due date

Can I survive another missed due date? Technically - I'll still be breathing (probably) when May 5, 2010 ticks away, so I suppose the answer is yes.

I'm still not sure if that's a good thing.

Days like this are ones that make me long for a better place - one with no headaches, heartaches, whining, crying, pinching or biting. It's hard to appreciate the kids you can hold when they're irritating and when they think they're too big for hugs anymore. It's also hard to focus on them when you're distracted by the children you never got to hold.

Well, okay that's not exactly true either - because right now I have one begging to use glue to make a tent out of newspaper (yeah - that'll work). Two are arguing about who sucked up something in the vacuum cleaner and the other wants to glue his coloring book picture to the wall. So, perhaps it's the other way around - these four are distracting me from my grief.

I'm not sure if that's a good thing either.

I still haven't decided if I'm sad about not having a baby today or if I'm a bit grateful that I'm not lugging around an extra 15 pounds and I can sleep in. Pretty sure the sadness wins out because every time I see a baby, I wince. I should just get over this already. I've been dreading this day for weeks. It's probably why hubby keeps asking me why I'm so crabby, but I don't want to tell him because I don't want to lose it and I want him to just "know" what's wrong. Is that too much to ask? It would have been nice if God would have made spouses able to read each other's minds.

Wait - no. I'm sure that's not a good thing. I really don't want to know how much he thinks about a certain activity.

So, to make it through this due day so far I have:
1) slept in until 10 am
2) downed half a pot of coffee (I should have spiked it with something)
3) added 12 things to my to-do list and crossed nothing off
4) took a nap to try get rid of my headache
5) cursed at a tile project that never goes away
6) decided to make nothing but brown rice for supper and let hubby do the rest
7) cursed some more that I can't find my iPod so I can sing/warble to ABBA
8) tried to be grateful that my kids did all their chores this morning
9) said a few prayers for people who are having much more difficult times than I am
10) made plans to do nothing but sit and knit tonight.

I probably can and will survive - if my definition of surviving is just one step at a time and putting one more piece of slate up on the wall. If I could take a sauna some time today, I might actually make it.

That would be a good thing.

one month later

It's a bit surreal this many days after a loss. I'm far enough away to feel better physically, to not be angry and to talk about it all without going berserk. But I'm close enough still to feel sad and numb and even a bit like my emotions could still get the best of me when I least want them to.

So, my goal for the next month is to avoid pregnant women, babies, all the thoughts that crop up in my head late a night and songs by Sinead O'Connor.

Do-able? Hardly.

Well, I can avoid sad, angry songs and I can either read myself to sleep or take Tylenol PM. Beyond that - little is in my control.

One month later is a tough place to be in for another reason. Because I sound fine and look fine and feel fine, I think most people just think I am fine. And for the most part, I am. But, all it would take would be one little thing like the whiff of a newborn or seeing a women about as pregnant as I should have been and I'd probably be a puddle of tears. I'm not sure that most people would anticipate or expect that from me.

I know there isn't a time limit or a set schedule for grief, and yet we tend to put that on people. We unconsciously think, "Oh, it's been awhile now; she should be doing much better." And then we're surprised at how fresh the pain can still be - both when it happens to ourselves and to others. We're uncomfortable with mourning - and especially mourning beyond a certain undetermined time period in our minds.

And believe me, the mourner is just as uncomfortable. We tell ourselves that we shouldn't still be emotional. That we shouldn't still be so sad. That we should be over this by now. We tell ourselves all of this and yet we're still a mess and sad and not over anything. We just don't feel the pain quite as acutely - it's more of a dull ache than a stabbing heartbreak.

Now is the messy part of recovery. Now is when we battle ourselves with stupid expectations and time tables. Now is when we most need hugs and small reminders of God's love and care for us. Now is when we are most susceptible to bitterness. Now is when we are most likely to stuff our emotions and become numb to both pain and joy.

We're fine, but we're not. And it's only been a month.

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?

it's not fair

I can't wrap my head around unfairness. I'm not sure if it's the firstborn tendencies in me, but when things don't seem just, I get slightly peeved.

How is it fair to allow someone to get pregnant, have them deal with the emotions and struggles of trying to get through morning sickness and puking and tiredness and crabbiness, only to take the baby away once that person is finally feeling better? How fair is to allow someone to finally feel like she can relax, only to make her worst fears come true?

It's like running a race and making it almost halfway, finally hitting some good strides, only to be disqualified for some bizarre and unknown reason. It's like dribbling past half-court, finally hitting your shots without using the backboard - even a three-pointer or two, and the coach takes you out of the game, without an explanation.

It's just not fair. I don't expect life to be fair, but really it should be for me in this instance. I don't expect fairness in how people treat me, or how much money I bring in from rental property I can or can't rent, or how many stupid drivers I come across on the road. But, after nine pregnancies and four miscarriages, I expected a little fairness this time. I expected after making it past 12 weeks that everything would be fine. I expected after pulling maternity clothes out and switching my wardrobe around because nothing fit anymore, that I would get to use it. I expected after finally telling the boys they would be having a little brother or sister, that I wouldn't hear bad news from the doctor the very next day. I expected that the prayers of close friends who knew about our situation would work.

People have babies all the time. It's not like I expected some sort of miracle. Or maybe I did. Is that too much to expect?

Is it any wonder that I'm pissed off that my expectation weren't met? It is any wonder that I'm a little angry that I survived the first trimester without ripping anyone's head off or puking all my guts out and I still don't get a baby to hold or nurse or smell? Is it any wonder that I feel cheated? Or betrayed? Or treated unfairly?

Life sucks, mainly because it's not fair.

music in my ears

The Quarry Worship Team played a song that has been pounding in my head since Sunday morning. I can't seem to shake it. It got a little irritating until this evening when I realized that perhaps it was in my ears for a reason.

