Sharing (Part 2)

Read Sharing (Part One) here.

It's true. I am pregnant. Finally. But, like all of my other pregnancies, this one couldn't just be easy.

I found out I was pregnant on Mother's Day. What a fabulous gift! This pregnancy would be it! This one would be normal!

Nope.

At my 6 week ultrasound, the tech saw the sack which measured correctly. However, she did not see the baby developing like it should have. It was nothing more than a "yolk" (her words) without a heartbeat. At 6 weeks, there should have been a heartbeat.

The doctor said with a look of sadness on his face that "it was still early" and that "we should wait to see at another scan in a week or so". I knew what that meant. I've already lost 4 other babies. He was just giving me a week or so of hope before my baby would be gone from me forever.

I went home in tears. My next U/S would be at 8 weeks since I was about to leave town for my niece's graduation in Florida. I quickly contacted some of the most reliable, most trusted people in my life who promptly started praying for me and for my baby.

I prepared my mind for the (assumed) fact that I was about to have another miscarriage. I cried. Oh, how I cried. I yelled at God. I even had several moments where my faith wavered. How could God be doing this to us again? I pleaded with God. I remember, the night before the ultrasound, absolutely poring my heart and soul out to God, begging him "Please! Please! Please don't let me lose another!" Verbally yelling this to Him. Then I just decided to give it all to Him. I kind of just gave up that night and said that this baby was His to do with what He wanted, no matter how much I wanted it here. I handed all of my fears and worries over.

I went in to the ultrasound room expecting to hear that the baby was officially gone. I had even made peace with that. But I was in for a shock.

As I stared at the ceiling waiting for the ultrasound to be over, I hear the tech say with shock in her voice "Everything looks great!" Wait... What? "Look. The baby is measuring right on track. There is it's little heart pumping away."

MY BABY WAS ALIVE.

Not only was the baby alive, but it's growth had caught up 100% and it has a strong heartbeat. They seemed as shocked as I was. As I am.

But you know what? I shouldn't be. God works MIRACLES. He works them all the time and I am proof. My baby is proof!

So yeah. I am currently almost 10 weeks pregnant, due New Years. I am announcing this early and I am one to know for a fact that things can change, but I want everybody to know about the miracle that God has done for us.


Because God is good. ALL the time.

Pretty spot on

 I found this article online and I found it hit pretty close to home.


"Losing the Baby: My week of gestational limbo. By Sarah Shemkus

 
"Last month, I decorated a Christmas tree, baked holiday cookies, and wrapped dozens of presents. All the while, I was having a miscarriage.

On TV and in the movies, a miscarriage involves an unsuspecting mother-to-be suddenly clutching her gut, discovering some worrisome blood, and rushing to the hospital. A few hours later she lies wanly in bed while her loved ones whisper that she has “lost the baby.” Parenting websites explain the causes of miscarriage and encourage you to be optimistic about your future chances of conception. They tell you it’s OK to grieve. But like the TV shows that cut quickly from the sudden cramping to the sad, hushed aftermath, they don't tell you anything about what a miscarriage is actually like.

Let me tell you about my miscarriage.

When my pregnancy should have been about nine weeks along, my husband and I headed into the doctor's office for my first ultrasound. It was a Tuesday, Christmas Eve. We were looking forward to seeing an amorphous gray blob on the screen and trying earnestly to see in it our future baby boy or girl; we were eager to hear a heartbeat. But the image that popped up on the monitor was far less encouraging: a dense black patch containing no tiny pulsating heart, no cryptic but exhilarating gray squiggles.

Here’s the primary thing they never tell you about miscarriage: When used by medical professionals, the word refers to the entirety of a nonviable early pregnancy, a period that can span weeks. It starts when cell division in the embryo grinds quietly to a halt; the blood and the passing of tissue that we think of as “a miscarriage” are but the final phase. It is a lingering process. For a full week I was in a sort of gestational limbo, feeling neither pregnant nor truly unpregnant.

