22 + 1

Today I am 22 weeks and one day pregnant with our newest little guy -- the exact gestational age I was when I delivered our son Zachary nearly six years ago. Historically, this has been an emotional milestone for me, and today really is no different. In an average pregnancy (and really even in my pregnancies), there is nothing particularly threatening about being 22 + 1, but in my case, I just can't help but remember how one average everyday turned into possibly the most sorrowful point of my life.

Though the tears still fall when I read Zachary's birth story and recall his death, I am so deeply moved by the Lord's faithfulness towards me in those dark moments and beyond. There were sleepless nights and hard questions to ask, but He was there and waiting to wrestle. I remember reaching a time of such heartache and confusion that I could no longer find the words to pray for myself, and how the Lord met me there by burdening the heart of a literal stranger who had no idea of the grief I was in, yet who pulled my phone number from the air to call and tell me that she was praying for me. I remember reaching a point where every bit of it went on an alter, and the work of "trying again" was over. Though my suffering was intense and lengthy, He was there beside me all along, and I am so grateful. His word was truth in my life: "The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit" (Psalm 34:18).

The "Prom Pose" loses its luster when you're pregnant and surrounded by kid paraphernalia,
and your husband is too busy laughing at your ten-year-old photographer to have a serious smiling face.

And here I am now -- still so surprised to be once-again pregnant, and so amazed to be moving along nicely in this surprise pregnancy. For all intents and purposes, I am as infertile as I've ever been. Besides the placement of a transabdominal cervicoisthmus cerclage to assist in preventing late-term losses, I've had no fertility surgery, no procedure, not one thing done to rationalize the unexpected and explosive growth of our family. The single explanation I have is that we're walking out a real-life restoration of "the years the locusts have eaten" (Joel 2:25). While part of me wishes I had some answers to this change -- something specific to offer to other women with hearts broken like mine -- I am grateful to be on the opposite side of the abyss. A friend told me yesterday that she's been feeling very sad, missing friends (namely me) who are still busy with the baby stage, and while I wish my friend well, I wouldn't trade long, leisurely coffee dates for anything I have now. That's not to say things don't get hard and I don't enjoy it when the babysitter comes by, because they do and I do, but my season of unscheduled free-time has been overcome by pacifiers and poopy pants, and I could not be a happier woman for it.

"'Even now,' declares the Lord, 'return to me with all your heart,
with fasting and weeping and mourning.'
Rend your heart and not your garments.
Return to the Lord your God, for he is gracious and compassionate,
slow to anger and abounding in love, and he relents from sending calamity.
Who knows? He may turn and relent and leave behind a blessing..."
-- Joel 2:12-14a NIV

"He settles the barren woman in her home as a happy mother of children.
Praise the Lord."
-- Psalm 113:9 NIV

"Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD,
the fruit of the womb a reward."
--Psalm 127:3 ESV

Happy Birthday, Sweet Baby. Five years have passed since I held you in my arms. I imagine what life would be like with you here, life with another son. Would you be silly or studious? Would you enjoy your schoolwork, or would you be the class clown keeping us all on our toes? Would you be a fan of all your sisters, or would they be a bother? Would you be a bother -- an ornery little mess? What would today -- your fifth birthday -- hold for you? Would training wheels come off today, a milestone event marking a milestone birthday? How would you direct our day? So many questions never to be answered, so many longings never to be filled.

The time you were here, the time since you slipped away -- it all raced by. My sweet baby, I miss you today as I did that very first day, and my heart longs for the moment you're in my arms once again.

Four Years Later: Blessed

Four years ago today, our son Zachary was born prematurely. He died one hour and forty-eight minutes later. I think back to that day, to that unimaginable pain, and I remember wondering how I would survive. I have survived.

There are days I still miss him terribly. I dream of what life would be like with him here. There are days I wonder why Zachary's death was necessary, and I hunt to see ways his brief moments on Earth have changed things. Without a doubt, I can say because of Zachary's death, doors have been opened for me to share both my heartache and healing through e-mails, forum discussions, personal connections and a support group I co-lead at our church. Additionally, the physical modifications I underwent following his passing and my openness about them have allowed me to share with other hopeful mothers, and I know of at least a handful of babies who have survived pregnancy and are living because of my willingness to share. Brystol survived pregnancy. Our fifth child -- our FIFTH CHILD -- has a real chance at life because Zachary died.

Undoubtedly, the biggest and most obvious change has been within my own heart. I have learned our time on this Earth is fleeting, and I treasure moments I might have overlooked before. I have learned to trust the Lord in a much much deeper way, and that affords me unexplainable comfort when new hardships arise. In all the pain, in all the questioning, these are the questions that return to me the most: "Why in the world when I ask a question does God have to answer it with Christ? (Because He is the answer.) Why when I ask for direction does God point to Christ? (Because He is the Way.) When I really get down to it, my sole purpose here on this Earth is Christ: to know Him, to love Him, to become more like Him, to tell others about Him." Though my heart's desire was to be a mother to many, through grieving the loss of our son it became clear my purpose on this Earth is to point others to the cross. To my great pleasure, as my focus shifted away from being the mother to many to pointing others toward the cross, I'm suddenly the mother to many with more on the way. Indeed, I have been richly blessed.

"He settles the childless woman in her home
as a happy mother of children.
Praise the LORD."

Psalm 113:9

Mother's Day 2010

To those who've borne children,
to those who wish they had,
to those who've formed families in other ways,
and to those whose children live on in memory alone --

Happy Mother's Day.

Three Years Later: Living Now

"We find a place for what we lose.
Although we know that after such a loss
the acute stage of mourning will subside,
we also know that a part of us shall remain inconsolable
and never find a substitute.
No matter what may fill the gap,
even if it is completely filled,
it will nevertheless remain something changed forever..."
-- Sigmund Freud (1856 - 1939)

It's been three years since Zachary was born and died. Three long and crazy, up and down, painful and joyful life-living years. We've taken up projects. We've taken vacations. We've had both challenges and celebrations in our marriage and as parents. We've had two more losses. We've had a baby. Life has indeed gone on, but to my heart, no time has passed at all since the day my body refused our son. The stagnancy of my heart in relation to the passage of time made this anniversary the most peculiar of all.

In a way that I'm sure was not meant to be insensitive, this year James asked if we'll always release balloons -- even on his 42nd birthday? Evidently, that's a lot of balloons. Moreover, the kids are confused about how they should feel when we all go out to celebrate their dead brother, though we specifically tell them feeling any way about Zachary's death, even feeling nothing at all, is absolutely fine. And it is fine, but it does hurt my heart when their "feeling nothing at all" turns into incessant requests to go to a restaurant for lunch, entirely disregarding what we're doing.