The song has this chorus:

No weeping. No hurt or pain.
No suffering.
You hold me now. You hold me now.
No darkness. No sick or lame.
No hiding.
You hold me now.
You hold me now.

Unfortunately, I don't feel held. I wish I did. I am trying my best to cling to the idea that I am held whether I want to be or not and whether I feel arms around me or not. I am numb right now, with a beat of anger coursing through my veins. It is playing to the tempo of the chorus above. And I can't make it stop, even with silent screaming.

No weeping. No hurt or pain. No suffering.
But in the here and now there is more weeping and more hurt than I can handle.

Here's the song that has become my heart's cry.

winter blues?

I finally figured out why I've been sort of out of sorts lately - ornery and depressed and lazy.

Well, it could be the Minnesota winter...I have to admit that this cold weather has lasted overly long and cabin fever has probably set in. But, I don't usually get bothered by SAD or by the lack of warm weather - I like to snuggle into my long johns, wool socks and my nuked rice bag, all while drinking a cup of coffee. And every year, I'm becoming less and less social (think hubby is rubbing off on me) and am more and more content to nest at home.

So right now, this blah feeling is probably something else. I think for some reason my body (without my knowledge or permission) is somehow remembering that one year ago today I lost a baby. This makes me sad, of course. But, not to the point that I'd burst into tears or want to drown my sorrows in a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough (the cookie dough is just normal, for me.) My hormones are starting to even out, so I don't think it's that either.

I had actually forgot all about what we endured in February of 2008 until the other night when I was trying to rack my brain about why I was so not myself. This was the best I could come up with. My body or rather my brain is just forcing me to remember, to reflect and to, well I'm not sure what. Perhaps simply by acknowledging the loss and the anniversary, I will get back on track to feeling a bit more normal. And less crabby. And maybe more frisky.

It's hard to do that - remember - when you really, really don't feel like feeling emotional. Or when you really really want to just get on with life. But I suppose sometimes the getting on part can't be done well unless the remembering part is also done well. Besides, I'm not really in control of this one anyway. There have been times when an miscarriage anniversary has simply passed by and I've completely forgot about it until weeks later. Not this time.

So, here goes... Today I'm going to just acknowledge that I feel cheated out of the little boy we delivered dead in a hospital last year, perhaps shed a few tears, perhaps not, hug my kids and try to be happy that this baby is in heaven and God has bigger plans than I can imagine or understand. It's a tall order for a day that includes schoolwork, my neck out of whack, one kid with the squirts and another one who is mid-way through potty training.

Who said distractions weren't a good thing?

a thing of beauty?

I am a woman and therefore I spend a certain amount of time in front of the mirror - not as much as most to be sure, considering I have four children at home and usually the bathroom mirror is covered with toothpaste. I also am not much of a primper - throw a baseball cap on and a little Burt’s Bees lipgloss and I’m about as preened as I will get.

Hower, lately I have been checking myself in the mirror more often. Or rather I have been checking my face and a little tell-tale mark across the bridge of my nose. I’m curious to see how what was a rather deep gash heals and whether or not a noticeable scar will be there forever. (I’m betting yes.) I’m not vain about it, worrying that it will disfigure me, but am rather curious just to see what happens. Right now it is healed, although still somewhat sore, and there is a slight bump in the skin.

Everytime I look into the mirror, I will be reminded of a recent accident involving a 2x4 and a table saw that left me with busted glasses, a bleeding nose and two black eyes, not to mention a very large gooseegg on my forehead, a miniature version which is still there. I was not a pretty sight, but all things considered, have healed quite nicely, although the glasses were irreparable.

The little scar across my nose will forever remind me of how lucky I was to not lose an eyeball and how stupid I was to take the safety guards off my table saw.

Scars are funny that way. Some we are proud of - like where the hockey puck hit us in the chin during a high school game. Some are a part of life - like the stretch marks across my belly or the tiny chicken pox indentations on my two-year-old’s temple. Some recall trauma from accidents or surgery. Some are even remembered fondly or with humor - like the fact that one of my middle fingers is flatter than the other from getting squished in a Laz-E-Boy. But they all have the capacity to remind us of something.

Scars on the inside, while invisible, often hurt more. They are either healed, healing or still bleeding. Sometimes they bleed for a long time, longer than we would like. Sometimes they are still bleeding or still mending, even though we think they are completely healed.

The thing about scars is, inside or out, they shape us into who we are. They change the way we look at our bodies. They change the way we look at our world. They, plain and simple, cause pain. Sometimes, that pain is short-lived and other times it is lifelong.

But regardless of the kind or amount or length of pain, our scars are almost as individual as we are. We all have them to varying degrees and in varying stages of healing. We have scars from loss, from abuse, from failed relationships, from car accidents and from baseball games. We might even have scars from picking zits or chicken pox.

While we may not share the same kinds of scars, we do share the opportunity to look at our scars, inside and out, as potential things of beauty. I don’t make that comment lightly or to diminish pain. I am still bleeding from a different, more painful wound that will undoubtedly scar me in a way I haven’t yet anticipated. I don’t know how this scar will heal or when, but what I do know is that it will eventually.

I also know that I can take my scars (the oh-so-many of them) and either look at them as only painful reminders of what kind of world we live in and the frailty of our human bodies, or I can see in them the opportunity to learn something about myself, about those who minister to me and about my God.

I can use them as an excuse to check out or I can use them as a catalyst toward a deeper reliance on God and his plan, even though I can’t begin to understand it. I can even use my scars to minister to others facing similar pain. And someday, hopefully I and others will be able to look at those scars as things of beauty.

They are maybe not beautiful per se, but capable of bringing forth beauty through how they remind me of where I’ve been, where I am and where I’m going. And how I’ll be going there with a little bump across my nose.

