Balancing Miracle and Medical. Mar. 27. Week 8.

The following are some quotes I took from an email I wrote on March 27 - the day after the u/s where we couldn't even see Baby.

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"[I'm analyzing all these medical options] at the same time I really am asking God for a miracle. It's like when Nebuchadnezer threatened S,M,and A with the furnace. They said they knew God could save them, but they didn't know if he would...

I'm believing he might, and planning that he might not. Weird place to be."

After the first 2 ultrasounds (10 hours apart) where we couldn't find a heartbeat, we started praying for a miracle. Literally, we were praying that God would raise the dead. I'll ditch an explanation, but we hardly view God as being limited!

In the same moment, we were needing to face that he might not do it, and think about what was best in terms of how to get Baby out, and how long we were willing to wait.

It's a hard balance to strike.

Last year, we didn't really know that God could (still) raise the dead. This year, just realizing that he's capable made a huge difference in my level of peace.

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"My belly is continuing to grow. I currently look the most pregnant I ever have. (J must've prepped me.) D took some pictures of me Wednesday night."

This was exactly 2 weeks before the D&C - the day T was "born" on. Something interesting about being pregnant with a baby who died - you keep growing. Everything continues. You're still pregnant. In fact, you can keep choosing the perfect shirt to show off your belly-lette with right up until... maybe a week past the baby coming out.

(On that note, the pictures I mentioned can be sent to anyone who asks for them.)

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The thing about the D&C date being the day he was "born":

I don't hear this talked about much. I figure it's the same as with a C-section. The baby was still "born" and still has a "birthday" - not a "surgery day." If the C-section happens and the baby died a bit beforehand, he's still "born" and had a "birthday."

I hadn't thought about this myself until now.
I never used any such terminology with E - it was more of "she made it to 5 weeks." Nor did I with J - it was "I was in labor on January 28th." (No denying labor! Sheesh!) But the idea in the above paragraph just hadn't clicked with me.

I'm adamant about giving my babies the same level of respect a 40-weeker or adult would get. Real people. Really matter. Really truly just like the rest of us. And yet, this one detail never clicked. Can't catch it all I guess.

The T Plot. Feb - Apr, 2009.

The basic story, to get you caught up...

We found out that I was pregnant in late February, and because of E and J, went to the OB the next day. Baby ("T") was due in early November. I started taking progesterone the night of that appointment. Otherwise, everything was fine.

We were both excited. I was nervous. We both really thought T was more likely to live than not. We had thought that we lost E and J because of the Lyme - and I'm pretty healthy now.

I was nauseated, but could atleast snack. Too fatigued to stay awake all day though. Everything smelled nasty, and I couldn't get enough Panera. And I thoroughly enjoyed the "I know somethin' you don't know" feeling when out of the house. :)

We had the first ultrasound scheduled for 7 weeks, 2 days. Knowing it would be pretty tell-tale, I kept saying "I just want it over."

Twelve hours before this ultrasound was to take place, we were in the ER. D watched the u/s screen at about 1 in the morning, then told me with bright eyes what he'd seen; body, head, and a little arm. But he didn't see a heartbeat.

We kept the appointment the next morning just to make sure. No heartbeat.

And then came a couple weeks of about 50 people asking and pleading with God to "wake him up."

Over those weeks, I went from knowing that he could and would, to knowing he could and wondering if he would, to knowing he could and realizing he probably wouldn't, to wondering if he *really* could (truth be told), to just saying, "Get me through this."

But let it be known: I don't regret fighting the battle.

A week after the ER, we had another ultrasound. The sac had grown, but Baby couldn't be seen. Five days later, just for the sake of my emotions, the OB did another one. Baby was "a grain of rice." That's what we have a picture of.

Staring at our "grain of rice," I was willing to schedule a D&C. We greatly preferred that I miscarry at home, and thought I would. But by the D&C date, I was 10 1/2 weeks - only 2 short of when I went into labor with J. Honestly, if you don't have a baby to protect, full-blown labor is a pain worth avoiding.

Miscarrying can happen really fast, so I stayed home from church the Sunday before the D&C. And on Thursday, April 9th, we headed for Labor and Delivery.

Having the D&C is a story unto itself. I'll skip it. But I kinda freaked (I'm sure that's unusual), and though we got home in the early afternoon, I didn't feel like we were home until the next morning.

Before we left, when I was still unable to put much of it into memory, D took care of funeral home arrangements, I tried to bite a beeping wire that was attached to my chest, and the chaplin called Baby "sweetpea" - which made me wish we'd used a more clever nickname than "Baby."

We were given a folder with stuff about grief in it. Most of it had to do with loosing a third-trimester baby though. I can't relate to being able to hold my baby, ya know? But how I long to.