I don't know what we'll do to honor Zachary thirty-nine years from now. With my family history, there's a good chance I'll be in a grave of my own by then. Clearly, the future is entirely out of my hands. What I do know is if I'm living, I will do something. I won't let a day pass without recalling the child who changed me so. I do feel quite sure, though, that this year was the last year that we'll do something specific with the children (unless they ask to participate). Also, because he seems entirely ready to move on, this may be one of the last years I do something specific with James. We'll see...

As for this year, we recalled Zachary's birthday by taking the kids to a field near a lovely little church and cemetery where we talked about loss and grief and Zachary in particular, then we released three brightly-colored star balloons. Matthew insisted the strong winds were going to take them out, but they made their journey safely out of sight.


The rest of the day was spent in normalcy -- running errands, doing chores, having that lunch at a restaurant -- and to me, that felt terrible, discourteous. I felt like in many ways we dishonored our dead baby, and we dishonored that part of innocent me that died along with him, but what did I expect? Life has gone on and even our family -- the group of people most affected by this loss -- has stuff to do on a Sunday afternoon. Such division between yesterday and today! So challenging to contend with.

The next day, Monday, the anniversary of his death -- I spent that day almost entirely alone. James was at work and the Gracie and Bub were at school, so Brystol and I spent the day wandering around my favorite antique mall in near silence (Brystol ate puffs and napped, I wandered). That, for me, was a much better dealing-with-grief sort of day. I was able to sit in silence, reflect in peace, recall the events of that day and the days that followed without having to do or be anything for anyone else. I needed Monday. I also found a lovely sampler at the antique mall. It reads, "With this you see, remember me" -- a perfect reminder for recollection.


I haven't entirely figured out the right way to deal with this grief in light of my present life. Though friends have moved on and my family is moving forward, this deep sense of loss is still a part of my everyday. But, the past cannot be changed. This grief is part of my story, like it or not. I deal with it, I embrace it, I allow it to be woven into the fabric of my life without allowing it to be the sum of my life. Who, but God, knows what the next year will bring or how, when the day arrives, we'll honor the memory of the baby we never brought home. To quote Emerson, "With the past, I have nothing to do; nor with the future. I live now."



"Everyone can master a grief, but he that has it."
-- William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing, Act 3, scene 2

"Given a choice between grief and nothing, I'd choose grief."
-- William Faulkner (1897 - 1962)



candle photo credit: punkmarko, other photos mine.

On Seeing Shadows

I see you. I see you in the glimmer of your sister's eye, hiding behind her smile. I see you as shadows, tiny shadows flashing on sweet baby skin.

I remember each one of you, how I longed for you, how my heart broke as you faded. Even now, as I hold a miracle in my arms, I feel you in the weight of her sleeping body, and I remember holding you -- each of you -- in my arms, in my hands, in my womb, in my heart. I hold you there even still and I remember...

October 15th is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, an official day to recognize, to remember, to mourn.

One Year Ago

Somber Linkage: A Resource List

www.october15th.com


"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted
and saves those who are crushed in spirit."
-- Psalm 34:18

A Bittersweet Mother's Day

"[Death] was a fact of life,
but if I brought it up,
people would suddenly get interested in
their hangnails and cuticles,
or else distant places in the sky,
and seem to not hear me."

-- Sue Monk Kidd
The Secret Life of Bees

It's Mother's Day today -- a day to honor mothers, a day to be honored as a mother. I'm a big fan of Mother's Day as a concept, because really, who doesn't appreciate a day where all sorts of great stuff is centered around them? It's like a bonus birthday, and there's nothing bad about that.

But Mother's Day is not all about flowers pinned on dresses and lunch out with the kids. For many people, Mother's Day is a day of grief and misery -- a truly heavy burden to bear. On Mother's Day, some people recall the mother missing from their lives, while other people recall the children they've lost or only dreamed of. People would most especially rather not discuss the dead on Mother's Day, but today, as I sat in Sunday service, I couldn't help scanning the crowd wondering who there had a broken heart.

As for my heart, there are still significant cracks. It's amazing how things change from one year to the next to the next, and even more amazing how much remains precisely the same.

Two years ago on Mother's Day, Zachary had been dead about a minute and a half and I was a seeping, weeping wreck. I could hardly pick myself up off the floor, much less celebrate motherhood, still, that Sunday morning, I let the family drag me down the street to The Waffle House for breakfast. We left when a pregnant woman waddled in and I started sobbing into my syrup.

Mother's Day last year was much better. Though dealing with a bout of unexplained infertility, I was functional and capable of celebrating my blessings while realizing that celebration was not a dishonor to the dead.

Mother's Day this year is full of interesting dynamics. I'm pregnant, which is honestly both a blessing and a burden. I am still in shock to be with child, I am in shock to still be with child. I don't deserve this miracle at all. God has shown me the most unmerited favor, and a happier person could not be found. But pregnancy brings up all my failures: my failures as a parent, my failures as a woman, my failures as a child-bearer. In the midst of the joys and blessings of Mother's Day, tears were shed today -- tears for our struggles, tears for our losses, tears for the fears we still feel.

Today has been a bittersweet day.

Fortunately, my sweet family seems to understand these odd dynamics, so for this Mother's Day, there was little on the agenda -- just what I needed. I was met this morning with kisses, cards, and gifts. James and the kids chose a meaningful set of Willow Tree figurines that represents both where we are now as a family and where we hope to be in the next few weeks. (They were on the mantle before the early church service.) We later lunched at La Madeleine with my mom, then came home for a lovely lazy afternoon.

"He settles the barren woman in her home
as a happy mother of children.
Praise the LORD."

Psalm 113:9

Happy Birthday, Sweet Baby.
Two years later
and my heart still aches for you...





photo credit: arskavaan

My Shoes: Thoughts on Loss and Being Pregnant Again

I am a huge fan of shoes. That's not always been the case, but somewhere around age twelve or thirteen, something changed in me and I've loved shoes ever since. My mom would indulge me as best she could by buying me shoes I loved in varying colors. My first job was next door to a shoe store, which meant I brought home no money for anything else.

As I've gotten older, my shoe selection has changed. I have an array of flip-flops and Crocs. I own shoes sensible for walking long distances. I have heels chosen carefully so they don't rub blisters or cause undue pressure. I have a pair of surgical shoes I hobbled around in all last summer after hurting my desensitized feet. My shoe collection these days is not glamorous, but it is reliable, and most of all, safe.

