Pink Ribbons and a Brown-Eyed Girl

I wish I were lacing up my hot pink Nikes to run in this weekend's Race for the Cure.  Having been involved only from a spectator's perspective, I know it's a huge and epic event.  Well - let's be honest.  I wasn't actually spectator, my first time around.  I was working as the manager-on-duty in the Oakland Starbucks and we were understaffed and Oh God It Was Terrifying.  Seemingly endless waves and waves of pink-clad men and women splashed into the store, wanting little more than a bottle of water or a quick bagel to snack on as they walked and ran in honor of victims and survivors.  Although I remember being overwhelmed to the point of numbness, I don't recall any customers being rude or impatient.  They were all there because they saw the Bigger Picture.

Which I can see, too, since I now count breast cancer survivors among my closest friends.  And I would have no issue with squeezing my seven-month-pregnant belly into a pair of yoga pants and a support belt, ready to walk among those brave woman and thousands of others, but my pregnancy has caused several asthma flare-ups and some pretty scary (though normal, I'm told) episodes of breathlessness lately.  Not wise to go tempting fate and power-walking with the Pink Brigade, I'm afraid.  Next year.

Not being able to participate is a definite downer, but the hardest part of Mother's Day weekend will surely be the fact that my mother is gone.  Last May, I was still in a cocoon of shock, having lost her a mere two months prior.  I didn't feel much, and it didn't register too clearly that she was gone.  This time around, I've had over a year to process, to rant, to weep, to rage, to mourn, to contemplate, to accept, and to adjust to my mother's passing.  

There have been a lot of moments where I was filled with anger - not towards God, but towards her, since her cause of death was likely preventable, had she sought help for her hernia when she was first diagnosed.  There have been moments of laughter - when friends ask about my pregnancy and I'm able to tell them that I, mercifully, did not have "six straight months of god-awful heartburn", as my mother (repeatedly) told me she suffered with me.  There have been moments of pain - when I have wanted to reach out and ask her intimate questions about family, history, faith, and forgiveness.  There have been moments of beauty - when my husband and I finally got up the nerve and went through all of her paperwork, and found ourselves delightedly reviewing old photographs of my dad in his 80s finery (tight jeans, a feathered cowboy hat, and an elaborately embroidered top), birthday cakes from years past, and all of our long-gone pets.

Don't get me wrong, please.  I dearly love my step-mama, Deana.  She has become to me a treasure and a friend and yes, a wonderful mom.  She has been incredibly supportive during our miscarriages and has shown us the same level of support and excitement during this pregnancy.  She has taken care of my often-stubborn dad and has weathered years of mothering three daughters (two of whom possess their dad's stubbornness).  She is an all-around amazing woman, mother, Christian, teacher, friend, and businesswoman.  And I love her.

But I can't ask her the question, "What was it really like when you were pregnant with me?"  The baby pictures she has of me aren't connected to her own personal memories.  I can't trace my biological family tree through her.  I can't laugh over stories of my first taste of solid food, or riding a bike, or a grade school play.  I won't be able to show my mother these ultrasound pictures, or let her hold her sweet grandson for the first time, wondering if his eyes will darken to a beautiful brown, like hers. 

Two nights ago, I picked Ross up from work and we stopped at Giant Eagle to pick up a few things.  I wasn't in a great mood, and he thought he had done or said something wrong.  As I threw a package of raisin bread in the cart, I finally blurted out, "I miss my mom!"  He looked startled, and asked, "Why?"  He probably thought it had something to do with the bread.  Did it remind me of her?  Poor confused guy.  I fought back tears and reminded him, "It's Mother's Day weekend."  He didn't say anything, just put his arms around me and wheeled the cart to the register.  

On the way home, he gently asked, "Well, what are some of your favorite memories of your mom?"  He'd only met her once but had heard hundreds of tales from myself and my dad - some of them funny, many of them sad - about living with her.  "I don't know," I said honestly.  If I am being completely truthful, which has been my aim in having this blog, then I have to say there were a lot of awful memories.  A lot of hours of the silent treatment.  A lot of regrets because I didn't understand why I needed to respect her.  A lot of fights.  A lot of disappointment.  A lot of misunderstanding and failure to communicate.  A lot of bitterness.  Oh, so much bitterness.  

Much of that faded in the years after I had moved away from home, and, little by little, happier memories began to join the sad ones.  Memories of stopping at Arby's and then browsing at Fashion Bug (now defunct, sadly) for accessories.  Memories of text messages and phone conversations about our pets (while I was collecting my Crazy Cat Lady starter kit, she was adopting and rescuing neighborhood strays left and right).  Memories of the sweet and silly letters she liked to write, and the goofy doodles she sent me.  Memories of conversations in which she admitted to finally forgiving my father for hurting her.  

And then the memory of her passing cuts through me like a cold wind, stopping my heart.  The look in those soft black-brown eyes when they met mine for the last time, full of pain and regret and weakness and sorrow.

And sympathy.  For me, having to see her die.

Those moments stick with us, become an immovable part of who we are.  They become tinted over time with either rose-colored optimism or they fade to a shadowy sepia, but they stay with us.  In that moment, when I look back, I see her asking forgiveness.  Not for the way she raised me, or for anything she might have failed to do as a mother.  But forgiveness for having to have our final memory of her one in which she was lying prone and hemorrhaging in a hospital bed in Kentucky, unable to speak or move or breathe on her own, surrounded by gentle strangers.  For knowing that we drove five straight hours and risked countless speeding tickets, because seeing her alive was the only thing that mattered.  

For her last day alive being so dreadfully ugly.

I can't lie and say I've fully come to terms with the circumstances of her death, or even hear death itself.  I still think of her every time I pass by the greeting card section in the grocery store, fighting the urge to pick a silly holiday card to send to her.  I see her face in my reflection quite often.  I hear her voice when I scold my cats for doing something naughty, and I'm sure I'll hear it when I scold my son.

I recently told a friend of hers that I hope so much that my baby boy has her smile.  I know that I have my grandfather's smile, so remarkably so that people frequently mistake my aunt (his daughter), who also shares it, for my mother.  How beautiful it would be to get to see my mother's slightly crooked, dimpled grin again, every day for the rest of my life.

Ketch-Up

My step-mom used to be the children's church teacher at Berean Fellowship, and she led the kids in a simple game they called Ketch-Up.  She took an empty Heinz ketchup bottle (we're Pittsburghers, so the kids literally rejected the Hunt's bottle I once tried to substitute) and passed it down the line of kids.  When a child had the bottle, he or she had a few minutes to share something - whether it was a worry about a test at school, an upcoming vacation, or a Christmas list.  The other kids were not permitted to talk when one of them had the bottle.  Not that that part of the plan always worked, mind you.

Well, I wanted my first blog after my unexpected hiatus to be deep, significant, and thoroughly thought-out.  But ain't nobody got time for dat, so here's my "ketch-up" version.  Don't interrupt.  Read on.

1. I got a new job.  I now work in a pediatricians' office.  I'm still adapting to working full-time after 6 months of unemployment (part of the reason I haven't written lately).  I generally like it quite a bit.  Sometimes my heart aches when newborns come in, but most of the time I enjoy what I do.

