5 things never to say to a woman whose baby has died

Tonight, I went to our local chapter of M.E.N.D -- a pregnancy loss support meeting. And you know what? People are saying the same old ignorant, hurtful things to women having a pregnancy loss as they did when I first had mine -- and probably have said since the dawn of time.

I know I can't prevent every single woman out there from having to hear these hurtful comments. But I sure can do my part to spread awareness.

So if you come across any woman who has lost a baby at ANY stage in pregnancy or following birth -- please do the universe a massive favor, and steer clear of saying any of these 5 things. (Or anything that even closely resembles them.)


#5 -- At least you were early.

Maybe you truly feel that you are doing this woman a favor to remind her that her body was unable to carry a baby past 12 weeks, or past her second trimester, or even to term.

But can I let you in on a little secret?

First, there is no "at least" with loss. None. So, umm. Stop saying that.

Second, from the moment that second line appeared, that mom had feelings about that baby. She not only had feelings, but something -- a very big something -- has changed in her life. Forever. No going back. No going back even with a loss. That baby changed everything for her. From the moment she knew it existed.

And losing that baby changed her forever too.

Life and death? It happened. So stop making it sound like it's no big deal.

And third -- sometimes an earlier loss is even HARDER to process. In part because of a lack of support due to their loss being so "early."


#4 -- I know exactly how you feel.

Actually, you don't.  Because I don't even know exactly how I feel.

One moment I think I'm OK. The next moment I'm balling my eyes out because of some silly little thing triggered my grief -- walking past the baby aisle, driving by the hospitals, eating something I last ate the day we lost the baby. And then 10 minutes later, something makes me smile. A sunset. A flower. A text from a friend.

I feel like a kaleidoscope of emotions -- always changing with each turn.

I really don't care if our losses were the same. So you had a miscarriage too? OK. Chances are, the way I felt about my baby differed from you. The way I feel about pregnancy probably differs. And the way I feel about our loss differs.

If you want to relate, if you want to empathize -- by all means do. Just don't tell me that you know exactly how I feel. Unless, you know -- you are God. (And God, if you are reading this, then please chime in.)


#3 -- You could always try again.

*sigh*

I get that if you have a flat tire on your car, it makes sense to go get another one. You lost your coat? Then go shopping for a new one. Outgrow your house? Hit up Zillow or Redfin.

But PEOPLE? People are not replaceable.

And last time I checked, a baby is a people.

So just don't. Ever.

If you ever do say this to a woman, chances are she is screaming in her head at you that she doesn't want another one -- she wants THIS ONE. And could you blame her? Chances are -- you want each of your children too.

(PS -- In saying she should try again, you are making some pretty big assumptions about her fertility. First, that she is capable of trying again. Second, that she wants to. Generally speaking, those are private topics that she should bring up with you if she wants to discuss them.)



#2 -- They are in a better place.

This is something you could probably legitimately say to someone who's had a grandparent die whose life at the end was one of excruciating pain. (Even then, maybe not the MOST supportive.)

But to a mom who has had a baby die?

Last I checked, a baby being born in this world were something to be celebrated. It is the natural order to be born, to live, and then a long long long time after a full life, to die and go to heaven. We all want babies to be born here first, before they die.

Maybe it's just selfish. But I don't want my babies in heaven. Not yet anyway. I want them here, with me, with their cute smiles, and their little piggy toes and their coos and yawns and cuteness. I want them to go through life -- the good and bad -- and fulfill a purpose. I want to meet their children and their children.

I want to live with my children before they die. I want to die first.

Maybe it's selfish. But it's true. I don't want them in a better place. I want them with me.

(PS. This is phrase is also cousin to "It's God's will." If you're curious, I'd steer clear of this one too.)



#1 -- Just be grateful for your living kids.

Can I ask a question? If your parents were in a car accident, and only your mom survived -- how would you feel about people who ignored the fact that your dad just died -- instead focused on how 'grateful' you should be feeling about your mom's survival?

I'm guessing you might feel a little invalidated -- a little miffed. I'm sure you ARE grateful your mom is alive. Maybe even more than you were before. But you just had a parent die. You also deserve to grieve.

In a pregnancy or infant loss, a family has gone through a tragedy. There were survivors. There were others who did not make it.

Moms, dads and kids -- they all deserve the right to grieve the ones that didn't make it.



In case you know have no idea what to say to someone who has lost a baby at any stage of life, I have a really easy suggestion.

A simple "I'm sorry for your loss" would suffice.

And then be available to listen, to grieve with them, and to offer any support you can by way of chocolate, food, time away, or clean dishes, or childcare. I promise a million times over, those acts of service will provide more comfort than any cliché ever could.

SAS's Story: Four pregnancies and one child.

 

 

 

 

 

Dear SweatAndStilletos . . .

 

Thanks so much for sharing your story. As I was reading parts of your story, friends came to mind who I know could relate. I know there are others who will be touched by your babies' lives, no matter how brief.

 

Your thoughts on failure so relate with me. I felt as though I could have been writing those words.

 

Thank you again for sharing.

 

Rachel

 

 

I’ve been wanting to write this for awhile but haven’t been able to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard as the case may be.

 

I’ve written about my last two miscarriages but in a different way. I’ve written more from the perspective of how I felt in the moment, the physical pain and the shock I was experiencing. Today, I’m going to write about my journey through infertility, loss and coping with the cards I’ve been dealt.

 

I never imagined I would have difficulty getting pregnant. I was more concerned about getting pregnant before I was ready. I also never thought having a miscarriage was possible. That’s not exactly a fair statement. I never even gave infertility or miscarrying consideration. It wasn’t something on my radar at all. Perhaps it should’ve been given some family history, but it wasn’t.

