Trusting God: Rainbows and Storms

It's been a few months since I blogged. There are a couple of reasons for my silence. First, I've just been living. In my last blog post I talked about grief, and how I was walking through grief in my own time. Something about that post set me free. I no longer felt like I had to pretend everything was fine, and instead could just be myself. Once that happened, I felt a burden lifted from me, and I began to see with new eyes, and my heart began to heal. I saw how much the Lord had done in me and through me because of my loss, and I felt a renewed sense of trust in His plan.

The second reason for my break from blogging is one that I have been waiting to share with you. In early April, just after my last blog post, I found out that Ben and I are expecting again. Our baby is due in early December, and if you've known me for any length of time, you probably will find that hysterical. Abby's birthday and my mom's birthday are both in December, about a week before Christmas. December in our house is a crazy time of year. Birthday parties, family gatherings, Christmas, end of year insanity. Not to mention a cold month to have a baby. I have sworn since Abby's birth that I would never, ever, have another December baby. That's why Josh was born in April ;)

But, I should have known. "Many are the plans in a man's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails," Proverbs 19:21 tells us. In other words, good luck trying to tell God how it's going to be. And so here I am, expecting a new life in December.

They call a baby after loss a "rainbow baby." The rainbow, we know, is a symbol of hope and peace after a storm. This new baby, though it does not replace the one we lost, reminds us of the miracle of life and of hope for our future. I had hoped we would conceive again quickly, and every month that passed when I hadn't felt like a thousand months. I prayed hard, and the Lord said to me, "Do you trust me?" It wasn't until late March, when I finally relinquished my pain, and said, "God, however long this takes, whatever the plan, I trust You." It was just a few days after I prayed that that I found out we were pregnant again.

This pregnancy though, has been unlike any other I've ever experienced. With my first two babies, I can honestly say I took the entire experience for granted. Though I had small worries whether or not everything would be ok, I was blissfully unaware of the reality of loss, or of any serious problems with the baby. I would look forward to every ultrasound and appointment, excited to see the baby and hear the heartbeat.

This time, I know loss. I know the pain and heartache that follows the loss of a baby. Instead of joy and anticipation, all I felt for those first few weeks was dread. Dread that the worst would happen again. Dread that I'd have to go through miscarriage all over again. I told myself not to really believe I was pregnant until we saw the heartbeat. I remember calling my parents to share our news, and realizing in that moment that I wasn't telling them because I was excited. I was telling them so that they would know in case the worst happened again.

People around me that I shared the news with encouraged me to think positive. To hope for the best and realize the risks of another loss were microscopically small. It didn't help. You see, I already know that the worst case scenario can happen, and sometimes does. And it had already happened to me. So talking in terms of "risk" means little, because I was already in that small percentage, and now it is forever a part of me.

You see, once you lose a baby, you realize that sometimes really bad things happen. Sometimes you're that person in the 1% who gets the very worst news. It doesn't matter how good you are, kind you are, honest you are. The rain falls on both the righteous and the unrighteous. And life since my miscarriage has been learning how to live with the knowledge that there are no guarantees. Most of us can say we know that, but until you have lived it, you don't really know it.

I wanted to blog about the pregnancy right away, because I'd been so open about our loss. And because the anxiety that I was fighting every single day felt crushing at times. Almost as crushing as my grief. I am not one of those who necessarily subscribes to the "wait 12 weeks" mentality. For me, a baby is a baby, at 4 weeks or 12 weeks.

However, there is one little person in my life dearer to me than anyone in the world, and I wanted to protect her heart. My sweet 5 year old daughter had a hard time with our last loss, and I simply couldn't put her through that again until we had some assurance that things would be ok this time. So I made the decision to keep our pregnancy quiet until I had been through a few ultrasounds.

We had our first ultrasound at 6 weeks. The doctor let me come in early because she too has suffered miscarriage, and understood my anxiety. It was one of the hardest mornings of my life. I was reliving in vivid detail the last time, when she searched and searched, in vain, for a heartbeat.

This time, I went in prepared to hear the worst.

But this time, the worst didn't happen.

It didn't take long for the "whoosh whoosh whoosh" of the heartbeat to come loud through the speaker, and to see the flickering heart on the screen.

Our baby was alive. And growing well.

In that second, I felt relief. But it didn't last long. Ben seemed so happy, and all I felt was scared. Scared that now that I had seen a heartbeat, if we ended up losing this one, that I would really be undone. I couldn't even give myself 5 minutes to take in the happy news. We had told those close to us about our appointment, and the texts came in one after another. "Is everything good?" "Did you see a heartbeat?" I answered them all with pretended joy. "Yes! Baby looked great! Heartbeat was good!" Most said, "You must be so relieved!"  I wish that was what I had felt.

Every single day of this pregnancy has been a wrestling match. My fears of loss want to steal my joy and hope. I want to believe that things will be good, and yet I'm so afraid of another loss. And the Lord keeps whispering, "Do you trust me?"

We had another ultrasound at 10 weeks. And again, I was a nervous wreck leading up to it. But again, the worst did not happen. I felt the Lord say, "Be strong and courageous. I am with you." The baby looked great and had a strong heartbeat. The doctor told us we were now in the "safe zone." 

We went home that day and told Abby and Josh. Josh, being three, lifted up my shirt to "see" the baby, and seeing nothing, walked away, disappointed. But Abby, our baby-loving 5 year old was speechless with joy. She was so happy she almost cried. "A good seed Mommy!!!! It's really a good seed this time!!!!"

