This is the first "guest post" I've put on the blog. It was written by a dear friend of mine...a sister...one who've I've grown closer to through our shared loss and grief. She so beautifully captures the emotions immediately following pregnancy loss, and I wanted to share it here so that as many people as possible can, even if just for a moment, walk in the shoes of a mother grieving her baby... Thank you for your transparency, Becky.
As I sit over my bowl of soup, tears mixing with the carrots, I find myself looking for a way to get it out. Really get it out. It's like that moment when you know that the dam wants to break. Needs to break. But can't. It's so hard to lose it, unless you can lose it completely. And rarely do you find yourself in a situation that allows that kind of uninhibited freedom. Nothing held back.
My last loss was 3 days before Mother's Day. And this one, a week shy of National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. The irony is not lost on me.
I went to a park this morning and in an effort to have something tangible to hang on to- and subsequently let go of- I attempted to do something to honor that which is intangible. Did I do it to make myself feel better? To find the ever-elusive validation? To cry? To ponder? To have people at the park stare at me like I was crazy? To announce my most recent loss to the visible public? To have an excuse to leave work for an hour? To have some pictures to help explain things to do the future kids that I'm not sure I'm ever going to have? To somehow try to capture a loss so deep within my being that words simply do not suffice? I don't have an answer to that question. Mostly what I have right now are questions without any answers. Again? Really? Again? Why us? Why now? Will it ever change? Will it happen next time too? Will there even be a next time? Will I ever feel like a normal person again instead of a socially awkward misfit that just makes everyone else feel uncomfortable? Will the darkness ever go away? Will the grief ever subside?
I don't want to hear social cliches. I know people mean well, but it doesn't help. I'm sorry but it just doesn't. And some days, it makes things worse. Don't tell me it will all work out. Don't ask me what we're going to do next. I'm still just trying to get out of bed and go to work and feed the dogs and wash the dishes. Don't tell me that at least I know I can get pregnant. Don't tell me to just relax. And please. If you have any kindness in your heart. Do not tell me that this happens all the time and a friend of a friend of a sister of a brother of a cousin of a friend at work went through the "exact same thing" and 4 years later in the middle of their adoption, they were surprised and things worked out perfectly, just like they will for me. I'm sorry for their difficult journey. Whoever they are. And for who or what they lost. I really am. There are many who are hurting, and my heart goes out to each one. It really does. But it's not exactly the same. No two experiences are the same. No two children are the same. And no two losses are the same. I don't need anyone to minimize the children I have lost, size, gender, or gestation aside. Children. My children. That I was given. And were then taken away. Before I even had a chance to buy the first onesie.
One very short week ago today, I spent nearly 48 hours under the covers. Reruns of Cake Boss playing from sun up to sun down. Shades drawn. Pillows soaked. Pain so deep that the Morphine might as well have been Gatorade. I don't remember it being this hard last time. Was it this hard last time? The darkness. It feels harder this time. Darker. Angrier. And it settles in. The little moments. Of numbness. Of guilt. Of grief. Of apathy. Of fear. Of confusion. Of rage. Of paralyzation. Of sobbing to the point of vomit. When exhaustion takes over. And in those moments, it feels as though the darkness is here to stay. And that everything I used to know is gone forever. The carefree newlywed with the renewed hopes and dreams is no longer. She dyes her hair. And dyes it back again. And then again. And cuts it. And then cuts a little more. Gets the tattoo that she said she'd never get. All the while grasping, reaching. Feeble attempts to somehow shout out to the world that she isn't the same. To make the outside match the inside.
A friend texted me that day and said "I'm not going to ask how you are, but I am going to ask you what you're doing to survive today." Breathe. Only breathe.
And then the light.
The teeny. Tiny. Sliver. Begins to pierce the pervading gloom. Mostly seen in the kindness and gentleness of the man who has seen me at my worst. Who has literally picked me up off the floor. More than once. Who hasn't left my side. Who has a never-ending supply of patience. Who has put his own plans aside. Who has prayed over me. Who has sat up in the hospital for hours on end. Who has loved me at my ugliest. At my weakest. When I have nothing left to give in return. In the darkest moments when no one can see. Who has, figuratively and in his own way, day after day, wrapped a towel around his waist, bent down, and lovingly and selflessly washed my sad, broken, hurting feet. Who has been a very real picture of what it is to love in sickness and in health. For better or for worse. And who has loved his (at times most unlovable) wife like Jesus does. Who deserves a hug. Some encouragement. A night with the guys. And a medal. And the glimpses of light continue to pour in in the kind words of friends and family who offer simple words of love and support in a text, comment, or "like" even though this isn't their burden to bear and they are likely sick of me clogging up their Newsfeed with my balloons and pictures of baby feet. Who give it their best effort to let me know that I'm not alone and that my little ones, no matter how brief their existences, are remembered. Whose kindness is overwhelming. There is no greater way to love a grieving mom without any children, than to simply acknowledge her loss. You know who you are. Today, especially, I thank you.
As for the women who are expecting? Who are welcoming their newly arrived little ones into the world? I love you. And I love your babies. I may miss your shower, mostly for fear of making a scene that would take away from your day. And I may be a little distant at times. But I love you. And I rejoice with you. I really. Do.
And so. As the loss dates and the due dates begin to run together, I wonder just how I will ever find the shore. And in some moments, I wonder if that shore even exists. And I wonder if He's forgotten about me. Because I feel so. Abandoned. Isolated. Forgotten. Devastated. And Heartbroken. And just when I seem to find dry land, I'm swept out to sea yet again. Where are you? Why have you left me here? I'm so tired. I'm so. Tired. And I don't know how much longer I can keep treading water. You think too much of me. You think too much of me, Lord.
Today I will ask for air. And maybe in a few days, for Hope. And maybe the day after that, for Joy. And then for Gratitude. And soon for Obedience. And then for Glory to the One who deserves it. In the midst of it all. Because this is all just too painful to be for naught.
To my little ones: You are a part of me that is missing. The days, weeks, months, or years are inconsequential to me. I will never let anyone minimize your value. You were fearfully and wonderfully made. Knit together by our Maker with a body, small as it may have been. You have a soul and a name and a place in our family until we meet. And I will always make sure that you are Remembered and thought of with Love, no matter the years that pass on. Your mom loves you. <3
The blog has been silent for awhile, not because I lack things to say, but because I lack the time to write them! I have a lot of entries I want to write, and I even have some really exciting news to share (no, I am not pregnant), but I have been so incredibly busy that I just have not been able to keep up with the blog. I promise more is coming soon!
After I posted the breastfeeding blog entry, the blog absolutely blew up. I have had over two million hits since that entry went up, and let me tell you, I can (and probably will) write an entirely separate post on what happens when your blog goes viral. Oy.
But there are a couple of things I just couldn't let pass without talking about them here. First, my precious Jake and Eisley turned EIGHT years old today!!! How, how did that happen?!? It amazes me that it wasn't just last year that we sent their binkies off into the sky on their second birthday! It has truly flown by so quickly, but I am so blessed to have spent each moment I have with them. Happy birthday Jake and Eisley! I will post their "birthday letters" sometime next week.
Second, if you didn't already know, tomorrow is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. Actually, the entire month of October is dedicated to Pregnancy and Infant Loss (though I believe we share the month with Down Syndrome Awareness and Breast Cancer Awareness).
Ever since the loss of my first pregnancy a few years ago, October has been a bittersweet month for me. I am so blessed to celebrate the babies I am loving and raising here on earth, while also missing the ones I love from a distance and miss every day. To be perfectly honest, every single day of my life is like that, but in October, the world misses them with me...
Since I didn't have the opportunity to write a new post on this special day and month that we honor the men and women who are grieving the children they have lost, I wanted to invite you to read what I posted last year. I hope you take the opportunity to read it and re-post it and honor this special day with us.
One in four women have experienced pregnancy loss. One in four. Do you know four women? Then chances are, you know and love someone who has lost a baby. They might not grieve openly, or publicly, but I assure you, they do grieve. You might not even know about their loss, but I can say with certainty that everyone who is reading this knows and loves a woman who has experienced pregnancy loss. So with that being said, would you take this opportunity to openly acknowledge their loss?
