God’s real love in my real suffering

our precious baby John

Each night at VBS this week we’ve focused on a characteristic of God’s love: incredible, faithful, invincible, unconditional and real.

Last night the 4th and 5th grade girls in my group learned about the realness of God’s love. Both their craft-time and Bible-time teachers asked the girls if they could give examples from their own life of how we know God is real (even thought we cannot see Him). Several girls had stories to share, and they all went something like this:

My cousin’s baby had a hole in his heart but everyone prayed and now that baby is eleven.
My mom’s stepsister’s baby was sick before it was born and it was really scary but she’s okay now.
My sister’s extension umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck and she almost didn’t live, but she did.

Goodness, was it ever tough to sit there and hear those stories.

When the doctor listed off everything that was wrong with John, it made sense that he would die. But I believed God could make John whole. I believed (and still believe) God could have done some crazy heavenly fetal surgery and the doctors would have been speechless, and I could have gone on to birth a healthy, living baby, and people around the world who had been praying for us would have been able to point to John as an example of God’s love. He could have healed John, but He didn’t.

When I became pregnant with Jane, I battled fear constantly and I prayed constantly. I believed God was blessing us with a life after our loss. I believed God would rejoice in giving us a healthy baby, and I prayed that He would. He could have, but He didn’t.

God didn’t show His love to me by giving me what I prayed for. The evidence of God’s real love in my life does not look like what I thought it would (but it is still there). There have been many dark days when the choice to recall to mind God’s love and goodness has felt excruciating, but I HAVE that choice because His love IS real.

"I cry out, “My splendor is gone!
Everything I had hoped for from the Lord is lost!”

The thought of my suffering and homelessness
is bitter beyond words.
I will never forget this awful time,
as I grieve over my loss.
Yet I still dare to hope
when I remember this:

The faithful love of the Lord never ends!
His mercies never cease.
Great is his faithfulness;
his mercies begin afresh each morning.”

-Lamentations 3:18-23

We need these stories of real love during real suffering.
We need to remember God’s realness isn’t only found in “success stories” and prayers answered “yes.” We can experience God’s love throughout our times of trial — not just when the trial is over.

My story is not "God is real! He healed my babies."
My story is "God is real! He is healing me.”

on a Sunday in March

We’ve only been to church a handful of times this year (after a seven-month-long stretch of staying home). I haven’t wanted to participate in worship, so we arrive late. We hurry out after the sermon ends, because I haven’t wanted to run into anyone who hasn’t seen me since last May.

We were late yesterday, but the worship team was still playing as we scooted past a beautiful family of six, including an infant. My heart began to race when I recognized the song as “The Lord Our God” by Kristian Stanfill. The last time I heard that song was when I was pregnant with Jane. I even blogged about it.

I can hardly bear to go back and read through the posts I’ve written about my grief. Sometimes I can’t believe it’s me that is experiencing all of those emotions and bearing all of that (this) pain. When I wrote that post in June I was terrified out of my mind, but deep down I believed our baby would be healthy. I listened to that song and thought God WAS leading us out of our dark grief from John and into a time of joy with our second baby. My most prayed prayer over my second pregnancy was that God would be delighted to give us a healthy baby — that it would bring Him joy. I thought with a prayer like that, surely I will get to hold this baby and watch it grow.

I threw myself into desperately hoping, desperately praying, desperately reciting verses... and when I got home from the hospital after saying goodbye to my second baby, I was, and continue to be, simply desperate.

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
-Psalm 73:26

I don’t know why, or even how exactly, but my mouth opened in church yesterday and the words came spilling out. I heard my husband’s voice softly rising alongside mine.

Still we can know you are good.

I imagined what we looked like to God... two of His people, weary and heartbroken, lifting their voices in obedience and faith. We sang knowing full well God could have given us healthy babies. We sang knowing full well only God knows our future. We sang knowing full well this hard road we’re on may be longer than we’d like.

Tiny step after tiny step, we move forward.

I survived

I’ve been seeing all of these Facebook and blog posts about what people accomplished in 2014 and it’s really disheartening. I mean, what have I done? I’ve done nothing! I’ve done absolutely nothing for two years. I’ve tried to grow babies. That’s it.

I spoke those words laced with hurt and bitterness while hunched over on the bed, my cell phone pushed tight against my ear. Laura, you survived, my friend said with loving frankness. Some people in your situation give up completely. You are still married. Some people in your situation don’t stay married. You cannot compare how you’ve spent your year with how other people have spent it. Their lives have not been rocked like yours. It’s apples and oranges. Show yourself some grace.

I didn’t start a business in 2014. I didn’t get a new job, or move to a new city, or train for a marathon. I didn’t go down several sizes or go on a missions trip.

In 2014 I survived getting pregnant not long after losing my first child. I thought God was saying “yes” to my prayers for a new, healthy baby. I survived opening a registry and taking pictures of my belly and buying things for the nursery, all while grieving the loss of my son. I survived the doctor’s appointment at 21 weeks when I was told my baby had multiple defects and would need an incredible amount of pre and post-natal care. I survived the next day, when I woke up and had a feeling that something wasn’t right. I prayed “God, if you’re going to take my baby before I get to meet him or her, do it now.” I survived telling my baby that I loved it, and that it was okay to let go.

I survived seeing a lack of heartbeat on the screen for the second time in 11 months. I survived the most excruciating physical pain I’ve ever been in as the doctors tried method after method to get my dead baby out. I survived leaving the hospital empty handed, again, even though I had just given birth, again.

I am still here. I am still married. I have painkillers and alcohol in the house and I haven’t abused either substance. I have been less social than ever before and lost some friends along the way, but I haven’t completely cut myself off from the world — a world FULL of pregnant women and newborns.

I survived viewing post after post of “It’s been a great year!” on my news feed, while my own Year in Review said, “Laura, here’s what your year looked like in 2014” and showed a picture of my baby’s fingers against mine. (That app caused grief for others, too.)

I have shared quite a bit of my grief with you, dear readers. But, after I posted about coming home from Europe, a friend commented that she imagines I still hold back a bit when I share my heart. I was touched by her words, because they're true. I DO hold back. The pain is way worse than I’ve described it (which you would know if you’ve endured great loss). There are only so many words to describe how it feels, and even if I were to paint you a perfect picture of that doctor’s appointment, those hellish days in the hospital and the months of isolation and spiritual dryness that followed, most of you still wouldn’t get it. This disconnect is what causes me to feel alone, even if I’m in a room full of people.

