When Disagreement Turns Hateful: The Duggar Family Loss

When I first heard the Duggar family news that Michelle had miscarried, I felt spite well up, thinking of my own losses and comparing my family of 2 to her family of 20, and internally said, "I don't feel bad for her."

This past week, I read the story and my anger turned into concern and compassion.  Michelle had a late-term miscarriage, losing her baby at 20 weeks. I don't care how you feel about their growing family, a miscarriage is hard.  Also, to them, continuing to have children is a blessing and it is also their choice.  They are feeding, schooling, and taking care of their children and home without the help of government assistance or the community, what is selfish about that?

While I had an admittedly "right" reason for my anger, at least I was heedful of Michelle's pain and kept the thoughts to myself, not posting them on Facebook or even mentioning them to my friends.  Unfortunately, many threw mean comments right at her face, completely ignoring the pain she and her family are currently experiencing.

I have disagreements with Patriarchy and the Quiverfull movement, something that Melissa articulately describes in her post, Babies, Duggars and Me.  However, this is not about me and it's not about you.

It's about Michelle and her pain
a baby lost with all the accompanying sorrow
and coming together and collectively sharing her burden while lifting her up.

With so much hate in this world, why don't we recognize an important component to our evolution: compassion.

Rather than spreading hate by calling the Duggars "selfish" and, with disgusting temerity, saying things like, "God took the Duggars baby because He is sending them a message: stop conceiving," let's recognize her sorrow and cry with her and all women who have experienced loss.  I know I am.

I Blame My Hair

I remember when I was young and care-free.  I would wake up, work-out, shower, eat breakfast, blow-dry my hair, and all those other things to make myself beautiful.  I loved the mornings.  I didn't like to get up, per se, but I did like the feeling of waking before the birds and completing tedious tasks long before I needed to set out to work or class.  I felt accomplished and I did my hair.  Every day.  No exceptions (ok, unless I didn't wake up early).

Around the time of my third miscarriage, I had grown to hate that hair styling tool meant to blow dry my hair into beautiful locks.  It never did.  Instead, I would labor in front of the mirror getting sweatier by the minute, blowing that darned heat in the direction of the wet mop on my head and willing it to style my hair so I wouldn't have to use the straightener.  Alas, my wavy tresses made that impossible.  And my kids made the task not only tedious but life-threatening as they attempted to touch the socket, grab the hot straightener, and cause all kinds of havoc with their sweet, little hands.

I decided to shower and work out at night.

Once we arrived in MO, and started medical school, things shifted yet again.  With Ben's schedule changing weekly, there are nights he is at home and nights he is gone and no advanced warning as to which it will be.  It fully depends on his homework load and his studying pace.  As my love for mornings dwindled with each pregnancy, I have scorned the thought of getting up before my children.  Surely there would be opportunities to workout and shower at night.  But here we are, 2 months into our routine, and I still don't have a routine.

Did any of you read NPR's article entitled "Prioritizing Health or Hair?"  I am sure the idea in this--that women are choosing their locks over their health--caused quite a few guffaws from educated readers.  Unless they were moms.  I mean, who has time to exercise AND look beautiful?  When I actually find the energy to straighten my hair, do you really think I'm going to ruin it by exercising?  Heck no.

For many of you readers, you must remember me bemoaning the 20 lbs I gained from birth control.  I ditched the evil pill and am now contending with the extra weight.  Clearly I must decide between styling my hair and exercising--it's one or the other folks.

I think I might go back to AM exercising.  My kids don't wake up at night so I really don't have an excuse for limited Z's until I remember that IT'S THE MORNING.  Who wakes up just to sweat in the morning?

So I blame my hair for my extra weight.

Until I remember that I don't do my hair, either.  Drat.

Heather has asked that we just write. So I did. You can too.

Oh Birth Control, How I Love/Loathe Thee

After the last miscarriage, I had to take what I normally avoid: birth control. Why? To control my insane cycles that included major depressive episodes that my current medicine was not effectively controlling; nausea and/or vomiting; and intense cramping that left me breathless.  Also, the bleeding was mild and came and went over 9 days.

But I have hesitated to take the BC.  My first experience, in the beginning two months of our marriage, was not good.  It turned me crazier than I already was.

However, my doctor explained that it would help with the overactive cysts (another thing that accompanied the miscarriages), keep the bleeding regular, and control my intense mood swings.

So I caved.

And it became my--almost--best friend.  That little pill worked wonders until I was ready to try again.

But the third miscarriage put me into another hormonal/period tail swing.  So I went to my therapist--the red pill--and began a new regimen.  Again, things righted themselves (except for the major depressive episodes, yuck), and all has been good in my world.

