Making room for gratitude -- Making room for God

Confession: 

There are 2 things I don't really love ... 

Watching TV. 

And window shopping. 

It's not that those things don't bring small pleasures in the moment. Trust me ... I love great design, especially in updated houses and darling clothes. 

But I have noticed that setting out to see things I cannot afford breeds ugly discontentment in my heart. 

Perhaps it doesn't cause it ... But like sugar with candida, it fuels discontentment's parasitic growth until I'm overcome with a desire for something I don't have. 

Suddenly all those cute summer dresses I bought last year just aren't enough for that upcoming business event. The house I have done my best to decorate on a budget just isn't stylish or functional enough. My body -- which just hours earlier felt strong and attractive as I exercised, hoisted my daughters in the air to their delight, and wrapped my husband in a bear hug -- suddenly feels less than. 

 

My muscles could use more toning. My legs are too lumpy to look good in a bikini. My hair is too thin and short. My face is too scarred from acne. My womb is too jacked up to give life to babies.

And so it goes. 

This insipid distaste for the things that once delighted me seeps in quietly, masked as ambition for more. 

When I have that promotion ...

When our income can keep up with the lifestyle I want ...

When we are in a position to buy a house ...

My spirit begins to insist that I deserve more than God has chosen to give me at this moment. It is a fool's pride.

While ambition and striving have their place (as do promotions and buying houses), my motivation must be for something greater than me. Greater than that next big thing. Greater than private school, and fun vacations, and an unlimited grocery budget. (Or shopping budget.)

There must be more room in my life. Not for more stuff. But for more gratitude. For more of God himself.

I must ask myself ...

Where is my gratitude that my family is safe and sheltered in our home when I am jealously eyeing that renovated kitchen on HGTV?

Where is my heart when I'm so keen on noticing my many flaws, instead of delighting in my good health, strong muscles and bones, and a body that enables me to do almost anything I want to do?

What would God say to me as I jealously watch others' pregnancies progress to babies, when He saved my daughter Madelyn, and blessed us undeservedly with little Leyla?

When I start nitpicking, I must chose to breathe a silent prayer of gratitude. 

Lord, even as my home doesn't reflect all that I want for it... You have provided in abundance. We are blessed beyond measure. And it helps me look forward to the home you, the ultimate designer, have created in heaven. 

Thank you for my health ... My heart that pumps blood, lungs that breathe in your fresh, foresty air, and legs that -- while lumpy -- still take me everywhere I need to go. 

Lord, thank you for allowing me to be a mom. Even as I may always struggle with my lack of fertility, thank you for bringing my husband and kids into my life. Thanks for keeping my other babies safe and happy with you in heaven while I wait to meet them. Thank you that you will use my suffering in some way to bring you glory and serve others. Thank you that my pain won't go to waste.

As I breathe in the truths of how rich I already am, I pray that you would fill me up even more with the realization of your many blessings in my life. 

May thankfulness, a spirit of abundance, and unending gratitude mark my character, and hem me in. May it keep out ugly jealousies, quiet discontent, and an attitude that tells me that you have not given me enough.

May my heart be glad ... 

Even as darling clothes call my name from behind the thick glass at that sweet little boutique.

Even as I appreciate the creativity and fabulous design that went into their granite countertops in the kitchen, beautiful soaker tub and hardwood floors. (Not to mention that fabulous backsplash!) 

May the only call for more in my heart be that of needing more of you.

Fostering-to-adopt: Our story, Part 3, The Big Reveal

For my part 3, I'm so excited that Deanna (Leyla's first foster mom) agreed to co-write this post with me.

Up until this point, our lives were very much separate. They were foster parents of a darling almost-1-year-old. We were licensed foster parents with no placement and no prospective placements, who just so happened to babysit their daughter a few times.

And then life -- OK, God -- threw us together in this crazy plot that none of us could have written on our own.

Before you continue with my Part 3 (and Deanna's Part 4), be sure to catch up on our stories.
My Part 1 and Part 2.  And Deanna's Part 1, Part 2 & Part 3.

And now . . .  the big reveal.



Deanna:  
The next part of the story has no logical order of events. It gets all jumbled up in my head when I
remember it, because I’m pretty sure it all happened simultaneously. And really fast. It happened really fast.