After that ultrasound, we made an appointment with the perinatal center. They handle all high risk pregnancies, as well as genetic screening. Since I have some medical conditions that require medication, and a history of preeclampsia, they wanted to see me at 13 weeks to establish that my arteries and blood vessels leading to the baby were working well. Since I had to go in for that anyway, they also took all the measurements that they would take if I had opted for early genetic screening.

With both Abby and Josh, I opted out of any genetic testing. I believe that any prenatal testing is completely a personal choice, and with the last two, I felt that as long as I was monitored with ultrasound, I didn't need additional screening. The screening tests for chromosomal abnormalities like Down Syndrome, and a few Trisomy syndromes that can cause potentially severe birth defects. I have friends who felt that they wanted to know as much as possible ahead of time to be prepared, so they opted in for the screening.

Today was my 13 week appointment. Again, I was a nervous wreck. Would the heartbeat still be there? Was the baby still alive? Those were the thoughts running through my mind this morning.

We went in for our ultrasound and the tech started working on all the measurements. Right away I saw the baby moving, and knew it was alive. In fact, it was putting on quite a show today, standing on it's head, doing flips, turning away from the probe and making it hard to get measurements! For the first time in this pregnancy, I allowed myself to believe that this baby would be ok, and the tears began to come.

Part of the ultrasound at 13 weeks measures something called "nuchal translucency." It is the amount of fluid behind the baby's neck. They use this measurement to help determine risk for chromosomal abnormalities. When you are above the "normal" threshold of fluid, the risk for the baby increases. I noticed the tech taking a lot of those measurements, but not making any comments about them. I've become very good at reading the facial expressions of people taking ultrasounds. I knew something was off.

The doctor came in and introduced himself, and said he was going to take a few measurements of his own. The baby was uncooperative and sick of having pictures taken, so he had to go off of the first tech's measurements. He explained that the fluid behind the neck was above the threshold of "normal," which meant we were at a higher risk of a chromosomal abnormality.

Time stopped. I felt like my heart stopped too. 

I hadn't anticipated this. I had been so worried about a heartbeat that I never considered something else could be wrong.

The doctor started to talk about elevated risk of Down Syndrome, and the options for further testing. My world started to spin. I took a deep breath, and in that moment, I heard the familiar voice of the Holy Spirit. "Do you trust me?"

I listened to a sermon this Sunday on Pslam 139. The pastor said in that sermon, "What you fear the most, is the area in which you trust God the least."

"Do you trust me?"

I thought about what I'd been through in these last 6 months. The pain, grief, and loss, but also the healing, grace, and joy of bringing comfort to others. And as the doctor talked, I had my own conversation with the Lord.

"Lord, I trust you. No matter what happens, I trust you."

And I do. And trusting Him doesn't mean I trust that all will be 100% perfect, or easy, or what I imagined it to be. It means I know He has given me this child. He has chosen this child especially for Ben and I. He has chosen us to be this baby's parents. No matter what.

After talking through everything with the doctor, we have opted for some non invasive DNA testing. It will give us within 90% accuracy an answer as to whether or not our baby has Down Syndrome. That way, if it does, the doctors will be able to keep a closer eye on the baby as it develops. We will get the results in a week or two.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared. I think it's really just the unknown that scares me more than anything else.  But I am also joyful. Joyful that I saw a baby wriggling around on that screen today, waving and dancing and alive. My rainbow. Even though right now it still feels a bit like it's raining.

I do not know what tomorrow holds. But I know Who holds tomorrow. And I know He is the author of life. He gives, and takes away. He heals, comforts, and draws us in to himself.

The last time I was pregnant, I took pictures of the kids holding signs announcing the pregnancy. I never got to share those pictures. I've also learned in the months since my loss that those kinds of announcements can sometimes bring pain to people who have recently lost a baby, or who have been trying for a baby and haven't been able to conceive. I have learned a lot about compassion since my miscarriage.

I do want to share an announcement picture, because this baby is my rainbow. And I want to celebrate this little life. However, I want to be sensitive to those who may feel pain in seeing an announcement. I may not know who you are, but I want you to know, you matter, and your pain is seen. I pray that God meets you exactly where you need Him. Just as I pray that He meets me in this moment of anxiety and mixed emotions.

I thought about waiting until we had our test results to share our announcement. But, this baby is a gift and a miracle no matter what those test results show us.

Lord, I trust you. Imperfectly and sometimes only minute by minute, but I trust you.

So here is our joyful news:

Dwelling in Grief

Well, I have returned from my Facebook hiatus. It was a good one. I felt the load on my shoulders get a little lighter. Maybe because I didn't feel the pressure to post pictures of my happy kids and pretend like everything is totally fixed and normal and good again.

I took the break because, on a really dark day I was having, I counted at least four pregnancy announcements in my Facebook feed and I have to be honest, it sent me to the edge of my sanity.

I told the Lord, "I just can't take this anymore! No more announcements! No more ultrasound pictures! I am logging off!"

I felt so wise in my decision. I thought to myself, "I have the solution to my problem! If all these announcements are causing me pain, then I just need to look away."

So I started out on my month of healing.

And guess what happened?

My brother in law and his wife told me they are expecting.  And then a close friend, who has walked a very similar path of loss told me she was expecting. And then another person close to me told me she was pregnant too.

The Lord never lets you walk away from what He is trying to do in your heart. 

With each announcement I shed tears, and asked God, "Why? Why did I have to lose my baby? Why do all of these people get to be happy, while I am stuck in this place?"

And yet, I love each and every one of these people who shared their happy news with me. I want to be happy for them. A part of me is happy for them.