Why such a safety girl? Last summer, I wore a pair of my favorite flip-flops to Six Flags and developed large blisters on the bottom of both of my feet. Because my feet are so insensitive, I couldn't feel the blisters developing and remained unaware until they burst and bled. I was driven out of the park on the Medic Cart (embarrassing!) and spent time in Urgent Care. Despite constant care, the wounds didn't heal well, and later, when we suspected infection, I spent time in the ER. That led to weekly appointments with the podiatrist who literally sliced away sections of my sole at every visit. He also banned me from walking as I was accustomed. He made the wounds and my entire situation worse to help my feet heal properly, and without that treatment, I was at a serious risk of loss.

I learned my lesson last summer, pain was my teacher, and now I'm very conscious about my shoe choice in relation to my environment. I take measures to protect myself and to keep myself completely intact. Though I am better and can now walk with ease, I don't ever fail to remember the situation I found myself in and the measures I can take to prevent a recurrence of that experience. That doesn't mean I spend my life in fear of hurting myself or losing my feet, it only means I'm being aware, conscious, responsible, taking measures to protect myself and to prevent a loss.

Regarding shoes, I have a pair of metaphorical shoes: the shoes of my life, the shoes only I walk in every single day. The shoes of my life are lovely indeed. They were provided by a generous Giver who knew just what I needed. There are bows and buckles right where they belong, with beautiful children, wonderful husband, and better friends than I could have ever dreamed. Financial security and a host of blessings make for a good stable fit. Varying hues are the lives I have touched and the lives that have touched mine. I could not create for myself such an amazing pair of shoes.

But the shoes of my life also represent days that are unusual and often not-so-easy. There are woes from my childhood and the days of my youth. There are family and relationship issues common to all. There's a history of pain and of grief and of loss. These are the things that rub blisters and cause scars. These are the things that, if ignored, could fester and grow infected and could lead to further pain and further loss. These are the risks of walking at all, and while the pain can be intense and inconvenient and hard to understand or take seriously, these are the moments that should never be forgotten.

For those who know me, my story of loss is well-told. We've had four first trimester losses, including a twin in this pregnancy, and I had a son, born too early, who lived on the Earth but for a moment. An interesting thing about my pregnancies is that each loss revealed an issue resolved in the next pregnancy. Were it not for my losses, there is no way I would still even be pregnant with this little girl. Medically, it has been vitally important to consider the past, and just as with my feet, I don't ever fail to remember the situations I found myself in and the measures I can take to prevent a recurrence of those experiences.

All of that to say that I got an e-mail this week that really, quite honestly, ticked me off. I know that sounds mean, but I'm just keeping it real. It came from an acquaintance of mine, really a friend of a friend, and while it was well-meaning (I'm sure), it frustrated me to no end. Here's a portion:

I have been asking God to send you a supernatural cloak of peace. May you not be moved by emotions or thoughts from your past. God is doing a new work.

Not so bad, right? No, probably not. Still, I'm irritated.

(I'm also hormonal, but that's beside the point.)

First of all, I've never been close to this e-mail sender. We're not friends now, nor have we ever truly been friends. I hear a little about her life through our mutual friend. In the same way, I'm sure she hears about me. She has had some minimal and limited involvement in my kid's lives as a nursery worker, but she's had very minimal involvement in mine. Moreover, we haven't even laid eyes on one another or spoken in two whole years. On top of that, her life has been wrought with different struggles -- never fertility issues and recurrent pregnancy losses. How, then, is she expert enough to even presume to guide me in my current situation? Who is she to tell me how to walk in my shoes when she's never tried them on for size?

If you know me in real life, if you read my blog, if you keep up with me on Twitter or on Facebook, if you pick up the phone, if you e-mail me and actually ask how I'm doing, or if you bother to actually involve yourself in my life for even one moment, you would know that while there have been times of wonder and struggle during this pregnancy, I have personally been awed by the peace that consumes my heart. I expected to be an utter wreck by now, and to my delight, I am not. Even when concerning things happen, I'm consumed by peace. That doesn't mean that I allow myself to be oblivious, or that I cancel medical treatments in the name of faith, or that I disregard what my past reveals about my present. It means that I walk out my present in light of my past trusting God all the way.

I'm twenty-four weeks pregnant now. I'm carrying a baby who could quite possibly live outside of the womb. I have reached this gestational age to my great surprise, and I do not take one ounce of the credit. God has sustained me all along. Even more surprisingly, I am this pregnant and still upright, which has never happened for me -- ever -- and that, too, is a miracle. Even with all these good things, I still walk out my present in light of my past, realizing that each moment I have with this child on the Earth is a blessing.

Babies die in the first trimester, and hearts are still broken.
Babies die in the second trimester, when all should be safe.
Babies die when they are born too early, just like Zachary.
Babies die from cord accidents all the time.
Babies are carried with the knowledge that they won't live.
Babies die for no reason at all.

Am I a fool to remember my losses and to let them influence my attitude in this pregnancy? No -- I am the wise one. These tumbles and hiccups and bumps in the night may be all I know of my daughter for many years to come. That's a truth I know all too well. These children are gifts to us, treasures, and we would all be fools to take even one portion of their existences for granted. Some people realize that without having had their hearts obliterated. My knowledge has grown deeper by walking a much harder path, still, these shoes are mine, and though they are stained and tattered and sometimes broken, I think I wear them well.

That Day and This Day

On the day Zachary was born, I was twenty-two weeks and one day pregnant, which is precisely where I am in this pregnancy today.

That morning, I woke up as a patient on the antepartum wing of the hospital and was rushed to the OR for an experimental procedure in the hopes that we could rescue my child from death. This morning, I rushed out the door for an early doctor's appointment with enough spare time to grab a chicken biscuit along the way.

That morning, the procedure failed as a surprise to me and I agreed to lengthy bedrest in Trendelenburg position. This morning, I was certain that there would be another failure, leading to bedrest, and was surprised to find out I was wrong.

That afternoon, I met with the neonatologist to discuss ethics and hospital policy and decided on a timeline for life-saving measures and respite care. This afternoon, I ate tacos, had a progesterone injection, laid around on the couch and caught up on Facebook status updates.

That evening, I was sent to labor and delivery because as that day progressed, my water broke, the baby's cord prolapsed, and there was nothing more we could do to to save him. I was given Cervadil and what was left of the cerclage was removed. For some reason, American Idol was on the TV as I labored. This evening, I intend to watch American Idol with my family at home, safely and happily still pregnant.

The whole experience of losing Zachary was a whirlwind. At every turn, I remember thinking I'd get out of it somehow -- somehow everything would work out and both the baby and I would be okay. Sure, maybe I'd require all sorts of intervention, but miracles were neither impossible nor improbable. Instead, by that evening, I marveled at how tiny his perfect little body was, and by the next day, I was making arrangements with a funeral home.