The funeral home picked up the remains from the hospital. Exactly a week later, we went to the funeral home, filled out the death certificate, saw the remains, and left a little blanky to be cremated with him. We'll pick up the urn tomorrow - 16 days after the D&C.

Hardly the end of the story. But we can call that the end of the plot.

"T"

I just realized that in my last post, I forgot to say that Baby will now be "T" on here. So, we have "D, H, E, J, and T."

We'll go pick up the urn tomorrow (Sat.) "Urn?" "Ashes, cremains, or T?" I still don't know.

The follow-up appointment was ok. Nothing to tell really.

I've got this sinking feeling that everything is just about over with. I mean, I'll still cry sometimes when I'm 90. But the *physical* part is about over. Not much related to being pregnant is left. It's a relief. And it's horrible.

I've learned at this point that I can't presume I'll ever be pregnant again. (I mean seriously, how eager would you be to try?) I can't help but think this is the last of what pregnancy is for me. I don't want to let go.

Besides, it almost feels like it's the last few moments of having T - and that's a whole other ball of wax.

I've been in my prayer journal 2+ hours a day for the last 4. Been awesome. Know what I mean that the hardest things you go through with God are the sweetest? Not that I'd volunteer really.

We have one single ultrasound picture. It's printed on receipt paper. I've been warned that they fade just as bad and just as quick as receipts. This weekend, we'll take it somewhere and get it copied onto actual photo paper. I seriously hope it works. It's a bad pic, but it's what we've got.

Thursday. Some month in 2009.

The following was written the night of Thursday, April 9th. At the time, "some month in 2009" was the closest I could come to knowing the date.

It's 12:22 AM. I just took my midnight dose of methargine. It's a little pill designed to make your uterus cramp, pinching closed the bleeding blood vessels inside. Anyone want my 6 AM dose? I don't.

What's left of my baby's body is in a freezer at the hospital, probably in some kind of plastic. The 8 inch blanky I set aside to wrap him in is on my pillow. I never even saw what I was supposed to gently wrap up.

The anesthesiologist was very concerned that I might, some millenium, have no choice but to have the spinal he wanted me to have. So he stood over me for five minutes talking about how unnecessary my fear was. Meanwhile, I clamped my eyes closed, and hid my head under my arm. I swear I'm not a drama queen. I didn't even know I did it until afterward. It was by far the worst moment of the day, and the one I've played through my head the most times now.

Shortly afterward, David and I stared at each other wide-eyed as we heard a woman across the hall push out her baby. Then there was a little squawk that made us both smirk. But all I managed was the one smirk. My baby was about to come out too.

We'd both thought this baby was “the one.” The one that would live and come out alive. What are the odds that in a family of 5, the parents never would see one of their children alive? Makes a good tear-jerker of a magazine article. But it doesn't happen to real people.

Our daughter had come out easily 2 years before. She died very early.

Our son was born about 13 months ago – a nightmare 5 hour labor, with about 2 hours' worth of a single crushing contraction – an unprepared uterus trying to push. Excruciating pain, throwing up, eyes crossed, and moaning with every breath. The ambulance had been called right before I pushed him out. Over the next 3 days, I was on morphine and ativan, and still wide awake with the fear.

Never again.

Instead, this year, I unknowingly opted to feel attacked by a guy I'd never seen, and hear a baby be born not 50 feet away... all within 2 hours of the surgery that would pull my baby out of me. I thought I made the choice that would get me out of pain.

I thought, too, that once “the physical part was done,” the fear would be alleviated, and I could melt into the grief. I have the experience to know how bad it would be. But I could at least feel safe, able to drop my defenses and start getting out the devastating tears I've kept canned these 3 weeks since we knew our child had died.

But getting “the physical part done” only let the 3 weeks of fear burst out with the grief. Now I'm awake after a long day filled with grief, fear, pain, and things like methargine. I think I'm awake because I have so many “normal” years' worth of pain to pack into these current months. It doesn't fit. Maybe I need to fold it different.

Maybe my brain can't remember what it's supposed to do at 1 AM. Maybe it has too many other things to remember. It can't figure out how to fold stuff any better than I can. Does the joyful memory of finding out the baby was in me go with the memory of finding out he wasn't? Or does that fit better with how funny my pickle craving was? What about the memory of David telling me, with wide-eyes, that the baby on the ultrasound screen had tiny arms? We were in the ER. So does that get filed with my thrill at realizing he was ok, or with my blank stare when he said, “But I didn't see a heartbeat?” What's a head to do?

Do I feel grateful that I got out of pushing this time? Or do I grieve that I can't say, “I had my baby?” There won't be anything to show off. My stories and memories are all I have. Actually, I have a slightly larger belly to show off. But no one will ever notice. I've never worn “painted on” clothes in my life.