But an equally big part is just hurting.

When I hear these announcements, it just brings me right back to the day I lost my baby. A day filled with so much hope for our first ultrasound, and then that moment of greatest loss. And I see and hear the excitement in these women, and I want to share it, but I feel like a piece of my heart has been lost, and it aches.

I feel a lot of pressure to move on. To put away the grief. To shove the sadness back inside.

I wrote a piece about my miscarriage and it was published a few days ago by MOPS International (an international mom's group). It helped me feel like I was reaching other women, like there was a purpose behind my loss.

After it was published I received a message from a family friend. She said she was sorry for my loss, and was praying for me. And then she gave me the advice to focus on what blessings I have, and not dwell on what I lost.

Not dwell on what I lost.

Those words took me aback. Is that what I am doing? Dwelling on my loss?

She meant well, but the words cut me to the quick. 

I've come to understand some things about grief in the last three months. In our society, grief is accepted for a time. And then, when people have determined that you have grieved long enough, they expect you to move on. My mom calls it "the microwave society." Push the button, zap it, and it's done.  People are understanding for a while, but then it's time to zap it and be done.

This is the thing about grief though:  it takes as long as it takes.

I decided to look up the word "dwell."  It means to linger over, to live, to reside.

And you know what I realized? I am dwelling on my loss. I am lingering over my lost child. I am residing in hurt.

But it's not because I choose to dwell on it.

It's because I am still grieving. And every single day, whether I want to or not, I think about what I lost.

Oh, if only you could understand how badly I want to move on, to dwell somewhere else.

I spent the month of February trying to be as intentional as I could being thankful for what I have. I spent my days playing Candyland with Abby, closing my eyes to listen as she giggled when I drew a bad card and had to start over again. I'd grab my little boy while he ran naked through the house, just to squeeze him, breathe in his baby smell and look deeply into his blue eyes. I'd sit on the floor and stroke my puppy's fur, feeling her warmth under my hand. I'd remind myself to be thankful, to experience joy.

But it's still there. The missing piece of my heart. I feel it. It whispers to me even in my joy,  of what might have been and what is not.

The weather is warming up. My baby was due June 23rd. As we approach spring, I can't help but think about what the summer was going to look like. How different this summer is going to be now.

You see... I am dwelling in grief. Not by choice. But because I have suffered a great loss.

If you only knew how many times I have confessed to good friends, "I am tired of being sad." I mean it. I am tired of grief. I wish it would go away.

But that's not how grief works. Our society tells us that it works that way. It tells us that if we grieve for too long that there is something wrong with us. It tells us that sadness is something to run from.

Well, I tried to run from it. For a whole month. But it found me anyway.  Because, for now, I dwell there.


And, I have learned, that no matter how hard I run, no matter how tightly I close my eyes, no matter how much I try to block it out, I cannot escape my grief.

So, now, instead of running away, I am trying to learn how to dwell in grief. What can I learn in this place? About myself? About the world? How can I reach outside of my own grief to extend a hand to someone else?

For starters, I'm going to speak up and say this: Yes, I am still grieving. And this grief is going to take as long as it takes, and there is nothing wrong with that. There is no ticking clock on grief. Grief doesn't mean you are sad every minute of the day, but it does mean you carry a deep wound.
And let me say this too... you can be grateful for your blessings and at the same time be in pain. You can have hope for the future and still be grieving now. Grief is not an indicator of a lack of faith. Grief is not an indicator of ungratefulness. Grief is an indicator of a love deeply felt and now deeply missed.

When my article was published on my miscarriage, I went onto the site and read every single comment that someone left after reading it. I cannot tell you how many people said, "This is what so many have experienced and felt.  Thank you for sharing."

Miscarriage is a taboo subject. So is grief. I'm not going to stop talking about either one. I can't. Because for now, I dwell there. And I am learning to embrace that, to live with my grief, to try and make something beautiful out of it. Because I can't run from it, hide from it, or wish it away. Just love me in this place, and know, as I do, that it won't last forever. But it will take as long as it takes.

Dear Facebook: It's Not You, It's Me

Dear Facebook,

We need to talk. I know, no one ever wants to hear those words. But, we've been spending way too much time together lately. Way too much time. I'm sorry. I just need some space to clear my head. I've been going through some rough stuff, and you just keep bringing up painful things I don't want to think about.  I think it's time we go on a break.  It's not you. It's me.  I hope we can still be friends down the road.

Love,
Me

Ok, I'm kidding. Sort of. The past few months have been pretty rocky. My miscarriage shook me way more than I wanted to admit to anyone.

I hate being sad.  I just want to get over it. I plaster on a smile, joke with friends, play with my kids. I obsess over having another baby. But it's still there, the loss, hanging out right over my shoulder.  Tomorrow it will be 2 months since my miscarriage and some days I feel like I have moved 10 steps forward, and other days I feel stuck in the same old place. Milestones pop up when I least expect them. This week, for example, would have been the week we found out if we were having a boy or a girl. I've spent every morning this week sobbing in the shower.

 I just don't want to feel sad anymore. But I've been learning that there are no shortcuts to grief and loss. As much as I wish there was a shortcut, sometimes we just have to walk that road until we reach the end of it. I've been doing my best to keep it together and bottled up, but some days it just spills right out. It finally took a good friend saying point blank, "Jenny, you lost your baby. That's not something you just get over." She's right. You don't get over it. You walk forward, but you don't get over it.

Being a stay at home mom, I am alone a lot of the day. I'm with my kids, of course, but there's not a lot of peer to peer interaction going on. I mean, I can only talk about the most recent episode of Bubble Guppies so many times before I feel like my head is about to explode into a billion pieces.