In January, we met a new respite family: the Lewis family. Dropping Leyla off for the first time we met Ryan and Rachel and their sweet daughter Maddy. Conversation flowed easily and we were confident in the loving care Leyla would receive in their home. It was such a treat to receive pictures and updates and an occasional question via text message while we were away. They were able to watch Leyla for us on a few more occasions that winter.

Rachel: 
 I'll never forget when the Gemmers first walked through our front door and into our lives. We talked easily enough, crowded together in our entry way by discarded coats, shoes, a huge suitcase and a tiny child strapped into an infant seat. 

Laundry was spread all over my living room (but I think it was at least folded.) I felt self-conscious suddenly. What if our home . . . what if WE . . . weren't good at this? What if we weren't enough somehow?

In spite of the copious amounts of laundry, the Gemmers never let on that they were uncomfortable leaving Leyla with us. As much as I enjoyed the small talk, I was ready to get that sweet baby into my arms. :) 

As I mentioned in my previous post, it did not take long for me to fall completely head over heels for Leyla -- and feel in my heart as though she were already mine.

Deanna:

A few days after Leyla came home from one of these respite visits, I received a call from her social
worker checking in on a few things. Before we hung up, the worker asked me how the weekend at the
Lewis’ had gone, and I just knew.

From the tone of her voice and the way she asked the question, I knew that she had the Lewis’ file on
her desk and that they were in consideration to be Leyla’s forever family.

 

Rachel: 

I had quite a bit of traveling coming up, and in between my trips, we had respite planned for Leyla. I think we had her for about 3 different visits over a few weeks.

I remember going to our MEND leadership conference in Texas, and I looked at the pictures of Leyla that I had on my phone from our visits each night before I went to sleep. I was smitten. I was pretty much counting the days until she could be with us again.

Ryan decided to take the First Placement class that we needed to take to keep our license current. Sigh -- more training. At least this time, we both didn't have to take it. Which freed me up to work my business, and take care of my traveling. 

 

Deanna:

During this time between respites, I was taking a 36-hour class required for our foster license and,
though most of it was very interesting, it little had to do with the baby in our care. So I spent a lot of
time in class cross-stitching, listening, and thinking about our sweet girl.

One night I went home and suggested to Darin that maybe we shouldn't keep Leyla until she was legally free. That every day she was reaching new exciting milestones and wouldn't her forever family be sad that they missed them? That every day she was becoming more attached to us, and wouldn't that make things harder on her in the long run? That maybe there would be a family out there willing to take the risk and take her now?*

Turns out Ryan Lewis was in that 36-hour class with me. Even though I didn’t have any official
information, my gut knew that their file was on our worker’s desk. I knew that they were a lovely family. I knew that we had connected. I knew bits and pieces of their story of infertility and loss. I knew they were completely smitten with Leyla. I knew they had an empty crib.

I wondered what God was doing.

*Leyla was not yet legally free, and wouldn’t be for quite a few more months. This meant that while
adoption was looking likely, there was still a chance the biological parents would be given more time, a smaller chance that would be granted custody, and still opportunities for a relative caregiver to come forward.

Rachel: 

The night I got home from my trip, I was sitting at my computer. I'll seriously never forget this moment. You know how you remember exactly where you were when you found out Princess Diana died? OK, kinda like that. Except . . . no one died. But the memory is seriously vivid.

It was really late at night. Ryan was about to head to bed. He had just finished his foster care class. And then, he drops a bombshell on me.

Deanna: 

I really wanted to stay quiet, I really did. I asked God to hold my tongue and let him work. But I also
didn’t want this amazing family to get away. I knew I didn’t get to choose Leyla’s family, but I really
wanted it to be this one. And so when I look back I don’t know if what I did next was right, but it is what it is.

I don’t remember the specifics of the conversation, but after class one night as Ryan and I were chatting, I told him that Leyla was likely headed towards adoption, but that our family was going to continue to do foster care, and therefore were not available to adopt. We left it at that, but I knew a seed had been planted.

The phone call I received from Rachel within hours of my conversation with Ryan confirmed that.

 

Rachel:

"So, uh, the Gemmers are not adopting Leyla," Ryan mentions before he heads to bed after a long night at training.

Shock. Silence. A billion questions at once. And then tears. Lots and lots of tears.

 

Someone might have thought someone had died. But they hadn't. 

