Into the fog

In December, a fog settled in.

It doesn't want to leave.

When I look back to last month, it feels a little surreal. Like I wasn't really present for it -- even though I know I was. And I know certain days felt hard. But certain days were good, too. Even still, depression was with me no matter what my circumstance was each day. It has become a constant friend.

My sister and her family came for a few weeks, and I had quite a bit of time with them. And really, that was last month's only saving grace. The only light shining through the fog, helping me stay on course.

As the new year approached, I was dreading it. Sure, it's a new start. But I remember having hope that 2012 would HAVE to be better than 2011. And now I looked to 2013 realizing I am even more broken than before.

Grief has compounded so I don't even know what I'm grieving anymore -- or who I'm grieving for. I just know that I'm broken. I cry almost every day. And nights are especially hard.

January has felt somewhat better than December. But only by a smidge.

I honestly thought I'd be doing better by now. I THINK my anti-depressants are helping. But I also think they are causing more anxiety, just as they did last time I was on them.

I feel like I'm juggling 20 balls in the air -- with a broken arm and a patch on one eye. I feel emotionally handicapped and unable to function normally.

I don't mean to be a Debbie-downer. I don't mean to say that my life is horrible and you should feel sorry for me. I just seriously don't know how to function right now.

I am trying to make some changes that hopefully will help. First, of course, is starting the anti-depressants. I'm just finishing my first month -- so I know that it still might take a while to fully feel the effects.

I've decided to take a break from Facebook for a while. I think I'm addicted to checking it, and I'm on it far too much. It's become a crutch. I told Ryan today I think it's like the woman's version of video games. Gaming fulfills a need in a guy to conquer -- Facebook "fills" a woman's need to connect and feel important.

I put "fills" in quotes because I don't really think my life is all that much better now that I have Facebook. I don't feel "fulfilled" after time on Facebook. I would certainly argue that having it available 24/7 on my phone has actually made life less enjoyable. I feel a compulsive need to check it. I check it while I'm with other people. I check it while eating breakfast with Maddy. I check it while watching movies with Ryan.

I remember my life before my smartphone, and I actually remember being more present with people. How much better it would be for me to focus on talking with Maddy during breakfast than browsing my newsfeed and reading about what everyone else is having for breakfast and doing with THEIR kids.

Recently, I thought -- man, I'm glad my mom never had a phone in her hands all the time. I'm glad when I was a kid I didn't have to compete with a device.

Maddy should never have to compete with a device.

Not that FB has been ALL bad. Or that I regret everything about it. But I do regret how dependent I am on it. I want to reclaim my life pre-smart phone.

In addition to a phone/FB fast, Ryan and I have decided to go church shopping.

No, there hasn't been some scandal to spawn this change. I just need a change. I need to be fed. I need to connect and belong. And I need to have some say over where I want to do that.

As a family, we had been contemplating this change for several months, half-committed to looking, and half-committed to staying because staying is always easier. Really, the last thing keeping me tied to our church was singing on the worship team. I loved being a part of the worship team. Singing with them is the only thing that ever made me feel like I belonged.

In December I was asked to step down from the worship team because I was not faithfully attending the services. At the time, it hurt. But now I see that maybe it was God's way of severing that last little tie binding me to a church that maybe isn't the best fit.

So -- for the first time in a LONG time, I don't have a church to call "home." That makes me both sad, and a little excited.

It seems to me that the more I experience life, the less I realize things are either ALL bad or ALL good. Usually there's just enough of the good in the bad to make you wonder if it's really bad. And there's usually just enough bad in something good to make you wonder if it's good enough.

I digress.

In addition to the other changes, I've been reading some good books. I'm reading "Love & Logic," which I'm enjoying. It's important to me that I raise an emotionally healthy child. I think I'll try the "emotionally intelligent child" book after I finish this one. Although Madelyn has gotten much easier  to parent as she's gotten older -- she is still definitely a high-needs, high-attention child with insomniac tendencies, a strong will and a short fuse.

As sweet as she is, she's still a tough cookie to parent.

I also read "To Heaven and Back" which I would recommend. It's about a surgeon's near-death experience. I used to not put much stock in near-death experiences -- but after reading "Heaven is for Real" and learning about my own grandma's experience when she died last year and was revived, I'm much more of a believer. I have found much comfort in knowing that death in itself is not something to be feared. The author has also experienced the loss of a child. So I could relate.

I'm seeing my therapist more. For a while I felt like we were just going in circles -- we'd talk through everything that happened the previous week -- which was needed -- but I felt like I wasn't making any headway on tackling my bigger issues like anxiety, depression and low-self-confidence.

We've come up with a game-plan to manage our time together better. I'm hoping I'll make some more headway soon. She's a really amazing person, and I'm so very thankful to have her to talk with every week.

One last thing that's been helpful. We had the chance to watch a precious little baby last weekend. It was so amazing. I told Ryan it was the happiest I can remember being in the last year. He told me that it was the most stressful (ha ha!). 

I will say I slept HORRIBLY that weekend. Not because of her -- she was a great sleeper. It was me, worrying that she'd stop breathing, or something would happen to her while I slept. So only got between 3-4 hours of interrupted sleep a night while she was with us.

Even still, having her was the best.

I know that saying I NEED to nurture a baby doesn't always compute with people, or even with myself. I remind myself that all my basic human needs are met -- and that I have Maddy to nurture.

