On July 1, 2016, we discovered we were expecting our fifth child (technically our sixth if you count the one we lost in 2013, but I won't delve into that, as that is another story already told but not one I'll ever forget). This was not an accident or unintended, and yes, we are very aware as to "what causes that". I had told Matt I wanted to keep it to ourselves for a while. I was not ready for the judgment, the comments, and the negativity that was sure to follow.
Years ago, large families were the norm. It was nothing strange to see a family with, believe it or not, more than America's current 2.5 kid average. If you have more than what society now deems acceptable or "normal", you become the butt of jokes and the aim of comments, and people think it's fair game to ask you inappropriate questions about birth control and utter innuendos about your sex life.
Recently a friend, who is also a mom of a large family, made the comment that after your first few children, people tend to see just another pregnancy and not a child. That has stuck in my mind since because I think she is completely right. It's a sad truth and one we can't really change.
I promise (most) large families are not weird or odd or abnormal. We are not all Catholic. We are not a disease or a plague, nor are we a circus show that wants to be gawked at wherever we go. We are very aware of how pregnancy happens, and you need not bring it up every time you see a parent with more than three or four kids in tow at Target.
I'm ashamed of myself now to admit I succumbed to the fear of what others would think. I allowed my fear of the world's expectations to overshadow my faith in God's good intentions. I should have embraced the gift of this life and shared the news of our blessing openly and without fear. I should have invited others to pray with us for a healthy child. I should have held my head higher and not let society's standards dictate how I should feel about anything, not just the pregnancy. I allowed that fear to steal my joy, and that's not how I want our child's story to begin...because he or she deserves better than that.
I'm not expecting everyone to understand or even to agree, but what I do hope for--and I daresay even demand--is respect. Respect the fact that bigger families choose to be just that. Many large families, and most of the ones I personally know, are Christian couples trying to raise godly children in a world that tries to suffocate such efforts. In a nutshell, we are trying to better the world for the future, a future that often seems bleak and doomed. If our children can be a light in such dark times, which only seem to be worsening, how can you fault them for that? I am not saying my children or children from big families are perfect, nor am I saying that only "good" children come from these types of families. The same is true for parents. I know great parents and not-so-great parents of all family sizes. All I'm suggesting is you please give us families with a lot of kids the benefit of the doubt.
On a personal level, my husband and I strive to be good examples in our morals, values, and beliefs and seek to instill these things in our children. But trust me when I say we fall short every day. We question ourselves constantly: Are we doing the right thing? Is this best? How do we decide? We make mistakes...a lot of them...and our children make mistakes...plenty of them. Parenting is hard, no matter who you are, no matter what your beliefs, and no matter if you have one child or ten of them.
Our situation is different from most families we know, of course. Cystic Fibrosis is a possibility for any child we conceive. It's a risk we've taken as we've grown our family, and we are not ignorant of this. But isn't every pregnancy a "risk", whether you are healthy or not, no matter your family history? A pregnancy can result in a miscarriage, which happens in 1 out of 5 pregnancies, statistically (and I personally fall into that statistic. No one is immune). Your child could have Down Syndrome, Spina Bifida, a heart defect, a kidney disorder...be missing a limb...be blind...be deaf...be born prematurely. The list goes on as the possibilities are virtually endless, and no one guaranteed a healthy child. Period.
What I can say without a doubt is that children are gifts, borrowed from God for such a short time, and I'm grateful to Him for every one He's chosen to bless us with.
P.S. No, we do not need a bigger house, and yes, we have room in our minivan.
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
The Unknown
Here it is, nearly time to meet our fourth child and third son, Syler. This time last year, we were in the "not trying but not preventing" mindset of another pregnancy, and a month later, I would find out we were expecting, which sadly ended in the first miscarriage I've personally experienced.
Just ten months ago, in early September, I was in one of the darkest times of my life, trying to deal with the emotional devastation of losing a pregnancy. I couldn't know what was to come, and thinking about becoming pregnant again seemed out of reach for some reason, but just two and a half months later, we learned we were expecting our rainbow baby.
This pregnancy has flown by, and now that we are in the last few weeks, things are really hitting me. There's been a fear in the back of my mind the entire pregnancy that something is going to happen to him and that I'll lose him like I lost the last one. Irrational, maybe, but normal, I suppose. When hours go by that I don't feel him move, I worry. Then I sit and feel his reassuring rolls and kicks and am overcome with relief.
Then I think about what it will be like when he's in the world, no longer in the safety of my womb. Will he have CF? Will we have created another child who must deal with all the crappy stuff that comes with having a chronic illness? It's nothing we can't handle, and it's nothing we aren't prepared for, but I definitely don't have a "ho-hum" attitude toward it. Just because we have two with CF and have been used to a life with the work that comes along with it does not make it easier to cope with knowing every child we bring into the world could have this disease. We pray and hope and have faith that God knows what he's doing, and we leave it at that. We are in no place to question His will, and even though it may be hard to accept at times, we must pray for that acceptance and know that understanding of that will may not come at all in our earthly lives. And we will still praise Him, no matter the situation, no matter the storm.
This isn't to say I'm not scared. I'm completely scared of being told Syler has CF. I'm scared of how life will once again change. I'm scared of the judgment we will no doubt face from those around us. I'm scared of my sweet Kyden being the only child without CF, who could grow up feeling like the outsider. I'm scared of once again having a child that my husband I could potentially outlive.
As much as I am afraid to face the reality of the possibility of CF, I am anxious to meet my son...to welcome him into the world and into our family...to see my other children interact with him...and to watch another miracle grow and thrive.
Syler, I can't wait to meet you, my little rainbow boy. No matter what follows, you are loved, so very loved.
Just ten months ago, in early September, I was in one of the darkest times of my life, trying to deal with the emotional devastation of losing a pregnancy. I couldn't know what was to come, and thinking about becoming pregnant again seemed out of reach for some reason, but just two and a half months later, we learned we were expecting our rainbow baby.
This pregnancy has flown by, and now that we are in the last few weeks, things are really hitting me. There's been a fear in the back of my mind the entire pregnancy that something is going to happen to him and that I'll lose him like I lost the last one. Irrational, maybe, but normal, I suppose. When hours go by that I don't feel him move, I worry. Then I sit and feel his reassuring rolls and kicks and am overcome with relief.
Then I think about what it will be like when he's in the world, no longer in the safety of my womb. Will he have CF? Will we have created another child who must deal with all the crappy stuff that comes with having a chronic illness? It's nothing we can't handle, and it's nothing we aren't prepared for, but I definitely don't have a "ho-hum" attitude toward it. Just because we have two with CF and have been used to a life with the work that comes along with it does not make it easier to cope with knowing every child we bring into the world could have this disease. We pray and hope and have faith that God knows what he's doing, and we leave it at that. We are in no place to question His will, and even though it may be hard to accept at times, we must pray for that acceptance and know that understanding of that will may not come at all in our earthly lives. And we will still praise Him, no matter the situation, no matter the storm.
This isn't to say I'm not scared. I'm completely scared of being told Syler has CF. I'm scared of how life will once again change. I'm scared of the judgment we will no doubt face from those around us. I'm scared of my sweet Kyden being the only child without CF, who could grow up feeling like the outsider. I'm scared of once again having a child that my husband I could potentially outlive.
As much as I am afraid to face the reality of the possibility of CF, I am anxious to meet my son...to welcome him into the world and into our family...to see my other children interact with him...and to watch another miracle grow and thrive.
Syler, I can't wait to meet you, my little rainbow boy. No matter what follows, you are loved, so very loved.
Friday, April 25, 2014
A letter to the child I never got to meet...
To my precious angel baby,
It is the end of April, and I would be lying if I didn't say it has been a difficult month. Though I have rejoiced in watching so many friends bring life into this world and have celebrated with them, it has been a painful reminder that you would have been among those new lives. If you had stayed with us, you'd be days old. I'd be holding you in my arms right now. You'd have a name. Your sister and brothers would know you. We'd all be head over heels for you. I'd be so happy you were finally here. Would you be fair and blonde like your sister and Kyden? Would you have dark hair and dark eyes like Cohen? Would you favor your Daddy or look more like Mommy?
It's a bittersweet feeling. If you were here now, your baby brother Syler, the one who God sent two months after you had gone, would not be in my belly. He did not replace you, could not replace you, but he is a reminder that even after a dark and difficult time, there is a light at the end, a rainbow after the storm. I'm grateful to have him and feel more blessed than I can express, but it doesn't mean I don't still grieve over losing you. To others, this may sound selfish, or that I'm being ungrateful, but I know my feelings are justified, and that it's ok to miss you, even though I never met you. I don't question God for his ways, for his plans and purpose will always be greater than our own, but it's ok to wonder how things would be different. After all, God made us human. He made us feel.
My dear angel, I know you are in Heaven, filled with more joy and peace than anyone here on earth could ever possibly perceive or comprehend. You know more about God and Jesus and Heaven than any scholar or prophet could. You know no pain...no heartache...no sickness. You have all the answers to all the questions that could ever be asked. And I rejoice and take comfort in this, for aren't all these things more than a mother could ever humanly provide? You are loved, both here and in Heaven, and that is enough.