I feel I’m on a boat, drifting away. I’m not on the course I charted. The trip I so carefully prepared for is not going as planned. I have my husband with me, but everyone else is on land and they’re getting smaller and smaller as we float away. We sway with each wave and get dragged around by the tide. Under the surface is an anchor holding fast, but in our anger and confusion we either forget it’s there or don’t fully trust in it.

Still, the anchor is there, and He is why I can say “I’ve survived."

home

I miss that view! I miss rows of brightly-colored houses, ducking into alleys and constantly thinking is this real life? I miss holding hands with my mom in the markets and wigging out over food and drinks with my sister. (Three words: goulash, glühwein and weihnachtspunsch!)

Oh, but I missed my little family, too. I can’t seem to stop hugging the dog and saying “hiiiiii! I’m home!” to Andy. I unpacked my bags THE DAY AFTER I got back, so apparently the trip turned me into a responsible adult. Maybe it was the Alpine air? WHO AM I?

My birthday was a bit of a flop. I threw up from feeling nauseous on the plane, cried a bit from seeing lots of mommies with their babies aaaand my van was rear-ended on the drive home to Frederick. Womp womp. I called Andy sobbing and sputtering, I just want to be home.

For all that drama, though, the day ended rather nicely with me reading in bed next to my pup and my guy. Saturday night we went out to eat downtown to celebrate and we took a stroll through Shab Row, which was all decorated for Christmas. It was fantastically romantic.

I was doing rather well this weekend, thinking I had the whole jet-lag thing under control and feeling quite on top of my emotions. Then yesterday morning happened. I woke up and was immediately hit with the longest anxiety attack I’ve ever had. Showering will help, no? No. It didn’t help. A protein-packed breakfast will do the trick. Nope. So I cancelled my afternoon sub job and cried, feeling sorry for myself and wondering why on earth I was shaking and crying. Except, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Jet lag + heavy heart + PMS + coming down from the high of a trip can’t possibly equate to things being easy peasey.

I don’t want to be a broken record, constantly saying how hard it is or how anxious I feel or how I’m ready to get out of this limbo. I feel I am ridiculously high maintenance, and who wants to feel that way? But I also don’t want to be that girl who plasters a smile on her face and doesn’t let anyone see the pain she feels inside. (I am that girl sometimes, and it’s exhausting. Spilling my frustrations is tiring too, but I usually feel a bit of relief afterwards.)

Thank God for my sweet friend Kristen in Florida who, immediately after receiving my “having crazy anxiety right now” text took charge and ordered us dinner so I could rest. Man, I’m crying again just thinking about it. Isn’t it wonderful when your people show up for you?

I hope I am stronger today. I hope I can fill out the medical history form at the spa without crying or internally screaming at God. (I can’t tell you how many people have seen the “c-section” note and asked me how my kids are.) I hope I can make it through the line of the grocery store without being tempted to approach the pregnant teenager in line behind me. Can I have your baby? I hope I can make dinner and have a smile on my face when Andy walks in from work, and I hope I can honestly say, “I had a good day.”

If I just can’t take it, if I fall apart and rush home and surrender to the tears, there are always vacation pictures to thumb through. HGTV to watch. Puppy fur to bury my face in. Large manly feet to place my feet on top of and a yummy-smelling chest to lean against as we shuffle-dance in the kitchen. And really, that wouldn’t be so bad.

giving thanks

I hung a banner from the mantle today. It was the second time I’ve hung this banner after losing a baby. The banner reads “Be thankful.”

hm.

I hung it, and then I sat on the stair landing for a while and stared at it. Be thankful.
My flesh wanted to tear that banner down and rip it into shreds while screaming I AM NOT THANKFUL at the top of my lungs.

But I have sat in bitterness for quite some time now, and I’m getting a little tired of it. I have allowed myself to feel anger, to scream into pillows and to say cynical things to people who I trust (who know that my heart is tethered to Christ, even though I spout words of doubt). I sit in sorrow, too. Sorrow as my arms feel emptier than ever. Sorrow as I unfollow friend after friend on social media because the statuses and pictures fill me with longing and remind me of what I do not have. Sorrow as I wrestle alongside Andy with the knowledge that our God, who we love and who we KNOW loves us, has allowed us to suffer in this way.

In the midst of this bitterness and sorrow, my soul cries out for relief. In my suffering, I find myself closer to God than ever before. I feel my bitterness slowly (sloowwwly) leaving. It’s being replaced by a voice that whispers, Just be. 

Rest in me.

A friend of mine and fellow hurting mama wrote the following in her most recent blog post:

Deserts can be harsh and lonely, but there in the quiet, character is being built, and an ear is trained to the soft whispers of God carried on a high wind. But in the desert, there are choices. Choices to resist, or choices to be molded by it. Choices to run, or choices to see it as an opportunity for growth and stay until God says “Move.”

Amen, girl.

(How beautiful was that?)

So here I am, just being. Here I am, fighting the urge to run. Here I am, staying until God says move.

And in this place of just being, I can think of quite a lot of things to be thankful for.

I adore this rendition of the following hymn:

O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O light that foll’west all my way,
I yield my flick’ring torch to thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be.

loving and losing

Friday morning I woke up, and I knew. It’s coming.
I felt the anger, anxiety and crippling sadness well up within me, but I wasn’t ready to lose myself to it.
Instead, I was ready to be soothed by the cabin, our cherished getaway. I spent nearly all my time around the crackling fire. Crossword puzzling, reading, drinking coffee. At night I set up a bed in the family room, snuggled under a pile of quilts and watched the embers burn, willing them to melt away the ice I’ve packed around my heart.

Saturday I woke up and I thought it had passed.
We hiked to a view that feels like ours, after twenty-some years of reaching the same familiar outcropping of rocks and looking down at the same familiar lake where I used to swim and paddle and skate. I gulped in the sweet mountain air and for a little while I forgot that I am sad.

Sunday the dam burst open. I went from being energized from my morning walk to suddenly feeling suffocated by all the remembering. I picked a fight with Andy (over a biscuit, of all things) and I spiraled out of control until I realized where it was all coming from (hint: not the biscuit). Just when I’d think I couldn’t cry any more, more tears would come. I kept telling myself you knew this was going to happen, just let it happen. But knowing doesn’t make the happening any easier, and I spent the rest of the afternoon in a heap of pillows and tissues.

I am tired of loving and losing. I am tired of falling apart. I am tired of forcing myself awake at night because all I see when I close my eyes is a hospital bed and all I hear are screams.

Sometimes a hurt is so deep deep deep
You think that you're gonna drown
Sometimes all I can do is weep weep weep
With all this rain falling down

I’ll hold it together for a little while, an hour or a day or even a few days. Then it hits me: I was pregnant, and now I am not. I am reliving the pain of losing John while also experiencing a new pain — the pain of losing two. The pain of opening my heart up to hope again only to hold that hope dead in my arms.