But sometimes you don't always know you need something until it's been satiated.

You know that feeling when you've been starving all day, you sit down to a feast of deliciousness, and that hunger is finally satiated with absolute contentment? That's how I felt rocking and singing a baby to sleep. Totally filled up and at peace.

We might be able to watch this baby again in a few weeks, and I simply can't wait. It's one of the few things I feel like I have to look forward to.

Ryan and I have to decide this month if we are going to try for our own baby, or if we are going to wait for foster care. I know it's in God's hands whether we conceive or not. But if we are going to have a placement soon, I don't want to complicate that by being pregnant already or by going through another loss.

Sometimes it feels like neither decision is the right one.

So -- if you're  of the praying sort, please pray for God's wisdom for us. Pray that I can navigate the fog, and for Ryan's patience as I try to get through it. (He, by the way, has been very good to me through this.)  Pray that God either fills this need in me or takes it away. Pray that God would protect me from another loss, because I don't know how I could handle it. Or just pray for us in whatever way God leads.

Love to you all. And sorry for the uber-long post. Brevity isn't a strength of mine. :)

Rachel

Making peace

Pregnant with Maddy.
Is it even possible to look back at a picture of yourself and be jealous?
It must be. Because that's how I feel sometimes. I'd give anything to be her again.
She had no idea how good she had it.

I'm not sure what to make of my pregnancy history these days.

Before this season in life (aka loss and possible fertility issues), I had a very difficult pregnancy. At the time, I thought it was the worst pregnancy you could ask for.

Morning sickness for 9 months, a miscarriage scare, threatened premature labor, bed rest, preeclampsia, HELLP syndrome, heart rate issues for baby, emergency c-section, symptoms of ptsd, postpartum depression + horrible acid reflux in baby = one stressed out momma.

Then 2012 happened.

I realize now that my pregnancy history really could have been worse. Much worse. I could have left my first pregnancy with empty arms. Or I could have not had the experience at all.

I could have not been a mother.

I could have been a mother by definition only -- but be denied the very act of mothering my child.

Every memory in the last four years could have simply never been. Just like that.

Just. Like. That.

Before Olivia, I looked at my pregnancy with Madelyn and felt mostly fear. What if I had died? What if she had died?

Now I feel mostly shame.

I hadn't wanted to be pregnant. Not yet. When the test came back positive, I cried like a baby, and blubbered some incoherent nonsense to Ryan. "We're going to have a boy, I know it. He'll grow up, and when he's a teen, he'll get a girl pregnant, and then we'll have a teenage pregnancy on our hands. What in the world will we do then?!?"

Yes. Those were my real (oh-so-rational) words.

(Any wonder why I don't think it's a good idea to make life or death decisions when pregnancy hormones are ridiculously raging?)

I didn't understand why God chose me for this baby. Or more specifically, why God chose THIS baby for me at THIS particular time. When so many women were infertile -- when more than anything they wanted a baby -- why "bless" me with a pregnancy when it really wasn't wanted?

I don't relay my initial reaction to you with pride. Instead, I'm ashamed of how I felt.

I'm ashamed at the time I spent complaining instead of thanking God for His miracle. I hate that it all felt wrong because of the timing -- never stopping to appreciate that Madelyn might have been my ONLY time to have a baby. I saw mostly the negative -- and very little of the good.

And the shame shadows many more memories. All my complaints, all my ignorant comments. All along knowing other people had miscarriages -- other people struggled with infertility. But I always acted in denial that said people could actually be my friends, my clients, or my coworkers.

I guess I assumed that if someone struggled with infertility or pregnancy loss, then I would know about it. Maybe I thought they'd announce it in the weekly staff meeting just as one announces a healthy pregnancy. Maybe I thought they'd wear t-shirts that said "I'm infertile. Be sensitive." Maybe I just thought I'd have a sixth sense and just KNOW when I was around someone who struggled with pregnancy.

But they didn't announce. They didn't wear the t-shirt. And my sixth sense was nonsense.

The truth was, these people were an invisible people.

And until my loss, I never knew how many invisible people there truly were.

At my Arbonne parties, I was occasionally asked if I had tried our supplements.  Before I became aware of these invisible people, I would quip, "Oh, I'm just awful at taking pills. That's why I have a baby!"

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Usually people would laugh. Or at least smile. But now I wonder... How many of those laughs were simply out of courtesy? How many women smiled on the outside, inwardly holding in tears, raging anger, or the saddest sort of jealousy for me? How many of them excused themselves to the bathroom for some solitude? How many others fought the urge to flee the "in-your-faceness" of my fertility?

How many women stared at my belly as I complained about nausea, acne, sciatic pain, bed rest, contractions, awful medicine and so on . . . willing their bodies to trade places with mine just to have their very own child?

My most shameful memory happened at Christmas. A few girls and I got together to celebrate. I knew very well that the hostess who had organized the party had been trying for a few years for a baby. Well, in my most brilliant moment (absolute sarcasm there), I figured we should talk about pregnancy since having a baby was clearly on this girls' mind.

Poor thing. I can only imagine how she must felt as we regaled our pregnancy histories and horror stories, all while she just sat there taking it all in.

I wonder now if she felt like a hostage in her own house. Sitting there silent while I imagine holding in a assault of emotions that batter her soul. And yet in her politeness and friendship, she said nothing.