The only difference is that I’ll have learned to wear safety goggles.

letter to my baby

The letter below was written by a new friend of mine, after she lost her child to a miscarriage. Her poignant words touched me and I'm so grateful she allowed me to share them with you. I hope they touch you as well.


If I could talk to my baby, this is what I’d say:

My precious baby,
Your daddy and sisters were elated at the news of your new life within me. While your big sister Estella told relatives, friends, strangers and anyone who would listen about the baby in mommy’s tummy, I was already dreaming about and anticipating your arrival in May. Your sisters would often lay their ears on my tummy and send you kisses through my skin. They even helped me put together your bassinet in hopes that you would someday lay in it. What a miracle you were! A new life within me!

Life was so crazy the night I found out. In a sterile little ER room the Dr. walked in and told me you had died. He said it may have even happened weeks before. I wondered to myself how long I had been a tomb for you, my little one. Others may think it sounds morbid, but I was glad to have held you inside even if your life had dimmed and burnt out. At least I held you. I tried to do everything I knew to make you strong and healthy, but our God is Sovereign and He gets to hold you now. Often when life gets rough I fall back into His arms as well. There is no better place to be than where you are now…but I do wish you were still here. This is still so hard for your mommy.

It was when my body turned hostile to you and turned and twisted and cramped and ripped until it finally spit you out to dispose of like common garbage, that my whole self seemed like crying out in confusion and sadness. My body seemed like an enemy that I could not fight…I wondered what it had done to you anyway. How could one day I be full of a new miracle and the next day have death within me? You died within me and my body is still bleeding from your death.

I cry more now, since you left. True to His promise, God comforts me daily and dries my tears. I think your sisters are His little helpers. Estella told me at supper that we’ll all get to play with you in heaven someday. She brings me her baby doll to hold as if someone tells her that there is emptiness in me that a baby left behind. One day I held her baby when she offered her and for a moment I closed my eyes and imagined it was you. A living breathing you! I quickly stopped the thought though…realizing that the line between stable and unstable can be thin during these times.

In church today we sang a song about when Christ returns and it said that parents should gather all their children. I wondered if you would know me in heaven, if you’d recognize my voice, or perhaps God has just planted that knowledge on our hearts. I don’t know how everything works in heaven but I do know it is better than my mind can even fathom. I do believe you are in the arms of Jesus now but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of Him. It sounds awful to say I’m jealous of my Savior but I know he understands.

As I lay in the dark room the other night thinking about you, God placed in my mind the lines of a hymn I haven’t heard since childhood. I couldn’t tell you the name of the song or the rest of the words but He gave me just what I needed. I clearly heard “ and Jesus said ‘come to the waters, stand by my side, I know you are thirsty, you won’t be denied, I felt every teardrop, when in darkness you cried, and I strove to remind you that for those tears I died.”
Life here isn’t always easy, my child, but it is good…with God. I have been so blessed and have realized that even my Father in heaven can turn the horrors of life into true peace if we give them to Him. I need to say goodbye now, but it is my prayer that the circle will truly be unbroken and that you will get to meet all of your family. Until then, I love you my child. I loved you the moment I learned you were a part of me and I love you still. I don’t understand why some things happen the way they do but I do praise God that you have a home with Him. I also praise Him that our “hello” will one day be much, much longer than this little “goodbye.”

“Goodbye, my child.”

Love,
Your Mommy,
Erin Allrich
November 9, 2008

saying goodbye

Tonight we named and said a formal goodbye to our eighth child - Jani Veli. The name somehow seemed appropriate for two reasons. 1) The family chose it and 2) Jani (Finnish for John) means God is gracious/God's gracious gift and Veli means brother. I should tell you though, that the name choice came only after the boys had exhausted all opportunities to name their brother after their favorite Nascar drivers - Dale, Tony and Jeff. Hubby voted for Kyle, but none of the boys would go along with that. (Unfortunate, as Kyle is the only name among them that has a true Finnish translation.) In the end the baby of the family was pretty emphatic in his choice, convincing Mom and Dad to go with Jani.

When I told the boys what we were going to do, #2 told me softly, "This is a sad day."

I made a small cardboard coffin for his one-inch body and had the boys write their names on each side, along with "God is gracious" and "We love you." We choose his grave site underneath the two clematis plants in the flower garden that were planted last spring in memory of his brother, Leevi. I guess now I know why I bought two.

Hubby took the boys outside to find some rocks for the grave and while they were outside, #2 asked him, "How do we know the baby didn't go to hell?" Got to like those teaching moments. He told him that we don't have to worry at all about that - all babies go right to heaven. "Good!" was the response he got, as if to emphasize his relief.

We dug a small hole underneath the ladder-cum-trellis and I placed the tiny box gently inside. Boy #3 blurted, "Won't he die if you put dirt on him?" That got the tears started for me. "He's already dead honey." The boys placed rocks over the filled hole and the oldest lit a candle for our mini-burial ceremony. Mini because it was past bedtime and because it was cold out.


The boys quickly realized I was crying, but I think most of them were slightly puzzled about why. I asked them for a hug and they were obliging, each taking his turn to hug mom - the youngest looking straight into my face very sweetly. We left the candle burning on top of the rocks and came inside. The rest of the evening, during snack time, I was bombarded with questions:

"Why were you crying, Mom?" Because I'm sad.
"Why are you sad?" Because the baby died.
"Why did the baby die?" I don't know honey.

All questions I've asked myself many times in the past month.

It felt right to include the boys in a little ceremony, especially since they were very curious to see the baby earlier (although it was a bit disappointing for some of them when they realized just how small their brother's body was.) It also felt right to mark the spot with four stones and light a candle. I suspect that I may come back to that place often to commemorate the other losses we've had.