And that's another thing. What is my life? Who am I?

I'm a 27 year old mother of 3. I'm happily married, live in a cute little apartment on the edge of a big city, and we have a ridiculous number of pets.

My oldest child is no years old. I must say, she's the most beautiful little girl you've ever seen. Not that I'm partial.

My middle child is my first son. He's no years old too – no, they're not twins. Everyone thinks so though. Ya know, I forever think he's going to put a plastic bug in my bed. But he never once has.

Our youngest was just “born” today! He's ... I mean she's ... well, I don't know much really. He didn't do very well and had to stay at the hospital tonight. No, I didn't want to come home and leave her there. But I didn't have much option.

No need to worry though. They think he'll be able to leave in a few days. It's kinda weird, but we're gonna have to get a friend from the funeral home to pick her up and watch him for a few days. Crazy couple of weeks. But she'll be safely sleeping in mommy and daddy's room soon, safely by his big brother.

Something weird about being a mother though, nobody has ever called me “mommy.” I'd always assumed that went with the job, but I guess not. There's a lot of stuff I'd always thought went with it that doesn't. Funny how you get those ideas when you're growing up.

Actually, there's also a lot that happens I never realized would! I had no idea what kind of love would come with being a mom. Good grief – it'll floor you sometimes! Like on the floor “floor you.” It's crazy.

And I'd always heard that “having a child changes everything.” It's one of those things you can't understand until you're there. Nothing looks the same once you're a mom. Your values change. You re-evaluate everything you ever thought you knew. The words coming out of other people's mouths don't even mean the same thing they would have pre-motherhood. Reality flips upside down. All at once, you're scrutinizing the planet, scouting out danger, while struggling to not coo over the nearest earthworm or flower – for fear of the neighbors not knowing what's caused your odd behavior.

Maybe the cooing doesn't cause problems when the neighbors can see your baby though. I assume that to be the case. I don't actually know.

Maybe though, I'm just delusional. I'm not sure the pain meds have worn off yet anyway. But if they have, now that I think about it, I've always thought this way anyhow. Ever since our daughter came along. Two years ago. Feels like I've always been this way.

It's 2:02, and I told my dear husband I'd at least lay in bed tonight, even if I didn't sleep. I guess I'll go join him. The poor guy's exhausted. He's been standing most of the day, right at my side, holding my hand, sturdy as an oak tree. It's good to have a husband like that when you're having a baby.

But he'll have to be the topic of some other wee-hours thought. I'm off to stare at the bedroom ceiling. The oak tree hath spoken.

First Time at our Friday Night Group

The following is a pivotal story for both of us in knowing God's love and power. The night spoken of rocked both our lives.

This is the night we realized God takes action.

You've heard about our Friday night church group. Mike, the leader, asked me to write out the story of the first time we went. This is it.
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One night in February of 2008, my husband and I went to our Friday night group for the first time. We came straight from the funeral home, where we'd dropped off our son's body to be cremated. He was our second child - and the second we'd lost.

We came in after the meeting had started, both my arms around my husband's teddy bear, and his arm around me. We sat down and half-listened to the speaker, a woman who, of all things, was telling the story of holding her son while he died.

I don't remember much from the meeting, or even from the surrounding months. I came in shattered, not only having just lost our baby, but in the worst part of Lyme Disease. It'd been 3 months since I'd had a moment without pain. Even before we knew something was wrong with the baby, I was out of my head from hurting.

I remember Mike kneeling in front of me, talking to me quietly. He was asking what was going on. I couldn't speak, and my husband answered for us.

I've remarked a few times since that neither of us ever told the group that we thought I'd die. Though each time I've mentioned that, I've heard, "Oh I know! We could tell."

Mike asked something about whether it was ok for the group to pray for us, and put their hands on us.

Then I remember having about 6 hands on me. One was my husband's. Their hands made my body hurt, but I didn't care. I hurt worse than my body did.

I heard things in that prayer that I never had before. They said they believed Jesus could heal me. They demanded bad things to get off me. I remember so little, but I know it brought comfort. I remember thinking that if I did die, maybe these people would help my husband.

When they were done praying, and a few were left kneeling, talking to me, something made me laugh. I remember Mike turning from near-by and saying, "You're laughing!" I was rather surprised myself.

The next afternoon, I realized that my pain level had dropped enough to notice. That would gradually continue until, about 4 months later, I felt good 23 hours a day. The prayer had been a turning point.

One year later, I'm healthy and hopeful, closer to God than I knew was possible, the group is our family, and they're teaching us how to pray.