 

I was living blissfully in the land of "I’ll start a family when I’m ready and I’ll have two kids. Husband wants 4 but I want 2.  He'll have to figure out how to give birth to the other 2 himself."

 

Now I’ve had three miscarriages. Three. Four pregnancies and three miscarriages. I’ve been told I cannot have more children. Well, actually, I can have more children but it would be a huge health risk and it could cause irreparable issues. How’s that for crappy?

 

I do have the option of doing more costly fertility treatments. Actually having the egg fertilized in a petri dish and then planting it in my uterus. Sounds romantic, doesn't it? Even with that, there is a very slim chance my body would actually accept the egg and carry to term.

 

I’m often asked when we will have more children or some variation of that. It’s an innocent question and typical for society. The other day was the first time I answered with, “We can’t.”

 

I felt a little bad for the person asking as I could tell she felt bad and apologized. For me it was a stepping stone. I was finally able to verbally admit that I can’t.

 

Failure is something hard for me. It’s easy to say this isn’t failure. There’s a gazillion reasons why you would be right. But for me it is failure. My body won’t do what I want it to.  It doesn't matter what pills, exercise, food, wishing or demanding I do, my body just will not cooperate.

 

It's difficult when my son asks why he can't have a little brother or sister.  He's so good with younger kids and he's asked for a sibling since he could talk. He's so loving and helpful and they all look up to him. How do you explain to a 10-year-old that "it just can't happen, that I'm truly sorry and it breaks my heart each time you ask." 

 

You can't. I have to recognize his feelings and try to put it in 10-year-old terms that it's just not something Mommy can do and that adoption isn't something I'm ready for. 

 

I never wanted him to be an only child. I am an only child and I long for the connection I see between siblings. It is truly something special. I didn't want him to ever have to navigate life alone. His Dad and I will not always be here. Hopefully it is many, many years before we leave him, but someday, we will. 

 

When my husband first wanted to try infertility treatments, I fought him on it. I always believed that if we were meant to have more kids, it would happen. That God would make it happen. We had many conversations on why we should do it and I listened to his many reasons and I agreed. 

 

Though I agreed, I still believed that when the time was right, it would just happen. After many tears and devastating months of negative tests, I finally agreed to give it a try. It was not easy, it was a commitment, it was uncomfortable and my body still wasn't cooperating. It didn't produce enough even with the drugs, and neither treatment resulted in a positive result. I was continually reminded of my inabilities.

 

It's so hard to let myself and my partner down month after month. It's devastating to read a negative result on a pregnancy test month after month for years. It got to where I didn't even want to have sex because if I wasn't, there was no possibility of getting pregnant which meant I couldn't let myself or my partner down. (I do not recommend this way of thinking.)  

 

After my first miscarriage, I was destroyed. I chose not to lean on anyone and only told those that knew I was pregnant. I didn't share much with friends and didn't talk about my feelings. I tried to grieve alone.

 

I now see that as a mistake. I should have let someone be there for me. I should have let them hold me up because I could not hold myself.   was broken. I buried my feeling and pulled myself up by my bootstraps and tried to not think about it. I got very depressed but kept stuffing it down. Eventually I stuffed it far enough down that it wasn't constantly there yelling at me. It still affected me by leading to depression and other issues, but it wasn't in my face anymore. It was behind the scenes pulling the strings.

 

It wasn't until my second miscarriage that I realized how much the first had affected me. By this time, I had a couple of friends I told and tried to lean on. Neither of them had been through one and couldn't relate. They tried to be there for me but didn't know how. Who does? I've been through it and I still don't know what to say or do except to admit it sucks and it hurts and you will get through it.  You'll never be the same, but you will survive. 

 

After each time, I didn't know how I would have the strength to try again. Not that we were actively trying to prevent pregnancy, but in my mind we weren't trying to get pregnant either. I had no emotional strength left. I couldn't keep doing this. 

 

At some point I gave up. I don't know when exactly it was but it happened. I fell into an acceptance that this was my life and I could be ok with it.  I write more about this and my ectopic pregnancy here.

 

I still get emails from a site I joined when I was pregnant with my son. I updated it when I was pregnant the second time and the third time. It kindly sends me updates on my child's birthday and information on their developmental stage. I'd go and delete my information from the site, but I just can't bring myself to go to it. So, I just delete the emails, take a moment to reflect on my experiences and move on. 

 

I still get a pain in my heart when I see a pregnant woman, a friend greets me with her exciting news, or a small child is near.  I recognize it but don't dwell on it. It doesn't mean I am any less happy for them. It just means it affects me on multiple levels. 

 

I'm still healing from my three losses and I am forever changed. I'm stronger, smarter, braver and so much more than I ever believed I could be. I'll forever hold those three babies in my heart. I will never have a daughter to plan a wedding with, get a pedicure, and discuss her first love. What I do have is a son that lights up my world, gives the best hugs, whose laugh is contagious and is too smart for his (and my) own good.    

 

So to you reading this, that either is or knows someone going through this type of loss, I urge you to let them know you are there. 

 

Make them a meal, take them a coffee or cookies or anything. Be an ear or a shoulder or just a person that is there. Hand them a Kleenex and make them feel comfortable being a crying mess. They may not feel like talking or even having anyone around but knowing you are willing is huge. 

 

You don't have to have "the right words" just be present. Be that person that says "This sucks and I'm here for you."

One phrase you MUST NOT SAY to an adoptive mom -- and 8 reasons why

I've heard it. You've heard it. Maybe you've said it.