So it makes sense that I'd be on Facebook a decent amount. There are some days where Ben is working till late at night that literally the only interaction with other adults that I get is through Facebook. I can post about the crazy parts of my day, like the time Josh threw chili all over the dining room, not once, but twice, in the span of 5 minutes. I was home alone at the time, and could not believe what he had done. I posted the insanity to Facebook, and when people commented on it, I felt like I was not so alone in the craziness of motherhood. 

I've heard that back in the day, people lived closer to one another in tightly knit communities. Moms shared the responsibility of raising kids closely with family and neighbors. I don't know when that day was, but it definitely seems different today. People are busy with their own stuff, me included. So that's where Facebook comes in. It's like a pseudo-community. We post pictures, celebrate success, and sometimes share needs too.  I remember posting that I needed clothes for Josh once, and within 3 hours I had multiple bags of clothes dropped off at my door for him. There's a lot of good that social media can do.

But there's a dark side to the social media too, that a lot of people don't want to talk about. In fact, there is more and more research being done about the negative effects it can have on our lives. This research has actually linked higher episodes of depression to people who frequently use social media. The reason? Social comparison. It's the phenomenon that happens when we look at other people's lives and compare them to our own. The more we compare, the worse we feel.

It's not a new thing. In fact, there's a good reason why the 10th commandment is "thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife." Whether you're pining for your neighbor's wife, or maybe just his life in general, comparison never does anybody any good.

Comparison is a happiness killer. It doesn't matter whether you come out on top or not in the comparison game, someone is always on the losing end.

And, if we're honest, there is a lot about Facebook that is one big comparison game. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't think there is any reason why we should not share our joy and successes on Facebook.  Genuinely celebrating one another is as close to godliness as it gets.

But, how many of us tailor our posts to paint the most perfect picture of our lives? Our kids smiling angelically, us wearing our "skinniest" outfit, pictures of our "perfect' marriage.

A lot of times, it's just an image. An image carefully crafted and presented to the world.

Because, come on, who wants to look like a hot mess in front of everyone? Not me, that's for sure.

But guess what? For the last 2 months, I have been a hot mess. Oh yes, I might post like I have  my crap together, but I don't.

So, this is why I'm breaking up with Facebook. At least for the month of February. A month to reset.
Why? Because ever since I lost my baby a whole lot of other wonderful ladies have gotten the joyful news that they are expecting a baby. Most of the ones sharing lately are due within just a few weeks of when I was due.

And I have to get real with you now: when I see an ultrasound picture, or a cute picture of siblings sharing that they are getting a new baby, my heart breaks just a little bit more.

Don't get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with posting joyful news. Part of me rejoices with those friends. I am truly and sincerely happy for them. In all honesty, I hope I have a post like that to share someday soon.

But for now, seeing those posts over and over again isn't helping me heal my own broken heart. And after clicking "unfollow" more times than I can count in the last few weeks to try and hide those kinds of posts, they still keep showing up.  And I find myself comparing my situation to theirs. "Why me? Why did this happen? Why do they get to have so much joy while I deal with all this pain?"

So it's time to stop pretending that everything is fine. And it's time to stop putting myself in a position to play the comparison game.  Like my friend Michelle reminded me, "Jenny you just lost your baby. You don't just get over that."

She's right. I'm not over it. And comparing myself to others is only making my grief more painful.

Maybe you have been there before. I've heard that what you want the most is what you notice others having more than anything else. Like how if you want to get married you constantly are bombarded with posts sharing engagement stories. Or if all you want is a bigger house, you notice all your friends who have bigger and better homes than you. Or me, I keep noticing all the babies.

Comparison. It's a soul killer.

So I'm doing the only thing that I know how to do. I'm taking myself out of the comparison game for a while. My goal is to refocus, live in the moment, and be more content.

God has a plan for my life. What it is, I don't always understand. Or trust. Or like. But it's there. And I believe it is a good plan. It's no one else's plan. Just mine. But if I keep comparing it to His plan for somebody else, I'm never going to be happy.

So, Facebook, we're going on a break. Don't take it too personal. It's not you, it's me. And when I'm ready, I'll be back.

Miscarriage: One Month Later

It's been one month since my miscarriage. In some ways, its been the longest month of my life. In other ways, I can hardly believe it's already been a whole month since it happened.

A lot of people have been asking how I am doing. It's a hard question to answer because the answer is a fluid one. It changes weekly, daily, sometimes hourly. I'm doing ok, but I'm grieving.

I think one of the hardest parts about miscarriage is that after it happens, nothing changes.  My life after the miscarriage looks exactly like it did before it happened. I'm a mom to two kids. I take care of them all day. Ben goes to work. He comes home. We argue about housework. We say "I love you." We laugh at the kids. We eat dinner as a family. I yell at the dog.

Nothing is different.

Except it is.  I'm carrying around a wound that no one can see. It's a wound that runs into the deepest part of my soul and yet remains buried under my smile.

Grief.

It's an isolating experience, grief. It's like a broken arm, but there is no visible cast for people to recognize and extend empathy towards.

A few days after the miscarriage, I decided I needed a break from being home. I wanted to get out and breathe fresh air, and do something "normal."  So I took Abby Christmas shopping with me. I did pretty well in the store. Even when we walked past the baby clothes, and she asked if we could get something for our next baby, and I had to gently remind her that the "next baby" isn't happening for a while, I kept it together. I was feeling like, "Ok, maybe I'm going to handle this thing."