God over Kids

Last Friday, something clicked with me:

The thoughts in my head get a lot sweeter when I think I might be pregnant. I am SUPER sensitive to the thought of stressing out my baby.

However, they don't get a lot sweeter when I think of God being in the room with me. I am not super sensitive to the thought of stressing HIM out.

That says more about my heart than I ever wanted to know.
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Apology made and accepted. Then I went about my day very conscious that I need to 1) love God more than I love my children, and 2) be sensitive to him.
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Hours later, I dropped into the recliner with my Bible. I started reading where I'd left off, and came across Jesus saying this; "He who loves his son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me."

Anyone else think that was NOT a coincidence?

I took it as, "You were right! Don't forget! This is important to me."
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That night we had our Friday Night Group. At the end, we had worship time via CD. Our leader, Mike, came over to tell me that a certain line in the song that was playing was for ME. (Kind of God pointing out the line if you will.)

The line was "Strength will rise as we wait upon the Lord." Thinking on it led to all the following pouring into my head:

- Strength will rise as I wait upon the Lord. Not as I wait upon the Lord to bring me children.
- The effect on my niceness that God has needs to be even stronger than the effect my children have.
- If I don't value God more than my children, how could I value that they came from him? So, how could I value them (to the extent I should)?
- If I don't love God more than I love them, how could I give/dedicate them to God?

The next song was about the Father-child love we get from God. Yet another not-a-coincidence. During it, this part came:

- The love that's to be found between parent and child with my children is available in my parent-child relationship with God. (It's not like putting him first is depriving me of anything.)
- His parent-child love is even more intense than my own. He loves me more than I love them. (And, he loves them like that.)
- God is the only source of happiness and satisfaction. Not children.
- Similarly, living children is not what would bring me peace and joy.
- How could I have peace during pregnancy if I'm not more in love with him than with my baby?
- How could I have joy once they're born without God?

So I came home after Group and wrote it all down. Pretty hefty, huh?

Would you believe I even prayed for God to have that sweetness-effect on me in a dream last night?

Family of Four

I wanted to show you our Christmas stockings. More than anything, this post is for the handful of women I know of who read this, and who have also lost children. I want you to see that if you want to clearly include your children, you won't be the only one.

I have no respect for the social pressure we're under to not count them. But know that you, and your children, I have deep regard for.

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Something I heard out of David this week: "Of all the things I ever questioned about myself, the ability to raise kids was not one of them." Rock on, Husband. Rock on.

He's Worth It

My appointment with my counselor Monday night turned out to be my last one.

It'd gotten to the point that the only thing I ever had to tell her were stories of God interacting with me. I'm sure none of you are surprised. Though my counselor is an awesome chick, God's totally taken over her job.

I talked some about my single biggest emotional problem, and ended up concluding that God's doing what she would've tried to do to help - but more efficiently. God's been giving me the comfort and instruction I need there. I could stomp away if I really wanted, but the love he dumps on me along with the help is compelling.

I also talked about the baby issue, but ended up saying, "It was worth it."

Seriously, THAT'S God. Losing the 2 of them, I've been ripped to shreds twice over. But ya know how I rarely have anything to talk about besides God? There's a reason for that. He has consumed me. He was literally my only means of surviving around February. Now, the life I have is adamantly lived through him - and for him. The goodness of God far outweighs the badness of losing children - or of being in so much physical pain, or of having to try and prepare my husband for my death, or of any of the thousands of other terrible things humans go through.

It was worth it. Knowing God has made it worth it. I'm officially addicted. I am in love. I am quickly becoming radical. I pray that process speeds up. I am committed. He's not giving up, and neither am I. I'm in.

He's worth everything.

Babies Again

Saturday, we bumped into a friend at Target and ended up at their house 2 hours later with another couple - 6 adults and as many kids.

Realizing that one of them reads this, I'm still gonna say; I can not STAND being the only mom without kids! Gag!
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I keep coming back to this topic with different wording. But I'm really getting tired of it! For about 14 months, I've dealt with this. The way my brain handles it has gotten much easier. But as it turns out, getting my brain organized has been irrelevant to my emotions.

It's constantly in my face. Talking about someone else's baby shower. Seeing my friends with their kids in their laps. Having a little girl leap into my arms, and before I think "how sweet," I think, "but she's not mine." Toys scattered on someone else's floor, and I'm thinking about how lame it is to have a tidy house.

I could stay home all the time and I still wouldn't escape. It does seem worse when I'm being social though. It's quite the dilemma. I need friends - especially mom-friends. But what happens around mom-friends? Mom-stuff: baby showers, kids in laps, toys on floors.
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Sunday, we went to a friend's house. Her husband is currently out of town, so we spent the rest of the day with her. Going on a walk with her is how I found that nifty leaf up there. All the fall colors except orange. Not bad, eh?

