Grief in Two Parts

I love this season.

My Ella, a kindred spirit of mine in all things, including her mutual love of this season, told me recently that one of her friends said, "Why do people even like Fall?  Everything is dying.  It's just dead leaves everywhere.  It signifies death."

Later, when I was alone and I recalled that conversation, I realized that this season has signified death for our family.

~

It was late summer when I found out, to my great joy, that I was expecting another baby.  I whispered the news to Mark and we were cautiously optimistic (cautious, because our last two pregnancies have ended in miscarriage.  Optimistic, because what were the chances of that happening AGAIN?  We have been content in this place, surrendered to the idea that I would likely not get pregnant again.  So unexpected news felt like a great gift.)  We decided to keep the news to ourselves for awhile (and not even tell the kids) because we wanted so much to protect their hearts.  Some of the most heart-wrenching moments in my life are those that followed the telling to our children of our first loss: that the little baby brother or sister they were so eagerly anticipating had died within me.

And so we waited, and God gave us the strength to hope and He quieted my fears and I was really sick and we were counting down the days to the first ultrasound after which we would then get to reveal this amazing news to our kids.

The day for the ultrasound arrived, the appointment time came and I eagerly put on the gown and settled in to hear and see our baby.  Except as the technician moved her wand over my tummy, the room was silent; the screen was still.  My mind rushed to explain this: Maybe she just doesn't have the right angle yet.  Maybe she still needs to zoom in.

I looked at Mark in the dim room with questions in my eyes-- he'll know if we should be worried right now-- and he was focused, searching himself.

Still I hoped.  Until the truth was spoken aloud, I hoped.  And then I was crushed.  I can't even think of that day without the tears falling.  I was so stunned.  I had so hoped.  Why, when we were so content, would God offer this sweet gift to us, allow us the joy of hoping and dreaming about this little life to join our family, and then retrieve that gift?  For the third time?

We walked quietly out of the room, down the hall, through the office where minutes before I had  filled out paperwork and cheerfully anticipated good news, opened the main door and stepped outside. We hesitated then, just outside the door.  I sucked in air and said something to the effect of, "I can't believe we are here in this place again."  And then we walked the rest of the way to our vehicle.  It was only within the quiet of that space that I felt the freedom to cry.

Mark drove to his work to wrap things up for the day and come home with me early, and I had about half-hour in the car by myself.  I remembered then Ellie Holcomb talking about the story behind her song Find You Here.  She said that when her dad found out he had cancer, her parents invited all their friends and family over for a night of worship.  Right there in the thick of the dark news.  And that it was a beautiful night of proclaiming Jesus in the midst of the hurt.

It's not the news that any of us hoped that we would hear
It's not the road we would have chosen, no
The only thing that we can see is darkness up ahead
But You're asking us to lay our worry down and sing a song instead

You say that I should come to You with everything I need
You're asking me to thank You even when the pain is deep
You promise that You'll come and meet us on the road ahead
And no matter what the fear says, You give me a reason to be glad

Find You Here, Ellie Holcomb (first two verses)

So as I sat in our vehicle and waited for Mark to join me, I sang.  I sang and sobbed right there when my pain was raw.  I certainly didn't feel like singing, but I forced myself to.  That song, and Praise the Lord (the Imperials).

And then we drove home to tell our kids the news I never wanted to have to tell them again.

On loss and Mother's Day

I remember it so vividly, that morning in the shower.  The baby that had been growing within me slipped out of the body that had held it.  I knelt down, face to the floor of the bathtub, weeping.  Hot water rained on my back as I held our baby in the palm of my hand.  My whole being ached because that little life was no more.

My body, my womb, created to carry life, had miscarried this tiny one.

Such loss.

And wonder.  Because nestled there in my hand was the tiniest little figure so perfectly formed.   And I marveled at the sight even through my tears.  

* * *

A few days ago I thought of the babies we lost and right on the heels of that was the thought that we are well.   God has brought such healing.   I am content.   

Do I wish for another baby?  Oh my, yes.  But I trust my God.  And I know He knows my heart; He knows my desires, and He knows what is best.  So I yield to Him on this matter.  The once-fervent prayers of my children have ceased, as well as my own, for the most part.  I am thankful for what He has given, and my heart is full.  

* * *

Mother's Day is fast approaching, and do you know that I hadn't even thought of the ache this day might bring me?  For many years this was a difficult day for me.  But this week I've been thinking of my mom, of Mark's mom, of what we'll do to celebrate them come Sunday.  I've thought of my mom- and how difficult this day is for her, because of how deeply she misses her mom.  I've thought of a friend of mine who grieves this day, too, for the loss of her mom.  