Goodbyes are so hard. Even knowing that I will see this child again someday, I am not quite okay with the idea that he is with God and not me. I am still hurting and sometimes don't even want to be comforted or worse, know how to be comforted, even though I need it so much. I am trying very hard to believe that indeed God is gracious as my son's name proclaims, but right now my head and my heart are not in agreement about that.

So, instead, I'll just say good bye, my sweet little boy. I wish I could have held you longer. I hope that our Saviour can pass my love along to you until I can hold you in my arms and tell you myself. Näkemiin minun poika - minä rakastan sinua.

intentional mourning

As I near 30 days since learning my baby died, I found myself rereading a little book I discovered nearly a year ago about Jewish practices and their applications to the Christian's spiritual life. (Mudhouse Sabbath by Lauren Winner)

"[This book] is, to be blunt, about spiritual practices that Jews do better. It is, to be blunter, about Christian practices that would be enriched, that would be richer and more vibrant, if we took a few lessons from Judaism. It is ultimately about places where Christians have some things to learn."

A couple weeks ago, I was flailing about, feeling entirely purposeless and not knowing what to do about it. But even in that despair, I still felt that there should be something I could "do" during grief that would make sense. What I didn't know, was whether that "doing" should be praise, a cry, a prayer or simply doing life as usual (laundry, dishes, diaper, etc.).

Winner (a Jewish convert to Christianity) says that Jews do their spiritual practices with more attention and wisdom not because they are more righteous, but because the DOING, the action, is the center of Judaism. Practice is to Judaism as belief is to Christianity. In other words, your faith might come and go, but your practice ought not to waver. Often, it is through the doing that you may come to hear, to understand and to believe. (Exodus 24 - "All the words that God has spoken, we will do and we will hear.")

In a very dark moment, I remembered Winner's comment that the Jewish ritual of mourning (avelut) provides the direction for what to do during grief. She opines, and I tend to agree with her, that Christian churches "lack a ritual for the long and tiring process of sorrow and loss."

In other words, after the initial consolation calls, meals, shared tears, and when the mourner is still hurting, everyone else goes back to their normal lives. This is not to blame them, because in our Christian churches we have no language for grief or what to do long term, other than know that we will be reunited with believing loved ones some day.

In the Jewish community, mourning is marked by significant days, months and then years. During the days before burial, mourners are exempt from Jewish law requirements like attending prayer services or visiting the sick. Then the countdown starts for them.

SHIVA (seven)
The first week after burial mourners sit "shiva" in low chairs (as Job's friends did - Job 2:13) They sit with others in their community for seven days and seven nights. Neighbors bring food and mourners dress in black, do not wash their hair, or wear perfume or put on lipstick. They don't even leave the house.

SHLOSHIM (thirty)
This time is also drawn from Scripture (the captive woman in the book of Deuteronomy who weeps for 30 days for her parents). This period brings the mourner back into her world. She may return to work, but avoids large parties and celebrations. The month is divided into four distinct weeks - marked by Sabbaths. Each successive Sabbath finds the mourning participating in more. For example on the first Sabbath the mourner will wait outside during the celebratory songs. On the second Sabbath they will stay for the whole service but do not sit in their usual seat. On the third Sabbath they participate in the joyful hymns but will avoid neighborly visitation after the service. And on the fourth Sabbath they become full participants in the community of Shabbat.

YAHRTZEIT (one year)
The central rule of mourning up to one year is to say "Kaddish," a short prayer that begins; "Magnified and sanctified may God's great name be." It is a prayer that is required for mourners to say twice a day for a year. And it is not allowed to be spoken alone at home - but rather in the presence of 10 adults. At one year, mourners mark the anniversary by lighting a special memorial candle, while others might find different ways to honor or commemorate the loss.

Winner says, "This calendar of bereavement recognizes the slow way that mourning works...long after your friends and acquaintances have stopped paying attention, after they have forgotten to ask how you are and pray for you and hold your hand, you are still in a place of ebbing sadness."

What I find interesting about all of this is how Jewish mourners are helped along by their friends and family during the most intense part of grief, yet are still required to, with others, pray words of praise to God. This would probably be the hardest part for me. Kaddish is not a prayer of mourning, but a prayer about God - "Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be the Name of the Holy One, Blessed is He, beyond any blessing or song."

Mourners are not required to feel praise, only to give praise. The sheer repetition of that praise follows along with Exodus 24 - first we will do, then we will hear.

It hasn't been until the past couple of days that I truly have felt "ready" to become a part of my community again. I know that the next months will tick off day by day and milestones will be made. I know that I will endure May 12 (due date) and that God will be with me through that as well. I hope that I can speak the praises of Scripture, even if I don't "feel" them. By the time a year comes around, I hope I can say that I have done and have heard all the words God has spoken to me.

blessed be your name

I can rarely make it through Matt Redman's “Blessed be Your Name” without choking up. I can’t you how many times I’ve been in the middle of a worship service, unable to continue singing, fighting back tears. Once last summer I even had to escape to the bathroom, just to get my emotions under control.

Blessed be Your name
In the land that is plentiful
Where Your streams of abundance flow
Blessed be Your name
And blessed be Your name
When I’m found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed be your name

CHORUS:
Every blessing You pour out I’ll
Turn back to praise
And when the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

Blessed be Your name
When the sun’s shining down on me
When the world’s “all as it should be”
Blessed be You name
And blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there’s pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name

CHORUS

You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name

CHORUS

I think what gets me every time is the words in verse two - “Blessed be your name, on the road marked with suffering, though there’s pain in the offering...” I feel that pain acutely every time.

We all have tragedy in our lives - it’s just hard some times to think of that pain or grief as an offering to God. And sometimes, it’s even harder to tell Him that His name is blessed when we’re going through something so difficult that we hardly can pray, let alone praise Him. It’s ironic that we often forget to praise Him for the painless blessings in our lives and we often can’t praise Him for the painful ones, at least not immediately.