When we were still there at dinner time, she suggested we either make pizza or pancakes. So naturally, the pizza went in the oven and we got working on the pancake batter! :) Yummeh.

We watched "Sarah Plain and Tall" before going home. Two kids crying because they don't have their mom, the little girl having a nightmare and screaming "mama," and a very fake scene where a woman has a baby who has trouble breathing. All off the top of my head. My eyes are clean. Hmph.
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This morning though, I got to wondering. When the day comes that I do have a living baby in my arms, after the tears of joy and relief, will there be a flood of grieving tears? Will the reality of grief be driven in deeper by suddenly comprehending how much we've really lost? Will having a living baby, in those first moments, even be a good memory?

Big Goings-On

E's booties from an AIM friend. Rag cow from a friend at the 3-week counseling program I was in in March. J's socks from D's parents. J's shirt from house group friends. J's blanket from my parents. (We have very little of E's.)
Angel with girl and boy from a childhood friend. Lavendar from the flowers D's office sent after losing J. (And that's a photo involving our faces.)
Albino (yellow?) mudsucker.
Adrenaline Rush #'s 1 and 2

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For months, I'd been having this train of thought as I walked through the house, "We don't have any pictures of E and J up. Oh. We don't have any. (depressed look)."

So it finally occurred to me to put up something else. I pulled out a few baby items that we favored and put them together in the living room. (above pictures) We have the announcement for each child set aside to frame together. And we chose 5 of the sympathy cards to put together somehow.
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Last night, me being hyper, we went to the pet store. Fishieees!

D's favorite fish are neons (blue top, red tail). They have been since he was little and he still goes straight to them in the pet store. Our first neon, Harry, is in with the 4 guppies. We got 2 more.

My favorite fish are mudsuckers / algae eaters / plecostamus. They are brown and ugly but cool. The pet store had albino ones! I nearly passed out from the level of coolness involved here. We got a little one.

And we needed more color. We got 2 fish of the same species (what the phlem phlam we don't know.) One is solid yellow. One is solid pink. While in the bag, the pink one leaped every 15 seconds into the top of the bag. This morning, when it was dark and all good fish are sitting still at the gravel, they were both zipping blindly around the bowl. They should've come with a big red warning:

BUY AT YOUR OWN RISK.
Unknown species of fish.
Requires extensive sedation.
May cause irritation to humans.

(Can you guess why the picture of them is blurry?)

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Last Thursday we had dinner with our neighbors. They have an 8 month old boy. She is one awesome cook. And as it turns out, they stopped going to our church at the same time we started. And we met in a tornado. Does it get weirder? We're figuring God is involved here.
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Last Saturday, one of our friends from college stopped by on his way through the state. We ate with Mike in the caf, sat with him in chapel, and I think he and D have the same major. There're a few pictures on Flickr.

I made burritos while he was here. There were 2 large chunks of unseen potato under the burner. The result was brightly glowing, heavily smoking coals.

And though I was beating both of them at Carcassone the whole way through, I came in last. Hmph.
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That afternoon, we went to the home of our Friday night leaders. Yappity yappity yappity. Eat a cookie. Watch a documentary about a church leader named Dowie. (He was weird.) Yappity. Order Chinese. (It was good.) Yappity. Eat a cookie. Watch the comedy "Saved." (It was disturbing.) Yappity. Eat a cookie. Go home. These are our kinda people.

The next morning, we visited their church.
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Tonight is the once-a-month worship-till-ya-drop time at church. Love. It.
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Can you believe I got a summons for jury duty? I was just thinking before I found it that I need to make sure I'm registered to vote - given that I have a mighty strong opinion regarding the candidates.

You can ditch privileges if you want to (voting), but you can't ditch responsibilities (jury duty). Figures.

J Would've Been Born

Give or take a few weeks, this is when J would've been born. I think about my kids every single day, so a special month doesn't really make things worse. But I am a bit more sad than usual now. Enough to make it worth posting about.

I really can say though that a lot of good can come out of this. Losing a child makes you a better parent. It's something that has to do with gratitude, and not taking your living kids for granted. It makes you more diligent about truly loving your kids, and wanting to do the parenting job as honorably as possible.

Losing E and J also means that I will always have babies. You hear women all the time say, "Oh, they grow up so fast" or "wish they could stay little." Once I get to heaven, I will have a baby on each hip (oh, maybe I'll share with D), and I'll be the envy of all the other chicks. Sure, I'd rather have them here, but the heaven arrangement isn't bad per se.

Not like losing kids is a walk in the park. But God can pull good out of everything. Maybe that's my main point. Here's a public "THANK YOU, LORD" for pulling good out of grief.