There will be plenty of opinions from others, whether they are voiced or not, who will tell me that I should be over it by now. Most of those opinions will be from those who never had to walk a day in these shoes. I don't think a mother can ever fully get over losing a child, and others may forget you, or that you happened, because you were here for but a whisper...a blink. But you were mine, and I will carry you in my heart until I reach where you are, and I won't have to wonder anymore.
Love Forever and Always,
Mommy
It is the end of April, and I would be lying if I didn't say it has been a difficult month. Though I have rejoiced in watching so many friends bring life into this world and have celebrated with them, it has been a painful reminder that you would have been among those new lives. If you had stayed with us, you'd be days old. I'd be holding you in my arms right now. You'd have a name. Your sister and brothers would know you. We'd all be head over heels for you. I'd be so happy you were finally here. Would you be fair and blonde like your sister and Kyden? Would you have dark hair and dark eyes like Cohen? Would you favor your Daddy or look more like Mommy?
It's a bittersweet feeling. If you were here now, your baby brother Syler, the one who God sent two months after you had gone, would not be in my belly. He did not replace you, could not replace you, but he is a reminder that even after a dark and difficult time, there is a light at the end, a rainbow after the storm. I'm grateful to have him and feel more blessed than I can express, but it doesn't mean I don't still grieve over losing you. To others, this may sound selfish, or that I'm being ungrateful, but I know my feelings are justified, and that it's ok to miss you, even though I never met you. I don't question God for his ways, for his plans and purpose will always be greater than our own, but it's ok to wonder how things would be different. After all, God made us human. He made us feel.
My dear angel, I know you are in Heaven, filled with more joy and peace than anyone here on earth could ever possibly perceive or comprehend. You know more about God and Jesus and Heaven than any scholar or prophet could. You know no pain...no heartache...no sickness. You have all the answers to all the questions that could ever be asked. And I rejoice and take comfort in this, for aren't all these things more than a mother could ever humanly provide? You are loved, both here and in Heaven, and that is enough.
There will be plenty of opinions from others, whether they are voiced or not, who will tell me that I should be over it by now. Most of those opinions will be from those who never had to walk a day in these shoes. I don't think a mother can ever fully get over losing a child, and others may forget you, or that you happened, because you were here for but a whisper...a blink. But you were mine, and I will carry you in my heart until I reach where you are, and I won't have to wonder anymore.
Love Forever and Always,
Mommy
Friday, January 31, 2014
Chasing Rainbows
December 7, 2013:
Had I not lost my previous pregnancy, I would be 21 weeks now, and I would most likely know if my baby was a boy or a girl. We'd be calling him or her by name. I'd be shopping and making plans. I'd be sharing pregnancy stories with my pregnant friends who are due within weeks of when I should have been.
Everything happens for a reason, they say. I know this to be true. For if everything above were occuring, I wouldn't be sitting here at this moment, five weeks pregnant with our rainbow baby, feeling more blessed than I can describe.
As I write this, I know no one would see this for some time. I am not ready to share our news just yet, not after being so naive before and never realizing that a miscarriage can, indeed, happen to anyone. No one is exempt. Until I see and hear a heartbeat and can see that tiny but incredibly alive bean on the screen, I will not be ready.
I didn't hear the term "rainbow baby" until earlier this year, before I was even pregnant with our angel baby, and I didn't realize the significance it would have in my life until after we lost it. A rainbow is a sign of hope and promise, the beauty after the storm. Our rainbow baby is the light and hope at the end of a painful and grievous loss.
The Bible teaches that we should always be in a state of thanksgiving even in the darkest, bleakest, and hardest of times. "In everything, give thanks," is a scripture I often remember when I'm feeling as though the world is out to get me. Someone, somewhere will always have it worse than I do, no matter what I'm facing, and I am so incredibly thankful for God's blessings in my life, from the "big" things like my family, my health, and His provision...to the small things we often don't consider like gas in my car, food in my cabinets, and heat in my home. God sent me a big, fat reminder to show gratitude when I got a positive pregnancy test on Thanksgiving Day.
December 31, 2013:
It is now the last day of the year, a new year upon us, and I am now nine weeks along, the baby not even as big as my heart yet but who has stolen every part of it. This past Friday, December 27, we had our first trimester ultrasound, where we saw our sweet raspberry-sized miracle, whose heart was fluttering away at rapid speed. The way babies are created and formed and change and grow is in itself miraculous, and no matter how many children I may have, it never ceases to amaze me. After this, we feel ready to share our news, and we decided to make it publicly known (in today's society, that means making it "Facebook official") on New Year's Eve.
January 31, 2014:
Now nearly fourteen weeks along and beginning my second trimester, I'd be lying if I said I didn't worry every day that something could go wrong and that we could lose our baby. Even though I have no history of pregnancy complications, and my miscarriage was a common occurrence, a fluke even, I worry. As morbid as it may sound, every time I go to the bathroom, I check for blood. Every ache and pain that is even remotely close to my abdomen sends me into a worried frenzy that something is wrong. I sound like a crazy person, but according to the many women who have been through miscarriages and even my doctor, this is completely normal.
I am currently in a state of limbo, so to speak, meaning that my first trimester symptoms have started to diminish (like the morning sickness, etc.), which was reassuring that things were normal, but I am not quite far along enough to feel movement from the baby, which is an obvious good sign of a healthy, growing baby. I have been tempted to buy a fetal heart rate monitor just to give myself peace of mind, but not only are they pretty costly, I also run the risk of not being able to locate the heartbeat myself, and then I'd be worrying (most likely unnecessarily) and be "that patient" who calls and freaks out to the doctor only to be told everything is fine.
It definitely did not help things when, at my last prenatal appointment three weeks ago, the doctor was unable to locate the heartbeat with the doppler. I know this is very normal because the absolute earliest you can detect the heartbeat with the fetal doppler is ten weeks, and I was just a few days past that. The doctor even forewarned me before he attempted it that it was very possible we wouldn't be able to hear it. But I still was disappointed and worried when he couldn't, and I shed some tears. Tears of worry for this little one inside me, and tears in remembrance of the grief for the one I lost just a few months before, whose heartbeat I never got to see or hear.
Next Thursday is my next appointment with my ob, where he should certainly be able to detect the baby's heartbeat. After this, I will be reassured again. I will (hopefully) feel more at ease. And in the coming weeks, I will wait patiently for the first kicks, and it will be indescribable. With every kick, every jab, and every movement, it will be as if my baby is saying, "Hey, Mom. Chill out. Relax. I'm ok."
Maybe then I'll feel a little less like a crazy person.
Had I not lost my previous pregnancy, I would be 21 weeks now, and I would most likely know if my baby was a boy or a girl. We'd be calling him or her by name. I'd be shopping and making plans. I'd be sharing pregnancy stories with my pregnant friends who are due within weeks of when I should have been.
Everything happens for a reason, they say. I know this to be true. For if everything above were occuring, I wouldn't be sitting here at this moment, five weeks pregnant with our rainbow baby, feeling more blessed than I can describe.
As I write this, I know no one would see this for some time. I am not ready to share our news just yet, not after being so naive before and never realizing that a miscarriage can, indeed, happen to anyone. No one is exempt. Until I see and hear a heartbeat and can see that tiny but incredibly alive bean on the screen, I will not be ready.
I didn't hear the term "rainbow baby" until earlier this year, before I was even pregnant with our angel baby, and I didn't realize the significance it would have in my life until after we lost it. A rainbow is a sign of hope and promise, the beauty after the storm. Our rainbow baby is the light and hope at the end of a painful and grievous loss.
The Bible teaches that we should always be in a state of thanksgiving even in the darkest, bleakest, and hardest of times. "In everything, give thanks," is a scripture I often remember when I'm feeling as though the world is out to get me. Someone, somewhere will always have it worse than I do, no matter what I'm facing, and I am so incredibly thankful for God's blessings in my life, from the "big" things like my family, my health, and His provision...to the small things we often don't consider like gas in my car, food in my cabinets, and heat in my home. God sent me a big, fat reminder to show gratitude when I got a positive pregnancy test on Thanksgiving Day.
December 31, 2013:
It is now the last day of the year, a new year upon us, and I am now nine weeks along, the baby not even as big as my heart yet but who has stolen every part of it. This past Friday, December 27, we had our first trimester ultrasound, where we saw our sweet raspberry-sized miracle, whose heart was fluttering away at rapid speed. The way babies are created and formed and change and grow is in itself miraculous, and no matter how many children I may have, it never ceases to amaze me. After this, we feel ready to share our news, and we decided to make it publicly known (in today's society, that means making it "Facebook official") on New Year's Eve.
January 31, 2014:
Now nearly fourteen weeks along and beginning my second trimester, I'd be lying if I said I didn't worry every day that something could go wrong and that we could lose our baby. Even though I have no history of pregnancy complications, and my miscarriage was a common occurrence, a fluke even, I worry. As morbid as it may sound, every time I go to the bathroom, I check for blood. Every ache and pain that is even remotely close to my abdomen sends me into a worried frenzy that something is wrong. I sound like a crazy person, but according to the many women who have been through miscarriages and even my doctor, this is completely normal.
