Multiple Choice

Today, my dad reminded me that I can choose fear or faith.

Not both.

The interesting thing about that statement is that it presents us with a concept that we don't often imagine.  Choosing something that is usually considered an emotion.  But faith, like love and forgiveness, is a decision we make.  A lifestyle.  Not a default reaction.  Not a feeling.

Which do you choose?

This week, I got some less-than-great news at my OB-GYN appointments.  It wasn't bad news; just disappointing.  Although the baby is developing just fine, he's measuring quite small.  I know that technicians can only imperfectly guess about the weight of a fetus, he's currently (barely) tipping the scales at just under 5 pounds, plus he's breech right now.  That, however, isn't my biggest concern - especially since I am only five feet tall and his daddy's on the short side of average, too.  My real challenge is my blood pressure.

Lots of you know that I was diagnosed with hypertension about four years ago.  I saw my PCP and a cardiologist, both of whom determined that my weight at the time, while high, would not have caused the numbers they were seeing.  After exams and bloodwork, the frustrating conclusion was that it was simply "unexplained".  Genetic.  Ugh.  Last year, I worked very hard to change my eating habits, exercise frequently, and reduce my sodium intake.  I was doing about 50 minutes of cardio four or five times a week, and I ended up crossing something off my bucket list that I didn't even know was on it - I ran in Pittsburgh's Great Race!

All in all, I lost a total of about 19 pounds from my curvy but small frame.  I wanted to lose another 10 more, but then (wonderfully!) got pregnant and put that goal aside.  Still, though, my blood pressure was high.  I was deeply frustrated.  I'd followed all the "rules" to reduce it naturally, but my efforts were met with the same ugly numbers every time: 140/100.

I was given medication during my pregnancy to maintain my blood pressure, which has helped thus far - especially given my 4-month stretch of doctor-ordered abstaining from all exercise.  After I was cleared for exercise, I found that I was so short of breath that I could hardly move without my inhaler anyway.  So it was basically a no-go, and I'm not thrilled to say that I've gained around 40 pounds so far.  Everyone insists it's "all belly", but I'm not so sure.  Still, that's another story for another time.

My doctor has been both optimistic and realistic with me.  He had celebrated every little victory with us along the way - hearing the heartbeat, feeling the kicks, passing the glucose test.  Yet he has also gently reminded me that, due to my chronic hypertension, I'd have to be closely monitored the further along I was.  No truer were those words than today, when my non-stress test results apparently disappointed the other doctor in the practice, who ordered two more in the next seven days.  The baby's heart rate is normal, but I guess he's not moving as much as they would like.  

Now, if you compare him to other babies, you're right.  However, since the beginning, he's been on the "lazy" side, if you will.  Unlike many babies, he doesn't keep me up at night kicking.  He actually sleeps at night and seems to wake up around 10 in the morning.  He has some flurries of activity around then, right before lunch, around 2:30, then after dinner.  That's sort of his schedule.  It has been since I felt him kick on Valentine's Day this year!  

My pregnancy hasn't matched up with "the norm" either, though!  The subchorionic hematoma I suffered happens only 10% of the time.  I'm eight months along after three unexplained, consecutive miscarriages.   I didn't break out in acne like most other moms-to-be.  I didn't have much morning sickness at all, and I never threw up once (except for a brief bout with the stomach flu).  So I'm different, I guess it stands to reason that baby might be, too.

Still, we're moving forward with tests for the dreaded but as-yet-unspoken diagnosis of pre-eclampsia hanging over my head.  I'll hear soon enough, as I'm pretty sure the technician at Quest drew enough blood today to keep Nosterafu fed for a week.  If I do have it, my already uber-flexible birth plan will just have to morph yet again.  They will likely have to deliver the baby early for his sake and mine, since pre-E, as it's called, can truly be deadly.  Even if I don't have it, they might want me on bed rest since the baby isn't doing much to impress them right now.   