Mother's Day

Mother's Day was intense. I'd been very worried that it would come and go and I wouldn't get cards. But 3 people sent me one, besides the 2 David got me - one from him, and one from our babies. The card from Eden and Judah made me cry, but that's all the crying I did all day. It was a very heavy day. David went out of his way to honor me though. He got me a corsage (pict.s on Flickr) and took me to the conservatory.

Speaking of corsages, I saw a single other woman all day wearing one. Seemed odd to me. And here's a funny: A woman at the conservatory saw it and stopped to congratulate me. She then pointed at David questioningly, and when I nodded, she congratulated him too. It was so sweet of her! There's great value in getting a "congratulations" from a woman 3 times my age. I surely like them from us spring chickens too, but she made me feel special. Many extra thanks to the anonymous stranger.

There are pictures from the conservatory on Flickr. Wouldn't you know it, but my batteries died while we were there. The conservatory turned out to be the perfect place to celebrate Mother's Day. This is a place where all life is unique and valuable. There was so much beauty there.

I find myself, just since Mother's Day, feeling very different. There's been a great but quiet shift in my personality. I found myself all that day wanting to say words like "lovely" and "precious." I didn't, because I'm very not used to such words - I'd feel like a dork! But my demeanor seems to have shifted toward such words, if that makes sense.

I do love what being a mother has done to who I am. I will always see room for improvement, but I'm nicer now. Gosh, I hope it shows. I'm afraid it may just be in my heart and not yet spilling over where others can benefit from it. Maybe it's a gradual thing. I hope it keeps swelling up though.
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By the way, something has gone wrong with the guppies. Something that looks like fungus is growing in the aquarium. Whether it's related or not, I don't know, but many of the guppies have died. The father and the entire first set of babies is gone now. Anti-Yoda had another set of 7 and they're down to 3. The remaining 4 fish are in individual jars and getting daily 50% water changes. I'm taking the aquarium completely apart and disinfecting it. Groan. (And theoretically, I should be packing boxes.)

All the Little Details

I've made mention of this before, but Mother's Day is coming up. Great. Just great.

It's common on Mother's Day for all the mothers to be asked to stand in church. Puts me in a funny position now doesn't it? I have not yet decided what I will do, but I guarantee by the time I'm there, I'll be very certain of the decision I have made. Meanwhile, my stomach and heart are both knotted.

I've also had to wrestle with whether or not I can say that I'm a "stay at home mom" (SAHM.) You see, Flylady has a new forum, and there's a subforum there for those who are "stay at home" but not yet "mom." This left me wrestling with whether I belong there, or would fit better in the SAHM subforum.

However, I've decided about this SAHM thing. I AM a SAHM. It just looks different than what you'd expect.

For what it's worth, I also answer with "yes" when people ask if I have kids. I just follow it up with something like, "2 in heaven" or "but none living yet." Being a mom without kids, there are a LOT of these little details you have to work out.
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I talk to many other women who have lost babies. There's a wide variety in how the others choose to handle this stuff. But what seems to be common is how society at large views us and our children - we're not mothers, and our babies aren't really our children - never were.

I'm under the impression that what I do by crediting myself as being a mother, and crediting my children as being my children, flies in the face of our culture. Of course, I am also faithful to my spouse and don't cuss.

Super-Baby's with E

sent from Vineyard (our church)

Since the last time I blogged (the events of less than one month):

• Thurs, Jan. 24 - While at ER, found out Super-Baby had died. He was measuring 6+ weeks. I'd been pregnant 12+ weeks.
• Mon, Jan. 28 - Labor and miscarriage while at friend's house. Ambulance ride to ER. Night in hospital.
• Tues, Jan. 29 - D&C. Two more nights in hospital.
• Thurs, Jan. 31 - Home from hospital.
• Mon, Feb. 4 - D and I held Super-Baby's body for the first and last time.
• Feb. 7-14 - Lyme relapse. Worst one yet.
• Thurs-Sun, Feb. 7-9 - Three nights in a hotel. Named Super-Baby. Got talking seriously about adoption.
• Tues, Feb. 12 - Midwife follow-up. I'm fine.
  
• Fri, Feb. 15 - Took J's body to funeral home for cremation and chose an urn. First visit to counselor. Got major huge prayer cover this night. Physically, noticeably less-bad this day.
• NOW. Sat, Feb. 16 - Trying to get me into a 2-week all-day counseling program. Should be able to pick up Super-Baby's ashes next weekend. Getting second strand added to my "E bracelet." Many doc visits and an MRI scheduled (all Lyme related).
• Detail: Add 1-3 times daily me going into shock and/or anxiety attacks from Jan. 24 - about Feb. 4. Currently down to a few times a week. Been very out of my head through this time period, and still feeling out of touch with reality most of the day. I do seem to be able to type/write with some clarity.
  