You know someone. I know someone. Maybe you know 10 someones.

And yet saying it is seriously not cool.

 "As soon as you adopt, you'll get pregnant."

Ok, ok, I have an idea of what you're thinking.

"Rachel . . . seriously. Lighten up. It's just a little joke. You know, a little wink wink nudge nudge. Could you just not be so serious all the time!"

So, I take your challenge. And let me assure you, I do have a sense of humor. I'm even used to being teased. My husband is awesome at it. So is my dad. In fact, in my family, teasing IS a love language. (The first one.) So for most things, I'll let you slide. I'll even laugh a little.

But on this one thing -- could we PLEASE just stop saying this.

In case you aren't convinced still, let me tell you why I don't like it. (And to my knowledge, very few people who have adopted DO like it.)

1  -- No one likes a "know it all."

When a friend adopts a child, then announces a pregnancy later (no matter how much later), please just zip up this little phrase and keep it far from your lips.

When you say, "I just knew you'd get pregnant as soon as you adopted . . . ", you are in essence saying, "Everyone knew exactly what was going to happen to your uterus the moment you added a child to your life. Aren't you so glad you know now what the rest of us have known forever?"

Instead say, "I'm so glad *adopted baby* will be a big brother/sister."

2 -- You assume that they are adopting because they can't get pregnant.

The first time I was told this awful phrase was from a co-worker. (OK, you're still not convinced it's awful. Give me a minute.)

I had excitedly told her we were starting the process to get licensed as foster parents, with the hope of adopting. Her response?

"Now that you're adopting, you'll get pregnant."

I was TOTALLY taken aback. Our daughter Maddy was 2. We conceived her from just skipping a few birth control pills on accident. We had no losses. . .  no reason to believe that if we didn't just skip a few pills, we wouldn't be pregnant with another healthy child. In fact, I was convinced I was Mrs. Fertile Myrtle herself.

We weren't adopting because we couldn't get pregnant. We just wanted to adopt!

Instead say, "I'm so happy for you."

3 -- You take the focus off the child being adopted.

Imagine going to the hospital to meet a friend's brand-new baby. Instead of ooh'ing and ahh'ing over their precious little bundle, you say, "Now that you've had a baby, you are SOOOO going to get pregnant again right away.  It always happens. It happened to a friend's cousin I once knew."

Of course, your friend likely doesn't want to hear commentary on her fertility at that point. She just wants you to celebrate the beautiful addition to her family she has RIGHT NOW.

Instead say, "Your child is such a blessing."

4 -- Adoption is a way to add to your family. Adoption is not a fertility treatment.

"You know. We've tried IVF. We've tried ICSI, and IUs. We've run every test. We've given you every medication we can. In fact, you've had the best science has to offer at your fingertips. But -- have you ever thought about just adopting? So many women get pregnant THE MOMENT they adopt. It happened to one of my patients years ago. Come to think of it, why didn't we do that earlier and save you all the money and pain from the treatments??  Yeah . . .  So, go adopt, and see me again when you've gotten that positive pregnancy test. Consider that a prescription." -- said NO reproductive endocrinologist EVER.

If fertility doctors aren't saying it -- please -- please -- please -- don't you say it.

(Besides, adopting doesn't take away the pain of infertility either. Trust me on this one.)

Instead say, "You've had a long journey to get here. We're here for you all the way."

5 -- Adoption is not a consolation prize. And pregnancy is not First Place.

Whether you mean it to or not, this hated phrase sounds a lot like . . . "Now that you've gone through adoption, you can get what you REALLY wanted all along."

Adding to your family through adoption is not a lesser way to have a child. Neither is pregnancy the Holy Grail of family planning.

Instead say, "I love that your family chose to adopt."

6 -- Speaking of family planning, it's not really your business.

I'm guilty of this. (Although, recently, much less so.) For some reason, we think that the way others plan their family is totally our business. (It's not.)

If someone chooses to pursue pregnancy at the same time as pursuing adoption, by all means let them. (Without your commentary.)

Maybe they are adopting an older child and want to have their children spaced just-so. Maybe they weren't sure which would work out first -- adoption or pregnancy. So they were working on them both at the same time. Maybe they have a condition (me) that makes their biological clock tick much faster. Maybe they've had multiple losses while they've tried to adopt, and it just so happens that the baby they were able to keep coincided with the child they were adopting.

Instead say, "I'm here to support you as you grow your family however and whenever you choose."

7 -- It makes it sound like infertility (if they have it) is just all in their head.

Ok, I know this one is a stretch. But follow me out on this one.

The idea behind the "just adopt so you can get pregnant" philosophy is that someone has an aching need, a need so great and so big, it's self-destructive. They don't have something because they want it too much, or are just trying too hard.

And finally, once that need (aka a baby) is filled through adoption, their body magically opens itself up to more babies. Ta-da!!!

So the reason they weren't getting pregnant wasn't that they had poly-cystic ovaries. Or their husband had crappy sperm. Or their uterus was an abnormal shape. Or they had an autoimmune disorder. Or they had a chromosomal abnormality. Or their fallopian tubes were blocked.

No. None of that. It was just all in their head. Right?

Instead say, "I wish I could have spared you from all the pain you've endured on your way to growing your family."

(Please only say this if you know for a fact they've endured pain. Again, don't assume infertility unless you know for sure.)

8 -- This phrase never gives someone warm fuzzies.

Along our adoption journey, I've had this said to me every time I've gotten pregnant. I've been pregnant 4 times since we started this process -- and each baby did not make it.

Now that we will have officially adopted (as of this Tuesday), I fear that I will hear this whenever we get pregnant again in the future.