And then, all the sudden, we were in the checkout line. I was paying for Ben's gifts, and the woman at the cash register was making pleasantries with me, chatting about the busy holiday season. And I was looking at her, and I was suddenly thinking "I don't care about anything you are saying. None of this matters. I wish you knew how sad I am." Tears, out of nowhere, began to well up and I desperately wanted to blurt out "I just had a miscarriage" to this woman I've never met. I wanted to say, "I'm grieving. This is so hard." I had to bite my tongue and force myself to take some deep breaths. Thankfully, for both our sakes, I didn't say it. I can only imagine how awkward that would have been.

But that's the thing about grief. It isn't constant or predictable. It comes in waves. Sometimes small ripples, sometimes giant tsumanis that threaten to crush you on the spot. You never know when they're coming. One minute you're buying your husband some sweatpants. The next you want to hug a Kohl's cashier and cry your eyes out. There's no pattern to it, and there's no choice but to ride whatever wave comes next.

I've read that there are 5 stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I have grieved a lot in the past year. More than I would have liked. And I can say I think calling it "stages of grief" is entirely misleading. To me, the word "stages" suggests that we somehow move through them in a forward motion. Like you move from denial, to anger, and eventually acceptance, leaving the other stages behind you as move onto the next one.

Grief is not like that. Grief is more like a huge ball of tangled threads. You start to untangle one knot, only to discover that it doesn't lead anywhere, so you begin to work on another knot, not knowing if you're making any progress at all, and at the end of the night, you might have a slightly less tangled mess, but it isn't fixed. 

I'm a slightly less tangled mess than I was a month ago. 

I've learned a lot, though, about miscarriage.

I've learned that miscarriage is not so much an event, as it is a process. Yes, your pregnancy ends quickly, whether through a natural miscarriage or through a D&C. But the process of becoming un-pregnant takes a whole lot longer than that. Even after I lost the baby, I couldn't fit into any of my pre-pregnancy pants. I was already in maternity clothes by the time I miscarried. I found myself digging through my drawers to try and find the pants I wore after the births of my other two children. The "in between" pants. Only this time, I had nothing to show for the pounds I'd gained. And every time I tried, prematurely, to squeeze into my regular pre-pregnancy jeans, I was reminded of what I no longer had.

Becoming un-pregnant is whiplash for your mind. You go from avoiding alcohol, avoiding sushi, taking prenatal vitamins, to waking up the next day and the rules are out the window. You can do anything you want. Except you don't want to do any of them. Because you'd rather still be pregnant.  My dear friend came to visit just before Christmas, and she took me out to dinner. And we ordered champagne. And the waitress asked me, "What are you celebrating?" I stared up at her. Speechless. My friend quickly jumped in with some vague answer. But there I was. Looking at the waitress. Thinking, "I'm not celebrating. I'm grieving." 

I've learned that grief is complicated. Sometimes it looks like celebrating. I've been celebrating a lot lately. Celebrating what I do have, so that I don't drown in the grief of what I don't have. Every morning, for a couple weeks after the miscarriage, I'd make coffee, put on Christmas music, and the kids would put on wild dance parties for me. They'd sing, make up words, dance around, make me laugh. And I soaked it up. And I joined them. Laughing and twirling with my beautiful babies. Their joy being my joy when I couldn't find mine. Celebrating them. Wishing I still had my third baby inside me as I danced. Grieving. All mixed up at the same time. 

I've learned that I am not alone in this experience. Did you know that 1 out of 4 women has had a miscarriage? Think of the 4 women closest to you in your life. I'll bet one of them has lost a baby. I'll bet even if you don't think any of them has lost a baby, it's likely that the one of them who has just keeps it closer to her heart, and hasn't told others about her loss. After I posted my blog last month, I can't begin to tell you how many private messages I received from other women.  Messages saying, "I don't share this with many people, but I've lost a baby too."

Messages not filled with advice. Or pat answers. Or false hope. Or perfect responses. Just messages saying, "Me too." 

"Me too." Two of the most powerful words in the English language. Simple words, and yet more powerful in bringing me healing than any other. Me too. It means "I know your pain." It means "There is hope for tomorrow." It means "I can't fix it, but I am here."  

The day I took Abby Christmas shopping, my grandmother called me while I was walking to my car. I hadn't been answering the phone for anyone for a few days. But when I saw it was my grandma, I decided to take the call. My grandma is one of the toughest women you'll ever meet. Mother of four, head nurse at a hospital, lived through the Great Depression. Even in her seventies she'd hike miles away, cut down her own Christmas tree from the field, and drag it back to her house single handledly. She never wastes, or minces, words. When she talks, it's because she really means what she's saying. 

So I answered the phone. She said that my mom had told her about my loss, and then she began to tell me a story I'd never heard before. She told me that many years ago, she also lost her third baby. Just like me, the first three months had gone just fine. Until suddenly, she went to the doctor, and things weren't fine anymore. "Just one of those things," the doctor told her. She said it was hard. And then she told me something remarkable.  She said, "It was hard. But I waited on the Lord. And after I waited a while, patiently, He rewarded me with another baby. And that baby was your mother." 

"Me too."

My grandmother lost a baby, and then became pregnant with another. And that baby was my mother. And had she not lost that baby, she perhaps would not have had my mom. And then perhaps you would not be reading this blog.

I've learned that God is working out this situation. Just as he worked out my grandma's. He is working it out in me, though it is a painful process. 

I have happy moments. Happy days. I have incredibly sad moments. Sad days.  I've connected with old friends, and new friends, because we this share experience, who walk with me through all of those moments. 