I am currently in a state of limbo, so to speak, meaning that my first trimester symptoms have started to diminish (like the morning sickness, etc.), which was reassuring that things were normal, but I am not quite far along enough to feel movement from the baby, which is an obvious good sign of a healthy, growing baby. I have been tempted to buy a fetal heart rate monitor just to give myself peace of mind, but not only are they pretty costly, I also run the risk of not being able to locate the heartbeat myself, and then I'd be worrying (most likely unnecessarily) and be "that patient" who calls and freaks out to the doctor only to be told everything is fine.
It definitely did not help things when, at my last prenatal appointment three weeks ago, the doctor was unable to locate the heartbeat with the doppler. I know this is very normal because the absolute earliest you can detect the heartbeat with the fetal doppler is ten weeks, and I was just a few days past that. The doctor even forewarned me before he attempted it that it was very possible we wouldn't be able to hear it. But I still was disappointed and worried when he couldn't, and I shed some tears. Tears of worry for this little one inside me, and tears in remembrance of the grief for the one I lost just a few months before, whose heartbeat I never got to see or hear.
Next Thursday is my next appointment with my ob, where he should certainly be able to detect the baby's heartbeat. After this, I will be reassured again. I will (hopefully) feel more at ease. And in the coming weeks, I will wait patiently for the first kicks, and it will be indescribable. With every kick, every jab, and every movement, it will be as if my baby is saying, "Hey, Mom. Chill out. Relax. I'm ok."
Maybe then I'll feel a little less like a crazy person.
Monday, November 11, 2013
Sweet November
As I begin typing this, I realize it has been exactly two months since I miscarried what would have been our fourth child. Oddly, it seems like a lifetime ago, but I find that part of my heart is still tender when I think about it. Days have gone by when I haven't thought about it at all, but most days, I think about it at least for a moment. Yesterday morning while driving to church, I thought about my baby in heaven and in my mind I heard, "Today I would have been 17 weeks. I'd have already been feeling our baby move and kick, and we'd be finding out the gender within the next few weeks..." It's hard not to think that way, to go through the what-ifs and maybes and what-would-have-beens.
For the month of November, I decided to take a break from Facebook. Even though it is my link to everyone--and Lord knows I need some adult interaction and social connection considering I'm home all day every day with three small kids--it was making me depressed. I literally know a dozen different women who are pregnant and due between the months of March and June, and although I am happy for their joy, it was like pouring salt into my wound every time I would see a post related to their pregnancies. Maybe that seems hateful or unwarranted, considering I have children and can clearly conceive and carry a child, but something happens to a woman when they miscarry, no matter if they have no children or a Duggar-sized family. And I just. Couldn't. Take. Anymore. It was similar to being in a hot, cramped room, where you feel like you're suffocating and feel as though you might faint at any moment. That's how I felt. I had to get out of there.
Truth: Being away from Facebook, even though it's only been a week or so, has helped tremendously. I've been able to think about other things. I've been reading more, both from the Bible and from books I've been wanting to get around to reading. I've been more attentive to my children (not that I wasn't before, but without the added distraction of Facebook, I feel like I've been transferring that extra attention to them). I've been working on my homemade Christmas gifts as well. Oh, and blogging, obviously, which I always wish to do more of but "never get around to".
Of course I realize that I can not completely avoid the things that trigger my emotions regarding the miscarriage. Reminders are going to be inevitable. Like when I hang out with one of my close friends who is expecting. Like when I am in public and see big, round, pregnant bellies. Like when my daughter tells a relative or a friend or even a perfect stranger, "My mommy was going to have a baby, but the baby died."
With it being the month of Thanksgiving, I have been reminded to count my blessings and not my tears and try not to dwell in the things that I can not change nor control. I stumbled upon a quote by C. S. Lewis the other day that really struck me, and it truly sums up my feelings of late: "We are not necessarily doubting that God will do what is best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be." My prayer is that no matter how this all plays out, no matter what God's ultimate plan is, I will be able to look back and clearly see the ways God was at work and realize that in my own internal darkness, the light had been there all along.
For the month of November, I decided to take a break from Facebook. Even though it is my link to everyone--and Lord knows I need some adult interaction and social connection considering I'm home all day every day with three small kids--it was making me depressed. I literally know a dozen different women who are pregnant and due between the months of March and June, and although I am happy for their joy, it was like pouring salt into my wound every time I would see a post related to their pregnancies. Maybe that seems hateful or unwarranted, considering I have children and can clearly conceive and carry a child, but something happens to a woman when they miscarry, no matter if they have no children or a Duggar-sized family. And I just. Couldn't. Take. Anymore. It was similar to being in a hot, cramped room, where you feel like you're suffocating and feel as though you might faint at any moment. That's how I felt. I had to get out of there.
Truth: Being away from Facebook, even though it's only been a week or so, has helped tremendously. I've been able to think about other things. I've been reading more, both from the Bible and from books I've been wanting to get around to reading. I've been more attentive to my children (not that I wasn't before, but without the added distraction of Facebook, I feel like I've been transferring that extra attention to them). I've been working on my homemade Christmas gifts as well. Oh, and blogging, obviously, which I always wish to do more of but "never get around to".
Of course I realize that I can not completely avoid the things that trigger my emotions regarding the miscarriage. Reminders are going to be inevitable. Like when I hang out with one of my close friends who is expecting. Like when I am in public and see big, round, pregnant bellies. Like when my daughter tells a relative or a friend or even a perfect stranger, "My mommy was going to have a baby, but the baby died."
With it being the month of Thanksgiving, I have been reminded to count my blessings and not my tears and try not to dwell in the things that I can not change nor control. I stumbled upon a quote by C. S. Lewis the other day that really struck me, and it truly sums up my feelings of late: "We are not necessarily doubting that God will do what is best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be." My prayer is that no matter how this all plays out, no matter what God's ultimate plan is, I will be able to look back and clearly see the ways God was at work and realize that in my own internal darkness, the light had been there all along.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
The Turning Point in the Tragedy
My recent miscarriage, though tragic and life-changing, was an unexpected reminder than I need to take care of myself. Was my miscarriage my fault? Not at all. Was there anything I could have done differently to prevent it? No, at least not according to research. But it still made me think about the fact that in order to give a baby the best possible chance to grow, I have to make sure I'm being as healthy as I can be.
I don't expect or even desire to lose a ton of weight over the next few weeks and months. Why would I want to when I know we'll want to try again to get pregnant in the near future? I lost nearly fifty pounds before conceiving my third child and still have about twenty pounds to go before I get back to that pre-pregnancy weight. I even exercised regularly all through that pregnancy (and didn't with my first two), but finding the time and the motivation after having three children has been the issue. I'll admit it: I am completely spent most days, so the thought of exercising is not appealing much of the time. I always feel awesome afterward physically, and mentally I feel accomplished, but actually making myself do it feels like just another chore I have to get done during my already jam-packed days.
So I'm just making small changes and am aiming to lose about ten pounds by Halloween. I'm slowly phasing caffeine and excess sugar from my diet (and if you know me, you know how much I love my sweet tea, which has both). I know it's going to make me healthier in the long run and also create a more ideal place in which a baby can grow once Matt and I feel the time is right to try again. I'm not going to get crazy with the exercise (like doing CrossFit with my husband, which has helped trim him down and build up his muscle) because I don't want to burn myself out. For now, I'm just going to do regular walking (and maybe some jogging and *gasp* a little bit of running), and I'll rely on my treadmill a lot of the time. I may throw in some water aerobics classes here and there at our local civic center when I can go because I genuinely enjoy it, and it is a great calorie-burner.
Aside from the physical aspects, exercise has been a great benefit mentally and emotionally. My moods are better overall when I exercise regularly, so I know it will help me get through the grief of the miscarriage that much better.
I pray I will be able to come back here and post the first of November to share if I have met (or maybe even exceeded) my goal. And if you've recently been through a miscarriage yourself, or any tragedy, for that matter, try to find something positive to focus on that will help keep your mind busy. It won't make you forget--nothing will--but I believe in the long run, doing something good that stemmed from an unhappy experience is probably not a bad thing.
I don't expect or even desire to lose a ton of weight over the next few weeks and months. Why would I want to when I know we'll want to try again to get pregnant in the near future? I lost nearly fifty pounds before conceiving my third child and still have about twenty pounds to go before I get back to that pre-pregnancy weight. I even exercised regularly all through that pregnancy (and didn't with my first two), but finding the time and the motivation after having three children has been the issue. I'll admit it: I am completely spent most days, so the thought of exercising is not appealing much of the time. I always feel awesome afterward physically, and mentally I feel accomplished, but actually making myself do it feels like just another chore I have to get done during my already jam-packed days.
So I'm just making small changes and am aiming to lose about ten pounds by Halloween. I'm slowly phasing caffeine and excess sugar from my diet (and if you know me, you know how much I love my sweet tea, which has both). I know it's going to make me healthier in the long run and also create a more ideal place in which a baby can grow once Matt and I feel the time is right to try again. I'm not going to get crazy with the exercise (like doing CrossFit with my husband, which has helped trim him down and build up his muscle) because I don't want to burn myself out. For now, I'm just going to do regular walking (and maybe some jogging and *gasp* a little bit of running), and I'll rely on my treadmill a lot of the time. I may throw in some water aerobics classes here and there at our local civic center when I can go because I genuinely enjoy it, and it is a great calorie-burner.