Then this morning I happened to read this post on Ann's blog and I was undone.  I sat here on my bed with the laptop open before me and cried again for the loss of our babies. 

It always surprises me how the grief lies so closely below the surface.  It was as if that post gave me permission to grieve again.  (It's silly, isn't it?  The thought that I might need permission to grieve?)  But I feel that I do.  You've probably felt it too.  We move forward, strong and steady with the ache pressed down and tucked away out of sight.  And then someone will come and speak a word of kindness or acknowledge that they remember, and that's all it takes for the tears to stream.  But that's a good thing.  Truly.  And we want to be known, all of us.  We want people to remember our hurts; to acknowledge our losses.  So let's not forget that this Mother's Day-- that grief is right beneath the surface for so many.  Gather round the women you know and remember with them their losses, okay? It's a tender comfort, and that is a beautiful, needed thing. 

Blessings to each and every one of you.

Stories

My Audra (6), will often ask: "Mommy, will you tell me the story of the girl and the boy who prayed and prayed and prayed for a baby and then God gave them one?  And then God gave them more babies?  Can you tell that story, mommy?"

It's her favorite story.

A few mornings ago, she tucked herself into bed with me to snuggle and chat.  Her head was nestled on my shoulder and we'd been talking for awhile when she asked for the story.  I was reluctant at first, wanting instead to get into the shower, but I agreed.  And I began as one should always begin stories, with once upon a time....

Once upon a time, there was a girl and a boy who loved each other so much that they got married.  After they'd been married awhile, they wished for a baby, but no baby came.  Many months and even years passed, and still there was no baby.  So they prayed and prayed and prayed and waited and waited and waited and they kept praying and they kept waiting, and then finally, one beautiful day, God answered.  And when the girl discovered she was pregnant, she immediately ran out to her car to go find her husband at work.  (She didn't even grab her coat, though it was a very rainy day.)  She saw the boy she loved and she ran up to him, and with the rain pouring down on both of them, she told him he was going to be a daddy.... 

And so the story goes, from my first pregnancy, to the next, to our first adoption, to the next adoption, all the way to six years ago when God gave us the gift of her, my dear Audra.  As we get closer and closer to her little self entering the story, her eyes are eager with anticipation and her smile gets wider.  Sometimes I add in more details, sometimes more description, but the outline of the story remains the same.  The older kids love this story, too, and they will often tag on details they know and each of them love it when it's their time to enter the story.

As I'd been talking, all cozy under the covers with my Audra, Ella had joined us, and there I was, sandwiched in between my oldest and my youngest.  The girls giggled when I first slipped and said "daddy" (as I always do) and then we came to Audra's entrance into the world, and I talked a little about her birth and our delight and then said, "And that's the end of the story."

Immediately I realized that it wasn't, actually, the end of the story, and so, haltingly, and through tears, I went on.  "Actually, that's not the end of the story, is it?  After we had Audra, we continued to pray and long for another baby, and-- years later-- we found out that God had made another little baby, growing inside of me. And then our baby died.  And six months later, He again began to grow a baby within me, and that baby died, too. 

...That's kind of a sad ending to the story, isn't it?"  Ella squeezed me and agreed it was.  And Audra said something about being sad that the babies died.  And in an effort to give the girls a happy ending, I said I was so thankful for them, and that I loved being their mommy and that I am so richly blessed that God has given them to me.  When they had started chatting about other things,  I slipped away to the shower, and there I wept.

* * *

My heart is hurting.  Around me everywhere is the hustle and bustle of this holiday season, celebrations, parties and smiles; songs and lights and the joy and the anticipation.  

And I'm a pretty good pretender.  I am smiling, I am showing up for the celebrations, but right beneath the surface is the grief; the lump at the back of my throat and the sorrow that sits in such sharp contrast to the joy of this season.  

Yesterday I spoke with a dear friend on the phone, and when she asked me how she could pray for me, I thought of the two choices before me: I could give her a "surface request", and tell her to pray for our health and rest in the midst of what will be a very busy week, or I could go deeper, and tell the truth.  So I went there, and with my telling came my tears, and I sat on the edge of my bed, cradling the phone and weeping for the second day in a row.  

It was two years ago, in early December, when Mark and I told our kids that a new baby brother or sister was growing in mommy's tummy.  We were near-to-bursting with the news we had kept to ourselves for several weeks, treasuring it and speaking of it in hushed tones when it was just the two of us, marveling at this answer to prayer.  There aren't words to describe how happy our kids were.  We talked and planned and dreamed and celebrated together for a few precious weeks. 

