I bit the bullet

I read from the fabulous Mel at Stirrup Queens that you should finish a draft before you start another post.

As I have about 5 drafts recently started (in addition to the 20 someodd that have accumulated through the years) ... And about 50 more stories to edit and post ...

I'm blatantly ignoring her advice.

(Although, Mel, it really IS good writing advice. I promise I do take you up on it most days.)

So you might be thinking there must be some news, or something blatantly pressing on my heart that I'm writing on my phone while I should be sleeping. 

And the answer is No. Or, at least, not really. 

I started a pill. Actually, make that 2 pills.

Here is my new nightly cocktail:

It's somewhat humbling to even post this, or acknowledge that I'm back on all this medicine after weaning myself off all meds for so long. 

 

First, it was the anti-depressant. 

Then, it was the baby aspirin. 

Last week, I bit the bullet and started birth control. 

And tonight, I add anti-nausea pills to the mix.

So far, birth control has been OK in every other area except one really really big one.... Nausea. 

The first time I took it, I woke up halfway through the night and I couldn't sleep because I felt so bad. 

The other days I managed to sleep in at least till 6 before getting up feeling sick. Saturday, I laid in bed till 2 pm. (Thank you Ryan!) This morning, I was up at 4:30, ready to hurl, trying to munch down some ginger cookies in case they'll help. They did, or something worked, and I fell back asleep at 7. 

Thank goodness for Maddy who got herself and Leyla cereal and turned on the TV. (Well, a few min later she came running in telling me that Leyla was sitting ON the table. Of course, that got me up for a bit.)

In spite of her help (and Trader Joe's ginger cat cookies -- which really is people food), we missed Leyla's play group. I MADE myself exercise, but had to stop a lot to make sure I kept everything down. 

I decided today that this nausea was interfering with life enough. Time to call the doctor.

The nurse said that the nausea should go away in a month. I asked for tips coping with the unhappy side effect, and she one-upped me: got me a prescription for anti-nausea meds. When I was preggers with Maddy, I lived off this stuff. Literally.

So tonight, I start. And hope I sleep in till at least 7. And hopefully, I am not super sick. But in case I am ... The bucket and ginger crackers are conveniently an arm's reach away. 

 

As for other things ... Life in blogging has been interesting since my blog went viral. 

And here's what I mean by that. 

First, when your stats start going crazy, you kinda freak out ... In a good way. Then you get overwhelmed (over 1,000 comments in a few days' time will do that. And that's a 1,000 very personal stories of peoples' babies.)

Then you start getting some recognition, people start liking you on Facebook, and then you (ok, really me) start to feel like , YES -- I am a writer and I could totally write a book. 

Except, even during that time, I had to remind myself that the slump was coming. 

You see, viral isn't sustainable. I don't want to be a one-post wonder. 

I want to have content that is readable, thought-provoking, tear-producing, straight-from-my-heart share-worthy stuff. 

But here's the thing. Blogging is really a partnership. I write for me and for you. I hope you like what you read. And I hope you share. 

Sometimes it's hard to see numbers dwindle. It's hard to come off that high.  I have to make myself remember that every single one of you are NOT a number -- even though that's all the comes on my dashboard. It's so much better when I make myself remember that you are a NAME, a person, a friend, a loved one, someone I haven't met yet but I have the privilege of sharing with.

Honestly, YOU reading my blog is super cool. Thanks so much for taking some of your precious time to care about me, my words, my thoughts, and my family. I super appreciate you.

If you take time to comment -- extra super cool. I feel so loved by a thoughtful comment. Or even just one that acknowledges, "hey, I read your stuff."

If you take time to share my blog -- that is like the biggest, biggest hug ever. I think for anyone who is an artist of any kind (music, words, painting, etc), the biggest compliment you could ever give them is to share their work.

So for all of you who have shared whenever a post speaks to you, thanks from the bottom of my heart. And for all of you for whom I see a number, and not a name, know that I really appreciate you sticking around. <3

 

Corin's Story: Do miracles still happen?

Corin wanted to share her story of her miscarriages, and blighted ovum at 10 weeks.

There's a part in her story I could so relate with -- waiting for the God of miracles to act and receive glory. Except it's not the kind of glory she was counting on. I'll let her tell the rest . . .

