despair.  My mom flew out to support us, and helped me get through the physical and emotional struggle of the first few days.  I ended up with a D&C surgery two weeks later, as I was deemed to have experienced an ‘incomplete miscarriage’.  The day following my surgery, I flew to New York City to spend the weekend with my two best friends.  And as I reflect on that difficult time in my life, I can see that’s where my heart began to heal.  Sister-like friends have that power.

That baby would’ve been due on October 27th, 2011.  I was dreading that day on the calendar, which had already been circled in a big red heart when we initially found out I was pregnant.  But as October 27th approached, I found myself blessed with another pregnancy; my beloved Casey was born on March 2nd, 2012, only 11 months after the miscarriage.  My gratitude for her is exponentially greater after feeling the hopelessness of loss.

There are three things that helped me get through this:

1. A memorial.  We carved a cross on a big tree in our favorite walking trails in remembrance of our lost baby.  That tree is a source of comfort for me, and a place we visit as a family several times a year.  My 3.5-year-old calls it our ‘special tree’.  I like to think of it as our ‘healing tree’.

2. Time.  While the grief and pain from this experience is not gone, it has lessened.  Time heals.  And my heart has healed a lot in 18 months.

3. Talking about it.  When this happened, I told the details to all of my family and friends.  I told my parents and my in-laws.  I told my sister-in-laws.  I told my girlfriends.  Talking about it helped me to process things, but it also helped to break down the stigma.  Miscarriage is still a taboo topic, and people don’t know what to say when it happens to someone they know.  It will happen to someone you know.  Up to 25% of known pregnancies result in miscarriage, 80% of those occurring in the first trimester.  Don’t say nothing.  Acknowledge the loss.  Because saying nothing only perpetuates the silence.

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Month.  On October 15th at 7pm, I will be joining many other people around the world in lighting a candle to remember the babies we’ve lost.  And I will be hugging the babies I have, thankful beyond measure.

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40 Years and YouTube

It’s my husband’s birthday today.  The big 4-0.  We had a party on the weekend to celebrate this milestone, and I was reminded again of what a wonderful, blessed life we lead.  With our house full to the brim with incredible friends and family, I showed a video that I made for him.  Some laughs were had, some tears were shed, some love was felt.

Should I post the video on my blog, I thought?  Should I be that transparent, that open, that honest with the online world?  The answer seemed obvious; to not post it for fear of sharing too much doesn’t make sense.  It’s a tribute to him, to his 40 years, and to the perfect husband/father he is for us.

You can view it HERE.

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Happy birthday Chris! xo


Love the Snatch

Let me tell you about a girl named Jen Young.  This girl goes to my gym.  This girl is 30 years old.  This girl also happens to have cervical cancer that has now metastasized to her liver.

September is Gynaecological Cancer Awareness Month, and with her September 27th fundraiser approaching (in the form of a Crossfit Master’s Competition at Burlington’s Crossfit Altitude), it seems only fitting to share her story.  Here is a post she wrote on her blog only one year ago:

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I haven’t posted in long while. My spare time has been filled with my new part-time jobs coaching at CFA, and writing for Sweat RX magazine (getting paid to write has unfortunately trumped writing up recipes for free on the interwebs :). I am sad to say that it is not a tasty new dish that has me busting out my slightly rusty blog again; I decided to hijack my own recipe space to share en mass some recent news and subsequent reflections.

The News

On Sept 6 I found out that I have cervical cancer. I spent 10 very anxious days having no idea how bad it was or what was coming next and finally, yesterday, the results of some extra testing confirmed that it is a small cell neuro-endocrine tumor. This is a particularly nasty sort that normally lives in the lungs, apparently, and has a tendency to spread. It is also very rare. My Doctor is apparently somewhat of a Bigwig, and he and his Biggerwig colleague have seen only a dozen cases in their 20 years. However, I’ve caught it fairly early, and Bigwig assures me he has killed much larger beasts of its kind. I will kill it also. But it will come at the cost of several weeks of chemo (I start next week), then several weeks of radiation and probably major surgery, to make sure it doesn’t resurrect.