Until the scale topped out at 20 lbs heavier than before the miscarriage.  What the hell?  I kind of expected 10 lbs but 20, 20! I think the weight gain might be creating major depressive episodes at this point.  And anxiety attacks.  Oh my.

So I'm going to bid good-bye to my friend.  It's been a lovely relationship full of give and take.  You took my body and I gave my soul.  Or something like that.  For real, though, adieu.  And good riddance.

What type of birth control do you use?  Do you like it?  (Come on, don't be shy.  Sharing is caring. And it makes me feel better.)

image via ladysuite.net

----This week's supportive parenting theme is saying sorry.  How do you say sorry?  How do your kids sorry? Funny stories about apologizing?  Let's hear it.----

The Elephant

Everywhere I go, people ask, "How are you doing?" I know what they are referring to.  I ecstatically answer, "Great!" and move the conversation in a more comfortable direction.

With the last miscarriage, I had a split desire to talk about it and deny everything that happened.  This time, I am clamming up.  Occasionally I let myself think about it, but for the most part I ignore it.  There is too much hurt to confront right now.  Part of the grieving process is denial.  I guess you could say I'm in that stage right now, and I don't know when I'll get out of it.  I don't know if I want to get out of it.

Talking about this experience with people is not only uncomfortable, it's impossible.  It's not that women haven't experienced miscarriages before, but what often happens is a story sharing experience followed by, "I'm sure you'll have more soon."  I understand good intentions--hey, I'm the Queen of Good Intentions--it's just that I'm too hurt, angry, and bitter to hear these things without saying something sarcastic bordering on caustic.

Not only did we lose a baby, but I am facing the possibility of never having anymore children.  I'm not exaggerating.  So, when people ask about it, I find myself saying bluntly, "I don't want to talk about it."

At the same time, everywhere we go, there is this awkward silence followed by rushed conversations. People don't know what to say and what not to say.  They don't know whether I'll be hurt when they mention, "so and so is having a baby," or if I'll act angry when they say some consoling remark.

I am the elephant in the room.

Sarcastically speaking, it's lovely to have this loss right as we are moving.  People wish to say good-bye and I just want to fall into a deep hole with loud music playing--anything to avoid thinking.

I'm learning to hold my tongue, but know that I really really don't want to talk about it.

P.S.  Since I am responsible for moving, I won't be around much.  Plus, I'm trying very hard not to slip into a depressive state. It's hard to comment when everything seems so...bleak.

P.P.S. I miss my kids so much it hurts.  Really hurts.  5 more days.  5 more days.  (Repeat until the emotions die down.)

I Might As Well Turn Myself In

In February of this year, Georgia state representative Bobby Franklin proposed a bill that would make miscarriage illegal. And worse, punishable by death penalty. (For summaries or a refresher, The Huffington Post and Mother Jones are invaluable resources.) When I heard about it, I remember scratching my head. How could a man get off punishing a woman for a biological process?

After my most recent miscarriage, this issue has greater personal impact. And I wonder, how would I have proven that my miscarriage was, indeed, a miscarriage? If ever questioned by authorities, I have come up with a plan of action that involves three steps.

1. Written proof from my doctor that I was taking progesterone to prevent a miscarriage. Present the medication as evidence.

2. Provide a copy of ultrasounds one and two which show conclusive evidence that a heartbeat was not found.  Have the radiologist, the doctor on call, and my primary care physician write a detailed description of what the ultrasounds indicate.

3. Submit video of me lying on the couch in obvious pain. Show a graph that indicates the contractions I was enduring. Include blood samples taken at time of miscarriage and the embryo I "birthed." End with a heartfelt plea from both my husband and me exclaiming our sincere grief at the loss we experienced.

Joking aside, this type of law indicates the giant chasm women still need to cross to ensure our rights and dignity are maintained. It is also proof of the corrupting nature that any state with a consistent political majority--be it republican or democrat--undergoes. In their attempt to remain "right wing" and "pro-life," the lawmakers of Georgia have undermined a women's right to not only choose, but to have control over their own bodies. The most humiliating part being that a man is leading this debate on a women's reproductive issue--proof that men continue trying to control women through their misogynistic legislation.

I have yet to determine how this law fared in Georgia's legislature. But I am darned grateful I don't live in Georgia.

And God taketh. Again.

Apparently prayers and hope and positive thinking can only get you so far.

Yeah, we lost another baby.

I'll just add it to my obstetric history: Gravida: 5; Para: 2; Abortus: 3.

I'm bleeding bitterness, among other things,  and can't find the energy to talk about this third miscarriage and what it could possibly mean--at least not without a huge helping of sarcasm.

So I am leaving the comments off to not offend anyone with my replies.  You're welcome.