Then on Christmas Day, 2013, I was so sick I could barely sit up.  We were at my mom's house-- there for our traditional Christmas breakfast which would be followed by the Christmas story, then songs, prayer, stockings and gifts.  I tried to sit at the table to eat, but excused myself to the guest room to lie down.  I had a high fever and chills all day.  All I could do was sleep.  I was so sick I didn't even care that I was missing out on all the fun.  When my fever broke, and I was more coherent, I began fearing for the life of my baby; I worried about what this fever may have done.  In early January we went for our ultrasound and there was no heartbeat.  I don't know if it actually was the fever that instigated my miscarriage, but that is the day marked in my mind and heart as the beginning of the end of our baby's tiny life.  Had our baby lived, we would be celebrating this Christmas with a little one, toddling around all the wrapping and presents, touching the ornaments and lights on the tree, pointing and jabbering and delighting us all.

However, that is not our story.  

Before I hung up the phone yesterday, my friend encouraged me to journal and process this grief, and  yes, even this year, two years later-- and not push it down and pretend it away.  Good counsel, that.  

Yet when I sat later with my journal open and pen in hand, I didn't even know what to pray, what to ask.  So I prayed simply this: that He would sit with me in my sadness.  And He does.  And I am reminded of this truth: He is Immanuel, God with us. And therein is the happy ending to all sad stories. 

There is a greater story.  A story with angels and dreams and danger, twists and turns and surprises (a stable?  Really?)  A story that the prophets foretold, a story that opened here on earth with words, not on a page from a book like the stories we read- but from the mouth of an angel speaking to the young girl Mary.  Then we turn the page in the story and find Joseph being visited by an angel in a dream.  And we read of the instruction to name this baby Jesus.  The story shifts and there is peril- the evil King Herod who wants the baby Jesus dead.  Then the wise men who followed a star (a star!) to find the child Jesus and worshiped him, then were warned in a dream not to return to evil King Herod.  The shepherds, listening to the settling down, nighttime noises of their flock of sheep, and peering up into a dark sky only to suddenly see that same sky alight with an angel-  an angel! Can you imagine?- and one who was talking to them.  How stunned they must have been.  And then not just one angel but more of them?  This is THE story.  May we all be filled with the wonder of this story; of Light come into darkness, of Immanuel, God with us. 

My anchor holds

I want to be outside today.  The sun is shining brightly.  It's so warm that I think I could get three whole loads of laundry dry on the clothesline.  There are raspberries to pick, flower beds and the garden to water and weed, the lawn to mow.  I want to peek at my tomatoes to see if they're ripening, and look at the progress the beans have made up their poles.  I want to cut bouquets of hydrangeas and put them in every room of the house.

Instead, I'm lying down, resting and recovering from another miscarriage.   

Who knew this would be part of my story?  Two miscarriages in seven months.

I am reminded of a conversation Mark and I had when we went away for our anniversary.  I told him that one of the things I was thankful for was that my faith was strong throughout the miscarriage.

I don't feel so strong this time.

I feel wounded by the Lord.  After several years of longing and sorrow, we had come to a place of surrender regarding our state of not-being-able-to-get-pregnant.  We had accepted that as part of our reality and we were truly content.  Then, in the winter of last year: the precious, miraculous news that we were expecting.  Such joy and anticipation and thankfulness.  And then, the baby died.

Again, in late spring: another positive pregnancy test.  I was fearful, and cautious in my hope.  But it grew- the baby within me and the hope in my heart.  And now both have been taken away.  It seems cruel.

I know better.  God is not cruel.  I know the truth of who He is but I am struggling to hold onto it.

When the bleeding started this time, one of my first thoughts was at least I have Mark, I have our five children; I still have them.  That is an honest peek into my soul that should have simply rested in the fact that I have Jesus.  HE is my portion.  My hope is built upon HIM.  Not on anything or anyone else.

I've been listening to this song on repeat:

My hope is built on nothing less than
Jesus' blood and righteousness
I dare not trust the sweetest frame
but wholly trust in Jesus' Name

Christ alone, Cornerstone,
weak made strong, in the Saviors love
through the storm He is Lord, Lord of all

When darkness seems to hide His face
I rest on His unchanging grace
In every high and stormy gale 
my anchor holds within the veil

and this song, too:

You call me out upon the waters
The great unknown, where feet may fail
And there I find You in the mystery
In oceans deep, my faith will stand

And I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours, and You are mine

Your grace abounds in deepest waters
Your sovereign hand will be my guide
Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me
You've never failed, and You won't start now

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders
Let me walk upon the waters
Wherever You would call me
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger
In the presence of my Savior

* * *

Miscarriage (Part 3)

I've been writing lately about our loss. 

You can start at the beginning, when we first found out, by clicking here.  And to read about my heart in all of this, click here.  To read about how some of our kids are doing, click here.
And then the physical loss. 
To read Miscarriage (Part 1), click here.
To read Miscarriage (Part 2), click here.