Aside from the physical aspects, exercise has been a great benefit mentally and emotionally. My moods are better overall when I exercise regularly, so I know it will help me get through the grief of the miscarriage that much better.
I pray I will be able to come back here and post the first of November to share if I have met (or maybe even exceeded) my goal. And if you've recently been through a miscarriage yourself, or any tragedy, for that matter, try to find something positive to focus on that will help keep your mind busy. It won't make you forget--nothing will--but I believe in the long run, doing something good that stemmed from an unhappy experience is probably not a bad thing.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
The Story of my Miscarriage
Growing up, writing was always a form of therapy for me. I could get lost in the world I had created for my characters and forget the things in life that were bothering me. So in the midst of the grief and loss I experienced with my recent miscarriage, I knew I wanted to write my story, not only to help myself heal and not just to help others who are desperate to make sense of their own miscarriages, but because it's the only memory I'll have of the child I never got to meet this side of heaven.
My husband and I already have three amazing children. You can read all about them throughout this blog. Our daughter, who is also the oldest and the only girl, would ask about having a sister from time to time. We knew we wanted to have a fourth and final child, but we hadn't really decided when we would start trying. Obviously, we know there's no guarantee we'd have another girl just to appease our eldest, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hopeful to have another girl so we'd have two of each.
In June, I had my IUD (intra-uterine device) removed because of a bothersome ovarian cyst that had grown; the IUD didn't cause the cyst, but they don't prevent them like traditional birth control pills do. I had read some stories online from others who had developed cysts while they had an IUD that went away right after having their IUD removed, so we figured between the cyst and knowing we wanted to try for a fourth child in the near future, it couldn't hurt to have it removed.
I didn't think we'd conceive right away; I had had an IUD placed after having my second child, and it took several months after its removal to conceive our third child. So I was quite surprised when, just over a month later when I still hadn't started my period, I got a positive pregnancy test. Surprised as I was at the quickness of everything, I was still ecstatic and waited until my husband got home from work that evening to share the news. I was thrilled to be able to tell him we were expecting for the fourth time.
I happened to be going in for an ultrasound the next day to check on the size of the cyst (making sure it had either resolved or was resolving, i.e. getting smaller), and I told the ultrasound tech that I had a positive pregnancy test but that she probably wouldn't see anything because, by my calculations, I should only be about 4.5 weeks along. Sure enough, all she saw was the thick uterine lining. The gestational sac normally can't be seen until at least the fifth week.
Long story short, they did a blood test to confirm pregnancy and then did another two days later to check that my hormone levels were going up as they should be. When everything came back normal, I felt more relaxed and looked forward to enjoying what I had assumed would be my final pregnancy. My first ob appointment and ultrasound were scheduled for three weeks after that, on September 9. I was excited about the ultrasound because at that point, I should have been right at eight weeks pregnant, and they'd be able to see the tiny baby and the heartbeat, plus give me a definitive due date because I didn't have an LMP by which to calculate.
Pregnancy symptoms hit around six weeks. For me, that was pretty much just nausea, fatigue, and sore breasts, all of which I'd experienced with my prior three pregnancies. I never had a physical reason to believe that anything might be wrong.
On the evening of Friday, September 6, I went to the bathroom to find I was spotting. It wasn't a lot, and it was brown and later pink, both of which are "good" signs if you happen to bleed during your first trimester, which is quite common. I told myself not to worry too much since it's a normal thing that happens sometimes and that perhaps I'd just done too much that day. I'd been on a pretty major cleaning spree and was even busier than I normally am throughout the week. I talked to the obstetrician who was on call that evening, who told me to relax and put my feet up and drink a lot of water, which I later found really doesn't make much difference, it just slows your bleeding down. Essentially, if you're going to miscarry, it's going to happen no matter what you do. He also told me that if I was cramping and/or bleeding heavily to go the ER. Part of me wanted to go the ER just to have them do an ultrasound to check on everything, but the bigger part of me didn't want to face it if I were, in fact, miscarrying. I told myself I could wait it out until Monday, when my appointment was scheduled, even though I knew it was going to be a very long wait emotionally.
On Saturday morning, I hadn't bled too much overnight, but I'd also been asleep, and both laying down and being still slows the bleeding. Once I was up and moving, the bleeding increased and was now red, the color of fresh blood, and I was definitely worried at this point. I must have gone to the bathroom every hour, if not more often, to check to see if I was still bleeding. It wasn't incredibly heavy, but it was consistent and not letting up. I was also passing small clots. Even though I was about 90% sure this was the start of a miscarriage, I kept trying to remind myself that nothing was certain and that the baby could be completely fine. Thinking it would help, I googled things like "miscarriage signs" and "bleeding in the first trimester". Some of the stories I found were encouraging and gave me some hope, while others were accounts of the exact thing I was hoping I wasn't experiencing. I looked up things like "placental lakes" and "subchorionic hematoma" and "breakthrough bleeding" that were referenced on some of the posts I'd found that can all cause bleeding in early pregnancy. I even thought perhaps my ovarian cyst was causing the problem. I was desperate for answers, though I knew it was only making me crazier and more worried and confused.
I knew if I sat at home all day, I would only torture myself thinking over all the possibilities in my head. So we decided to try to go about our day as we normally would. We ran a few errands and did some grocery shopping. We were only out a few hours, and I could feel myself continuously bleeding. My lower back was starting to ache somewhat, and I felt slightly crampy in my abdomen, but I wasn't sure if it was real or subconscious. In the meantime, I prayed and prayed to God to let our baby be ok, to please not take him or her away, that we were all so excited to welcome him or her into the family. I begged and pleaded and bargained, even though I know God doesn't work that way.
On Sunday, we went to church as usual, where I kept my composure minus one small meltdown, and I had some plans that afternoon, which I ended up keeping despite my emotional state. I thought it would help get my mind off things for a short time, which it did. But for the rest of the evening, I was just a mess. I was scared about what we would find out on Monday on the ultrasound and knew I'd be a basket case if we found out our baby hadn't made it. As I scared as I was for the outcome, the feeling of not knowing at all at this point was even worse.
Monday morning dragged on, but I tried to stay as busy as I could. I homeschooled my older two kids just like any other normal Monday. My husband Matt had called out of work to be able to go with me, thankfully. My sister came to stay with our kids after lunch while Matt and I headed to the doctor's office. My ultrasound was scheduled first and would be followed by my appointment with my doctor. When the ultrasound tech called my name, I was ok until we walked into the room, where I broke down in front of her as I was telling her that I'd been bleeding all weekend. She calmly said that everything could still be ok, that bleeding was very common and that some women go onto have healthy pregnancies and healthy babies despite the bleeding. She did the initial transabdominal ultrasound and took some images, then allowed me to empty my bladder before moving on to the transvaginal ultrasound. After coming back into the room to do the transvaginal ultrasound, she told me that I should save my questions for the doctor because I would probably have questions she couldn't answer. I knew from her statement that her findings were not good with the abdominal ultrasound, and I prepared myself for the worst as she began the next one.
I watched the screen as she looked and typed and measured, and I wasn't seeing anything that resembled a baby. Having had my fair share of ultrasounds, I knew what to look for, and it just wasn't there. Finally, I looked away and started silently crying again as my husband held my hand. She was finished before I wanted her to be. I wanted her to be wrong. I wanted her to go back and be sure that my baby wasn't there. I wanted it to all be a mistake. But I knew it wasn't, and I covered my eyes and cried so hard it hurt inside.
What followed was one of the worst parts of the day: having to go back into the waiting room and wait again for the visit with the doctor. I had to walk into a room of people with my emotions written all over my face. I'm not sure what I expected. It's not like they have a special room for patients who miscarry, or a teleporting machine that will zap us anywhere but in front of the eyes of a dozen strangers.
So we waited until the nurse called me back, who I remember taking my blood pressure and apologizing for our loss, and then we waited a while for the doctor. I don't remember how long. I just remember I was crying, and Matt had been crying quietly, and he held me for a long time, and I cried until I thought I'd run out of tears, and then cried more. I told him I was sorry for losing our baby, to which he told me to never think that it was my fault. I said a lot of things, trying to make sense of it, trying to work through the confusion and grief that had consumed my entire body and clouded my mind. I can not pinpoint another time in my life when I've ever felt the way I did that day, in those moments. It was like I was drowning, gasping for air, trying to see my way through a fog, but could find no way out of any of it. There are no words to describe the amount of pain and heartache I felt.
The doctor finally came in with a solemn look and went over my recent history to make sure he was up to date on everything. He explained that the ultrasound showed a very small gestational sac and placental tissue but no embryo or yolk sac. He explained I had what is called a "blighted ovum." I later had to look this up because trying to listen and understand and mentally process was a struggle at this point. A blighted ovum, or anembryonic pregnancy, is defined as "a fertilized egg that implants but does not develop. The gestational sac continues to grow but the baby does not grow within the sac. If the case is a true blighted ovum, the yolk and fetal pole will not be present." Given this diagnosis, which I also read is very common and accounts for half or more of early miscarriages, I felt that if I shared this information with others that people would dismiss my grief and wonder why I was so upset since there wasn't a baby to begin with, which is not true at all. An egg was fertilized and implanted, it just didn't develop beyond that. I was still pregnant. My husband and I created a life together that I carried in my body, even if only for a short time. It only takes a pink line on a stick to make you instantly form a bond with that tiny life, which was never insignificant, no matter how "undeveloped".