If I had been in her shoes, I don't know if I would have been as gracious as she was.

I have never asked how she endured the evening. I did, however, apologize once I was on the other side of (in)fertility and ask for her forgiveness. She was very gracious to grant it.

As a Christian, I know shame is not to be a part of my life. Repentance for wrongdoing -- absolutely. But God does not call us to shame.

Nor does He call me to look back on all of my memories of my pregnancy wondering if, why, how and who, beating myself up for every hurt -- real or imagined.

I wish I could take every insensitive word or action away . . .  but I can't. I  wish I could have understood others' pain without personally experiencing it . . . but I couldn't. I want others to understand the deep sadness I feel, but they don't. Not unless they have walked through infertility or loss. And I would never wish that on them.

I cannot be bitter at others for not getting it -- because I didn't get it. Neither should I make myself relive every moment of past insensitivity and pour condemnation on myself. God had intended my pregnancy to be one of His greatest gifts to me. And I must see it as such.

The only real solution, I've decided, is to offer and receive GRACE.

Offering grace to others always. Offering grace to the old me who at times was a letdown to the new me. Offering grace to this new me as I walk on a journey I never would have chosen, toward a destination I can't yet see.

He giveth more grace as our burdens grow greater,
He sendeth more strength as our labors increase;
To added afflictions He addeth His mercy,
To multiplied trials He multiplies peace.

 

When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
When we reach the end of our hoarded resources
Our Father’s full giving is only begun.

 

Fear not that thy need shall exceed His provision,
Our God ever yearns His resources to share;
Lean hard on the arm everlasting, availing;
The Father both thee and thy load will upbear.

 

His love has no limits, His grace has no measure,
His power no boundary known unto men;
For out of His infinite riches in Jesus
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again. 

 

He Giveth More Grace

by Annie J. Flint

 

 

Lord, of grace in me, please giveth, and giveth and giveth again.

 

Secondary infertility

A few nights ago, Maddy tells me she wants to get rid of our house.

"Why Maddy? Don't you like living here?" I ask.

"Mommy, I want to live in a different house. One that has kids in it -- you know -- friends? Who live there all the time? I want to get rid of this house, and live in a house that has friends."

Poor girl. She thinks it's the house.




You know that part of you that dies inside when you see a need in your child you can't meet? That crappy, helpless feeling when your little one is sick, and you can't make their hurt go away? Their best friend has moved, grandma has died, or a pet is suddenly gone?

And you just can't fix it?

I wonder if this is how an acquaintance of mine feels (on a much bigger scale) when her young children long for their father -- a dad who loved them dearly but unexpectedly passed away. I wonder if it's how women in Africa feel when their child is sick or starving and they can do nothing but watch as their child dies.

Now, I know Maddy's not dying. And you could argue that she doesn't "need" siblings. But it sucks to see a such a strong desire in her and feel completely helpless to do anything about it.

The night after the "house conversation," a friend of Maddy's was over. She was 3, and wanted to know why Maddy had 2 beds in her room. "Well, one is my bed," she answers, "and one is Olivia's."

Of course. After all, doesn't everyone have a sister in heaven and an empty crib in their home?



I read a blog the other day on secondary infertility, and it so resonated with me. Did you know more couples deal with secondary infertility than those who have primary infertility?

[Quick rundown: Primary infertility = inability to get pregnant or carry a baby to term. Secondary infertility = inability to get pregnant OR carry a baby to term AFTER having at least one live child.]

Am I infertile?

That's the question I keep coming back to. It seems to me -- and maybe this is just me -- that grief in pregnancy loss is complicated by the inability to get pregnant again.


If we ever get pregnant again, I don't think I will feel free to post on Facebook as some of my dear friends do about their pregnancy. Which is fine for them. But I don't think it will feel fine for ME.

I won't be posting about nausea -- because I remember how eager I was to be nauseous with my last pregnancies just so I could feel like my body was doing something RIGHT. I don't think I'll post on things that I buy for the baby. I won't be posting weekly updates. I'm sure I will eventually post SOMETHING for my friends and family who live far away. But it just won't be something I'll do a lot.

It's not that I won't be happy or joyful or want to celebrate. I just think I'll be a hermit about it. I think that as often as I'm pretty open about loss, I'll be pretty private about pregnancy.


I think part of it is because even as I don't know that I'm infertile, I certainly feel that way.

At this point, I would say I'm not just struggling with the loss of 2 children. I'm struggling with the loss of my hopes and dreams for my family. The loss of trust and confidence in my body to ever procreate again.


It feels like my body is only capable of producing false hope and chronic disappointment.

And because I know what that feels like, I would just want to protect some of my friends who might be in that place of hurt.

Then again -- maybe I'll still be blogging about it. I guess I'll just have to cross that bridge if we come to it.




JUST in case we are dealing with secondary infertility, I set up an appointment with my OB this month. I actually never had a follow-up appointment after our miscarriage in August. I don't think I really wanted to know what she would say. I think now that we are a few months out, I'm ready to hear it. (Whatever IT is.)

I know my hormones are out of balance. My skin has yet to clear up from my pregnancy with Olivia. (Super lame-o.) So -- what to do about it? She prescribed progesterone a while back, but I'm not sure when to start it in my cycle. I'm wondering if I'm going to have to go on birth control for a while to get things they way they should be.