Now, a final post:

* * *

And then I was in recovery.  It's so hazy, that time... waking up, hearing voices, people talking to me, and though I could hear them and was somehow conscious that they were talking to me, I was not fully coherent yet and certainly wasn't answering them.  It's all so strange.  I tried to pay attention to what what was going on around me but I was woozy from the anesthesia, drifting in and out, hearing snatches of conversation or hearing Michelle, my nurse- repeatedly say, "Stacy?  You're out of surgery.  I'm right here with you as you wake up.  Do you need anything?"  Until I was finally awake enough to answer her.

I faintly remember Dr. Mora, stopping in to say he was done, that things had gone well, that he hardly had to dilate my cervix at all because things were starting to happen on their own. 

I sipped some juice.  My mouth and throat felt numb and weird because of the tube they'd inserted during the procedure.  I talked to Michelle for a bit, she asked if I'd remembered Dr. Mora's conversation with me, and I repeated back what I'd heard him say.  I stayed for another half-hour or so, and then bid Michelle goodbye as Caitlin was there again to wheel my bed to another wing of the hospital.  Caitlin stopped in the waiting room doorway to beckon to Mark to come with us, and I saw my sweet husband and asked him what he'd eaten.  (Salad.  From the cafeteria.  With chicken and lots of toppings, and he drank water.  Good man.)  He'd also updated friends and family via text, and tried to call our Ella.

Then we were at our final location, with a sweet nurse also named Michelle, who offered me food (I said no), and took care of us  We spent maybe an hour in that wing... we mostly talked by ourselves, Mark and I, while Michelle did our paperwork at her desk across the way and down the hall.  She'd check in every ten minutes or so to see if I needed anything or check my vitals.  And she was our only nurse (with the exception of Sereta, who I mentioned in the last post) who acknowledged why we were there.  At one point she rested her hand on my arm and said how sorry she was for our loss, and spoke some words of comfort about how difficult it was.  I nodded and cried.

At around 6 o'clock I got up, went to the bathroom and changed back into my clothes, and then Mark went out to get the van and Michelle wheeled me to the exit.  We got into the van at 6:30.  What a long day.  We drove to the pharmacy to pick up my prescriptions (our final nurse had called them in for us) and then we drove to pick up our kids.  I cried when they all climbed into the van.  They had been worried, of course, and had held in their emotions all day long, and all of it tumbled out when we got home.  Home.  Where so many hours before I had been in so much pain.  We had a nice evening, sitting on the couch, talking.  Mark lit a fire and made it all cozy, and we just comforted the kids and talked with them about their day and our day.

* * *

As I write this, is is Friday again.  Almost a whole week has passed since I began having contractions.  I feel very fragile, and cry often throughout the day.  Not big long sobbing sessions, but tears, here and there- when it comes up.  It usually comes up with one of the kids.  Or with Mark in the evenings.  Or when people stop by with a meal or call.  Basically, every time I talk about it, I cry.  I know the sorrow will ease, and I'm surprised the grief is as raw as it is.  I thought I had already grieved; and that now that we were on the other side of the physical part of this, I would be fine, and we could move on, so to speak.  And we are, I know.  Healing, moving forward.  Just gradually.

Two nights ago Audra sat near me and asked how I was feeling- was I hurting?  I said yes, and then said, "My tummy hurts, mostly, where the baby used to be." And then I cried, realizing all over again that the baby wasn't there anymore.  (And then of course she cried, because she is the most compassionate four-year-old, ever.)

I know it sounds crazy, but there was a sort of comfort these last few weeks, knowing the baby was still inside of me.  Even though I knew the baby was no longer alive, somehow I still had a connection to our little one.  Now I just feel empty.  This morning Ella climbed into bed with me and we talked for awhile and she chatted about another baby, someday, and I quietly and achingly said, "We'll see."  And then, I couldn't help myself:  "But I wanted to know this baby."  And then I cried at the sorrow of that and also the realization that there IS no longer "this baby".   This baby is no longer with us; no longer in me.

We are overwhelmed at the kindness and tenderness of Jesus, who shows up every time someone comes to our door to deliver a meal, or brings flowers or sends us a card in the mail, an email or a comment on a post.  Or just comes to sit and listen and cry with us.  Or calls to check in.  Or prays for us.  Or just acknowledges the fact that we're hurting.  I have felt His presence so keenly through the presence of His people, and I am so very grateful. 