Today is (was?) my due date for Jane, the little girl of my dreams. I woke up to an extra long hug from my husband, who later called me and sweetly asked if I’d like to meet him for lunch at the new burger place in town. (He knows the way to my heart.) Now I will read and later we will finish our jigsaw puzzle and watch a movie and if I stand in the shower and cry for a little while it will be okay, because I know that at some point I will get out, at some point my tears won’t be so frequent and some day this awful, piercing ache will dull.



some photos from the weekend… I am thankful for moments like these — when I feel a break from my suffering, when I feel a little bit like the old me.

I remember

holding my Janie Lou

Today is Infant Loss Remembrance Day, and it’s been the pits.

I wasn’t planning on writing anything. Then, I woke up to a new blog comment on this post left by a woman who has never met me. (Hi, Katie!) Every sentiment she expressed touched my heart, especially her words, You have helped me feel like I am not alone.

Those of us who have lost babies are part of a really crummy club. We didn’t choose to be members. In fact, we all became members kicking and screaming. We all feel alone. We all feel left behind. But we are in this together. We need to tell our stories and have our stories be heard. We need to be there for one another.

Today I remember my first brush with infant loss. I remember the family beach trip when my sister and brother-in-law told us they were expecting their first baby. I remember the excitement we all felt, and how right everything seemed. Several months later I was in the middle of a study group meeting in college when my phone rang. It was my brother-in-law. I don’t remember exactly what he said, just that the baby inside of my sister no longer had a heartbeat. Clayton would be nine years old this year. Todd and Katie have since lost four more babies.

I remember asking God why He allowed them to experience such great pain. (I still do.) I remember begging Him to spare me and Andy from that pain. We were not spared.

Today I remember Clayton Robert and his four siblings. I remember the babies lost by my friends. I remember my own little ones, who are always on my heart.

So many dead babies. So many hurting families.

I remember that I am not alone, even though there are times I feel so lonely I can’t breathe.

I remember all the stories I haven’t told that need telling.

I will try to get the words out.

Even though the remembering hurts.

a PSA on my grief

Why is this what there is for me to write about? Why does this have to touch EVERY little aspect of my life? I often feel I’m stuck in a Groundhog Day-like replay of tragic realities. Each morning when I wake up I’m reminded that I’m not pregnant, that I’ve lost not one but two babies, that my junk room is still a junk room and has never been a nursery.

You cannot possibly know how I’m feeling or what I’m needing at any given minute. I can’t expect you to say the right things or do the right things at all the right times. We’re both in tough positions. Navigating what to say and where to go from here is uncomfortable and painful for me, too. I wrote about how to help a grieving a friend after I lost John, but some of my own suggestions don’t apply to where I’m at in my current grief.

Yeah. It’s complicated.

Here’s what you need to know:

I don’t really know how to tell you how I’m doing. (This is how I’m doing.) I don’t know how to tell you how Andy’s doing. All I know is that we’re sad and angry on the inside but that we are trying to make life as tolerable as possible for one another. One minute we might be doubled-over laughing and the next minute I might be ugly crying. I believe there were three days in August that were free of tears. August was a miserable month.

I can’t be in charge of keeping our friendship afloat. I am often the person who pursues, who keeps conversations going. I can’t do that right now. If you could see inside my head you would be all, giiiiirl, let me get you some chocolate and a pillow. Cut me a LOT of slack, and step up! I need you more than ever.

Most social situations give me anxiety right now. Getting me to come to any event might be like pulling teeth. Don’t take offense—even being around my own family is difficult for me sometimes. I think I look normal and functional on the outside, but on the inside my brain is screaming my babies are dead! I hate my life! It’s exhausting being me right now.

Yes, I know therapy is an option. Yes, I’ve thought about it. Right now that’s all I want to discuss on that topic. (It’s not that I’m resistant to therapy. I’m just resistant to talking about it. Again, cut me some slack.)

And since I’m already on a roll here… I really don’t like being asked what “my plan” is. I don’t feel capable of forming a plan right now. My basic plan is to get through each day.

I know. This is a lot to take in. Blog readers be like wut.

(Notice I’ve used the phrase “right now” five times. I don’t know how long it will take for these feelings and frustrations to fade, but I know some day it won’t be quite as hard as it is right now.)

“Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death. We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect the shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe that their husband is about to return and need his shoes. In the version of grief we imagine, the model will be "healing." A certain forward movement will prevail. The worst days will be the earliest days. We imagine that the moment to most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing will take place. When we anticipate the funeral we wonder about failing to "get through it," rise to the occasion, exhibit the "strength" that invariably gets mentioned as the correct response to death. We anticipate needing to steel ourselves the for the moment: will I be able to greet people, will I be able to leave the scene, will I be able even to get dressed that day? We have no way of knowing that this will not be the issue. We have no way of knowing that the funeral itself will be anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are wrapped in the care of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion. Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief was we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.” 
― Joan Didion, "The Year of Magical Thinking"

one year

John Andrew

Oh, I wonder
When did it all stop making sense?
I don't understand
I remember we were so sure, so innocent
Oh, but that was then
Can we ever go back?

I never thought this would happen to me. I never thought I’d be where I am today, or that my life would look like this. I never imagined that I would hold two dead babies, and that they would both be mine.

A month ago I would have told you that I was approaching the anniversary of John's death with a healthy amount of sadness and anger and an unexpected amount of hope. I would have told you that I was in a good place emotionally, all things considered.

And then Jane died. So much for being in a good place.

We didn’t release a balloon or plant a flower or read a poem today. (All of which are lovely things to do.) Instead, we spent last night talking/crying about how much it sucks that we even have to think about these kind of things. We don’t feel like “celebrating.” I don’t even feel the need to honor. I honor my babies by continuing to live, even though I’d much rather be where they are.

Maybe our tradition will be to drink coffee and eat warm almond croissants while playing cards in our pajamas, like we did this morning.

We miss you, John.

Life isn’t the same without you.

unbabymoon

We are supposed to go on our babymoon in a few weeks. We are supposed to be just as thrilled about it as we were when we booked our flight and hotel weeks ago. I’m supposed to have a baby inside me, but instead of a baby I have a seemingly bottomless amount of feelings…misery, rage, disgust, hurt, longing, frustration…among others. Feelings that are always riiiight on the brink of spilling over and out of my mouth and my eyes. Even my limbs feel restless…they want to punch or slap or kick or throw something. I can watch an episode of “Fargo” or read a book on the deck for hours or even spend some time in public, and those feelings and urges will be kept at bay for a while. But as I know all too well from this past year of grieving John, those feelings don’t always stay neatly tucked behind my trying-to-get-through-this-day face.

