Today

 Today, I should have been holding two year old you. We would have snuggled and I would have promised you that we were going to have fun together while the big kids were at Granny's. I would have told you that maybe when your baby sister comes, you'd be big enough to go with the big kids. I'd place your hand on my belly and smile at the wonder on your face when Arwen kicked with all her might.

Instead, I place my hands on my belly, and a silent, ever pleading prayer goes up as I feel those kicks. Please, let me see this baby's face. Father, let us keep this baby. I can't walk through losing another person I love right now. Please.

Today was your due date. And as I approach your baby sister's due date in less than three months, there are so many emotions rushing around my heart. Fear is one of the strongest. I try to keep my eyes and faith focused on the One Who blessed us with this baby, but it is hard to ignore the knot in my heart that waits for the bad news. The one that reminds me that there is no "safe" zone in pregnancy, no guarantees before, during, or after having this little one.

Grant told me he doesn't want to be an adult, because adults die. My heart shatters - he has seen a lot of death in his short life. I gently remind him of how we lost you, and that no one is too young or too old to die. His face is troubled. He had worked it out in his mind that death only came to old, worn out bodies. I know it will dwell on his heart for awhile, so we talk about Heaven, and how the uncertainty is what should make us love each other more fiercely every day.

I did not have you with me for many days, my Phoenix. Even now, I struggle with why I am creating a new life and why I did not get to finish creating yours. There is a place in my heart and my womb that will always feel incomplete. All the birthday parties I won't get to plan, the gifts I don't get to watch you open, the milestones I don't get to journal. You are frozen in one spot in time, while I have to keep moving forward.

But on these days, in these moments, I freeze time and re-live the 'might have beens' and the 'I wish I could haves.' I hold space for the life you lived, and the life you left unfinished. Tomorrow, I will pick up the pieces, pray yet again for us to get to meet your baby sister, and move forward holding on to hope. But today, I just sit with the grief and wish you were here.

Grief Unveiled

"Just because someone carries it well, doesn't mean it isn't heavy."

 It's been two years since we lost our Phoenix. I've had people tell me they thought my miscarriage must not have been that hard because I had posted about doing other things that day on social media. And yes, I posted about cleaning the car and even made a joke about what food was crumbled in the car seats. But I didn't post about how we tore everything out of our garage and re-arranged the whole thing while angrily sobbing and questioning God. About how I was so faint from the pain and blood that any time I stopped I would shake, so I told myself not to stop. Because I had been grieving many things for a long time, and this new grief felt like it would swallow me up completely. 

I posted about a beautiful new orchid, but not that it was a gift from my husband's parents because of our loss. Or that his sister brought us dinner and they joined in our tears and our restless rearranging. They understood. Grief is a many faceted creature, and the facet it presents to you is not always the same as it presents to others. Some close themselves off, some throw themselves into work, some sit in the full anguish of it, and some put it in a box, contained. Most of us will cycle through all of it, because that is what grief and deep loss are, a cycle. A journey. Not one we want to take, but one that gets woven into our lives.

I've had the privilege of sharing grief with many others. The blessing of words and actions from unexpected places. And yes, some words of hurt, often made in ignorance, forgiven but not quickly forgotten. I try to see them as reminder to be careful with MY words when trying to comfort a grief I haven't walked through. It has made me be more thoughtful of making assumptions, like the one above, about where people are along their journey. I do not know their story. I do not always see their secret pain. Not everyone is willing or ready to share. 

But to the woman who gently runs her fingers across that tiny outfit in the store and sighs, I see you. To the woman who has so much love in her heart, and pours precious time into children that aren't her own, I see you. To the woman who tears up every time she holds a baby, I see you. You are not alone.❤

Finding Thankfulness in Loss

Last November 1st when the "thankfulness posts" on Facebook started rolling out, they brought a smile to my face. I was taking steps to improve my health, my husband was beginning classes to start pursuing a passion, and we were expecting a new baby in June. I had so much to be thankful for! I was completely in the spirit of #thirtydaysofthankfulness.

Then, two days later, the heartbreak happened. We lost our baby. All of the excitement and thankfulness and hope became a gaping hole, an emptiness we now carried with us. Now those 'blessed and grateful' posts seemed like a slap in the face. All the baby bump photos and autumn themed baby announcements were painful. The Baby Makes 5 sign and the tiny pumpkins that I had gathered for our own family photo shoot were stored out of sight.

My miscarriage triggered a flare up of inflammation and increased pain. Some of the health measures I was taking caused a temporary onset of neurological symptoms and I began having visual distortion, memory lapses, and panic attacks. Stuart's schooling and work load increased and we struggled to find balance as a family. Suddenly, it was not so easy to find thankfulness in our circumstances.