This ambiguity left me painfully confused about the most mundane of situations. Hours after the ultrasound disappointment, my sister was ordering sushi for our family and I nearly cried when she asked what I wanted. There was no longer any real need to restrict myself to cucumber rolls and spider maki, but a spicy tuna roll—raw and potentially mercury-laced—just felt inappropriate, callous. Before Christmas dinner the next night I actually did shed tears trying to decide whether a glass of sauvignon blanc would help me relax or, after more than a month of temperance, simply throw my situation into painful relief.

Confusion was just one emotion. There has been the sadness, of course, like a mineshaft boring down behind my ribcage. There have been understandable, if unfounded, pinpricks of guilt as I wonder whether I could have done something differently to stop this from happening. These feelings are well covered by the baby blogs.

There have also, however, been unexpected and pervasive feeling of foolishness, the sense that I was being stupidly naive whenever I daydreamed about my future child. It is almost embarrassing to remember the light-hearted conversations about baby names, the nursery decoration ideas I saved on a secret Pinterest board called “Baby Rooms.” It seems that when I told my best friend, “I’m pregnant!” I already wasn't, not really, and I feel ridiculous and slightly ashamed whenever I think of that cheerful declaration.

At the same time, however, I can't help but wonder if I have grieved enough. On pregnancy websites and discussion boards, I read stories of women who cried for days and mourned for months after their miscarriages. That has not been me. I have cried and might again (a rack of onesies in Target the other day pushed some emotional buttons), but I confess it didn't take me long to begin healing. It took less than a week to start re-adjusting my expectations for the coming months so that they no longer included watching my belly slowly swell and feeling the kick of new life. Today, my lost pregnancy is a bittersweet might-have-been, not a gaping hole.

Occasionally, I even feel a bit relieved, though I know I’m not supposed to admit such a thing. My husband and I dearly wanted this almost-child, but we also worried whether we were ready, financially and emotionally, to expand our family. So, threaded through the heavy curtain of our mourning are a few silver threads of comfort. At least we no longer have to plan an expensive move. At least we’ll have less debt by the next pregnancy.

Among this whole assortment of emotions, however, the most burning feeling was anticipation. I found myself eagerly awaiting the one thing most pregnant women fear: the pain and the blood. I did not get the quick cut to post-miscarriage grieving. I started bleeding ever so slightly on a Thursday, two days after we received the crushing news. From that point on, I made every trip to the bathroom with a vigilant eye, assessing whether there was more blood this time than the last time. Every appointment I put in my calendar for the following week had a mental asterisk next to it: *as long as I am not curled up in bed, wracked with cramps.

Still, I wanted the worst to come. I wanted out of the confounding state of neither-nor, out of knowing the end was inevitable but still carrying within me some genetic fragment of my previous dreams. I wanted something physical and visible to give shape to the formless fog of unhappiness around me, something I could point to and say, “That. That is why, sometimes, out of the blue my hand starts shaking a little and why the tears pop up at the strangest of times.”

On Sunday, the slow trickle of blood escalated into the painful cramping and heavy bleeding that finally ushered the nonviable tissue from my body. I laid on the couch and watched football and crime dramas while my husband fetched pizza and made me hot chocolate. I was quiet and somber, but I did not cry. Over the following days, the bleeding ebbed, though it did not disappear completely for nearly a week. My body was still wrapping things up, putting the final touches on my brief brush with pregnancy.

Exactly one week after that first, sad ultrasound, I called the doctor's office to update her, as instructed, on the progress of my miscarriage. When my doctor was unavailable, the receptionist tried to determine where to route my call.

“Are you pregnant?” she asked.

“No,” I answered. “I am not.”"

While I didn't write the words above, like I said, they were so eerily close to what I have experienced it. Sarah's words were so perfect I wanted to share them with you.

God's Grace is with me every step of the way

Today is one of my many baby loss anniversaries. Though I did go on to become a mother thanks to Selah, memories of this day will always be with me. It doesn't help that history keeps repeating itself.