In a book I’m reading one of the characters discovers her daughter has committed suicide. She spends the following weeks holed up in her bedroom, sitting in an armchair and staring out the window. All day she sits. Her elderly friends take care of the cooking and cleaning and supervising the woman’s now mother-less grandchildren. I found myself envying the woman as I read. Sometimes I wish I could hole myself up in my room and not think about how the dog needs walking, or the clothes need laundering, or how it’s 2 p.m. and I should probably get some food into my stomach. Sometimes I don’t know how I can think of those things. Most of the time I resent responsibility—can’t I just get a break?—but now and then I’m grateful for it. It forces me to put one foot in front of the other.

(And the truth is I do spend an awful lot of time simply sitting and staring.)

Last year we canceled our babymoon/5th anniversary trip to Pittsburgh, and that alone was depressing. The thought of canceling two trips because of two dead babies is enough to make me want to tear my hair out. So we’re not going to cancel.

Now I look forward to the trip because I just.want.to.get.away.from.everything. It makes me sad that instead of being celebratory, this trip is now a brief escape for two people who have no desire to be involved with reality. I’m sad I won’t get to someday show my baby pictures of the trip we took when she was in my belly. I’m sad that the clothes I had bought to wear on the trip are now either returned or in a pile waiting to be worn by friends. I could go on and on…I’m sad, I’m sad, I’m so utterly sad.

We’ll be spending three full days and two nights in San Francisco. I have yet to finish figuring out our itinerary (my brain is too fuzzy for planning), but the “TO EAT” list is already twice as long as the “TO DO” list. That’s okay. Eating is doing.

Got any suggestions for the doing (other than eating) part? Any shops you know I’d adore? I know there is a lot to do. (Alcatraz is booked full…I’m reeeally upset about that.) I have to keep in mind that I’m still healing and we’ll be using a lot of public transportation as opposed to walking everywhere.

---

Thank you for grieving with us and caring for us. Right now it’s hard to receive encouragement about our future, even though we know everyone means well. We know God’s Word and what He promises. Keep that in mind as you read my depressing blog posts. I’m not writing as a cry for help—I’m writing to put words to my pain, which is very real.

[We’ve] had [our] fill of old cliches, like 'life is hard, but God is good’. But even though it's true, it won't stop what [we’re] goin’ through. I wish that I could say it would.

(I truly do want to know your San Francisco recommendations, so any comments regarding our trip would be welcomed!)

crushed.

It feels like something is pushing hard against my chest—like I can’t breathe. I have to remind myself that I can (and that I need to).

I recognize this feeling. I’ve had it before.

How did I get here… again?

in the waiting

16/17/18 weeks!

We’ve been singing this song at church a lot lately and it moves me to tears every time I sing along. My favorite lines:You finish what you begin. You see it through til the end. In the silence, in the waiting, still we can know you are good. All your plans are for Your glory, yes we can know you are good. The Lord our God is ever faithful, never changing through the ages.

Enjoying this waiting has been a challenge. I need that reminder… as much as I don’t want to feel how I feel or think what I think... still I know God is good.

I keep thinking about when I was this far along with John. I’ll be 19 weeks tomorrow, and just like last time I’m anticipating the anatomy ultrasound. Unlike last time, I’m going into this one with a lot of dread mixed in with the joy. I hate it. I hate that for weeks now I have felt like throwing up when I think about that appointment. I hate that I cried until I couldn’t breathe after I finally called and scheduled it. I hate that I keep grasping for peace as if it is out of reach, as if I’m stuck being fearful (when that isn’t the truth).

"For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.”

2 Timothy 1:7

I’ve been resisting writing this post because it’s hard to explain what I’m feeling, and it’s even harder when people respond with platitudes. “It will be okay!” “You’re meant to be a mom!” If I mention an ounce of fear, I’m being negative. If I say, “well, if something does go wrong with the baby…” then I’m being cynical. Here’s the thing: I’m not just thinking about what it was like to be pregnant with John—I’m also thinking about how this time last year I was literally waiting for my baby to die. I don’t LIKE that I’m struggling with fear! I don’t like that it is impossible for me to not imagine a scenario in which this pregnancy doesn’t go as planned. 

It sounds like I’m in the depths of despair, and I’m really not. Promise. I have big cries and little cries and the occasional panic attack, but the majority of each day is spent practicing finding satisfaction in this stage of life God has put me in. Even though my inclination is to want to rush to the finish line, I’m trying to appreciate these months before baby. When I get discouraged, I remind myself that not only am I still grieving John, but I’m pregnant. I’m bound to be emotional and tired at times. 

Let’s move on to the good stuff. Almost 19 weeks! Almost halfway! I can’t believe this is only my second baby post for this pregnancy. I’ve been feeling flutters for a couple of weeks now, and I never get tired of them. My belly, as you can see in the pics, is insane. Andy says, “oh my gosh, your belly!” EVERY day. I actually like that I’m showing a lot. I’m sure that will change in a month or so, but for now it gives me a little comfort. Hopefully my roundness comes from a growing baby and not just from the food I’ve been scarfing down (like the three strawberry sour cream scones I’ve eaten today).

There are two other preggos in my small group (yay!) and we recently went around and heard advice from the other women on things to do/relish before the baby comes. I loved their input (travel! sleep in! eat out!) and would love to hear yours!

A few things momma and baby have been up to lately: 

reuniting with Amy, one of my college roomies
(and buying a few things for your nursery at the Luckett’s Spring market)

snuggling with Autumn while the daddies went golfing

watching daddy and grandpa play golf

more than sorrow

Sadness is probably your first reaction when you think of losing a baby. It’s a horrible thing to imagine. When I lost my baby at 34 weeks, I expected sorrow to sink in and stick around for a long time. I knew that there would be other “side effects” and challenges, but I didn’t know exactly what they would be or what they would feel like. During the past nine months since losing my son, I’ve had time to reflect on what caused me additional pain and what brought me comfort. I’ve also been given a desire to share my experience in hope that I can bring hope to others who have also been touched by loss.

A month or so ago my friend Jackie mentioned that she working on a blog post listing those unexpected challenges of losing a baby that I mentioned. (Jackie shares about her miscarriage here.) The more she talked about what she planned on sharing, the more I wanted to join in on her project. I’ve been impressed by her willingness to talk about her struggles and I’m honored to come alongside her and share my thoughts as well.