After such an experience, it was no wonder that I expected there to be something wrong when I went in today for a routine ultrasound at the exact same gestational age. It's true that I've had an extraordinary amount of peace throughout this pregnancy, but when your "normal" has been something so heart-wrenching, it's difficult to change your mindset. Still, I don't even think I realized how internally convinced I was about there being problems until my sweet doctor came into the room and the tears (mine, not his) started flowing.

Today, though, was a joyous day. Instead of having my unfortunate expectations met, I was surprised to find that my pregnancy is still progressing nicely. My current miracle is ongoing. My cervix is fine and remains stable in spite of vacation walking and a sporadic seasonal allergy cough. The baby has grown and is still measuring ahead -- she's measuring over 24 weeks around her tummy, and around 23 weeks everywhere else! Today, I marveled at how big her perfect little body is, and instead of making funeral arrangements, I think it might be time to get serious about decorating the nursery.

Zachary at 22 weeks 1 day


Little Miss Priss at 22 weeks 1 day

Cross Posted on About the Baby

On Injections and Being 16 weeks Pregnant

I'm now 16 weeks pregnant (17 weeks tomorrow), and am still as shocked as ever that this is my life. Please enjoy (if you can) a very rare profile picture of my ever-expanding midsection. Moving on...

I saw the doctor a couple of days ago, and while my MFM does an ultrasound at every visit, the OB didn't plan to scan me at every visit until 18 weeks. With all the early complications, I had scans at every visit, but the 16 week appointment was scheduled to be routine. Instead, I came to the appointment just sure that there had to be something wrong with my cervix. I had no actual proof that there would be anything wrong -- just an overwhelming sense of dread. 16 weeks is the magic number for a lot of people with cervical incompetence to begin having problems, and while I now have the transabdominal cerclage that should make IC irrelevant in this pregnancy, it's difficult to move out of that old mindset. This is my first second-trimester on the TAC -- I'm not used to this new normal.

When I had the TAC placed, I was the only person my OB knew who'd undergone the procedure. Nearly two years later, he has another TAC patient who is just as pregnant as I am. He didn't bat an eye when I asked to have my cervix scanned because evidently the other patient is freaking out in the same way I am. He indulged her a few days before, and he indulged me right away.

As I might have known, my cervix was fine and has lengthened even more. The baby, since she's bigger, is closer to the cerclage, but there's plenty of length on the internal os, as well as on the cervix below the cerclage. From now on, even despite the positive report, I'll be scanned at every visit. Not only is it important to continue watching the cervix and how it may or may not change as the baby gets heavier, it's also important to stay on top of potential complications that may lead to uterine rupture. The risk of uterine rupture is the primary complication with the TAC, but with close monitoring, the overall risk is actually quite minimal. And for someone like me whose cervix will not stay closed even with a cerclage, it's a risk worth taking.

Another milestone this week is the beginning of my 17P Hydroxyprogesterone injections. Progesterone injections are routinely given to women who have a short cervix or a history of cervical incompetence. They're also part of routine care in more than 60% of women with the TAC.


According to medical studies, 17P injections significantly reduce the rate of preterm delivery at less than 37 weeks' gestation, and since both children I've birthed were born before then, I'm a candidate on that basis alone. I also have a naturally short cervix, a history of cervical incompetence, and a TAC in place, and with all of that, there's no avoiding the shots.

The medication is compounded and then overnighted to me once a month. I store it and a home health care nurse comes once weekly to administer the injections. The nurse and I connected by phone today, and after talking for a bit, we both realized she's the nurse who gave me the injections for six weeks of my pregnancy with Zachary. It was so hard to hear her voice on the phone today and to schedule her for Thursdays, the same day she always gave me the shots before. So much of this current pregnancy mimics my pregnancy with Zachary, and that's just one more thing on the pile of pregnancy stress. When I hung up with the nurse, I called James to cry.

I know this pregnancy is not Zachary's pregnancy, and I know that even with some similarities, they're not necessarily destined to end the same way. I'm still struggling to determine if this current course of events is a happy coincidence or not. No matter what, it's quite hard. Obviously, I'm in the season where I'd normally begin to think about the last days before my loss. In just a few days, we'd remember the anniversary of moving into this house -- the house we bought because we were having a baby. We'd remember hearing, "It's a girl -- No wait, it's a boy!" We'd remember painting rooms and hanging baby clothes. We'd remember Easter and that dreaded, dreaded cough. In April, we'd remember going Galveston for one last getaway. We'd remember an appointment that was supposed to be uneventful and some really bad news. We'd remember attempts at salvation that didn't work out, and we'd remember that Zachary lived and then died.

Instead of having time to dwell on all those things, I'm busy being pregnant once again. I'm sleeping and eating and hunting for a heartbeat. I'm going to doctor's appointments and scheduling sibling classes and talking about baby showers with dear, dear friends. I'm growing bigger and more uncomfortable and feeling movement from time to time, and even if I somehow go all the way to my due date with this little baby, I'll face Zachary's birthday and dying day with newly-filled arms. I certainly couldn't be happier about that.



cross-posted on About the Baby

On Nights Like Tonight

"So I couldn't say, We will have another child. Instead, I said, "I hope we can have another child. It was bad enough grieving for this child... without lamenting other only theoretical children. I missed the child we lost and I wanted another and these seemed like two absolutely separate aches."

-- Elizabeth McCracken,
An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination: A Memoir

I sit alone in the quiet. The world slumbers around me, and I am one with my thoughts. On nights like tonight, sweet baby, my mind goes to you...

November is Prematurity Awareness Month.
Prematurity is a major problem
with 1 in 8 babies born too soon.
Stop by the March of Dimes website
to see what you can do
to help babies have a better future.

October 15: Remembering

A day does not go by that I do not consider the babies we've conceived and lost. From time to time, I'll scrawl out their dates on anything handy -- grocery store receipts, church bulletins, magazine inserts -- just to remember they were once here. I compare them to other babies I watch grow and thrive. I wonder if they would have walked as early, or have hair as full, or if they would have squinted as they smiled. I wonder what life would be like if they were living.

To carry a child in your womb is to carry a child in your heart, and when that child is gone, the heart hurts. Regardless of how the child goes, whether by choice or by circumstance, pain is left in its place. In honor of my pain, and in honor of the pain felt by many families, Congress declared October 15th to be Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day on September 28, 2006 as part of House Concurrent Resolution #222.