Rachel

Do Miracles Still Happen?

by Corin Hughs

Originally published at Corin Hughs.

Reprinted with permission.

My ultrasound image was of my uterus, but the empty black hole better reflected my heart.

A “blighted ovum” my doctor diagnosed.

While this is the reason of 50% of all first-trimester miscarriages, it only happens one time in most women. It’s when an egg is fertilized, the fertilized egg attaches to the uterine wall, but an embryo (baby) never forms. Research concludes this is likely the result of chromosomal abnormalities. There’s no specific, conclusive answer for this. There’s nothing you can do to prevent it. It just happens.

My doctor leaned on the counter, arms folded, brow creased. He commented on my three healthy pregnancies, my two other miscarriages and then this. He was perplexed. He instructed the nurse to order blood work.

I sat numb.

Confused.

Uncertain.

I robotically called my husband to tell him there was no baby.

Yes, I am pregnant, 10 weeks, in fact. My hormone levels indicate pregnancy. The embryonic sac indicates pregnancy. I’m just not pregnant with…a baby.

Huh!?!?

I’ve had a natural vaginal delivery, an emergency C-section for a breech baby who turned during labor and a scheduled C-section for a breech baby. I’ve had an early natural miscarriage, two healthy, problem-free pregnancies, an eleven week ultrasound to reveal a baby with no heartbeat (and eventual miscarriage), a healthy pregnancy and, now, an empty embryonic sac.

Motherhood is emotional! From the very start!

While I can’t help but ask God, why, I also have an indescribable, unique peace over this situation. I do not feel an urgency to have closure to this. I feel like this story is very much still happening and I feel thankful that God chose me for this. As I sit in confusion, knowing I have zero control, I feel ok with that. I know God is fully in control. He knows what He’s doing. I am excited to learn how this story will continue. I’m curious why God chose this situation for me. What does He want me to learn from this? I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t to show Himself as the God of Miracles that I know He is. Yes, He is!

My husband took comfort in the story of the Faithful Centurion who believed Jesus could heal his son. Jesus, astonished by this man’s faith, said, because you believed, your son is now healed.
Is God gifting my husband and me with this mind-boggling situation to increase our belief in Him that He can heal our – His – child?

This all took place on Tuesday, January 14, 2014 (and I wrote all of the above on that same day). At the time, I had few answers. In fact, I really had no answers! Just a bunch of confusing, conflicting information.

And, for once in my life, I felt ok with that.

I had assured hope that God would perform a miracle and that miracle would be a growing baby, of course! I’d go back for another ultrasound the following week and we’d see a perfect, healthy, beautiful peanut. The doctors would be astonished at how science had been defied. I would sit back and smile, telling them God has plans for this child.

Scouring the web, I read story after story of women in a similar situations and everything turned out fine. Most often, they were not as far along in their pregnancy as they thought, so a week or two later, an ultrasound revealed a healthy baby. There were a few stories of women who were indeed ten weeks along and went back the following week for an ultrasound that revealed a healthy 11 week baby. Miraculous! Unexplainable! Yes, that’s what would happen to me!

I grew more and more excited at the thought of sharing this miraculous story. I envisioned myself holding the miracle baby in my arms. I could feel her soft skin against mine. Yes, I had also decided she was a girl. My daughter would have a sister. She would be delighted. I would be delighted.
I would gleam with humble, thankful pride over the four children that I’m getting to raise.

I mean, what better way for God to show his great power, His miraculous ways than for this to be “my story?”

I prayed. I prayed for a miracle. I asked others to pray the same. They did.

Three days later, my hormone levels had dropped and our precious baby – who, by scientific terms, never was – became another miscarriage.

What was God doing?


To finish reading Corin's Story, click here.

Blog list on pregnancy loss

I just wanted to pass a link along to my readers!

I know that for me, reading other blogs has been very helpful in my journey, but it can be hard to find such blogs.

So, I'm super excited to find a great list of pregnancy loss blogs. Here is is:

http://www.stirrup-queens.com/a-whole-lot-of-blogging-brought-to-you-sorted-and-filed/loss-room/

www.stirrup-queens.com also has a blog list for other issues such as infertility, adoption, diagnostics and more. And her articles are great too!