I wonder if my losses are more than a fluke. I'm wondering still if my last miscarriage could have been ectopic. I need to touch base with her on my anti-depressants as they've been making me nauseous. And I want to know when (or if) we'll start any kind of testing.




Tonight Maddy and I prayed together as usual. But tonight I didn't ask God for a baby. (I didn't even ask Maddy if she wanted to ask God for a baby, which I occasionally do. I guess I secretly hope God would at least answer a prayer from a 4-year-old if He won't answer mine.)

Instead, tonight I just asked for patience as I wait.

That's really been on my heart these last few days as the new year approached. Giving up disappointment in this last year. Acknowledging that God has a plan. And trying to just accept that God has chosen not to give us a baby -- or a promotion -- or a foster child -- for whatever His reason.




So -- here's to 2013. I'm thankful this year has forever tucked away 2012. And before me is a year of scary unknowns. A year with potential in so many ways, for good and for bad. A year that I'm going to just have to take a day at a time -- because I think that's just about all I can do.

Maybe in 2013 we won't have to get rid of our house. Maybe -- just maybe -- Maddy will have some forever friends here to stay.



A December to remember

 

I know December to remember sounds so cliche, so trite -- but that's all I can think of that really sums up this month. December for me is about remembering.

Remembering Christ's birth. Remembering the brief -- but so important -- life of Olivia. Remembering the birth of my precious Madelyn. Remembering the pain of my loss last year. Remembering Christmases with my late grandma. Remembering the baby I should be pregnant with right now. Remembering life before 2012.

And so this month is full of memories and anniversaries.

A few things of significance this month:

 

We got a call for our very first foster care placement a few weeks ago.  You may have seen my FB posts asking for prayer. Well, this was the reason why.

I got a call from our social worker while I was Christmas shopping. There was a sweet, healthy little girl born the day before. She needed long-term foster parents who would interested in adopting. Would we be interested in being those parents? HECK YES!!!

It's hard to describe the excitement and sheer terror that goes along with trying to get ready for a newborn who could be placed in your home THAT DAY. Ryan and I rushed out to get our vaccines, then got formula and diapers. I tried to contact family. OH, and I was hosting a party at my house that night so I had to get everything clean and ready for that. My family was so excited, even as we knew we still might not be chosen as the family.

I was texting back and forth with our social worker all day, making sure she had all the info she needed, and we were doing what we were supposed to be doing to get ready. She was up front that we were the only family chosen by our agency, but that other agencies were now putting forth prospective families as well for this little girl. She said that we would know for sure the next day.

A friend stayed after the party to help me sort and launder newborn clothes. She left and I folded clothes, packed the diaper bag and got as much ready as I possibly could.

Newborn and preemie clothes, ready to go.

The "go home" outfit I had picked out. 

Grief hit me as I was picking out a go-away outfit. I so wished I had had the chance to do this for Olivia. I wondered if this was our last day as a family of 3. I wondered what she looked like. What I would feel like with her in my arms? With every thought of excitement and joy, I reminded my heart that this wasn't for sure.

My heart was constantly praying. Praying for this precious little girl. Praying for her mom, as they would be separated. Praying for her new family -- hoping all along it would be us.

I don't know that I can describe what it's like going to bed knowing that there is a very good chance you will have a newborn daughter tomorrow -- but that there is still a chance that tomorrow will go just like every other day. How do you even emotionally deal with that? Hope and fear coexisting in your heart. Giving entirely into hope doesn't feel right -- but neither does giving into fear.

So I don't think I did a very good job of balancing those emotions. I got 2 hours of sleep and was completely sick to my stomach the whole night up until we got the call.

My nerves were on edge, I was restless and every call or text made me jump or cuss under my breath. I hate to say it -- but it's true. My sister called while I was taking a shower, and I cussed out loud, hair full of shampoo, and ran out of the shower to answer the call. But -- seeing as it was just my sister -- I hopped back in the hot water and ignored the call, irritated really that it wasn't our social worker.

Finally, as I held the phone in my hand literally at that moment asking God to "PLEASE just let them call!" our social workers' name popped up on the screen.

She called to let us know another family was chosen for this baby.

And there it was. Nothing left to do. All excitement, hope, planning . . . it all seemed wasted and pointless. I felt gutted, even as I did the very best I could at preparing for this call. I cried, a lot. And sadly let everyone know the news. And I grieved. It wasn't a death -- but it felt like a loss. I wondered why. I still do.

I put everything away right away. Although I didn't unpack the diaper bag. I just stowed it away. I guess it's my little bit of rebellion and stubbornness that we WILL have a reason to bring a baby home someday.

I later called the social worker to find out why. And to find out if this situation was normal. After all, in all our training, I was never told we might get a call for a placement, but then be passed up in favor of another family.

She said she didn't know why. But that she was both shocked and very disappointed when she heard the news herself. She said sometimes the worker will chose one family over the other just because one family might live a little closer to where the visitation would be.  She had been talking with the person who made the decision quite a bit the day before, and believed that we were going to be chosen as the foster family. I think the news was hard on all of us.

She also said that in cases where a healthy infant is involved we should expect this kind of roller coaster. That there will be times we will prepare our home, but not get the placement. In a very weird kind of way, it's like buying a house and hoping you have the best bid. Except this is a human being, and you are just hoping you are the "best" family for this little one.

It all seems very strange.