 

I cried for Leyla. I cried for this little girl who had already lost once, and would lose again. I wondered how she could cope, being away from the only family she ever knew. The loss of a second family was too much it seemed for someone so young, vulnerable and small. 

 

I never judged the Gemmers. Not once. But boy did I mourn for Leyla. 

Since Ryan could not answer any one of my billion questions, I called Deanna just as soon as I could. I can't remember if it was that night, or the next morning. But I knew that yesterday wouldn't have been soon enough.

I didn't know what the plan was for this baby. But I knew I wanted to be a part of it.

I needed to know why they weren't going to adopt. 

And then, I wanted to know if we could.

 

Deanna:

We met up for coffee a day or two later and while carefully skirting the line between sharing
information, and keeping confidential things that were meant to be confidential, I told her much of our journey, and she shared a lot of hers. I told her that it would be a risk to take Leyla with the hopes of adoption, but I also shared my reasons for feeling now would be the right time for her to move.

 

Rachel:  

We met at Starbucks. Deanna came in her adorable yellow peacoat. She was so put together, so immaculate. Even as I tried to smear my makeup on in an acceptable manner that morning, I still felt disheveled. It was not so much an outward thing, I don't think. It was more like I was having the most important interview I would ever have, for a job "title" that one does not normally interview for. How could one ever feel prepared enough to talk to the current mom of the baby you hope to adopt?

We discussed as much as we could legally without crossing any lines. It's hard in foster care, because until you're "in" . . . there is so much you are not allowed to know. 

I remember she had a friend sitting at a table next to us. She introduced us, and the whole thing felt awkward. How does one say, "Hi, I'm Rachel, and I'm trying to learn from your friend here if we might be able to adopt her baby." Deanna instead introduced me as a new friend, and the old friend had no idea what Deanna and I were up to.

I think I drilled Deanna on everything that I could. And she answered guardedly when necessary, openly when allowed. I learned why they weren't adopting. I shared with her my stories of loss. It turned out, we had lots in common. And (I think) we just generally liked each other, and were excited at the prospect of what God seemed to be up to.

But everything still rested in the hands of our social workers. And until our social workers officially asked us to adopt, our hopes and plans could have been for nothing.

Deanna:

The next few weeks are sort of a blur, but basically our agency and our social workers were clued in that Rachel and I were on the same page. There were so many conversations that I really can’t tell you how it all went down. Maybe Rachel remembers?

 

Rachel:

Yep. I  remember. For about a week, I knew the Gemmers weren't adopting, and I was hoping for a call from our social worker. Meanwhile, Ryan and I were already thick in the throes of deciding whether we would adopt if we were given the opportunity to do so. We had our dear friends and family praying a TON about it.

I was in the bathroom, getting ready for the morning, when our social worker called. She let us know that the Gemmers wouldn't be adopting, which I already knew. She asked if we would consider taking in Leyla now, with the goal of adoption if the parental rights were relinquished.  (YESSS!!!!)

I gave her all the right answers, like "We'll have a lot of questions we need to discuss with you." And "Ryan and I will have to do a lot of talking and praying." The truth is, I really could have given her an answer right then. Ryan and I had already decided that we would be Leyla's potential adoptive parents, and were ready to take her in. But I didn't want to sound like I was making a casual decision. And Ryan and I did decide that we would hear ALL the details on the case first before we gave our final decision.

We were invited to come to a meeting with all the players in her case where we would go over all the details on her case, as well as her prognosis and any medical issues or delays she might have.

Deanna:
I do remember one final hurdle before the Lewises fully committed (although I was pretty sure it was just a formality at this point), was a big meeting at my house. It was Leyla’s 6-month review with the Holly Ridge Center and their birth-through-3 early intervention program. This was my status update that afternoon:
 

It was a great meeting where we were able to celebrate the amazing progress that Leyla was making,
and address some of the new challenges we were facing.

And ultimately the meeting gave the Rachel the confidence to know that she had the skills and the
support to mother Leyla well.

I already knew she had the love.

She’d had it from the first day she met her.
 

Rachel: 

Sitting in the Gemmer's home, surrounded by strangers with a little girl playing at my feet, was a very surreal experience. I listened to all the experts (the Gemmers, of course, and the physical therapist.) I learned fully of her background and prognosis. As many questions as I could come up with, they disclosed as much as they knew. 

And at the end of the meeting, I told them.

"We want to be Leyla's parents. And we're willing to take her in now."