Can I praise Him for losses? Can I praise Him for all the offerings we’ve given Him over the years? Can truly I praise Him for giving and taking away?

Right now, I must confess the answer is no - I cannot praise Him like Job did by saying “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; Blessed be the name of the Lord.” (Job 1:21) I do not immediately fall down to worship the Lord after a catastrophe. A commentary in the Full Life Study Bible reads: “Job reacted to the disaster that happened to him with intense grief, but also with a humility that submitted to God and continued to worship Him in the midst of extreme adversity. Job teaches how faithful believers should face life’s calamities. Though we may experience severe sufferings and unexplainable affliction, we should pray for grace to accept what God allows to come upon us.” I think He would love for me to be like Job, but understands my inability to do that.

I know that the name of the Lord is blessed, but blessing it myself is a bit harder. My heart just does not simply choose to say: blessed be Your Name. My heart sometimes is just too numb to say much of anything. What I can do is be honest and hold that up as my offering, hoping that the praises will come later and be sincere when they do.

The beauty of Scripture is that there are literally hundreds of other verses that one can cling to during difficult times, much of them found in the Psalms. If I might have a tough time blessing God’s name, I can still pray through Psalm 116 or meditate on the repetition of Psalm 136 - “His love endures forever” - knowing that whatever comes my way, his love can and will last far beyond any tears or painful offerings.

in the mail today...

I love a good prank. But first, let me tell you how a cousin blessed me today. She sent a package with a very sweet and encouraging card, a bag of chocolates, an amaryllis plant so I'll have a little bloom at Christmas and a kit of linen-scented diffusing oil. It smells really nice and kind of clean. (I almost wondered if she'd secretly been inside the house lately.)

But the piece de resistance was a little bag with this tag attached: "Lunch today is on me. Wish I could be there to share it with you!!!" Inside were two beets. My boys thought I was crazy when I laughed for a couple minutes straight.

Here's the joke - I planted a whole row of beets last summer in the garden because she kept saying how good beets were. I got her "no-fail" recipe and served them for dinner one night. They were NOT a hit - only hubby and one boy liked them. The others asked that I never make them again. (Keep in mind that these are children who eat venison, olives, broccoli, asparagus and are just about anything else I place in front of them.) But they didn't like the beets. (I didn't much either.)

A good laugh is better for the soul anyway.

diary of a miscarriage - warning this is VERY graphic

For those of you who have never experienced a miscarriage, I thought I'd give you a little play-by-play of what the physical side of it is like. (What happened to me in the past 72 hours - no exaggerating.) My experience is admittedly a bit extreme, because I endured more than most people do. A lot of miscarriages simply plop into the toilet or have a bit of bleeding and are done. I have not been that lucky. That being said, I still feel like it has been easier on my body to let things progress naturally (even if it takes a bit longer) than to opt for surgery. Recovery is easier - waiting is harder. Not an easy decision to make.

A disclaimer: If you get queasy easily, you probably do not want to read this because I am going to get into the nitty gritty graphic messy details of miscarriage. And much of it is just plain gross. And there are pictures. If you're still curious, read on. And my apologies that it's so long.

Saturday - 11/1/08
9 am - Wake up to contractions. They progress throughout the morning, more often and more painful.

2 pm - Lay down to ease pain and try take a nap.

3:30 pm - Wake up to a gush of blood. Remove clothing and prepare to hang out in bathtub. Ten minutes later, pass the 10-week-old baby and what appears to be tissue. Very little pain. Lots of blood. Try clean off with the handheld shower while hubby puts a little space heater going. Kids are banned from the bathroom.


4 pm - Lay on towel on bathtub, trying desperately to get comfortable, yet maintain a laying position so blood loss is decreased. Pass a large softball-sized clot, along with occasional trickles of blood. Hubby finds a bucket to toss the clots in since they will not make it down the drain. Take cayenne pepper capsule along with some food and water to try stop/decrease the hemorrhaging. Bleeding tapers off after an hour, but does not stop altogether.

5 pm - Stomach starts churning. Puke up the cayenne pepper and pass another clot all at once. Lay in tub in own vomit and blood, while nose burns incredibly from the cayenne puke, thinking to self, this is about as low as it gets. Strangely the smell doesn't bother me. Realize it's a good thing my towels are red.

5:15 pm - Finally rinse off self and tub. Hubby pushes water, Dr. Pepper, candy anything on me to get me to drink fluids. Sip on water as often as possible.

5:30 - 7 pm - Continue to lay in tub, extremely uncomfortable on hips and shoulder, even with the folded towel underneath me. At some point realize I'm going to have to get on the toilet or I'll have another stinky mess to clean up. Manage to get out of the tub and poop. I recall leaning over the side of the seat, almost falling into the tub, but not quite out. Plop back into tub and wait some more. Pass a few more smaller (golf ball-sized) clots, with minimal bleeding in between.

7 - 9 pm - More laying around, pain pain pain on my poor hip. Bleeding seems to have slowed to small occasional trickles. Cover naked body with another towel because am feeling cold. Day dream of my bed. Hubby won't let me out of the tub until I can sit up without getting woozy. I manage to do that and crawl out of tub and toward the bedroom. He tells me later that I passed out on the way, but I still don't believe him.

9:15 pm - Throw up in bed into a beach towel. Think the towel was Boy #2's, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him. So much for trying to drink liquids. Am now feeling very uncomfortable with cramps that start in lower abdomen and radiate to my lower back.

9:30 pm - Inlaws come to pick up boys in case we need to go in to hospital. Hubby doesn't think we'll need to go, but I am feeling differently, although I don't tell him yet. Try to keep sipping water and am starving. Eat a piece of toast with grape jelly. More cramping.