The doctor went over my options: I could go home and wait to pass everything naturally (the sac and tissue from the placenta), or I could have a D and C (dilatation and curettage), a quick and minor surgery where they put you to sleep and dilate your cervix, then clean everything out. Because I was worried that passing it naturally at home might be difficult to do with the kids around, and I didn't want them to be scared or worried if I was in a lot of pain, I initially leaned toward doing the D and C. My doctor went over the details of the D and C and told me we could think it over and call the next day if that's what we chose to do.
On the way home, I called my mom, then I called my sister to let her know we were on our way home since she was there with our three children. I cried to my mom; I don't remember everything I said. A lot of Monday was a blur and haze after that. I was so consumed with grief that it was hard to think clearly about anything. Once we got home, we had to tell our kids, particularly our older two, since the youngest, being only two, was unaware of any of it. Our older two already somewhat understood what had been going on; my emotional state over the weekend forced me to tell them that the baby might be sick. My daughter immediately asked if the baby was indeed sick, and I told her yes. I told her that Jesus took the baby to heaven. She looked at me with disappointment and said, "The baby died?" I said yes again with tears in my eyes, trying to keep myself together for my kids' sake. She then something about her Nana (my husband's mother, who passed away earlier this year) getting to take care of our baby in heaven. And I could tell she was at peace with this. If only we as adults could share this black and white perspective and have the faith of a child, which is what God hopes for all of His children.
Most of the night, I just wanted to lay around on the couch and not do anything, even though it meant I was constantly thinking about it and reliving it and crying all over again. Maybe it wasn't helpful, but I didn't know what else to do. My sister had offered to take our kids to play at the park and to get some dinner that evening; I'm not sure if I thanked her or not, but I'm glad she did. It may sound bad, but being around everyone just added to the pain, I guess because I was watching life continue to go on even though my world was falling apart. Being around my children was bittersweet that evening because although I was grateful to have these three blessings, it already felt like someone was missing, like something was off. They'd never know their brother or sister, and all those images I'd created in my mind of what the future with four children held had instantly vanished.
While I was by myself, I felt a need to talk to someone, so I called my friend Shelly, who has been through multiple miscarriages. Knowing she has been through this situation, and more than once, and knowing she has overcome them and still remains strong, gave me hope and the reassurance that, yes, I'm going to be ok. I knew I would have to take it one second...one minute...one hour...one day at a time. Somewhere in our conversation we discussed if I was going to choose to let the miscarriage happen naturally or if I should go through with the D and C. Shelly has done both and preferred the natural way. The more I thought about it, the more I knew I needed to research my options and figure out what would be best for me.
So later on, with a clearer head, I read some articles and stories from other women who had let their miscarriages occur naturally at home without medical intervention. Physically, I knew I could get through it because the pain was supposed to be nothing more than strong menstrual cramps, and unless I started to bleed heavily or feel faint or run a fever, there was no need to seek medical help. My body has carried and birthed three children naturally, it has done what God designed the female body to be able to do, so I felt confident my body would know what to do with what remained of my pregnancy. I had to ask myself if I could emotionally handle it, and the answer was yes. I wanted to go through it, to feel everything I could, and hold it in my heart forever. I didn't want to be put to sleep in a hospital with what remained of the life inside me one minute only to wake up and it be gone without a memory of the final moments. Maybe it's hard for some to understand; I'm sure there are some women who just want it done and over with and don't want to remember it. To each her own. My choice was just that: mine.
I remember being so ready to go to bed that Monday night because I knew that I wouldn't have to think about it while I was asleep, that I could get six or seven hours of peaceful oblivion. In the morning, when I woke up, I felt at peace for a mere few seconds before the realization hit me like lightening: you lost your baby. I heard Emberlynn calling from across the house, as she does nearly every morning, for me to come unhook her from her feeding tube. I had to force myself out of bed, telling myself that I didn't have a choice. If not for my kids, I'd have laid in that bed all day, wallowing and reliving the day before, screaming inside and crying and feeling sorry for myself. In essence, my kids were my reason to go on, my proverbial kick in the behind, because they needed me.
The normal tasks to which I've become accustomed--the everyday, typical, basically mindless things--were hard for me to do that next day. It was just hard to care about anything. I just went through the motions, making meals for my kids, cleaning up messes, doing the laundry. Nothing felt right. Everything around me lost its color, its vibrancy. Foods lost their taste, what little I ate. I broke down in front of my kids more times than I want to remember, but maybe it was ok for them to see the grief, to understand that sometimes crying and being hysterical is part of healing, and that it's ok to feel that way. They kept asking if I was still sad when I wasn't crying, and I'd say, Yes, I'm still sad, and I'll probably be sad for a while. I snapped at them more than I wished to, feeling guilty afterward each time.
Sometime that morning, I had phoned my doctor's office to let them know I had chosen to let everything pass naturally at home, and although I'd done my research, I wanted to hear from them what to expect, how long it might take, when I should follow up...I felt like a robot asking them my list of questions that I'd rehearsed in my mind with the intention of not wanting to cry on the phone. I did anyway, for a brief time, before composing myself and continuing with my questions. They said within seven to ten days from the start of the bleeding, I should expect my bleeding to increase, to feel cramping a little more intense than menstrual cramps, and tissue to pass. Once that happened, my bleeding should slow down and continue for just a few more days. Given this information, I expected I should pass everything sometime over the weekend, for which I was grateful since Matt would be home.
When Matt arrived home Tuesday evening, I cried in his arms and was just so relieved for him to be there. With everything still being fresh and raw, it had been a hard day, and I needed him to comfort me and tell me it was all going to be ok. We talked a lot that evening and cried together, prayed together, and just held each other. In my heart, I thanked God for this strong, faithful man He has given me with which to share my life, who lifts me up, and who helps me remember His grace and love when my eyes are blinded by darkness. This was also the night we decided to share our loss publicly, since at the time only close family and friends were aware. I struggled with doing this because, for whatever reason, I felt ashamed to admit I had lost a child. Miscarriage is so common, yet there is a stigma attached to it. As Shelly had put it, you almost feel embarrassed to talk about it, like we have failed at something. Once I began telling people about it, the support we received and the magnitude of prayers being lifted up for us was overwhelming, and several women revealed they had experienced miscarriages as well, which I would probably have never discovered had I not shared my own. I felt more at peace because I didn't have to hide anything anymore, and I could allow myself to start the healing process.
On Wednesday, I didn't feel as weighed down by it as I had the day before. I think having everything out in the open and knowing that people had been and were continuing to pray for us was what helped push me to press on. I didn't cry at the drop of a hat like I had the past couple of days. I was able to smile at things a little more. I was trying to take in and soak up the good and positive moments with my family, reminding myself that life goes on and things will slowly get better, day by day.
*The next part of my story may not be for the faint of heart.* It was the middle of the day Wednesday that I went to the bathroom, and something felt a little off. I barely pushed down as if I was pushing out a baby, and out slid something larger than normal. It felt similar to birthing a baby, but on a much, much smaller scale, and without the pain. In fact, I hadn't felt any pain at all. I wondered if it was a very large clot, since I had been passing small clots on and off for the last several days. I examined what had passed to find that it was a good-size piece of tissue, probably three to four inches in length, and judging by the looks, I believe it was the placenta. For the remainder of the day, I barely bled, which was very different than what I had been experiencing in the days leading up to it. When nothing else happened and my bleeding continued to be minimal, I felt I could safely assume that I had passed the tiny gestational sac without realizing it (I most likely mistook it for a clot), and the placenta had come later on. I was surprised I had experienced no pain and no excessive bleeding leading up to it. But it did give me the closure I felt I needed.
When I woke up that next Monday morning, I realized after a little while that it was the first morning the miscarriage hadn't been the very first thing on my mind. I didn't know how to feel about that. I knew I wasn't forgetting about it; I'm quite sure no one ever forgets these kinds of experiences. If nothing else, the pain forever etches into our souls, like an ever-present scar that you don't constantly look at but notice from time to time and remember exactly how it got there. I will never forget my fourth baby, who shared my body and my blood, who was a part of me and part of Matt, but who never even got to have a heartbeat or take a breath, and who will never have a name.
I believe one day, when God calls me home, I will meet this child that never got to have a life on earth, but who will have existed blissfully in heaven with no worries, no pain, not a care in the world, being held in the arms of Jesus. And I imagine when this day comes, my child will be saying, "Here I am, Mommy. You don't have to be sad anymore. I've been here all along."
My husband and I already have three amazing children. You can read all about them throughout this blog. Our daughter, who is also the oldest and the only girl, would ask about having a sister from time to time. We knew we wanted to have a fourth and final child, but we hadn't really decided when we would start trying. Obviously, we know there's no guarantee we'd have another girl just to appease our eldest, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hopeful to have another girl so we'd have two of each.