Just wanted to pass along this great resource I recently stumbled upon.

Happy blog reading!

Facebook revisited

Sometimes your message can get lost in your words.

I don't know if that's what happened with my post about Facebook -- but based on some of the comments I received -- I fear that that might be the case.

I've read over my note several times, and besides a few minor word choices, there's not much I would change. However, I do feel like a follow-up post is important.

First, I think it's important to clarify who I write for. I write for couples who have lost a baby or have struggled with infertility. I also write for others who are going through a loss of some kind and can relate to the grief I share. I also write to others who are looking for helpful ways to support those they know who are going through a pregnancy loss.

My message is intended for those particular men and women. If you find yourself reading my blog, but you haven't gone through a loss, or you aren't trying to support someone, you just might not understand my message. And that's OK. You're still welcome to read. But don't be surprised (and certainly don't judge me or my readers) if you don't find yourself in the same place.

You'll notice in my first post that I really just said two things:

1) For those who have recently suffered a loss, being on Facebook can feel like an emotional minefield.

Based on the feelings I've heard from other women, I know that this is not just my experience. But it is an experience shared by many of us women suffering through a loss. I simply want everyone to be aware that Facebook can be hard. I am not trying to place blame anywhere. Just know that what you post does affect other people.

It's like if you just lost a very dear grandma. If you constantly saw posts on your newsfeed saying  . . . "Just hung out with my grandma, God has blessed me so much to have her in my life!" Or . . "My grandma is giving me such a hard time tonight. It's so hard to take care of her, and I'm just so tired!" Or "Just found out my grandma is going to live with us! I can't wait to spend every day loving on her!"

Each of those posts might hurt. Not because you hate grandmas. Or because you are angry at your friends. And not because those posts are wrong.

But they hurt because you are bruised and hurting. You have suffered a loss, and every reminder of that loss -- no matter how innocent it is in itself -- feels like someone has just pressed in on the bruise of your loss. And it makes your soul ache with longing and regret.

That is how I feel when I see pregnancy-related posts. I am not bitter or resent babies or others' joy. I am bruised and hurting. Whether the reminder comes from a Facebook post, or a baby commercial, or a Babies R' Us catalog in the mail -- that reminder hurts. Even if the reminder is not wrong in itself.

I do my best to navigate those reminders, and avoid as many as I can, because some days I'm just not ready to have someone or something press in on my bruise and cause me pain.

Which brings me to the second point I made on my note . . .

2) If you are pregnant and are going to announce a pregnancy, and you know someone who recently suffered a loss, please let them know privately before making a public announcement. This can really help someone who is struggling with loss to be emotionally prepared for your announcement and subsequent posts.

I was not asking every pregnant woman to go through a mental rolodex and think of every single person they might offend each time before they post. I was simply asking that ONE TIME, before you make your first announcement, to give a friend that you know is struggling with loss or infertility a heads-up. This will help them to navigate those painful reminders -- whether that means they unsubscribe to your posts for a time, choose not to look at their newsfeed, or whatever they need to do to protect their heart.

Vintage Farm Girl felt that the burden should fall on those of us struggling with loss to protect ourselves on Facebook. And in part, I believe that we do need to be responsible (which is why I've stopped checking my newsfeed most days.) But your private message can help us be responsible for guarding our emotions while on Facebook.

Because I am writing to those who consider themselves support people, I wanted to give them one more tool in their tool box of ways to support someone. So often people tell those of us going through a loss, "Please let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

Well, I am giving a suggestion of one thing you CAN do to help. And it DOES help.

I want to reiterate what (in bold) I was NOT asking people to do:

I'm not asking everyone to stop posting about their pregnancies. I'm not even trying to complain. And I'm not saying that your FB life should revolve around sensitive people like me.

A few of the comments I received were that I was "holding people hostage in my pain." That I could not recognize the joy of others because I did not have that particular joy. And that I was criticizing others for celebrating their blessings (amongst other things . . . ).

Let me address those criticisms for a moment.

A few weeks after our loss, my sister called to very sensitively let me know that she was expecting. If I could hold anyone up as an amazing example of how to be sensitive to others going through a loss, I would hold up my wonderful sister.