I cannot tell you the process, nor can I take credit for the strength that brought us through the last year. Grief is a many faceted creature, and the only way we kept ourselves afloat was by turning to God, turning to each other, and turning to friends who cried with us, prayed for us, and offered us hope. We learned to forgive the hurtful, but usually well intended words, and we thanked God for the ones who brought us meals, hugged us tight, and said, "I'm here".

It's November again, and the gratitude posts are circulating once more. This year, they are not as painful, even though our circumstances have not changed so much. Our baby is still gone, my health is still not great, and we are still trying to find balance as we transition to a self-employed business.

Yesterday, one of my friends and a fellow Hope Mom, posted asking people to name one thing they were grateful for, and three reasons why. And while I have many things I am grateful for, when I read her question and pondered it through the day, I kept coming back to the word "loss".

I am thankful for loss.

I am thankful for how loss reminds me how much I have gained. There are many things in life that remind us not to take things for granted, but there are fewer things more powerful than death to make us realize how precious the people in our life are. In losing one child, I uncovered a newfound appreciation for each day that I am given with my other children. And while it is gut wrenching hard to explain and help children process grief and loss, their simple faith and childish understanding brought me more comfort than anyone else. Helping others through their loss has helped me find healing in mine.

I am thankful for loss because it has opened doors. Several years ago, I felt like everyone I cared about was taken away. My best friend and I parted ways, my crush quit texting me, and I discovered that someone I admired had been lying to me for years. It felt like God had pulled the rug out from under me. For about 8 months I felt isolated and alone. Then I met someone who I never would have fully appreciated if those other friends had been in my life. He became my best friend, my crush, and my hero all in one... so I married him! Likewise, there are now many women I am honored to call my friends that I met through the loss of my baby and the loss of my health. Circumstances of loss give us the change in perspective to gain friendship and empathy for people we might otherwise not connect with.

I am thankful for what loss has given me to look forward to. Before we lost Phoenix, my kids didn't really understand the concept of Heaven. An unseen God living in an unseen place is hard enough for an adult mind to grasp, let alone a toddler. But now, they know that it is a place where our loved ones will be, not just the baby brother they didn't get to meet, but others who are dear to our family. We are able to turn that anticipation into faith, belief that we can see them again. What better encouragement to stay strong and walk the Christian path than to know that our loved ones are cheering us on, waiting for us to be reunited?

Thankfulness has not taken away the grief. There will always be sadness attached to what we have lost. It will have it's ups and downs - all healing does. That is an inherent part of love, that we also have to hurt sometimes. But having loss does not mean I am lost, and the things I have gained give me much to be thankful for.

Even If It Breaks Your Heart

It is hard to accept that God sometimes gives us blessings that we cannot keep. November is traditionally a month to express thankfulness, and never in all my Novembers have I had to struggle so hard to express that thankfulness through the sorrow that filled my heart. You see, for six short weeks, one small life changed our lives forever. 

We were "done" having kids... and those two little blue lines made us realize we weren't done at all. I was burnt out and discontent as a mother, and in one moment, I was renewed and ecstatic to be a mommy again. The day before I found out I was carrying a new life I had found the courage to speak truth and throw off some baggage I had been carrying far too long. It really was in God's perfect timing that after burying some of the angry ghosts of my past I was at a place to be able to receive this precious gift with joy instead of resentment. 

There was joy, so much joy. Even after the heartbreak, there is still joy. Joy that he was with us, no matter how short, joy that we know where he has gone, joy that we can see him someday. But there is now a piece of us that is missing. That life, that potential, all the hopes and dreams wrapped around that tiny person are now walking along side us, a blank space that doesn't get to be filled. We hope there will be other babies to fill our arms, but they will never replace or repair the pain of the one we carry in our hearts. 

In the short time I carried our baby, I had many of the early symptoms that I had with Grant, which leads us to believe I was carrying another boy. We named him Phoenix, which represents rebirth - his rebirth into Heaven, my rebirth as a mother, and the rebirth of our commitment to parenthood, letting God tell us when we are done, not the other way around. We chose Josiah because he also was a rebirth of the Godly kings in the Bible, a rebirth of the Israelite's commitment to God.

It has been a hard month. Moments that we anticipated the day we first saw that positive test, they never came. What did come were moments when I found myself weeping because others were pregnant and I was not, or sobbing in my three year old's arms because he told me he was going to "take his big airplane up to Heaven and get Mama's baby back." There were days I desperately wished other people knew what I was going through, and yet I couldn't bear the thought of telling them. 