He has ministered to me deeply through the love of my own children, who speak openly of it all and tell me how sad they are.  He has ministered to me through the children of others, too.  An acquaintance brought us a meal last week, and some of her children had made me cards.  After she left, I looked through that little pile of cards- from children I have never even met- and I was comforted by their sweet little pictures and wobbly lettering.  And when I read words like, "I hope you feel better, Stacy" and "I'm sorry your baby died", I cried again at the comfort and tenderness of my Jesus, expressing His love for me through this little stack of letters.

I am reading and memorizing some Psalms, and His words have brought me comfort and I am still resting in them, and in Him. 

I am learning, too, through the example of others- what it looks like to care well for people in their grief.  (Now that I look back, I don't think I was very good at this... and I feel like I'm a student, taking mental notes; learning.) 

God is good.  He is gracious.  He is sovereign.  He is near to the brokenhearted. 

Our heartfelt gratitude goes out to you who have cared for us or prayed for us from afar.  He is using you to reveal His deep love for us.  (((Thank you.)))

Miscarriage (Part 2)

To read Miscarriage (Part 1) click here.

* * *

Let's see... Mark had just gotten off the phone with our midwife, and she encouraged us to get to the ER.  We made a quick phone call to Mark's sister to see if she could take the kids for the day (she could and was there within ten minutes to pick them up.)  I started getting myself dressed- and in those ten minutes after deciding to go to the hospital, my bleeding increased significantly.  Suddenly I was gushing blood.  So then I was worried.  I didn't let on to Mark how much I was bleeding at that point, but just told him we needed to go, and NOW.

On the way to the ER, I was still having contractions and wondering how I was going to manage that (and the blood and all the trips I'd need to take to the bathroom) in the ER waiting room.  I sort of envisioned myself on all fours, on the ground, breathing through my contractions as I crawled to the bathroom.  So I prayed aloud that God would please get us in quickly.  When we got there, Mark checked us in and I headed straight to the bathroom.  I passed one person seated in the waiting room.  And he didn't look hurt.  Other than that one person, it was empty.  I don't know if there's ever been fewer people in that waiting room.  It's always packed.  I was so incredibly grateful.

At that point I was thankful to be at the hospital, in capable hands.  And I knew it would make Mark less worried overall.

We saw one nurse initially who took my vitals and asked all sorts of questions, and then they wheeled us to an ER room, where we met our nurse, Kate.  She called me darling and began cleaning me up.  The ER doctor checked in- a Dr. Nicholson, and then was back in a bit later to give me a pelvic exam.  He said there was an awful lot of blood and clots, and my cervix was closed.  He instructed Kate to get me on an IV right away and then told me he'd get someone from OB up, but he thought they would want to proceed with the D&C.  That was no surprise to me.  He also said he could definitely make me more comfortable with some pain medication.  I was tearfully grateful.

We did a lot of waiting... Mark and I, there in the room, talking quietly, with occasional interruptions from Kate to change out my bedding or check my vitals.  We listened to the events happening around the ER.  (Our favorite was a man who came into a room near us.  When the doctor asked him his name, he said "Leonardo DaVinci."  Without missing a beat, the doctor said, "Why, I've never met a famous artist before!")  Kate gave me some medicine and I felt woozy and relaxed for the first time in several hours.  I didn't sleep; but just rested and the pain of the contractions dulled considerably.

OB needed to get a pregnancy test before they'd see me as a patient, apparently, [Kate had a few words to say about that ridiculousness] and then they were willing to do an ultrasound.  Nancy wheeled my bed to the ultrasound wing.  That trip was perhaps the most difficult of our time at the hospital.  I kept watching all the signs as we made our way through the hallways, and I was all choked up at how surreal it was: I had labored all night, I was bleeding and sore and having a contraction right at that moment, and we were heading toward the Childbirth Center, where I'd delivered all of my babies after similar labor.  Mercifully we turned off into a hallway just before we reached the Childbirth Center. 

The ultrasound was much like our last one, weeks before.  There was the baby, in the same place, and still.  After the ultrasound was done- which she took to "find out what is left in there", I was wheeled back to the ER.

After the ultrasound they were in communication with the OR, and Dr. Mora, the OB doctor at the hospital that day, came in to inform us that they'd be proceeding with the D&C and to tell us a little about that.  I signed a consent.  Another nurse, Brenda, came in to ask about medications and allergies.  Caitlin from OR was waiting to transfer me.  I thanked Kate for taking such good care of us and she saluted me and we were off. 

In the OR I met Michelle, the nurse who signed us in and would be there when I woke up.  We chatted about her upcoming birthday trip to AZ, how tall I was (compared to how short she was), and then she asked about my "partner" (that would be Mark, sitting right next to me).  I said he was my husband and he was a keeper.  She asked how long we'd been married and when I told her sixteen years, she said "Good job!  And you still like him, even." I said he was amazing and I loved him.  And then she talked of little else.  She kept introducing us to the other nurses, and referring to us as "sweet" and "married sixteen years" and commenting on the fact that we still liked each other.