Today, I call to mind ordinary days in which my world was utterly transformed. Winter days were once full of hope and wonder, until December 2005 when I lost my first child. Fall, my favorite season with its crisp air and glorious changes, changed forever when in October 2006, I lost my second. Springtime, a time of newness and birth, was marred by death in April 2007 when Zachary became my third loss. And summer, bright and sunny, became dark and dismal, when in August 2007, our fourth baby died. I remember you, babies. I am changed by you despite the brevity of your lives.

Today, I remember my babies. And today, I remember your babies. I acknowledge the cribs left empty. I acknowledge the clothes left unworn. I acknowledge the unfulfilled plans, and the beautiful dreams now shattered. I acknowledge the questions we're left with, and I acknowledge the grief and pain that often consumes our hearts. Today, I remember you. I know your pain. I know it well.

As I think of us today, as I remember the babies who've gone before us, I pray that your heart will be comforted, and even when it feels impossible, I pray that you will find peace.

Resources:
October 15th Website
Facts about Miscarriage
About.com: Miscarriage/Pregnancy Loss
M.E.N.D. - Mommies Enduring Neonatal Death
Share Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support
Massive Pregnancy Loss Blogroll by The Stirrup Queen
My friend Amy at For What It's Worth
A favorite blogger, Angie Smith at Bring the Rain

Congress votes to pass October 15 as
Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day --
a brave acknowledgement of loss by hurting men
who made our pain "official."




In Remembrance

photo credit: jpgmag.com, gettysburgflagworks.com

The Wound in my Foot/The Wound in my Heart

So, I have this issue with my foot, and until it is totally healed, I have to see the podiatrist once a week to have it debrided. Essentially, that mean that the doctor takes a scalpel and hacks away at my wound in order to promote healing. It doesn't make a lot of sense -- I know -- but it works.

This week when I saw the doctor, he was quite displeased with the progress I'd made. He said some healing had occurred between appointments, but because of some callousing, he was certain that I'd been walking around putting all kinds of pressure on the wound. I assured him I had not been -- that I'd been wearing the horribly ugly surgical shoes he prescribed, those that are packed so full of pressure-shifting padding that my bones creak and my back aches at the end of each long day. I showed him the indention in said shoe to indicate that I spent my walking around time balancing on my heel. I showed him the muscles on my shin and how they've grown stronger by spending two solid weeks with my foot in flex. Even that did not make him happy.

"You need to spend more time on your crutches," he said.

I'm telling you, the man might as well have kicked me in my sore shin, because I don't know if you've ever been an overweight mama balancing herself on two sticks trying to wrangle two kids who've realized they can now outrun you, but let me just assure you:

It ain't fun.

But I was determined. The longer I've dealt with this foot thing, the more time I've had to spend on those scary medical websites, and not a one of them beats around the bush. They all blatantly state in some way or another, "Get this taken care of, or go around on one leg forever."

Now, I'm not at all, at all, in that position. Honestly, I could probably stop seeing the podiatrist at this point and everything would heal up eventually, but my seeing him will speed up the process. My following his orders will make the healing happen that much faster, so crutches it was.

It just so happened that the day I was commanded to be on crutches was a day with a very full schedule. From the podiatrist's office, we drove across the entire state of Texas to Presby Plano for Bub's opthamology appointment. Since we moved way west some time ago, we've considered changing doctors, but his doctor is just so fun and easy-going that we haven't. In retrospect, I should have just rescheduled the appointment, but I have this irrational idea that I am invincible and capable of doing it all -- even on crutches.

As it turns out, I am not invincible.

I didn't account for the bad parking and uphill walk hobble, nor did I account for the fact that the opthamologist offices at the very end of the furthest hall on the very uppermost floor of the hospital. Needless to say, it was not a happy day. After all the physical exertion it took to get in there, the doctor, kind and tender man that he is, asked me to not fall over until I left the building. So sweet!

By the time the appointment was over, I was exhausted. I'd propelled myself a long distance in a challenging environment, I'd hopped over an untold number of children in the waiting room, and I was partway through the journey back to to car when I felt this overwhelming sense of being done. I could not go any further. My hands ached from gripping, my armpits were bruising, my hip hurt, and my ankle felt like it would just give way any time. I teetered on my crutches, took a few deep breaths, and gulped back some tears. I thought of calling James to cross the Metroplex and come to my rescue, but instead, I decided to press on.

I marked out my path, and took the rest of the hospital in sections -- just to that corner, now to that doorway, a little more to the desk. It wasn't long until I reached the exit door and made my way out onto the circle drive. I leaned against a column, looked out onto the expansive parking lot, and thought, "I can't do this. I can not do this." I wasn't just that I felt I couldn't make it to my car on crutches, but moreso that I couldn't do what it would take as a whole to get well, totally well.

About that time, a woman walked by me pushing a man in a wheelchair whose leg had been amputated at the knee, and that was all I needed to make it to the car. Once I got there, however, I really thought about my struggle and my near breakdown there at the Presby Plano.

When Zachary died, James and I were ministry leaders of the Celebrate Recovery group at our church. Every week, we stood before people as examples of God's grace and healing power. When he died, obviously, we took a couple of weeks off, and during that break, I spent a good bit of time on my face asking God how I could once again stand in front of others and be an example of anything good. I had been absolutely obliterated. I was a worthless mess. It was during that time that this scripture became especially poignant:

"So take a new grip with your tired hands and stand firm on your shaky legs. Mark out a straight path for your feet. Then those who follow you, though they are weak and lame, will not stumble and fall but become strong." -- Hebrews 12:12 (NLT)

That scripture acknowledged that I was at the point of exhaustion. It saw me as I was there in the hospital, unable to go on. Ultimately, that scripture helped me to understand that it wasn't my responsibility to make sense of things for other people, but rather in my fatigue to hang on, to take hold again, and to keep moving forward.

And so I did. For a good, long while, I actively worked through various degrees of pain and frustration. In my grief, I cried and I wrote. I felt supported in my confusion and encouraged in my quest for comfort. But at some point along the path, I became overwhelmed by my shaky legs and decided to stop moving forward. I threw my tired hands up in the air and gave up. I leaned against some imaginary column and said to myself, "I can't do this. I can not do this."

I was too worn out to move any further, and no one was coming along to pick me up, so I stayed right there, feeling sorry for myself. I thought it would be ok to set up camp along the way -- God would see that I'd tried. That would be enough, right?

No.

When I sat down in the middle of my misery and refused to go further down the path before me, the wound in my heart became infected and began to fester. It bubbled over with anger and bitterness, fear and mistrust. I became weak and my heart became hard, atrophied. I doubted that healing was available to me, and I doubted the One who could heal me.

