like a child

Number Four was at the dinner table tonight by himself (as usual because he's the slowest eater in the bunch) and starting talking to me. Here's the conversation.

"Mom you should probably start making some clothes for the baby."
"What baby?"
"The baby in your belly."
"The baby in my belly died sweetie."
"How did it die?"
"I don't know."

(There was a brief pause as he thought about this.)

"That's fine."
"What's fine?"
"That the baby died."

(Another pause.)

"Mom, where did the baby go?"
"Babies go to heaven when they die."

(A brief pause.)

"When we die do we go to heaven?"
"We do if we believe in Jesus."
"I do bewieve in Jesus."
"Good honey."

(Another pause while he munched on bread and I told him that the baby was a boy and it was his brother. His eyes got big with that news.)

"Did the boy in your stomach bewieve in Jesus?"
"Yes, I think so."

"So you don't have the baby anymore?"
"Nope."

Then he went to his brother to tell him the news.
"The baby in Mom's belly died."
"I know."
"It probably bewieved in Jesus. It's in heaven."

And it really is as simple as that. But so difficult to accept as readily and calmly as my three-year-old did. No wonder God wants us to be like children.

blessings

I'm always amazed at how God uses people to touch his children. In order to better convince myself of his love and care for me, I thought I'd keep a running list of all the ways I've been touched and loved and cared for and blessed by others in the past few weeks. Here goes:

Thank you to my brother for calling immediately and telling me he was sorry. I could hear it in his voice.

Thank you to my sister and her hubby who braved a 2.5 hour trip up north with four boys in the van. Peace and quiet was very nice when my mind was reeling. Thanks also to my parents who took the boys on a day's notice and while they were trying to get the house ready for the entire family (all 29 of us.)

Thank you to the dear friend who brought me a fabulous deli lunch a couple days after I learned I lost the baby. The chicken salad was incredible.

Thank you to all the friends on Facebook who posted that they were praying and that they were sorry. Your response was incredible.

Thank you to the all those who phoned and emailed, telling me they were praying for me, crying with me and letting me know they cared. Thanks especially for understanding that I couldn't get on the phone to talk right away because I wouldn't have been able to say anything.

Thank you to my immediate family for not bombarding me with questions while we were up north for Thanksgiving. I was hanging on by an emotional thread and couldn't have tolerated too much talk about what was going on. Thank you for giving me space and understanding.

Thank you to my brother's mother-in-law for her kind words and best wishes.

Thank you to another friend who brought by soup and squash bread to put in the freezer for later. (We had it two weeks later and it was wonderful.)

Thank you to a friend who blessed me with a bag full of goodies that showed how well she knows me - Caribou coffee, chocolate truffles, three glorious balls of yarn, a soy candle and a journal.


Thank you to a couple cousins who put together a box of my favorite things - handmade Christmas ornaments that are simple yet very cool, Ghirardelli chocolate and chocolate kisses, and all sorts of Burt's Bees' products - lipstick, a travel kit and lip gloss. I was blown away by their generosity and love. (See the picture above.)

Thank you to another cousin and her husband for sending a care package that included a plaque with the words "lead me, guide me, walk beside me" (that I stuck above my computer), a cozy bathrobe and a very touching card. I hope she doesn't mind if I share her words. "Just a note to let you know that our hearts hurt for you. To think of the pain and sense of loss that you are feeling right now is heartbreaking. Know that we are lifting you up to the One who has a perfect plan. In the midst of the pain and sadness, we pray that you will sense His Holy Presence. May HIS peace fill every fiber of your being. Lean on Him as you mourn and as your grieve. He, too, lost a son; He knows and He cares and He understands. You are loved by so many. Praying you can feel all of us holding you up; you are being carried on the wings of prayer. God grant you peace and may He fill your aching hearts. With much love..."

Thank you to my in-laws for taking the boys on a moment's notice and keeping them overnight for a couple nights while we were in the hospital. The peace and quiet was needed.

Thank you to my sister-in-law for coming to the hospital with us and for staying with Hubby while I was in surgery. I know that the time passed better for him because someone was there. Also, it was nice to see a friendly face in the room after it was all over and have someone adjust the stupid blood pressure cuff that kept squeezing my IV. (Still have a bruise from that.)