Then we met Connie, who would be my OR nurse.  She was very soft-spoken and kind.  The first thing she did after introducing herself was to find my hand, squeeze it, and ask if I was cold.  I was.  So her first task was to get this papery sheet out and on top of me- which I was doubtful would do much in the way of warmth- until she plugged a tube into a hole at one end, turned a machine on and warm air flooded into the sheet/blanket thing, filling it up and warming me up.  Mark promptly checked the brand: Bair Hugger- and said we needed one of those at home. 

Caitlin left, Michelle left- telling me she'd see me on the other side, Connie did some paperwork and said the anesthesiologist was on his way and then she left.  It was almost 4:30.  Tony came and introduced himself as my anesthesiologist and talked me through his part of the procedure and asked me about allergies and nausea.  I always get nauseous coming out of anesthesia- (in four previous surgeries on my ear).  He told me that if you're a white, non-smoking caucasian female, you are the highest risk for nausea from anesthesia.  (Who knew?)

Another OR nurse stopped in- Sereta.  She had recognized us- she and her husband are good friends with Mark's brother- and I didn't even know she worked there, but she said "I saw you here and wanted to say I'm sorry and that we'll be praying for you guys."  That was all, but her compassion and kindness made me weep.

Connie came to wheel me to the OR, showing Mark where to wait, and I made him promise to eat something during his wait: he hadn't eaten or had a drink all day long.  Poor, sweet, hungry, tired man.  He's so strong and I am ever thankful for his steady presence.

Connie took me to the chilly OR room, and there I met her assistant, Jenny, whose job it was to get me talking while the anesthesiologist got started near my IV.  Jenny asked me for my full name and birthdate and what I was there in the OR for.  And I don't remember anything else until I woke up in recovery.

[Part 3 to come...]

Miscarriage (Part 1)

If you've been reading here the past couple of weeks you'll already know this, but if you're just arriving, here is a little history before I launch into what happened recently: we found out we'd lost the baby during an ultrasound at the beginning of January.  And then we waited, because I wanted to allow my body time to miscarry naturally.  My midwife had said she didn't want me to go longer than 4 weeks, and we were just beyond the 3-week mark and nothing at all was happening.  My midwife suggested I take an herbal tincture that can aid in uterine contractions- which would help get things started.  I took it for three days and did start bleeding on the third night.  I was feeling slightly menstrual- a bit crampy and achy, but no severe cramping or noticeable sign of things progressing.
On Friday night I spoke with my midwife, who indicated that she thought my body was being "stubborn."  Indeed.  She was a bit concerned at the blood I was losing, and said that if nothing happened over the weekend, we'd proceed to other options.

I really wanted to miscarry at home.  Honestly, I looked at any other options with a fair bit of dread.  The D&C seemed too invasive for me, and the description of it is unsettling.

Friday night we went to bed late-- I had been really sad that evening, and Mark and I stayed up late, talking.  And I cried.  A lot. 

I woke up at 2:30 in the morning to go to the bathroom and realized I was in a good deal of pain.  Half-hour later I woke Mark up because I was having regular contractions, one on top of the other.  For a period of time I was counting them out- I would count up to 16 or 18, sometimes 20- the contraction peaking at 8 or 10, and then I'd try to take deep breaths and was only able to get 8 in before another contraction would hit.  Those type of contractions went on for hours.  I'd lie in bed for awhile, on my side- clutching my heated rice bag over my cramping uterus, get up after 20 minutes or so and go to the bathroom, change my pad, peer into the toilet to try to measure blood loss and look for clots and any sign of the baby.  Sometimes I'd run the bathwater, sit in the tub and hold a hot, wet washcloth to my stomach.

Mark stayed awake with me most of the time- breathing along with me, rubbing my back, putting pressure on my lower back during contractions, even getting up with me for my bathroom trips, reheating my rice bag.  He was mostly quiet.  There were times I thought he'd fallen asleep but when I asked him he'd say, "No.  I'm just praying for you."  He was great.  So tired and so sad for me, but he was amazing.

Towards morning- 5 or 6 o'clock, I can't remember-- the contractions really increased in intensity.  They were much more painful, but not as close together.  I cried through every single one of them, and was in the "I can't do this anymore. How much longer will this go on?" stage.  I was having a hard time relaxing and taking deep breaths in between each contraction- even though I had more time between them.  During those contractions, my bathroom trips showed heavier bleeding and clots.  Still no baby.