In June, I had my IUD (intra-uterine device) removed because of a bothersome ovarian cyst that had grown; the IUD didn't cause the cyst, but they don't prevent them like traditional birth control pills do. I had read some stories online from others who had developed cysts while they had an IUD that went away right after having their IUD removed, so we figured between the cyst and knowing we wanted to try for a fourth child in the near future, it couldn't hurt to have it removed.
I didn't think we'd conceive right away; I had had an IUD placed after having my second child, and it took several months after its removal to conceive our third child. So I was quite surprised when, just over a month later when I still hadn't started my period, I got a positive pregnancy test. Surprised as I was at the quickness of everything, I was still ecstatic and waited until my husband got home from work that evening to share the news. I was thrilled to be able to tell him we were expecting for the fourth time.
I happened to be going in for an ultrasound the next day to check on the size of the cyst (making sure it had either resolved or was resolving, i.e. getting smaller), and I told the ultrasound tech that I had a positive pregnancy test but that she probably wouldn't see anything because, by my calculations, I should only be about 4.5 weeks along. Sure enough, all she saw was the thick uterine lining. The gestational sac normally can't be seen until at least the fifth week.
Long story short, they did a blood test to confirm pregnancy and then did another two days later to check that my hormone levels were going up as they should be. When everything came back normal, I felt more relaxed and looked forward to enjoying what I had assumed would be my final pregnancy. My first ob appointment and ultrasound were scheduled for three weeks after that, on September 9. I was excited about the ultrasound because at that point, I should have been right at eight weeks pregnant, and they'd be able to see the tiny baby and the heartbeat, plus give me a definitive due date because I didn't have an LMP by which to calculate.
Pregnancy symptoms hit around six weeks. For me, that was pretty much just nausea, fatigue, and sore breasts, all of which I'd experienced with my prior three pregnancies. I never had a physical reason to believe that anything might be wrong.
On the evening of Friday, September 6, I went to the bathroom to find I was spotting. It wasn't a lot, and it was brown and later pink, both of which are "good" signs if you happen to bleed during your first trimester, which is quite common. I told myself not to worry too much since it's a normal thing that happens sometimes and that perhaps I'd just done too much that day. I'd been on a pretty major cleaning spree and was even busier than I normally am throughout the week. I talked to the obstetrician who was on call that evening, who told me to relax and put my feet up and drink a lot of water, which I later found really doesn't make much difference, it just slows your bleeding down. Essentially, if you're going to miscarry, it's going to happen no matter what you do. He also told me that if I was cramping and/or bleeding heavily to go the ER. Part of me wanted to go the ER just to have them do an ultrasound to check on everything, but the bigger part of me didn't want to face it if I were, in fact, miscarrying. I told myself I could wait it out until Monday, when my appointment was scheduled, even though I knew it was going to be a very long wait emotionally.
On Saturday morning, I hadn't bled too much overnight, but I'd also been asleep, and both laying down and being still slows the bleeding. Once I was up and moving, the bleeding increased and was now red, the color of fresh blood, and I was definitely worried at this point. I must have gone to the bathroom every hour, if not more often, to check to see if I was still bleeding. It wasn't incredibly heavy, but it was consistent and not letting up. I was also passing small clots. Even though I was about 90% sure this was the start of a miscarriage, I kept trying to remind myself that nothing was certain and that the baby could be completely fine. Thinking it would help, I googled things like "miscarriage signs" and "bleeding in the first trimester". Some of the stories I found were encouraging and gave me some hope, while others were accounts of the exact thing I was hoping I wasn't experiencing. I looked up things like "placental lakes" and "subchorionic hematoma" and "breakthrough bleeding" that were referenced on some of the posts I'd found that can all cause bleeding in early pregnancy. I even thought perhaps my ovarian cyst was causing the problem. I was desperate for answers, though I knew it was only making me crazier and more worried and confused.
I knew if I sat at home all day, I would only torture myself thinking over all the possibilities in my head. So we decided to try to go about our day as we normally would. We ran a few errands and did some grocery shopping. We were only out a few hours, and I could feel myself continuously bleeding. My lower back was starting to ache somewhat, and I felt slightly crampy in my abdomen, but I wasn't sure if it was real or subconscious. In the meantime, I prayed and prayed to God to let our baby be ok, to please not take him or her away, that we were all so excited to welcome him or her into the family. I begged and pleaded and bargained, even though I know God doesn't work that way.
On Sunday, we went to church as usual, where I kept my composure minus one small meltdown, and I had some plans that afternoon, which I ended up keeping despite my emotional state. I thought it would help get my mind off things for a short time, which it did. But for the rest of the evening, I was just a mess. I was scared about what we would find out on Monday on the ultrasound and knew I'd be a basket case if we found out our baby hadn't made it. As I scared as I was for the outcome, the feeling of not knowing at all at this point was even worse.
Monday morning dragged on, but I tried to stay as busy as I could. I homeschooled my older two kids just like any other normal Monday. My husband Matt had called out of work to be able to go with me, thankfully. My sister came to stay with our kids after lunch while Matt and I headed to the doctor's office. My ultrasound was scheduled first and would be followed by my appointment with my doctor. When the ultrasound tech called my name, I was ok until we walked into the room, where I broke down in front of her as I was telling her that I'd been bleeding all weekend. She calmly said that everything could still be ok, that bleeding was very common and that some women go onto have healthy pregnancies and healthy babies despite the bleeding. She did the initial transabdominal ultrasound and took some images, then allowed me to empty my bladder before moving on to the transvaginal ultrasound. After coming back into the room to do the transvaginal ultrasound, she told me that I should save my questions for the doctor because I would probably have questions she couldn't answer. I knew from her statement that her findings were not good with the abdominal ultrasound, and I prepared myself for the worst as she began the next one.
I watched the screen as she looked and typed and measured, and I wasn't seeing anything that resembled a baby. Having had my fair share of ultrasounds, I knew what to look for, and it just wasn't there. Finally, I looked away and started silently crying again as my husband held my hand. She was finished before I wanted her to be. I wanted her to be wrong. I wanted her to go back and be sure that my baby wasn't there. I wanted it to all be a mistake. But I knew it wasn't, and I covered my eyes and cried so hard it hurt inside.
What followed was one of the worst parts of the day: having to go back into the waiting room and wait again for the visit with the doctor. I had to walk into a room of people with my emotions written all over my face. I'm not sure what I expected. It's not like they have a special room for patients who miscarry, or a teleporting machine that will zap us anywhere but in front of the eyes of a dozen strangers.
So we waited until the nurse called me back, who I remember taking my blood pressure and apologizing for our loss, and then we waited a while for the doctor. I don't remember how long. I just remember I was crying, and Matt had been crying quietly, and he held me for a long time, and I cried until I thought I'd run out of tears, and then cried more. I told him I was sorry for losing our baby, to which he told me to never think that it was my fault. I said a lot of things, trying to make sense of it, trying to work through the confusion and grief that had consumed my entire body and clouded my mind. I can not pinpoint another time in my life when I've ever felt the way I did that day, in those moments. It was like I was drowning, gasping for air, trying to see my way through a fog, but could find no way out of any of it. There are no words to describe the amount of pain and heartache I felt.
The doctor finally came in with a solemn look and went over my recent history to make sure he was up to date on everything. He explained that the ultrasound showed a very small gestational sac and placental tissue but no embryo or yolk sac. He explained I had what is called a "blighted ovum." I later had to look this up because trying to listen and understand and mentally process was a struggle at this point. A blighted ovum, or anembryonic pregnancy, is defined as "a fertilized egg that implants but does not develop. The gestational sac continues to grow but the baby does not grow within the sac. If the case is a true blighted ovum, the yolk and fetal pole will not be present." Given this diagnosis, which I also read is very common and accounts for half or more of early miscarriages, I felt that if I shared this information with others that people would dismiss my grief and wonder why I was so upset since there wasn't a baby to begin with, which is not true at all. An egg was fertilized and implanted, it just didn't develop beyond that. I was still pregnant. My husband and I created a life together that I carried in my body, even if only for a short time. It only takes a pink line on a stick to make you instantly form a bond with that tiny life, which was never insignificant, no matter how "undeveloped".
The doctor went over my options: I could go home and wait to pass everything naturally (the sac and tissue from the placenta), or I could have a D and C (dilatation and curettage), a quick and minor surgery where they put you to sleep and dilate your cervix, then clean everything out. Because I was worried that passing it naturally at home might be difficult to do with the kids around, and I didn't want them to be scared or worried if I was in a lot of pain, I initially leaned toward doing the D and C. My doctor went over the details of the D and C and told me we could think it over and call the next day if that's what we chose to do.