Why Wikipedia Should Not Replace A Doctor

It's Saturday and I'm in an in-between mood.  How about a game of "Guess the Illness?" Here are  the symptoms.

• Overwhelming nausea to the point of interrupting sleep


• Debilitating fatigue; perhaps related to the nausea


• Powerful and incapacitating headaches


• Unfortunate bloating*

Does this list sound familiar?  Akin to, say, pregnancy?

Well, guess what -- I have had these symptoms for several weeks now but I am not pregnant.

How cool is that?

Ha hah hahahahahaha

Not really.

Anyway, thinking these symptoms might be related to cysts (that happen to behind that annoying pain I still have) on my ovaries, I looked it up on Wikipedia.

It turns it out I could possibly be right.

*****

I went to the doctor's, for an unrelated appointment, about a week ago.  My doctor, Sue, asked about my cysts, and if the treatment was going well.  I unloaded all that I had been feeling.  She looked at me with an odd expression; naturally I went on.

"Um, yeah, it's pretty bad.  The nausea keeps me up at night, inhibits me from eating, and makes me feel weak. The fatigue is debilitating; if I don't take a nap during the day I can't function.  The headaches just suck.  But Ben and I researched on Wikipedia and it says all this is pretty normal with the cysts."

She stared at me.

"Well...maybe Wikipedia shouldn't replace a doctor's..."

"No, it shouldn't.  I think you might have an ulcer."

"Oh.  Really?  Well...that's, uh, great.  At least it's treatable, right?!"

To keep this story short, we went through the rest of the appointment, I had my blood taken and she said she would be in touch a few days.  A few days came, she called, and the tests were negative.

"Don't worry," she advised, "I am going to research this and figure out what the deal is.  I'll call you soon."

It's been a week and still no news.

*****

When the pain started shortly after the miscarriage, and I knew it wouldn't be going away soon, I went through the stages of grief.  It was hard, but I learned to live in my new normal, painful, existence.  But, with the on-set of these new symptoms, I've had to re-enter the process.  Sadly, it has become cyclical: Denial, anger, bargaining, sadness (since I already suffer with depression), acceptance, and back to the beginning.  I can't seem to find my way out of the circle.

It effects so many areas of my life--reading, writing, blogging, and, especially, wifing (i.e. being a wife) and mothering.

*****

I don't publish these things to garner sympathy.  I describe this illness, or whatever you want to call it, merely to explain my absence for periods of time from this space and from your blogs.  And also to provide a background for future posts, that I may write, of what I have learned from this whole experience.  Plus, to be completely frank, sometimes I just need to complain without feeling pressured to be grateful or perfect or whatever.  There you have it.

As I don't have an optimistic ending to this post, I do want to relate a silly lesson I learned.  As much as I adore Wikipedia, it should be used as a starting point for symptoms, not to replace a healthcare provide.  Even if said healthcare provider doesn't have answers, at least they are in your, proverbial, corner.  Because, honestly, I am sure thousands of misdiagnoses have come from searching the web.  Even if your intentions are pure.

*Please say you laughed when you read that.  I put it in not to gross you out, but to illicit a smile.  What can I say, I love sarcasm.

Image provided by freeimages.com.

Virtual Hot Cocoa

Cathy suggested we have a cup of virtual coffee together, much like Corinne's weekly series.   I think this is a wonderful idea and will only tweak it a little--by making mine a cup of hot chocolate.   Don't worry, you can keep your cup of coffee if you'd like.

If we met for hot chocolate, we would exchange holiday stories.  I would tell you mine were perfect: Relaxed and guilt-free.  Ben and I decided on a new tradition that will take a couple years to get going, but we are very excited to see it come to pass.

I would ask about your family then tell you about mine: How Andrew took his first steps on Christmas Eve among wild applause and shouts of, "Hooray!";  that I finally conceded to potty training Emily because she is doing it all on her own. You would laugh as I describe how she marches right to her little potty when she needs to relieve herself, stands up and yells, "I go pee pee, Mommy!" when she's finished and helps me empty the bowl it into the toilet.  Afterward, she instantly demands a treat.  Which I often agree to because she is just so big and I am just so proud.  You would ask about Ben and I would share how marvelous it was to have him work only one job over Christmas break.  We had so much fun together.

You would ask how I'm feeling.  A little rough emotionally, I'd explain, especially since some of my friends are having their babies right now.   It makes me hurt knowing that I won't be holding mine in May, even as I take comfort in knowing she (I always knew it was a she) is being held by God in Heaven.  Physically...well I'd quickly change the subject because that's a sore (no pun intended) topic right now.