2. I'm back on the weight-loss train.  After stalling out after my mom's passing, I'm now exercising five times a week (35-45 minutes of brisk walking during my lunch hour, which for me equals around 2 miles).  When I told my family I was planning on signing up for the Great Race in September, they smiles politely and said nothing.  Which is the response I also got from my husband.  Completely understandable, given my history of (a) hating exercise; (b) having trouble completing tasks, and (c) hating exercise.  But I'm still going to try.  I am starting out with teensy-tiny baby steps so I don't get discouraged.  My blood pressure is going up again - inexplicably - and I know this will help.

3. Ross is still actively looking for a better job.  He had an interview with Duquesne, which was something that we hardly even imagined would happen.  He was one of only three people considered for the position, but he did not get an offer.  I had a harder time than him about it, and had several temper tantrums that were directed at God for being "unfair" and "tricking us".  Yes, even we "mature Christians" struggle to understand how and why God allows certain things to happen that don't seem to make any sense at all.  I've calmed down considerably, but we are still fighting discouragement about his career situation.

4.  We're going to Disney!  I'm not telling when, because then all my Facebook stalkers (pfft, yeah, 'cause there's hundreds of them) will loot my house while we're away...but we have plans, it's paid for, and I'm crazy excited for my first-ever trip to the Magical-est Place on Earth!

5. Loki now plays catch in addition to playing fetch.  If I bought into the theory of reincarnation, I'd say it was 100% evident that kitten was a Golden Retriever in a previous life.  WHOSE CAT DOES THAT?

6. I found a pair of red snakeskin-print stilettos at K-Mart for $3.99.

Now, here's where we take a more serious turn.  Another huge change that took place recently is that Ross and I made the difficult decision to step down as the youth leaders at Berean Fellowship and North Church.  It was a choice that was, unfortunately, a long time coming.  Around the time of our third miscarriage, we began to struggle a little with our obligations.  It became more of a chore than a joy.  Then I lost my job, and even though I had more time to work on youth-related events, it was something I was forcing myself to do.  Ross and I repeatedly heard ourselves saying "no, we have church on Saturday" when our friends or family wanted to make plans.  (Don't get me wrong, Pastors Mark and Steph are NOT slave-drivers!  We could have taken off days here and there when we needed them!  But, for our purposes, things were often last-minute and we couldn't really find a pinch-hitter two days before we were due to teach.  It wasn't fair to the people we'd be asking for help.)  We loved our church (and still do) but were lacking the fellowship of our circle of peers (many of whom we'd met at the now-defunct young adults' group The Bridge).  Ross's sister Lindsey was in town twice (we only see her a few times a year, at best) and both times we were unable to see her.  Then, his dad had a stroke right before Christmas, the healing from which has been complicated by his Parkinson's.  And then, in February, my mother died.  (It still sucks royally to even type those words.)  And I still wasn't finding work.  My unemployment was running out.  Things were really ugly.

Dealing with the pressures of so much loss in such a short period, we weren't treating the kids the way we wanted to - heck, we weren't treating ourselves the way we should have been!  Ross and I went back and forth debating, discussing, and even arguing about what was best for us, for the kids, and the church.  We were concerned that the kids would feel we had abandoned them.  We were concerned that we were giving up simply because the job was tough.  We were concerned that we were letting down our church - and God.  We were concerned that people would fear we were leaving the church (that fear WAS confirmed as several members of the congregation did approach us with concerned whispers, asking if we were heading elsewhere - at least they came to us instead of letting their imaginations run wild; we were grateful for that respect!).  We prayed about it and finally brought it up to Pastor Mark - but God had already given him a hint as to what was in our hearts.  We received nothing but encouragement and understanding from him, which confirmed that we had made the right choice for this season in our lives.  Our goal right now is to focus on our friends and families - to spend time with them.  To help Ross's dad with his antiques business.  To see our nieces' recitals.  To grill ridiculously delicious burgers on my aunt and uncle's patio.  To hop from estate sale to estate sale with Deana as she hustles for eBay treasures.  To see our friends' new babies.  To reconnect with the many relationships God has given us.

We love our church family dearly.  We love serving.  We love being trusted as leaders, even if we don't carry a title anymore.  We love our pastors, who never made us feel like failures - or even that we were giving up at all!  We love the kids we taught, and we're still a part of their lives.  We love talking with them and staying in touch - even if we're maybe not quite as cool as the incoming leaders, Tim and Victoria.  But we're grateful that God's voice is persistent, and he kept telling us what was most important in our lives right now.

We still want children.  Desperately.  We feel that God is using this season to draw us closer to him and the network of loving friends and family we have in order to make that dream a reality.  We have a "plan" in place, but experience has taught us that God loves wrecking our plans because we dream TOO SMALL.  His goals for us are so much bigger than we can wrap our minds around...and sometimes we have to take a step back and be willing to wait for his next step to be revealed.

That's where we are right now.  Waiting with a purpose.  

Yeah, that doesn't make it any easier.  But here we are.  Go ahead, God.  I'm watching for you.

Mom's Eulogy

I decided to post the eulogy I wrote for my mother.  I know there were several people who wanted to come to the memorial but could not - mostly because they were out-of-state, and early March weather doesn't exactly make for friendly traveling. 

Yes, I wrote it the evening before I presented it.  It's not because I'm a procrastinator (although I am exceptionally good at that).  It was just that I had absolute confidence that God would give me the words, put together in the perfect way, to honor my mom. 

From my friends' reactions, it did.  Amen and amen.

Once upon a time, there was a little red flower growing in a field.  She was surrounded by beautiful daisies, vivid wildflowers, and bright violets.  When the golden summer sun warmed the earth, people came to the field to laugh and walk and enjoy the weather.  Those people picked the daisies, and the wildflowers, and the violets.  But after each visit, the little red flower was left in the field, wondering why she wasn’t chosen.  Perhaps the caterpillars had chewed holes in her leaves, or her petals weren’t as pretty as the others.  Her only friends were the bees that buzzed around her, gathering pollen for their hives.  As summer faded into fall, the little red flower prepared to sleep for the winter.  She took a final look around her the lonely, empty field – the daisies and wildflowers and violets had all been called beautiful and given new homes.  Winter came and went, and when the spring sunshine woke her, the little red flower’s blossoms opened again.  Immediately, the bees rushed to greet her.  This spring, however, there were more visitors than there had ever been.  The little red flower apologized, believing that she couldn’t possibly have enough pollen for every last one of them.  The bees laughed, and said they would visit the rest of her family, too.  The little red flower didn’t understand until she looked past the bees into the field around her.  It was full of little red flowers, just like her, smiling in the sun and waving back at her.  During her lonely winter sleep, the little red flower’s roots had spread, taking the place of the daisies, and the wildflowers, and the violets that had been chosen instead of her.  The little red flower would never be alone again.

That fable is adapted from a short story written by Cynthia Marie Thielet.  I share it because I want to point out that there is a difference between the facts of her life, and the truths of it.