Thank you to another sister-in-law for bringing over Papa Murphy's pizza for us the day the boys got home. I was in no condition to cook - boy does this wipe you out - and the boys LOVE pizza. Also for the card and a CD containing the song that I can't get out of my head. I found myself humming it even today (Hillsong's "You Hold Me Now"). Her card too was very touching. "No matter how long the Lord gives us with the ones we love...it is still hard to say goodbye. Know that we love you and even in the months to come - you'll continue to be in our prayers. Just a reminder of the things we don't often say..."

Thank you to the nurses at Buffalo Hospital, who sent a card after I got home to let me know they were thinking of me and hoping I was feeling better after the hospital stay.

Thank you to another friend who brought over chili (that I had been craving) and cornbread (that goes so well w/chili, but that I never take the time to make) and just for me - chocolate chip cookie dough.

Thank you to a cousin's wife who sent us a book entitled "The One Year Book of Hope," and explained that it had helped her through some of her difficult times and that she hoped it could help us too. I already started reading it, and so far, the daily devotions are powerful.

Thank you to those who have sent cards of encouragement, letting us know that you are praying for us and thinking about us and sometimes providing for us in ways we weren't expecting.




Thank you to the three daughters of our head pastor for waiting so patiently to give me their gifts (I hadn't seen them in at least three weeks). The two older girls (ages 6 and maybe 8) took the time to create some unique artwork for us, with Bible verses penned in very neat handwriting. In case you can't read the passages, they're from Ephesians 3:16-19 and Zephaniah 3:17. The littlest one (age 4) handed me a gift bag with chocolates and some Mary Kay lotion. I was so touched I asked them all for a hug.

Thank you to a cousin for sending me a CD by BeBe Winans with one of her favorite songs - "My Christmas Prayer." She wrote that she hoped we would find it uplifting for our spirits. Isaiah 49:13 was printed on the card. "The Lord has comforted His people and will have compassion upon them in their sorrow."

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This is quite a list. And yes, I am counting my blessings.

our baby

In some ways, I'm very thankful that this baby we lost wasn't a girl. I think that would have been harder on both Hubby and I. I'm also grateful that God gave me the sense to ask to see him. I don't think we would have remembered anything from the chaos of the emergency room.

However, I was a bit surprised by hubby's reaction - I hadn't realized how hard this was on him.

After the nurse left with the baby, I looked over to see him sitting in his chair with tears running down his face. (It was the first time in 15 years of marriage that I had seen him cry.) I convinced him to come sit on the bed with me and just put my arms around him. What a sad, bittersweet moment - not really knowing how to comfort someone who is feeling the same way you do, but grateful at the same time to feel more connected with him.

A loss like this is hard on a woman because she's been reminded or been thinking hundreds of time a day about the little life inside her and then it's somehow just gone. It's hard on a man because he has to deal with a death and then watch his wife go through some scary stuff on the physical side of it. It's also very difficult to kiss someone goodbye going into surgery, helpless as to what the outcome will be.

The same nurse came into my room later that afternoon with a little memory box. She took footprints of our baby and pictures of him in a little sac/cocoon. There were poems and pins of little hands and feet in the box, along with a little white blanket and the sac he wore during the picture. I'm not sure how many times I'll go back to look at it - it's painful to see, but I'm still grateful to have it.

Here is the little guy - he died at 16 weeks and weighed 1.2 ounces and was 4 inches long. The first picture shows how big he was in comparison to my lens cover. The second is the one the nurse took. The third is of his footprints.







I haven't been able to bring myself to naming him yet - that makes things so much more final for me and I'm not quite ready for all of that. The pain of this loss is too fresh and my emotions too unstable to go there yet. Soon, I hope.

i'm a survivor

Although I really don't feel that way right now - I guess I have somehow managed to stay alive and keep going in spite of the circumstances.

After the past two days, God has answered only two of my prayers positively - I'm not dead and this ordeal is finally over (at least the physical part.

Here's a brief recap:

Monday I awoke to contractions and spotting. Spent most of the morning messing around with my sister-in-law's Christmas cards, just to keep my mind off the pain in my lower back and abdomen. I finally called hubby around 1 pm after I started bleeding slightly. My father-in-law came over shortly after that to pick the boys up.

Contractions started in heavy around 2:30 and I passed the baby easily. It remained in the sac, but the placenta would not budge loose. I let hubby nap downstairs for about an hour until I got sick of laying in the tub freezing. I wasn't bleeding a whole lot at this point, but I knew that it would continue like this for hours if the placenta didn't detach. By a little before 4 pm, I finally told him we need to go in. Nothing was happening but blood loss.