We would swap resolutions lists.  I would tell you that I don't expect perfection in my goals, just gradual changes as I continue to grow through my experiences.  You would nod your head at my wisdom and then we'd both collapse in fits of giggles because, let's be honest, "being wise" isn't my greatest attribute.

As our time ended, always too quickly, we'd stand and give each other giant hugs.  We'd promise to meet at the same place, same time next week with new insights to share and stories to laugh about.

Until then...

What would you share?

A Slow Healing Process

I thought I was pregnant last month.  I had all the symptoms: nausea, vomiting, headaches, frequent urination, etc.  Setting aside my reservations, my excitement started mounting.  How could it not?  Sickness is a good thing, for me, in determining a viable pregnancy.  I felt the phrase "the third time is the charm" might apply this time.

Except it didn't.  Because I started my period a couple weeks later--right on time. (And, to confirm this, I also took a couple pregnancy tests.)  With the nausea, vomiting, and all the other lovely things that now accompany me constantly.  You know, without a pregnancy.

To say I was angry is an understatement.  Ben and I thought for sure all my symptoms meant the one thing we really want--another baby.  Instead I was greeted with the mother of all cramps and her crimson venom.  Once the bleeding started, I texted Ben telling him that I did not want to have any more kids.  I was done with pregnancies, done with fertility stuff, done with everything.  He called me on his lunch break and let me talk.   And cry.  Because I cried a lot.

When he came home that night, he held me.  He let me vent without saying one contradictory word.  He let me rage against my body, my period, and against God.

(Have I mentioned I married the perfect guy for me?)

*****

Andrew is learning to climb on and off furniture.  As I have taught him many times that the safest, and most effective, way for him to climb down is feet first, I must now let him learn the painful lesson of not following my guidance.

When he starts crawling off head first, I tell Ben, "Let him go, he needs to learn by falling on his head."  Which he has, slowly.  It can be hard to watch him fall, but I know it is the only way he will learn.

*****

Right now, God is letting me fall on my head.  I don't know what I am supposed to learn through this process, but I do know it is mighty painful.

This recent period was a frightful reminder of my miscarriages.  (Two! In the same year!.)  It brought me to the lowest depths of depression I've been in since I can't remember.  Along with the sadness, I embraced bitterness.  A bitter person is not good company, as Ben has unfortunately experienced.  I'm not proud of the person I've been over the past couple weeks, a big reason this space has remained unoccupied, however I understand, and Ben understands, the complicated emotions that assailed me over something that I've had once a month (besides pregnancy) since I was 14.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I have had some recent revelations that have forced me to evaluate many parts of who I am and who I want to become.  While I don't intend to be vague, I am still figuring out the different pieces and at the moment cannot adequately articulate what they mean.  But, if you'll be patient with me, I feel ready to write about them one at a time.

Yeah, I guess that means I'm back.

***Image via FreeImages.

My Other Guy

I have a guy on the side. Except he is more in the middle because he prefers to be sandwiched between Ben and me or in my arms.  He shows me daily just how much he needs me.

When I take a shower while Ben is home, he will start to cry, wiggle out of Ben's lap, crawl to the door, stand up, and knock.  And continue knocking until I come out or let him in.

When I am kissing Ben, he will crawl over, climb onto my leg and look at us until we I pay attention to him.

When I am sitting on the floor, he will crawl over (do you see a pattern here?), pull himself into a standing position (by using my shoulder), and smother my face with kisses.

When I am trying to sleep, he will cry, standing in his crib, until I go pick him up.  Once I rescue him, he will snuggle against my chest while drinking his bottle and occasionally fall asleep.  (If he doesn't fall asleep, he will jump all over me and Ben until we place him back into his crib.)

When I am trying to clean, he will crawl to the gate, pull himself into a standing position, and cry, "Mama!" until I pick him up.

When he is eating, he will cry if I try to leave the room.

When I am sad, he will hug me close.

When I feel that tug of sadness for our lost baby, he will look at me with his beautiful eyes, crawl over and demand that I pick him up.  Then I will hold him tight and thank God for a little boy who is still okay with being my baby.

Thanks, But No Thanks

Within recent weeks, I've had to tell a few people about my miscarriage.  (I made sure to keep those conversations brief because dwelling on it might have induced tears.)  During one conversation, a well intentioned friend responded, "Well, you'll probably get pregnant next month and have a beautiful baby."  I understand what she was trying to say--your fertility is probably unaffected--but the statement hit a nerve.  The implication that I wanted to get pregnant again is miles away from the truth.