Adopting, or starting the process of adopting, did not save any one of my much-wanted babies. Having my adopted child to hold and love has NOT solved the fertility issues I now face.

If we get pregnant again, and carry to term, it will be an act of God. And will have nothing to do with adoption.

In this time of adoption -- and in the subsequent time of maybe having another biological child if God allows -- please do give me lots warm fuzzies.  And not cold pricklies.

(And if you were still confused, the "you'll get pregnant now that you've adopted" is definitely a cold prickly to me.)

Instead say, "I love your family. And am so glad to be a part of your life." And trust me, I know that you do. And I love being a part of your life, too.

Guest story: From the outside looking in

 

 

Sometimes, being a friend to someone who has lost a baby (or many babies) is a really hard thing. It's not the same kind of hard as losing your own child. But it can be difficult.

 

Just tonight I had a conversation with a pregnant friend. She, in all likelihood, will get to keep her baby. And as happy as I am for her, her pregnancy has put a strain on our relationship. Both of us are doing the best we can to meet each other where we are at. We are trying to be understanding and supportive.

 

I suppose it would be really easy to judge me, and say that I'm bitter. But I'm not. If I were bitter, I wouldn't be trying. But I am.

 

I'm grateful for the perspective anonymous has given us on what it's like to be an outsider looking in. I hope that all of us, on both sides of the coin, can learn to be more supportive and understanding of each other.

Rachel

 

 

A dear, sweet friend shared your post after her third miscarriage (2 boys, 1 girl).

 

I have never had to deal with the loss of a baby.

 

The Good Lord has blessed me with two wonderful babies. However, many of my friends have had miscarriages.

 

As an "outsider," it's hard to understand what exactly these strong women are going through. I'm just as guilty as most in thinking that "it was God's plan" and "it happened for a reason." Your story helps pave the way of beginning to understand what my friends (and other women) are going through.

 

During my second pregnancy, 2 of my friends went through miscarriages, in their first trimester. We were all 3 due within a couple weeks of each other.

 

One had a set of twin boys just 6 months old when she found out she was expecting. My other friend has had a second miscarriage, since the first, and is having problems coping. We haven't seen or spoken to each other in weeks/months, not by lack of trying on my part.

 

It's hard for me to understand why this happened when I carried and delivered mine. I hope to be more understanding towards them now and in the future, should another friend be faced with this.

Thank you for sharing your life and giving us a bit of perspective into these grieving mother's emotions. 

Kristi's Story -- A lonely journey through ectopic pregnancy

I'm honored to share Kristi's story of a loss due to ectopic pregnancy.

Her story highlights several factors that are unique to an ectopic pregnancy or other early pregnancy loss:

• A husband often feels so different than the mom about the loss because he hasn't had a chance to bond with the baby.
• His reactions are often NOT helpful to the mom, which can make the loneliness in an early loss that much more painful. (Though I admit that his actions legitimately might be helpful to him.)
• Ectopics are hard for doctors to diagnose. This is why it's so important that we moms are in tune to our bodies and demand the care we (and our babies) deserve. When something is wrong, we have to trust our instincts.
• Medical personnel often don't treat ectopic pregnancies as the loss of a baby. The lack of compassion gives off the the feeling that we are just being "drama" and that "people miscarry every day, so what's the big deal?" The lack of validation for our loss -- and, therefore, the invalidation for our grief -- creates a very tricky journey of grief to navigate.

Her story also highlights what I'm sure all of us in the pregnancy-loss camp would agree with:

• Your loss changes you in a deep and profound way. And no matter how much you want to go back in time and have things the way they always were . . . you simply can't. And that is really hard to deal with.
• Your loss opens you up to a new world . . . a world of grief. A world where babies die. And a world that will probably never feel safe to you again.

On Christmas Eve, I was finishing up work and noticed that my eyes kept getting blurry and I felt dizzy.

Earlier in the week, I had started to wonder if I could possibly be pregnant because I wasn't feeling the usual signs of menstruation about to start, and I was tired more and having some nausea. So after the blurry vision and dizziness started that night, I decided to take another pregnancy test. (I had taken one a few days earlier which was negative, but thought it might have been too early to test.)
When I saw a faint second line on the test, I was overcome with joy . . . as well as full of anxiety about how my husband would feel. I decided not to say anything to him until I saw the doctor on Monday and knew for sure. 

On Sunday, Christmas Day, the spotting began.


It seemed to take forever waiting for Monday morning to come so I could call the doctor's office.  When Monday morning came, my husband planned a last-minute trip out of town to drop off some car parts at a machine shop and maybe to stop on our way out to see one of his daughters who is pregnant. While he was loading up the van, I called the doctor's office and found out that they were closed that day.

On the way to my step-daughter's house, I suddenly had to throw up, and hung my head out of the window to do so. When we got to the house, my daughter immediately told her half-sister about mommy throwing up, and she in turn immediately asked me, "What are you, pregnant?" I just kind of brushed it off, but told her later when we were alone that I thought I might be. 

Later that day, I admitted to my husband that I could be pregnant, and as I feared, he wasn't happy about it. He was constantly being negative about it, saying that he was too old to have another baby (he was 42 and I was 34) and that he had nothing to show for his life.

When we got home, we noticed our pet guinea pig was acting funny and wouldn't eat. I called and made an emergency visit to the vet and found out that she had an obstruction probably from chewing on the string to my pajamas a few days earlier, and she might not make it.

The next morning, the vet called to tell us that the guinea pig didn't make it. Then I went to the doctor and anxiously waited in the room for the doctor to come in and tell me for sure if I was pregnant. With my husband acting the way he was, I didn't know how to feel.