The fact is that my mother was born on January 27, 1955, to Andrew and Margaret Kuskil.  She grew up in and around Carnegie and Bridgeville.  Her childhood had its happy moments – visits to Cape Canaveral, carnivals, picnics and other adventure – but the truth is that much of her childhood was very difficult and fraught with physical and verbal abuse. 

The facts are that my mother married, had two daughters, and divorced.  The truth is that my mother had the strength to keep from passing on the abuse to her own children, and broke a cycle of violence that had lasted for generations.  The truth is that my mother worked tirelessly at minimum-wage jobs to support my sister and myself.  It was not uncommon for her to come home from work with burns on her arms from the chemicals she used at the dry cleaners, or from the hot oil she used as a grill cook.  The truth is that my mother put her daughters before her own social life, mostly keeping close with only a few trusted friends but rarely going out with them.  The truth is, she sometimes had a temper…and the truth is, my sister and I knew how to push her buttons.  The truth is, with God’s help, after the divorce my mom eventually found other ways to love my father, even though they had fallen out of love with each other.

The fact is that she struggled with illness that eventually left her unable to work a conventional job, and she ended up moving to Kentucky as a live-in- caretaker for an elderly man.  The truth is that his family quickly adopted her as their own, and always saw her more as a beloved sister than a nurse or a maid.  The truth is that my mother didn’t know how to live unless she was serving other people.  When everything else in her life seemed to fall apart – her marriage, her relationships, her health – she fell back on her role as a caretaker.  It had become her identity and it gave her strength.

The fact is that, in the little personal time she had, my mother wrote poems and short stories, and humorous letters filled with silly drawings and sketches.  The truth is that my mother herself was the little red flower in her story, never entirely confident in her own abilities, but unknowingly creating family wherever she went.

There were a few common threads in the tapestry of her life – threads that spanned the whole 58 years.  One of them was an unmatched love for animals.  Her sister Theresa, who is quite ill herself and unable to be here today, shared with me a story of my mother rescuing frozen puppies in the dead of winter.  She also told me of the intense loyalty her sister inspired in her pets – on one occasion, her miniature terrier, Tiny, went after a German Shepherd that attacked my mom.  Tiny, although severely injured, survived – no doubt due to the great care she received!

I frequently joke that my mother was like Disney’s Snow White, especially in the scene where all the woodland creatures come flocking to her.  During her life, Mom rescued or raised cats, dogs, fish, rabbits, parakeets, chickens, baby robins, hummingbirds, a horse, and at least one groundhog – that I am aware of.  When I was a child, neighbors came to our house with strays, asking if my mom could help.  In most cases, she helped by adopting them!  We were never without at least two or three animals in the house.  She truly had a God-given gift that allowed her to understand them in a way that most of us cannot.  Although she never did figure out how to get them to do housework – maybe that does only happen in the movies.

Another thread that was woven throughout my mother’s fifty-eight years was a quiet faith in God.  She was raised Catholic and inexplicably turned away from the religion when she was thirteen – but she never turned away from God himself.  When she left Pittsburgh for Kentucky, I felt that I had failed as a daughter – she had raised me but I was not able to take care of her in return.  Little did I know that God was beginning for my mom a beautiful season of healing.  In Kentucky, among her new family and friends, she found peace and forgiveness – mostly, I believe, she finally learned to forgive herself for the mistakes she’d made over the years.  It was only during this time that my relationship with her was the one I had always wanted – we spoke more regularly than we had before, and we spoke with more affection and laughter than we had in many, many years.  We exchanged stories about our pets, and she sent me toys for my two cats.  We wrote to each other, and I did teach her how to send text messages.  As she was writing to me, I learned that she had also begun writing to my dad’s side of the family –her former in-laws.  When my parents divorced, my mom allowed herself to grow distant from his family.  I believe it was a way of protecting herself.  For several years, I mentioned them infrequently to her, for fear of opening a wound.  Yet, in his wisdom, God took her physically away from them, and allowed her heart to once again draw near to them.  After a time, she started to write to them, sending the same silly doodles and funny letters she was sending to me.  And, in the end, I believe my mother made peace with the rest of my family, and, more importantly, with herself.

It is not for this reason alone that I know my mother is in Heaven right now.  She was a good woman who worked hard.  She was a fierce Mama Bear who protected her children the best she could.  She was a loyal and faithful supporter to those people she called friends.  But none of those wonderful attributes ensured her place in paradise.  My mother was not religious in a conventional way – but she loved her Jesus.  In fact, although my mother was not a church-goer, I believe that her servant’s heart and humble spirit spoke for Jesus in a far louder voice than her weekly presence in a pew ever could.  She loved to read her Bible.  In her last years, I believe she began to understand what it meant to really put something in God’s hands – after all, she was several hours away from her daughters and couldn’t do much for us but pray.  Of course, we know that prayer is a powerful weapon, and one of my mother’s last tasks on this earth, I believe, was to learn how to fight with it.  The letters she wrote to my husband and me were full of encouraging prayers and even poems about God’s love. 

In an equally encouraging letter about God’s love, the apostle Paul talks to his friends about the truth of death for the believer.  This is the Message translation of 1 Thessalonians 4:13.  “And regarding the question, friends, that has come up about what happens to those already dead and buried, we don’t want you in the dark any longer. First off, you must not carry on over them like people who have nothing to look forward to, as if the grave were the last word. Since Jesus died and broke loose from the grave, God will most certainly bring back to life those who died in Jesus.   And then this: We can tell you with complete confidence—we have the Master’s word on it—that when the Master comes again to get us, those of us who are still alive will not get a jump on the dead and leave them behind. In actual fact, they’ll be ahead of us. The Master himself will give the command. Archangel thunder! God’s trumpet blast! He’ll come down from heaven and the dead in Christ will rise—they’ll go first. Then the rest of us who are still alive at the time will be caught up with them into the clouds to meet the Master. Oh, we’ll be walking on air! And then there will be one huge family reunion with the Master. So reassure one another with these words.”

And so, yes, I have hope.  I mourn because I have lost my mother – and you, who have come today, mourn with my family.  I speak for my whole family when I say that we thank you for your love, your prayers, and your presence here with us during this time of sadness.  But I cannot mourn for my mother.  She is with her Savior, whose love and sacrifice she accepted and who has already welcomed her to her eternal rest.  She is with her three grandchildren, who went before her into the arms of Christ.  She is celebrating with the countless others who have opened their eyes in glory, to find that their earthly pain, fear, and sorrows are gone in the all-consuming light of God’s love.

The fact is that my mother passed away on February 8, 2013.  The truth is that she is alive and whole in Heaven, and she is in my future.  She is in the future of all who have received Christ’s love.  Those of you who knew Cindy will see her again.  And those who have yet to meet her…I think you’ll like her quite a bit.

 

Talk It Out

Even before my mother's passing, friends and family had made gentle, casual suggestions that I consider counseling.  After all, no matter how strong a person's faith is, losing three babies and a job in 13 months is a lot to handle.

The thing is, I genuinely thought I was doing all right.  I wasn't hiding my emotions.  I was open about them.  I didn't avoid talking about my losses or troubles.  I shared them with whoever wanted to hear about them.  I acknowledged them.  I grieved.  I cried a lot over my miscarriages.  As we continued to lose pregnancies, my fear increased exponentially.  I am aware of that.  To be honest with you, at this point, even with my faith and the support of my friends and family, I am petrified to even think about getting pregnant again. 