At around 7 o'clock-- 4 1/2 hours from the time they'd started-- God gave us a reprieve.  There was about an hour, maybe an hour and 20 minutes where we were lying in bed, facing each other, waiting for the next one to come... and it didn't.  I think I only had one contraction in that hour.  Mark slept.  I dozed.  I woke to Audra climbing into our bed, chattering, and I was confused.  Were we done?  I knew I hadn't seen the baby come out yet.  What did that mean?  More labor? And- if so-- was I going to be able to keep at this?

I got up to go to the bathroom- Mark still slept- and within 20 minutes the contractions were back, painful and frequent.  We just picked up right where we'd left off, except now the kids were waking up.  Mark tried to settle the kids with a movie and then breakfast and then herded them downstairs to play--- trying to be quick with each thing and get back to me, because I needed him.  I labored for another hour or so, and Mark was getting increasingly worried about me, and I was beginning to feel weepy and desperate.  I asked him to have the kids come up and pray for me, and he did.  When they walked into the room, I started sobbing.  I was so comforted by their presence and their sweet prayers for me.  Then I asked him to text others, and he texted our moms and some close friends and asked them all to pray and gave them a brief update.  Then I encouraged him to call Winni, our midwife, to update her on what was going on.  (I was hoping that his conversation with her would reassure him and make him feel less worried.)  They chatted for a bit- Mark asking me in between contractions for clarification on times/loss of blood.  Loss of blood was her primary concern.  Mark got off the phone and said, "Winni is worried about you."

OH.  So much for my plan for Winni to reassure Mark.

Winni said that most of her moms will start cramping and the baby will come within three hours.  And after that point, things taper off from there. THREE hours.  Here I was, going on six hours, and I'd been bleeding since Wednesday (remember, it's now Saturday morning).  She recommended that we go to the ER.

So now Mark is REALLY worried, and I immediately accepted the fact that this is not happening at home anymore, and that we'll be going to the hospital.

[For Part 2, click here.]

Tonight, at bedtime...

I was lying on Ella's bed with her tonight as we tucked the girls in.  She had such a concerned look on her face. 

[me]  "Are you okay, honey?"
[Ella]  "I'll tell you later- because of Adelia and Audra."
[me, scooting closer to her]  "You can whisper in my ear."
[Ella, whispering and teary]  "I'm just sad that the baby is really dead."
[me]  "We told you the baby had died, honey...."
[Ella]  "I know.  But I prayed that God would bring the baby back to life."

...and then just minutes later, while tucking Audra (4), in:

[Audra] "I'll pray for you to have another baby, mommy..."
[me, bending to kiss her] "Thank you, sweet girl."
[Audra] "....one that doesn't die."

***

We are still waiting for my body to physically miscarry this tiny one.... it's been just over 3 weeks and my midwife says my body seems to be "stubborn".  When I repeated that to Mark, he said "that's because your body just wants to take care of this baby."  True.

Thank you for your continued prayers, friends.  This has been a difficult few weeks.

My heart

Thank you, friends, for your kind words of comfort after my last post.  Your comments, emails and Facebook messages have made me tearful with gratitude.  Thank you so much for your prayers and for your encouraging words.  Each of you has ministered to me and I thank you.

I have the sweetest readers.  (((hugs)))

There are so many thoughts and emotions swirling around in my head and heart and the way I process it all is to write.  I've been filling up pages in my journal (and then filling Mark in on all I've written) and I want to share some of it with you, too.  I hardly know where to begin so I'll just start and hope it's not too rambly.

On Christmas Eve I got sick (influenza), and have been very sick ever since.  As I write this it is January 9th, and I'm still sick.  Fever, chills, achy, and upper respiratory stuff.  I have coughed enough in the last two weeks that I'm certain I could win some sort of award if there was such a one, and I have slept very little because of it.  The kids got sick the weekend after Christmas- high fevers for days and everyone lethargic and needy.  (And my amazing [and healthy!] Mark- taking care of us all, should win his very own award.)

It is in this state of weariness and feeling so beaten down already, physically-- that we found out about the miscarriage.

So I have been feeling pretty low, and asking God~ Okay, what is it You want to teach me through all of this?  I have prayed that my eyes, mind and heart would be receive whatever lessons He wants to reveal to me through this trial; that I wouldn't miss it.  And He has been faithful to show me something.

I can feel very sad if I ponder this: Why would You give us this precious gift only to take it away?... Or when I doubt God's goodness: I should have known it was too good to be true... Or when I feel sorry for myself: But it takes us so long to even GET pregnant.  Years.  Or if I think of all that I will miss: how my belly was going to grow and the baby move within me, how I was going to get to see Mark holding a baby of ours again,.... just- all the many thoughts down that road.