So I'm left at a crossroads.  As I'm finishing packing up my hospital bags and determining what cute little onesie my baby will prefer to come home in, I can choose faith or fear.

It seems like fear is the more reasonable option.  It makes more sense, after all.  I should be afraid, shouldn't I?  Of an emergency c-section, of my baby winding up in the NICU, of having to leave him behind for testing once I am discharged. 

But fear won't get me through the next month.  It will cripple me, then trip me, then laugh when I can't get back up.  It will stifle my breathing and disturb my sleep and whisper "what if" in my ears a thousand times a day.  It will invite me to play out the worst possible scenarios in my head over and over until I'm convinced they are the unalterable future.

Faith, however, will give me breath each morning - just enough for the day.  Faith asks no more than to allow tomorrow to be tomorrow, and let today be today.  Faith reminds me that God has not abandoned me, that my friends are with me.  That my husband was by my side for all three of our losses, and he is here now.  Faith instructs me to do what I can and put everything else in the hands of my Maker.  And, with a shy smile, faith gently admonishes me that worry adds no years to my life and no strength to my journey.

I choose faith.  It's not a feeling.  It's a decision.  Even if I feel fear, I don't have to choose it.  

I won't let it speak for me.  Or to me.

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.

Crazy Cat Lady

I do not believe in ghosts.  Or that the spirits of the dead can inhabit the bodies of the living.  I do, however, believe that spiritual gifts can be passed from one generation to another.

Freyja's new toy.  :-/

Now, granted, I don't recall that "talking to animals" is listed among any spiritual gifts in the New Testament.  Nevertheless, I'm thinking that, just maybe, upon her passing, my mom's uncanny and often freakish ability to connect with animals may have fallen upon my shoulders.

I mean, I held a chipmunk the other day.  That's, like, Disney Princess level animal communication, right?!

I guess maybe it's more of a mutant power than a spiritual gift.

My mom, to my recollection, was never a social butterfly.  She was certainly good with people, especially when she worked in the service industry.  But she was never, ever a "let's chat over a cappuccino" kind of girl.  Especially in her later years, I think she preferred the company of animals to people.  I mean, can you blame her?  Scroll through your Facebook feed for thirty seconds if you still wonder a person might like dogs better than humans.

My mom rescued a groundhog who had gotten his head stuck in a jelly jar.  My mom taught our adopted mutt to obey commands that she spelled.  My mom caught and freed panicked hummingbirds that had gotten trapped in our garage.  My mom had four neighborhood pups trained to line up on her porch for treats twice a day.  My mom nursed a mostly-dead tomcat back to full-fluffed, glossy and shiny health, despite repeated suggestions that she let the local vet "put that thing out of its misery".  I am fairly certain that my mom could have taught a fish to sing or a rabbit to brew her tea.  My mom had a gift.

Granted, I fell head-over-heels in love with my sweet Thor long before we lost my mom, and we adopted our snuggly Loki months before she passed away.  Yes, I cuddle them, even when I am wearing black (Thor in particular enjoys leaving his soft gray brand of fluff all over the house).  Yes, I have long, detailed conversations with them.  I also baby-talk to them.  I sometimes even let them sleep with me.  But. . .

. . .Twoper - now Freyja - didn't stroll back into my life until after my mom was gone.  I wouldn't be surprised if she'd asked God to send us just one more kitty to love - one cat to temporarily fill the void left after each of our lost pregnancies.  Three fur-babies to love.  Freyja will be getting a visit to the vet in the next few weeks, if we can set aside the money, and she'll be moving from Porch Cat to her rightful place as a Cat of Asgard.  She is certainly the gentlest cat I've ever met.  In the more than six weeks that she has been hanging around my house, not once has she scratched, swatted, or bit at Ross or me - or anyone else.  In fact, during our Geek Gala, she positioned herself like a tiny, loaf-shaped sentry in the middle of the porch and saw our guests out with a rumbly meow.  I love to cuddle with her and scratch her back.