Hormone levels
Jackie - If you've ever been pregnant or know anyone who is/has been, you're probably aware of the hormone craziness that happens during pregnancy. This can cause nausea, vomiting, moodiness, etc. When you miscarry, it takes your body quite a while to regulate your hormone levels -- in other words, your body still thinks you're pregnant for days or even weeks after losing the baby! This was especially hard because you're already emotional about losing your baby, but then you have extra emotional-ness (I know that's not a word) because your body is still so confused. If someone you know is experiencing this type of loss, be aware that it may take some time for the hormones to level out. Be patient!

Laura - The extra emotional-ness is NO FUN. I remember bursting into tears while my mom was cutting my hair a couple weeks after John died. She asked what was wrong and I said, “I don’t know!” It’s hard to differentiate between grief and emotions that are caused by hormone levels. You might ask your doctor if there are any medicines or natural remedies you can try if you’re struggling with something in particular. I took melatonin occasionally to help with insomnia, and I considered going on an anti-depressant but ultimately decided to wait and see if the “fog” lifted.

Body Shape
Jackie - To add some salt to the wound, the baby weight doesn't disappear right away. (No, not everyone gains weight super early in pregnancy, but for me and baby #2, there was definitely some spreading of the hips and pudge in the gut.) Just like after delivering a full-term baby, it takes a while for everything to go back to its place (if it ever does). I find this especially hard because you don't have a baby to "justify" the excess weight you're carrying. Instead, you're left with the daily reminder that you did have a baby and now you just have the weight. (Disclaimer: I am NOT saying being a certain size or weight is the goal here, rather that having the weight gained from pregnancy -- even a minor amount in early pregnancy -- is a difficult reminder of what didn't last.)

Laura - I had quite a lot of weight to lose since I lost my baby in my third trimester. Even though my baby was itty-bitty, my body still thought I was carrying a normal 34-week old! Several people asked me if I was pregnant after I had just lost my baby. Ugh! I was often tempted to use food as a comfort from my pain, but ultimately found that cooking my own meals and taking longs walks both calmed me and helped me to lose my baby weight. If you lose your baby later in your pregnancy (or shortly after giving birth), you also might have to deal with lactating and other bodily…issues. I was overcome with grief when my body started producing milk and I had to bind my chest to stop the flow. I had been so looking forward to the sweet connection that comes with nursing a baby. The incision scar from my c-section was also a tough (and ugly) reminder of my loss. Thankfully it looks much better now.

"At least" comments
Jackie - Before I lost my baby, Laura shared with me that “at least” comments were hurtful for her to hear. I now understand what she meant on a whole new level. This is when you're discussing your situation with someone and they respond with, "At least _____ didn’t happen to you." Having used this phrase myself, I know that it is used with great intention. When having a conversation with someone in pain, our goal is to encourage them and maybe even cheer them up. BUT, when using "at least" comments, it feels like you're down-playing my pain. It sounds like you're saying, "Being upset over your situation is pretty silly, because it could have been worse." When you're hurting, you know there are situations worse than your own, but the pain you're experiencing is still pain. If you know someone who is grieving or going through a hard time, don't disregard their emotions with "at least" comments. Instead, use words like, "I am so sorry you are hurting in this way. I hate that this has happened to you. Can I help or encourage you in any way?"

Laura - Have you seen this video about empathy? The concept of “at least” comments being hurtful is brought up, and I found such comfort in realizing that I wasn’t crazy for hating hearing those words! I echo Jackie’s suggestion that instead of making comparisons, voice your sadness and ask how you can help. Also, “at least” comments aren’t the only hurtful things people say. Try to refrain from saying, “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.” I was also told, “God must need your baby more than you do.” Um, no. That’s foolish talk. A hug, a hot meal and/or a bunch of prayers will help someone who is suffering much more than empty words that don’t contain an ounce of truth.

The "When are you having a baby?" question
Jackie - As a married lady, I find that people's go-to question is, "When are you having a/your next baby?" This is not a bad question in and of itself, but when dealing with miscarriage, it's just another reminder of the loss. I would simply advise you to be careful when asking this question.

Laura - Ah, this one is hard! I respond to this by saying, “I don’t know. I had a stillbirth last summer. We are hoping for a healthy pregnancy in the future.” Maybe that seems like a harsh response, but it’s the truth!

Medical Bills
Jackie - Kevin and I got new health care knowing we were trying to have a baby (and because ObamaCare said we had to). We opted for really good coverage because hospital stays and baby deliveries are pricey. (Gideon's total was $36,000 before insurance -- NOT including the doctor fees. Granted, I was in the hospital for six days because I had pre-eclampsia and hopefully that won't happen again, but you never know.) Our specific insurance plan is pretty expensive monthly, but for having a baby, we would have a one time copay of $20 to the doctor and a $350/day hospital fee (with a max of $1050), making it cheaper in the long run than a less expensive policy. (Trust me, I did all the calculations.) When I had my first doctor's appointment after becoming pregnant, I paid that one-time $20 copay. BUT once I lost the baby, this no longer applied, and I ended up owing for every appointment I had, plus lab tests and shots I had done prior to losing the baby. Receiving the bill for this was a huge slap in the face. Had my baby lived, that $20 would've covered all my doctor's costs, but since I lost my baby, I owed money. (Luckily, it wasn't an enormous amount, but it still made me feel sick.)

Laura - Medical bills add major insult to injury. I wondered, “Isn’t it enough that I had to go through losing my baby? Why should we have to pay thousands of dollars when we got NOTHING in return?” You know your bank account will never be the same once you get pregnant, but you also think that you’re going to get a beautiful, healthy baby in the end.

"What-ifs"
Jackie - After losing my baby, I found myself going through a whole list of what-ifs (and still do at times). What if I lost my baby because I drank coffee while I was pregnant. What if my baby died because I stepped in a neighborhood cat's poop and tracked it through the house, so of course I needed to clean it up. (Cat poop is a big no-no while pregnant.) What if that time Gideon jumped on my stomach killed the baby. What if helping paint the exterior of our house caused the baby to die from the fumes. What if, what if, what if. The day we found out our baby was dead, my doctor assured me it was nothing I did (she must have read my mind because I didn't say anything.), but the what-ifs still arose. I guess my advice in regard to this one is to NEVER (I hope no one would do this anyway) try to diagnose why it happened. Don't ask how much caffeine she had or if she lifted heavy boxes or whatever reasoning you've read/heard for miscarriage. Most likely, she wasn't responsible at all; it just happened.

Laura - I didn’t go over too many “what ifs” in my head after we found out John was dying, but I DO have a lot of what ifs swirling around when it comes to any future pregnancies. What if we can’t get pregnant? What if my next baby dies? What if I spend the rest of my life getting pregnant over and over but losing each baby? I hear those questions in my head every day, but I also fight every day to rest in God’s faithfulness and to have hope for the future.