Everything has become complicated by the events of last week.  Ross and I finally got the chance to see a specialist, and, while he was a wonderful, thoughtful and concise doctor, I left the office with few answers - just another round of precautions, bloodwork orders, and guarded well-wishes.  I hadn't even gotten the chance to tell my mom about the visit, when three days later she was in the hospital herself.

Last night, Ross was very brave, and approached me about talking to a counselor.  I say that he was brave because I know that, like both my (stubborn!  stubborn!) parents, I don't often ask for help - and usually it's because I honestly don't know or think that I need it.  It isn't always a "pride" thing.  So, you can see, I thought I was doing all right.  I wasn't internalizing, wasn't playing the "Tupperware" game (that's when you keep stuffing your feelings inside and packing them tighter and tighter beneath the surface - and when you finally have no choice but to address them, they have turned into a snarled, tangled, moldy, rotten, festering, awful, incredibly-hard-to-fix mess).

But, I have a loving and patient husband who wants me to be well.  He hasn't accused me of being ill - mentally or otherwise.  The same way we go to the doctor to make sure our broken bones are healing properly, we can consider a counselor who can help assure that our hearts are on the mend.  I share this because I'm an open person, and because I want to play my part in dispelling the awful stigma about people with mental health challenges or concerns. 

When and if any of the kids in my youth group read this, I want them to be encouraged and understand that God didn't give any of us the ability to shoulder everything by ourselves forever.  He did, however, create us to work with each other and lift each other up.  There is a spiritual side and a natural side to everything we do - healing is no different.  To return to the example above, it would be foolish, after breaking a limb, to do absolutely nothing but pray over it when there are qualified doctors more than willing and able to help fix it.  On the other side of the coin, I think I have been relying entirely on my faith alone to get me through this horrible time in my life.  There are times when God does give us the grace to get through something - but I don't believe it's His intent for us simply to continue to function on auto-pilot, mindlessly praying and ignoring the help of those reaching out to us.  Such things certainly don't make us more spiritual or better Christians.  It could be argued, even, that those actions are dangerous becase they isolate us.  Frankly, I'm realizing that it hurts Him, too - because He gave us friends, fellowship, and family to support us not when things are going well, but during times like these...when grief is overwhelming, when life is painful and confusing, when we're afraid that we might simply break down and collapse altogether.

I doubt I will be posting any gritty details from my counseling experience - whether it will be one session or many, I don't yet know.  I will, however, share with you about my walk towards healing - however ugly that path might be at times. 

You're welcome to come along with me.

Good-bye, Mom.

I probably could have sat down to write this the very day my mother passed away, so cathartic is writing to me, but I didn't have the time.

I'm really not sure where I should start this story, since so few people who care about my mom actually knew what she was up to the last several years of her life.  Perhaps it's best to start right before her move to Kentucky.  I'll warn you that my mother's death was not peaceful and there are some graphic medical descriptions that might upset some people.  Please move ahead with prudence. 

My parents were divorced about 17 years ago and things were pretty ugly.  My poor Mum was going through menopause quite early, and she was trying to raise two hormonal teenage daughters while at the same time attempting to re-enter the work force with very little experience and a limited skill set.  Although there was no raging custody battle, I know that my mom was deeply hurt and my dad felt guilty and repentant.  I'm not assigning any blame; since the divorce they have both, in separate instances, shared with me their own mistakes as well as the percieved mistakes of the other that ultimately led to the divorce.

Some particularly bitter battles between my mother and myself led to my moving in with my father, step-mother and step-sister the summer I graduated from high school.  For a few awful weeks as I was rehearsing a show, Mum - the reigning Queen of the Silent Treatment - didn't return my calls.  Still, as we sang the show's final song, the lights came up and I saw Mum and Gina in the audience, trying to repress a smile.  Of course, I burst into tears and the very slow process of forgiveness and healing began.

When I was on break from college, I would see my mom at times.  We would see movies, or go out to eat, or shop at our favorite store, Fashion Bug.  We still fought, and I was still thoughtless sometimes, but things were still better than they were when I lived with her. 

Not long after, my previously healthy-as-a-horse mother began to get sick.  She struggled to keep her job and health insurance, but eventually lost both.  She had a bout with thyroid cancer, which she overcame with one operation and no follow-up whatsoever.  She battled fibromyalgia and fatigue, and I came to believe that she was suffering from some undiagnosed anxiety as well.  She began to have increasing stomach troubles, too, and her breathing difficulties returned.  She could neither work, not receive medical assistance.  She tried several different charities and government organizations but was repeatedly told she did not qualify for aid - allegedly because she couldn't prove that she was sick.  It was a vicious cycle.

She eventually got to the point of not being able to pay the rent on her small apartment in Crafton and came to live with me at the worst possible time.  I had just lost my job at Starbucks.  My dad had just lost his job due to an injury.  Although Mum was his ex, I do believe he would have helped us financially if he had been able.  Their healing process had begun, also, and the bitterness between them was fading.  All we had between us was my mother's food stamps, which she joyfully used as we went to the grocery store and bought everything our hearts desired.  Still, I could not care for her and did not want her to stay long because I didn't know what to do.

A few weeks later, the decision was made.  Mum, unable to work or make any type of life in Pennsylvania, would move to Kentucky, where her ex-boyfriend's father needed a full-time caretaker.  She was still on good terms with her ex, and her nurturing instincts certainly hadn't perished when her daughters left home.  She accepted the "job" and packed up her (few) belongings.  Then she was gone.  She asked me to keep things quiet because she preferred that people not know where she was.  She didn't want to be tracked down.  I think there was a little pride involved there, but mostly it was to protect us.  She had the opinion that, if she happened to owe any debts, the creditors would harass my sister and me relentlessly, and she hated that idea.

Her increasing stomach troubles caused her to shun social events.  She told me about "attacks" or "episodes" she got which caused her to vomit uncontrollably, for seemingly no reason.  She tried changing her diet - cutting out dairy, fatty foods, and gluten.  Still, nothing changed.  She could barely go on a quick trip to the store because she lived in constant fear of another inexplicable attack that would leave her in pain for hours.  Although I believed her, I attributed much of her condition to anxiety and kept suggesting she seek mental help as well as medicine.

I offered to visit her several times.  Each time she refused.  She was unable to come to my wedding, which deeply hurt me.  I knew it was not her fault, and I eventually forgave her, but it took a long time.  We wrote letters back and forth and talked on the phone sometimes until my mother learned how to send text messages.  We kept in touch at least once a week in some form, and I did get one beautiful chance to see her.

My sister Julia, despite everyone's misgivings and gentle warnings, chose to get married before she graduated from college.  She picked June 2, 2012, and as we drove down to Tennessee, my husband kept mentioning that my mom's place wasn't too far off our route.  "She won't let me visit," I insisted.  "She says that she's on a strict schedule and the man she takes care of is pretty fragile.  I've offered before..."

"Call her," commanded Ross.