When the doctor came in, I could tell she looked nervous. She told me that the urine test came back negative but would call me with the results of the blood test. I immediately started crying and told her that I wasn't sure if I wanted to be pregnant because of the way my husband was treating me. I had wanted a baby for so long and just wished he could be as happy as I was.

I left the doctor's office and went to the vet's office to pick up our dead guinea pig. The nurse called me later with the blood test result and told me that I was pregnant. According to the hCG number, I was about 5 weeks along. Because of the spotting and cramping, I had to keep having my hCG checked.

The following weekend, my husband actually came with me and my daughter to my parents' house  to celebrate Christmas (which is something he never does.) We had a good weekend . . . we bought a couple of new guinea pigs, and he seemed to be taking the pregnancy news better, even though he never talked about the baby. The spotting had stopped for most of the weekend, until it started back up on New Year's Day.

That next Wednesday, my husband was being a total jerk . . . ranting and raving about everything except what was really bothering him (which I knew was the baby), and then storming out to his shop without even saying goodbye. My cramping had gotten much worse that morning, and I finally decided that afternoon to drive myself to the ER. 

I dropped off my daughter at the shop with him and told him where I was going. I spent several hours alone in the ER waiting to have a transvaginal and abdominal ultrasound. The doctor told me that my hCG levels had been very low for as far along as I was. (The doctor's office had always told me they were rising, but I guess they were never doubling like they should.)

The woman who did the ultrasounds is an old friend of mine, and I could tell from her face that something was wrong. The doctor told me I could just not be as far along as everyone thought (which I knew exactly when I conceived), or it could be either an ectopic pregnancy or an impending miscarriage. With no solid answer, they sent me home.

That Friday, the doctor's office called and told me that my hCG dropped a little and that the doctor wanted to try another ultrasound that Monday. The weekend seemed to drag on forever waiting for Monday to come. When I had the ultrasound, once again I was told that they couldn't see anything on the sonogram, but that my cervix was still closed. The official report came back saying that there was no evidence of an ectopic, and that the radiologist believed it was consistent with an early pregnancy. 

But the next morning, while I was working, I could feel the bleeding start. I ran into the bathroom and saw that the bleeding had gotten heavier. I told my husband I believed I could be miscarrying.  He had a physical therapy appointment he was getting ready to go to for his shoulder surgery, and I told him to go ahead and go. As the bleeding continued to get heavier, I called the doctor's office and they told me to come in and get checked. 

I was devastated to hear that my cervix was now open. It was hard to listen to a baby crying in the room next to me as I waited for my hCG number to come back. My number had risen a little and was told it could be an impending miscarriage or an ectopic pregnancy, or that my pregnancy still could be viable. Again, I was told I should just go home and rest. 

When I got home, I decided to take a bath to help relax. When I got out, I started to freak out when I saw that there was blood running down my leg and that the tub was filled with blood and several clots, including one the size of my hand. I yelled for my husband to come in, and he helped me get dressed and had me lie down. 

I called the ER since the doctor's office was closed and told them what happened and what the doctor had told me. Once they heard which doctor's office I went to (the hospital and a doctor at the clinic are in the middle of a lawsuit and he is banned from the hospital), they told me that I was having a miscarriage and there was nothing they could do for me. They told me to come in if I was bleeding through more than two pads in a half an hour. 

The bleeding stopped a few hours later, but the following night, I was cramping a lot worse. I had taken a Percocet and it wasn't doing anything to help with the pain. I called the ER again and told them that my doctor told me it could be ectopic, and again (once they heard what clinic I went to), they told me that if the doctor really believed I could have an ectopic, they would have done something by now. They inisisted I should just take another Percocet.

The next day, I had another hCG drawn. I was sure that it would be 0, and that I had miscarried. Instead, I was shocked to hear that my number had gone up again. 

The next week, my hCG levels kept rising slowly, but still nothing showed on the ultrasound. My doctor referred me to a gynecologist out of town who wanted to see me the next day. He told me that there was no way that this was a viable pregnancy and that he believed it was in my right tube. He said that on the ultrasound, there was more fluid developing around that tube. The ultrasound also showed fluid behind my cervix and around both ovaries and tubes. 

I told him about all the bleeding the week before, and he was shocked about that, too. Nobody could explain what was going on. My case was not the typical ectopic. 

The doctor suggested that I have the methotrexate injection. [This is a drug that will dissolve the baby and placenta, which would help prevent further damage to the tube.]

I had to wait for the pharmacy to get it ready, so we left to go shopping and kill time for a couple of hours before wereturned. By this time, the wating room was full of pregnant women and women with new babies. I couldn't stop crying as I waited for them to call my name. 

When the nurses brought me back to the room, and I saw the sonogram machine and the chart on the wall showing the various stages of pregnancy, I bawled harder than I ever have in my life. After the nurses gave me the two injections in my hips, they let me out the back way, so I wouldn't have to see all the pregnant women again. 

I cried the whole way home. I had told my husband that it made it even harder knowing this was my last chance to have a baby. At first, he seemed to be more open to trying again, but he hasn't even touched me in so long, like he's afraid I'll get pregnant again.

 I feel so alone. Not a single day goes by that I don't think about the baby. It's my first thought upon waking and my last thought before going to sleep each night. 

Tomorrow I go back to see the doctor who gave me the methotrexate injection to have an HSG test. [This is a test where they inject die into your tubes to see how if there is any blockage.] I am anxious to find out how much damage to my tubes there has been. 