I was called to honesty this weekend at church, and I acknowledged the position I'd put myself in. I John 1:9 reads, "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness," and that's what happened for me. I acknowledged to God, and now acknowledge to you, that I put myself in a position of complacency, being eaten alive by subtle sin -- anger, bitterness, pain, disbelief. Fortunately, God is gracious and was waiting for me, ready to forgive, and because He is merciful, He hacked away at those dying, infected parts of my heart. He helped me to stand once again, and I believe He walks beside me as I continue along the path ahead.

I don't know what that looks like, but I know God is faithful and will be present in my times of pain and times of triumph. That same mercy and forgiveness, comfort and grace is readily available for all who find themselves in need.

This Weekend at Church


Red Cards from Keystone Church on Vimeo.

A Sister's Imagination

In a sister's imagination, babies get bigger in Heaven...

... and know to kneel before Jesus.

We miss you, sweet baby.
You're always on all of our minds.

When I Can't Pray for Myself

I had lunch with Karen last week. We've been talking about meeting since Landry was born, and we made time to get together since Karen was slated to return to the workforce this week. I had a lovely time visiting and cultivating our new relationship. We talked about Landry and how she's growing. We talked about Karen's sister Kim who recently lost her second baby, Lucy. We talked about Zachary, and in that portion of the conversation, Karen asked how I was doing.

I told her I was doing surprisingly well, and I am most days. What I've found is that the busier I stay, the easier my days are. When I slow down, when I stop, the lump returns to my throat, the tears start to flow. It's much more comfortable to avoid the grief, and so I stay busy.

I know I need to slow down. I know I need to stay settled in this sorrowful place and let God do all that He will, but I'm tired of being so blue. Instead of sitting still, I spend all my time running in an effort to avoid the pain. Just when I think I've outrun it, Gracie brings home a prayer journal from VBS where on page one she asked that God would give her (meaning us) a baby. If that doesn't make for a setback, I don't know what does.



The journal incident was so overwhelming that I lost it for a little while. We're in the midst of all sorts of decisions for our family, and to know just how much our little one wants a sibling adds to my feeling of guilt and disappointment. I tried praying more than "Thy will be done" and couldn't, so that's what I prayed -- I told the Lord that I couldn't pray, that I didn't even know how to pray for myself anymore with regards to our family growth. And that's where I left it.

On Monday, I had an appointment to see my endocrinologist. I'd had a very vivid dream the night before about a friend, so during the drive, I pulled out my phone to call and tell her about it. I turned my phone on to see I'd missed a call and had a voicemail.

The message was from my doctor's phone nurse. In the voicemail, she clarified that she was calling me on Sunday from her personal cell phone. She apologized for her call being strange, but said she felt compelled. She said that morning as her pastor was preaching, he began talking about babies and God's plan. She explained as she sat there that morning, I came to her mind, and so did my phone number. She scribbled my number on her bulletin and called me as soon as she could. She just had to let me know that she was praying for me.

Again, this nurse is my doctor's phone nurse. Her job is to take calls from patients, pharmacies, and physicians, and all day long, she's either taking numbers or dialing numbers -- she's inundated with digits. I've only talked to her a handful of times during the course of the relationship with my doctor, so there's no need for her to know my number by heart. Moreover, she was not familiar with our story of loss. She just felt impressed to pray for me, and so she was and she called to let me know.

I know people who know me, people who love me, continue to pray for me. From time to time, someone will call or send a note to let me know I'm still on their mind, and it blesses me every single time. But the experience of having this woman call (a woman who really doesn't know me, who doesn't know a thing about Zachary), it stunned me. I couldn't hold back the tears.

For me and my number to come to a stranger's mind in the midst of a Sunday sermon was like the Lord letting me know that He understood where I was. He heard me when I said I couldn't even pray for myself, and He cared so much that He brought about someone to pray for me. His faithfulness is amazing.

"The Lord hears his people when they call to him for help.
He rescues them from all their troubles."
-- Psalm 34:17

"I waited patiently for the Lord to help me,
and he turned to me and heard my cry."
== Psalm 40:1

"Great is his faithfulness;
his mercies begin afresh each morning."
-- Lamentations 3:40

Happy Birthday, Sweet Baby.
Your moments on Earth were far too few...

Stumbling with Grace

I've never been one to stumble gracefully. I've never been one of those women who can get a little tripped up, catch it, and make my faux pas look like I have a little dance in my step. Always and forever, I have had the opposite of grace. When I stumble, it's a big production.

One day, while in a store paking lot, I had one of those very non-graceful stumbles. Gracie was toddler-sized and I had just taken her out of her car seat and hoisted her onto my hip. As we headed into the store, James looked back and forth on the parking lot road to ensure it was clear, and we began to cross between cars and onto a sidewalk. James crossed ahead of me, and I began to stumble right behind him. I still to this day do not know what happened. There was nothing on the ground to cause me to stumble -- not a hole, not a rock, not an animal -- nothing. One moment, I had my balance, the next moment, I more than did not.

I knew I was going down with this one, so I began calling him to catch Gracie. The storefront was covered with windows and there were lots of people inside. As I cried out, "James, James, James," all the people in the store looked out. Great. I stumbled a little this way, I swayed back a little that way, I tripped some here and there. James followed along with me, arms outstretched, trying to catch our daughter.

Though I was falling, I continued to move forward. I will likely never say this again, but that day I was fortunate to have a parked El Dorado break my fall (though it ricocheted me another parked something or other that was equally big and painful). That bouncing beween cars gave me just enough control to do some crazy piroutte and swing Baby Grace off my hip and into the air just before I began sliding across the asphalt and slamming into the sidewalk edge. (Clarification: I didn't throw her, I was just holding her away from my body, which was going down.) Once I came to a full and complete stop on my skin-covered runway, James took the baby and sat on the ground with me as I cried.

Now for the really stupid part: I had just publicly stumbled across a big parking lot. It was loud, it was messy, and everyone saw me do it. I was lying on the ground in a pained heap with holes in my pants and shoes filled with blood. I also thought I might have broken my kneecap. Crazy me -- instead of going to the hospital, or at the very least, going home, I picked myself up and went shopping. With holey pants and bloody shoes, limping and crying, I went shopping, refusing to acknowledge that anything had just happened.

Don't get me wrong, I love shopping as much or more than the rest, but this blood-covered shopping excursion was crazy. At that moment, moving on, or pretending I was able to, was more important than getting well.

"Your words have been arrogant against Me," says the LORD. "Yet you say, 'What have we spoken against You?'"

"You have said, 'It is vain to serve God; and what profit is it that we have kept His charge, and that we have walked in mourning before the LORD of hosts? So now we call the arrogant blessed; not only are the doers of wickedness built up but they also test God and escape.'"