Super-Baby is now J Z. He'll go by J.

Sweet Naivety

Journal excerpt. Sept.7
"God! I want my baby back! God, I’d hold her in my hands the next 8 months just to let her finish growing here. If I knew I wouldn’t be able to pick her back up, I’d never ever put her down. I’d do anything to keep her. Even just for another day, just so I had a chance to say good-bye before I have to wait until I die to have her again. God, anything."

Three little weeks and the universe shifts.

In the span of three weeks, I became a mother and became a childless mother. How does that happen?

I am left appearing as a young newlywed enjoying my years of "freedom" before settling down to raise a family. I must seem rather care-free, taking life as it comes. I probably look like one of the stereotypical fresh-out-of-college naive types.

I'm not naive.

But I, at one time, was naive about the idea that babies get to live. I thought that with few exceptions, mothers got to keep their babies. I'd heard horror stories. But I never thought I'd live one. Not my baby. Surely not mine. That's something that happens to other women. That's the kind of thing you hear about in church announcements and read in magazine articles. That doesn't happen to real people.

But then it happened. I lost a close family member before birth. And then I lost my own daughter. How does that happen? And why?

Why can't all mothers and mothers-to-be stay naive? People say "parents shouldn't outlive their children." Do they know how many DO? I'm not going to hunt for figures right now, but it's something like 1 out of 4 babies conceived that doesn't live. Voluntarily have 4 children and you may "volunteer" to lose one. One in four. Am I the only mama bothered by this?

I wouldn't trade out those 3 weeks of having my child for anything. But how I wish I was naive again.

The Mother

She's me. The Elder Sister. She's the protective big sister with the long red hair. Part little girl, but holding "her" baby. Still fragile herself, but caring for one more fragile. Thinking of the day she'll hold one of her own. But grateful for the one she holds now. She's me.







First, there was Monday. The day that I understood there was life in me. When we were excited. When I couldn't keep my hand off my hardening tummy. When I knew I'd be calling a midwife the following week. When my every thought started with "Is it better for the baby if I..."

Then there was Saturday. The day we understood it was over. When I tried to convince myself for the first time that I'd never had a baby. When I wanted to believe nothing was lost. When, for self preservation, I made sure to forget what it felt like to carry someone else.

Then there was Monday. The day I understood once again that there had been life in me. When the reality of loss, grief, motherhood, and dire need all hit. When I cried so hard I split my lip. When I spent 20 minutes sitting on the foot of the bed in the dark with my arms cramped down around a doll, rocking us both. When I first felt the conflict of wanting to be with my baby and wanting to be with my precious husband.

Then there was Saturday. The day my favorite girlfriend called to offer support. When I spent about an hour smiling because I saw that she cared. The day she called back. When she tried to tell me I never had a baby. The day I lost a friend. When I first put my child above someone else.

Then there was Friday. The day we sat shell-shocked as we heard our only child referred to with "if you really were pregnant," "the products of conception," and "the embryo." When D said he was proud of me for not murdering anyone. The day I understood that my very womanhood is wrapped around this millimeter-sized child.

Then there's Sunday. The day I watched D holding a red-headed baby girl. When all I could think of was how to twist the picture to make it look like he was holding our daughter. The day I watched him read a story to 2 little boys. When I sat trying to make his face look 5 years older, wanting to convince myself I'll be seeing this again someday. The day I sat staring at my dreams and trying to act normal about it.

Flashback 3 years: I'm sitting D down in a rocking chair, explaining how to "keep your arm behind her neck," laying a day-old baby in his arms. I'm thinking as I lay her in his arms that I'll be laying his own child in his lap someday. And D doesn't know I like him.

And then there is Monday. Today is the day I see that the man whose arms I long to lay our babies in is still the daddy in our family. When I see that this man is the protective father. When I see that what others see doesn't change who we are. This is the day I see that this woman who longs to lay the babies in their daddy's arms is still the mother in our family. When I see that this woman is a good mother. When I see that what others see doesn't change who we are.

She's me. The Mother. She's the protective mother with the long red hair. Part little girl, but holding her baby. Still fragile herself, but caring for one more fragile. Longing for the day she'll hold another of her own. But grateful for the one she holds now. She's me.

Courage Under Fire

I'm trying to sort this all out in my head. I want at least 6 (surviving!) kids. If they were spaced 2 years apart, and I got going now, I'd have the last one at 38. Not sure what to think of that. Possible? Sure! Probable? Hm.

• There's the "wait a year 'till I'm healthy" alternative. Make them 18 months apart. Maybe.
• There's the "have twins" alternative. As if I could control that in any form.
• There's the "adopt some of 'em" alternative. Can't really know that can happen either.