Last week, when Ross and I were leaving Target, we encountered a man about our age holding an absolutely gorgeous gray and black kitten.  "You guys want a cat?" he asked.  I must have looked shocked, because he hurriedly continued, "I found her by Chick-Fil-A and I gave her some food and now she won't leave me alone."  Sure enough, when he placed her on the ground, she sniffed at Ross, then our truck, and rubbed up against me, but lingered nearby.  Of course I wanted her!  Ross even had the same look on his face that he did when we impulsivelyadopted Loki.  But four cats?  With one not even house-trained yet?  "I'm sorry," I said sadly, "We just adopted out local stray, or else we'd take her."  "That's what happened to us!  That's how we got our cat," the guy replied enthusiastically.  At least we could tell he was a cat-friendly person.  As we reluctantly left, I prayed that the little girl would end up in a home that really needed the unconditional love of a pet.

Loki is a Jedi.

That's the thing about cats, people.  Yes, they do have a reputation for being aloof, solitary, and, thanks to internet-sensation Tardar Sauce (AKA Grumpy Cat), even arrogant.  Some are, I guess.  Unlike those cats of world wide web fame, Loki is flat-out sociable.  She jumps into the laps of people who are trying to eat at my dinner table.  She spent all of last month's party in the middle of the living room, politely perched on a pillow or examining vacant chairs.  She plays fetch with her woefully ragged cloth mice (the last gift my mom had picked out for them before she died).  She is curious and desperately cuddly (some of the time).  Thor, I guess, is more your typical housecat.  He is irritated by changes in routine; he's possessive; he's often dismissive.  He thinks he's the alpha male, but he doesn't really act like it.  But with me, he's a bundle of loving fluff.  He curls up on my chest at night, before I go to bed, and demands that I put my phone down to nuzzle his nose.  He'll flop on the couch and watch television with me.  He lets me flip him on his back and stick my face in his bunny-soft belly fur.  He lets me clip his claws with absolutely no protest.  He even lets us bathe him

Thor is a superhero.

with minimal fuss.  And it was Thor who came to me when I learned of my friend Linda's passing, and he sat with me on the bathroom floor until I was done crying.

Freyja will  likely have her own set of quirks when she moves in.  I can't wait to see how she lets us love her, and how she shows her love in return.

Yes, this formerly skeptical girl has become a full-blown crazy cat lady.  Apparently, contrary to popular opinion, being happily married does not prevent this condition.  Even my baby sis, dog-mom to the Unreasonably Huge Mutt, Tex, admits that her recently-adopted kitten, Ranger, has wormed his way into her heart and become a part of her family much faster than she expected.

All I can say is "told you so!"

Overcomer

There are times when I listen to a lot of Christian music.  There are times, a lot lately, when I prefer oldies or classic rock - or a good dose of Pat Benatar or Billy Idol.  Still, I'd heard a lot of buzz about Christian pop star Mandisa's recently-released single, Overcomer.  I've developed a lot of respect for this woman since I had first learned about her.  

Foremost, she is openly and joyfully in love with Jesus, and that is a beautiful thing.  She is an optimist but is down-to-earth and readily admits her faults.  Yes, I base much of my impression on social media, but let's be honest: if you were trying to look more put-together than you really are, why talk about how much you love your bed on Facebook?  The girl is real.  Her very public dismissal from American Idol by Simon Cowell, who snidely insulted her weight - as well as her immediate, gracious, and loving reply - were what launched her career, rather than canning it.  While much of America looks to actress Jennifer Lawrence as their "everywoman" - unashamed to talk about food, prone to goofing around, and all-around decent, I relate more, I think, to Mandisa.  I could actually imagine sitting down with her and joking about clothing a zaftig figure, loving Southern-fried food, and how there are a lot of days when Christians don't even feel saved.