How can you do that? I will leave that up to you. But I do want to encourage you that nothing you do to honor the loss your loved one has experienced will "open old wounds" or "remind them" of something sad they've forgotten. All it will do is remind them that they are loved, that their loss was real, that it was valid, and that it mattered.
So here I go...this is my open acknowledgement of the losses of my loved ones. These are the women, whom I love, who have grieved the loss of their baby or babies.
I love you. I'm so sorry we are in this club together that no one wants to join. One day, I will rejoice with you as we meet and gush over the children we are reunited with in heaven. What an awesome playgroup that will be...
Becky Ashley Rachel Tamara Shayla Evelyn Jessica Karen Gayle Sue Laren Andrea Traci Elizabeth Gigi Linda Meredith Wendie Alicia
And to the women I know and love who have never shared their experience with me, consider your name up there as well.
Your baby mattered. Your loss matters. And I remember with you...
For my own sweet babies, whom I carried for such a short time...I remember you, and I deeply feel your loss. I remember you, and I miss you.
Gracie, I miss you. You would have looked like Eisley, and wanted to be just like her. You were so wanted. You were our deepest hurt because we never, ever expected to lose you. You taught us to cherish every moment, and we still do.
Lily, my heart literally aches for you at times. You stole and broke our hearts the moment we laid eyes on you. You looked like Jake, and had perfect little feet, and that's all I will ever know about you, until I see you again. I miss you the most because I know what it was like to hold you, to know you, to realize what I was losing. I miss you. I miss you.
To my last little one...the one I barely had the chance to know about. You are no less loved, no less remembered. You will be the biggest surprise to us someday because you are the one we knew the least about. If I had to guess, I'd say you were a boy. Jake and Eisley call you "James". I never knew what to call you, because I blinked, and you were gone. I can't wait to meet you...
Thank you for remembering with me, and for honoring the losses of the smallest of blessings.
This entry was originally written shortly after we learned about Ember's diagnosis. One big lesson God taught us all during that time...trust...
"Blessings" Laura Story
We pray for blessings
We pray for peace
Comfort for families
Protection while we sleep
We pray for healing
For prosperity
We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering
All the while you hear each spoken need
Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things
Cause what if your blessings come through raindrops?
What if your healing comes through tears?
What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know you're near?
What if trials of this life are your mercies in disguise?
We pray for wisdom
Your voice to hear
We cry in anger when we cannot feel you near
We doubt your goodness
We doubt your love
As if every promise from Your Word is not enough
All the while You hear each desperate plea
And long that we'd have faith to believe
Cause what if your blessings come through raindrops?
What if your healing comes through tears?
What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know you're near?
What if trials of this life are your mercies in disguise?
When friends betray us
When darkness seems to win we know
That pain reminds this heart
That this is not, this is not our home
What if my greatest disappointment, or the aching of this life
Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy?
What if trials of this life
The rain, the storms, the hardest night
Are Your mercies in disguise?
I saw that song plastered all over Facebook months and months ago. I never clicked on it, just saw that people were "so touched by it". I don't know why I never clicked on it and listened to it. I just didn't.
I was at a friend's house awhile back and we were talking about old memories of Psalty the Song Book and his wonderful repertoire of children's music, and my friend was flabbergasted that I didn't have my kids listening to the very CD's (which were at that time cassette tapes) we all grew up on. She offered to burn me a copy (thanks Rachel!!!) but there was still some room left on the CD after Psalty. She told me she'd burn some Laura Story onto it, she was sure I knew her.
"No," I told her, "I don't think I've heard her."
"What!?!" she said. "How have you not heard her song 'Blessings'"? It's like written about you!!!"
Well alright then, I better listen to it! And I did. And she was right, I felt like it was written about me. (I realize I say that a lot, but you know what I mean) After our many losses, especially our experience with Lily, I often found myself wondering what in the H-E-double hockeysticks the Lord was doing. Did He not hear my prayers? My cries to keep my babies healthy and my pregnancies uneventful? Why, why, why did this keep happening? I often felt ignored by God. Like He simply wasn't listening to me, or didn't care, or both. In my heart of hearts, I knew the Truth, of course. But when you are in that much pain, you don't care for the truth much.
And then, once again, the Lord allows yet another unspeakable heartache to enter our lives. We have grown to care and love very much this woman and the baby girl she is carrying. That happens when you spend so much time in prayer for people. But once again, it is as if our prayers fell on deaf ears.
We SPECIFICALLY prayed for this baby's health. "Lord!!!" I cried. "WHY can't you just hear me just ONCE!!!???"
I have cried that so many times.
The other day Eisley asked me if I could dig out the Psalty CD. After we got it, we listened to that thing until I was literally dreaming in children's worship songs, so mommy decided to put it away for awhile, replacing it with Adele, which I realize isn't the most uplifting of music, but the change I needed after months of non-stop Psalty in the car (Yes, I do own an Ipod, but we only have one car dock, and Josh keeps it in his car for reasons I am now thinking I should debate...).
Anyways, I stopped for a moment to find the CD, and stuck it in. We listened and sang along, and it was just a Psaltastic time. Yesterday, I was in the car by myself, and the CD had moved along to the Laura Story song "Blessings" my friend had burned for me. I literally had to stop the car because I was just crying and crying over the realization that I, in fact, do not know everything, and God is not ignoring me, but He is aware of a heck of a lot more than I am. Who am I not to trust Him? I have to believe. I have to believe that there is a greater purpose in all of this, that He does hear me, that He does love me more than I can fathom, but He knows something that I don't.
Our greatest aspiration as Christians is to live for the life beyond this one. What if all that He is allowing into our lives, as painful as it is, is fulfilling a purpose that may not be apparent in this life, but will be in the next one? Which life do I want to live for, this one, in its blink of an eye, or the next one, which will last an eternity? As hard as it is to do, I definitely want the latter.
I was out shopping with Eisley today. She begged me, begged me, in her sweetest little Eisley voice, to take her shoe shopping for school. Even though it was totally past a time I like to leave the house and she was already in her pajamas, I just really couldn't think of a good reason to turn her down. It's summer, we are starting school soon, she slept really late this morning, and it would just make her entire day if I said yes, so I did.
She has had her eye on a specific style of shoe ever since I broke down and let the kids start watching Nikelodeon (which I specifically did not allow up until this point because of the commercials and the direct effect they have on my children's begging). They are high topped Sketchers Twinkle Toes, and Eisley simply can't imagine herself starting at a new school without them, especially since I dropped the bomb on the Style Queen that she would be wearing one of six school uniform shirts in a bland variety of colors every single day of the first grade.
So we ventured out on this little shoe shopping adventure hoping to find a cheap pair at Ross or something, but were totally unsuccessful. She was so, so disappointed. I looked at her sad little face and I just melted. It is not often she gets her heart set on things, but when she does, it is simply a travesty not to fulfill her wish. I had these sudden overwhelming feelings of sadness for her, not because of the stupid shoes, but because her greatest wish at this point in her life is to be a big sister. And try as I might, I just can't seem to make it happen.
But I can buy shoes.
So we continued, and we went to store after store and failed miserably at each one. WHERE ARE THE SHOES??? Why would you advertise something and then make it impossible for normal people to find?!? I was feeling like a failure as a mother. I felt so sad that I couldn't grant her this simple thing. I wanted so badly to give it to her. And then I had this thought...
God loves me so much more than I love Eisley (which, I have to tell you, is an unfathomable amount, because I already love her an unfathomable amount, so, you do the math). When you love someone that much, you want to give them the desires of their hearts. You go out of your way to do it. You stay up past your bedtime and go to more stores than you'd like to admit. You spend more money than you probably should. You work extra hours, you spend the time and the effort, you do it. Because they want it, and you have the power to give it to them, and it won't do anyone any harm to grant them this tiny thing, so you do it. I wondered to myself, why? Why, if God loved me so much, wasn't He granting me the one thing I have been asking for these past two years? What was the hold up?
