a peaceful mother's day to you

I am a mother of two.

One I have the privilege of holding, and one I had to give back.

I am a mother to both of them, all the same.

For Henry, I am grateful I get to hear his laughter, watch him play with trucks, snuggle into my arms before bed and even smile as he once again shakes his head and says "No, Mommy." I get to touch his curly hair, tickle his little toes and kiss his soft cheeks.

For Avery, who I never got to hold, I pray for her soul. I imagine the reunion we will have someday. I guess the color of her hair, her eyes and the tone of her laughter.

I love them both fiercely.

Mother's Day is a great day to celebrate the things moms do whether they are changing diapers, paying for college tuition or spoiling grandchildren.

But for many women, it's a reminder of empty arms no matter if they have other children to hold or not. No matter if it's infertility, miscarriage or death, it's a bittersweet day filled with reminders of loss.

1 in 8 women suffer infertility.

1 in 4 women suffer a miscarriage or infant loss

As I celebrate my motherhood this weekend and spend time with my favorite boys, my heart is also with the women who have or are still hurting today. For my friend who is finally pregnant after 55 tries. For my friends who desperately want to be mothers and can't. For my friends who are mothers to babies they never got to hold.

May you have peace today.

"This may seems like a strange Mother's day column, on a day when joy and life abound for millions of mothers throughout the country. But it's also a day of appreciation and respect. I can think of no other mothers who deserve it more than those who had to give a child back." - Erma Bombeck

six weeks later

Since writing about miscarriage I've been connected with a lot of people who I know personally or only in blog world who have gone through the same loss. Some who found the blog after searching in the midst of going through it. For those who are traveling through the darkest time, I've assured them that the days do get less suffocating just like any loss or disappointment in life.

Today I am six weeks post D&C. Most days I feel like my normal busy, emotionally in control self. I feel light and hopeful. Content with my non-pregnant, almost graduating self.

But, there are still days when it swallows me whole.

Like this weekend when I realized a friend who is due the end of October was announcing her pregnancy because she was in her second trimester. And then I realized I should be in my second trimester, already public with the happy news. So I turned on my sad songs (here and here and here) and cried in between playing with trucks. And then again while Henry was in the stroller, safe from his mama's sad eyes.

Or the days when a well-meaning someone says "Oh, you should have another baby soon while Henry is young."

But most days are good. I feel richer in friendships because of shared sorrow. I feel stronger after being vulnerable and open about my pain. The nights of talking and eating popcorn til midnight help. So do the happy hours on warm patios, the random coffee dates and long walks ending in frozen yogurt. And the heartfelt cards from friends I haven't hung out with in years. But so does indulging every so often in tears and chocolate milk.

I feel blessed. There are things in my life I wouldn't have right now if I didn't also have the sadness.

I know hope begins in places like this. I am counting on it.

rule no. 1: comfort in, dump out

latimes.com

Talking about the miscarriage has meant opening myself up for comment. Ninety-five percent of it has been comforting, even sometimes helpful. Talking about it and not suffering in silence has opened up the door for burden sharing in the form of flower deliveries, sympathy cards, hugs, milkshakes, cups of coffee, encouraging texts and emails. Sharing the intimate details allowed others to share their intimate details in moments of solidarity. I don't regret sharing about such an oddly taboo topic.

When I read this article in the LA Times sent to me by a friend who suffered from infertility for years, I found myself nodding emphatically. "When you are talking to a person in a ring smaller than yours, someone closer to the center of the crisis, the goal is to help. Listening is often more helpful than talking. But if you're going to open your mouth, ask yourself if what you are about to say is likely to provide comfort and support. If it isn't, don't say it."

Oh sister, preach it. Like I said, 95 percent of the comments and actions we've received are comforting, such as:

• "I am sad with you."
• "What can I do?"
• "Here's some dinner for your fridge because I know you don't feel like cooking right now and a home cooked meal is going to sustain your body when your heart is hurting."
• "We'll babysit so you two can have time together to grieve."
• "Let me bring you junk food and sit and listen to you talk about how life is unfair."

Also:

• Calling our baby by its name. Or even just acknowledging he or she is a baby.
•  Listening. Holding. Hugging. Wiping tears away. Crying with me.
• Texting two weeks later to let us know you haven't forgotten. Because we sure haven't.
• Deliveries of flowers. Cards. Chocolate Milk.

The other five percent, I try to give grace knowing that it's hard to know what to say when others are grieving.  Especially for things like miscarriage. I've also found that when using the ring theory, my expectations are higher of those I place in the more center rings. When the outer ring people do more than I would ever have expected, the lack of support from the inner ring is more apparent and hurtful. That might be unfair. I am doing my very best to use these experiences to educate and show grace, rather than breed anger.

If you find yourself in any ring for someone going through a miscarriage, here is what was not helpful, at least to me:

• "This reminds me of my pain/stress/grief when..."
• "God doesn't give you anything you can't handle." Or similarly, "this was God's plan." This actually doesn't jive with my theology. I do think God knew this would happen and had the power to change it, and didn't. But I also don't think he brought my baby into this world to teach me a lesson or as part of some bigger plan. I think He can see the past, present and future and will use it for His glory.
   
• "I know exactly how you feel."
•  Not talking to me at all, like I have become the miscarriage. I also work, have a son, husband that I will be happy to talk about if you don't know what to say about the elephant in the room.
• Looking for a reason why this happened. *Unless you have access to my medical chart.