So, when I heard her new song for the first time, I cried.  The message, like many of hers, is both simple and essential.  The theme of overcoming is mentioned a lot in the Bible.  It can be found in 1 John 5:4, where is is clearly stated "For whatever is born of God overcomes the world. And this is the victory that has overcome the world—our faith."  

The concept of living victoriously because Jesus triumphed over the grave is not, as some think, a "bonus blessing" only to be received by an elite few.  I am learning that is actually a fundamental building block of the faith!  If you have accepted the already pretty hard-to-swallow idea that Jesus is God's son, that He died for your sins, that He rose from the dead, and that He absolutely and completely adores you, then the next step is to believe that He actually wants you to live a full and fulfilling life.  That doesn't, of course, mean that your life will always be comfortable, or that you will never experience stress, sorrow, or pain.  But it does mean that you have the power and the choice to look past your circumstances into the eyes of the One who created you, who actually wants you to experience peace and joy.  

Don't get me wrong, here.  I am not preaching or promising a life full of warm fuzzies!  I'm speaking from a place of, well, not a lot of warm fuzzies myself.  I'm missing my mom.  I can hardly believe it's been seven months already since she passed away.  I mourn the loss of my children.  Ross is having a very hard time finding a job that suits him better than his current one.  His hours do not allow for a lot of quality time with me or our families.  

I can focus on the things that make me unhappy, or I can focus on the fact that, in spite of everything that is painful and uncertain right now, God does have a plan for my future, and everything will be okay.

I listen to Overcomer most days during my lunchtime power-walk.  It reminds me that, according to God's word, I'm not an overcomer when I see, feel, or experience victory.  I am one now.  I am allowed and even encouraged to hold me head high, smile, and walk joyfully through any situation with the knowledge that my enemy cannot destroy me.  I am an overcomer, even though I have lost three pregnancies.  God is bigger than miscarriage.  God is bigger than the doctors' response of "we don't know what's wrong."  God is bigger than the fear that threatens to rise up and suffocate me when I think about trying to conceive again.

June 2012, at my sister's wedding.

I have not yet seen victory in that area of my life, but I my spirits are lifted by the victory I am seeing in another area - weight loss.  Like Mandisa, I have grown more conscientious of my health in the past several months.  In the past year, I have (slowly!) lost nearly 20 pounds.  I was a size 13 in Juniors' styles this January, and I'm now beginning to try on size 7.  

 

 

This is uncharted territory for me!  I have never in my adult life dreamed of it.  I'm having more fun with fashion - even embracing skinny jeans!  Beyond that, I know that I am helping my heart and lungs, and even possibly helping to prepare my body for a healthy

August, 2013.

pregnancy.  Soon, I hope!  While I may not reach my goal weight by my November birthday, I have proven to myself that I can make a difference in my own life.  God's presence throughout this process has been subtle.  He hasn't shown up with a loud voice and fireworks, but he has calmly and steadily given me the strength to stop believing the lies I've told myself, or let others tell me.  The lie that my asthma was my identity.  The lie that it was no use to try to change, because everything was always going to be the same.  The lie that I just had to accept my family's health history as my own, and just wait for diabetes to set in.  The lie that I never, ever accomplish my goals.  The lie that I'm not worth taking care of.

That's the key to really accepting the fact that you're already an overcomer.  It's to stop listening to the lies that whisper "you're not good enough, God doesn't love you enough, and he isn't big enough to help you."  Once you finally understand that his grace is enough, he does love you enough and more than enough, and he is big enough to handle your pain and doubt, you can start to live like an overcomer - even if you don't feel like one.

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.

Ghosts of Christmas Past...and Future

Ross and I spent Christmas Eve in the hospital.

Well, only a few hours, really.  That morning, as we were rushing to get ready to visit his parents for lunch, Ross received a disturbing e-mail from his mom.  In a nutshell, she said that Ross's dad may have had a mini-stroke, and they were in the hospital, and not to come visit because they weren't home.  Naturally, we made plans to visit the hospital at once.  We were encouraged by a call from Ross's dad, who tried to make light of the situation as best he could.