As we walked out of the last store into the dark of the dead of the night, I told her we needed to give it a rest and try again tomorrow. Or try the internet. The internet will not fail us. She sighed. And then she told me she needed to go potty.
Well, okay. We were in a parking lot, and she's six, so I figured her bladder could handle the five minute ride home.
I was wrong.
As I rushed home as fast as my conscience would allow on a very busy main road, she yelped at me from the back seat that I needed to hurry, hurry mommy, don't let me have an accident mommy!!!
I finally made it to the stop light right before our house. I had to turn left, and as I said, it is a super busy road. I waited in the middle of the intersection for the clear space needed to turn left, but cars just kept coming. Eisley is literally crying in the backseat telling me to turn. I'm telling her I can't, it isn't clear yet! She screams that I have a green light and she is going to pee in her pants if I don't turn RIGHT THIS SECOND!!!
"But I can't!!!!!!" I say.
"BUT THE LIGHT IS GREEN MOMMY!!! TURN MOMMY!!!" Eisley cries.
Now, I am an adult, with twelve plus years of driving experience. She is six. The extent of her traffic knowledge is "Green means go." To her, I was torturing her. All she wanted was to go potty, if she didn't get to a potty RIGHT NOW, the worst of the worst of the worst in the world of a six-year-old would become her reality. She would pee in her pants.
But I knew, being the wise and highly intelligent adult that I am, that if I turned, we would crash into another car and die or be severely mangled. Does Eisley know that peeing her pants is nothing compared to being severely mangled? Yes. But she did not understand that these were mutually exclusive. To her, I was simply being mean. That, or I didn't understand the severity of the situation at hand.
Remind you of any other situations you've been in?
I realized, as we were sitting at this stop light, Eisley crying, me panicking, Laura Story singing about Blessings on the CD player, that this situation is not unlike what God must experience on a daily basis. Us humans whining about peeing our pants when He is only trying to protect us from being severely mangled in an automobile accident!!!
This analogy might seem like a stretch to you, but it really hit home for me.
He knows more than I do. He is listening to my first prayer, my greatest prayer, to honor Him with my life, to serve a greater purpose for Him, before my second prayer to have another child. I have to trust Him. I have to trust His love for me, even when what is happening makes no sense to me at all and seems almost cruel.
Eisley thought I was being cruel. That I wasn't listening. That I didn't understand how very badly she needed to go potty. She was mad at me! To me, her pleading broke my heart. I hated seeing her like that! I could relate to what she was experiencing as I myself have been six and had a bladder the size of a walnut with a brother who would have teased me endlessly had I peed my pants. Her situation, through her eyes, was dire. I wished so much that she would just trust my love for her and the fact that I did understand her pain, but I had to make a different decision, for her own good. Even though it broke both of our hearts to do so.
But I know better than her. I love her so much, that I would allow this awful, horrible, no good thing to happen to her, because I wanted to save her the pain of what would come had I turned left when she wanted me to.
Josh and I struggle with the trial that God has allowed into our lives right now. We are so hurt that we are going to lose another baby girl that we have grown to love. We are so sad and especially heart broken for her mother. But if God were to sit me down and explain to me that He is allowing this because of this amazing reason and that amazing reason, that this person may come to Christ and that person may finally turn back to God and showing "Kim" this kind of unconditional love may cause this chain reaction and that chain reaction, I am sure I would understand. He loves us so much. He allowed something awful, in our eyes, to serve a purpose for Him. And I am pretty confident that one day He will have that conversation with me, and we will both cry, and I will thank Him for allowing what He did for the reasons that He had.
Does that make it less painful right now? No. Honestly, no. But it does make it worth it.
Josh and I are determined to find and help create purpose from each tragedy the Lord allows into our lives. We will never, ever waste a sorrow. Ever. We will do everything we can to make the tears and the heartbreak and the utter brokenness of what is happening worth it. At this point, that means sharing with all of you what God is teaching us. I'm sure He is doing a lot of behind the scenes action that I'm unaware of, and that is comforting as well.
We will not shield ourselves, our children, or any of you from the pain of what is happening, because we are fully confident that the Lord will create something totally awesome from it. We will continue to love this little girl and her mother. Even if it means another piece of our hearts is taken from us.
My sweet cousin Lisa sent me this video, that so much better says what we are feeling about this whole situation. Please take a moment to watch it, and if you have two moments, listen to Laura Story's "Blessings".
"All of Me" Matt Hammitt Afraid to love something that could break
Could I move on if you were torn away?
And I'm so close to what I can't control
I can't give you half my heart and pray He makes you whole
You're gonna have all of me, you're gonna have all of me
Cause you're worth every fallen tear
You're worth facing any fear
You're gonna know all my love
Even if it's not enough
Enough to mend our broken hearts
But giving you all of me is where I'll start
I won't let sadness steal you from my arms
I won't let pain keep you from my heart
I'll trade the fear of all that I could lose
For every moment I'll share with you
You're gonna have all of me, you're gonna have all of me
Cause you're worth every fallen tear
You're worth facing any fear
You're gonna know all my love
Even if it's not enough
Enough to mend our broken hearts
But giving you all of me is where I'll start
Heaven brought you to this moment
It's too wonderful to speak
You're worth all of me, you're worth all of me
So let me recklessly love you even if I bleed
You're worth all of me, you're worth all of me
Do you remember when I first started asking you to bless us with a new baby? Of course you do. Jake and Eisley were three. They had gotten so independent, becoming less and less needy of their mommy. I had begun to get that "itch". That baby itch. I knew some of my friends would be trying to have their first baby soon, so maybe this time I wouldn't be going through it all alone like I was with the twins!
Josh and I had begun to talk about it. Wondering if it would be a good time, thinking if we were going to do it, we should do it before the age gap got too big (little did we know that "gap" would grow another four years!). We talked about how weird it would be to "try" and get pregnant, when we had tried for years to not! When the babies were, well, babies, I remember thinking I could never purposely get pregnant again. They were so much work. They had put such a strain on us and our marriage. I was perfectly content with two. Until I wasn't...
Somewhere down the line, you put that desire back in my heart. Most people think having a boy and a girl, twins no less, is "perfect." That we had hit the jackpot (and we had!) getting a boy and a girl in one shabam. I was asked all the time if one or both of us were going to "get fixed". Friends, family, even strangers would ask me that. My answer was always, "I'm 22 years old. I have a feeling God might not want me to close that door with 20 good years left of fertility."
I had times I didn't want any more children, but I could never have gone through with doing anything permanent. I knew I wanted to leave that door open. And when the kids were three, I was so glad I did!
But, then, everything changed. My life was turned upside down and inside out as I watched my marriage crumble to the ground. It was nothing I saw coming. It destroyed me. It destroyed Josh. It absolutely destroyed our marriage. And after that, planning for another child seemed like a memory from another life.
What was that like for you? Knowing, before I knew, what was about to come to the light? How was it for you to listen to my heart, knowing I wanted another baby, and knowing it would be years of struggles and heartbreak before you could give it to me? Did you weep with me? Did you dread the day when it would come to my knowledge as well? Did you hope beyond hope that I would choose the path you desired after it all, that Josh and I would choose to reconcile and allow you to rebuild? Did you worry about what would happen if we didn't? Do you worry about things, or is that the opposite of being omniscient? Someday I would love to ask you that.
I am so thankful you are in the business of rebuilding. You are an architect like no other. You can create magnificence from pure ashes. Ashes. When I think of ashes, in my mind I have the picture of chalky grains of soft sand running through my fingers, blowing away in the breeze. Blowing away all that was left of my marriage, of my relationship with Josh, of our plans for the future, of our hopes and dreams for Jake and Eisley, of our relationship with you. There was nothing left. Just ashes.
Isaiah tells us that you are a God who gives us beauty for ashes, joy for mourning, a garment of praise for a spirit of heaviness. (Isaiah 61:3). I had heard that verse a hundred times growing up, but it wasn't until these past few years of my adult life did you prove that to me over and over again. So much so that I tattooed it on my wrist as a reminder. Not that I need a physical reminder. All I have to do is look up. Look up and see how you restored my marriage, how you didn't just renovate it, you burned it down into pure ashes and rebuilt it from the ground up. When was the last time I thanked you for that miracle? Thank you.