Recognizing pride
Jackie - I want to start off by saying that this one is very specific to me; it may or may not apply to someone else. This is tricky to explain because on one hand it was very helpful and encouraging to have people supporting me throughout this horrid experience. I had people bringing me meals, texting me, praying for me, etc. I appreciated all of that, truly. BUT, in the midst of receiving lots of encouragement, it often felt like pity. I honestly hate when people feel sorry for me. I much prefer to have everything together and under control. All and all, this is just proof of my massive amount of pride. So really, the tough part of this wasn't actually receiving sympathy, rather recognizing how prideful I am through receiving it. Through this miscarriage, God wrecked my idol of appearing tough/organized/all-together. The reality is I'm not any of those things. When people would ask me questions regarding my loss, I cried (and still do at times). When someone would send me a text saying they were praying, I would cry. Losing my baby was harder than I ever imagined and showed me (and others) how weak I truly am.

Laura - I can definitely relate to struggling with pride. I felt the need to “keep it all together” a LOT, which is ridiculous. I would never expect someone who just lost a baby to have it all together. We are much harder on ourselves than we are on others. I also battled a lot of guilt and lies right after losing my baby. I wrote about how I found grace through my grief here.

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things that make my life easier

Today marks six months since John died, which is sad and weird, but on a more positive note today also marks six months since I began truly attempting to showing myself grace. I can't remember another time in my life that has caused me to struggle so much with being hard on myself. There isn't an aspect of my life that hasn't been affected by my grief. It's as if every little bit of me was shattered into pieces and I'm still working on picking them up and putting them back into place. I've never felt more dumb—like my brain has just stopped working. I've cried at work (thankfully not in front of the kids, but still—super embarrassing). I've slacked on my housework. I've slacked on cooking. I've even bathed less than ever before. (How's that for transparency?)

Sometimes I hear a voice whispering, You are a mess. You can't handle this.

I used to hear that voice and feel defeated. I'd hate myself for it.

Now I hear that voice and think, "That's true! I am a mess! I can't handle it—at least, not on my own."

It has been such a relief to realize that God sees my mess and loves me anyway. That when I fail to cook dinner or go to work, I'm not losing points with God. That when I fail to be patient with people and end up saying things I shouldn't, God isn't throwing up His hands and saying, "that's it! I give up on her!"

It makes me laugh to think about, but now when I cook up a meal or look over a room I've cleaned I have double the pride as I would have before John passed. When I can get through a sub job without feeling shaky and insecure and sad, my spirit soars and I can't stop saying God, thank you! Progress IS being made. Little by little, those shattered pieces are being put back into place, and I'm appreciating them more than ever.

Maybe you're feeling a bit like a mess yourself. What's been helping you get through it? Here are a few things that are helping me:

1. Rejoicing over ANY progress that's being made, even if it's something small. That might mean getting dressed, not desk-crying at work, getting through traffic without cursing...it could be anything.

2. Two words: dragon noodles. (Really those two words should be "insanely easy recipes." Well, that's three words.) I can handle making this meal even when I'm overwhelmed with life and my day has totally sucked. I use 4 oz. of udon noodles, 1 Tbsp of butter for the egg and I add a spoonful of peanut butter to the sauce. I also rarely ever make it with green onions because I don't always have them on hand. This dish brings me to a happy place. I don't know how to explain it. It's magical! And it's delicious reheated or eaten cold. 

3. Asking for help. My mom has driven up to Frederick countless times over the past six months to lift my spirits (and help me accomplish tasks). It's easier for me to ask her for help than my friends, but that's important too. It's practicing humility—recognizing that you can't do it all on your own. 

4. Happy music. A friend of mine reminded me of how great the You've Got Mail soundtrack is, and I've had that and the soundtrack from The Parent Trap playing on repeat. I can get into a funk SO easily, and sometimes I have to purposefully carry my laptop into the bathroom, turn the volume all the way up and make myself sing along while I'm showering (I really do bathe). You can't belt out "Splish Splash" and still have a bad attitude!

5. Walks. A walk does my body good, whether it's sunny or gray, five minutes long or an hour. I never listen to music on my walks. I prefer to daydream or think of nothing at all. I now understand that guys really mean it when they say they aren't thinking about anything!

6. Repeating Truth. I picked Psalm 91:1-2 to be my focus verses for 2014. Meditating on these verses brings my heart and mind to a place of peace and security.

dread

I've been staring at my computer for a while, thinking of the reasons why it has been over a month since my last post. Part of it is feeling bad for writing "downer" posts about being sad, but mostly it's got to do with dread.

If there was one word that could sum up what I've been feeling lately, it's dread. Dread for the day ahead, and wondering if I'll get through it without crying or yelling or thinking cynical thoughts. Dread over the possibility of being asked, "do you have any kids?" or being told, "you're young, there's still time," or "I know it will happen for you." I struggle with dreading the future, and all of the unknowns that lie ahead.

I dread writing this blog post, or really writing anything at all, because writing makes me think of John and thinking of John makes my chest ache.

The other day I told a friend that I was enjoying a long streak of what I call "good days." I said, "I think I'm being filled up to be poured out," and I was right.

I've learned to give in to the grief, to let it wash over me, shake me up and wring me out. I do my best to feel it and then let it go—not chew on it, like I'm often tempted to do. The dread is hard to shake, though. It's in the back of my mind, whispering worry! fear! hide! give up! It bottles itself up in my throat and becomes lodged there. I am so weary of the battle, but I find rest in knowing it has ultimately been won.

Will you walk alongside me?

My soul cleaves to the dust; 
Revive me according to Your word.

My soul weeps because of grief; 
Strengthen me according to Your word.

Remove the false way from me, 
And graciously grant me Your law.

I have chosen the faithful way; 
I have placed Your ordinances before me.

I grasp and cling to whatever you tell me; God, don’t let me down!
I’ll run the course you lay out for me if you’ll just show me how.

                                                                           -Psalm 119:25, 28-32 (mix of NASB and The Message)

Last night I was pressed into the corner of the couch, a pile of crumpled tissues accumulating on my lap. I cried as I poured my heart out to my friend (through Facebook chat, of all places) and tried to put words to the frustration I feel inside. I told her about my impatience with people. The disappointment in myself when I can sense that people expect more from me but I don't feel capable of meeting their standards. The anger that follows when I wonder why people can't show me more grace. The frustration I feel towards God, myself and others.

Why can't this be better? Why can't I be better? Why can't you be better? 

What a sweet thing it is to show someone the ugly parts of yourself and have them love you in return.