People have said very well-meaning things, but I have to say, it doesn't really help. I have no way of knowing if God was "sparing" me from some worse pain of losing her 2 years later. This year has taught me enough to know that God doesn't always share His plan, and it doesn't always make sense to us. Nor is His best interest always sparing us from things.

I can't say I take much comfort in God's plan -- because frankly -- I don't like it. But I do take comfort in His character as that's the best I can do.

I still pray for that baby. And maybe that's just my purpose in finding out about her. To  pray for her as though she were my own -- while knowing some other family will love her like their own.

A crib I hoped would be full this Christmas.
Instead, it's been empty in Maddy's room for over a year and a half.

We had a candlelight memorial service for our babies (and the babies lost to the women in our pregnancy loss support group.)

It was beautiful service and I so appreciated the donations and volunteer time it took to get it going. Many of you don't know, but I'm an assistant in our group now, and so this was my first big event helping out.

It was nice to have our family there -- to publicly acknowledge my children's lives and grieve together. We haven't had a chance to do that, and it was very meaningful to me.

December 20 was the 1-year anniversary of our loss of Olivia.

The night before was harder for me emotionally than the day of. I grieve the day our child died. I also remember the pain, the blood, the surgery, the recovery -- all of it. It was a very stressful, very painful day in my life . . . so my memories were flooded the night before of all that day entailed.

The anniversary day wasn't as bad. My sister is in town, and my other sister came too, so I got to spend the day with them. I also got a hair cut, and some clothes. I spent a lot of time with my family. I remembered her all day -- but the hard grief (thankfully) wasn't there.

Maddy turns 4 this week, and it's so hard to believe.

This is the first year I'm throwing her a party and inviting 2 friends. We should have a lot of people in our home. Normally I'm just the throw something together kind of person for parties -- but I want to make this year special for her. I guess because this year I've realized that you can never take a birthday for granted.

Trust me. I will be CELEBRATING the life of my little girl this week.



Many people have asked recently how I'm doing, and I'm going to be very honest. I'm not doing the greatest.

For those of you who follow my blog know about my hesitation to start anti-depressants because I don't like how I feel on them, and I don't think grief is a mental disorder. However, at this point I can logically admit that my grief has become overwhelming -- and is impairing me from functioning normally. So anti-depressants it is.

This is uncharacteristic of me, but I'm going to ask a favor. For most of my posts, I crave comments. I crave knowing that people care, and hearing people's words of affirmation. But I have to admit that sometimes sprinkled in those words from wonderful people are hurtful comments -- or at least comments that I stumble to get over.

I truly feel I need to base all my affirmation in God right now and seek Him and His comfort. So if you read this post and in some way it encouraged you, feel free to "like" it if you want. However, for this post, I'm going to ask that you chose to not comment on this blog or my FB post.

Instead, I will assume that with every page view in my stats -- with every "like" on FB -- a prayer is going up for me and my family. That each number or name represents someone who cares very much and wants the best for me and for our family.

And that -- combined with God's Word -- will give me the comfort I need at this time.

Love to you all. And hoping you have a wonderful Christmas with your loved ones.

Rachel

A year and counting

A year ago today, I peed on a stick.

It doesn't exactly seem like a day you would commemorate. Or post about on Facebook. Or write a blog about.

It was just supposed to be a fun day to look back on.

I knew I'd remember how happy and at peace I was. How my sister cried when I told her. How happy (and shocked) my mom was. How everything just felt so right.

But on that day, I certainly didn't think I would commemorate December 3 as an anniversary.

You see, it was just supposed to be the start. A very good day that should have been trumped by LOTS of good days and significant anniversaries to come.

First, there should have been the weekly ritual of counting week to week, month to month. Of comparing my baby to a vast assortment of fruits and vegetables, and taking belly shots to share with friends and family. Then the celebration of passing through each trimester.

There was supposed to be the first day of feeling the baby move. The first kick Ryan would feel. THe first ultrasound. Finding out the sex. Having a gender-reveal party with blue or pink filled cupcakes.

Then there should have been D-day. A day that I would remember for the rest of my life. The day I would always recount with friends and family.  The first time seeing our baby. The first snuggle. The first kiss.

There should have been the diaper change, first bath, first smile, the first time eating solid foods, the first tooth, the first time sitting, the first time sleeping through the night. The first word, the first stand, the first step. The first Christmas, Easter and Birthday.

When I peed on that stick, I expected a lifetime of firsts.

Instead, I have one first to celebrate. The first day I knew Olivia Joy Lewis had entered our lives for a time -- and our hearts forever.

So today, I think of her. And I celebrate the only first we have to celebrate.

I also mourn today. Of course, I'm mourning that her life was so short.

But today, I mostly mourn me.

I am mourning who I have become in this last year, and who I still am becoming. I mourn the loss of my innocence and naivity. I mourn for the brokenness that is always in my spirit.

I have read the words of a grieving father where he explains that everything he experiences is filtered through with the loss of his daughter. He feels he cannot separate anything from his loss. I resonate with that.

"Arbonne is going great." (Olivia is dead.)
"Maddy is wonderful." (I hate that I can't give her a sibling.)
"What a beautiful day." (I feel barren and broken.)
"I just love the holidays." (My womb is empty. My arms are empty. And my heart feels bitter.)
"I'm so excited for this next year and what it could bring." (I am dreading this next year. Will I have another loss to grieve?