And it was a miracle. Josh and I had to completely start over, start anew and begin again. And we did. When we renewed our vows, Jake and Eisley were then four years old. And this time, we were not only making a promise to you, we were making a promise to them. And no offense, but promising your children you will stay together forever seemed even bigger than promising it to you.
And then, there is was again. That heart tugging. My desire for another baby didn't vanish, it had just been sleeping for awhile while my life was getting straightened out again. Josh and I talked about how it would be such a blessing for us to bring another child into this marriage, into this family. Because we felt it was a completely different marriage and family than the ones we were planning to bring it into a year before. And we decided together we wanted to try.
I wonder sometimes, if that's when you cried. When you realized that we were asking for another baby, and you saw us start on that path, and you could see where it led us, years out, and you saw how much we would be hurt, how much would be asked of us...did you cry then? I would have. If I knew Jake or Eisley was beginning on a path that would bring them joy and pain, a lot of pain, I would cry. I would rejoice that they were choosing the right path, but it would still be so incredibly hard for me to watch.
Before we even got pregnant, we said if it was a girl, we would name her Gracie. We were so very thankful for the grace you had shown us that past year. We wanted to honor you with that. And when you gave us Gracie, knowing we'd never meet her or even know for sure if she was a girl, we were so happy. So thankful. And when it was time, you took her home. And that's when we experienced you as the Great Comforter. We had never known pain like that. I had known worse pain, sharper pain, different pain, but never pain quite like that.
But there you were, holding us so very tight. And we didn't feel alone. We struggled with anger, and fear, and sadness, and feeling like it was so unfair. I can't imagine how hard it would be to watch your children struggle like that. I fight not to jump in when Jake can't sound out a word right away. I hate watching him struggle. That must have been unbearable for you.
But we grew. We grew together as husband and wife, and we grew as parents, and we grew closer to you. And perhaps that was your desire all along.
Six months later, I finally felt healed enough to feel that desire again. It had been blocked away by boulders of grief over my miscarriage, but it was still there. And as you pulled away each stone, one by one, the desire came back again.
You blessed us with another baby, and you didn't have to. I have to believe there was a reason you did, why you created a special, beautiful little girl to live inside me for 20 weeks. I have to believe that you loved her as much as we did, more so, and that you knew we would be the perfect family for her. I have to believe you had a purpose in it.
Did you rejoice with us when we got further and further along, our fear shrinking with each day? Or did you know what was coming, and hold your breath? I have come to believe that you created our Lily knowing the exact number of days you would be giving her life, and to you, her number of days was no more tragic than someone you give years and years of days to. You knew what her purpose was, and you knew she needed just that number of days to accomplish it. But I also know that you know us, and you know how the humans you created and love find such a short amount of days to be tragic and heartbreaking, and you knew Josh and I would be tragically heartbroken when Lily's days were up. And I'm sure that broke your heart as well.
Thank you for giving her to us, even for just a short time. We wouldn't trade it for anything. And maybe that's why you chose us to be her parents.
I know how you saw my heart harden after Lily died. Not in every way, but in certain ways. Maybe harden isn't the right word...toughen? Strengthen? I'm not sure. But it changed. I still desired another child. Josh did too. But we were forever changed. We could not take for granted that what we wanted was what you wanted.
I can only venture to guess why we tried once more and we lost one more baby to miscarriage so early. My guess is that it was the straw that broke the camel's back for us, the one thing that would turn us towards adoption. Had we had a successful pregnancy, I don't think we ever would have started that adoption path. But that did it for us. As you know, we didn't grieve much for that pregnancy, if at all. We were so...jaded. We just had no grief left for a pregnancy we barely had the chance to accept. But Lord, please know, that I know it was another one of my children, and I look forward so much to meeting them one day!
I remember how very quickly we dived into the world of adoption. How you led us so clearly, step by step. How you continued to open door after door after door, leading us through them confidently. What were you leading us to, Lord? Who were you leading us to? As the months of this pregnancy has gone by, I have wondered. I have wondered why we were rushed down that path so quickly, so easily, only to have it halt at the very end. But then...I have wondered. I have wondered if it didn't end at all. I have wondered if you were quickly leading us to Ember Rose. If she was the goal. If she was the one and only reason you hurried us down the road...to be there just in time for her.
Why did we feel led to say yes to this mother, knowing her situation and risks to the baby? Why did you open that door and nudge us through, knowing it would end with another goodbye? Was it because you knew? You knew this baby, this child, would have been alone? Completely and utterly alone, had we said no. Lord, you know we did our best to show Ember's mother your love. We did all we could to be an example of unconditional love to that mother and her baby. I hope we did okay. I really do.
We loved that baby girl. We would have taken her home in a heartbeat, if that's what you wanted. You know that to be true. I cherish those hours and hours of snuggling her, of bathing her, of dressing her in pretty clothes and hair bows, of combing that gorgeous hair, of staring into those blank eyes. We loved her, and we would have loved her as our own daughter. But you knew.
You knew she had a short number of days as well. You knew we weren't her parents, but we were put there to be her caretakers. The ones who would make sure she was loved and doted on until she moved on in her life. And we did the best we could. And our hearts broke, again, if that's at all possible.
Sometimes I wish I knew where Ember is now. I know she was blessed with an adoptive family, somewhere out of state. That's the most I'll ever know. I don't know if she is here on earth or perfectly whole again in your arms as I write this. I wish I knew. But I don't have to know. We have total peace that we made the only decision we could make, and total peace that you took perfect care of her once we released her from our arms.
And even then, even in the midst of letting go of Ember, you had blessed us again. Even though I was not able to accept it for some time, even as I rocked Ember to sleep in that NICU, a baby grew within me. One you had put there despite our wishes, despite our "plans." And I have to believe you knew what you were doing.
Here I sit. Nine months later. That tiny baby has grown into a beautiful, healthy, wiggling, rolling child ready to burst out at any moment. I am enjoying my very last moments with him or her inside of me, directly under my heart. You have brought me so far. When I rocked Ember to sleep, I remember telling you, "I don't want to talk about it." And you knew. You knew I'd need time to accept this baby, to grow in love with it, to allow my perfect love for this baby to drive out all of the fears crowding my heart.
And I did! I have grown to love this child so much. So very much. So much so, that what I feared would happen back when I was rocking Ember to sleep, what I promised myself I would never let happen again, has happened. My heart has become so intertwined with this baby, that losing it will rip it to shreds once again. I tried. You know I did. I rejected each attachment of each string. I turned my head. I closed my eyes. But one day, I woke up, and there it was. The realization that millions of tiny strings had formed from my heart to this child. And there was nothing I could do about it.
So I enjoyed it as much as I possibly could with my wounded heart, such as it is. I hope you will reassure this child throughout its life how very, very much I love them. I hope they never doubt it. Please Lord, make sure they know their story, the full story, not just the beginning. The story of how we prayed for years that God would bless us with a child, and how you took years to prepare our hearts for this child.
We are only hours away from laying eyes on this gift. I think you know how excited I am. You also know how absolutely stone cold terrified I am. You have heard my cries, my doubts. What if this baby can't make it til tomorrow? What if something goes terribly wrong? What if the baby dies? What if I die? What if Eisley's heart is broken again? What if Jake cannot recover from another blow to his sensitive little heart? What if...what if...what if...
Thank you for listening to that. I'm sure it gets very frustrating for you. Especially since you have tried to teach me time and time again that you are in control. That nothing happens without your say so, and if you say so, I trust that to be the best thing.
Thank you. Thank you for Jake and Eisley. Thank you for Josh. Thank you for the countless family and friends who have continued to love on us and support us throughout this entire process. I ask that tomorrow will be filled with joy, but Lord, if it isn't, I ask that it will still be filled with You.