10 pm - Puke up the toast, part of my droolings and dribblings are on hubby's tshirt and his pillow. He is thrilled. Cramping is getting worse. Bleeding still hasn't stopped.

12 am - I can't relax enough to sleep because the cramps are so painful. Can only lay on one side or the cramps are worse. Cannot lay on back as the bleeding seems to increase. Finally tell hubby I can't do this anymore and that we need to go in.

12:15 am - Lay on floor while hubby puts on my socks, underwear and a ratty pair of pajama bottoms. Crawl down stairs because I don't want to stand and pass out. Crawl to front door after hubby helps me put a sweatshirt on. Jam shoes on and limp out the front door 10 feet to the van.

12:30 am - Finally make it out the driveway. I am sweating profusely, ears ringing, tunnel vision - all from standing up - no blood in head apparently. (Not that there ever is.)

12:45 am - Make it to ER entrance. Try to walk in, but collapse once inside the door. Hubby picks me up like a sack of potatoes and the pressure of his shoulder on my belly makes me cry out - "Oh my stomach!" I am plopped into a wheelchair that is thankfully parked next to a wall so I have something to lean my head against. I cannot see anything around me and remember feeling sweat drip down my forehead. I hear hubby behind me giving the intake person my date of birth and some other pertinent information. A nurse comes behind the wheelchair and tells me, "Kara, sit up! We have to go." I mumble that I can't and she picks me arm up (that had fallen to the side of the chair) and plops in on the armrest. It fell back down. She starts to push the wheelchair and I have one foot dragging along and my head tipped all the way back because I couldn't hold it up. I remember thinking to myself, "Why is she being so mean to me?" Two nurses help me into a bed and pull off my sweatshirt and t-shirt. I tell the one nurse, who is banging on my arm to find a vein, that she is going to have a hard time getting the IV needle in because I know I'm so dehydrated. The other nurse starts typing into the computer and asks me, "So, what seems to be the problem?" By this time, I finally feel coherent and tell her I had a miscarriage and that I've lost a lot of blood and have been throwing up. Almost immediately I notice a change in her and she comes over and puts her hand on my shoulder and tells me she is sorry I've had to go through this.

I find out later that when the intake nurse asks hubby what the problem is and he tells her about the miscarriage, her reply is: "Oh! I wasn't expecting that!" (We figured with the timing of our arrival and my physical symptoms, everyone probably thought I was either drunk or high or both.) Can't say that I blame them considering what I was wearing and how I probably was acting.

1 -3 am - I am examined by a doctor who looks like he's 17. Still bleeding. Still have cramps. But after about a half hour I finally get some morphine - thought my head was going to blow off. I also got two doses of some anti-nausea medication that did not work. I was wheeled to radiology for a vaginal ultrasound. The ride there and back was torture - had I had anything in my stomach to throw up I would have. Then came a pelvic exam which was a real fun experience - I lost count of how many cotton swabs the doctor went through. I do remember another gush of blood and perhaps another clot when he pushed in my belly to check the uterus. I was still in a fair amount of pain, so was given another 1/2 dose of morphine.

3 am - ER doc talked to the OB on call who decided I should be given a blood transfusion because my hemoglobin levels were so low (and I think they assumed I'd have to had a D&C in the morning as well).

3:30 am - I sent hubby home to get some sleep and the transfusions began. It took about 90 minutes to complete each unit. (I had two units.) I got a little sleep in between each 20 minute blood pressure check, all the temperature checks because apparently a body can have some sort of reaction to donated blood. I was told to call the nurse immediately if I noticed any wheezing, itchiness or difficulty breathing. (Was I praying after that!) No complications.

7 am - ER doc decides that he would rather send me up to the OB department than send me home yet. So I endure yet another nausea-producing ride. I am the only patient in that unit - ironic, considering I have no baby. Doc also tells me that the ultrasound technician and the radiologist confirmed that there was nothing left in my uterus. Bleeding has slowed. Pain from cramping has decreased. I am exhausted.

7:30 am - Call the inlaws to let them know where I was and tell them what happened. Accidentally hung up on mother-in-law when nurse came to check on me. Decided to wait to call hubby so he could get some sleep, but he showed up about two seconds later, looking very nice in a brown pullover I bought him last summer. How sweet of him to come check on me - early - and how sweet that he couldn't sleep. Unfortunately, he did not bring me any clothes to wear home - a slight problem since my pj's were pretty much toast and the nurse said she wouldn't let me out of the room with my granny panties showing. Hubby made a few phone calls and I rested. I wasn't peeing enough so the nurse gave me another IV bag (I think that brought the total up to five) and hooked an antibiotic dose as well. I was too tired to argue.

9 am - Hubby decided to go home and get my clothes and let me sleep. I wasn't holding up my end of the conversation anyway. I immediately conked out and didn't wake up until the doctor came in.

10 am - OB doc said I wouldn't have to have a D&C, as the uterus was empty, bleeding was minimal and my cramping was tolerable. He wouldn't let me go until I peed more and could keep some food and fluids down. He reminded me of someone, but I still can't place who it might be - a little bit like Gil Grisam from CSI maybe.

10:30 am - Sister-in-law stops by after church and visits. Her ER experience immediately clues her in to my paleness - my hemoglobin level was still only 8.7, but that was an improvement. We chat for awhile and I eat crackers and apple juice.

11:30 am - Finally peeing on my own and get the go ahead to get out of dodge, but no clothes and no hubby. Finally call him, thinking he fell asleep at home. He is at work, filling out his time sheet. Eat a piece of jelly toast and keep it all down. Pretty proud of myself.

12 noon - Going home. Yay. Kids are staying at Grandma & Grandpa's another night. Peace and quiet is so nice.

1 - 4 pm - Take a nice long nap after texting immediate family members about the ordeal.

