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?

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.

source unknown

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.

the bad and the ugly

I've really struggled these last few months with being honest about everything—the good, the bad and the ugly. It was easier for me to skim over the bad parts ("we're devastated," "I cry a lot," etc.) and focus on the good parts. There's this need we all feel to keep conversation lighthearted... as if people won't want to be around us if we're honest with them. No one wants to be a downer. Plus, it was important to me to speak of the good that was coming out of our situation: God's faithfulness and compassion, the outpouring of support from family and friends, the increased intimacy in our marriage... we may have been facing terrible, unimaginable news about our precious firstborn, but we were still SO blessed.

Still, the bad parts were still there. Ugly parts. Parts that were really hard to share with people because voicing them made them real. I kept most things inside. People would say, "I don't know how you're doing it... I would be crying all the time." I hated hearing that. I did cry. I cried in the shower every day for weeks as I held my stomach and sung "Soon," changing all of the "my's" and "I's" to "you." (You will be with the One you love, with unveiled face you'll see Him. There your soul will be satisfied, soon and very soon.) I cried when the lights were out and my face was smushed against my pillow. I cried against Andy's chest. I cried in front of my friends. I cried in front of strangers at the pool. But I couldn't cry ALL the time. I hated all the crying! I hated being sad, because I hated the reason why I was sad. I wanted to smile and laugh and not lose sight of joy. It was a huge relief to me when I could be at a party or out for coffee or wherever and not cry!

I was extra irritable, extra impatient, extra prone to thinking (and sometimes saying) cuss words. I filled my social calendar so that I would be distracted, and then when that got too exhausting I practically fell of the face off the earth and became a hermit for a while. I stopped going to church. Public worship was too hard—I wanted my sob-interrupted praises to be kept private. I couldn't follow sermons because I'd hear a baby cry or a toddler babble and all I could think about was how much I wanted my home to be filled with that noise.

Andy and I had to have conversations about what we were going to name the baby. Those conversations are supposed to be fun and filled with anticipation. They weren't fun. We had to talk about if we were going to hold the baby, if we were going to have testing done, what we were going to do with the remains... all totally crappy conversations to have.

Then, on top of all that, I bled, puked and peed for three days in a hospital room in front of the guy that I have a huge crush on. We held our stillborn son. My body started producing milk not long after I left the hospital. My chest hurt so much I thought I was going to scream. It especially hurt whenever I cried, which was (and continues to be) multiple times a day.

It continues to hurt to laugh, cry, turn over, sit up, sit down, get out of bed, use the stairs, ride in the car... it just hurts. My incision looks horrifying and huge (to me, at least) and all of the severed nerve endings feel like flashes of lightning inside my lower abdomen. My legs ache because they hardly get any exercise.

Oh, and our fridge broke the day before we left for the hospital and it has still not been repaired.

I don't really feel better after typing all the bad and the ugly. I much prefer to share the good. The good is what is important. The good is the moral of our story. The good is what will endure... and what I hope we will choose to remember.

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.