On the way home, I called my mom, then I called my sister to let her know we were on our way home since she was there with our three children. I cried to my mom; I don't remember everything I said. A lot of Monday was a blur and haze after that. I was so consumed with grief that it was hard to think clearly about anything. Once we got home, we had to tell our kids, particularly our older two, since the youngest, being only two, was unaware of any of it. Our older two already somewhat understood what had been going on; my emotional state over the weekend forced me to tell them that the baby might be sick. My daughter immediately asked if the baby was indeed sick, and I told her yes. I told her that Jesus took the baby to heaven. She looked at me with disappointment and said, "The baby died?" I said yes again with tears in my eyes, trying to keep myself together for my kids' sake. She then something about her Nana (my husband's mother, who passed away earlier this year) getting to take care of our baby in heaven. And I could tell she was at peace with this. If only we as adults could share this black and white perspective and have the faith of a child, which is what God hopes for all of His children.
Most of the night, I just wanted to lay around on the couch and not do anything, even though it meant I was constantly thinking about it and reliving it and crying all over again. Maybe it wasn't helpful, but I didn't know what else to do. My sister had offered to take our kids to play at the park and to get some dinner that evening; I'm not sure if I thanked her or not, but I'm glad she did. It may sound bad, but being around everyone just added to the pain, I guess because I was watching life continue to go on even though my world was falling apart. Being around my children was bittersweet that evening because although I was grateful to have these three blessings, it already felt like someone was missing, like something was off. They'd never know their brother or sister, and all those images I'd created in my mind of what the future with four children held had instantly vanished.
While I was by myself, I felt a need to talk to someone, so I called my friend Shelly, who has been through multiple miscarriages. Knowing she has been through this situation, and more than once, and knowing she has overcome them and still remains strong, gave me hope and the reassurance that, yes, I'm going to be ok. I knew I would have to take it one second...one minute...one hour...one day at a time. Somewhere in our conversation we discussed if I was going to choose to let the miscarriage happen naturally or if I should go through with the D and C. Shelly has done both and preferred the natural way. The more I thought about it, the more I knew I needed to research my options and figure out what would be best for me.
So later on, with a clearer head, I read some articles and stories from other women who had let their miscarriages occur naturally at home without medical intervention. Physically, I knew I could get through it because the pain was supposed to be nothing more than strong menstrual cramps, and unless I started to bleed heavily or feel faint or run a fever, there was no need to seek medical help. My body has carried and birthed three children naturally, it has done what God designed the female body to be able to do, so I felt confident my body would know what to do with what remained of my pregnancy. I had to ask myself if I could emotionally handle it, and the answer was yes. I wanted to go through it, to feel everything I could, and hold it in my heart forever. I didn't want to be put to sleep in a hospital with what remained of the life inside me one minute only to wake up and it be gone without a memory of the final moments. Maybe it's hard for some to understand; I'm sure there are some women who just want it done and over with and don't want to remember it. To each her own. My choice was just that: mine.
I remember being so ready to go to bed that Monday night because I knew that I wouldn't have to think about it while I was asleep, that I could get six or seven hours of peaceful oblivion. In the morning, when I woke up, I felt at peace for a mere few seconds before the realization hit me like lightening: you lost your baby. I heard Emberlynn calling from across the house, as she does nearly every morning, for me to come unhook her from her feeding tube. I had to force myself out of bed, telling myself that I didn't have a choice. If not for my kids, I'd have laid in that bed all day, wallowing and reliving the day before, screaming inside and crying and feeling sorry for myself. In essence, my kids were my reason to go on, my proverbial kick in the behind, because they needed me.
The normal tasks to which I've become accustomed--the everyday, typical, basically mindless things--were hard for me to do that next day. It was just hard to care about anything. I just went through the motions, making meals for my kids, cleaning up messes, doing the laundry. Nothing felt right. Everything around me lost its color, its vibrancy. Foods lost their taste, what little I ate. I broke down in front of my kids more times than I want to remember, but maybe it was ok for them to see the grief, to understand that sometimes crying and being hysterical is part of healing, and that it's ok to feel that way. They kept asking if I was still sad when I wasn't crying, and I'd say, Yes, I'm still sad, and I'll probably be sad for a while. I snapped at them more than I wished to, feeling guilty afterward each time.
Sometime that morning, I had phoned my doctor's office to let them know I had chosen to let everything pass naturally at home, and although I'd done my research, I wanted to hear from them what to expect, how long it might take, when I should follow up...I felt like a robot asking them my list of questions that I'd rehearsed in my mind with the intention of not wanting to cry on the phone. I did anyway, for a brief time, before composing myself and continuing with my questions. They said within seven to ten days from the start of the bleeding, I should expect my bleeding to increase, to feel cramping a little more intense than menstrual cramps, and tissue to pass. Once that happened, my bleeding should slow down and continue for just a few more days. Given this information, I expected I should pass everything sometime over the weekend, for which I was grateful since Matt would be home.
When Matt arrived home Tuesday evening, I cried in his arms and was just so relieved for him to be there. With everything still being fresh and raw, it had been a hard day, and I needed him to comfort me and tell me it was all going to be ok. We talked a lot that evening and cried together, prayed together, and just held each other. In my heart, I thanked God for this strong, faithful man He has given me with which to share my life, who lifts me up, and who helps me remember His grace and love when my eyes are blinded by darkness. This was also the night we decided to share our loss publicly, since at the time only close family and friends were aware. I struggled with doing this because, for whatever reason, I felt ashamed to admit I had lost a child. Miscarriage is so common, yet there is a stigma attached to it. As Shelly had put it, you almost feel embarrassed to talk about it, like we have failed at something. Once I began telling people about it, the support we received and the magnitude of prayers being lifted up for us was overwhelming, and several women revealed they had experienced miscarriages as well, which I would probably have never discovered had I not shared my own. I felt more at peace because I didn't have to hide anything anymore, and I could allow myself to start the healing process.
On Wednesday, I didn't feel as weighed down by it as I had the day before. I think having everything out in the open and knowing that people had been and were continuing to pray for us was what helped push me to press on. I didn't cry at the drop of a hat like I had the past couple of days. I was able to smile at things a little more. I was trying to take in and soak up the good and positive moments with my family, reminding myself that life goes on and things will slowly get better, day by day.
*The next part of my story may not be for the faint of heart.* It was the middle of the day Wednesday that I went to the bathroom, and something felt a little off. I barely pushed down as if I was pushing out a baby, and out slid something larger than normal. It felt similar to birthing a baby, but on a much, much smaller scale, and without the pain. In fact, I hadn't felt any pain at all. I wondered if it was a very large clot, since I had been passing small clots on and off for the last several days. I examined what had passed to find that it was a good-size piece of tissue, probably three to four inches in length, and judging by the looks, I believe it was the placenta. For the remainder of the day, I barely bled, which was very different than what I had been experiencing in the days leading up to it. When nothing else happened and my bleeding continued to be minimal, I felt I could safely assume that I had passed the tiny gestational sac without realizing it (I most likely mistook it for a clot), and the placenta had come later on. I was surprised I had experienced no pain and no excessive bleeding leading up to it. But it did give me the closure I felt I needed.
When I woke up that next Monday morning, I realized after a little while that it was the first morning the miscarriage hadn't been the very first thing on my mind. I didn't know how to feel about that. I knew I wasn't forgetting about it; I'm quite sure no one ever forgets these kinds of experiences. If nothing else, the pain forever etches into our souls, like an ever-present scar that you don't constantly look at but notice from time to time and remember exactly how it got there. I will never forget my fourth baby, who shared my body and my blood, who was a part of me and part of Matt, but who never even got to have a heartbeat or take a breath, and who will never have a name.
I believe one day, when God calls me home, I will meet this child that never got to have a life on earth, but who will have existed blissfully in heaven with no worries, no pain, not a care in the world, being held in the arms of Jesus. And I imagine when this day comes, my child will be saying, "Here I am, Mommy. You don't have to be sad anymore. I've been here all along."
Saturday, August 17, 2013
The Promise Post
I can't believe it's been over a year since my last blog post. I mean, I can believe it, actually, because life is a bit busy, to say the least. Being a wife and mom in general is pretty demanding on its own, but throw in all the extra day to day responsibilities like CF care, homeschooling, keeping up with my direct sales businesses (Thirty-One and Origami Owl), and any other extra demands that come along, and you've got one tired mama who hardly gives blogging a second thought.
There will be days that I think, "Hey, I should totally go blog so I can write about [insert topic here]," but then it doesn't happen. And that makes me sad, because writing was always a passion of mine that got lost in the shuffle of motherhood. I know a lot of women tend to lose a little bit of themselves once they become moms. We sometimes forget about the things that make us who we are because we're focusing on taking care of our families. And don't get me wrong, I absolutely LOVE being a wife and a mother. There's nothing that could ever make me want anything more because there is nothing better. Nothing brings me more joy than taking care of my family.
Blogging is a way for me to be able to both write and also tell the story of my family. I know I won't remember every little moment, so it's good to have something concrete and tangible that we can come back to years later. I can read things I've written and laugh, cry, ponder, wonder, and just...remember.
So I've said it before (and I'm really going to try to stick with it this time): I am going to try to blog at least once a week. Even if it's only to say hi to my future self. Even if it's only to share something funny one of my kids said (which, let's be honest, my kids are hilarious). Even if it's to talk about something that made me cry, or brought me joy, or made me think about something differently.