I still remember you, little one.

A year later...

A year ago today (well, tonight), I was losing my fourth pregnancy (third lost baby). I remember. I'll always remember. My heart is breaking. This whole week has been spent with reminders, painful, sad reminders, of that lost baby.

Will this ever get easier?

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day 2013

Elias

Grace

Joy

Hope

I always remember my lost babies, all of them. And I will forever. 

I am 1 in 4.

Strong

I'm not strong.

Well, maybe I should rephrase that. I'm not strong enough.

All of this pertains to my last [real] post.

More announcements. Yes, more joy, but also more heartache for me. Why did this have to go wrong for us? Why again?

I feel left out. This is something I want more than anyone can imagine, yet it's something that I can't easily obtain. Especially not something that the majority of my friends have now obtained without issue. But you know what? I wouldn't wish these internal struggles on my worst enemy, let alone a friend.

I've been lapped. Hopefully, I'll catch up soon, but I've been without much hope recently. Really, why should I expect things to go well for us (and easy. My pregnancy with Selah wasn't easy.)? They haven't so far.

But, like I said, I'm not strong enough to handle another announcement by myself, even if I know about it ahead of time.

Day of Hope

Today is a national Day of Hope, a day set aside to celebrate and remember ALL babies, primarily those lost before they could be born. I will always remember my four lost babies, especially when I look into their sister's face. 

But, when I should've lost all hope, I have gained it instead.

"Everything will be ok in the end. If it's not ok, it's not the end."

I'm tired of writing posts like these

Tomorrow, I go into surgery. It's another D&E for my 4th miscarriage. 

Currently, I am 9.5 weeks pregnant (was due March 4 [Selah's original due date!]). At ultrasound a few days ago, sack measured 7.5 weeks, but baby only measured 6 weeks. My dates are correct. I am positive. No longer had a heartbeat. This baby failed to continue growing properly. 

Again.

So, yeah. D&E tomorrow. Same deal as November. I'll go into surgery with (misguided) hopes still in mind and I'll wakeup without that hope. 

I'm tired, emotionally and physically, of this. So tired. 

Selah really was my miracle child.

Missing this "Due Date"

My baby was never born so I don't know if it qualifies as having died, but I will protect it's memory none the less.

I wish I could be meeting you, seeing your face and holding you in my arms for the first time this week, little one, but I will have to wait until we meet in heaven some day. Enjoy the warmth of your grandfather's arms and our Father's love, my dear.

I REALLY don't want you to understand why today's shower is difficult

 Today I am co-hosting a baby shower. Why? I'm not so sure myself. Well, I do know why (because it's my friend's co-hosting with me and it's for our friend's baby), but I don't know why I am doing it since it actually is kinda tough on me.

You see, this baby that is being showered is due only a couple of weeks before I should've been due. This baby is their second as our lost baby would've been for us. The mom is the one who hugged me without letting go after she heard of our third loss. How is that bad, you ask? You see, that innocent hug? It pushed her rounding baby belly into my recently evacuated belly area... and it. wouldn't. move. (And, yes, I am aware that this is my "issue" and not hers. That's why I haven't told her.) This mom complained about pregnancy related things at a shower we were at a couple of weeks ago. This mom doesn't understand. Heck, YOU may not understand. But I'm glad you don't understand.

I found the following article online at Still Standing. It may help explain a little bit of that lingering sadness (And jealousy? Probably.).

I’m Glad You Don’t Understand

August 11, 2012

Guest Post by Tracy [On Still Standing]

Yesterday my mom said that I should do things I don’t want to because it will help me get over it faster. And then today suggested I visit my doctor—I might need medicine for depression.
I’m not going to get over it—I may get through it; there may be another side of this grief, but it will never be over.

I’m sad—grieving—but I don’t think I’m depressed. It’s only been two weeks. I lost a child. A child I had hopes and dreams for. Eleven weeks in utero or eleven years on earth… I still am not supposed to outlive my child. I am sad. Drugs won’t make my sadness go away.