Did her announcement hurt? Terribly so. But it was not because I resented her. It was not because I resented her baby. It was not because I was a bitter woman who was holding my sister hostage.

It hurt because I had always wanted to be pregnant with my sister, and we would have only been a few weeks apart. It would have been wonderful to go through each stage of pregnancy, each milestone, together. I imagined being able to call each other as our babies learned to roll over, smile, talk and start to eat. We'd be able to compare notes on nursing, sleeping (or lack thereof) and all the adventures of being a mom the second time around.

But Olivia was dead. And even if I got pregnant right away (which I couldn't), it still wouldn't be the same.

Her announcement hurt because I couldn't be the one to simply cry with tears of joy as she had done for me. Please hear me say that if I could have only wept for tears of joy, I would have done it happily and with abandon. When we announced our pregnancy with Olivia, my sister was one of the few people that was simply so happy for me that she cried in the middle of wal-mart. Her excitement meant the WORLD to me. She had given me an amazing gift with my pregnancy that I could never give back, no matter how much I wanted to.

And trust me . . . I wanted to! Because she deserves it. Because I love her with all my heart. But I just couldn't. There was pain mixed in with my joy for her, and I couldn't sift that out no matter how hard I tried. Even Ryan couldn't understand that there was pain in her news for me. Part of what hurt was simply that there was pain where there should be none, and that I couldn't ignore that.

With her news, I realized that I would now have a very tangible reminder of Olivia. As her pregnancy progresses, she will reach milestones I never will. You can call me bitter if you want (but not on this blog) -- but the truth is she has what I do not. She announced her pregnancy on Facebook, I never got that chance. She will bless my parents with their next grandchild. I will not be able to do that with Olivia. As her child grows, I will see where my baby should have been at that age.

Her baby is a miracle. He is a blessing, and will be a wonderful addition to our family. I love my new nephew. But I also deeply miss my daughter. I miss my pregnancy. I am so very sad my sister and I will not be comparing belly pictures, pregnancy aches and pains, delivery stories, and our babies' milestones. I'm devastated that our babies will not know each other and be close cousins.

My grief is real. So is my joy for my sister. Both feelings live together in the same heart, sometimes like best friends and other times like fighting siblings. Sometimes the grief feels stronger. Other times joy wins out.

My pain for Olivia and my joy for my new nephew must coexist. There is no other way.

One last thing I wanted to share . . .

Last Sunday, I woke up feeling happy and content. This is unusual for me. I questioned it at first . . . then gave in to the wonder of waking up sandwiched between Maddy and Ryan watching the rays of sunlight filter through the curtains to announce a peaceful morning. I snuggled my family, and drank in the peace that was overtaking my heart in that moment.

During church, though, I had difficulty concentrating. I wanted to hear the message, but my heart and mind were fixed on what Olivia was doing in heaven. Was she happy? Does she look down on me? Does she know I love her? While we worship here, is she singing? Is she just a little baby . . . or is she big? I couldn't get my mind off of her all morning.

Lunch was fine. On my way home, I casually browsed through my Facebook newsfeed for a few minutes. Two friends had announced pregnancies.

I knew that it was April's Fool's Day. But my own sister had announced her very real pregnancy on Facebook on April's Fool's Day two years ago. I needed to give both of these friends the benefit of the doubt, because neither seemed to me like the type to joke about a pregnancy.

For a few hours that afternoon, I wrestled with my emotions. Besides the bruise I mentioned I feel earlier, I also knew I needed to be happy for these women. But I had pain, and it was hard to feel happy. I also had to prepare myself for seeing them with belllies, seeing posts about ultrasounds, and the like.

While I wrestled to have joy for these women, I was painfully aware that I had begun spotting the day before. We were trying to conceive this month, and I was hoping to be pregnant. I was terrified of having another ectopic as I had lots of pain earlier in the week from my fallopian tube. A late period + spotting + pain in my tube + a negative pregnancy test =  the potential that I might have another ectopic.

Could I withstand another loss? If I didn't have a loss, then I was still not pregnant, which was disappointing, though not as devastating as an ectopic would be. Just dealing with the disappointment and fear surrounding my spotting would have been enough in the day to warrant a breakdown. But there was more . . .