Everything I say is true. It's just that each sentiment that accompanies it is equally true.

I wish I could just take this whole year back.

Some people have told me that they find me deeper, stronger, more caring since our loss. A few have told me I'm weaker, less committed, less spiritual. A part of me still cares very deeply about how others view me. But I mostly care about who I see on the inside.

I feel like I've become someone you have to walk on eggshells around. Super sensitive to anything pregnancy/baby related. Any wrong word could make me weather an emotional storm for days or weeks, or months. Some words I'm still trying to get over.

The world feels unsafe and full of grief-triggers. Everywhere I go, I feel vulnerable to reminders. They pop up at unexpected places, and I often find myself pretending to be fine when inside there is a war raging in my heart. "Oh," I hear myself say. "Your baby is just so cute!" All the while, I just want to blurt out "I was supposed to have a baby, too. She would have been this age. You have no idea how lucky you are that your daughter is alive, and healthy and breathing. Do you know what a miracle your child is? Do you fully appreciate what you hold in your arms?"

I feel bitter inside. I hear of pregnancies, and my first thought is "Why not me, God?" When pregnancy-loss friends complain about pregnancies, it's still hard to wonder why they are complaining about being pregnant. Of course, I get that they shouldn't HAVE to do it again. But what about me? I so WANT to do it again, but God's not letting me. Why did I also have a loss . . . then have to wait. Then have another loss. And now I'm back to waiting?

Bitter. Could there be a worse adjective to describe yourself as?  Sad -- not really a fun adjective, but at least acceptable. Jealous -- none of us admit it, but we all go there. Depressed -- even that isn't taboo anymore.

But bitter? About innocent babies and pregnant women? Could you GET less Christian?

Today, Maddy was whining about everything, and I was just about to the end of my rope. (OH, and did I mention I'm much less patient with her nowadays?)

I was so tired of hearing the whining, and I tried every ploy in the book to get it to stop. It was just annoying. I just wanted to yell at her, "Would you JUST get over it already???"

Sometimes I want to yell at myself the same thing. "Would you JUST get over Olivia already? Just get OVER your miscarriage? Just get OVER your difficulty getting pregnant. Would you JUST get over yourself? Everyone's tired of hearing of it. You've cried the same tears, written the same blogs, and spent the same sleepless nights tossing and turning in bed. Would you just freaking get over it???"

But I can't.

Trust me. I hate it. I HATE how I feel inside.

But no matter how many times I see the counselor, no matter how many books I read, no matter how many prayers I pray, I have to learn to live with this new me.

The one who cries a lot, the one that feels angry, jealous and bitter. The one who never feels safe anymore. The one who has a hard time believing in good things. The one who struggles to laugh. The one who needs less time with people, and more time by herself. The one who sometimes hurts others by what she says. The one who is so easily hurt by others. The one who struggles to fully trust God. The one that shys away from others, even from those who are well-meaning. The one who often feels like a crappy friend, wife and mom.

I wish I felt more like celebrating today.

The Plan

The office is cool. Immaculate. Cool greys marked by punches of rich color.

His desk, a deep mahogany. Sturdy. Solid. Reliable. Just like him.

I loved this office. From my vantage point in his high-rise, I can see for miles. Each structure in the city a masterpiece of his design. A majestic scene of order and beauty colliding . . . and yet . . . not colliding at all. His plans are always perfect.

I don't remember the day I came here. It's as though life simply didn't exist until he opened the drawer in which I was safely tucked away, and pulled me into the light. In those days, I was nothing more than a stark white sheet of potential.

Life began the day he chose me.

As I sat patiently, expectantly on the warm mahogany. His clear, bright eyes sparkled. They shone with expectation, knowing every stroke, every grand design he would create. I was to be his work, bearing his perfect design. And I couldn't wait.

At first I thought that our time together would be short, maybe a few hours at best. He was the perfect architect. He had already created the most majestic city in the world. What was one more plan? Just one more creation? Why would he take time with ME?

I knew we were in for the long haul from the first day. For hours, he simply looked at me. His deep thoughtful gaze penetrating the fiber of my being. Fear initially squeezed my heart. What if he didn't find me worthy? What if I was too marred? Not perfect enough to bear his name?

Soon, the rhythm of our time together gently pushed that fear away. I learned that sometimes he was simply quiet, pondering. Sometimes he scribbled, line after line, drawing on me with passion and fervor. My favorite times were when he was hard at work, painstakingly measuring, making sure every stroke was perfect. I love perfection. I love beauty. And I loved bearing the weight of his master plan.

I never could see the design he created on me. But every day I was privy to the grandeur of all his designs by day and by night. The cityscape sparkled like stardust sprinkled over the inky sky. By day break, his lofty towers gleamed as the sun rays buffed the steel to gleaming perfection.

 I knew if he had drawn something even half half as majestic on me, my life would be more than complete.

Fear was gone now. Just confidence. Trust. Hope. Excitement. Expectation.

And most of all, love. I grew to love the architect with every every hour we spent, every stroke he commanded, every view of his creation.

Those days weren't simply good. I was good. The architect was good. And everything around me was good.

One particular morning started as normal. The nutty aroma of his coffee compulsively swirling, filling the office. The sun streaming through the deep yellow curtains. It was a buttery, golden day.

He worked on me scrupulously. At times taking breaks to pace his office, or stare at his city below, somehow lost in his thoughts.