I have had two laparoscopic surgeries in the past, with lots of scar tissue, adhesions and cysts having to be removed. I developed pelvic inflamatory disease after the second surgery, so I am worried what the doctor will find. I don't know if my husband will be coming with me or not. I might be going through this alone as well. 

I just wish I could back in time before any of this ever happened. It's so hard even getting on Facebook now, especially when I see pregnancy updates from two of my step-daughters, some friends, and my husband's cousin. It seeems like every day, somebody else is announcing their pregnancy. I even had to suspend my account for awhile because it just got to be too much to bear.

I don't like this woman who I have become . . . this woman who is angry and hurting all the time . . . this woman who knows that everything that you have ever wanted can be taken from you just like that, and there's nothing you can do about it.


A word to other mommas . . .

I would tell other women going through this that they should not be afraid to let their feelings out . . . that it's okay to be angry, it's okay to be sad. I felt so bad at first that I was angry at God until I talked to my pastor, and he made me realize that it's okay and natural to be angry with God, and that "God's got big shoulders and can take it."

I also have realized that I feel a lot of guilt and anger at myself. I've realized that I sometimes blame myself for being anxious about being pregnant, that maybe somehow my fears caused it. I also have been so angry at my husband for his reaction to my pregnancy and have blamed him, but I know deep down it's not anybody else's fault that this happened, that no one caused it. 

Also, it's very important and helpful to reach out to others who have been there for help to get you through it. I feel so alone with my friends and family, because none of them have any ideas what I am going through, so the support pages on Facebook have been a godsend for me.


Thank you, Kristi, for sharing your story of your baby, and the experience of your loss. I know the loneliness of losing a baby to ectopic -- but know that you are never truly alone in this loss. Thank you for being brave in sharing your story.

I feel like every pregnancy loss story is so important and deserves to be told. If you would like to share your story, please email me at renyeart@gmail.com. We can post your story anonymously if you would prefer. 

My goal in sharing stories on this blog is:

1) To honor our beloved babies and keep their memory alive.
2) To validate and honor the grief of the moms who have lost their little one.
3) To be a resource to women who are hoping to find someone, somewhere out there, who can relate to their feelings of loss. I hope this blog will be that resource.

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?

Facebook -- I love you, and hate you. Sometimes, I really really hate you.

So -- I kinda have a love/hate relationship with Facebook.

I love it because I have connected with past friends, and seriously love some of those renewed friendships. I love seeing pictures of my nephew. I love my 2 support groups I have where I can post in the middle of the night, and I receive prayers and encouragement right then! I love having a platform to share my blog, and a way for it to spread around the world.

But then again, I also hate Facebook.

Mostly because of it's uncanny ability to set my emotions reeling so quickly and unexpectedly.

Those of you who have gone through a loss or have struggled with infertility probably know what I'm talking about . . .

The unexpected announcement of a pregnancy. Or belly pictures. Or ultrasound pictures.

I get that I'm in the stage of life where this is normal. And when I was pregnant with Olivia, I was innocently wracking my brain to figure out a fun, creative way to announce our pregnancy. (I was going to take a picture of a Starbucks' cup with our baby "order" on the side. Never quite figured out what to write -- but being in the NW, I thought it would be appropriate.)

Now, though, I am not sure  how I'll announce another pregnancy (if we have one). However I treat it, it certainly won't be the same.

Because now I know that my announcement can hurt other people.

I know that pregnancy should be innocent. That announcing a new little life should be a celebration. (As my mom said, Every life should be celebrated. No matter how long they are with us.)  But I also can't ignore this horrible feeling in my gut every time I come across a pregnancy-related post. I WANT to feel happy for that person. And no matter whether I'm happy or not, I still get this sadness that comes from deep within every single time.

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.

But I do have at least one suggestion to help those of us that are hurting . . .

Before you begin posting about your pregnancy, and you know someone who has recently gone through a loss or struggles with infertility, please let them know privately about your news before sharing on your main page.

My sister and a few friends have done this for me. And allowing me to process those feelings before it's all "public" has been very helpful for me to not get that sadness in my gut whenever they do make that big announcement ... or subsequent posts about their pregnancy.

And please give your friend your blessing if they choose not to "like," "comment" or even view your posts.

Your sensitivity and understanding will go a long way in helping those women for whom checking Facebook is akin to walking through an emotional minefield. You can really help your friend navigate those mines with just a little forethought, respect and sensitivity.

P.S. A friend who has also gone through a loss commented on Facebook that she agreed, but she has added two feelings that I want to include here because I also feel the exact same way, and wish I had included them in my original post:

1. MY pain does not and should not negate HER joy.
2. I feel awful that her blessed event evokes a reaction of extreme sadness in myself.

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.

Guest Blogger: Response to "Letter to friends with infertility"

I'm so thankful for this precious woman who has chosen to share her story, and delve more into the difficulties in infertility. If you choose to comment, please keep your comments full of love!  -- Rachel

Oh Rachel, thank you. You get infertility as much as you can. And because of that, I come away feeling validated. Validated that my pain is real. Validated that people’s words hurt me even though usually unintentionally. Validated that others could be more careful. 

I would want anyone who has ever questioned my reality to read your letter. It gives good insight about some of what I’m going through. Maybe others wouldn’t judge my actions and reactions as they do if they had any sympathy of the situation. I definitely feel like others dismiss my pain. I have to be guarded now in who I open up to because there are very callous responses from people who don’t understand. 

Just ONE of the crazy things about infertility is that while I am currently dealing with the loss of motherhood, if I ever give birth or adopt, then that loss becomes extinct. Unless a couple is actually told, “You will never have children,” they join the rest of us as we live in this in-between state. We don’t have children but we may have children. In life, we often want definites. Infertility is most certainly a shade of gray, not black or white. 