I'm doing ok. I don't know what tomorrow holds, but I know what I have today. And for now, that's enough. 

And if you are walking through this now, or you might walk through this one day, I want you to know something. 

Me too. I am here. I'm with you. And I know your pain. 

His mercies are new every morning.

 

I Lost My Baby Yesterday

As I sit down to write this, I don't really know where to begin. This is the most personal blog I have ever written.  I'm sitting here, staring at the screen, listening to Ed Sheeran playing in the background. My little boy is upstairs sleeping. It's a sunny day.

Where do I begin?

I lost my baby yesterday.

When I woke up yesterday morning I was pregnant with our third child.
When I woke up this morning I wasn't pregnant anymore.

This will come as surprise to most of you. We hadn't told many people we were expecting again.

This baby came as a surprise. We had talked about having a third, but it wasn't really something we were trying for. I found out in October, in the middle of our Disney vacation, that I was pregnant. I'd been feeling symptoms for a few days, and took a test right there in the hotel. We were surprised, but elated. Overjoyed.

With it being my third, I started showing right away. We wanted to wait to tell Abby our news until after I'd had my first ultrasound. But the doctor was booked solid until December, and it became impossible to hide. Without us ever saying a word to her, she started remarking on how big my belly was getting. "There's a baby in there! I know it!" she would say to me. She even started kissing my belly and saying, "Hello baby! I know you are in there!"

We broke down and told her yes, there was a baby growing in there. Even at that time, I had thoughts of "What if I lose this baby? What will I tell her then?" I have never miscarried before, but the fear was nagging me.

My pregnancy continued uneventfully. I had the usual morning sickness, fatigue, and an ever growing abdomen. No signs that anything was amiss. Abby and I did "baby yoga" together in the afternoons. She kissed my belly goodnight with a "Goodnight baby, I love you" every night.

Yesterday I went in for an ultrasound. It was going to be the first time we would see a picture of our baby. The night before, I'd had an overwhelming fear that I can't really explain. I even told my friend on the phone, "I am so afraid there might not be a heartbeat." She thought I was crazy. I can understand why... there was no reason to believe the worst. And yet I couldn't shake it.

I was driving to the doctor yesterday morning, and for the first time in months, I started to pray. I've questioned so much about God and faith lately. And yet yesterday, I found myself truly praying. I said, "God, I have no idea what is ahead. I have a bad feeling. I don't even feel like I can pray to ask that things will be ok. I don't know what to pray for."

And in that moment, I heard God, almost audibly. The loudest I have ever heard Him before. And He said one word. "Emmanuel."

Emmanuel. God is with us. He said, "No matter what happens today, I am with you."

And in that moment I started crying. Before I even reached the doctor's office. I told myself this was silly. Things would be fine. Things are always fine. What was I so worked up about? This is a happy day, my first ultrasound.

I met Ben at the doctor's office. We went in, met the doctor, talked about my health history, cracked some jokes, talked about my plan for this pregnancy.

And then the doctor had me lay back, and she placed the ultrasound probe inside of me. I looked at the screen. I saw the small shape of a baby, but it wasn't moving. With my last two babies, when I saw them on ultrasound, they were always moving.

In that instant, I knew. The baby on that screen, my baby, was not alive anymore.

I turned and looked at the doctor's face. She was trying so hard not to give anything away. She kept moving the probe, trying to get a better look. But her face said it all.

It was at that moment that I almost felt like I left my own body. I floated up above the room, and watched the rest take place, like a foggy dream that couldn't really be my life.

She pointed to the screen and said, "This is normally where I would see a heartbeat, but I don't see one. The baby is only measuring about 8 weeks."

I was 11 weeks along. Somewhere around week 8, things went wrong.

I turned to look at Ben. I will never forget the look on his face. The sadness. The pain. My heart  broke into a billion pieces just looking at him. It was his baby too.

The doctor pulled out the probe, and turned on the lights. What happened next is a blur. She explained a lot of things, about chromosomal abnormalities and how none of this was my fault. And how now we would have to talk about the next steps, because my body hadn't recognized for a number of weeks that the baby was not alive anymore.

I stared at her, willing myself to be strong. Willing myself not to cry. Trying so hard to focus on what she was saying so I wouldn't hear the voice inside of me saying, "Your baby is gone."

Even now I can hardly type this through the tears. It's literally the worst moment you can imagine. All the sudden you have to not only grapple with the fact that your baby has died, but you have to decide how you're going to get it out of you. No matter what you decide, it is horrific.

I was faced with two choices. I could either schedule a procedure to have the baby removed, or I could take some medication so that I could pass all of the tissue at home. That's a euphemistic way of saying take some pills so you can go home and bleed more than you ever thought was possible.

I chose the latter. I didn't want to wait for an opening in the schedule for a procedure, and the pills were the least invasive.

The doctor was wonderful and compassionate. She has been through this herself. She answered the questions that I asked her 5 times in a row because my brain wasn't working. She was patient and kind. 

I walked numbly out of the office. I don't even know how I drove home. But I did.

My biggest concern was for Abby. She is an exceptionally perceptive and sensitive 4 (almost 5) year old. When our dog died in February, she mourned more deeply that I could have ever imagined. I wanted more than anything to protect her from experiencing that kind of grief again.