I know that God does not mind my questions or my grief, but I have felt a check in my spirit when I have those kind of thoughts.  Very soon after we realized we'd lost the baby, I began to have thoughts of "It was too good to be true, I should have known it wouldn't really happen", etc.  And right away I recognized it as a lie from the enemy.  God is good.  Period.  He is a kind, loving Father, who loves to give good gifts to His children.  And this does not change that.  That's the truth.  I believe it.  I know Him, I know His character, and I trust Him.

I am learning so much by watching my kids.  I saw them grieve, hard- that first day.  Audra's heart-wrenching sobs, Ella's silent grief, Isaac's questions, Isaias' stunned silence....  But just hours later they were back to their play, their laughter, their imaginative creativity.  They live in the moment.  This one; the one right before them.  And they embrace it and delight in it and take joy in it.  They aren't concerned about tomorrow, or about what happened yesterday.  They were so quick to accept this new reality and move on.   I admire that in them.  They simply do not have the capacity to dwell on sadness.  It's just not in them. They are content, they feel secure, and they trust that all will be well.

So I see them and I am reminded to be the same way.  When I befriend my sorrows and sort of camp out with the sad thoughts of all that would or could have been, I feel very melancholy.  But when I remember God's goodness, when I rest in His word and His promises, when I remind myself of His character and His faithfulness, I am heartened.  When I choose not to not dwell on the past and not to worry about tomorrow, but live this moment, and trust Him, I am content.  So I am practicing this, purposing not to "go there" in my thoughts and arriving at a place of quiet acceptance.

Mark read me portions of Lamentations last night- this is one of his favorite passages in the whole Bible.  In chapter 3, Jeremiah is struggling with some seriously dark thoughts, talking about his great affliction and feeling like God's hand is turned against him.  He says things like "He has weighed me down with chains.  Even when I call out or cry out for help, he shuts out my prayer." Or, "Like a bear lying in wait, like a lion in waiting, he dragged me from the path and mangled me and left me without help."  He goes on and on like this, for eighteen verses.  And then, this:

I remember my affliction and my wandering,
the bitterness and the gall.
I well remember them,
and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:

Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, "The Lord is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him."

I cannot identify with Jeremiah's dark thoughts- not to that extent.  But my heart lifts when he gets to the part of "Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope...." and goes on to tell of God's love and compassion and faithfulness.

YES.  That is what I am calling to mind, too.  I am resting in the truths of who He is.  The LORD is my portion; my all, and He is enough.

Loss

Over the last several weeks I have carried this precious piece of news: God had created a new life within me.  I carried this little one with gladness and such a sense of wonder for what God was doing: forming a new little person for our family.  Mark and I, we told the kids at the beginning of December and they were overjoyed.  Ella has long prayed for this, daily asking God to put a baby in mommy's tummy.  And so we have celebrated this tiny miracle, dreaming of who this one will be, of how our lives will be different with a baby in July.

Mark and I went together for my 11-week midwife appointment.   First, elation as we viewed our baby through the ultrasound: There!  Our sweet baby.  Tiny and perfectly formed.  Then, pause: But the baby seems so still. Is it just because the technician keeps freezing the screen and taking measurements, or...?  Then, a sudden, rushing knowledge: The baby IS too still.  There's no movement.  And there is no heartbeat.  At some point the previous week the baby had stopped growing.

We were stunned.  There were tears on Mark's face.  I felt a numbness that was only broken by the thought that we had to go now and tell the kids; these dear children who have longed for and prayed for and talked about little else but the joy of a new sibling.

There were conversations to have, a paper to sign, and a short walk out of the office and back to our van.  There, finally alone with Mark, I wept.  We sat together there for a few moments.  Mark reached for my hand and he prayed.  And then we headed for home.

We gathered the kids:  Mark sat on the couch with Ella on one side of him and the boys on the other side.  Audra faced me with her arms wrapped around my neck and her legs around my waist.  Adelia sat beside me.  I told them about the ultrasound, and that the baby had died inside mommy's tummy.

What I will remember about that moment is the sound of Audra's grief: she wept with great, heaving, noisy sobs- sounds I've never heard her make.  I remember wishing Ella was next to me, instead of across the way on the other couch.  I wanted to hold her and comfort her in her sorrow.   She cried silently next to Mark, who held her and cried, too.  The boys were silent and troubled.  I kept searching their faces for a sign of their emotion.  I knew they were sad, but they were so quiet.  Adelia peppered us with questions.  Audra's sobs finally quieted and she fell asleep in my arms.  We sat there for awhile, crying and talking through their questions, and then we prayed together. 

I think back to a journal entry I made weeks ago, as I battled my fears:

I trust You, Lord.  I know You are good and Your ways are good.  Even if this pregnancy were to end in miscarriage.  I love You.  I trust You.  You will sustain us. 

He is sustaining us.