The only thing that was left was to tell Leyla's biological parents of her move into her home. And to plan out her move into our home over the next few weeks.

 Keep posted for Parts 4 & 5: Transition.

 

  

You are not super mom. (And that's a really good thing.)

I am not super mom.

I am not super mom.

I am not super mom.

Not that I've been accused lately of actually BEING super mom. Ummm . . . I don't think that's ever happened. Or is ever likely to happen.

But more often than I can count, there has been a voice telling me I am NOT super mom . . . not like I should be.

It is a familiar voice. Someone that I respect, I love and I hold dear. Someone I hold to be a voice of wisdom. Someone who has a close relationship with God. Someone who knows what it's like to be a good mom. Someone who loves my family dearly, and wants to see me succeed.

Today when I had friends over for a play date, and my sink was full of dirty dishes and margarita glasses from last night's Arbonne event, that voice gently prodded at me. "You are not super mom . . . "

When my mini-guests discovered my room (aka, The Place of Utter Disaster), and their moms had to go in and retrieve them, I heard it a little more forcefully . .  "You are not super mom . . ."

When the friend I had invited to dinner at 5 had to wait until 6:30 to actually eat said dinner, I remember "I am not super mom . . ."

At 3 am this morning, when my daughter came in multiple times -- afraid of bugs, monsters and lights through her window, and I respond much more grumpily than I would have at a more decent hour (10 am would have been amazing), it chirps up. "You are not super mom . . . "

When I am late to an appointment.

When I realize that the cup half-full of smoothie is STILL in the cupholder in the car (from a few days ago) and has now crusted over (ewww).

When I cringe at someone looking in my minivan simply because I cannot keep it clear of toys, food crumbs, mismatched shoes and socks, and apparently, 2 pair of Maddy's panties. (??!?!?) 

When my kids are driving me nuts, and are willfully disobedient, and the feelings I have at that moment more closely resemble feelings of hate than feelings of love. 

When I raise my voice, threaten to spank (or actually do spank), and discipline in anger.

When I remember that I still haven't given little B's foster mom his jacket back -- 2 weeks late.

When I am short with Leyla after constant screaming and sibling bickering. (Her screaming of course. Not mine. Although I'm seriously thinking of starting.)

When I remember that one special parenting tip the social worker (or behavior specialist or viral blog) gave me that would have been PERFECT for the situation at hand --- but I remember 10 minutes too late.

When I take some time to myself and mommy guilt sets in because I'm not being productive.

The voice is relentless . . . "I am not super mom . . . not like I should be."


In short . . . I fail. A lot. Like really a lot.

I yell more than I should. My house gets messier than I think it should, for longer than I thought we could ever live like that.

 If I plan a fun activity for the kids, I think I should be home cleaning. And vice versa. 

There are days where my priorities are crap. I'll get a whole bunch of Facebook posts in, but miss out on personal development, reading my Bible, or even just spending 15 minutes of face time in with my hubby.

For everything I do -- something else goes undone.

If you see my house clean, it probably means that I procrastinated all day on cleaning it, and had a crazy flurry of activity literally counting the minutes till you arrive. It also means that some part of my house is terribly NOT clean, because I can't get it all together. One room goes to pot, always. It's not a matter of if -- just which room I can afford to have go to pot.

If one bathroom is clean, chances are the other is not.

If my laundry room is clear, then my room is overflowing with clean laundry I'll affectionately refer to as "Mt. Washmore."

If I look cute and ready for an Arbonne event, chances are my kids watched WAAAAY too much TV that day. (Oh, hello Dora. Again. I'm so glad you are considered "educational." Maybe if my kids start walking around saying "hola" and "gracias" I'll feel so much better about the inordinate amount of time my kids spend with you.)

Either I let my kids watch cartoons every morning with breakfast so I can get a workout in. Or I sit with them and try to have an intellectual conversation (ha!) over the first of our three meals together. (Which, to be honest, usually results in me fixing them first, then seconds, then thirds before I even have a chance to get a bite in. So much for eating together.)

Either I spend time working my Arbonne business and contribute to our family income, or I organize a craft for my kids that I learned about on Pintrest.

And for right now, either I get up and clean the dinner dishes NOW so I don't have to do them tomorrow -- or I sit, and take 30 minutes for my blog to honor my children gone too soon.