We had planned to announce the baby on Thanksgiving. So after a few weeks of just trying to function, we simply wanted to get away and hold our little family close on this holiday of counting blessings. So we did. A little cabin, a beautiful lake, and a turkey dinner at a picnic table where we thanked God for Phoenix and the impact he had on our lives in that brief span. 

We're still picking up pieces. We are still finding our eyes filled with tears at unexpected moments. We understand that this was a gift, and a lesson. Something to heal from and grow into. And we are learning to accept that sometimes God gives us blessings that we don't always get to keep. 

The Safety in Silence is Over

I could do the safe thing. I could post this in my birth trauma group, or not post it at all. I've been told before that things like this are better shared privately, because not every one is on the same journey as I am, and "at least I was able to have children".

But I'm not content staying silent anymore. Because it was the voices of women before me speaking up that made me feel less isolated when I felt like maybe I'd failed, or maybe I'd never be all right again. If they had stayed silent, I wouldn't have been able to heal, and if my voice can help just one other to heal, it is worth it.

Three years ago, my life changed forever. What was supposed to be a joyous, sucessful introduction into motherhood turned into a living nightmare. My plan for quietly bringing my son into the world and spending our first precious hours soaking in every detail was shattered in minutes by bright lights, strangers everywhere, and tubes and needles being shoved into his beautiful soft skin before I ever even had the chance to touch him.

He and I have never seen each other without our scars. His from IVs and heel pricks, mine from a surgeon's knife. We also didn't get to know each other before the emotional scars too. And those are the ones I hate the most. The ones I've tried to hide. The scar on my stomach healed beautifully, my heart has not.

For months I battled severe depression, anxiety, anger, detachment, and post traumatic stress. I would alternate between wanting to give my baby away to someone who could love him more, to not wanting to let him out of my sight because I would have flashbacks of his birth and be afraid he would be taken away again. Irrational fears were making me back out of plans and avoid leaving the house. I hated driving with the baby in the car because we might gett into an accident, and I would have panic attacks if I had to drive at dusk or in the dark.

Then, eventually I found peace. We lived with my in laws for a month before moving into our new house, and it was the best thing that could have happened. Not being the one primarily caring from the baby, being able to care for myself, and the daily socialization with people I felt safe around gave me room to breathe. It was there, watching my mother-in-law take joy in all of Grant's antics, that I first felt genuine attachment to my son. I had finally been able to take a step back & fall in love with my baby for who he was, instead of seeing him as a reminder of what we had been through.

We've been through a lot, he and I. Healing is not a linear progression. Trauma is not the same for everyone, and it is not something you simply "get over" and move on from. But we can move forward, one small step at a time.

Happy birthday, my son. Mama treasures you for all your bravery and sweetness; for all the times you patted away the tears on my cheeks during those dark days & for giving me the strength to step on to the healing path. I love you, my little warrior.

Funny Little Thing Called Worth

I grew up with the belief that a mother's worth lies in what she sacrificed for her children. And that, unless she sacrificed it all, she was selfish or messed up or influenced by feminist worldview. Her time, her health, her hobbies - all of it had to be laid on the altar of motherhood with the hope that someday she might be able to regain some of it once her kids grew up. "Milk/medicine/_____ is for the children" was a phrase burned into my mind at a young age; even though I didn't feel like this self-depreciation was right, it still molded my actions when I became a mother.

My husband and I are focusing on our health this year, both physical & mental. Recently, I was recommended for a therapy that is relatively expensive, and while discussing it with Stuart, I mentioned that the price was making me hesitant to try it. When he pointed out that just a single visit to his holistic doctor had cost nearly that much, my immediate thought was "Yes... but you're worth it." Now, I've been working a lot on self-care and learning to combat my negative preset responses, but it's still there. And I don't use the word 'combat' lightly.

You see, I fight daily to keep my head above the waves of worthlessness and the gaping void of depression that tries to pull me in. It was only by the grace of God and the love of some very good friends that kept me going. And when I found myself thrown into motherhood dealing with anxiety, depression, PTSD, and my skewed perception of my role in life, it was the love and support of my husband that made me reach out for help.

Because maybe, if others saw my worth, I could see it too. And, maybe, if the man of my dreams thought I was valuable - I could find value in myself as well. So I did. It's not an easy journey, and I don't think I'll ever completely reach the end, but I am finally on the path to healing. I am valuable, for who I am, not just for what I can offer. Being a mom is just one of the many things I do, and being a genuine, wholehearted person is a much greater legacy to pass on to my children than being bitter or feeling selfish for wanting alone time. Finding my peace & teaching my kids to find theirs is purpose filling and gives my role meaning.