Because it was a nice day, and because our memorial tree was finally ready, Ryan and I had decided to bury the tissue I had passed with Olivia and plant her tree. (Don't worry, I kept the tissue sanitarily.)

Before we went outside for our the burial, I checked Facebook one more time. It turns out that those pregnancy announcements were just April's Fool's jokes.

But it didn't feel funny to me. Not at all. I wrestled for hours that day to try to muster up happiness for my friends, on a very emotionally-charged day. And it was all for nothing.

It was then that I posted my note about Facebook.

I hope all this background info helps you understand my original post. And no matter how you first felt about my note, I do hope that it encourages you to still be sensitive and to know how to help your friends on Facebook struggling through loss.

And . . . if you've actually read this far, thank you. I think this has been my longest post to date. I appreciate you hanging in there with me while I hash through my intentions and background on what has been my most controversial post so far.

If you have gone through a loss, what other helpful things have your friends done to help you navigate the emotional minefield that we live in day-to-day?

Pics on life, loss and love

Ryan and Maddy have been using Olivia's name more recently, and that is very nice.


Some of it might be because after the fallout from my FB note, Ryan and I have been talking more candidly with each other about our loss.


Whatever the reason, her name is really nice to hear.


Today I wore the necklace my friend Emily sent me.

Madelyn plays with that necklace more than with any of my other necklaces. Today, while fingering the "O" charm, she says, "Mommy, this is 'Livia's necklace." She held up the footprint charm. We compared her foot to the charm, and we both decided Maddy's footprint would never fit on a necklace.

I asked her who Olivia was. She answered, "My best friend." I told her Olivia was also her sister, but that we wouldn't get to know Olivia for a very long time.

The other day she told me, "Mommy, Audrey is my favorite friend. And 'Livia is my second favorite friend. And 'Livia has a special tree."

She sure does, baby.

On Sunday, Ryan, Madelyn and I planted the willow oak tree seedling my sister gave us in honor of baby Olivia.

Once we finished planting the tree, we looked up to see a deer pass through our yard. I don't think it's symbolic or anything . . . but it was peaceful.



It was a nice moment. I wish the rest of the day could have stayed peaceful.

It will be nice to watch her tree grow . . .even though I still wish I were watching her grow, and not just a tree.

One more thing I wanted to say . . .

I keep this blog mostly related to pregnancy loss. But I know most of you don't know much about my life outside of my loss. You don't know how I take care of Maddy, take care of my husband and take care of my business.

I still take care of important things in my life -- and Maddy and I still have fun together. So here's a glimpse into the rest of my life . . .

Maddy's favorite breakfast: Alphabet pancakes!

Maddy wanted to do spa night with the girls. Instead, I convinced her to do spa morning with Mommy. She was the perfect little client!



Maddy loves to take pictures around the house. Here's one she took of me:

Maddy's artwork on display in her room:

This was taken right before she dumped the flour in and turned the mixer to 10.
You can imagine the fallout . . .

Showing off her pretty nails . .

Snow time fun! (Sorry it's sideways! I don't know how to fix that!) :)

So, now you know. My blog is mostly about pregnancy loss. But my life is a mix of loss and love, grief and joy.  Sometimes the picture of my life is bright, cheery and happy. Other times, it is murky, dark and desperate. And sometimes, it's all of the above all at the same time.


P.S. I apologize if I brought anyone pain  by posting pics of my life with Maddy and Ryan. But I did want to give you a little bit of a bigger picture of who I am and why I write they way I do. I still do love those around me very much, even as I grieve the lifetime I lost with Olivia. Since I post so often about the hard times, I wanted to include a few of the good times we've had since our loss.

Perspective

I came across these words today on the comment section of a different blog.

"I don’t like the fact that every little issue along life’s path, from miscarriages to spats with family, are glorified these days. Blogged about. FB statuses, galore. Sometimes, just for extra annoyingness, cryptic FB statuses. People spending hours whining about what used to be commonplace events.

I’ve had two miscarriages. I have two lovely, healthy girls.

Was I sad about my miscarriages? Yes, very much so. Did I name them, or write a memorial to post online, or turn the conversation back to myself every time anyone spoke about loss or bad luck? No. Because I have perspective.