I chose to blog. 

And my very worst critic sees it all.

She questions my decisions, as though they were easy to make. She compares my actions against the actions of my friends, or worse, those of my own mom. She is kind enough to recognize when I get it right. But even as I hear her extend grace upon grace to friends, acquaintances and even strangers -- she is stingy with that grace toward me.  

She is so quick to remind me that I am not the mom I wanted to be. That I am not super mom.

She --  is me.

I can't get away from me. I see it all. Where I get it right. And where I get it horribly, horribly wrong. I have a crap memory of the times I get it right, and a fantastic, picture-perfect memory of the times I've gotten it wrong.

I want to say it's just me that struggles with this. I want to be alone in this. 

But in these days of Facebook, Pintrest and Twitter -- where it seems everyone is changing the world, perfectly coiffed, with well-behaved children and a designer house -- chances are I'm not alone.

Maybe you keep hearing your own voice. Maybe you are quick to notice your mistakes, quick to give others grace but dole out only small parts of grace for yourself. Maybe what you look like, feel like, and act like doesn't always match up with how you feel you SHOULD look like, feel like and act like. Maybe you struggle second-guessing yourself after you make choice after choice for your family.



I'm calling it. I'm calling it for me. And calling it for you.

I am not super mom. You are not super mom.

And you know what?

We were never meant to be.


We have the privilege of being moms. Some of us have living children. Some of us are mothering our children gone too soon. And some of us are doing both.

Every day we have a million choices set in front of us. 

Sometimes I make choices and I feel like I totally made the right one.

But most choices fall into the gray area. Each option is a good option. Or both choices are bad options. Or -- MOST LIKELY -- each choice has some good and some bad in it.

And so you, and me, us normal, totally NOT-SUPER MOMS, do our best to navigate our days. We do our best to honor our kids, our families, our priorities and even ourselves.

But we don't always get it right. We are reminded daily of just how normal we are. Sometimes that pesky voice comes chirping up reminding us of our shortcomings.

Today, I'm talking right back to her. I'm tired of listening to the should haves, and would haves, and if onlys.  I'm tired of pretending that I've got all my stuff together.

Hear me on this. I do NOT have all my stuff together.

But here's what I have right. And trust me on this: You do too.

You love your kid. You love your family. And you love yourself, even if it's hard for you to show it sometimes.

You are doing way better than any of us had expected of you. And even if you feel like you are failing, we are all looking to you with admiration for your many, many strengths. We secretly want to be a little more like you in good ways. We learn from you, learn how to love, or organize, or run a business, or make cute crafts, or coordinate a fancy party, or plant a garden, or write a blog, or take photos, or wow our in-laws with a delicious meal.

You bring something to the table NO ONE ELSE COULD.

You are fantastic gift to your kids. To your husband. And to yourself.

The truth is, even though you're not a super mom -- you sure are amazing.

And in case you were still wondering, there's this really amazing part to not being a super mom.

When your daughter grows up, she won't have to be a super mom either.

She will know the gift of accepting her beautiful, amazing, un-super self . . . because you gave yourself the gift of accepting your own beautiful, amazing and un-super self.

Today, momma, LOVE ON YOU.

It's the best gift you could give your family.

And if you WERE super mom, it's the gift she'd give them too.

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

 

If I could say one thing

If I could say one thing to a health care worker, it would be this:

Just because a loss before 12 weeks is common in your experience, it doesn't mean it is common in mine. This was my baby, my once-in-a-lifetime baby that I loved. Please stop treating me as though my loss is no-big-deal. Do not "save" the grief support and pregnancy loss resources for women who have lost a child later in gestation. They need support, absolutely. But so do I. Treat me as though I have lost a child. Because I have.


If I could say one thing to family:

Please don't try to fix me. This is an unfixable situation. My baby died, and she isn't coming back. The old me is gone, and I'm trying to find the new me. Love me right where I am. Be patient with me. Let me find my way through grief in my own way, but not alone. Know that right now, I need your full support more than ever. I need to know that you will help me, nurture me and love on me, right where I am. Just please, don't try to fix me. I'm hurting, not broken.