I won't get into all the details here, but suffice it to say that, being the holiday, John did not really get the care he needed.  An MRI was promised on Christmas Eve and, as of Cindy's update last night, it still hadn't been done.  He will likely be in the hospital for several more days.

Ross spent a lot of time being reflective the past few days.  Although we had a really wonderful Christmas dinner with my family (it was a pajama party - I have awesome relatives!), I could tell that he was thinking about his dad.  And who could blame him?  Two of our good friends lost parents in the past few months.  A former co-worker of mine lost her grandmother around the same time.  We buried a friend from church two weeks ago who was about John's age.  And, of course, this year we had two miscarriages. 

Of course it was scary to think of losing him.

I got to thinking that is has been a miserable year for so many of my friends.  Divorce, death, disappointment, job loss, broken relationships, political upheaval, busted vehicles, and of course, increasingly horrifying news stories, like those out of Connecticut and Oregon, have been on a seemingly endless parade through our lives.  I don't know why.  In a strange way, I feel comforted.  I know that I was not alone in my grief this year.  That isn't to say I'd wish loss or destruction on anyone else, of course. 

It's just that Christmas has always been a hard time of the year for me, like it is for so very many people.  It's a myth, I think, that only unmarried or otherwise lonely people become depressed around the holidays.  What about those who have lost a dear friend or relative, or a child - especially those who are experiencing their first Christmas without that person?  Those who are missing servicemen or women who are deployed?  Those who have been through a divorce, regardless of whether they have remarried?  Even those who are questioning their faith for one reason or another - the sweet and hopeful message of Christmas can be a difficult one to understand or accept.

This Christmas should have seen us with a beautiful baby girl.  Olivia would have been 10 months old - the perfect age to enjoy her first Christmas.  Old enough to smile, giggle, and babble at relatives, but young enough to cuddle and pass from aunt to aunt.  Yet that isn't how we spent our holiday, and I don't think I will ever know why. 

Still - I am grateful that my family is growing closer through our losses.  My uncle lost both his parents last year, and Ross and I offered out home for Thanksgiving dinner.  It might have been one of the best things we could have done for the family.  Since then we have been spending more time with my dad, step-mum, aunt, uncle, and Gram - it's really all I have left.  My sisters are out of town and my mother is out-of-state.  My grandmother's brothers and sisters have all passed away, and my aunt and uncle never had children.  I don't have first cousins.  It's only seven of us.  But we're continuing to grow closer.  I am deeply grateful for that.  There isn't any of that holiday drama surrounding us - unless my dad gets peevish and wants to discuss a hot political topic over coffee...but those conversations are becoming more rare as we realize that spending precious time together is far more important than being "right" politcally or morally.  Fortunately, we all know and love Jesus and find our hope in Him.  It's He alone who has been our strength this past year, even when we have felt faint and weak.   

I have, many times this year, felt like a ghost.  We taught the kids around Halloween that there are no such things as ghosts - at least, not like the ghosts Hollywood tells us about.  Yet, it is that very image I feel I have been portraying...listless, pale, caught between two worlds and unsure of how to move forward. 

In the year ahead, I am praying that this "ghostly" feeling is replaced by the power and conviction of the Holy Spirit, and that I, and my friends, are given new strength to forge ahead.  I think another year like this one will utterly break me.  I can admit that now.  Although my faith is still strong, trust me - it's been shaken these past long months.  I keep returning to that place of "Why, God?" and I get no answer.  I don't know that I ever will in this lifetime.  But that's not as depressing as it sounds.