Like the article said, I get it if my miscarriage makes you nervous about your pregnancy or makes you sad again about someone you've lost in the past. That's a totally normal response. 

Just dump it out, not in.

needing a reason

I know it's not my fault.

That's what everyone keeps reminding me. My midwife. The surgeon. My mom. Every single medical website I Google.

There is this list in my head. The one that details everything I might have done wrong, the what-ifs.

I took Tylenol more than half a dozen times.

I missed a prenatal vitamin.

I took hot showers.

I drank eight ounces of coffee every morning to ward off migraines.

I definitely did not get enough sleep.

I did the laundry, which was next to the litter box, which hypothetically could have gotten cat germs on my hands that I probably did not wash.

I got a 24-hour stomach bug that could have created an unsafe environment in my body.

I didn't come close to eight glasses of water each day. Seriously, not even close.

I pumped gas.

I shoveled our driveway. Twice.

I ran 18 miles a month before I conceived.

I was too stressed about keeping all the balls in the air.

I didn't always use natural cleaners.

I ate non-organic fruit. And even then, not enough fruit.

Sometimes I twirl the ring on my finger that holds the birthstone of this baby and say an apology. For doing all those things wrong. For caring more about my cup of coffee and a hot shower than my teeny tiny baby.

I know it's not rational. I know it's not really my fault. I know there are babies born to mothers who do far worse things during pregnancy and their babies survive.

But that means the questions are much bigger. And harder. And most likely unanswerable.

The reasoning my cup of coffee brings might be wrong but somedays it's easier to understand.

a story of loss

I wasn't sure how to start this post.

Does the story start when we found out we were pregnant eight days post conception? Does it start the day we didn't hear the heartbeat? Or is it when my little baby was surgically removed from the womb?

It's a story with no beginning and certainly no end. In the gap there were 64 days of prenatal vitamins. A dozen positive pregnancy tests. Morning sickness. Lots of apples and ginger candy. Half cups of coffee. Preparation for a fun pregnancy announcement along with some actual announcements. Prayers of safety and healing.

Images of a baby. A baby without a heartbeat. Tears of despair. The telling and the untelling. Shock. Hope. Pain. Fear. Soul-swallowing grief.

3/11 - Today the cashier at the grocery store asked if I was having a good day. All I wanted to do was scream. "NO! My baby is dead inside of me. I am not anywhere near OK." Instead I said I was fine and swiped my credit card. The bag boy packaged my groceries as if the world was just continuing to go on. I got into my car and sobbed with my whole body.

It's a chapter in many women's stories. But I never thought I'd get my name picked. That happened to other people. Until I became one of the 25 percent. Who feel the grief no one else seems to understand. Who have the joy of pregnancy ripped away. Who look at family pictures years later and always look for that missing face. Who wonder about a life that could have been.

3/11 - Henry pointed to my belly and said baby today. Crying, I told him yes, the baby was still there. Because it is. That's his brother or sister in there. We just may not get to meet this side of heaven.

I know it's not my fault. They say it was the baby. It just wasn't knit together in the ways that allowed it to live on earth. Instead, it will go to live with a God that can love it even more than its own mother.

3/12 - People at work keep asking if I feel better. They think I was just sick. I say I am OK. I am not OK. I feel like I weigh 600 pounds and there is a bowling ball in  my chest. I have to remind myself to breathe. But I still have to smile in the hallway and do work like it matters.

We waited a week from the initial ultrasound. There were prayers for a miracle. For some sort of mistake. The longest, worst week of my life. With a husband who was out of town. And morning sickness, exhaustion and all the signs of a healthy pregnancy.

3/14 - Today is the day we get confirmation. I feel nothing. We walked to our appointment. Through the busy Plaza of Big 12 tournament fans and shoppers. They smiled as they passed. They had no idea the destination we were walking to. The things we were about to be told. The way our world is being shaken as they bought new lipstick.

We got the confirmation. Not of a miracle but of a baby without a beating heart. With a sac that measured where it should be and a baby measuring less than it did a week before. And my body that was showing no signs of letting it go.

3/15 - We went to the zoo today. God didn't give me my baby but he did give me an 80-degree day. It felt calming to eat ice cream, look at polar bears swimming in circles, feel the sun on my skin, watch Henry's face light up. His world is so innocent. He doesn't notice all the pregnant moms with alive babies in their bellies. He doesn't immediately think of the ultrasound picture of his baby brother or sister. The baby that's still there. Sucking the oxygen out of every room.

On Monday, that baby left my body, the place that's supposed to be safest. Our baby left in a way I care not to think about and thanks to anesthesia I will never remember.

3/18 - I had to sign a paper releasing the remains of my baby to the hospital. Incineration they called it. The little body, which had fingers and toes, out with the other "medical waste."  

The medical appointments are done. Physically I feel unpregnant. I had 48 hours where my body still miscarried the rest of the tissue and blood. Rhythmic contractions, two minutes apart. Pain that left my knuckles white while gripping the steering wheel.

But now, there is little to remind me any of this even happened. Like maybe the last three weeks were just a fog.

Instead, nothingness. With no clear next step. Except attending class. Going to the store. Giving Henry a bath. Making dinner. Smiling at church. Vacuuming up cat hair. Doing laundry.

Like it all never happened.