After giving birth to both Andrew and Emily, I had this weird sensation of wanting to have another baby immediately.  Bizarre, I know, but completely true.  I had the same feeling following my first miscarriage.  The second miscarriage had the opposite influence.  The intensity with which I wanted that pregnancy left me feeling bitter, hollow, and apathetic ensuing the miscarriage.  It isn't that I don't want another baby, it's that I am terrified of another miscarriage.  Terrified of another pregnancy.

As of now, I can't bear the thought of trying again.  I've even questioned my dream of having a big family.

Perhaps within a year I will feel differently.  Though, truth be told, the experience was so extremely heart breaking that I'm not sure if I will ever have another pregnancy in which I will feel safe.  Unless I am given some advanced directive from Above informing me that all will be safe, I will be anxious until I give birth.  Because, as I've learned, even a heart beat doesn't provide conclusive evidence of a safe pregnancy.

I Have Emerged From A Very Long Journey Out of the Depths of Depression

A few weeks ago, a friend and I were discussing the similarities in our pregnancies.  We both experienced hg and pretty severe Postpartum depression (PPD).  I've been thinking about that discussion frequently since then, reflecting on my struggle with PPD.  Not once, but four times.

PPD #1

I remember waking up some mornings wanting so badly to sleep some more.  Hearing Emily wail, I often wondered why I ever decided to become a mom.  I would call my mom, constantly on the  verge of tears, and tell her how difficult everything was.  She would console me and tell me how great I was doing.  I would listen, agree, and promptly forget as soon as I got off the phone.

I lived in a constant haze of pessimism.  I blamed it on being a first time mother and still finishing my own degree.  On Ben being busy with classes, Emily not sleeping through the night, Emily's colic, the darkness of winter, the never ending homework, and the list goes on and on.   My usually optimistic self would write posts on our family blog that mirrored my old self, but it was a lie.  I wasn't optimistic; I could hardly string two positive thoughts together on a good day.  But I was a good liar.

Poor Ben handled my listlessness and random crying bouts very well.  He would come home and take Emily from me, ordering me to rest.  I believe he carried us through those very dark days.

And then one day it went away.  I thought it was because I had successfully changed my attitude.  I mean, it was all my fault anyway.

Pregnancy Depression

When I was 6 months pregnant with Andrew, the depression came back.  We were living with Ben's mom for the summer while Ben finished an internship, and I was miserable.  She was a marvelous host, who did her best to make all of us comfortable; unfortunately, I couldn't find any positives in our situation.  I was alone during the day in an unfamiliar home with an active baby.   I was without a car and feeling very deserted. I thought once we moved back to our own apartment those feelings would disappear.

They didn't.  So we moved.  The move was a good decision, as we needed a bigger place, but I still could not change my attitude.  I prayed and prayed and nothing changed.  I went to the temple, studied my scriptures, and blamed my silly weaknesses for the cloud of darkness that had enveloped me.

It was at this time that I started blogging more frequently.  Some of you might remember me during those days.  I was a miserable person.  Finally, Ben suggested that I talk to my doctor about possible depression.  I was put on medication and finally felt somewhat normal.

PPD #2

After having Andrew, I thought my old self had returned.  At my six week appointment, I asked to be taken off my medication.  I thought I was ready.

But, in my haste I  had not considered that my PPD would return after that 6-week mark.  Which it did.  I blamed it on everything: Ben's work and school schedule, Andrew's colic, my job, the messy house, a busy toddler.  I tried to change but couldn't.  One would think that I would recognize the symptoms; however, I am quite dense when it comes to simple solutions.

I finally emerged shortly after Andrew's colic relented.

PPD #3

And then I got pregnant and had my first miscarriage.  Once again I was on that roller coaster ride that seemed to only point down, with small hills sporadically placed here and there.  I expected grief, but I did not expect depression.  Severe depression.

PPD #4

If you notice the pattern, then I'm sure you can guess what happened after I had the second miscarriage.

I remember one evening in particular while walking with Ben to a mission reunion.  I remember wanting so badly to be at home in bed, having no desire to see people and feeling a sense of hopelessness.  The kind of hopelessness I have only felt when suffering through PPD. Ben was unnerved.  He asked me what he could do, I couldn't give him any definitive answers.  I blamed this and that.  Until it hit me: PPD.  Again.  Luckily,  the depression eased a couple weeks later and I have come to my old self for the longest time this year.

Lesson Learned?

I don't know if you've sensed the change in my writing.  I know I have felt it vividly.  I no longer feel that dread when I wake up in the morning; I am not terrified when I think about Ben working two jobs; I finally feel hope, optimistic, joyful.  When I write, I can poke fun at my self and laugh at my silly kids.

I can also see clearly.  I know what I want and don't feel guilty if I can't accomplish something.

I feel free.

I would like to say that I've learned my lesson, but I have a feeling that it won't be that simple if it comes back again.  I just hope I can read this post again and quickly find the help I need.