I did.  She sounded delighted.  She made plans to see us that Sunday, as we were headed back to Pittsburgh.  I hung up the phone in a daze.  I was going to see my mom after almost three years!  Julia's wedding was beautiful, but honestly, seeing my mom was even better.  Of course, she prepared a ridiculously huge spread of food for Ross and me: pulled pork and cold cuts for sandwiches, chips, homemade broccoli salad, pistachio pudding, lemon merengue pie, and Jell-O for dessert.  It was delicious, of course, and we chatted for several hours about her pets (she had continued her Pittsburgh mission of rescuing, training, and nurturing strays), her hobbies (she had begun to write poetry and dabbled in illustrations).  She never once mentioned her health, which was a typical topic of conversation otherwise.  We got a few pictures and enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Looking back, it was Julia's determination to get married when she did, that allowed me to see my mother one last time.  I am so grateful that Jules heard from God when the rest of us were not sure what to believe.

The call came at 3:00 AM Thursday, when my phone was on silent.  I woke around 7:00 and saw that I'd missed a call from Kentucky.  The message said that my mom was at King's Daughters Medical Center and in surgery.  I called back immediately, of course, hoping for nothing worse than an irritated gallbladder or inflamed tonsils.  She woman I spoke with had no information for me, as she'd just arrived for her shift, but she'd have the doctor call me as soon as he was finished with my mother.  I thanked her and set the phone down as I sat on the couch.  I was ice-cold and shaking.

The doctor called back within a few minutes.  The first thing he asked me was if my mother knew she had a hiatal hernia.  My heart dropped, and at that moment, God allowed me to enter Task Mode.  I did not have time to be a hysterial grieving daughter.  Instead, I was a business professional, thinking objectively.  "Yes," I admitted, "...but she consistently refused to seek medical treatment for it."  The doctor went on to politely, clearly, and gently explain that my mother's hernia had caused her stomach to burst, infecting her entire abdominal cavity and causing her incredible pain.  He said that they had done what they could, removing her entire stomach and her spleen, but that her chances of survival were minimal.  He said that, if she did make it through the initial recovery process, she would still face the risk of infection.

I took a deep breath and metaphorically plunged into that icy, numbing pool that is fear.  I packed my bag and told Ross that I was leaving and he didn't need to call off work.  Of course, he did, and he packed a bag, too.  We were forced to stop at Wal-Mart for oil for my car, and received a call from the hospital.  A nurse was asking when we expected to arrive.  At that point, I did lose it, crumpling down in the middle of the store, mascara bleeding down my face.  "I'm on my way," I sobbed, and Ross gathered me up.  At ten o'clock, we were on the road.

The drive should have been about five hours, but we made it in four and a half, the tense silence almost overwhelming us.  I prayed around ten-thiry, and God gave me the same strange sense of peace I had when we learned that we were losing Bennet, our second child.  God had whispered, "I have his heart here with me," indicating that the baby had already gone on into heaven before me.  I got the strong sense that things were okay - not necessarily that my mother would recover, but that we would be able to be there with her.

And we were.  Before I had arrived, I'd had the sense to ask the doctor what I would see when I got into the room.  I was already under enough stress; I didn't need the added surprise of seeing something I wasn't prepared for.  Sure enough, my mother was lying there, pale and puffy.  A machine was pumping blood into her body as another one was attempting to suction blood out of her abdomen.  A thin stream of blood was running out of her mouth.  There were tubes in her nose and one in her throat.  She was connected to at least half a dozen IVs that were pumping her full of sedatives, painkillers, and blood pressure medication.  She was undeniably on her death bed.

Yet, when I walked in the door and simply said, "Mummy", she opened her eyes and looked right at me.  She always had the loveliest eyes - almost black, with perfectly arched brows.  In those eyes just then I saw a heartbroken apology.  Her father had died unexpectedly 15 years before, leaving his two daughters to sort through a hellish mess.  In that glance, I believe I saw her fear over doing the same to us.

"I'm here, Mummy.  I love you," I said.  Dutifully, I added, "Gina loves you, and Gram and Brent, and Mar...and Dad and Deana.  We all love you."

I stayed there a few minutes, holding her stiff, cold hand.  The nurse, a small woman with curly hair, gently led us into the hall.

"I don't know how she is alive right now," she admitted.  "I've been in the Army for 22 years and this is the worst case I have ever seen.  I don't know how she was even able to open her eyes."

Remembering the wives' tale that coma patients can still hear what is being said around them, I asked, "While you were in the room, did you mention anything about my being on my way?"

"Yes," she replied. 

"Then that is how she could open her eyes," I determined.  I knew I wasn't a perfect daughter, but I knew I was always on her mind and we'd been in touch quite often over the last several weeks.  If she knew I was coming, that stubborn, wonderful old lady would stop at nothing to see me.

Over the next several hours, Ross and I were treated with great kindness and respect as we waited for my sister, Gina, to arrive with Dad and Deana.  Jerry, my mom's friend, and his family - who had practially adopted her - were there, too, on and off.  Mom didn't open her eyes again for us, but at one point in the night, the nurse told us she indicated she was in pain.  We gathered around her after I insisted to Gina that we weren't saying good-bye.  Not yet.  I believe in miracles and was completely prepared to allow God to do one, but I didn't want my mom surrounded by weeping and wailing until it was truly the end.

After everyone had to leave, I stayed next to Mom, gently stroking her calloused foot and talking to her.  The night nurse was sweet and thoughtful, but did let us know that things looked very, very bad.  She said that my mom's blood still wasn't clotting properly and that, as a result of her stomach rupturing, she was suffering from sepsis.  The rupture was also leading to multiple organ failure.  Her liver was in shock and her kidneys were failing.   Her heart and brain were fine, but nothing else was.  Nothing.  Her blood pressure continued to drop even as her heart rate increased to well above a normal range.   The nurse began to explain the concept of DNR to me, but I interrupted her.  I had already spoken to my sister and, even with no will or formal paperwork, we knew that Mum would hate to be brought back to a miserable life.  I fought a little with the ethical concept.  Was my refusing treatment for my mother the same as killing her?  Was letting her die the right choice?  Her mind was fine but her body was broken.  Was God going to do anything? 

I took a moment to talk to Mum, one-on-one.

"Mummy," I said.  "Listen to me.  If Jesus comes for you, you need to go with him.  You'll get to see your grandbabies - remember, their names are Olivia, Bennet, and Galen.  But if Jesus doesn't come for you, you need to fight.  And I will be here, fighting with you.  Okay?  I love you."

My mother had struggled with her faith, and faith in general, her whole life.  I don't think she ever stopped believing in God, but I know there were a great many trials that forced her to question what she believed.  I do know that she had found a lot of internal peace when she moved to Kentucky.  I think that God had allowed her to mellow and find forgiveness in many ways she didn't expect.  She once called me to tell me that she'd finally forgiven my dad for the divorce and everything that went with it...but that God had told her she needed to actually call my dad and tell him that.  She'd laughed, but she had done it.  She'd had a long conversation with Dad that, I believe, was a key to her own emotional healing.  I know she loved her Jesus.  She read her Bible.  Most of the letters and texts she had sent me mentioned that she was praying for us - for a job for me, a better job for us, healing during our miscarriages, better weather, safety.