I cannot wait to lay eyes on the child you've known we would be given years ago, when we first started on this path. I cannot wait to tell them of all we've been through to get to them! I cannot wait to feel your tears of joy right along mine, after all the tears of sorrow we have cried together. Please, Lord, show us how we can honor you with this little one. With this gift you've given us. A gift you didn't have to give at all.
Well, I was secretly hoping for a little Easter bunny, but apparently this baby doesn't want to share his or her birthday. ;) That's okay though, because we got to enjoy a beautiful Easter weekend with our family. Saturday night, we had such a nice dinner at my parent's house with my brother and sister and their spouses, and Jake and Eisley got to do an egg hunt which they loved! On Sunday we went to church as a family and then enjoyed the annual Harrison Easter Bash at Josh's parents! That is always so much fun! The kids have a blast getting in their first swim of the season! We played some yard games and had a huge egg hunt and enjoyed the yummy food and weather. We very much missed Mike and Nicole as they are living in Thailand right now! It wasn't the same without them there! But we sent lots of pics and videos. :)
Here is a picture of our little family at church on Sunday. Last family pic before baby makes five!
As we try to do on every holiday, we made a trip out to the cemetery where Lily is buried. My mom had put together a beautiful flower arrangement with sweet little Easter eggs in it, so we wanted to put that over her stone and spend some time there praying and thanking the Lord that because of what Easter means to us, we will hold Lily again one day.
We sang a song in church that morning that really spoke to my heart as a mommy who's lost little ones.The song is called "Because He Lives," and if you've ever been to church on an Easter Sunday morning, chances are you've heard it. :) It is an old song, I remember singing it in my very "old school" Baptist church my grandfather founded. (Like, we sang it straight out of a hymn book and everything...) ;) It's been redone by a few different bands, but the words remain the same. If you haven't heard it, I will put the lyrics below.
God sent His Son,
They called Him Jesus
He came to love, heal and forgive
He lived and died to buy my pardon
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives
Because He lives I can face tomorrow
Because He lives, all fear is gone
Because I know He holds the future
And life is worth the living
Just because He lives
How sweet to hold a newborn baby
And feel the pride and joy he gives
But greater still the calm assurance
This child can face uncertain days because He lives
And then one day
I'll cross that river
I'll fight life's final war with pain
And then as death gives way to victory
I'll see the lights of glory, and I'll know He lives
To me, as someone who has not only royally messed up in her life countless times, but also has had some trouble facing tomorrow after I've had todays that are nearly unbearable, this song is such a beautiful reminder to me. God sent His Son, who lived and died to buy my pardon, for all of those countless royal mess ups in my life. And because of that, because I know Who holds the future, because I know my Savior lives, I can face my tomorrows, even after the most horrendous todays. Because He lives...I am capable of so much more than I would be if I did not have that promise, that hope, that someday, death gives way to victory, and we win. I will win. I will win an eternity with the babies that I lost a lifetime with here. Because of how very much my Savior loves me, I know that life is worth the living, even amongst the pain.
This is the song I was singing in my head when we spent some time at Lily's grave yesterday. To clear something up quickly, we don't visit her grave because we believe she is there and she might "feel lonely" if we don't go. We know she's not there. But the marker that honors her life and her memory is there, and that's what we go visit. We know that we buried her tiny body under that marker, in a beautiful wooden casket that my dad made for her. We know that's where her body is, but we know she isn't there. We don't visit that grave for her, we visit it for us. We go so that we have special, set aside moments where we can sit together as a family and reflect on her life and death. To remember what God has done through her very short existence. We think about what life might be like if she hadn't died, and there were no graves to go visit on Easter.
We pray with the kids and talk to God about our babies in Heaven. We ask Him to kiss them for us. We thank Him that Lily isn't in any pain, and that she never knew anything but love, never hurt or sorrow. We talk to the kids about why it is important to remember Lily, and not just move on as if she was never born. How God gave her to us purposely, not accidentally, and how God took her back purposely. That God had a purpose in it, and we need to honor that. We need to make sure we pay attention to opportunities where Lily might come up in conversation and be used to comfort another in pain. How God might have other plans for her short life that we have yet to discover.
Josh and I take some time and sit near her grave and just think. Think and pray. I don't know what Josh does during his time. Usually I just think about that day, the day she was born, how it was beautiful and horrifying all at once. How it changed me forever. This time I thought about how far we have come, that I am about to give birth and put my heart on the line once again for a child we desire so much. I thought about how good God has been to bless us with another baby after all we've been through. And I thought about how we'd fit another tiny grave next to Lily's, if something goes terribly wrong this week. I asked the Lord to give Lily extra snuggles today, if He could pry her from my grandmother's grip. ;) And I blew her a kiss I knew she wouldn't see, but it made me feel better.
Josh usually just sits for a minute. I don't know what He thinks about. I'm not sure what goes through his daddy heart during that time. I just watch him, and hurt for him. I hurt that he carries his grief all by himself most of the time. He'll share it with me sometimes, but that's the extent of it. He doesn't have the support system I've accumulated after our losses. I'm free to talk or text through my pain to my close friends, or even blog through it! He doesn't have that support with his friends as much as I wish he did! But thankfully he has a shoulder to lean on in the Lord, and I'm so thankful for that.
Anyways, I just wanted to share a little about our Easter. Even though we have an incredible blessing coming up this week, we never forget what we lost to get here. We think about our losses even more the closer we get to being blessed with this baby. We appreciate it more, and we fear it more. We're so very excited, but also so very nervous. The last time I was wheeled into that same hospital to deliver my baby, I was wheeled out without her. You don't shake those feelings, ever.
But we are so hopeful that this experience will be nothing but dripping with joy! We're praying for that! And it won't be long now!
Here is the very last weekly preggo picture at 39 weeks! I might have Josh take one more just before they wheel me back, but for now, this is the end of it!
Me and the kiddo in our last week together!
So that is what almost ten months pregnant looks like! Attractive isn't it? ;) That's okay, we've had a grand ol' time together. :) I will miss so many things about pregnancy, but there are a few small things I won't miss! The baby has gotten so strong that its kicks and rolls now feel like inner assaults. They make me cry out randomly and give Josh the creeps when he feels them. I am able to play this game with the baby now where it kicks me with its giant foot, I can grab it and move it over, and then the baby moves its foot back where it was. I grab it and move it to a different spot, and it kicks back and moves it back to where it was. That's a true story, I would video it for you but Josh would probably say that's creepy. ;)
Tomorrow will be a big day! I have a lot of cleaning and packing to do! Then Josh and I are taking the kids out for a late "Last Supper" if you will, as a family of four. We are going to stay up late and talk and play games and have some fun. Then we all plan to sleep in on Wednesday and wake up feeling refreshed and ready to face a HUGE day!!!
If you think of us, we'd appreciate your prayers for the safe arrival of this baby! For calm nerves, not only for me and Josh, but for the kids as well as our parents and siblings. We are praying for a wonderful hospital experience and great support while we are there. And that God will once again use the birth of this baby as a way to bring Josh and me so much closer together. There is something about going through that with your spouse that makes you fall in love with them all over again. Probably because you are both falling in love with the brand new person you just created!
Thank you so much for following us this far. We can't wait to finally have some joyous news to share!!! Stay tuned!!!
Last week Josh and I had a bit of a scare that caused me to have to take a trip down to OB triage to get checked out. It is quite normal, in my experience, with my pregnancies, to have a lot of harmless contractions. That is how it was the entire last half of my pregnancy with the twins, so I wasn't that surprised when around 20 weeks, sure enough, I started having regular contractions with this little one as well. It isn't anything alarming, just sporadic contractions that aren't comfortable but come and go with no real rhyme or reason.
This day however, I had finished a long, six hour infusion of IVIG, which typically causes dehydration that isn't a big deal, unless of course, you are pregnant and prone to early contractions already. Sure enough, when it was over, I was not feeling well at all. I started having those contractions, except this time they weren't just uncomfortable, they were very very uncomfortable, and they were not sporadic, they were regular and evenly spaced at two minutes apart.
I did what you are supposed to do. I laid down on my left side (someday I'm going to research why you are supposed to do that), downed about 70 ounces of water in five minutes, and tried to relax. Two hours later, however, the contractions were no better, I felt no better, and I was starting to get concerned.