I ended up with severe contractions on the way in - every bump killed. And I was losing more and more blood - filling up my three-year-old's diaper by the time we made the five-mile trek to the Emergency Room. I was able to walk in and plop down on a wheelchair, lucid during all the intake questions and blood pressure check (107/85).

I ended up with a wonderful, no-nonsense type of nurse who didn't seem phased by the amount of blood. After some time (1/2 hour maybe?) the ER doc came in and asked me to bear down to see if I could push everything out. All that came was a ton of clots. With the second push, I felt my body react and couldn't control my breathing (panting). I felt close to passing out. I broke out into a cold sweat, but the doc talked me into slowing my breathing and soon I was feeling like I was back in the room. He tried to ease the placenta out, but it still wouldn't come. I think shortly he tried again, but without any luck.

The sac was loose at that point and I asked him if he could check to see if the baby was a boy or a girl. I didn't get a good look at his reaction, but I think I rattled him a bit. It was a boy.

He made the decision to put me on hemobate (a medicine to induce contractions) which neither I nor the nurse wanted me to take. (We'd both been there done that with the side effects of diarrhea and nausea). But, my options were surgery right away or trying the drugs to see if my body could expel everything. As soon as they gave me the anti-nausea medication, the pain medication (dilatid) and the hemobate, I felt like I had a tons of bricks on my body. It was even difficult to breathe - I remember telling myself, "Breathe!" It was the strangest feeling - like my body was too relaxed.

I told the nurse that I was losing a lot of blood - I could feel it running out. She checked under the blanket and told me I was sitting in a pool. I think the doctor was called back in and once he saw my blood pressure (70/62) they called the OB doc in right away. Sometime in there my sister-in-law arrived (she works in that particular emergency room). I was a bit foggy at that point, but do remember having to poo and not being able to - only pushing out more clots. I had been hooked up to two different IV's at that point - one for blood and one for fluid. I was wheeled to surgery within a half hour.

I think it was some time around 6 pm when I got to the operating room, where I promptly threw up (what a waste of a good bakery roll). The poor anesthesiologist had to rethink his plan at that point. I had to have a breathing tube inserted once I was under, which left me with a very sore throat for a couple days.

Apparently the surgery went well, but I must have taken longer than expected to come out of anesthesia because my SIL even came down to recovery to check on me. (I'm so thankful she was there to talk w/hubby while I was in surgery - that would have been a long time to be alone). The doc said the placenta was already detached by the time I got to surgery, which was a huge blessing because he only had to ease it out and then do a quick scrape to make sure there was no remaining tissue. He told hubby I wouldn't bleed much afterward (not like the six weeks of last time.)

I got to my room around 8 pm and SIL stayed with us for awhile. I actually felt pretty good at that point - slight cramping but not much bleeding. The only thing that hurt was my throat and both shoulders where I'd received injections - one for the dilatid and the other I'm guessing in the OR.

It was a long night though. The pump for the IV made noises similar to remote control cars - every six seconds. The blood pressure cuff went off every half hour until midnight and then every hour after that. When I couldn't sleep, I remember thinking to myself, "Why didn't we look at the baby?"

Finally at 2 am, I got something to help me sleep, but was awakened at 6 am by the nurse checking on me. At 7 am, they drew blood to check my hemoglobin levels (at 7.9 - not good) and my blood pressure was still very low (80s/60s). My OB doc came in and said that I might need another unit of blood if my BP didn't get better. (Already had two.) He said he'd stop back in to check on me later that afternoon and then they'd decide if I'd be able to go home.

Hubby came and spent the whole day with me. It was relaxing at first, just chatting and watching TV, but after awhile, the getting up every 45 minutes to pee got very annoying. As did my low BP - especially since I was feeling fine. No dizziness. No light-headed feelings. That afternoon a very sweet nurse brought the baby in for us to see. He was much bigger than I anticipated. Looked so peaceful and perfect. (I will share a bit more of this in a later blog - along with pictures.)

My OB doc never did show up, which kind of ticked me off considering this was the third miscarriage I'd gone through with him as my doc. Finally at 5 pm, the evening shift nurse told me if he didn't come in after his clinic hours, she'd call to see if I could get released. He never came and she finally got a hold of him a little after 6 pm. What a relief to finally head home - after a more than a 24-hour ordeal.

I made it home to a quiet, peaceful house with orders to get my hemoglobin checked in a few days and to do no heavy lifting for a couple weeks. What a relief. I slept like a baby that night - hubby's snoring or stealing covers didn't even phase me.