I didn't fear for her soul that night, but I wonder if she was scared.  I wonder if she'd seen the Lord and said to Him, "Please...not yet.  Let me keep trying."  I wonder if she was afraid of leaving her Kentucky family in the lurch.  After all, she'd just adopted yet another stray kitten a few weeks before - not to mention all the other people and pets she was caring for!.  "We will take care of the animals," I found myself assuring her.  I finally left the hospital around 2:30 that morning, about 24 hours since she'd been admitted.

The final call came a few hours later, as Ross and I were sleeping in the Hospitality House provided for us.  "She isn't responding to the medicine and her blood pressure is still dropping.  I think maybe you'll want to come in now," came the gentle drawl.  "Should anything happen, do you want us to do chest compressions?"

"Absolutely not," I replied,  "Don't you touch her.  Don't put her in any more pain."

As I dressed, Ross made the calls to the rest of the family.  We gathered in the hospital room, six of us touched by this stubborn, hard-nosed, big-hearted little woman, and said our good-byes.  Still in Task Mode, I approached the nurse and said crisply, "We're ready."  I then asked her to explain to my fmaily what was going to be happening, making entirely sure that she would not be in any pain at all.

As Gina and I each held one of her hands, we began to remind her of all the wonderful things she had done for us, and told her about some of the things were were doing and still hoped to do.  Gina had just started a new job and I was looking at a great volunteer opportunity.  I told her that I'd lost a few pounds since the new year.  I reminded her that her skin still looked as fantastic as I remembered when I was a child.

Gradually, her heart rate slowed and the nurse continued to lower the dosages of her blood pressure medication.  I kissed Mum's forehead and snipped a lock of her hair. 

And then she was gone.

I didn't have any time to mourn.  I haven't mourned yet.  We had to make immediate decisions regarding a funeral home, memorial, and other things.  Mum had expressed to my sister and me that she'd wanted to be cremated.  Based not only on that wish, but on the horrible condition of her body, we agreed that it was the best way.  She'd had so few friends in Kentucky that we hardly needed a lavish memorial - plus, she would have absolutely hated that.  We ended up scheduling a short service without any professional speaker.  I would give the eulogy and that would be it. 

We celebrated Mum's life by enjoying country-fried steak for lunch that day.  Later, Gina and I went through my mom's bedroom.  She'd been a remarkably organized woman and had labeled virtually everything - her important documents, her treasured photos - even things she'd brought from our old Crafton house as she'd moved into smaller and smaller apartments.

Although Gina and I have never gotten along particularly well, God gave us a supernatural grace to go through her things without argument, without pettiness, without tears.  We each wanted different reminders of her - Gina preferred things that she'd used, like a pair of scissors or a recipe book - while I preferred things she'd liked, like lighthouses or cat memorabilia.  We each chose a few pieces of Mum's costume jewelry that had been our favorites.

Then came the brief memorial, where about a dozen people mourned the passing of Cindy Thielet.  Then a meal, then the long drive back to Pittsburgh.

As I said, things haven't hit me yet.  God gave me the grace and ability to take on the huge honor of handling my mom's final hours and last wishes.  That grace, it seems, is still in effect.  I'm a little numb.  I do have the overwhelming sense of gratitude that she was deeply loved and well cared-for by her Kentucky family.  These people were her true-blue friends.  Not that she didn't have any in Pennsylvania - I don't mean that.  I simply mean that she wasn't simply providing a service for them.  She was family to them, as much as she was to me.

The final gift I got from my mom, well, I have yet to unwrap.  In shuffling through the things on her desk, we found a wrapped package addressed to me, as yet unmailed.  I haven't been ready to open it yet.  I know it will be another silly gift; she'd loved to send little trinkets for the cats, or pictures to Ross and me.  But it's literally the last thing my mom had set aside for me, and I'm waiting for the right time to unwrap it.

We're planning a potluck supper in her honor for the Pittsburgh friends and family in the next few weeks.  Most people's memories of my mom involve great food, so there's no better thing to do to honor her than eat!  I'm trying to look forward to that - a celebration of a warm-hearted Polish lady who touched everyone she met.

Bye for now, Mummy.  Love you.

The Miscarriage Handbook: A Guide to Not Making Things Worse

Let's face it.  I never expected, or wanted, to be an "expert" on miscarriage.  But losing three babies in thirteen months has made me stop and do a lot of thinking - and a lot of research.

Unfortunately, miscarriage is extremely common.  I never knew this until I experienced it.  However, depending on which reference you use, anywhere from 10% to 25% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage.  Those are really high odds - one in ten?  One in four?  It's mind-blowing.  In fact, many pregnancies end so quickly that a woman may never know she was pregnant at all.  Her body releases the embryo almost immediately and it becomes a part of her period - she never misses a beat.  Other times, though, the loss occurs after a test has confirmed the pregnancy, or, worse, after seeing a heartbeat via ultrasound.  For most women, especially those who desire to be mothers, there is no question whatsoever that the tiny being growing inside is indeed a child - no matter how small.

The point of this post, however, isn't to start a debate on what consistutes human life and what does not.  It's to help guide you - as a person whose loved one has suffered a miscarriage, or as someone who is experiencing it herself - towards understanding and healing.

First things first.  Some questions, and some answers, and then we'll talk about what you can do to help a woman who is recovering from the loss of her pregnancy - or how you can handle it if that woman is you.

What is a miscarriage?  What causes it?

A miscarriage is the loss of a pregnancy.  It occurs most often in the first trimester, or twelve weeks, of pregnancy.  Common reasons for miscarriage include genetic defects (like chromosomal abnormalities) and hormonal imbalances.  Sometimes, the defects are not severe enough to cause the death of the embryo, and the baby continues to grow.  Babies born with genetic defects can often go on to live happy, productive lives.  However, many times, the defects are so severe that the baby is unable to grow at all.  When this happens, the mother's body eventually releases the stunted embryo, along with the uterine lining that was supposed to nuture it.  This looks and feels like a very heavy, intense menstrual period.  If this release does not happen immediately, but days or even weeks later, the situation is called a missed or delayed miscarriage.  The woman's body can continue to "act pregnant" as long as her hormone levels are elevated - which is usually until the miscarriage is complete.

Sometimes, a woman's body is able to fully process the miscarriage without medical intervention.  Other times, a surgery might be planned to help the uterus release the tissue and blood clots that remain.  This outpatient procedure is called a dilation and cutterage, or a D & C for short.  This is the same surgery performed if a patient is choosing to abort her baby, so it can be extremely emotional for a woman who wanted to be a mother.

What can be done to prevent a miscarriage?

It is important to note that miscarriage cannot be prevented, nor can it be stopped once it begins to occur. This is both a comforting fact and a distressing one. Many women are relieved to learn that they did nothing to harm to their babies, while simultaneously feeling helpless to prevent a future loss.   Miscarriage is so common that even after up to two or three of them, doctors often do not look for any type of underlying cause. There are so many variables that go into conceiving a child that they have to account for the genetic defects being almost a given.  However, repeated miscarriages might indicate a problem that can be treated, such as a hormonal imbalance or a medical condition in one or both of the parents.  Women who suffer several miscarriages might be referred to a high-risk specialist who can closely monitor a pregnancy and carry out more research than a general practitioner might be able to so.