Thus our trip to OB triage. On the instructions of my on call OB nurse as well as my concerned sister/physician, we hauled our tired selves down to the hospital to get checked out. I have made these trips before when I was pregnant with Jake and Eisley. It usually ended in the "Walk of Shame" as I had fondly nicknamed it, leaving the hospital after being checked out and told you are not in labor and there is nothing wrong with you, other than you are an overly concerned first time mother. Except this time I was not a first time mother, and I could only hope that in a few hours I would be walking back to my car, relieved and still feeling the movements of my baby.
I've made a lot of friends since we lost Lily at 19 weeks. I belong to a "club" of sorts of mothers who have had late losses. We somehow find each other and know each other's stories. I lost Lily to a cord accident, but most of the mothers I know who lost babies around 20 weeks did so because they went into pre-term labor that was unable to be stopped. I imagined myself at that moment, 22 weeks pregnant, a mere two weeks away from having a baby that could possibly be saved by medical technology today, but knowing that two weeks makes all the difference. If I was to go into labor, my baby would live a mere seconds, and no one would be able to help it. The thought of that urged me to put my pride aside and go in to be checked, just in case, because the nagging possibility that things were not okay meant I wouldn't sleep that night until someone told me otherwise.
What do you know? As soon as I got situated on that hospital bed, my contractions had slowed significantly. I was of course relieved, but also wondered if the staff would think I was one of "those" patients who come running into the hospital for every little thing. But then I remembered that I have lost three pregnancies, and if anyone deserved to be overly cautious, I certainly did.
I won't go into all the details of our experience at the hospital that night, but I will tell you the part that struck a very sensitive cord in a mother who held a baby in her hand that was a mere 19 weeks into development.
Since my contractions had nearly stopped, we were told by my nurse that we were free to go. After asking her if they could just check me to make sure I hadn't dilated, we were told, "Honestly, it wouldn't matter if you were dilated. The baby isn't viable until 24 weeks, so even if you were in labor, there is nothing we can do."
Two weeks. I was a mere two weeks from being able to help my baby. I pushed further and asked if it wouldn't be possible to stop my labor, if I were in fact in labor, so that I may get to 24 weeks and have the possibility of delivering my baby alive and able to receive medical intervention. I was told, "Medications to stop labor are ineffective until 24 weeks. The baby isn't viable until then."
Now, I know this is not all necessarily true, and very much depends on each individual case. We were also told that if I were in fact in labor, I probably had an infection and "it would be in the best interest of the mother to deliver the baby", even though that meant my baby would die. If I were to have an infection, then yes, as sad as it is, this is true. But I wasn't checked for an infection. I wasn't checked at all. For all they knew, I had started to dilate and was being sent home to deliver that little baby on my bathroom floor.
I was told to disregard my discharge instructions that stated I needed to go back to the hospital if I had more than six contractions in an hour, because "your baby isn't viable until 24 weeks, so it won't matter if you're in labor. There is nothing we could do about it. There's nothing we could do for you or the baby at this stage."
We were told a number of things that night that didn't quite add up and I very much did not agree with, but that isn't the point of my telling you this story. Have you ever heard that saying, "You may not remember what they said, but you will always remember how they made you feel."? For some reason, in my conversations with the nurse about my history of losses and her lack of a sympathetic reaction to them, in the way she acted as if it was no big deal that I was a full three weeks further along than I was when I delivered Lily and to me this was such a big deal, in the way I was essentially told, "Your baby doesn't have a chance at life for two more weeks. Come back when it does," the way I was left feeling was that my baby did not yet matter, at least it wouldn't for 14 more days.
Well who decided that?
I wondered to myself what this particular nurse would have thought of my giving birth to a 19 weeker at that very hospital a little over a year ago. I wondered if she would have thought it was silly of me to grieve deeply for that baby, to name her, to hold her and take pictures of her, when she was a full five weeks from viability. I wondered if she knew I would go to the ends of the earth to save the baby I am now pregnant with, and would do absolutely anything to stop my labor and get the two more precious weeks it so desperately needed to survive. I wondered if she knew I would probably be up all night wondering if I had started dilating, wondering if I would be forced to do it all over again, to deliver a tiny baby with no chance of survival, but this time with the torturous knowledge that I was so incredibly close.
Now, all of that being said, the baby and I are just fine. I went to the doctor the next day and got properly checked out and given a clean bill of health. But the incident at the hospital has had me thinking constantly. One might not even call it an "incident" really, we were never treated rudely or disrespectfully, we were just extra sensitive, and rightly so. We have held in our hands a baby much smaller than the one I'm currently growing. I have labored with a "non-viable fetus," and as someone who has delivered full term, seven pound twins, I can tell you it was just as painful, just as exhausting, and ten thousand times as emotional. Lily may have been weeks away from viability, but she had been loved and cared about for 19 weeks and 3 days by her family. The very hospital who was now telling me there is nothing they could do for me or my baby for two more weeks was the same hospital that helped me give birth to Lily, that made me and Eisley matching charm bracelets with Lily's name on them, that cried with us as we held her and grieved her loss, that helped wrap Lily in a tiny blanket and showed us how to hold her so we wouldn't damage her incredibly fragile little body. I was being told by this nurse that there was nothing they could do for me if I went into labor before 24 weeks, but after my experience with Lily, after all the hospital did to make her birth a cherished experience even though she was not viable, not even alive, when she was born, I knew that wasn't true.
I remember when I was in labor with Lily how I had three different nurses because of shift changes and the fact that the labor dragged out for nearly two days. I remember my last nurse, the one who got to deliver Lily, holding my hand and telling me, "We've all been through this you know. Each of the nurses you've had has been right where you are, doing what you are doing right now."
I remember how very much that meant to me, how it gave me this peace that they knew the pain I was in, that they knew how much I loved this baby, even though she wasn't considered "viable" and was probably the smallest baby they had ever delivered. I remember how it gave me validation that my baby mattered, that this labor and delivery mattered, that it was meaningful and I had every right to be a complete and utter broken mess over the whole thing.
It is amazing how different people's reactions can cause such a stir in me. When people ask me how many kids I have, sometimes I say, "I have three. Twins who are seven and a baby girl who passed away." Sometimes people push for more details and ask how she died, how far along I was. Many times I leave that part out, because I can see the thoughts behind their eyeballs when I say "20 weeks". A few times I have even had people say to me something to the effect of, "Oh, thank goodness you didn't get further. I have a friend who lost a baby at 40 weeks, imagine how painful that would be." Well...I imagine it would be incredibly painful. But those thoughts, those attitudes, much like the one I was getting from my nurse last week, they take away my "right" to let my baby matter. Am I not allowed to truly love, and consequently truly grieve the loss of my baby until I am 24 weeks pregnant? Does this baby not matter until then? Twenty years ago 24 weeks would have been considered "non-viable". In twenty more years will the world finally allow mothers to fully grieve their tiny babies because medical technology will have progressed to be able to save 19 weekers? I wonder.
And what about the mothers who deeply grieve the loss of their very early pregnancies? I have lost two in those early stages, and know countless friends who have as well. I know it is a struggle for many of them to claim their right to grieve those losses in a world where we allow and even encourage those early pregnancies to be terminated if that is what the woman chooses. It is not politically correct to grieve a "baby" when as a society, we do not consider it to be one yet. The world collectively side eyes any woman who refers to her early pregnancy loss as a "child" when in their minds, this woman is essentially grieving heavily for a mass of undeveloped tissue. Most of them figuratively pat the woman on the head like a small child crying over a broken toy and humor her so called grief for a short while, but really, how long must we allow this woman to go on this way over something we refuse to admit was a life, with a soul, that has been lost?
I often think about what it is that changes reactions in people when they hear my so called "daughter" was only 19 weeks along, as opposed to a full-term baby that passed away. I am not proud of it, but I have once or twice fudged how far along I was when I lost Lily if I sense that the person asking will not understand my grief unless I was past the point of viability. I wonder if by giving the right to women to choose whether or not to end their pregnancy before 24 weeks, we have consequently stolen the right of mothers who lose their babies before 24 weeks to fully grieve their death?