Malachi 3:13-15

Both privately and publicly, I have both asked this question and made these complaints. I have both wondered aloud and inside what good it is to serve God when people who don't want them or people who will hurt them are able to have babies right and left. I have questioned God about showing up for His beloved. "After all I've done, after all I do, after all I blah, blah, blah..." Oh my.

I have just publicly stumbled across a spiritual parking lot. Once again, without grace. Procreation is absolutely not the reason I serve God. My inability, therefore, should not be the reason for which I call Him into question. Publicly, I have sinned, and publicly now, I repent, both to God, and to you.

I think actively working through the grief, along with asking "What now?" to move forward, is ok. I think the "Why them, and why not me?" probably is not. God's love is neverending, and his faithfulness is unchallenged, but I wonder if somewhere I have indicated that it falters. It doesn't. In my heart, I know that full well, but in my words I may not reflect that, and for that, I couldn't be more sorry.

You learn alot about someone when you fight -- you learn of their character, their nature, and their numchuck skills. Right now, God and I are fighting. Or rather, wrestling, which is perfectly fine. Jacob wrestled with God, and God blessed him. (He also gave him a limp, but that's a story for another day.) I love God, God loves me, neither one of us are going anywhere, but we have some stuff to work out.

Already our battle has revealed things in my own nature and character that are no good and need transformation. God is scouring out the deep, dark parts of my inmost being. I hope in this continued fighting that I am challenged, I am strengthened, and I am utterly changed. And if there comes a time where I am once again stumbling about, I hope I can finally do it with grace.

A Heavenly Headlock

"So Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak...
Then the man said, "Let me go, for it is daybreak."
But Jacob replied, "I will not let you go unless you bless me."
The man asked him, "What is your name?"
"Jacob," he answered.
Then the man said, "Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel,
because you have struggled with God and with men
and have overcome."
Genesis 32:24, 26-28

“Come now, let’s settle this,” says the Lord.
“Though your sins are like scarlet, I will make them as white as snow.
Though they are red like crimson, I will make them as white as wool."
Isaiah 1:18

"For you have been given not only the privilege of trusting in Christ
but also the privilege of suffering for Him.
We are in this struggle together.
You have seen my struggle in the past,
and you know that I am still in the midst of it."
Phillipians 1:29-30

And she said...

Friends and Blog Readers: In response to the e-mails I received about my sister's comment to my post yesterday, she has posted a reply to my reply entitled "Autistic Kids ROCK" on her own blog.

Her blog post further solidifies the point I made in the first place:
Our individual perspectives are skewed
as we look through the smudged glasses of our own experience.

As I mentioned yesterday, while I would love to be fully and completely overjoyed for all of my pregnant friends with no other hidden emotion, I cannot be. (Not yet, at least.) My experience of multiple losses thus far prevents that total freedom. While I'm sure my sister would like to be sympathetic to my continuing pain of loss and the struggle to grow my family, the outcome of that decision for her family and the daily struggle of raising an autistic child prevents her from being completely sympathetic to me.

I do have children who irritate me from time to time. My son has ADHD, and while life with him has been a hard and often frustrating road, I get those good moments, those moments of connection, those cuddles, that love. My daughter can be generally irritating in a way that any growing girl can be, but all in all, she is a joy to my soul and the light of my life.

Nothing I've gone through with my children has been more than slightly worse than average, mostly everything has been similar to the average struggle of parenting children who are healthy and whole. Because of my perspective, because of my experience that children are God's blessing and His reward, and because so far raising kids has been the best thing I've ever done in my life, I've wanted to have more children and have pursued that end through hardship and four losses. It is that positive perspective that even sent me under the knife to have my uterus, along with the way I would ever be able to bear children, permenantly modified in an effort to prevent more deaths and to dramatically lower my risk of premature delivery in any possible future pregnancies.

But my sister looks at life and childbearing through different glasses. The context of her comment is far different from mine. She has a daughter who, though extraordinary in my opinion, is probably similar to any other random teenager terrorizing her parents and preparing to leave home. When her daughter was small, my sister desired to grow their family, and as a result, she and I have similar journeys of loss (which is why the insensitivity of her comment shocked me to the core). Beyond that, though, my sister's day-to-day life is quite different from mine. Following the death of her own 22-week preemie, she and her husband pressed on and life with autism is the result.

In the way that my kids love and connect with me, my sister received love and connection from her daughter, but not her son (at least, not in a way we without autistic children would understand). She is constantly challenged and every part of their life is affected in ways I cannot begin to conceive. You can look back through her blog and see. Her struggle with autism is the result of that trying one more time, and though she loves her little one, the decisions she made to get to where she's at seem to burden her and haunt her still. I'm confident it's that amped-up struggle, frustration, and irritation that forms the foundation for her expertise to tell me to suck it up and move on.

But back to my perspective (it is my blog, after all): Yes, kids can be irritating, and yes, that irritation comes in such varying degrees that from one end of the spectrum you cannot even imagine the other. But in spite of our private pains and hardships, our perspective shouldn't be all there is. There is more to life than a general sense of egocentricity.

Every pregnancy could end in loss. In fact, only one in four pregnancies make it. Four out of my five pregnancies have ended in loss, so statistically, I have tipped the scale. Even though because my experience in pregnancy and loss could make me an "expert," who am I to say, "Oh no, don't get pregnant. You could be like me." I would never, ever tell anyone to suck it up and move on beyond their desire to pursue parenthood because of what could happen. "Expert" opinion is only that, an opinion. It is neither fact, nor the Truth.

Basing a life or a decision on what could be is a fearful and empty way to live. Could my desire for another child, or for a healthy child, never be fulfilled? Absolutely. Despite the body modifications, am I still at risk for a child born prematurely or one who will die? Sure. But on the same token, I could have a child who is born healthy with no complications who fills our life with joy and wonder, and that child could just become sick all of a sudden and die. I could have many years with a son I bear, and my healthy boy exploring like healthy boys do could get run over by a train and be killed.

My point now, as it was yesterday, is that I struggle because I want to feel one way, and cannot yet, merely because of my experiences. Those experiences and my response to them is what I long more than anything to have changed, so that in them, I find myself not to be defensive, but rather, humbled. I do not need my experiences to make me right, but rather, merciful. And just as I do already, may I moreso share grace and comfort with those who hurt like me, instead of criticism and expertise.