What happens after a miscarriage? 

Although a woman's body quickly recovers from a miscarriage, emotional scars can remain for a long time.  She may deal with depression and sadness over the loss, fear that it will happen again, anger that it could not be prevented, worry about ever having a child at all, relief because she was afraid to be a mother, or guilt from any of the above-mentioned emotions.  The husband or father may dealing with the same feelings, but might be less likely to discuss them.  Miscarriage, like any tragedy, can put a strain on relationships.  Some people who suffer miscarriage might opt for therapy or counseling to help come to terms with the loss.  Some couples want to try for a baby again immediately, and some couples never try again.  Like pregnancies, all miscarriages are very different.

My doctor told me that I am going to miscarry.  What should I do?

First, don't give up.  Doctors are people, and people make mistakes sometimes.  (For example, the doctors told my mother I was going to be a boy.  I am very much not a boy.  Also, a couple in my church was told that their oldest son was going to be born with Down Syndrome.  He is now a guitarist on our worship team and has never suffered any genetic disorders whatsoever.)  That being said, doctors generally do know what they are talking about.  Although you are probably feeling a lot of fear, sadness, and anxiety, the best thing you can do is try to have a rational talk with your doctor about your options.  I personally recommend either getting a second opinion or asking the doctor to take whatever steps are necessary to confirm that the pregnancy is not viable.  It's not over 'til it's over! 

Above all, remain calm.  If possible, take someone with you to your appointments - even if you are having a healthy pregnancy.  You might even want to write up a list of questions to ask before you see your doctor, and develop a plan in the event that the pregnancy is threatened.  (We tend to forget what's on our mind when we're sitting awkwardly in a drafty little dress on a cold table!)

Your doctor has probably already told you, but there was nothing you could have done to prevent the miscarriage.  It's true.  You did nothing wrong.  You are not broken.   This is not God or Mother Nature telling you that you should not have children.  You will get through this and you will inspire others.  And, you know what?  It's not going to take forever, either.  I promise.

I already lost my baby.  How am I supposed to move on?

Speaking after three losses, the first few days aren't the hardest part.  The facts haven't often sunk in yet, and you're either being whisked to a hospital for your surgery, or you're too focused on what is happening in your body to actually realize what is happening in your body.

First, do not, under any circumstances, withdraw from the love, support, or help that is offered.  I'm not saying that you have to answer every incoming call or reply to every text.  You will probably need time off work (I did).  You might want to get sucked into a good book or movie.  All those things are not only acceptable, but they do help diffuse the initial sharp pain of grief.  But the biggest mistake you can make is thinking that you're alone.  Not only do your have friends and family who care about you, but you're also one among a literal legion of women who have lost at least one pregnancy.  When I shared about my loss at my church, I was utterly shocked at the number of women who approached me and said that they went through it, too.  Some went through several.  All went on to have children.

Talk to your husband or boyfriend.  Remember that this is his loss, too.  Many couples choose to memorialize their lost child in some way.  A former co-worker of mine had a tree planted in honor of her baby.  Many people name their children, even if they didn't know the gender (my husband and I felt that we were pregnant with a girl, then two boys, and we named them accordingly).  Some people have jewelry or artwork made.   Some might consider a type of funeral, even if there is little or nothing to actually bury.   It's important to acknowledge your loss.  No matter what you might be feeling, please don't ignore it or pretend you were never pregnant.  You can't be healed of what you deny.

Do something special for yourself.  In our case, my husband and I love our sushi dates.  He first took me out for sushi to impress me (I married him less than a year later), and doing that at least once a month is still something that's special for us.  Well, pregnant women can't eat raw fish, so, after all three miscarriages, we went out for a huge sushi dinner.  It helped us reconnect and remember that we are here for each other - no matter what.  Maybe for you, it's getting a manicure or buying a new pair of heels you thought you couldn't wear while pregnant.  Do something to remind yourself that you're alive and as long as you're breathing, there is hope!

Once things settle a bit, talk to your doctor about your options. If this is the latest in a string of miscarriages, you might need to see a specialist who could possibly diagnose, and hopefully treat, an underlying problem. More than likely, though, you will get the green light to try again when you are emotionally ready (your body will likely be ready to get pregnant again in under three months - but the rest of you might take longer).

If, after a few months, you're finding that things are getting harder and not easier, you might want to think about getting some help.  Find out if your insurance covers therapy.  A lot of employers offer limited free counseling through wellness plans.  If you have a church or religious affiliation, you might seek help and guidance from a leader or mentor there.  Miscarriage is an unfortunate and often unexpected part of life, but it doesn't mean that yours is over.  Always remember that.

Oh, and something else...lay off the internet.  Especially if and when you conceive again.  The worst thing you can do is turn to a million and a half women who aren't you, who don't know you, and who don't have the same doctor as you, and ask them if your symptoms are normal.  Don't obsess over what "fruit" your baby is this week.  Don't panic over every single thing that might not seem "right".  Talk to your practitioner and your friends and family.  Not skrappym0m08 from Wisconsin, who claims she prevented a miscarriage by soaking her feet in vinegar and drinking onion juice, or something equally ridiculous.

If you can't get peace from talking to your doctor, try talking to God...even if you've never done it before.  He wants you to be calm and at rest more than you do.

My friend/relative suffered a miscarriage.  What do I do? 

DO:

Offer support.  Send a card or flowers.  Even better: consider bringing a meal to her, or even taking her out for one.  As with a woman who has given birth, a woman who has lost a child is probably not thinking about feeding herself or her family.   Such a simple act is often one of the most powerful things you can do for a couple who is dealing with something so overwhelming.  Also, if she's physically able, offer to take her shopping for a small gift or something to cheer her up.  (On a side note: after I lost my first baby, my friend Jaime, who is also my stylist, cut my hair for free and bought me a beautiful scarf at a local store we both love.  The act cost her practically nothing but I felt very loved and special.)

Be patient.  She might want to share all the details right away, or she may not feel comfortable with telling you what the doctor said.   She may never tell you anything beyond the fact that she lost her baby.  That's okay.  It's not your job to analyze her (unless you're her doctor or therapist).

Let her know you care, you're sorry, and you love her.  Honestly, such simple reminders are more comforting than you imagine.   Grieving people do not need flowery speeches and eloquent encouragement anymore than a fish needs a bicycle.  It's daunting to try to think of the "right" thing to say and, to be honest, there is almost never a "right" thing to say anyway.  So stick with the basics, heartfelt and simple: "I love you and I am so sorry you are going through this."   Offer to pray, if you like.  Few people ever decline prayer, no matter what they believe!

Mourn with her.  Allow her to be sad.  Grief sometimes frightens us because it doesn't feel good.  But allowing ourselves to feel sorrow not only leads to healing, but acknowledges the gravity of the situation.  For most women, the loss of a pregnancy is a significant life experience and should not be treated lightly.  (For a beautiful discussion on grief, please read my friend Dawn's blog post.  She wrote it while dealing with the unexpected loss of her cousin and uncle, which happened to coincide with my most recent miscarriage as well.)