That day was just like any other day.

How could I have known?

As the dusk tucked the sun in for the night, the architect slowly rose from his chair, and traced with his fingers each line he had meticulously drawn on my canvas, willing each stroke into memory.

He picked me up, and I savored the feel of his hands. Then, as if my world were suddenly in slow motion, he began folding me. Crushing me. His hands a vice grip, crumpling my very spirit into a tiny ball, then catapulting me to . . .

. . . the trash.

And just like that, my world was over.

At first I was shocked, and refused to believe the architect would abandon me. Though torn on the outside, my spirit refused to question the goodness of the architect. I knew he would quickly change his mind, and pick me back up. Why would he have spent so much time on my design if the TRASHCAN was my destiny?!

When would he remember he wasn't done with me? I knew he would. But WHEN?

The clock ticked.

Seconds.
Minutes.
Hours.
Days.

Tock. Tock. Tock.

My trust weakened. What had gone wrong? Perhaps I was never good enough after all? Perhaps HE was not good enough? Of course, he was the perfect architect. But I didn't just want him to be an architect. I need him to be a friend. Was he a GOOD friend? Was he good?

Each day I watched him at his desk from afar. The day after he threw me out, he took out another sheet of paper and began a beautiful design. I could see it. It was gorgeous.

Just gorgeous.

How I longed to be that sheet of paper under his warm hands yet again.

On particularly good days, I pretended I was that canvas, receiving his attention, his design and purpose. Sometimes pretending is the only thing that got me through the day.

Some days I felt the remnants of his work, marred, smudged and illegible. I tried to remember what it looked like. What it felt like. But each day made it harder to remember the design I once lived for.

On bad days, I hid my eyes entirely. Refused to look at him, or his work. All I could see were the four corners of the cool blue jail I found myself in. I hated my jail. I was alone.

Eventually, I realized there were other half-done designs trapped in this same jail. I had been sure I was the only one he had abandoned. And yet one day, I just noticed that all around me were these crumpled half-designs of his. They had gone before me. All of my days on the desk, and I never knew these new friends existed.

The reason I could even see the architect was because they filled in the spaces of our new jail, lifting me up and supporting me. They couldn't always see him from their vantage point -- but nonetheless, they turned my eyes to him.

 I could make out some of his work on my new friends. His designs, though smudged and incomplete, always imprinted on the soul.

I thought those were the worst days.

I was wrong.

Some things don't change. Death. Taxes. And taking out the trash.

A kind-looking man with a pudgy middle picked up our " little jail" late one night. We were jolted awake by the feeling of tumbling and falling, crashing into each other, and crashing into his squeaky can-on-wheels.

My heart sank with sickening finality. My master truly was done with my plan. My master was done with ME.  And life would never be the same.

We were transferred from bin to bin, truck to truck, for days . . . until the day we simply became undone.

To say that process of shredding, drowning, pulverizing merely hurt would be like saying being eaten by a shark merely tickled. Hurt does not begin to describe it.

I lost myself in that place. There was no shred of evidence that his plan ever existed. My life felt scattered, incoherent. I was pushed, prodded, molded. There is no fighting this undoing. No escaping it. All I could do was surrender all, and hope that somehow, by some miracle, I could make it through.

Just make it through, I thought. Just make it through. 

I had gotten so used to the pain, I forgot what it felt like to be without it. I was so used to the dark and grimy, I couldn't quite remember warmth and peace.

Much like the day I was first pulled from the drawer, I didn't really know what had become of me until the day the architect picked me up again. I don't know how I got back to his office. I don't know how long I was gone. I was just in a fog of pain and loss, nothing really mattered.

But the architect -- my architect -- did indeed pick me up once more. I felt the warmth of his hands embrace me on every hard, angled side, holding my gleaming yellow exterior over his work. And then he drew. Stroke after loving stroke, he used me to create his next magnificent plan.

I no longer just bore his plan. I was now the tool he used to design his greatest masterpieces.

In the day I of my worst agony, all of my old half-finished friends had been there too. We were all enmeshed, fibers from each of us molded and shaped into this pencil, his perfect tool.

I had not been undone. I had simply been redone. As always, according to his perfect plan.

Every once in a while, I felt the sharp pain as he molded and sharpened me, making me exactly what he needed. But he always held me tight when the pain came. I could take anything, as long as I was in his hands.

At the end of the day, I tensed up. What if he is done with me again? What if I have to go through this all again? My fears felt real. But they were just shadows of the past. "I must entrust myself to his hand," I scolded my heart. "Be still. Just trust."

The sun was tucked in for the night. The curtains closed. The coffee stale.

His hands picked me up once again, and I hoped to be safely hidden in the dark drawer until the morning. Instead, he brought me right to his chest, and tucked me into his shirt pocket.

Right by his heart.

Right where he wanted me all along.

And right where I will always stay.


Post Script. I suppose you are wondering about his grand design? The one first smudged, then lost forever? I often wondered about that too. But recently I overheard him share with his friends that he had already built the amazing design he first created on me. He built it in another part of the city, a place we haven't gone yet. But he promised that one day, we'd go together. And I simply. Can't. Wait.


Dedicated to Olivia Joy Lewis, Baby Lews, and Mya Elise Wilson.

A cardigan, a window, a thief and a lesson on letting go

The other day I had a business meeting at Starbucks (seriously, does work get any better?). I was a little warm, so I took off my cardigan, laid it across the back of my chair, and got back to talking.