I was hurt. This is my mother whom I’m very close to. I always feel able to tell her anything. And now I know I won’t anymore. Not this. This is mine to hold—not to hurt. I went in my house, sat on the stairs and held back tears.

And then I thought about it…

I already tell myself that the words come from a good place. And in my head I repeat the mantra “It’s from a good place, it’s from a good place.”

But recently, I’ve added another thought: “I’m so glad they don’t understand.” To understand is to have lost. That’s the only way someone really “gets it.” They too lost a child like I lost a child. They too wept for their baby, their dreams and their innocence.

I would never wish that hurt on anyone. No matter how much they hurt me. I don’t want them to understand—most especially not my mom. that understanding comes at such a high price. And I would never, ever, ever want any one else to pay that price.

My price is enough.

So please don't get me wrong. I am so happy for my friends. I am always happy for new babies to be brought into the world. I'm just sad that one of those new babies isn't my baby. 

Yet.

Still feeling it

A few days ago, I took down our Christmas tree. While taking it down, I remembered putting it up and some of the thoughts I had. Why did they stick in my head? I was still pregnant.

Now? I am not. And I'm expected to be "over" it.

You may be thinking that I don't have to be over it. I'm allowed to still feel the pain of our loss. Our THIRD loss. But you (in general) don't allow me. You don't tell me that to my face. You don't ask me how I am in regards to not being pregnant now or mention the babies that weren't. You don't allow me to cry anymore.

T doesn't. When I mentioned to him that I was pregnant while putting up our Christmas things but not while taking it down, he asked me why it even mattered. He told me that I didn't need to dwell on things like that, to think about things like that.

But I do. I do think about them. I don't know how not to. This last baby was part of me for, what? Three months? Known about for 2? That was my baby. It was my body that couldn't sustain it. It was my body that held the baby after the heart stopped beating. It was my body that felt the pains of 'labor' as I miscarried Thanksgiving evening. It was my body that was operated on the day after Thanksgiving to remove whatever was left. How could I NOT think about it?

People every where we go mention how cute Selah is, which leads to them saying that they (or somebody they know) have a baby close to her age with their second due a few months later. So should we, but we don't. Not any more. People ask if she is our first. When we say yes, if they have more than one, they say to enjoy it because two kids are so much work. Two babies are such a handful. How about this? Less complaining about that and more enjoying it. Or, perhaps, just don't mention it to me right now. Especially if you know what happened. I know this. I WANT this, but it was ripped from me. Can you understand it? I couldn't before, but now I do.

So, if you ask me how I am just as a mere courtesy, I will answer fine. If you ask me out of concern, I will, more than likely, answer fine as well, but look into my eyes. Listen to how I say it. I am not fine, but I'm not allowed to admit it to anyone. Not even my husband.

Pop culture has a way of kicking you while you're down

Jessica Simpson is pregnant again. Her baby is 7 months old. The Twittersphere won't shut up about it either. They say it is unbelievable. It's apparently wrong. Bad, in fact.

I was pregnant when my baby was 7 months and it was oh-so-right. Soon, yes, but so wonderful. But not any more. My baby's little brother or sister is gone.

And now Jessica Simpson will just be a reminder of how I have failed once again. I hope she can ignore the negativity and be as happy as I wish I could still be.

Sadness

I didn't cry today. First time in a week. Does this mean I'm over it? Not in the least. I'm far from over it.

I have an empty spot inside that can't be filled. I miss you, little one.

30 Days of Thankfulness- Day 25

I am thankful for the overwhelming love and support during a difficult time. I love you guys.

Anesthesia Dream

Right before the doctor put me under during the surgery on the 23rd (Black Friday), he told me to think of my favorite island. Think about cabana boys and mixed drinks. I laughed and then blacked out.

While I was out, I did dream. I had a dream that I was Black Friday shopping with my wonderful grandfather (the one who died in 2008). Towards the end of the dream (or at least the last thing I remember), I handed him a bundle and said "Happy early Birthday, Pop".