Ben and I agreed we would not use the language of death in explaining this to Abby. As much as this was a baby to Ben and I, we needed this not to be the death of a baby for our precious daughter. So, when I got home, I told her this:

"Abby, mommy has some hard news. We found out at the doctor today that the baby we thought was inside mommy was not a baby. It was a broken seed that was trying to grow into a baby, but because it was broken, it couldn't grow. The broken seed made mommy's body think there was a baby in there, and that's why my belly grew so much. As long as this broken seed is inside of mommy, we can't grow a baby in there. So the doctor's have given me some medicine so the broken seed will leave my body, and so that one day we can get a new seed that can grow into a real baby."

Her eyes welled up with tears. But she didn't break down. She was disappointed. She asked, "Why did this happen?" I told the truth. I have no idea why this happened. But when I told her we would try again one day for another seed to grow, she smiled.

She's come back and asked some questions since then. Mostly wondering why the seed was broken, and why we didn't know for so long. But overall she has done well with it. It's my biggest relief in all of this.

Ben took the rest of the day off of work while I waited for the medicine to begin working. It was an agonizing wait. I felt so many emotions. I wanted it to work as fast as possible. But I knew that once it worked, I really and truly would be empty inside.

If you've never been through a miscarriage, or aren't extremely close to someone who has, you may not know how horrific it is. It is horrific. You sit and wait, then the cramps come, you bleed more than any living human ever should, and then you lose your baby, and you know it. I want so badly to forget that part. So badly. But I never, ever, will forget it. I'm telling you this so that when you meet someone who has had a miscarriage, or someone close to you goes through one, you really know what they mean.

I spent the night with a fever and chills. It was this bizarre mix of grief and relief once the medicine worked. We spent the night in my bed, the four of us, watching Christmas movies and cuddling. Abby would rub my belly from time to time, kiss it, and say, "Are you feeling any better mommy?" Oh how I love her.

I woke up this morning, and I felt really empty. In the quiet of the morning, before the kids were up, I laid there and wondered if I would ever be able to get out of bed again. I placed my hand on my strangely flat stomach and thought about how my baby was gone. I closed my eyes and breathed. It took all my energy just to breathe.

Moments later, my door burst open, and Joshua ran into my room, pantless. He yelled "I pooped in my bed mommy!!!!"

God bless that child.

If it weren't for him, I don't think I would have gotten out of bed today.

Thankfully, it wasn't as bad as he claimed. He had just taken off his wet diaper, and there was no mess. Praise the Lord for that.

Miscarriage is a hard thing to talk about. It's even harder to experience first hand. Everyone has their opinions on when to share pregnancy news. I'm glad I shared when I did with the people that knew, our close family and friends. I'm glad because for those 11 weeks that I was pregnant, I got to celebrate the life of my baby. And now that I have lost my baby, those closest to me share the burden of my grief, which helps. This grief would be crushing if I were to bear it alone.

I've been overwhelmed with the love those closest to us have shown, in less than 24 hours. My best friend sent a huge order of my favorite hoagies to our house last night. And a giant tray of cookies. I had cookies for dinner. And breakfast. I might have them for lunch too. Cookies help.
Our family has sent us flowers. Friends have sent multiple texts, knowing that I do much better with writing than with talking. This all helps.

Our baby was real. From the moment I knew I was pregnant, it was real. And so this is a very real loss. The loss of a baby, a dream, an imagined future.

And yet, this is also not the end of the story. When the time is right, we will try again.

I am filled with so many emotions. I feel like someone has just thrown a deck of 100 cards at me, all with a different emotion on them, and I am trying to catch them all. Anger, grief, denial, fear, guilt, hope. All muddled up together.

I'm trying to be strong for my kids. They really do make it better. When I look at them, I can only think about how unbelievably blessed I am to be their mom. And then I step into the shower, and I am by myself, and I sob uncontrollably. Or today, I was making lunch for Abby, and she was prattling on about something, and I thought I was listening, until I heard her saying, "MOM! MOM! ARE YOU LISTENING?!!" and I realize I'm a million miles away, thinking about my baby that's gone.

I have experienced a lot of loss this year. My dog died. My grandfather died. My baby died. There are moments when I feel like I can't take anything else.

And then I hear it.  "Emmanuel."

I am with you.

I don't know how that helps, but it does.

He is with me.

 This is not the end of my story.

The next few days and weeks feel like a huge black tunnel to me. Dark inside, with obstacles laying everywhere that I can't see, waiting to trip me. There's light at the end, but I don't know how to get there.

If you know me well at all, you know that I hate to cry. At least, I hate to cry in front of people. I also hate to cry on the phone. So I'm not answering the phone for a while. I can't. I have to save every single ounce of my functioning self for my children. So here is my blog. This is what happened to me. Grieve with me. It helps. Think of me. It helps. Speak kindness to me. It helps. Save advice. It doesn't usually help. Just read this blog. That helps.

I'll end with a letter to my precious one, because that seems like the only appropriate ending to this whole thing.

Dear Baby,

Before I even knew you were inside of me, I loved you and wanted you. We have talked and dreamed about Baby #3 for a while now. You were such a surprise to us. Everyone told us it was Disney magic. I think it was too. A little pixie dust that gave us magic for 11 weeks.

I didn't get to hold you, or breathe in your sweet baby smell. I didn't even get to find out if you were a boy or girl. But it doesn't matter. I knew you. 

You loved strawberry smoothies and Greek food. I made sure to spoil you with plenty of both. I'll think of you every time I eat either of those now. 

You were so dearly loved by your big sister. She would kiss my belly every morning and say, "Good morning baby!" And she would kiss it every night and tell you how much she loved you. Today when she saw how small my stomach looked, she lifted my shirt, kissed my belly and whispered, "Goodbye baby." 

Goodbye baby. I miss you already. Fly away my sweet angel, until we meet again one day. 