And I’m counting my blessings. What I actually have more than makes up for the loss of a beautiful idea. And don’t even get me started on people who say they found it hard to care for existing children because of a miscarriage …. Talk about not seeing the forest for the trees."

Well, I guess if she knew me, she'd disapprove of just about everything I've done since we lost Olivia.

I left cryptic FB posts when I really wanted to share with everyone that we were pregnant, but that we might lose the baby. I wanted to beg for the prayers of those who love me so that together we could flood God's throne on behalf of my baby. But my husband and I weren't on the same page about how and when our news should be shared. So cryptic message it was.

I do spend hours thinking, talking and writing about Olivia. Whining? Well. I don't know. Maybe sometimes I whine.

Did I name my child, write a memorial post online, and occasionally turn the conversation back on to my loss when I talk with my friends. Yep.

Do I struggle at times to meet my daughter's every demand on a particularly difficult day? Guilty as charged.

The commenter above does not approve of my actions because she admittedly has "perspective."

But I have done all of these things for the exact same reason. I have perspective.

I've shared in previous posts about how we almost lost Madelyn during my pregnancy twice. Once to threatened miscarriage at 12 weeks. I had hemmorhaged, and after going to the ER, found out I had a 50/50 chance to keep her.

My whole family was prepared to lose her. And we were all very happily surprised when she clung to life.

I named her "Madelyn Jane" in part because of this experience.

Madelyn means "strong woman." She was one strong little girl to hold on even while my body made it so hard for her to do so! Jane means "believer in a gracious God." What a gracious God we serve to let me keep my little girl!

Often -- especially now that I've lost Olivia -- I look at her deep hazel eyes and think, "I almost missed this." I came this close to never knowing the feeling of her arms when she "squeezes the words out of me." I came this close to never snuggling with her in bed, her soft sweaty body squeezed as close to me as possible. I came this close to never hearing the sweetest words ever spoken: "You're my best friend, Mommy. I love you sooooooooooooo much."

I came this close to losing 3 years of precious, beautiful moments with my daughter. I came this close to losing a lifetime more.

And THAT is my perspective.

With Olivia, we too went to the ER early in my pregnancy. The doctor gave us hope. He said he would not give up on our baby. He wasn't willing to call it a miscarriage, or ectopic. He was choosing to believe our little one could make it.

The nurse who called to inform me my hcg numbers had risen also had hope. She hoped everything would be fine, and that our baby would live.

I had hope. Ryan had hope. Our families had hope.

We all had so much hope, and so much love for this little tiny creature we knew would be Maddy's best friend and our beloved child.

The morning we had the final blood draw, I had read in scripture that "With God, all things are possible." I clung to that hope and to the faith that God would do the impossible, and give us Olivia too.

But God's not that predictable. He was strong enough. Her life was possible. But for some reason, He chose to take her straight to heaven.

God had a purpose for Olivia's life. I don't like it and some days, I simply don't approve. But He had numbered her days. Her purpose was not to love on me and let me love on her. Her purpose was not to whisper sweet words, give big hugs, and bless us most amazingly with her adorable presence.

But she DID have a purpose.

And that's why I'm on this journey. That's why I blog, I write, I cry, I talk, I think, I post messages on FB and attend support groups.

Because I have the perspective of a women who almost lost a lifetime with a child . . . but didn't.

And I have the perspective of a woman who almost lost a lifetime with a child . . . and did.



Baby Olivia,

I'm missing you so much today. I hope you are having fun today playing at Jesus' feet. I hope you have become friends with some of my friends' babies. Let me tell you, their moms are amazing. I wish we all could have had playdates together here on earth.

Can't wait to meet you in heaven.

Until then . . . all my love.

Mommy

Swimming with sharks

I'm a big fan of Shark Week.

Which is weird, because I am TERRIFIED of sharks. And every episode has my heart in my thoat, my hands sweating, and my muscles tense.

I remember watching one episode where a woman was attacked by a great white shark while she was kayaking near the shore. The shark rammed her from below, flipping her kayak and dumping her in the water. Her husband was far ahead, and was only getting farther away as he continued stroke after stroke, unaware that his wife was battling one of the most feared predators the world has known -- an 18-foot great white.