I never saw what was in the bundle, but I think we know.

And I know for a fact that he loves his gift.

30 Days of Thankfulness- Day 24

I am thankful to have had 2-3 months as your momma, little one. I'll see you and your face in heaven one day. Give Pop a kiss for me.

Surgery was a success

I feel like a failure. I feel heartbroken. I feel so... Empty.

But I'm alive and I have my wonderful, supportive husband and my sweet, sweet, precious baby girl.

And I just know that, one day, some day (hopefully sooner than later), we'll have our second forever baby.

The day the heart stopped beating

On October 15th, I found out I was pregnant. A definite surprise, but such a welcome one. For a week or two, this was my little secret. God and I shared this secret.

I told Timmy via text message picture of a dinner roll in the oven. A bun in the oven. Our surprise.

I dreamed of how I would share our news with our family and friends we were overjoyed and so in love.

I went to the doctor and was given a due date towards the beginning of June. Bloodwork was drawn and ultrasound appointment was scheduled. I couldn't wait to share my joy.

This week was my appointment. I am(?) 11.5 weeks pregnant. The baby in the ultrasound, the baby in my belly, measured 7.5 weeks... without a heartbeat. Our baby, our joy, our surprise, died within the last few weeks.

Bleeding has started, but a D&E has been scheduled for Friday. What a Black Friday we'll have this year.

Pre-op was done this morning for my 4-5 surgical procedure this year. At least they'll be putting me completely under this time. I couldn't bear to be conscious while my (dead) baby is ripped from my body.

Please pray for us during this time. When I'm ready to talk about this in person, I will.

Not a little sister

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Day, a day to remember our lost babies.


I won't forget that Selah should be a little sister.

I won't forget the weekend of our loss two years ago.

I won't forget the feelings between that loss and Selah's birth.

I won't forget.


I will appreciate the little things.

I will continue to remember that little one and the milestones that should be when I see Selah hit hers.

I will realize (in an odd way) that there would be no Selah if it weren't for that loss. Oh, how I wish I could have both of my babies.

I will keep hugging Selah a little tighter, kissing her a little more often, smelling her sweet baby smell a little longer, more than most parents.


I won't forget the lost and I will keep appreciating the one I have in my arms.

One year later

A year ago, I was pregnant. A year ago, I started bleeding heavily in the shower. A year ago, I went to the ER. A year ago, I lost my baby.

The past year has not been easy. Reminders of what could have been mixed with the reality of what was. Holidays where I should have been __ weeks pregnant passed without a child inside. Then July hit. The month I was due to have the child that wasn't to be. The month I found out that I was pregnant with this child, this girl, that WILL be (God willing).

That made it.... different. Not easier. Not harder. Just different. I was still missing and grieving the lost baby, but I was also celebrating the new life within me. I was cautiously celebrating this new journey I was embarking on. I was afraid that it would all end at any moment (and I still am). A friend called me Momma-to-be the other day and quickly changed it to Momma because, in her words, I am already a mother. I told her that Momma-to-be was a better title. I'm not comfortable being called Momma just because a baby should be in my arms in three months because I know. I know how quickly that can end and I'm afraid. I have a hard time acting excited about this pregnancy and SF, but I am. I am so so excited. This is my daughter and will be no matter what, but I'm afraid of the worst case scenario happening. How could I not be? It's happened before.

So, when you see me in person and you ask about how things are going, my nonchalant answer is just covering the fear I have inside. When you ask my opinion about shower things, know that I am so grateful and so excited about getting one, but I'm still afraid that there will end up not being a need for one. I'm afraid to tell too many details, in case I have to take them all back when things end poorly.

But I am trying. I am trying to keep a positive mind about all of this that is happening this year and not dwell too much on the loss from last year. I am trying.

You know what helps? When you get excited for me and with me. When you ask me questions and give me advice. When you acknowledge SF is a real (little) person.

Because your excitement is contagious to me. :)