This year has also brought with it a new infusion of hope.  Because of my faith, the very thing that has been shaken and bruised and battered of late, I believe that there is an infinity beyond this life.  God has given me a greater sense of eternity this year.  I cannot see or comprehend "forever", yet it exists simultaneously with "now" - at least to God, for whom time is no barrier.  It's so difficult to put into words, but there is an odd and deep sense of peace that comes to me when I think of eternity.  I know it makes some people anxious, or confused, or irritated.  Many people - even those who believe as I do -  live their whole lives without actually contemplating it.  Some dismiss it entirely.  Yet because I have contemplated it, and studied it, and believe in it, I have been rewarded with the promise of seeing my children, who died before they were born.  I have the promise of dancing with Linda at the throne of Christ.  I have the promise of seeing my friends' parents and telling them "You raised some darn amazing kids!"

I have the promise of life everlasting.  I need that to be my focus for 2013.  Health for now, and hope for eternity.

Too Much Death

The holidays are difficult for many people for hundreds of reasons.  For some, it's the pressure of financial strain on an already tight budget.  For others, it's the great void of loneliness stretching out in the "festive" weeks ahead.  For a lot of people, it's a time of stress and travel anxieties - ferrying kids to one grandparent's house then the other, of trying to evenly divide hours between divorced parents.

For many, I think, the holidays represent the anniversary of a loss.  They are a painful time because celebration is blanketed by a sense of regret, loss, longing, and sometimes shame. 

Lately, I've seen far too much talk of death on facebook.  A friend's mother lost her long, long battle with cancer just a few weeks ago.  A friend posted about a two-week-old baby passing away.  A former co-worker's grandmother just died.  All of this in the past month.  Over the past few weeks, my family has been touched by the cold hand of death, too.  First came the dreaded due date: December 5th.  Our son Bennett was supposed to be in our arms right now - just one week old.  But we lost him.  Then, my sister-in-law, Lindsey, lost her beloved bunny, Erte.  I know that pets and people aren't the same, but like us, Lindsey and her husband Jay have no children.  They adored their pets and, frankly, they were probably more like family than Ross and I were - at least in the sense that we only got to see Jay and Lindsey a few times a year, where their bunny and cat were constant companions.  As I grow more and more attached to Thor and Loki, I can see why people take losing a pet so seriously.  So I grieved with Jay and Lindsey over the loss of their quirky, sweet little 12-year-old bunny.  In fact, for years, the holidays have been difficult for me.  Although God has restored my family in ways I never would have expected, it was around Christmas time over 15 years ago that my Dad left my Mom.  I can wholly understand why people dread the holiday season.

But just a few minutes ago, things got much harder.

I just got word from our church office that Linda Kessler went home to be with Jesus.

Linda had recently been diagnosed with an extremely fast-moving cancer that had spread throughout her body.  In a matter of weeks, she had grown weak and sick.  The doctors had performed test after test for other illnesses before realizing it was cancer.  They gave her one month to live, without chemotherapy.  They guessed she might have up to a year, with it.

Linda had three days of chemotherapy.  She ran into the arms of her Savior last night.

I hate obituaries, because they try to wrap a person's life up into a tiny, four-line black and white package to be printed in an upcoming newspaper that few people will ever see anyway.  Therefore, I will tell what I can of my experience with the amazing, wonderful Linda Kessler - before the cancer attacked her.

Linda was a woman of medium height and build, with long, slightly graying blonde hair.  She always dressed simply and modestly.  She wore Vanilla Fields perfume, the same brand my mother liked to wear.  When I told her that - that she smelled like my mom - she smiled hugely, as though it were the kindest thing in the world I could have said to her.   She worked at Sam's Club.  She had been divorced, but I never knew any details.  She had children - one of whom was a son who died last year, around the time we lost Bennett.  I remember going to her and just hugging her - like she'd hugged me so many times before, both in joy and sorrow.  I said, "I don't know how I know, but I am sure your son is taking care of my babies in Heaven."  She nodded fervently and said, "Michael loved kids.  He adored them.  I know that's exactly what he is doing right now."  And we both found hope.