Be sensitive.  If you have children - or if you are pregnant yourself - she might have a hard time being around you or your little ones for a while.  Ask about bringing them to visit before you do.  Respect her decision.

Share, if she's open to it.  If you have been through a similar situation and it may encourage her, gently offer to share your story.  Again, if she declines, respect her decision.  Be careful not to "compete with her grief".  Your story should never be about comparing your grief to hers. 

DON'T:

Tell her she can have more children.  First of all, you don't know that.  (Yes, the odds are high that she will eventually go on to have healthy babies.  But there are also many women who try for years to have children and are unable to do so.)  Second, you certainly wouldn't tell a man who has just lost his wife in a car accident that he'll get married again someday.  This is the same thing!  It's tempting to try to encourage a person like this, but it minimizes the tragedy and makes it seem like trying again will make the grief go away.  Don't do it.  Also; don't ask her if she is going to try again.  Or when.  That's not your business anyway.  (Along the same lines, don't immediately suggest adoption.  Although adoption is a wonderful, even a Biblically-endorsed idea, a woman trying to start a family naturally might see it as a last resort.  Yes, it's an option.  She knows that already.  She's probably already thought of it.)

Say that it's for the best.  Even though chances are extremely high that the baby died due to severe physical or mental defects, no woman wants to be reminded that her child, had it survived, could have been considered by society a "monster" or a "freak".

Quote the Bible (or other religious text). Unless you plan to back it up with your actions, that is.  Let me qualify this: the Bible is a fantastic (may I humbly say that it's probably the best) source of encouragement, promises, life and hope...but please do not dishonor it by simply plastering a verse on someone's facebook wall and never following up with your own loving acts of kindness.  Too often, however, we look to the Bible for a sympathetic or comforting scripture, all the while forgetting that a majority of the Bible talks about loving others, grieving with those who are grieving, and backing up our words with actions. 

Take things personally.  She might not return your call.  She may never mention the card you sent.  That's all right.  You showed that you care, and she knows that.  She won't forget.  It mattered. 

Ignore the signs of prolonged grief disorder.  Although this is not at all common, a woman or couple who has suffered a miscarriage (particularly if it happened later in the pregnancy, after the sex was determined, for example) might sink into a depression that actually interferes with day-to-day living.  This is a serious and debilitating condition that does require medical intervention.  If, six months or so after the loss, your friend has not made efforts to recover or move on with life in any way, you might want to gently suggest that she consider getting help. 

As I am no counselor or medical professional, I can only share the above based on my own personal experience.  For those of you who are, sadly, going through this type of situation, I leave you with the gentle reminder that you are absolutely not alone.  I hope that what I have shared is a practical guide for both the emotional and physical aspects of dealing with and healing from miscarriage.  If there is anyone reading this who feels the need to talk about their experience or who has further questions, I can be reached at RebeccaGodlove@hotmail.com.

One Year Later

It's America's Independence Day, and other than my gratitude towards all parties whose contributions have made that possible, I'm not really thinking about it.

It was a year ago on July 1 that my husband and I first learned we were pregnant.  The twelve long months that followed were easily the worst in my life.  Ross felt forced to take a job, within his company, further from home, tripling his commute time.  I took a pay cut to leave the bank for a job with better hours.  My uncle lost both his parents.  And, worst of all for us, we lost two babies.

Even though I fancy myself a writer, I find it hard to find the words to describe exactly what it feels like to learn that a baby has died within your body.  I've written about my own experience, yes, but the waves of guilt, shock, disbelief, fear, anger, depression, hopelessness and jealousy that continually flood over a woman during and afterward are beyond words.

I had really been struggling with the feelings that developed with my second miscarriage.  I knew that healing would not come overnight, but I found myself really wrestling with my feelings towards God, trying to convince myself I wasn't angry with him.  I internalized a lot of anger.  I stopped listening to Christian music entirely because it didn't feel real to me anymore.  It's not that I stopped believing in God or that I stopped being a Christian.  It was just that this situation had become a huge hurdle in my life...something I didn't feel like I was clearing.

It's hard for me to admit this, but I felt completely and utterly deceived.  Deflated.    I could not reconcile the fact that everyone around me, including my church, believed in their hearts that this was it - with the fact that my baby had passed away.  This was supposed to be God's promise fulfilled and it was supposed to be my time.  This baby was supposed to a blessing - which is why we named him Bennett - and he was supposed to bring a lot of people joy. 

We supposed everything wrong.  Having walked through it myself, I can absolutely see why such a tragedy would sour a person's faith in God.  "God," I even found myself saying, "What is wrong with you?  Why did you do this?  Why did you promise everything, and surround me with those who supported that promise, and then allow my baby to die?"  Those half-hearted murmurs of "something was probably wrong with the baby" never help.  I found myself truly fighting, coming out swinging against the Lord.  "God - you created the universe.  You created the heavens and the earth and every star in the sky.  You created seasons and trees and oceans and the FREAKING PLATYPUS, God.  YOU MADE A PLATYPUS.  Why would you not step in and create a healthy baby in my womb?" 

I never got a response.  For a time, I retreated further into myself, snapping more at my husband, avoiding social situations, and craving sleep a whole lot more.  I was seriously considering talking to someone about therapy or counseling.  I was empty.

Over the past several weeks, Pastor Mark has been sharing an excellent series on healing - how we receive it, how we keep it, how Jesus ministered it.  I've been taking what he has been saying and applying it to my life - believing that my womb is healed, even thanking God the next time I get pregnant, it will be at the right time, with the right cells meeting, and that I will be able to sustain it.  Yet I still struggled with doubt and sorrow.  Two weeks ago, however, as he was praying for those who came to the altar for prayer and healing, he leaned over and spoke a few gentle words of encouragement in my ear.  I truly feel that the Spirit had whispered those words to his heart, because they were exactly what I needed - and from a spiritual leader in my life.  It wasn't a deep, profound prophetic word.  I didn't fall to the ground shaking.  There was no deep, booming "THUS SAITH THE LORD" echoing around me. 

But that's the cool thing with God: he knows just what you need, when you need it.  Even if you don't know it yourself. 

Since then I have been able to find peace in my situation.  Of course, I am still sad about my children.  I still have pangs of jealousy when I see glowing pregnant women.  But the hopelessness is gone.  The dragging-myself-through-mud feeling is gone.  I am beginning to believe again that I can have a child.  These experiences weren't the end of the line for me, but they also weren't little bumps in the road, to be disregarded and forgotten.  Maybe they were a detour.  But now I'm back on track. 

A former Starbucks co-worker has asked me to write about my experience for her website.  I was hugely honored, and agreed right away because writing has always helped me deal with my feelings.  I wrote the article but something told me not to send it to her just yet.  I still needed to distance myself a little bit from the event.  A week later, I was able to finish the article with confidence and hope, knowing that hope is the one treasure that cannot be taken away - only given away.  And I won't give mine away for anything.

On Sunday, one year after that big fat plus sign showed up on a stick, one year after tragedy and sorrow filled my life, one year after my emotions have run my ragged...I was able to visit with my friend Dawn's newborn baby girl.

And I was at peace.