Love,
Mommy 

Preschool: I changed my mind (sort of)

I can hardly believe it. It is 2:00 in the afternoon and I am sitting here surrounded by.... silence. My son is upstairs napping. The dog is snoring in her crate. And my daughter... is off to preschool!

Yes, that's right, my little girl is off to pre-k for the very first time! A lot of you remember my post last year about opting out of preschool.  I made the conscious decision last year not to send Abby to a traditional preschool, but instead to homeschool her myself. We had a wonderful, flexible, fun year.

We learned all kinds of things at home last year. We worked on learning the days of the week with a simple calendar from the school supply store. We practiced motor skill development by cutting out shapes from construction paper to "decorate" the house. Abby learned to write her name by practicing writing "letters" to her friends and sending them in the mail. And the best part (at least for me anyway!) was that it didn't feel like "school."

I'll be honest, I didn't set a "schedule" and we didn't purposely work on a skill every day. But we did read a lot, and had a lot of fun playing together. And in the end, I think it was the absolute best decision I could have made.

And I would have made the same decision this year as well. In fact, I was fully planning on keeping her home with me again this year.

But then...

Life happened.

My husband got a new job. We moved almost 2 hours away. I don't know anyone here. And neither does Abby. She misses her old friends from the neighborhood, and church, and dance class. We miss our community.

So I was faced with a totally new situation this year.

I'll admit, I felt a little pressure to homeschool her again. Mostly because I felt like other parents would ask me, "Wait a minute, I thought you were all about keeping her at home? Did you change your mind?"

And, well, I suppose, yes, this year I did change my mind. There were a lot of factors to consider. Putting Abby in a traditional preschool program meant that she would have instant friends. It also meant I would meet some moms in the area. And it would provide a much needed structure to our life that has been in upheaval for the past three months.

One huge (and wonderful) surprise is that preschool here costs HALF of what it did in our old neighborhood. So I can (almost) afford it. It is still a stretch, but one that I am able to make this year, unlike last year.

And I suppose my change of heart this year is part of the beauty of parenting. You do what works for your child, in your circumstances, one day, month, year at a time.

I still see a lot of value in doing homeschool preschool. And it is very likely I will do that for at least a year with my son. But the program I chose for Abby is pretty darn wonderful, and the teachers clearly share my learning philosophy. As they put it, they "sneak in learning" while the kids play. They might learn about the letter A, and magically the classroom is filled with all kinds of apples for the kids to play with. And they might put out a scale next to the apples, and as the kids play with it, they might ask them to think through what object is going to make the scale go up or down, and why. No pressure, just play. Because children learn best through playing.

I have actually gotten a lot of questions about changing my plans for this year. But, surprisingly enough, no one has judged me for it like I feared. Instead, every single parent has said, "It sounds like you are doing exactly what Abby needs this year."

Yes, that's what it's about. Doing what my child needs when she needs it.

May you be encouraged this year to follow your parent gut. No one knows your child like you do. And no "philosophy" is more important than your child and his or her needs. So be brave. Whether that means making an unpopular decision, changing your mind, or going against the grain, I am cheering you on.

Moving is Hard

If you hadn't noticed, there has been some radio silence on this blog for a couple of months.

A lot has happened since I  last posted.

My husband got a new job.
We got a puppy.
The new job started mid-June, so Ben had to leave and start that while I was home managing two kids and a puppy for two months.
We sold our house.
We moved two hours away from New Jersey to Pennsylvania.

That's the short version.

The long version is filled with a lot of ups and downs and goodbyes and emotions.

I told my friends usually it's during those kinds of times that I'm blogging and reflecting, but that this time I just couldn't figure out what to write.

They told me I was too busy just trying to handle my daily life, and that the words would come later.

They're starting to come.

Moving is hard. Really hard.  I miss my house, my friends, my family, my memories. I miss knowing where all the best playgrounds are. Where the groceries are located in the grocery store. I miss knowing how to get anywhere without Google maps. I miss knowing which friend's house to drop by when I'm having a rough day.

I miss being comfortable.

I know God is in this thing. I know He has a plan. But there is nothing comfortable about this.

I am thankful for a lot of things. We have a beautiful new house. Lots of kids in the neighborhood. Ben loves the new job.

But this whole moving thing is really hard for me. And right now I am daily battling the struggle of feeling guilty for feeling so sad when I know there is much to be thankful for.  I'm trying my best. If you follow me on Instagram or Facebook you'd probably have no idea how much I am struggling with this. That's the funny thing about social media. You can paint any picture you want.

I'm an introvert. Naturally I am very shy. It takes me a long time to let people in.  If you're reading this and that surprises you, it's because I've become really good at faking it over the years. I can put on a smile and talk all the small talk in the world, and you'd have no idea how uncomfortable I am and how hard I am trying to make a good impression.

I hate being in situations where I don't know anyone. I hate having to make conversation with a bunch of new people. I get drained having to put on a super friendly face and act like everything is just wonderful.

Basically, living in a new neighborhood, that's what I have to do every day right now.

I'm the kind of person who prefers to have a few close friends, not a whole bunch of acquaintances. But real friends take time to make. And energy. And putting myself out there to meet them in the first place.

I know I have to give it time. And I will. But the in-between is rough. And lonely. And scary.

I cling to the promise of Romans 8:28, "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

For now, it is just one day at a time. Counting my blessings and believing that God is working this out, not just for the good of my family, but for me too. 

I have so many more blog post topics on my mind, but I had to say all of this first. And just be real about where I am right now so that the rest of the words can come.