Linda was a worshiper.  She could be found every Sunday morning, standing off to the side in the front of the sanctuary, so as not to disturb anyone else, waving her banner and holding her hands outstretched to the Lord.  She had a look of peace on her face, with her eyes closed and a little smile on her lips.  Her brows were always drawn together, as if her love for God was so great it might hurt her.  When I began to take pictures during church events, I frequently focused on her.  She was always there, always passionate: the picture of someone madly in love with Jesus, and humbled in turn by His love for her.

Linda was an encourager.  In spite of what she had endured in her life, she was a genuinely loving and happy person.  She liked to make other people feel happy, too.  She loved children and teenagers.  They often ended up sitting near her during special services, or before they left the sanctuary to attend their classes.  Linda liked that.  She wasn't one of those crabby older women who just wanted to be done with kids, or thought they were disturbing the "real people" from paying attention to the pastor's message.  I liked that a lot about Linda. 

Linda was faithful.  She was at almost every meeting I could think of; she served as an usher and greeter every Sunday and served at nearly every special service we held for Pastor Billy Burke, a healing evangelist.  She scheduled her whole life around church, it seemed.  It was where she was happiest.  It was where she could make other people happy.

Last night, she breathed her last and opened her eyes in paradise.

This is hard for me, personally, because I feel like I let Linda down.  I had the chance to visit with her this past Sunday, and bring to her a card the youth group had signed.  I remember being very impressed with what the kids wrote to her.  Not a single one of them simply signed his or her name.  Even those who did not know her well had something cheerful, kind, or encouraging to write.  I was deeply moved.  The kids who I worried about - the ones who sometimes seemed like they cared more for themselves than anything else - wrote loving, sweet, thoughtful things to encourage a sick woman. 

And, because I didn't visit her on Sunday, she never got the chance to read them.

I kept thinking that one day wouldn't make a difference; I had asked Ross to mail the card yesterday morning.  He did so, going so far as to pull a stamp off another letter because we didn't have any more stamps.  And, as I got out of the shower this morning, my phone chirped an e-mail notification.  I read the message from the office and I began to cry.  Thor came into the bathroom immediately.  You know how they say that animals just know things?  He curled up in my arms and licked me and purred in my ear and meowed his sympathies until I stopped crying. 

I had received my healing last week and I believed that Linda would, too.  If God could mend a tiny tear in my fragile retina, what could possibly keep him from plucking cancer out of the cells in Linda's body?  The youth group prayed with us.  Ross and I have prayed the last few days.  Linda received prayer at a healing meeting last month. 

Why did she die?

Christians struggle so much with this question.  I don't have an answer.  I don't know why Linda had to succumb to the cancer, and why some other people are healed through surgery, therapy and radiation, and why others are healed miraculously, never to get another negative diagnosis again.

I don't know.  Because I am not God.

Something that comforted me deeply when I lost my babies is this thought: God didn't make any mistakes and all of us were designed for a specific purpose.  I believe that some of us were designed specifically for Heaven.  Our roles and existence await us there - passing over a life on earth.  I truly believe that my three children had jobs that were so urgent waiting for them in Heaven that they bypassed time here.  I'd like to think that God had a Linda-shaped hole in Heaven and a job that only her compassion, gentleness and faithfulness could possibly complete.  I don't know that such an idea is found anywhere in scripture, but it doesn't conflict with anything there, either, and so I have accepted it to gain a little bit of peace.  If you are a person who is genuinely eternity-minded - like Linda was - the vastness of "forever" isn't scary or daunting, but comforting. 

I wish I could have said good-bye.  I sincerely do.  But it would have been temporary at best.  It won't be long before I get to see Linda again.   And she can introduce me to her son who so lovingly has looked after my children.

That is the hope of Christ is us.

Entering New Territory...

For much of my life, I'm afraid I chose to take a pessimistic viewpoint.  On pretty much everything.  People probably woulnd't like me; I probably wouldn't get the roles I auditioned for, I probably wouldn't ever get married; people would probably misunderstand me; I'd probably never be happy.