"Children are a gift from the Lord;
they are a reward from him."
Psalm 127:3

"...Look at every proud man and bring him low,
look at every proud man and humble him..."
Job 40:11b-12a

"Now which of these three would you say was a neighbor to the man
who was attacked by bandits?” Jesus asked.
The man replied, “The one who showed him mercy.
Then Jesus said, “Yes, now go and do the same."
Luke 10:36-37

"God blesses those who are merciful,
for they will be shown mercy."
Matthew 5:7

"There will be no mercy for those
who have not shown mercy to others.
But if you have been merciful,
God will be merciful when he judges you."
James 2:3

"All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.
God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort.
He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others.
When they are troubled,
we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us."
II Corinthians 1:3-4

Grief over a Girl

I am trying to stay away from Blogger this week, but today I feel extra pensive and thought I should post. I've been struggling once again, and having this outlet affords me the opportunity to gather my thoughts in a concise enough way to pray. Again, this is much like my journal, so here goes:

Yesterday, I spoke to a very dear friend of mine following her much anticipated level-two sonogram. My friend is nearly midway through her pregnancy, and just found out she's having a girl. After two very boisterous, rambunctious boys, a little pink on the horizon is just what she needs. This is a successful pregnancy for my friend after three losses at 6 weeks gestation.

When Zachary died, my friend spent a lot of time here at my house talking with me about loss. Zachary was my third loss, and though his circumstances were quite different than a first-trimester loss, I had two of those at the time to compare (now, three). She was in the midst of a struggle because three losses wrenches a heart in a way that cannot be explained, but she was torn because she wanted to press on. Despite the losses, despite her age, despite many obstacles in her way, she wanted -- needed -- to press on. For some reason, she needed my assurance that she wasn't nuts. She wasn't.

We had been advised to wait three months to pursue another pregnancy after Zachary died. At the time, I thought, "Three months, that's all?!" It was so incredulous to me that after only three months, the body, the mind, the heart, and the spirit could be returned to such a place that it could be stretched again. I was still in the midst of having to remind myself to breathe, to not die. In that moment, I knew we would wait three months times three months at a minimum, and likely more. As we waited, my friend waited. She wasn't waiting to try to conceive with me, but rather she waited for God to resolve one very prominent obstacle, which He did. As I healed, I prayed for her.

In July, after three months, something changed in me. There was something about that time frame that made it insanely necessary for us to try again, so we did, and we succeeded. I was completely freaked out, but so excited to be pregnant again after little effort. What a blessing to have another chance. I shared my new pregnancy with a few very close companions, but not this particular friend. She should have known, I should have told her, but I knew she was waiting, and I didn't want the waiting to be any harder.

When we found out, the appointments began, supplements started, and orders were made. I was in and out of this office or that, and by appointment standards, I was many weeks along (that is to say that the appointments I undergo in a few brief weeks are more than is required in an entire "normal" pregnancy).

At 6 1/2 weeks, I was leaving by OB's office yet again, and my friend called utterly thrilled. She was pregnant! They were on vacation and she'd just taken a test. "What should I do?" she asked. I made sure she had told her husband (hopefully before me), and she had. Then I suggested she next call her OB for a progesterone supplement in hopes that it would resolve the recurrent loss. I still didn't tell her that I was pregnant, though I was at the pharmacy right then increasing my own progesterone prescription. At that moment, my lack of disclosure was in an effort for the excitement to remain all hers.

My friend called her doctor for the supplement, her doctor complied, and after follow-up blood work and weeks of fatigue, she made it through the first trimester with no threat of loss at all. She moved forward, but one week after her good news, I lost again. I was 7 1/2 weeks, two weeks further along than my friend. What I had suggested to her failed me. Afterwards, I told my friend of what we had shared.

Now she's at 17 weeks, and just found out about that girl. While I am beyond-the-moon thrilled for her, it is so hard not to compare or to remember what is missing around here. My life is full of anniversaries I don't care to celebrate. Despite my wanting or not wanting to participate in those dates, they cannot be avoided. Even last night as I was tucking her in, Gracie needed to know exactly how long until her birthday. From now, these are the days we mark, but she only heard the ones not parenthesized:

November
Bub's Birthday
Thanksgiving
December
(2005: Positive for pregnancy #2, First Loss at 6 weeks)
(2006: Positive for pregnancy #4, Zachary)
Christmas
January
New Years
February
Valentines Day
March
Spring Break
Easter
April
2007: Zachary's Birthday, 22w1d
2007: Zachary's Dying Day, 3rd loss
May
Gracie's Birthday (Pregnancy #1, 36w1d)
June
2002: Adoption Day -- Bub
July
My birthday
(2007: Positive for pregnancy #5)
August
Our Anniversary
(2006: Positive for pregnancy #3, Ainsley)
(2007: 4th loss at 7 1/2 weeks)
September
2001: Bub joined our family
October
James' birthday
(2006: 2nd loss at appx. 9 weeks, Ainsley)

I don't know why I wind up here again and again. I just want to be happy for my friend, but it is so difficult not to be angry or jealous. (Not at her, but just in general.) In my heart, I just want to celebrate and rejoice with her, but I completely cannot. I don't know what I need to do to move forward, and I don't necessarily need suggestions or sympathy. It's just so difficult not to look through the glasses of experience, no matter how smudged they may be. It's hard to look through these glasses to something bigger and better and beyond all this, and in that, or in the lack of that, I find little but frustration.

I know I'm not alone. Consider Amy -- she's had a living child after losses, and yet the pain remains. Consider the woman I wrote about in October, the one with the regret: she has grown children and grandchildren now, and her sense of loss is as intense as ever. Consider our pastor's wife: she has healthy children, a successful ministry, a wealth of good things, and yet when she saw Zachary and held his dead body, she couldn't help but weep for her Rose and recall the gap where she belongs.

It is clear that this will never be over, that I will never be "over it," but when does this pain become productive? When do I not crumble in Wal-Mart when I pass by baby-scented sections? When do I not weep at the deli while having lunch with my family when someone comes in sling-toting a baby in the pattern I picked out? When do I not feel like vomiting when a diaper-shaped invitation arrives? When does the immediacy of reaction go away? When does this negative knee-jerk response disappear? It's that time I'm waiting for.

"For the sinful nature desires what is contrary to the Spirit, and the Spirit what is contrary to the sinful nature. They are in conflict with each other, so that you do not do what you want."
Galatians 5:17

"Be merciful to me, O LORD, for I am in distress; my eyes grow weak with sorrow, my soul and my body with grief."
Psalm 31:9

"Teach us to number our days aright,
that we may gain a heart of wisdom.
Relent, O LORD! How long will it be?
Have compassion on your servants.
Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love,
that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days."
Psalm 90:12-14

"So with you: Now is your time of grief,
but I will see you again and you will rejoice,
and no one will take away your joy."
John 16:22

"Weeping may remain for a night,
but rejoicing comes in the morning."
Psalm 30:5b