And, hey, since I'm a dweeb, I may even be corny about my posts. Like if I post on Mondays, I could call it "Manic Monday" (although, everyday is pretty "manic" when you're a stay-at-home mom, right?). Or Tuesday Tidbits. And Thankful Thursday, or Thoughtful Thursday. Funny Friday? Hmm...this could be fun!
There will be days that I think, "Hey, I should totally go blog so I can write about [insert topic here]," but then it doesn't happen. And that makes me sad, because writing was always a passion of mine that got lost in the shuffle of motherhood. I know a lot of women tend to lose a little bit of themselves once they become moms. We sometimes forget about the things that make us who we are because we're focusing on taking care of our families. And don't get me wrong, I absolutely LOVE being a wife and a mother. There's nothing that could ever make me want anything more because there is nothing better. Nothing brings me more joy than taking care of my family.
Blogging is a way for me to be able to both write and also tell the story of my family. I know I won't remember every little moment, so it's good to have something concrete and tangible that we can come back to years later. I can read things I've written and laugh, cry, ponder, wonder, and just...remember.
So I've said it before (and I'm really going to try to stick with it this time): I am going to try to blog at least once a week. Even if it's only to say hi to my future self. Even if it's only to share something funny one of my kids said (which, let's be honest, my kids are hilarious). Even if it's to talk about something that made me cry, or brought me joy, or made me think about something differently.
And, hey, since I'm a dweeb, I may even be corny about my posts. Like if I post on Mondays, I could call it "Manic Monday" (although, everyday is pretty "manic" when you're a stay-at-home mom, right?). Or Tuesday Tidbits. And Thankful Thursday, or Thoughtful Thursday. Funny Friday? Hmm...this could be fun!
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Just One Year
First, a frugal moment: That birthday crown my adorable child is wearing in the picture above cost me $.74 at Target last year. I bought it and saved it for this occasion. His bib was $.99 at Gymboree, and his birthday onesie (which he wasn't wearing in this shot; he was in his swimming attire), was a Carter's find at less than $3.
Now for the true purpose of this post: We celebrated Kyden's first birthday this past weekend. My little "baby sir" is already a year old! It doesn't feel very long ago when we were announcing that we were pregnant with Baby Anderson #3, who is now Anderson Kid #3. I remember being worried not because we didn't know if he would have CF but about what other people would say about it. I could feel the weight of others' judgments on my shoulders. But if we had chosen not to take a chance, if we had been too afraid to take on another with CF, or any other disease or disability, for that matter, we would not have received the gift of Kyden Isaiah, who is healthy and has given me the gift of hope. It's hard to explain in words, but it is the only way I can put it.
I made a promise to myself when he was born that I would take it more slowly this time, that I would take in every moment and revel in this new life we had been given so that as he grew, it wouldn't seem like it was going by so quickly. But now a year has gone by, and I feel like I only blinked, and I realize there is nothing you can really do to slow it down. The thief of time has once again snuck in behind me when I wasn't looking.
But even though he isn't that tiny baby I brought home from the hospital a year ago, what he has learned and achieved and discovered has been amazing to watch, even though I have been through this stage twice before. I don't think that could ever get old, no matter how many children you have. I miss how he would curl into a ball and sleep on my chest, and his gummy, toothless smiles, and the first laughs he ever echoed, but I love to watch him be silly, and interact with others, and show off his awesome little personality.
At his party, even though he wasn't feeling a hundred percent, he was still a sweet, smiley boy. My favorite part of the day was seeing him dig into his cake: a little hesitantly at first, then once he had a taste, he dove right in. When we opened gifts, he loved looking at his cards and "reading" them.
I'd say that I hope this next year doesn't go by so fast, but I know better than that. The thief of time may steal my minutes...my hours...my days...but it can not steal my memories, nor can it steal my joy. Happy Birthday to one of my greatest joys.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Things that make me LOL
My kids are always doing and saying things to make me laugh. And all kids (or most kids, I should say) do the same thing, so I know it's nothing out of the ordinary. But don't you hate that moment when you start to tell your spouse/mom/sister/friend etc. about the hilarious thing one of your kids said or did and totally go blank on what it was? Yeah, I do that all the time.
At one time, I started doing this index card memory box thing: when one of the kids did something I wanted to remember or we did something special that day or I just wanted to record a particular memory, I would date an index card, write down whatever I wanted to record, then file it away in the box. I was really great about doing that almost every evening before bed until Kyden came along. I kept the box next to the bed, but because we had a newborn sleeping in our room (and still do, though he's not a newborn, because he still wakes up every 2 to 3 hours to nurse, which I fear will be habit until he goes off to college), my index card memory writing became very sparse, and now, I can't tell you when was the last time I recorded anything. I hate that, but thank goodness for Facebook's timeline and blogging, where I can easily look back to see all the things I have posted about the silliness of these Anderson kids, who are growing up much too fast and will eventually find all these silly sayings and musings embarrassing and eye-roll-worthy, at least until they reach adulthood and hopefully appreciate this tired mommy's efforts to preserve as many little moments and memories as I possibly could.
That said, I wanted to share some of the silly things that I've seen and heard around here lately. Yesterday, Cohen was eating lunch, and at one point he got up and went into his room (which was a big mess at the time). When he didn't return after a minute, I asked him what he was doing, to which he replied with a sigh, "Just looking at my disaster."
Kyden, though only just shy of a year, has his own silly personality and is surely following in the footsteps of his siblings. One day, I had put his shoes on him before heading out for the afternoon, and as I was gathering things together to leave, he pulled his shoes off and stuck them in the shoe bin by the front door (it's a big basket full of everyone's various pairs of shoes). Not only silly, but smart, that boy is! He also pulls out Mommy and Daddy's shoes and tries to wear them.
And finally, I have to share Emberlynn's "book" with you. She made this completely on her own yesterday with no help or prompting from me except when she needed help stapling all the pages together. So here is how her story goes (each sentence is on its own page complete with an illustration):
Title: Emberlynn and Kyden
"Kyden was a baby."
"Emberlynn was big."
"Go out and play now."
"One day Emberlynn made a mess." (She drew a picture of herself standing in a her messy room.)
"Lots of silly words she said." (Sounds like something Yoda would say.)
"Kyden loved Emberlynn."
"They have fun playing."
"Emberlynn was so nice to him."
"Emberlynn and Kyden go play."
"Emberlynn did clean her room now."
"Mommy gave him a snack." (She drew a really cute picture of Kyden in his high chair.)
"Then Mommy makes tea." (My favorite part.)
"And they live happily ever after." ("Happily" is spelled "habaly".)
This little book is definitely going in her baby book with her other keepsakes. And she reminds me of myself because I started writing stories and small books when I was about her age. Maybe she will have a love for writing like Mommy...
At one time, I started doing this index card memory box thing: when one of the kids did something I wanted to remember or we did something special that day or I just wanted to record a particular memory, I would date an index card, write down whatever I wanted to record, then file it away in the box. I was really great about doing that almost every evening before bed until Kyden came along. I kept the box next to the bed, but because we had a newborn sleeping in our room (and still do, though he's not a newborn, because he still wakes up every 2 to 3 hours to nurse, which I fear will be habit until he goes off to college), my index card memory writing became very sparse, and now, I can't tell you when was the last time I recorded anything. I hate that, but thank goodness for Facebook's timeline and blogging, where I can easily look back to see all the things I have posted about the silliness of these Anderson kids, who are growing up much too fast and will eventually find all these silly sayings and musings embarrassing and eye-roll-worthy, at least until they reach adulthood and hopefully appreciate this tired mommy's efforts to preserve as many little moments and memories as I possibly could.
That said, I wanted to share some of the silly things that I've seen and heard around here lately. Yesterday, Cohen was eating lunch, and at one point he got up and went into his room (which was a big mess at the time). When he didn't return after a minute, I asked him what he was doing, to which he replied with a sigh, "Just looking at my disaster."
Kyden, though only just shy of a year, has his own silly personality and is surely following in the footsteps of his siblings. One day, I had put his shoes on him before heading out for the afternoon, and as I was gathering things together to leave, he pulled his shoes off and stuck them in the shoe bin by the front door (it's a big basket full of everyone's various pairs of shoes). Not only silly, but smart, that boy is! He also pulls out Mommy and Daddy's shoes and tries to wear them.
And finally, I have to share Emberlynn's "book" with you. She made this completely on her own yesterday with no help or prompting from me except when she needed help stapling all the pages together. So here is how her story goes (each sentence is on its own page complete with an illustration):
Title: Emberlynn and Kyden
"Kyden was a baby."
"Emberlynn was big."
"Go out and play now."
"One day Emberlynn made a mess." (She drew a picture of herself standing in a her messy room.)
"Lots of silly words she said." (Sounds like something Yoda would say.)
"Kyden loved Emberlynn."
"They have fun playing."
"Emberlynn was so nice to him."
"Emberlynn and Kyden go play."
"Emberlynn did clean her room now."
"Mommy gave him a snack." (She drew a really cute picture of Kyden in his high chair.)
"Then Mommy makes tea." (My favorite part.)
"And they live happily ever after." ("Happily" is spelled "habaly".)
This little book is definitely going in her baby book with her other keepsakes. And she reminds me of myself because I started writing stories and small books when I was about her age. Maybe she will have a love for writing like Mommy...
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