I don’t know if I will feel well enough to move, let along work out; some people are knocked on their asses, while others feel mostly fine, but I hope to visit CFA nevertheless as much as possible.

That’s the Readers Digest version. To those in my life, please don’t be shy about talking to me about it. I (probably) won’t burst into tears. Ladies especially, I’m very willing to talk about the details of discovery and diagnosis if you’re curious (men, don’t worry, I won’t start talking about the cervix here ;).

So onward to the philosophical part and the motivation for the title of this post.

The Ramblings

During those 10 days of waiting, and even today after learning the gory details, I find that I’ve actually surprised myself by not having a 24 hour meltdown. My cousin went through a similar ordeal ~5 years ago (also cervical cancer under the age of 30, coincidentally) and I distinctly remember thinking, “I don’t know how she’s so strong and positive, I would be a mess.” And when I first found out, I was a mess, for about 5 hours. But then, channeling my cousin, I gathered my composure and I went to my box to coach and to work out, because that’s what I’d planned to do, and I didn’t particularly feel like crying anymore.

It was a surreal experience, watching everyone around me carry on as though their world hadn’t just stopped spinning….because for them, it hadn’t. I have a new appreciation for this: you never know what’s going on in someone else’s life. Be kind, always.

I capped the very surreal day with a doozie of a WOD (100 burpees, interspersed with either 2 rope climbs or 5 deadlifts, every minute on the minute) that left me weeping (only half because of the rope climbs) in a heap on the floor.

I have had the occasional meltdown since then; last Sunday the frustration of 200 double-unders squeezed the emotion right out of me and I found myself sobbing in the back lot during the rest period. But these periods of stress and panic are far fewer than I had expected, which has lead me to conclude that CrossFit has made me far more capable of handling the Real Life unknown and unknowable than I ever imagined possible.

CrossFit, and especially competing in CrossFit, has trained me to accept what I can’t control. I don’t pick the daily WOD, I don’t influence who else shows up to compete, and I certainly can’t do much about their performance and eventual score. Fretting about what others are doing (or what has happened to other people with cancer) won’t help me to do better. Whining about a workout won’t change it, and no amount of moping is going to make my cancer disappear.

As I sat in my car in the parking lot after the first news, having a good cry and wondering how I would deal with what was to come, something Brit said once, ages ago, came sharply to mind. “You know,” she said, “if I lost a leg or something, I’d just go win the Paralympics instead.” She may have been joking, but it struck me as inadvertently profound life advice. More recently, I interviewed Stouty, an adaptive athlete and fantastic crossfitter, who lost the use of both legs and actually DID go win at the Paralympics.

I am entirely in charge of my own actions and attitude. I can’t control what the treatment will do to my body, but I can do my best to prepare it with good food and sleep, and I can manage my stress by staying as positive as possible.

I am approaching this cancer as I would approach a heavy bar; determined, ready, and convinced that it will go overhead, because I trust that I have trained sufficiently. I know that my body is in the best shape it’s ever been in, and I trust that crossfit and paleo have made my body as strong as it possibly can be.

I feel physically prepared to win this battle, but I also feel mentally prepared. This last 10 days has proven to me that even though “Murph” and “Fran” make me feel anxious over the pain I know is coming, I also know, without a doubt, that I will finish them, one way or another, and that you all will be there cheering until the very last rep.

I refuse to let this disease dictate my every waking moment. I will not let it take the joy from things I love to do, and the people I love to be with. CFA is my sanctuary; a place where I know that I can go and forget the world for an hour of shared pain and exhaustion, or find a hug if I need one. Thank you all for making CFA the place that has prepared me for this, and that I am confident will help me through it.

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Please come out to support a great cause on Saturday.