Later, at home, I went to put my cardigan back on. I couldn't find it. With dread (yes, DREAD) it dawned on me that I must have left it at Starbucks. I whipped out my handy iPhone, googled the number and likety-split was asking a barista to please, puh-lease, look for it.

New customers claimed stake at our table, making it difficult for her to search. I overheard her ask a customer if "that" was "theirs?" They said yes, and she promptly told me, "Sorry. No cardigan here."

"But you don't understand," I wanted to gush, "this is no ordinary cardigan. It is THE cardigan. The ONE and ONLY cardigan that goes with every outfit, is perfectly soft, doesn't wrinkle, hasn't faded in a year . . . oh, and did I mention, it goes with every outfit?? So you see, not finding it 15 minutes after I leave is simply not acceptable. It MUST be there."

I didn't gush the way I wanted. I said "fine" with half-resignation, half-defiance the way my daughter says "fine" when I tell her to turn off her TV, or go to bed, or to stop climbing up that wall, or to stop picking her nose.

But I didn't feel fine. Every time I remembered that my cardigan was out in 'nowhere land' I felt a little panicky.

The next day, I promptly called Starbucks again.

"Hi, I called yesterday. I'm looking for a black cardigan that I left there."

----on hold for a minute ------

"No, sorry, no cardigan here."

Seriously, I thought, this is not OK. So I persisted . . .

"Well, I know that I lost it yesterday. I was sitting by the window, next to the mugs you sell. Can you please look again? At the very least, I'd like to leave my name and number for when you find it." (Notice I said "When" and not "if." Verbiage is VERY important when you're trying to get your point across!)

------ on hold for 5 minutes -----------

"Oh, look!" the barista acted surprised, "Here it is. Someone moved it. Must've been here all along."

SWEET VICTORY!!!

So, that afternoon, now finally at peace with the fact that my oh-so-perfect-Nordstrom cardigan is FINALLY home . . . It occurs to me how much I hate feeling like something that I value is lost. I mean, I really, really hate it.

It's a feeling that is always with me. Something -- someone -- is lost. Someone is supposed to be here, but they're not. It's quite disconcerting.

My brother Andrew posted on Facebook about his own disconcerting experience:

Two nights ago, while I was in another room, a thief climbed through my bedroom window and stole my Macbook Pro, as well as the bag that I carry everywhere. 

My bag had a LOT inside: camera, iPod, checkbook, Bible, journal, books, tools, cash, umbrella, etc. 

 

Altogether, the bag and laptop were probably my two most valuable possessions, in both sentimental and real value, yet they were gone in the blink of an eye. I felt violated and personally offended that someone would enter my living space in order to take things that didn't belong to them.

 

And with those words, my brother, who could never know what it's like to experience death inside of his own body, has perfectly crafted the words that mark my miscarriage experience . . .

Altogether, [they were my] most valuable possessions, in both sentimental and real value, yet they were gone in the blink of an eye. I felt violated and personally offended that someone would enter my living space in order to take things that didn't belong to them.

And that, my friends, is how I feel about the death of my babies.

Violated by death. Like a thief snuck into my living space --- my BODY --  while I wasn't watching, and took my most valued possessions. Gone, in a blink of an eye.

Simply -- profoundly -- gone.

That feeling I had when my cardigan was lost, the feeling my brother has right now -- that unsettled feeling that things are not right and something is missing -- is how I feel day in and day out. Because my babies are gone. Stolen by death.

 Maybe I will get used to the feeling, and it will be a new normal, and it won't hurt me so much. But maybe I will never get used to it.

My brother has a great lesson in store for us --- as he's never one to take things at face value without finding a spiritual application (something I could learn from him):

Besides learning to close the window when not in a room, what's the real lesson here?
 

No matter how much or how little you have, never place too much value on the things you own or invest too much energy in preserving everything you have, because no matter how hard you try, you cannot guarantee the security of your possessions. When you die, you can't take any of it with you anyway. I am reminded that the only thing I can fully trust that can never be taken away by any thief or disaster is the love of God, the forgiveness of my sins, and the guarantee of salvation I have because of Jesus. There is no security in placing your identity in anything or anyone other than Jesus Christ.
 

What else? According to the gospel, no matter how good of a person I may seem to be, I'm just as undeserving of God's grace as the thief who stole my belongings on Saturday night. Now, THAT is humbling and hard for me to accept, but it is true nonetheless. I still feel some anger towards the person who wronged me, and my heart/attitude isn't 100% right, but God is using this experience to help me learn and grow, even if it is painful. I'm not sure if I'm there yet, but I know that I WILL forgive that thief, because God has forgiven me for so much already.

Really, I don't know how much better I could put it.

As much as I might love that cardigan -- it's not going with me. As hard as I try to protect my babies, there is no guarantee for their safety or security. While at least I know they will be in heaven, the only thing that I will NEVER have to be separated from here on Earth is God's love and forgiveness. And the HOPE I have in heaven.

And to quote him yet again . . . .

I still feel some anger [...], and my heart/attitude isn't 100% right, but God is using this experience to help me learn and grow, even if it is painful. I'm not sure if I'm there yet, but I know that I WILL forgive that thief, because God has forgiven me for so much already.

I'm not there yet . . . but one day, I will be.