If I could say one thing to strangers:

I know my actions don't always make sense right now. I know I seem a bit off, or angry or snippy or sad. I know that I'm not measuring up to what "normal" people do. If we had time, and we were both so inclined, I might sit you down and tell you a story. I'd tell you about my baby. My dreams, hopes and plans. I'd tell you how he died. I'd tell you of the emptiness I feel in my heart every day since then. And then, you would know exactly why I behave as though I do. But we will never have that conversation. So please, excuse my attitude or behavior, even if it doesn't make sense to you. And if you are so generous -- say a little prayer for me.


If I could say one thing to medical billers:

I know this is just your job. Your work revolves around codes for this and insurance plans for that. I understand that maybe, right now, I may just be a number to you. My emergency surgery for you is wrapped up in a series of codes you have to go through and charge: Anesthesia, sutures, laparoscopy, surgeon fees, etc. My emergency surgery for me is wrapped up in a series of traumatic memories: wondering if I will wake up after surgery, knowing my baby died in the onslaught of blood, getting wheeled helplessly into a sterile room. As you talk codes with me, and explain bills, please know that I don't speak your lingo. Remember that I am living through grief, and my head can barely wrap around life without my child -- let alone why you are billing separately for this or that. Please, be gracious with me. Take lots of time, and be compassionate in your response. Please remember that I, nor my baby, are just a number.


If I could say one thing to my pregnant friends:

I am happy for you. I really, really, really am. Even if I burst into tears when you tell me you're pregnant. Even if I go on a 9-month hiatus. Even if I never ask you how your pregnancy is progressing. I am STILL happy for you. But I hurt for me. Sometimes, I don't know how to handle two feelings that seem so at odds with each other. Sometimes I do it well, and others times -- well, other times, I just plain suck at it. But no matter how things go from here -- please know that I know every baby is a blessing. Your baby is a blessing. And I really, really am happy. Even if I don't know how to show it.


If I could say one thing to my nurses:

Please read my chart. And by that, I don't just mean read it. I mean study it as though your life depended on it. Please don't come in to my room chipper and happy, talking about the weather, when it's clearly written on my chart that this is a post-miscarriage follow-up. Don't ask about nursing when in fact my baby has died. Please don't ask me to go through my losses all over again when it is clearly written in the chart. Sitting in your office is full of grief triggers and traumatic memories. Please show kindness and compassion by understanding my history before entering my room. Your few minutes of preparation can make this already difficult visit for me go by more smoothly.


If I could say one thing to my friends:

Thank you for being my friend. Please know I need YOU now, more than any other time. I don't need your answers, I don't need your ideas, and I don't need your platitudes. I just need you, and your very real, very tangible love. I need your arms around me, holding me up. I need your help getting my bathroom cleaned when I can barely get out of bed. I need you to take me to coffee (or bring it to me), and let me tell you every single thing about my baby. Or I need you just to sit as I stare into the swirling creamy blackness as I am so overcome by emotion that I can't utter a single word.  Even though you may not recognize me these days, please don't leave me. I really, really, really need you.


If I could say one thing to my husband:

I'm so sorry. I know you know that. We both know it wasn't my fault. And yet the guilt just keeps eating at me. I'm sorry our baby died. I'm sorry I'm no longer the wife you recognize, and you are no longer the husband I've grown to love. We both changed, so quickly, in just that one instant. Sometimes it is easiest to talk with others. It is hardest to talk with you. To tell you how much I hurt. How much I regret. How much I wish things were different. Because I know you are there, too, in your own way. Hurting so much, but trying to carry me as well. Things may be different now. Maybe they always will be. But I love you. I need you. And I'm committed to finding the "new us" in the midst of the loss of our beloved child.


This is what I would say -- if I could just say one thing.

What would you say?

Pam's Story: When becoming a mother is just out of reach

Pam, thanks so much for opening our eyes to this "kind" of childlessness. Whether it's due to biological issues or circumstantial, the truth is so many of us truly don't have the fertility we had hoped for a planned for. I hope that your waiting time won't be too much longer. Love, Rachel


In the world of women who struggle to have children they fall into at least 3 popular categories: infertility, pregnancy loss, and adoption/fostering. 

But there's another group. I hesitate to shine a line it because I don't think anyone ever has. No one I know has mentioned it. Google doesn't seem to be aware of it. And honestly I feel like I stand alone in the category. The only reason I'm writing this is so that someone else who feels alone can know they're not. I'm talking about the women who struggle to have children because they have no opportunity to even try.

 

They don't have a partner or the financial means to attempt single parenthood. 