My sister-in-law told me a couple days later that the ER doctor said it was "touch and go" for awhile. I guess I didn't realize anyone else was worried. I felt like I was where I should be and never once questioned my safety. Even hubby said this was the best experience we'd had of all the miscarriages. That probably sounds weird, but we've been through many different scenarios with all the miscarriages and I think we both felt a peace about going in right away and letting those who deal with emergency situations do their jobs. Strange how you can be peaceful in spite of a chaotic circumstance.

Well, maybe not so strange after all. There were lots of friends and family praying at that point. I think we're all survivors, just by living this life on this planet. I've just been lucky enough to physically survive five miscarriages. The emotional survival is still to be determined.

out of control

I like to be in control. Of course, I know I can't control my fate, my life, my cravings for chocolate, when I have to pee and many other things. But that doesn't mean I don't want to.

But right now, what I mostly want is to control my emotions. And it was very apparent last night that I can't. It's a tad embarrassing.

We were nearing the end of our small group meeting and I was pretty proud of myself (note to self: pride comes before a fall) for making it through the whole video without losing it. In reality, I was a bit dizzy and couldn't even look at the screen, so I just stared at my knitting and kept my fingers busy. I really don't remember much of it - only wishing that I had stayed home and how thankful I was that I wasn't asked to share anything about what I heard.

Then, the group leader randomly asked one couple to share their story of salvation. No big deal, right? Until the wife mentions how they had a hard time getting pregnant. I swear the whole room probably heard me suck in my breath. I stared at my sister-in-law across the room and felt like my eyes were about to bug out of my head. I could feel hubby's arm around me, but could not will the tears to stop. I tried so hard. Held my breath. Bit my cheek. Squeezed that yarn. But it was no use - I had to escape the room.

All in the middle of this poor girl's testimony.

How rude. But, it was probably less rude than bursting into sobs right in front of everybody and humiliating myself. I made it to the bathroom and let the tears fall - not even sure how long I was in there, but it was long enough to miss the rest of the session and the prayer. Thankfully I found a washcloth in the vanity drawer and doused my face with cold water to try remove some of the red splotches so I could feel a little safer in leaving the room to grab my knitting and my jacket and skidaddle.

I told hubby on the way home that I felt so stupid - and I still do. Clearly, I know my situation and my reaction are probably understandable and even could be expected, but I still feel stupid. And I can still feels the stares from group members who may or may not have known what was going on. I hope they can all forgive me for losing it.

Although, if you never had control in the first place, can you really lose it?

positively negative

I have come to the realization that, although I tend to be an optimist, I am not a positive person.

Or rather, I am not as creative in being positive. I write my best poetry in my least favorite season - spring - and usually around themes of suffering or sorrow or anger. My most effective blog posts are composed while in pain. I communicate hurt better than healthiness. And my complaints are more humorous than my praises.

I am positively negative.

In other words, the things that are not-so-great about my life or life in general, can be turned into something helpful and emotive. I guess it's better than being a positive person with a negative influence.

I wonder why honesty about hurts and negativity touch us more than a rah-rah speech. Perhaps it's because someone else can recognize humanity and failings in the confessor. Perhaps it's because others can see themselves and not feel looked down upon. Or perhaps it's that we learn the lesson (whatever it may be) more readily through a message of positive negativity - peace in spite of pain, humor in spite of heartache and joy in spite of trials.

Creativity apparently comes from angst. Perhaps it's when I need to vent most. Or when I need the remedy of putting my struggles and frustrations out there - sort of a therapy session via writing. Or perhaps I'm just vain and like to see my own words.

I made that last part up - what vain person would want others to even see that they struggle or don't have it "all together?"

What I do have together I owe in large part to the words that come out when I don't. That's positively negative.

getting the best of me

I have finally figured out that I’m outnumbered. Four kids against one mom is just plain unfair odds. I can no longer keep tabs on four boys all at the same time.

One will dump out Lincoln Logs and run around trying to get everyone’s attention on him. (Any guesses?) Another one will lock himself in the bathroom with books and stay there until he’s discovered missing. One will be lost in a world of baseball cards, organizing and reorganizing and reciting endless statistics until you can hardly bare to hear any more about Chase Utley, Derek Jeter or Joe Mauer and where they were born, what their batting averages are and what size shoe they wear. The last one never leaves. I haven’t decided if that’s better or worse because his mouth never stops either.