Football and Spirituality

My team is not doing so hot this year.  In all my years of fanhood (something like 6), I have not witnessed such an awful season.  I believe I tempted fate by agreeing to cable, thinking it would be fun to watch our team trounce other teams.  Needless to say,  I am not having fun.

But I continue to watch their games each week.  I cheer them on, despite knowing there is only a -1% chance that they will win.  When they are losing, I stress their strengths, point out the improvements, and hope that next year these things will produce a winning season.

In many ways, I feel like my football team.  This year has been a hard one.  Colic, postpartum depression, miscarriage, loneliness, and another miscarriage have left me desperately dry.  So much so that I turned to Ben the other day and expressed, "I feel like a part of myself is missing.  The person I worked so hard to become--a loving and patient mother, a supportive and caring wife--has disappeared.  Anger, resentment, and depression have overridden my once happy existence.  I feel lost, alone, and confused."

My faith is still strong, but my self-worth has diminished.  Sure Heavenly Father will take care of His children, I tell myself, just not me.  Because I am unworthy.

I make countless mistakes during the day.  I pray, ask for forgiveness, and make the same mistakes again.  I ignore guidance while feeling increasingly sorry for myself.  During the hard times, I fail to recognize the blessings I have been given.

My record is a losing one.

Yet,  God has not given up on me.  He cheers me on even when He knows I might lose that game.  He reminds me of my strengths, points out my improvements, and remains on the side lines chanting my name.

He is my biggest fan.

I had to make some tough choices this week that placed people in hard positions.  Choices that were necessary, and felt right, for my health.  It was hard.  As I followed this prompting, I felt a small piece of myself return.  Ben being home more to help me is a big blessing,  yet it is much more than that.  My Spirit is transforming.  Back to the woman I was and so much more.  My mind is alive and my fingers are tingling as I reclaim my passion in writing.

I have much to improve on, of course, but the process doesn't seem so overwhelming.

See?  Football really is more than just a game.  (Wink, wink.)

We’re In!

The day after my surgery,  Ben left for a medical school interview.  His first interview. Despite the timing being inconvenient (although this is more directed toward the unexpected surgery),  we were nervous and excited.

Ben came home feeling very confident.   Because he was told he would hear within a week of whether or not he was accepted,  he started checking his e-mail every ten minutes.  At least.

Late last night,  his diligence paid off.

We received this in his inbox.

The ** College of Osteopathic Medicine hereby offers to admit Benjamin ****** as a candidate for the Doctor of Osteopathic Medicine, Class of 2015 commencing in the Fall Term of 2011 with the total credit hours of 249.4 subject to the terms and conditions set forth herein.

I feel giddy--nay elated--that we have reached this point.  I remember our excitement when we got his MCAT scores,  thinking we were one step closer to fulfilling Ben's career dreams.  A few months later Ben submitted his primary applications and shortly after was filling out secondaries.

And here we are.  Accepted.

The exhausting exams.  The late night (or all night) studying. The loneliness.  It all paid off.

Any good ideas on how to celebrate?

Moving Forward

A Little Memorial

We held the memorial service in our living room--a fitting place since most the events happened there--with us, the kids, and my mother-in-law.  It was an emotional and peaceful service.  Short and sweet.

All About Science

Every person handles loss differently.  For me, I use my knowledge of science and reproduction to obsessively deduce what has happened.

Because of the severity of the miscarriage--the intense contractions, bleeding, and clotting--it would seem that I was about 8 weeks along.  Unfortunately, the hCG levels  remained at a 4-week level. Slowly increasing.  Very slowly.  This left the embryo in a very inhospitable environment, especially since the amniotic sac was already having trouble connecting to the endometrium.

My body rejected the growing baby.

Moving Forward

During the memorial service,  a little voice whispered, It's okay.  Your baby is safe with me.  Keep moving forward.

Moving forward doesn't mean forget, it means continue to live.  I have much living to do with my sweet husband and beautiful children.  And with myself.

I have kept myself secluded inside my house.  Afraid to be outside,  unsure of how I would react to questions and condolences.

I feel myself ready to take baby-steps.  Taking short walks around the neighborhood.  Cooking meals.  Talking with neighbors, friends, and family.   Big gatherings, like church, are still too much.  Too painful.  But I'm emerging.

On Life

Many friends have brought over flowers.  They bring much comfort.  Their vivacious beauty reminds me how to live: It's more than smelling the flowers, it's nurturing them.

On returning home from our short getaway,  I ran up the stairs, into my babys' rooms (they were sleeping) and scooped them into my arms.  I smelled their delicious scent and smothered their smooth faces with kisses.  Lots and lots of kisses.