Hm.
The "wait a year 'till I'm healthy" version looks most logical. But people, what would make me think I can do that? My current make-a-baby rating is a big fat 0%. I realize a lot of women will lose one and have no more problems. But when your success rate is losing all you've ever had, it's a lot easier to dwell on the woman you know of who has made 17 babies - 3 of whom made it out of her tummy. Know what I mean?

I did realize one thing though: My Gran had the courage to go through this for 2 decades before she had her only baby in her arms. Guts run in my family, people! My Gran and I have something hard-core in common. We both know the value of a single baby girl. We both know the desperate longing. I'd always seen her as my grandmother. She's fast becoming my hero and "fellow mommy." We're fellow warriors now. Who knew.

My Life as a Fruitcake

Ever feel like a fruitcake? Here I am all sweet and quiet (stop laughing) and yet I'm totally unhealthy and almost being eaten. Just like a fruitcake.

I am now up to maybe 75% functioning. Not bad if you know what the last months have been like with me laying in bed crying. And yet, I worked hard to get just 1/3 of the kitchen table cleared of dirty dishes this past week. There's now enough empty space there to set a rag. Thrilled with my hard work because only 2/3 of the kitchen table was covered. Now back where I started. This is my life. But surely by the time my parents come for Christmas... grr.

I am able to make our meals. I just can't do much else.

And then we have that "almost being eaten" thing I mentioned. Refer back to 2 posts ago. No matter what your personal convictions are regarding "appropriate" vocabulary, losing a child SUCKS. When you have to use those words in order to continue telling the truth, you have to wonder if it might be easier to just lie: "Fine and how are you?" "Yeah, we're doing better."
Or try being asked how your handling things, only to stand there speechless not knowing if you're being asked about your health or your baby. After all, why would health enter anyone's mind if they did know about Eden. And yet, I can't always be sure they do know about her. Several times I've ended up saying, "Wait - how am I doing with what?" - which, of course, makes it sound like nothing's amiss. I usually don't have these problems navigating conversations! Once again, grr.

That last paragraph wasn't actually supposed to turn into an explanation of what it's like to talk to people. But it does make a point: When you lose your baby, nothing remains normal. No person looks the same. No situation looks the same. Even objects in the house don't look the same. Need examples? Think pregnant women, Mother's Day, and the ponytail holders that were keeping my jeans together. Or, try people that are mean to their children, a 4 year old friend wanting my attention, and the Christmas tree (yeah - it's up - not the point.)

That said, I know that God was all over Eden's life - before beginning to after end. That would get into the topics of me having visions and God answering prayers that were beyond physical explanation. It's also true that I don't know who's reading this, so I'm not willing to give details and provide any meanies with ammo.

But knowing that God has been covering her short time here so thoroughly, it leads me to wonder: Did God use her weeks here as a positive blessing? Or did he simply know she wouldn't make it and therefore worked hard to pull good out of that fact? I sure would like to know. The first says my body can pull-off this "baby thing." The second says that I can lose more and simply expect "some good to come of it." Serious difference. If anyone has the brilliance to tell me which one is the case, you're welcome to let me know.

I am proud of my daughter. Looking to the future, I can honestly say I delight in her. My "treasure in heaven" trumps just about everyone else's. But the fact remains, I want my baby back! My belly should be "out to here" and I'm not seeing that leaving my mind soon.

I woke up many mornings that the first thought on my mind was "I'm pregnant!" How many mornings will it take until the first thought on my mind is not "Oh God, I want my baby back!"

Life Summary

Here's what's going on in our life. If we don't talk a lot, you'll learn something.

• We have a daughter now. Her name is E. She was due to be born in March of '08. I, especially, am totally consumed with her now, but we are looking ahead to our second child. Edited for clarification: I carried E for only 3 weeks. She didn't make it. If you misunderstood the last time you read this, don't worry. You weren't the only one.



• D's work is going well. Not much changes on that front (as far as I know.) It's a great comfort to me to know that he thrives there. His brain seems to absolutely fly when he's on a computer.



• I have Lyme (as best as anyone can figure out.) I'm being treated via a specialist 4 hours away. It will surely be months before I'm "normal" again, but the most severe time period was a full month ago, which gives me hope that I may be through the absolute worst. Some of our church friends are helping me with meals.



• D and I are in a marriage course with our church. It's a lot of fun because they have it set up as weekly "dates" - complete with dessert, which, of course, I work hard to be able to eat.



• We'll be going to CO for Thanksgiving.



• My parents are coming here for Christmas.



• Sidenote: As I'm stuck in bed a lot, feel free to send email novels. I'll certainly reply.