But, unfortunately, being outnumbered isn’t the worst of it. I’m being outsmarted too.

It didn’t take them long to figure out the “Go ask your mom/Go ask your dad” game. It took even less time to realize that sending the youngest to ask for a snack is the most effective way to get candy. And they’ve also discovered that Mom can be easily wore down by endless requests from multiple kids. They stagger the begging just right so as to not be obvious, and then they time it perfectly to get a distracted affirmation to snacks or movies or playing video games. It’s really pure genius.

One boy has figured out how to escape the house whenever it comes time for chores or schoolwork, which is pretty much the whole day around here. He will do anything to avoid schoolwork, including playing with a younger brother who normally drives him crazy. He would rather go outside and rake leaves all day long than do his math. Ask him to pick up his room or do division problems and he will take the entire day. He can be found hours later, lost in space, surrounded by clothes that need to be folded and half-finished worksheets. He is the family foodie, but lately even taking away snacks hasn’t helped the procrastination.

Another one knows how to push everyone’s button, including mine. Five seconds ago, I told him if he didn’t finish his schoolwork, he wouldn’t be going to wrestling practice tonight, end of story. He simply looked at me and deadpanned, “What story?” He knows that calling one brother names will drive him crazy. He knows that singing songs wrong or out of tune will make another one insane. And the pummeling he usually takes doesn’t seem to stop him. There have been days when I would swear I can see the gleam in his eye as he tries to get me upset with him for whining or crying or being disrespectful.

One will interrupt everyone, not allowing anyone to work for more than five minutes at a time. He will sometimes throw things at us to get our attention, or he’ll start bumping the table or sometimes even run around the house singing “Little bit of chicken fried...” at the top of his lungs.

At times, I have all I can do to keep a straight face. But most times, I simply have to admit that they’re all getting the best of me. They’re just so much smarter than I am.

What I can’t figure out however, is if my kids are so smart, why I constantly fight to get them to do subtraction problems that they insist they don’t know how to do. And yet they can count exactly how many pieces of candy are left from their Halloween haul.

One child continually complains about any memorization, to the point that he’ll bang on his head and whine that he can’t remember. But, allow him to listen to the country music on the radio with Dad and he will repeat, line for line, lyrics that at best sound ridiculous coming from a grade-school boy. I’m still not sure if the point is to embarass his mother or to infuriate her with his ability to memorize song lyrics almost immediately and his inability to remember that nine times five is 45.

Another one will whine about every bit of work required of him. I have never met a kid whose normal voice (at least at home during the day) is so grating. “It’s too hard!” continually comes out of his mouth in a high-pitched squawk that you’d expect from a three-year-old girl with nasal issues.This same boy knows that he gets headaches if he cries too long. And still, one day last week he cried so much that he actually chapped his cheeks from all the salty tears and had to go to bed with Vaseline under his eyes.

All of this makes for some fun days. I can’t tell you how enjoyable it is to be outwitted by a six-year-old or find yourself humming some random Taylor Swift song because you’ve had three boys singing three of her songs at the top of their lungs all at the same time.

I sometimes wonder if at least a few of these kids couldn’t survive on Survivor. Outwit? No problem - if you’re not convinced, reread above. Outlast? Easy peasy - they have the stamina of bulls. Outplay? Well, they probably would have that one conquered too if it wasn’t for their father being Mom’s secret weapon.

There is hardly a day that goes by that I don’t thank the Lord for my spouse. I am admittedly not much of a kid person. I often find them difficult, draining and stress-inducing. My husband, on the other hand, somehow innately knows how to “handle” them. When I call him (at my wit’s end), describing what’s going on, he usually laughs (which doesn’t help much), but then gives me some sort of priceless advice as to whatever the situation requires. I can’t imagine what kind of pickle we’d be in if we were both like me. (Oh, that’s so hard to admit.) He enjoys figuring these kids out. I would rather lock them in the basement. He enjoys their antics. I would rather be knitting and have a clean house.

The only thing my meager kid-intelligence has been able to figure out is that these boys somehow have a strange attraction to getting into trouble. Or for doing exactly what they’re not supposed to.

Sound familiar? Seems that the Apostle Paul and I struggle with the same thing. What I want to do I do not do and I do what I don’t want to do. So, why should I be surprised that my children do the very same thing?

Tomorrow, rather than letting them get the best of me, I’m going to try to remember that they are (as hubby says) just KIDS. And I’m going to try to squelch my desire to run far, far away.