Healing

I'm not as brittle as I was a few days ago.  I feel strong.  Powered by my husband's love, my children's affection,  and the Plan of Salvation, I know I can heal.  The pain will remain nestled within my heart,  nudging me every now and then (like all day today),  but I feel its rawness dissipating.

I am coming back,  armed with a new perspective and knowledge from my experience.

Seeing Beyond the Imperfections

I used to hide from the camera.  In my teen years, I didn't want to remember what I looked like.  In fact, I still feel that way.  Like most teens, I was insecure--about my acne, my weight, my smile, and everything else.  My measuring stick were my sisters.  They were and are beautiful.  In my mind, I could not compete to my dark haired beauty counterparts.

The struggle continued into my marriage.  But, like the famous Mahana (Mormon joke), my husband's continuous praise helped me see beyond the physical impurities and recognize my great potential.

Acceptance of my body has come in different stages.  The most important, for me, was accepting my face by no longer avoiding the camera.

Over the past few months,  I have obsessed about including myself in photos.  Not because I have some sense of impending doom,  but because I want my kids to have photographic proof that I was at certain events and that we did have fun together.

(The one catch,  Ben is not allowed to photograph me.  How do I put this...the photos he takes of me are not the most attractive.  Hey,  I have my dignity to maintain.)

Since I am alone with my kids much of the day,  I photograph us with the old-school style of holding the camera out and taking face shots.  That's right, face shots.   My fear of looking at my blemished face has disappeared.  This is for my kids anyway.

[caption id="attachment_942" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="My sweet angel, Andrew"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_941" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="My gorgeous daughter, Emily"][/caption]

These kids? They make my life full.  Fuller than I could ever have imagined.

Since the miscarriage, I am often reminded to hold my two babies close. This is hard because the physical pain I am experiencing;  still, I hug and rock them constantly.

How can I possibly describe the indescribable?  My little Emily and Andrew are my life.  I say that unashamedly.  Sure I have myself outside of them, but right now that "self" seems so unnecessary.  Perhaps it was the miscarriages that helped me see my reality: Despite the challenges of being a mother, it is one of the best jobs I have and will ever hold.

I will also say, I am the best mother for them.  Yes I am.  No living person loves these two more than me.  Another person would not sing them personalized songs when they wake up from naps and in the morning or throw spontaneous dance parties when they wake up at midnight or miss them while they are sleeping.  I am their interpreter, teacher, cook, mediator, and, best of all, their mother.

In a short time they will be grown up.  The will no longer need me as much as now.  This doesn't make me sad, however, because I feel one of my greatest job responsibilities is raising them to be moral, industrious, conscientious adults. For now, though, they need me.  And I need them.

They see my face daily.  Not the face I crucially examine, but the perfect face of their beloved mother.

Just like I only see perfection in them.

What Happened Yesterday

This is an intense post.  I'm warning you because I did not censure my feelings or certain events.  I guess this is my way of handling grief.

I woke up with great trepidation.  The bleeding had started again the previous evening, enough to start the worry.  I went to the bathroom and found clumps of blood in the toilet.  I yelled for Ben and asked what it was.  He held my hand and assured me it was okay.  Ten minutes later, I passed more clots.  Sensing that everything was not okay,  I called the doctor's office as soon as it opened.  When the nurse heard my concerns, she immediately set up an ultrasound appointment.

****

My bladder was full and hurting from drinking 32 oz of water,  enough water to hopefully expand my uterus and allow for a regular ultrasound.

The tech probed around my tummy, looking for the embryo.  She found it,  and the heartbeat.  Since she couldn't pick up the heartbeat she sent me to the restroom and took out the V. probe.

We listened breathlessly to our baby's heart.  She printed the pictures out with cute phrases like, "Hi mom!" and "Hi dad!"  Ben pointed to the screen and told Emily and Andrew all about the sibling.

The atmosphere was light and we asked silly questions like, "Is it a girl or a boy?"

The ultrasound tech found the source of the bleeding: the subamniotic hemorrage.  She postulated that I was passing clots and blood as the sack released it.

****

Deana, the nurse, came out and spoke with us.  She explained the ultrasound a little more and placed me on a more restricted form of pelvic rest.  She listened as I talked about my fears--the continued bleeding, the absence of sickness--and hugged me when I started crying.  As we were leaving,  she told me to call her for anything.

****

The drive home was less somber.  We talked about the baby, the heartbeat, and how relieved we were.  We picked up food as a sort of celebration, complete with a chocolate milkshake.

At home again,  I started feeling intense cramping.  Thinking it was because of the ultrasound, I tried to ignore it.  I laughed as Andrew drank some of the milkshake and angrily grunted for more after he drained the cup.