I don't mean to start a debate about abortion or even imply that mothers who make the heartbreaking choice to terminate their pregnancies do not also grieve heavily, but I do think that it is impossible for most people to both believe it is acceptable to end the life of a baby before it can survive outside the womb, and also treat babies who can not yet survive outside the womb as, well, babies. Because...how can they? How can you say "I am so incredibly sorry for the loss of your precious daughter Lily" while at the same time believing that life is not really life worth protecting until that life is much older?
So...my question remains. When do they matter? When is a woman allowed to fully love and therefore fully grieve her child? Is it the moment she is aware that baby exists? Is it after she sees a beating heart on the ultrasound? Is it not until she and the baby have conquered the first trimester? Is it not until the baby has a chance at surviving outside the womb? At what point in a pregnancy does a mother earn her right to grieve the child within her if it has been lost? And who decides that, exactly?
When I had my first miscarriage, I was fairly early on, still in my first trimester. But far enough along that I had recklessly allowed myself to attach to that baby, or the idea of it anyway. When I was told I had miscarried, I was blindsided and broken. As a Christian, I believe that life begins at conception, so it is mutually exclusive that I then had to grieve the loss of a child, even though I had never seen a heart beat, had never felt the baby move, had no real evidence that it even existed except some blood tests and an ultrasound showing an empty sac where my baby should be. Yet, I grieved. And to the dismay of the world, I still do.
When I was pregnant with Lily, I had so much more "proof" of her existence. I had a dozen ultrasounds documenting her growth from a tiny spec to a fully formed baby with wiggling arms and legs. We knew she was a girl, which somehow made her even more real to us. We got past that dreaded first trimester. We were told everything looked perfect...until it wasn't.
When I lost Lily, I grieved heavily over the daughter I knew existed. It was not just my Christian convictions that led me to grieve her loss, it was holding her perfectly formed body in my hands. It was kissing her tiny, perfect lips. It was marveling over each and every detail of her tiny toes, miniature hands, and fingernails as big as mustard seeds. Yet...Lily had no chance of surviving outside of me. Because I was four days short of 20 weeks, it wasn't even a legal requirement that we bury her. It certainly was out of the ordinary for us to hold funeral services for her. I know for a fact there were some that raised their eyebrows at how "far" we took her loss. But I have never cared about that, because I know that if they held her like I did, if they saw how she was a mirror image of Jake when he was born, only a tenth of his size, they would understand. They would understand that she mattered, even at that stage, even before the world recognized her right to life.
I had another miscarriage a few months after Lily was born. I was so early on, even I hadn't allowed myself to accept that I was pregnant. This did, in fact, make the loss much easier to bear. We didn't name this baby like we did the others. We count it when Jake and Eisley are counting how many seats we would need in our car if all of our babies had lived, as they sometimes do, but it was a blip on our radar after the earthquakes of grief we had experienced. I was not broken over it. I was sad, of course. But I was incredibly jaded and hard-hearted by that time, and that baby, while I know it was there and it was lost, did not get the benefit of my broken heart, because it was practically stone by then. When I hear of friends who have lost babies as early as I did that last time, I do not compare my lack of grieving over that short pregnancy to what they must be feeling. I know now that pain is relative. That if my third miscarriage had been my first, it would have rocked my world and brought me to my knees, because I had nothing to compare it to. It would be a loss greater than any I had experienced. It would matter.
This is the point I am trying to drive home, in my long winded way: These losses matter. They matter to mothers. They should matter to the world, but you know what? We aren't asking that. As the mothers who have lost these babies, we will settle for the world allowing them to matter to us. Give us back our right to grieve them, whether they be four weeks along or forty weeks. The loss of young life is always tragic, especially to the parents. Please remember this as you come across women who have experienced pregnancy loss. Treat them with the reverence that women who have walked through fire deserve. Don't put your ideas of when babies should matter on their already overloaded shoulders. Pay attention to your attitudes about their loss. Be mindful of how you speak about it. Follow their lead. If they refer to their early loss as a baby, as a child, you should too. On the same token, if they can't bear to do so, if treating their loss as the loss of a child is too painful for them to handle, don't push it. We live in a world where women are conditioned to emotionally detach themselves from their babies until they are past the first trimester, past the healthy anatomy scan, past the point of viability, and if we lose them before those accepted milestones, we are not only left empty and grieving, we are left feeling invalidated, guilty for allowing ourselves to attach so early, overly sensitive, indulgent, and emotional.
I am 22 weeks, 4 days pregnant and counting. Like, literally, counting down the days until "viability". When I can wake up and know that if I went into labor, they could possibly save my baby. There would be a good chance at me holding him or her alive. But knowing that if I gave birth today my baby would die does not lessen the love I have for this little one. Her kicks are no less real because she wouldn't be able to do so outside of me. This baby matters...so much...and has mattered since the moment I knew about her (or him!). Even as someone who had a very, very hard time emotionally attaching to this pregnancy and this baby, and rightly so, I have never been able to fool myself into thinking that its loss wouldn't matter. As mothers, we do not have a magic switch of emotion and love for our babies that we can turn on once the doctors tell us it is safe to do so. It is there from the beginning. We all handle it differently, we all handle loss differently, but I think the one thing we can all agree upon is that these babies we are carrying, they matter. Even if the world can't agree on when they should matter.
And as a Christian, one thing I can take comfort in, even when it seems my babies do not matter to those around me, is that they mattered to the Lord. They mattered from the very moment of their creation. And I am confident they matter to Him just as much as my sweet Eisley and my precious Jake matter to Him...and that, I know, is a whole heck of a lot.
Psalm 139: 13-16a For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was made in the secret place, When I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body...
"...Knowing there will never be a day when we will ever get over this, no matter how fast society turns on this axis, we will never move on, we will never forget, we will always hold onto you..."
What a month! We've been swamped nearly every day with wedding or birthday related activities, and I have to say I am kind of completely exhausted.
I will say, this month has been a welcome distraction from the pregnancy. I haven't had as much time as I usually do to obsess over my next doctor's appointment and compare each and every symptom to my pregnancy with Lily. But, now that things are settling down, I know what's coming. I'm in my 18th week of this pregnancy. Why is that significant? We found out around 19 weeks at our anatomy scan that Lily had died, but she had died at least a week earlier. That means the baby growing inside me right now is exactly the size that Lily was when I held her in my hands for those two hours on Father's Day of last year. This baby, right now, has the exact same sized feet and hands and little lips that Lily had when she came into and swiftly left this world. If I could peer into my tummy and look at this little one, I would see little difference between him or her and the images I have of Lily in my head.
Knowing that brings a whole host of other worries. If Lily died at this point in my pregnancy, maybe this baby will die here too. Maybe they were wrong, and it wasn't a freak cord accident, but some genetic defect that showed itself at 18 weeks and this baby has the same issue. Maybe at this point in the pregnancy my body turned on Lily and is getting ready to turn on this baby too.
Not only do these worries fill my head and my heart, I can't stop myself from comparing this pregnancy to Lily's in every way. Am I showing as much as I did with Lily? I never felt her move, not once, and I still haven't felt completely sure that I've felt this baby move either. Why is that? The other moms I've talked to have definitely felt movement by this time. What's wrong with me? What's wrong with this baby? I try to remind myself that I didn't feel the twins until I was around 22 weeks, and good grief there was two of them in there, but still, I can't help but worry about it.
I remember in my last two weeks or so of my pregnancy with Lily I noticed one morning that I hardly looked pregnant at all. I had been steadily growing a nice little baby bump with her, and I remember very suddenly one day that it looked less prominent, as if from then on, I just stopped growing. Well, Lily had died and had in fact stopped growing, but last night I looked in the mirror and thought to myself that I didn't look as pregnant as I did the day before. I immediately had a minor mental freak out and ran to get my Doppler and find the baby's heartbeat, even though I had checked it and it was fine only hours before. Sure enough, the baby was still alive. But every time I find the heartbeat, every time I think, "The baby is still alive," it is immediately followed by "for now".