I treasure this response from my friend:

"There is grace for this situation... grace for the days when you are angry, when you're tired, when you lack motivation to do anything. When you're sad because your boy isnt here. And it's more than OK to feel those things. I hope the people in your day to day life can show you that grace and allow you to grieve when you need to express it."

Yes. Friends, that is what I need. I need grace. I am a sinner, if it's not one thing it's another.

And I also need to express my grief.

When people asked me how I was doing right after John died, they didn't expect me to say that I was fine. Because, duh, I wasn't fine. I had just lost a child. 

This Sunday will mark three months since the day I heard my baby's heartbeat stop and delivered him (via c-section). Only three months. The pain is still so fresh. I think that because I seem put-together and "fine" to most people that they assume I am fine, but right now I feel so far from fine. I know it takes time to grieve, but how much time? How much crying? How many bitter, pleading prayers?

It's not that my current life is terrible, it's that an unthinkable thing happened to me and I'm still reeling from it. There are good days. There is laughter. There are pages filled in my "joy journal" (a thoughtful gift I received after losing John). God is with me.

But, there is also pain. A desire to talk about my baby, and to hear someone else say his name. To voice my sadness. To have an arm around me or a tear shed with me.

Friends, will you walk alongside me as I grieve? I know it's awkward. I've been in your shoes. I know you don't want to cause me more pain by bringing John up in a conversation (it won't, I promise). I know you don't want to say the wrong thing (I'd rather you say something than nothing). I have grace for you. I don't expect you to know how to perfectly handle my mess. I don't even know how to handle it! But oh, would I love for you to love me through it.

The two people that have most recently heard me voice my sadness both said the same thing: "People that know your situation are probably thinking about John, even if they don't tell you they are. I think about John all the time."

God knew those words would bless my heart. Dear friends, if you think about my baby, please tell me. If you have questions about my pregnancy or John's diagnosis or the c-section or anything, please ask them.

Two weeks after John died one of our pastors called to encourage me. He spoke softly to me as I cried into the phone, straining to hear his words through my tears and desperately wanting them to wash over me and fill me with peace. Then he said something that made me stop crying and grab a pen to write it down.

He said, "We (the church) accept you in your weakness, in your vulnerability and pain."

Oh, how greatly I need that acceptance.

being strong

Being strong doesn't mean holding it together, I think. Being strong means picking yourself up after letting yourself not hold it together.

After the saleswoman notices your bump is gone.

People always assume the babies must be somewhere else, but not in your case.
A bump and a baby, gone.

"We haven't seen you in a while! Boy or girl?" Her face is so friendly, so happy, and you can taste the dread in your mouth like a bitter pill. "A boy," you say, and she says congratulations, and you hope she won't ask anything else. She does.

"How is it going?"

You pause, your fingernails digging into your palms as you try to breathe slowly through your nose.
Do not cry, do not cry, do not cry. But the truth is you're already crying, because you've been holding your breath and waiting for someone to mention your obvious lack of bump. Because you HAD a boy, but you don't HAVE a boy. Because IT is not going the way you thought it would. Because you can't regale her with stories of baby smiles, diaper blow-outs or sleepless nights. You desperately want to have stories to tell. Happy stories. Not this story.

Your lips tremble as you briefly tell the truth (because you cannot NOT tell the truth). Her face falls, and you think to yourself, that look on her face—that's the way you feel inside. Then she's crying, and neither of you know how to move on from the conversation because the truth—the lack of stories, the emptiness of it all— is so sad.

But you pick yourself up. Pull yourself together. You focus on your heartbeat  to combat the stillness you feel in your abdomen, and you go back to fingering price tags. "Retail therapy," you joke in a soft voice. The saleswoman sniffs back her tears and gives a polite chuckle before bee-lining for another part of the store, where she will speak in a hushed whisper to another saleswoman. You can guess what she is saying, because you're thinking it.

"Oh gosh, the most awkward thing just happened."

Your whole existence feels like a series of moving on from sad, uncomfortable situations. Picking yourself up, over and over, after allowing yourself to fall apart.

I don't want to bear this.

Some of this post was written in May, shortly after our baby received a fatal fetal diagnosis. I chose not to publish anything about the diagnosis on Facebook or my blog until I gave birth because I didn't have many medical details to provide readers (I still don't). Mainly, though, I was desperately hoping that the whole thing was a mistake and that I'd receive a perfectly healthy baby in the end. 

I was 19 weeks and 5 days pregnant when I was first told our baby was measuring small. The technician said I was measuring 16 weeks and 6 days and told me I must have been wrong about my due date. My OB didn't think the technician was correct, but he didn't seem concerned and told me to get another ultrasound two weeks later. 

Here is part one of my story as a mother who has only memories and a scar to show for it.

-----

On Wednesday, April 24th (22 weeks and 3 days), I had another ultrasound. Everything looked fine to us. Our baby was waving his or her sweet little hand at us (we didn't discover the gender until John was delivered), and the technician didn't linger over anything for a long period of time. Then, at the very end of the procedure, a bomb was dropped. We were told my amniotic fluid was very low and that our baby was measuring a little over 17 weeks—meaning that our baby was not only small but also had hardly grown at all in two and a half weeks. The technician went from smiley and relaxed to very agitated. She told me she would contact my OB immediately and that they would probably want to see me later that day. In the meantime, we had to go home and wait for the call from the OB.

I held in my tears until we got through the lobby and then cried out in anguish, filling the huge glass entryway of the women's center with the sounds of grief. Andy guided me to the car and we sat there together, blinking at the unrelenting sun and trying to make sense of the news we had just received. After what seemed like hours but was only minutes, I opened my mouth.

"We need hummus."

So we drove to Costco. I gratefully inhaled free samples and focused on what we needed: black beans, tomato sauce, chicken stock, hummus, pita chips and a rice cooker. What we didn't need: bad news.

My friend Erin arrived at our house not longer after we arrived home from the store. Erin had delivered a beautiful stillborn son just months earlier, and I had texted her right after appointment. She sat with me while I picked at my lunch, and then she prayed with me and cried with me.

"God doesn't give us more than we can bear," she said. "I don't want to bear this," I said back.

(quick note: I do not agree with the idea that God does not give us more than we can bear. Erin is a dear friend and I knew her intention was to try to comfort me.)

The OB finally called to confirm that my low fluid was a big problem and they set me up to see a perinatal specialist two days later (Friday, April 26th). Andy and I sat in our living room and stared at our phones, dreading the calls we had to make to our parents. I'll never forget watching my husband's face crumple when his mom picked up her phone.

I received an email that night from my brother. His words of advice and encouragement continue to bring me comfort today.