I tried laying down thinking that would stop the pain.  I felt the blood pouring out, but figured it was okay.  Ben left for work as the pain increased.  The nurse called a few minutes later to make sure I was resting and to tell me how my hCG levels were.  The hCG wasn't rising, but it wasn't falling.  It explained the lack of sickness but little else.  I told her about the pain and bleeding and she immediately ordered me to bed.

I called my friend to ask if she could take my kids.  She, despite having 2 of her own, immediately came over.  A good friend, the best kind of friend.

****

Contractions at 6 weeks is bad, really really bad.  Once I felt them, I prayed harder than I had all day.  I fought.  Oh, I fought. I breathed trying to calm myself but the contractions continued, rocking my body. You can not take my baby.  I will keep this baby. But my uterus won.  Reacting like the embryo, gestational sac, and yolk sac were nothing but invaders, it sloughed them as if it were a regular period.

The pelvic pressure intensified with the sense of something bearing down and I knew.  I knew.

Alone I fought.  Alone I lost.  I called and texted Ben.  He came home as soon as he could.

****

The nurse, a different one this time, confirmed my fears.  "The heartbeat was lower than we would expect at 6 weeks.  You probably saw it as it was on its way out.  If you bleed through a pad an hour,  head to the ER."

****

I sobbed, body trembling, tears streaming, into Ben's shoulders.  He held me tight repeating, "I'm so sorry."  His grief expressed itself as anger.  "We saw the heartbeat," he repeated over and over until he finally succumbed to his tears.

We held each other and rocked, our wretching sobs wrapping themselves around each other and healing our hearts.

The bleeding and clotting continued.  I soaked through another pad.  We decided an ER visit wouldn't hurt.

****

While checking in, I felt it.  "Oh!"  My baby!

****

"I can't look.  I don't want to see it."

"I'll do it, baby."

But I couldn't turn away.

In one flush, the baby was gone.

We cried again, holding each other tight.  Together in our unique grief.

****

The ER nurse pushed me toward the ultrasound room.  We walked by the IV therapy room I had visited so often while pregnant with Andrew.  The tears started again and I looked away.

****

A dead silent ultrasound room is not a good sign.  Although I couldn't see the screen, I knew what it said.  I guess I knew what it was going to show but I couldn't stop the little bit of hope that had leaked through to my heart.

****

Ben held me in his arms as I cried again and again.  The tears soaking his shirt.  I composed myself long enough to hear the doctor's report, nodding as he explained what happened.

****

We picked up the kids on the way home.  I held my babies tight telling them how much I loved them.  We thanked my friend and drove to the house.

It was late.  The kids were tired.  We put them into bed and tried watching a show together.  I fell asleep nestled against Ben's chest, comforted by his strong arms.

****

It's unfair to have afterbirth contractions with no baby to hold.  Like a slap to the face.

****

I don't really know how to end this.  There is no ending, you know?  It's a continuous process as I work through the grief.  I suppose that is the real ending.

I can say how grateful I am for my babies.  Losing one so early reminds me how lucky I am.  In their own way, they will help me work through this awful pain.

Before I end, please do not feel guilty if you have shared your own story with me.  I need good stories to feel comfort.

A Nap Time Lesson

The kids are in their cribs supposedly napping.  Instead, I hear Emily yelling "Hi!" and Andrew giggling. I can picture them.  Emily is pressing her face against the mesh walls of her Pac N' play while Andrew, on his hands and knees, stares at her through his own mesh surface.  Their faces are lit up with unadulterated joy.

They are best friends.

When in our living room,  Andrew is not too interested in me.  His eyes are stuck on his sister.  They follow her everywhere.  He smiles as she runs from room to room, creating havoc.  He babbles when she starts singing.  He laughs, really laughs, when his sister twirls, hops, and jigs to unheard music.

I look at them and remember.

The horrific pregnancies.  The long nights.  The colic. The postpartum depression.

The easy births.  Our first moments together. Their first smiles.  Their first laughs.

The good, the bad, the happy, the sad, the frustrating, the fun, the painful, the joy--mixed together in life's blender, a combination of bitter and sweet, to be drunk daily.   And I do.  Every last drop.  Because it's worth it.



Right now, I listen to their silly noises and I feel at peace.

One day I will have another baby.  I will feel their movements inside me.  We will grow together for nine months.  We will meet and I will cry tears of immense joy.

That sweet baby will have instant best friends.  Soon  I will hear her or him laughing and playing with their siblings during nap time, and I will remember today.  I may even read these words again.  My heart will swell--for a second time--with feelings of great gratitude.

A tender mercy that I will not forget, but will embrace.  Fully.