"God loves us the way we are, but he loves us too much to leave us that way."

My Birth Journey (Part Three)

This is Part Three of my series. You can read Part One here and Part Two here.

I was in active labor for six hours. I could feel G's head descending, but since I wasn't allowed to move, there wasn't much I could do to help the process. The pitocin caused my blood pressure to increase, so they began giving me doses of labetelol trying to bring it back down quickly. It worked just a little too well, because when my blood pressure dropped, the baby's did too, which was unsafe for him.

I am not sure how high or low my blood pressure actually was at this point... they had permanently turned the screen away from me, and they seemed to just be going from turning on the bp cuff to giving shots into my IV. Eventually the doctor and hospital CMP came in and told us that we needed to prepare for an emergency C-section. I asked for a moment with Stuart, then the anesthesiologist came in to place the epidural.

My contractions were so close together that the tech couldn't wait for a break to place it, so I gripped onto Stuart's arms for dear life and tried to hold still. It's funny what fear can do, because I had been shaking uncontrollably, but my terror of having it put in wrong superceded the pain. Even still, they misplaced it the first time & had to do it again (my heart sank when he said the word "again" after he got it in).

After not sleeping, or not sleeping well for almost two days, I was exhausted & the only thing keeping me awake was the pain. Once that wave of anesthetic hit, I couldn't feel anything from my diaphragm down, and my whole body & brain just closed down. Which scared Stuart, who thought something had gone wrong - I was able to mumble, "I'm ok" before they put me onto a gurney & wheeled me to the OR.

One of the most vivid things I remember from the C-section is that the warm blanket they had put across my arms fell off, and my arm was cold. When I tried to take off my oxygen mask, they wouldn't pay attention to what I was saying & just held it back to my mouth. I didn't feel any part of the surgery, except for an odd sensation like when your foot is so numb that you poke it & don't feel the outside sensation, but you can still feel the muscle move.

Stuart & Mom barely had time to get back there before Grant was delivered. I actually didn't know Stuart was there until afterward when I asked the anesthesiologist where my husband was & he pointed to my right hand. My brain was so focused on just waiting to hear the baby's first cry - and it never came. There was this odd grunting sound, and then they announced his delivery, but he didn't cry because there was too much fluid in his lungs & he was in distress. I would later learn that he scored a 3 out of 10 on his APGAR test, and that they had to do a lot of work on him to get the color into his skin. Mom took a picture of Stuart standing over the warming bed, and you can still see the finger marks where they were massaging him.

Meanwhile, they stitched me up, which I could only describe the feeling as "like a bunch of people were trying to catch fish with their bare hands in my stomach". Not quite sure what was actually going on, but that's what it was like. They took me back to my room via the NICU, pushing my bed next to Grant's for a few minutes. I didn't have my glasses on, so I couldn't see him, and he was in a warming bed, so I couldn't touch him either.

They brought me back to L&D, where I got to see all of the family and they went home to sleep. For the next 12 hours, I was under observation to make sure there were no complications from the preeclampsia, like hemorrhaging or seizures. I was moved back to the antepartum ward, and finally made my first attempt to get up on Sunday. It was so strange to feel so weak - this was the first surgery I'd ever had, and between the pain & the meds, I felt like my legs were just sewn on to my body by the cesarean scar.

Finally, on Sunday, over 24 hours after the delivery, I got to visit NICU in a wheel chair. It felt so unreal. I'd had friends whose babies had been in the NICU, but I never thought I would become one of them. There I was, staring through the little plastic door of the warming bed at my baby, wondering if it was ok to touch him. Since I wasn't able to stand, they let Stuart change his diaper, then they lifted the cover off the bed and maneuvered all of G's cords around so I could hold him for the very first time.

********************

We celebrated G's 1st birthday yesterday. He is a hysterical, smart, full of life little boy. I call him my "handful & heart full". My relationship with him has been a journey of it's own, and I'm so glad that S has been right there with us. We love him like crazy, and his laugh can light up even our worst days.

This post is dedicated to two of my many wonderful nurse technicians, a group of amazing women with lots of patience & dedication. To Zdenka, who claimed, "She's mine" when I got back to antepartum - it made me feel pretty good that I was a patient worth fighting over! And to Lauren, who came down to NICU for my blood pressure check & brought my pain meds because you knew I was sitting with G. Your compassion is what makes you a true nurse!