She eventually made it back into her kayak, with a bite to her arm, and paddled to shore where her husband met her. At one point during the attack, he had looked back to check on her, but couldn't paddle quickly enough to help.

The next day, this woman did something I never would have done.

She got back into the water.

She figured if she didn't do it right away, she might lose the guts to ever get into the water again. She didn't want one shark to ruin a sport she loves.

Today that's where I found myself. Facing the water. And wondering if today I will be swimming with the sharks.

Recently, I got bitten. Doing something I love, in a place that I had considered both safe and sacred.

I was bitten by words. Ignorant, vicious, cruel words that attacked my character, my motives, my purpose, my message, my family, my spiritual walk, my relationships . . . just about everything one could attack.

And let me be the first to admit . . . IT HURT. Bad enough that I really didn't want to get back in the water again. For the first time, this place has truly made me feel vulnerable. Losing a daughter is painful enough. Having people kick you while you're down is pain on a whole new level.

The thing is . . . I'm not a quitter. And I might be sensitive -- and some might consider that a weakness -- but I'm also really strong.

I am strong enough to get back in the water.

But I'm arming myself against the sharks.

From now on, readers' comments will be filtered through a second party. If a reader attacks me, my family or another reader in any way, that comment will be deleted before I will ever see it.

Also, there will be no more anonymous comments. You will have to register your name if you are going to comment.

If you want to comment, please keep your words helpful, kind, and respectful to me and to all my readers. You might disagree with what I write, but realize that my writing is about my journey and my feelings along the way. My feelings are valid -- whether or not you agree.

I stand 100% behind my character, my motives, my grief, my journey and my blog. And so, by the way, does my husband.

 I will never claim to be perfect.

But I do claim to be as honest as I can be. I will do my best to honor the very short life of my daughter. I will stand up for those of us in the club that no one wants to belong in, and share what life is like from our perspective as moms who have lost their babies. I will do my best to help others understand how to support the women in their lives struggling with pregnancy loss. And I will fulfill what I feel like God has called me to do -- to grieve out loud and break the silence of loss.

Into the water I go . . .


P.S. To all of you who have called, texted and Facebooked me during the last 24 hours to encourage me . . . thank you. I have visited your words numerous times, drawing from them the confidence and courage to continue my blog. I love each of you very much, and am blessed beyond blessed to count you all as friends.

Taking on the elephant in the room.

Well . . . hello.

I guess I need to break the ice again . . . but I'm not sure how.

I hate to say it, but for the first time, I think this blog has become a bit awkward for me. It's kind of feels like the social equivalent of getting drunk, totally humiliating yourself, and then having to go face the crowd when you're sober and embarrassed.

(Not that I have been drunk before. Well, OK, I got drunk when I was 3 years old. But that's another story . . .)

There feels like a big elephant in the room. And I wanted to ignore it -- but I think I'm just going to have to address it head on. I shared on my last note much more personally than I ever have before, and that is embarrassing and scary.

But I can't decide if sharing so intimately with what I am struggling with is a good thing or a bad thing. It's not really socially normal, I do know that. But does that make it wrong?

That's where I'm fuzzy.

My husband encouraged me to keep the note up because it is a truthful account of what I'm dealing with. It's totally ugly, but it's true. I felt like my counselor recommended I get more honest on this blog as a way to get out of that need to control my image. To really be upfront, and grieve.

My sister, on the other hand, recommended I take it down. I don't need to socially martyr myself, and I don't need to be 100% transparent. Some things are personal, and they don't need to be public for anybody and everybody to see. When I received LOTS of concerned phone calls the day after my post -- well, I think I started to agree with my sister.

I'm struggling because I can't decide if it's good or bad that I'm uncomfortable. It could be GOOD because I'm being proactive in breaking that pretty box . . . but it's BAD if I crossed a line, or have inadvertantly pushed people away.

While there's much I'm debating, I did decide to edit my post ever so slightly to temper it down.

I've also decided that I'm definitely going through a depression. Which also brings up more questions . . . If I am blogging about pregnancy loss, but I'm also depressed, doesn't that mean that less women will be able to relate? Will this blog be now about depression after loss -- or can it still serve those who are going through a loss without having succumbed to depression?

I wish I knew the answers . . . .