After being told we had unexplained infertility, the doctor said, “That is actually a good place to be. Because it doesn’t mean you can’t have children.”

Maybe if I were just told I would never have kids, I could just move on. I would know to grieve over never being pregnant, and then pursue other options. But instead, I live in a waiting game . . . Four years and counting. 

Another issue is how to deal with others' comments. I’ve developed a system of avoidance of painful situations like baby showers and such, but you cannot possibly plan for when someone outright asks you questions or makes comments.

After one rather traumatic interaction, I replayed the whole scenario over and over until I came up with my plan for any future issues. If the person is merely an acquaintance or is not someone I want to open up to, I will say something like, “That is a personal topic and I would not like to discuss it with you.” If they persist, I would reiterate that. If the person is closer, I might say something like, “Well, I would be willing to share with you on that if you want to get coffee sometime.” The latter will be an indication that I do not intend to discuss anything at that time or in an open setting. 

I would like to share that traumatic experience because it was so hurtful, I just need to get it out.

We were at a large gathering on a Sunday afternoon to celebrate the finalization of a baby's adoption. I was fine being there because the couple is older than us and cannot have children. I was holding the baby, when this middle-aged woman I’ll call Rosa came and sat next to me.

Rosa is from Spain, and I knew her from previous employment. She was all smiles and said something like, “When are you having a baby?” 

Because of the language barrier, I couldn’t understand if she was asking when I am due or telling me that I should get started having a family. I am a plus-sized woman, so the former would be an insulting comment regardless of my situation. (It just adds insult to injury to look pregnant because of excess weight and not be). 

I just responded, “No.” She kept asking and commenting for several more minutes, and I just kept saying, “No.” If I had been prepared, I would have told her that is a private matter and I did not want to discuss it with her.

I left that afternoon with all kinds of emotions. I was rather shocked that she continued to press the issue. I tried to tell my husband afterward that I don’t want to be around that person again, and that I was making eyes at him to come rescue me. But he had no clue.

I do try to be merciful when others make hurtful comments, as I am sure that I made many unknowingly harmful comments before I experienced infertility myself. I now find myself SO grateful when meeting new people who DON’T make comments or ask questions.  If you can see that we have no children around us and we haven’t made comments about a babysitter, then it is logical to assume we have no children. I know I will never ask someone about their family status again. I know all too well what it does. 

I do envision what a child with my husband’s and my DNA would look like. But I think, even more than that, I live in fear all the time that one of our parents will pass away without ever meeting our children, or at least one child. 

The more years that pass, the scarier and more real this fear becomes. It is very important to me. My dad’s mother died before I was a year old and I treasure the very few photos there are of her holding me. Even though I never knew her, it means a lot that she met me. I want that for my children. And every woman knows that she needs her mother more than ever when she’s pregnant. Your mom is your best comfort at that time. I would hate to not have my mom around if I ever get to experience pregnancy. 

Infertility is absolutely consuming. I can’t seem to ever shut my brain off. I’m always aware of where I am at in my cycle, when we need to try, what symptoms I’m feeling, and the many whens: when to take medicine, when to get bloodwork, and when the doctor appointments are. 

Any women that ever says they were miserably sick for nine months does not understand that I would LOVE to be miserably sick for nine months knowing that I would have a child. 

I constantly question what God wants from me. What am I doing wrong? What am I supposed to learn? Hasn’t this season lasted long enough? 

I hate this season and I don’t handle it gracefully. The longer I remain here the MORE I sin. Is God waiting for me to have no more jealousy, bitterness, faithlessness, distrust, anger, resentment,self-pity, and lack of joy before he will give me children?  If he’s waiting for that, I know I’ll never have kids. Because every day, I learn of someone else being pregnant, fight with my husband when he’s not compassionate, fear losing my parents, or question God’s best.

I also feel like I have to justify adoption. I want to adopt children. I am strongly convicted as a born-again Christian that I should care for orphans and train them to love God. I want to have a home that more and more children are added to it all the time. I look forward to a large family.

When asked why I don’t adopt right now, my answer is that it would be much easier for my husband and me to learn how to be parents from conception on. If given the opportunity, I want to take advantage of God’s design in the nine months of preparation and the growths tages of a baby.  There’s a slow transformation that takes place in natural parenting. Once we experience that, then it will be so much easier to add more and more children. I never want to have a stigma that we adopted because “we had no other choice.” I want to adopt because I want to adopt. 

I know that you will struggle with key dates having lost your baby. I struggle with dates, too. Especially my birthday.

Last year, several weeks before my birthday, whenever I thought about it, I would burst into tears, because I wanted to have several children by this age!  I am grieving that I will never have children in my 20s. The 30s are scary when it comes to fertility. Time is counting down.

And some holidays are hard, too. Family getting together at Christmas, and it’s another year passed without any grandkids. While on my husband's side, there are now four grandkids, none of whom were around when my husband and I got married. 

I do wish that every pregnant woman would realize that her pregnancy is a source of pain to others. A reminder of what they don't have. A source of jealousy about wanting to be in your place.  And bitterness when you complain about your situation.

I am a very outspoken person, and my infertility has made me understand that everything out of my mouth, on facebook, in a blog, etc., has the potential of hurting others. I HAVE learned this lesson to be careful about my joys or hurts being a stumbling block for someone else. 


If you would like to share your story of pregnancy loss or infertility, please email me your story at renyeart@gmail.com. I can post your story anonymously if you would like. I do reserve the right to edit your post for clarity.

Sweet gifts!

I have received a few very special, very thoughtful gifts in honor of our Baby Olivia.