I've always known that I wanted children. Even when I've gone through times when I've wondered where I belong, what my purpose is, I've never doubted that I born to be a parent. In the past two years that desire has only grown. I guess the whole biological clock theory is true, because it's ticking so loud that it keeps me up at night. 

 

If you research single women who want to have a baby, you will find endless blogs/articles all ending in endorsement of insemination, surrogacy, and adoption. Well, that's great if you have thousands of dollars to attempt those possibilities. Not to mention the cost of raising a child alone. But what are the options if you can't afford it? 

 

I'm a college-educated millennial who is still waiting for the economy to recover. I'm just thankful I'm able to afford to live alone. 

 

Then there's the issue of being single.  As great as it is, the fact is if you want to start a family with someone, you gotta find them first. 

 

I don't want anyone to think that I'm 'baby crazy', or that this is a self-indulgent rant, or that I've unrealistically romanticized the idea of having children. I already have a full and wonderful life. I don't need another person(s) to complete me. And I'm sure at some point I'll miss this time in my life. But there are moments . . .

 

They normally come at baby showers and Mother's Day. These are times when I feel like the odd one out and I just want to scream, "Hey! I would be a mother too if it were up to me!"

 

Then there are the moments that sneak up on me. Like shopping for a friend's baby and being surrounded by precious baby items that I have no use for. It weighs on me to the point where I try to hurry to get out before tears surface. Or the Friday before Mother's Day and a new coworker says "Happy Mother's Day" to me in passing. I just have to smile and return the greeting.

 

I always thought I would start having babies in my mid-late twenties. Waiting until later in life was never something I considered. Recently it dawned on me, I'm 28. The odds of meeting the right person, getting married, and getting pregnant in less than two years is . . . slim. 

 

I don't want to have a baby just for me. But for my parents before they get too old to enjoy having their grandchild for a day. For my sister who would endlessly love her nephew or niece. For my nephew so he can have a cousin. 

 

So, now that this is out in the open . . . now what? I wait. I faithfully wait. I'm depending on God to have a perfect plan. All I can do is keep my eyes, ears, and heart open as He slowly reveals the plan to me. 

 

Jeremiah 29:11 "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans for good, not disaster. Plans to give you a hope and a future."

Rachel's Story: Stillbirth at 21 weeks to Turner Syndrome

Rachel, thanks for sharing your story of Bethanne's short life. I hope your story helps others reach out when a mom and dad are grieving the loss of their little one. Much love, Rachel L.

I don’t generally get involved with the various “awareness” months. However, there is one that is very dear to my heart. October 15th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. Ten years ago, Matt and I lost our first baby girl to Turner syndrome. She was born still at 21 weeks gestation. The list of my friends and family who have had pregnancy or infant loss is very long. All of you are in my thoughts and prayers today. If you have someone in your life who has had or is going through this trial, hug them and tell them you love them. Don’t spout platitudes. Just be there for them. They need your love and support. No matter how long it’s been, they have not forgotten the pain. Talking with them about it will not cause them more pain. They will be grateful that someone remembers their little ones. Our babies are gone, but never forgotten.

Here is my story. I pray Bethanne’s short life will be an encouragement to you.

Ten years ago, on February 25th, Matt and I were waiting with great excitement for our big ultrasound. I was 20 weeks pregnant and had just started wearing maternity clothes, even though I didn’t really need them yet. We had our VHS tape in hand and couldn’t wait to find out if this was a little girl or boy.

When they started the ultrasound, I knew the tech wasn’t allowed to tell us anything good or bad, except the gender. So, I waited and watched. I knew from friends that they would measure the limbs, get a good look at the internal organs, and other body parts. We listened to the heartbeat. Then the tech excused herself. I began to worry a little bit. My OB had told me that we would talk about the results at my next visit. If there was anything that needed watching she’d call, and if anything was badly wrong she’d meet us there in the room.

The tech came back with the doc that oversaw the radiology lab. They turned the screen and whispered and pointed. The doc agreed with whatever the tech had seen and told us that our OB would be there in a few minutes. They left so I could get dressed. I told Matt something was wrong. This was not good. I called my dad on my cellphone and asked him to pray. I sat on Matt’s lap with tears in my eyes as we waited for the OB.



To finish reading Rachel's Story, click on over to her blog: A daughter of the reformation

Republished with permission from the author.