This is what pregnancy after a loss, or in my case, multiple losses, is like (for me anyway). It is plastering a smile on your face when people ask you how things are going and saying, "So far so good". While in your head you are thinking, "I think. I mean I haven't checked the heartbeat since last night so for all I know the baby is actually dead right now but you probably don't want to know that."
It is thanking God every time you puke your guts out, even when you are far past the point that you should be puking your guts out, because at least that means things are still progressing. It is also having the realization that you puked every single morning up until the day you gave birth to Lily, so maybe it isn't as reassuring as you thought.
It is sobbing in the doctor's office when she used the Doppler for less than five seconds and couldn't get a read on the heartbeat so she decides to pull in the ultrasound machine "just to give you peace of mind". The sobbing comes from a gripping fear that maybe the baby died in the two hours between you checking the heartbeat at home and her checking it right now. It also comes from realizing that you will never, ever be able to enjoy these moments in pregnancy like other women and you are certifiably nuts for sobbing because the doctor tried for five seconds to find the baby when you know the baby is much higher up than where she checked.
It is holding your breath each and every time you go to the bathroom, hoping you don't see blood or something equally terrifying. It is never getting to a point where you don't expect to see it, even when you are past the point where it would be a sure sign of miscarriage.
It is trying your very best, but failing miserably, to not bond with the baby growing inside you. It is refusing to know the sex of the baby, refusing to think about names, not daring even for a moment to include the baby in your plans past your due date. It is forcing yourself to buy maternity clothing even though every fiber in your being is screaming at you that it is a huge waste of money if you won't need them anymore in a week or two.
It is not trusting your own body to care for the baby inside you, and feeling completely betrayed by it for not being able to carry your other babies to term. It is having no idea why you were able to have healthy babies at one point, but not anymore, and wondering why you seem to be incapable of doing what every woman is supposed to be able to do, keep her babies alive.
It is lying on your back and prodding at your belly praying that you will feel something to reassure you that the baby is alive and well in there. It is feeling something that could possibly be the baby, and immediately talking yourself out of it because your heart won't even let you go there.
It is giving up on the hundreds of "pregnancy no-no's" that the world has come up with in the seven years since you've had a healthy pregnancy because you didn't even know you weren't supposed to have lunch meats or soft cheeses or caffeine or soft serve ice cream for goodness' sake when you had your healthy babies years ago, but followed every rule in the book with your other pregnancies and guess what? The babies died anyway. It is eating a turkey sandwich with a bleu cheese side salad and washing it down with a coke and an ice cream cone and knowing that you have little to no control over whether this baby will die or not, and you wish you could go back to a time where you thought not doing those things would make a difference.
It is watching your daughter kiss your belly and talk to the baby and being torn between feeling absolutely touched that she cares that much and absolutely terrified that she does. It your children asking, "Is the baby still alive today?" instead of "How's the baby?" because they just know too much.
It is people asking you if you're having a boy or a girl, and if you have a preference, and you answering, "Yes. I prefer that the baby be alive when it's born." And them looking at you like you're joking, but you aren't, even a little bit.
It is still having the mentality of a woman who can't carry a healthy baby to term, of a "baby loss mom" but suddenly not "belonging" to that club anymore, because you are, in fact, carrying a seemingly healthy baby right now. You still feel all the same emotions and struggles as you did before, but it is as if you're no longer welcome to express them to other women experiencing loss or infertility. Because now you're one of those women. The pregnant ones who can't possibly know our pain. Who surely instantly forgot what it was like to lose pregnancy after pregnancy and bury a tiny dead baby and grieve her every day just because now she's pregnant again.
It is looking at a healthy pregnant woman and feeling jealous of her. Actually, truly, really jealous of her, and then realizing that you are pregnant too, and you are absolutely insane for feeling that way. Maybe it's because you know you'll never be a healthy pregnant woman again, ever. You're far too damaged.
It is not talking any photos of your growing belly because you're afraid to somehow jinx the pregnancy. It is mustering up the courage to take one picture of your new pregnant profile but instantly regretting it for fear that it will be the last one you ever take.
It is realizing yet another year has gone by, and you still do not have the baby you started trying for years ago. It is someone commenting that there will be "quite the large age gap" between your kids and you wanting to smack them and say, "I DIDN'T PLAN FOR IT TO BE SO BIG!!!"
It is getting to a point in your pregnancy when you realize that the baby has grown to a size that you will now be forced to deliver it if it dies. That you are past the point of being put to sleep and having things taken care of for you, now you will want to hold that baby and see what they look like and bury it in a tiny little casket. It is wondering if there is room next to that other tiny little grave for one more, and wondering if you even have the strength necessary to do that all over again.
I think there is a great misconception that once a
woman gets pregnant after experiencing miscarriages or stillbirth or an
early infant loss, that she must be overwhelmed with gratitude that she
"has another chance" at getting the baby she's longed for. This is
just not accurate. What people don't understand is this: She had the
baby she's been longing for. It died.
Pregnancy after a loss is not a replacement, it is not a second
chance to get what you tried to get the first time, or the second time,
or the third time, or in my case, the fourth time, it is simply another
chance to lose. To lose another piece of you that you'll never get
back, to lose another baby and add another charm to your necklace, to
have your heart shattered once again after gluing it back together so
many times before. It is a dark cloud that holds looming possibilities,
and only a glimmer of hope that things will go your way.
At least that's what it is for me.
Let's make no mistake. I am so thankful that God has blessed me
with this pregnancy, despite my gripping fears and damaged heart. In the rare moments when I let my mind wander to
the possibility of one day holding this baby and laughing through my
tears at their beautiful face, when I think about who they might look
like and how it would feel to finally take a baby home to Jake
and Eisley, I plead that the Lord will allow that. But those moments
are short-lived and are very quickly swallowed up by the reality of my past.
As the weeks progress, it has definitely gotten a bit easier. The first few weeks and months were, as I've mentioned before, filled with denial and fear. Those emotions have given way to cautious optimism, but the emphasis is heavily on the cautious. But as this baby continues to grow, as I continue to grow, I am being forced to accept the fact that this baby is here. There is a little person with me every day, that I am going to hold and kiss and love completely, whether they are born crying or still. I might as well accept that fact.
Every once in awhile, when we're lying in bed right before falling asleep, I will ask Josh, "Do you think this baby is going to make it?" He will answer me, "I hope so." The other day he put his hand on my tummy for the very first time, and I almost started crying because I realized that he's going through the same things I am. He's trying to protect his heart too, and wrestling with the emotions of knowing there's a baby growing in there and not wanting to get his hopes up too much. But in that moment, he pushed his fears aside and let himself accept it.
We're having another baby, it's happening. We don't know if this baby will be born alive or not, but it will be born. We will hold it, we will love it, we will welcome it into our family and into our hearts. Knowing that fact honestly makes it easier for me to bond with this little one, knowing I will hold him or her, no matter what, and see what they look like and who they look like. That might sound completely morbid or backward or whatever, but it is what it is. We're dealing with all of this in the best way we know how, and we are working hard to give our fears to the Lord and allow Him to work on our hearts.
People tell me all the time that the Lord will not give me more than I can handle. A friend of mine reminded me the other day that she didn't think that was true actually, that the Lord absolutely gives us more than we can handle at times, so that we are forced to lean into Him and allow Him to help us with our load. I have to completely agree. This pregnancy is more than I can handle. It is more than my heart can accept and more than I can deal with emotionally. And sure enough, I have no other choice but to give it to God and let Him work on my heart and help me carry the load. The alternative is cracking under the pressure of it all and completely abandoning my faith and what I know in my heart to be true, that the Lord loves me and wants the best for me and my family, that He has a greater plan than what I can see right now, that He wants so desperately for me to be a part of His will and all I need to do is follow Him. I have absolutely no desire to walk this road alone. That, to me, is far more terrifying than facing what's in front of me.
So we face it, but not alone. Never, for one moment, alone.
Isaiah 42:16 I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them: I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them.