4 pm - Watch NASCAR w/hubby. Sad. Then cramping starts again. Was told to take ibuprofen for pain, but didn't think it would be necessary since I don't usually have any post-delivery cramping with live births or miscarriages. Not this time.

5:30 pm - Finally succumb to the pain and down the Advil. Watch Extreme Makeover Home Edition and go to bed.

Monday - Cramping continues much of the day - need more Advil. This sucks. Still bleeding, although not a lot. Trek in to the clinic to relive the events with OB doc. He decides not to put me through another pelvic exam, saying I've been through enough. I have more blood drawn to check hemoglobin levels and test for some possible miscarriage causes. Go to bed taking another dose of ibuprofen, just to sleep.

Tuesday - Get up feeling pretty good, although bleeding still hasn't stopped.
10:30 am - Go to the bathroom, wipe and feel something funny. At first think I'm really swollen for some strange reason. Get out a mirror and about die. There is something sticking out of my vagina and it doesn't look good - dark red thick tubular mass. I panic and yell for hubby, picturing cows on the farm with their uteruses hanging out. He doesn't want me to touch it but to go in immediately. I choose to call my OB's nurse. She says to try tease it out and call her back. It takes nearly 10 minutes of bearing down, pulling, wiggling, etc. to get it out. I realize it is not part of my body because I cannot feel it when I touch it. I finally get the mass out and it is the size of a baseball in my head, heavy, red and fibrous. It is the placenta and I have just passed something about 2 inches in diameter. And I hurt bad. The cramps immediately disappear. The bleeding, which was darker red blood before, turns to a lighter, thinner red. I am freaking out wondering how an ultrasound technician could miss this and what would have happened if I wasn't at home, etc. Call the nurse back and she says to save it and will talk to Doc when he comes in at 2 pm. The adrenaline from this ordeal has exhausted me and I have to lay down. Plus, I'm just a little grossed out.



12 noon - Try to sleep, but can't. Lay in bed until nurse calls back with instructions to come in as soon as possible w/the placenta.

3 pm - Take a shower because I realize I'm still wearing the clothes I went to the clinic in yesterday.

4 pm - Have hubby drop me off at emergency room so I can take the placenta in to sister-in-law since she's working. She is amazed (and not grossed out, which is pretty impressive.) Tell her the plus side is that I just lost a pound.

4:15 pm - Receptionist ushers me right back to Doc - who is mortified at the size of the placenta and that it wasn't caught on ultrasound two days ago. "Gonna have to call down to radiology and see how they missed a placenta the size of a big Mac in a gal who weighs 80 pounds soaking wet." (That was nice to say, although I haven't weighed 80 pounds since junior high.) I don't think he was too happy and was upset with himself for not doing a vaginal exam yesterday, but neither of us thought was necessary. Hindsight of course tells me that the cramping should have been a huge sign for me, since I never have that. But, that's what hindsight is - not valuable for much else. Go through another vaginal ultrasound which shows nothing in uterus but a slight spot of lining that should slough by itself. Bleeding is minimal. Pain is gone. Horrified feeling still present. I am told to come back in two weeks to check if cervix is still open and to go over results of blood work.

So, there you have it. Two days of a very interesting experience I wouldn't really care to repeat. But for several reasons, I'm still glad I did this at home. My body was then ready and knew it wasn't pregnant anymore. (D&C was really hard last time because I bled for six weeks and my hormones were raging because my body had no idea what had just happened.) I got to see the wee little one and (surprise, surprise) it was another boy. And I'm glad we went in when we did, because I got some pain killers, fluids and a transfusion, and I don't feel as tired as I would have without all that. I'm also glad the doctor got to see the placenta, because apparently it was much bigger than it should have been for as far along as I was. It has been sent off to pathology.

I hope this diary doesn't freak anyone out, or discourage anyone from trying to pass the baby at home. My experience is not even close to the norm. Most people will have some cramping, some bleeding, but I believe it's generally over in 2-4 hours, with minimal risk to mom. There are of course horror stories from both ways (at home or in hospital), but knowing what happens to my body because I've experienced it both ways, I was still more comfortable doing it naturally. I had to wait two weeks for the baby to pass, which isn't pleasant. But other than being a little tired right now, I feel like myself, something I could not say for at least three months after the D&C with the last miscarriage.

I hope you're not too grossed out by this and I pray that this diary will help someone, someday. Or help others to understand what a woman can go through during a miscarriage.

how to survive a miscarriage

Yes that title is a bit misleading. I believe it's about as possible to survive a miscarriage as it is to survive a breast cancer diagnosis or survive raising kids or survive life in general. It's possible, but it's just not very easy. And there are no shortcuts.

There are however, a few things that do make it better. Here's my list:

1) Have a good, empathetic doctor. (Not as easy as you might think, and unfortunately you have no way of knowing whether your OB will be kind during a loss until you face one with him/her.) But it helps to know that they're sad with you and that they support whatever decisions you make.

2) Have close friends who have experienced a miscarriage. That way you have someone you can just call out of the blue when you're having a bad day because you saw a PG woman at Walmart and just need to vent. They will automatically understand.

3) Have a supportive family. (This might be out of your control, but there's no doubt it helps) There are certain times when family can make all the difference in the world - when they can take kids for you or just love you when you need it most. Sometimes they don't even have to say anything, and yet you feel that they care.

4) Have a God big enough to handle all the emotions that you'll face. Your God needs to be big enough to handle your anger, your pain and your questions. I guess part of having a God like this would also include having faith as well in Him and His plan and purpose, even if you can't understand it.

5) Have people praying for you. No one can ever convince me that there isn't power in prayer. I've felt its calming effects too many times to discount its power. I would say however, that its probably even more powerful if people know specifically what to pray for and what your needs are - safety, peace, comfort or whatever.