Here are some of my favorites:

We received this kit containing an oak tree seedling to plant in honor of Baby Olivia, from my sister Sarah.

We've been faithfully taking care of it -- but we haven't seen any signs of growth until this week. More than two months of watering, and finally, new life sprouts!

This new sapling reminds me of my grief a bit -- weeks and weeks of feeling like there's not "progress" and feeling like you'll be stuck in a rut forever . . . only to have a little bit of hope burst forth unexpectedly.

Today I received this lovely necklace from a friend. It is PERFECT. I have wanted a necklace to remember Olivia by, but never found the right one. I love how tiny the footprint is because I imagine that's how tiny her feet might have been. I love that it's just a little bit longer than I normally wear my necklaces, so it falls close to my heart.

                                                         

My friend Meredith sent me this book, and it came right when I was starting to get angry at God for losing our baby. It was perfect timing. I loved reading about how Jesus also heard God tell him "no." How he, too, knew the unspeakable grief and sorrow in separation and death. How he has also felt the loneliness in grief. This book helped open my eyes to a new side of Jesus and his Father that I hadn't really seen before. And it helped me trust my Savior, and love him, even more.



Last, another favorite gift of mine was the gift of time and hard work that my sister Judy gave me. (Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures of this!)

A week after our surgery, she and her family "moved in" for a few days to take care of housework, laundry, cooking and planning Maddy's birthday party. Although I felt guilty watching her slave away at my house, it was so nice to have a clean home to recuperate in! Also, Maddy's birthday might have been a complete flop if it hadn't of been for her.

Thank you all, for the sweet, thoughtful gifts over the last 2 months!


 Here are links in case you are wanting to purchase these gifts for yourself or a friend:


Tree:  http://ww10.1800flowers.com/product.do?baseCode=4867&cm_cid=SEARCH#readmore

 Necklace:  http://www.etsy.com/listing/86335916/baby-foot-necklace-sterling-silver

Book: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_14?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=hearing+jesus+speak+into+your+sorrow+by+nancy+guthrie&sprefix=hearing+Jesus+%2Caps%2C196

Offering grace when others can't relate.

I would never, never wish the loss of a baby on anyone. However, I have been thinking lately that it would be nice if someone could borrow my pain, just for a day.

If everyone could just feel what we feel after losing a baby, just for a bit, they would be so much more understanding and compassionate to their friends who have experienced pregnancy loss. Considering 1 out of 4 women is in the pregnancy loss club -- that's a lot of woman that could be potentially be helped if their friends "got" their pain and responded appropriately.

As nice as it might be in theory, my wish is completely implausible.

In spite of it's impracticality, I've wondered how many other women have wished their friends could just borrow their pain, just for a day? How often have I been completely unaware of their particular situation, and have said painful words to them out of ignorance?

What about . . .

The woman who is fighting cancer and wishes the world understood what it's like to have to fight for every single day of life. Who longs to be there to watch her children grow, but must plan for her death. Who must give her husband permission to love and marry again if she passes away, but would give everything for the chance to grow old with him.

The woman who was molested as a child and carries with her shame, anger, and loathing for her body. She suffers in silence. She doesn't know anyone that suffered as she did . . . and doesn't know how to cross the chasm of shame to reach out for help or understanding. There never seems to be a socially acceptable time to bring up her history of sexual abuse. What would her friends think?

The woman who who politely listens to us complain how your husband never helps around the house. She wishes she could tell you how lucky you are. She's been enduring emotional abuse for years from her husband, and now has recently discovered he is having an affair. As she grapples with how to confront him, she wishes all she had to talk to him about was taking out the garbage. Everyone on the outside thinks they are the perfect couple -- how would her church and closest friends respond if they knew the truth?

The woman who struggles to hear about our pregancy loss. Our loss means we were once pregnant -- and creating and protecting the beautiful life of a baby will be something that she will never experience. She wishes she could even GET pregnant.  Since she was 5, she dreamed of becoming a mother. Her future should have been full of kids and all the joys and responsibilities they bring. Instead, every day she faces an empty house. The room that was perfect for the nursery when they bought the house all those years ago has since become a graveyard of boxes, old clothes and her husband's tools. Like her body, that room will never be a home to a beautiful, cherished little boy or girl. Her arms and heart are empty. And there is no hope for either her arms or heart to be full again.

Pregnancy loss is a very real pain that changes our life. And of course, we want everyone to understand what we are going through. But the truth is that pregnancy loss is not the ONLY pain. As we long for compassion and understanding, our friends may also be dealing with feelings they wish we could "borrow, just for a day," too.

As hard as it is when I know friends cannot relate to my loss . . . I have to realize there are other circumstances out there that are equally valid and need my compassionate response. Yes, they look and feel different than losing a baby. But that doesn't make them any less real or painful.

I hope that those of us who are now oh-so familiar with feelings of grief, loss, helplessness, anger and pain will be able to reach out with more grace, more compassion, and more understanding to those who cannot relate to our loss. Because, chances are, they might be dealing with their own hurt and pain wrapped tightly in a shroud of silence. And whether they verbalize it our not, they need our words of comfort and understanding, too.

Oh, and before you start to think that I've got this feeling compassion and offering grace thing under control, I just want you to know that I DON'T. I am a work in progress.

When the situation is what I might view as really difficult (i.e., the cancer in my first example), it is easier to feel compassionate. But when I really struggle to relate to a situation that I don't see as particularly something to get upset about, it is hard for me not to compare situations and think, "Well, at least she didn't lose a baby at the end."

I write this post mostly as a reminder to myself because I want to always choose grace, not bitterness.