Even as I question my content, my voice, and my level of transparency, I still stand strong in my purpose.

I am writing through my grief because in hard times, sometimes the only thing that helps is someone who has been there, done that, and is brave enough to share their story. I want to be brave with my story.

I am writing because it gives me an outlet for my feelings and grief.

I blog because I need Olivia's life to have meaning.

I share because, the first day after my loss, I had an intense need to share Olivia's "birth" story -- just like other women do who have gone through labor and had healthy babies. I assume other women have this need, and I want to provide a safe place to share our stories.

I write because I was once the girl that said all the wrong things and was a very unhelpful support person to my friends and acquaintances dealing with pregnancy loss. I want to help break the silence, help others understand what it's like to lose a baby (no matter the gestation), and give them the words and tools they need to truly support their loved one in the best way possible.

I write because I do believe that God has gifted me with a love for the written word, and I want to use that to His glory.

I continue to write because more than 4,000 people have viewed this blog in 3 months . . .  and that tells me that somehow, in some way, my writing is helping others . . . even though I can't always see it or know the outcome.

I pour out my heart on this thing because I need my friends and family to know what I'm going through -- but I have a hard time communicating that in person.

I long to know that I'm not alone in my feelings. I long to feel connected, because I so often feel lost in myself and unconnected when I am physically around others. I long to feel hope.

If you have viewed this blog, I'm going to ask a favor. Will you please let me know if and what you have found helpful in my writing? As I wrestle with where to take this blog, your suggestions and feedback will really help me.

As much as this started out being about Olivia -- it's now really about you, my readers. And helping you, while helping me, is Olivia's legacy.

Feeling thankful for the hope in a new month

I'm glad that our year is divided into months. Knowing that when I go to sleep tonight and wake up to a new month and a new start feels very refreshing.

I cannot wait to put January behind me and move forward to February.

January actually felt harder than December, even though we lost Baby O in December.

The first part of December was full of the most amazing joy as we found out we were pregnant and shared the news with our closest family and friends. Then there were all the Christmas parties, saying goodbye to work, holidays, family and friends that were at least a distraction in the midst of grief and pain. Also, the majority of my support happened those first 2 weeks after our loss.

But January was a different story. January felt like a battle. I struggled in some way every single day.

There were no holidays to look forward to. I could not find any joy in the "new year" as I had anticipated welcoming a child that new year -- not mourning the death of one. I felt like I heard bad news almost every day from friends and family. My life was completely opened up to the world of child loss. I had no idea SO MANY BABIES DIE!!  My whole Arbonne team was hit HARD and I think most of us felt in our businesses as well as in life. I struggled with old feelings of doubt, fear and failure that I thought I had moved past. Ryan and I faced less work and more bills, including a car that needed to go.

It felt like so many decisions needed to made. I questioned past decisions that I had previously felt completely at peace about. I struggled with decisions we would need to make in our future -- like if we would try to have another baby, and when.

The one bright spot in this abysmal month has been my blog. It's been the one area in my life that I felt successful at. A place that brought validation to all my feelings. A place where I could just be raw, empty me. A place without expectations, goals or anyone else to please. A place just for me. I love this place.

I've been very encouraged, too, by how well received this blog has been. At first, I was afraid to break the barrier of silence around our loss. To announce to the world something that is so often shrouded in secrecy. But I am so glad I choose to share this journey because it has helped other women across the world, while at the same time, helping myself sort through my feelings.  (And just to be clear, I don't begrudge any woman for keeping her pain silent or secret. Every person can grieve how they want -- this just worked for me.)

I'm excited to say that in January alone "the lewis note" had almost 1,500 pageviews. I never, ever expected that.

If you have read even one entry -- thank you. Thank you for your comments, your tears, your grief and your laughter. Thank you for joining me on this journey and accepting me for who I am. Thank you for encouraging me to write. Thank you for sharing this on FB, or with friends and family. Thank you for any prayers you might have said on behalf of my family. Thank you for telling me your own deeply personal and treasured stories.

Please let me know if there's anything you'd like me to write about within the realm of miscarriage or pregnancy loss. Or if there's something (like your own story) that you'd like to share. I want this to be a safe place for everyone to share.

Wishing for each of us a February that offers new beginnings,

Rachel