6) Have an outlet for your emotions. For me that is this blog and sometimes the ears of my close friends. But for others it might be a spouse, a journal, prayer time, etc. But, I believe it is essential to at least be able to somehow express your feelings, even if you can't express them adequately or eloquently. Sometimes all you need to say is that you're pissed or blue or even in denial.

7) Have a plan for recovery. I'm referring more to the physical recovery here, because the emotional one takes much longer. Plan to rest. Plan to bone up on multi-vitamins and liquids and any thing your body may need. Allow yourself to take it a bit easy, especially if you're still facing surgery or passing the baby. After all of that is over, plan to be a bit out of commission for awhile and slowly ease back into life.

8) Let your grief take you wherever it might. This can run the gamut from denial to anger to questions to tears to sadness to even bitterness. Let it run its course. If you don't allow yourself to feel whatever it is you might be feeling, you run the risk of stuffing emotions that will only come out some other way at a later date. It's much easier (in the long run) to deal with it all when it comes.

For me, my reaction has been different with each miscarriage. My first one was devastating and very, very depressing. I remember feeling like I was being punished for something and being so angry because I so wanted another baby. With the second one the grief was shorter but much more intense. My physical recovery was also much harder because I lost so much blood, so I had the added problem of feeling so tired and unable to do anything. With the third, I got very angry and blamed God for being unfair and unkind and unloving. We lost that baby at 14 weeks and again the recovery was very difficult because I had to be induced and then have a D&C - I bled for six weeks and it took at least three months before the hormones were back to normal. The entire thing was a battle. This miscarriage has been different still. I took about four days to myself - didn't answer my telephone, didn't talk to anyone and just was alone. I couldn't even pray. I couldn't bear the thought of talking to a God who could perform a miracle and allow it to slip away. After those four days, I felt I could shake it off, "that's enough of this" and carry on. I returned some phone calls, let people know what was going on and got back into the routine of life. I cried very little. Maybe I will cry more as this progresses and I wait for baby to pass, but I doubt it. I really feel like this is just how it's going to be and don't feel like fighting it. There's a strange peace in accepting things, even if you don't like what's happened. But, really what can I do about it anyway? :)

Anyway, my point still is to let whatever emotions and feelings you might be having to just happen - you will eventually feel better, life will become normal again and you will get through it.

Surviving is possible, but only one day at a time.

slippers

Why I doubt God sometimes is beyond me. He often proves Himself in the smallest little ways and yet I don't trust Him in the BIG things. I suppose my humanness has much to do with it. And my pride. And my stubbornness.

Thursday my sister-in-law took my boys to her house and I decided to go shopping for slippers. It's getting cold in MN and my feet freeze. Plus, I'm too cheap to put the heat on all the way, so the house is still a bit on the cool side. Anyway, I trucked into town in hopes of finding something that wasn't fuzzy or furry or cutesy, just some plain warm leather slippers.

My first stop - Marshalls - no luck. Only fuzzy bath slippers. But I did run into a couple from church. Chit-chatted awhile, then made a couple of other necessary errand stops at Joann Fabrics and Old Navy. I was just getting ready to head to Kohl's or JCPenney when I got a call requiring me to head toward home. Never made it anywhere else and I sighed very loudly as I passed Cabela's thinking that's probably where I should have gone.

I got home a bit out of sorts because I really wanted slippers. I crabbed at hubby and vented to a friend, who suggested I look at Cabela's or Land's End. Maybe tomorrow I thought. Tonight I'm just going to be crabby because my toes are cold and I don't have any new slippers to wear.

Well, life took over and I forgot about my slippers, until I received a package this afternoon, from.....drum roll please.....Land's End. Inside was a pair of gorgeous orange suede slipper mules that fit perfectly and were toasty warm. Tucked inside was a note that said: "Thinking about you, wishing you didn't have to go thru this again. Praying you will feel the Lord's peace during this difficult time. Lots of love..."


The gift, which came via my cousin, but really from the Lord, was even more miraculous because I don't believe I ever mentioned to her my desire for new slippers. Somehow God told her that I needed them.

Another perfect example of how God provides for me, even though I don't deserve orange suede slippers. (They match so well with my turquoise socks, but I was too lazy to change to something more coordinated.)

what i accomplished today...

I'm sure this will impress so many of you, but hey all things considered, I'm pretty proud of myself.

1. Actually did a science lesson with boy #3. (But only because I was feeling guilty about crabbing at him last night and that we have done almost no science since school started. 206 bones in the human body. The smallest is the stirrup in the ear. The strongest is the thigh bone. And he now knows that when I grab his ear to stop him from pummeling his younger brother, I'm grabbing cartilage.)

2. Took a shower. (But only after a guy from church stopped by to tell me he missed me - we haven't been to church since the first weekend in September - and I realized that I was a complete greaseball, bedhead who was still wearing pjs at 10:30 am.)

3. Made my bed. (But only because it's the only place in the house I can fold laundry. I still haven't got to the laundry.)

4. Returned one phone call. (But only because it was my sister-in-law and I wanted to get rid of my kids, who at the time were fighting over who got to use the peanut butter knife and in what order the peanut butter and jelly should be put on bread.)

5. Got the main floor somewhat picked up. (But only because I made the boys do it - since it's their mess anyway. I used the sleep-over at their aunt's as a bribe. It worked very well. And I don't think they felt taken advantage of in the least bit.)

6. Responded to an email from a friend. (But only because I first emailed her to ask how she survived five miscarriages - I figured she had some wisdom and insight to offer. I wasn't disappointed.)

7. Cancelled the D&C surgery for Friday. (But only because I figured it was a great way of to get out of going anywhere for awhile. Kidding. I may regret that decision, but it felt right at the time.)

There you have it - all that I accomplished today. And it's only 4 pm. Almost time for Jeopardy.