I wish I could say that, when I found Christ, that attitude changed overnight and I woke up a wide-eyed, fantastically-coiffed Disney princess with a melody in my heart, but things didn't work out that way.  Instead, my journey away from pessimism has crossed a long bridge of realism and there have been detours into rationalism and egoism, fanaticism and legalism, materialism and idealism. 

I still sometimes struggle with anxiety stemming from assuming the worst about people and situations.  It's not debilitating, not anything that needs medication or counseling (at least I think not), but it sometimes interferes with my relationships and my sense of peace.

Today was one of those days where NONE of that applied.  It should have, but it didn't.

Around 3:00 today, I was called into my manager's office and respectfully told that since the company had recently lost so many major clients, lay-offs were necessary.

And I was one of them.

I cocked my head to one side and heard words coming out of my mouth, but I don't remember thinking them or even really saying them.  I said something along the lines of understanding that the situation must be stressful and difficult for her, and asking for a reference, and asking if the change was effective immediately.

Yes, yes, and yes, came the replies.

And I shook her hand, thanked her, and left the office.

I returned to my desk, pulled down the pictures of my husband and myself, put my empty coffee mug into my bag, and - in the back of my mind, somewhere - I thought that it was infinitely convenient that I'd left my cloth grocery bag in my desk the night before, so I had somewhere to put my pictures and coffee mugs.

It seemed to me that the layoffs were being done quietly, so I didn't say anything as I left.  I assume that my co-workers thought I was headed to another doctor's appointment, and I left it at that.

I feel that this was a fairly sudden decision.  I had just been moved from my cardiology account to work on two I hadn't worked on before.  I had moved to a desk in another part of the office, and I was really excited for the challenge.  I was ready for a fresh start, to apply some of the things I had learned previously, and to really put my all into working these new accounts.  I had determined that I wouldn't get behind on my work, that I would stay positive, and that I would be as organized and neat as I possibly could. 

Even though I'd only been on the accounts for a week, I was feeling pretty good. 

Today was definitely unexpected.  I left the office in a little bit of a daze, but when I got to the parking lot, I was in my right mind, at least enough to destroy a large bug that landed on my door, while simultaneously waving good-bye to two of my co-workers and talking to my husband on the phone (shock does not, apparently, affect my ability to multi-task). 

Ross took things extremely well.  He even joked that I told him the wrong way.  I was supposed to ask him to join me for lunch - like he did when he lost his job at the Treasury Department.  Of course, I came home and immediately applied for unemployment and starting the job hunt.  Dollar Bank, I am hoping, would take me back, and there are a lot of options out there for me.  Still, I am dead-set on having regular daylight hours so I can continue to work with the youth at church.  At this point, that is now my number one priority. 

It has to be.  If I overanalyze, I might lose my mind again.

So, in the meantime, I'll write, I'll photograph, I'll keep dreaming.  I will do something.  I am grateful that I am quickly coming to terms with our most recent loss, or this whole situation would be an ugly bomb of mascara-smeared depression waiting to explode.  See?  God knew.  People can say what they want.  I don't care.  I don't believe that God brings evil situations into our lives, but I do believe that he gives us the opportunity to learn from them and use them to prepare for our futures.  The way that this last miscarriage unfolded brought me sorrow but a lot of peace.  If this one had been like the last, losing my job would have been absolute chaos.  Knowing myself, I believe it would have sent me packing back for the road towards pessimism.  Maybe worse.

But that's not how things happened.  And there's a reason.

Just last night, Pastor Stephanie shared with our leadership small group a lesson: that stretching for your goals is impossible without first having goals.  Sometimes they are God-given, others they are given by parents, employers, or teachers. 

And so here is mine, without fanfare, without fuss, for all the internet to see: as I am looking for another job that allows me to keep working with the youth, I am going to finish my book.  The one that's been rolling around in my head for a year and a half now, the one that's been on my mind almost as much as my grief.  The one that makes me laugh when I think about it.  The one that I picture in my head like a movie.

The one that was meant to be written.

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.