"I don't feel you guys need to pray or strive a lot, but instead watch some funny shows or listen to Bill Cosby. You guys have a lot of people supporting you in prayer."

This is what I took away from those words:

It's okay to let other people communicate to the Lord on your behalf. Rest. It's okay to laugh. In fact, go out of your way to laugh."

That night we watched episode after episode of "Parks and Recreation," and after hours of crying, we laughed.

Thursday was a blur. We both worked from home and took lots of breaks to hug each other and try to make each other giggle. Andy kept telling me to not let my mind wander to "what ifs" and reminded me that we would soon know more from the specialist.

Friday afternoon we met with a perinatal specialist for the first time. We listened to worship music on the way over, the words of "Come to Me" by Bethel and "Oceans" by Hillsong United piercing a part of me that I hadn't known existed until that week. I now see how God used many of these songs to prepare my heart to both bear and battle the hurt and fear and desperation that would come.

The green ultrasound gel on my abdomen seeped into my pants while the doctor checked on the baby, but for once I didn't care. I was too busy trying to discern what he was saying from the lyrics that kept running through my head. Your baby is way too small and doesn't have room to grow.  Come to Me, I'm all you need. You don't have enough amniotic fluid. I am your steadfast, so don't be afraid. Your baby isn't getting enough blood. I am with you. The limbs and organs are not growing properly. The baby has clubfoot. There is a potential hole in the baby's heart. STOP! I thought. Stop telling me all of the things that are wrong with my baby! Your baby will likely not survive in the womb and has a very unlikely chance of surviving outside the womb without life support. Let me walk upon the waters, wherever you would call me. Your baby could die tomorrow, or in a few weeks, or it could even be born. But then it would die. You've never failed, and you won't start now. This could all be caused by a chromosomal disorder, or it could be genetic. We don't know what to tell you...

We listened and nodded and wiped our eyes and shuffled to the genetic counselor's office, where we avoided looking at each other. The counselor talked with us about chromosomal disorders and blood tests and what our options were in moving forward. I felt like I was detached from my body and watching the whole scene as if it was a movie and the woman playing me was reading off of a script. "What are we supposed to do with ourselves?" we asked. "What are we supposed to say to people?"

We still don't have the answers.

getting through

The other night Andy came into our room to find me singing along to this video in the dark.


Before that, I had sung along to these:






And laughed through this:


The next day I popped "Center Stage" into the DVD player and moved my shoulders and hips along to the music, remembering the times I stood in front of the TV in my parent's bedroom as a teenager, mimicking as many moves in this scene as I was physically able:



Let me tell you a theory I have: watching "Band of Brothers" will make you want to watch at least one other movie or show (if not five), because you'll recognize an actor and then think of something else they've been in. It is truly impossible for someone like me, who has a rolodex of actors in her mind, to watch "Band of Brothers" without shouting "ah! that's so and so from such and such" every five minutes. (I couldn't believe Andy put up with this, but he did.) The first time I saw "Band of Brothers" was in 2009, and I could hardly pay attention to anyone else because I was freaked out that I recognized Lieutenant Speirs as Rufus from Gossip Girl. Come on! That is upsetting (for several reasons... including the simple fact that I know who is on Gossip Girl). This time around I was able to focus on recognizing everyone else, including the actor who plays Private Webster (and Jim in "Center Stage"), James McAvoy and a verrrrry skinny Tom Hardy.

In between watching clips from musicals and blowing Andy's mind with actor references, I've been reading "Wild" for book club and eating fruit snacks and talking to the dog. I water flower arrangements and move them around to different tables and rooms. I read cards with heartbreakingly sweet messages and occasionally rip open a package (one of which held an entire pound cake). I look at pictures of John. I accuse of Andy of making me laugh too hard. I get through each day, hour by hour... sometimes laughing, sometimes singing, sometimes arguing, sometimes crying.

Sometimes writing silly, jumbled up blog posts.

God is gracious

I haven't written in so long. In mid-April we had a confusing ultrasound, but my OB didn't seem concerned, so we didn't let ourselves worry either. Then, at the end of April, another ultrasound confirmed that not only was the baby measuring small but also that the baby simply wasn't growing. We began seeing a group of perinatal specialists and each one told us the same diagnosis: our baby would most likely die in the womb within days or weeks. They had zero idea of what was causing the IUGR. It was horrible and devastating and confusing and sad. I wanted to curl up in a ball and never leave my room, but I fought that temptation as hard as I could and tried to smile and laugh and hang on to my personality. As the days passed I chose to adopt an attitude of thankfulness and focused on being grateful for the time left that I had being my baby's mother. Then June came, and my grief hit full force. I didn't feel grateful anymore. I was angry. If God wasn't going to give us a baby, then why couldn't He make it easier on us and just take the baby already? I hated myself for wanting it to all be over, but it was so hard to feel the baby move and know that all of my baby dreams were being dashed. I was terrified by the idea of delivering a dead baby. I didn't think I wanted to hold a dead baby. I didn't think I wanted to know the gender. I wanted this horrible chapter of my life to be closed shut and for a new chapter to begin.

Living in a state of pre-grief was unimaginable and I know we only survived it by the grace of God and the encouragement of our friends and family. I have more to say about the last few months, but I'll save those stories for another time.

By the beginning of July I was resigned to the idea of making it all the way to my due date (the doctors said if that happened then the baby would only live for seconds or minutes). I couldn't believe our baby was still hanging on! I had no amount of extra amniotic fluid for the baby to move around and grow in, but our little one seemed content to chill out all scrunched up in my uterus. I couldn't help but fall in love with our baby with every passing day, even though a part of me tried to put walls up to keep me from getting too attached. I began fervently asking God to surprise us all and give us a perfectly healthy baby. I had visions of us needing to run to Target after my delivery to buy a crib and diapers and all of the things that we registered for but never received.

This time last week I was being prepped for an emergency c-section to deliver our stillborn baby. I had arrived at the hospital at 11:30 p.m. the night before due to excessive bleeding, and in the early hours of Saturday morning I heard my baby's heartbeat slow down until it didn't exist anymore. I was 34 weeks pregnant carrying a baby who was only measuring around 20 weeks.

We had a boy, and we named him John Andrew. John means "God is gracious/generous." Andrew means "man" and "strong."

It's been one week since we lost our son and his name seems more fitting than ever. God is gracious, and we are being carried by Him right now as we learn to live without the presence of our precious baby.

More to come when I am able.

Psalm 13

How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
How long will my enemy triumph over me?

Look on me and answer, Lord my God.
Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death,
and my enemy will say, “I have overcome him,”
and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

But I trust in your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in your salvation.
I will sing the Lord’s praise,
for he has been good to me.