In Honor Of...

...the women with arms aching to hold a child.

...the men who haven't yet born the title of "Daddy".

...the children who weren't for this world.

...the victims who received that heart-stopping diagnosis.

I think it is fascinating that Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month is observed in October, at the same time as Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  Both miscarriage and breast cancer can leave a woman feeling deeply violated, less "feminine", and more vulnerable.  They attack the parts of our bodies that identify us as female: our wombs and our breasts.  There is a great deal more to being women than bras and babies, of course, but in the simplest sense, these two tragedies strike at the very heart of femininity.  I know that men can be and are affected by breast cancer and pregnancy loss as well, but on the whole, these are women's struggles with their own bodies.

When I suffered my miscarriages, I felt deeply betrayed by my body.  Biologically speaking, an adult female's body is meant largely to nurture its young.  Three times, my body proved that it was incapable of doing so.  Three times, the test was positive, and three ultrasounds later confirmed that our babies had died within the very cocoon that was meant to sustain them.  

Pregnancy Loss Awareness ribbon
 image from camolove.com

Although I have never been diagnosed with breast cancer, my friends who have say it's rather a whirlwind experience.  One day, things are fine, and the next, you think there might be a lump.  I can't imagine the excruciating frustration and fear that comes with waiting for test results.  Trying to decide how to tell loved ones.  Preparing for surgery, radiation, more tests.  Losing hair.  Losing weight.  Losing strength.  Losing hope.

Ah, hope.  Emily Dickinson called it "that thing with feathers" that keeps us going through stormy seas, that endlessly supplies is with optimism and faith for our future.  It's the one thing that cannot be taken from us, regardless of health, finances, religion, relationships.  It seems sometimes like a fickle thing that threatens for leave us whenever the doctor brings bad news, or the bills keep piling up on the kitchen table.  But real hope can not be lost, only thrown away.  Faith and hope, in Christ, are interlocked.  You cannot separate them, for they feed each other.  An archaic use of the term "hope" is "to place trust in".  Biblically, the term did not mean "a desire for something to come to pass" but instead was almost synonymous with "belief".


So this I say to the victims out there.  You women whose bodies seem to betray you.  Hold fast to hope.  It cannot leave you, though diagnosis or doubt may seem to shoo it away.  You cannot lose it, for it finds its way in in the dark with the light of God's love.  

Only you can let go of it.  


Don't.

Special Delivery: Early Edition

People who know me know that the first step I take in facing my emotions is usually writing about them, and about the experience that led to them.  I wrote about my mother's death almost immediately, and about my three miscarriages the weeks they occurred.  But sometimes, life gets in the way and I'm left with little ability to write but lots of time to process.

Like that time I had an emergency c-section a month before my due date.

Yes - if you're a family or friend, you probably already know that little Ronen has already arrived, throwing our whole life into a tizzy quite some time before we were ready to be thrown into said tizzy.  I don't think it's necessary for me to rehash every graphic detail about the arrival of my child, but lots of folks seem to want a bit more of a backstory as to what happened, so, here goes...

Despite all of my best efforts, I'd struggled with high blood pressure for years.  Pregnancy didn't make it better, although, until about a month ago, it was fairly well-controlled with medication.  My OB was carefully monitoring me for pre-eclampsia.  There was a bit of a concern when my third trimester ultrasound showed a healthy but rather small baby.  Granted, both my husband and I are short, but restricted growth could also indicate problems.  I was told I'd be getting a non-stress test twice weekly to monitor the baby's development.  At a subsequent appointment, I asked about bed rest (per my concerned husband's urging).  The doctor's reply was that it would not be necessary, and he left the room to review some test results.  Moments later, he returned and said that I would not be going back to work, but to the hospital instead.  Protein was found in my urine, and that, coupled with my alarmingly high blood pressure, was an indication of pre-eclampsia, the condition that struck my friend Alayna during the birth of her son Isaiah. 

Doctors - good ones - do not mess around with pre-e.  It can be unpredictable and lead to sudden seizures.  Long story short: I drove myself to Mercy Hospital and checked in for further testing.  Ross arrived fairly soon after and the diagnosis of pre-eclampsia was confirmed.  I was surrounded by efficient, caring nurses and doctors and that was a good thing, because we were told that the baby was coming within the next 48 hours.  We were given the option of inducing labor or a c-section.  It was a tough decision, as I had really wanted to avoid surgery, but the idea of putting the baby and myself through up to two additional days of stress and trauma on top of the already scarily high blood pressure I was having...well, that didn't seem right.  We opted for the c-section, and at 4:03 PM on June 11, 2014, Ronen Curtis Godlove entered the world.

My husband was the first to hold him, as the anesthesiologists continued to give my updates in their calm, reassuring voices, but a sudden wave of terror hit me when I heard his birth weight.  He was only four pounds and three ounces.  I panicked.  So tiny!  The best guess of our sonographer was nearly five pounds!  Still, he seemed healthy, and tears rolled down my face when I heard, rather than saw, his first cry.

Family stopped in as I was still hopelessly high on Lord knows what wonderful drugs I was given.  My grandmother held her first great-grandchild, tears in her eyes.  No one really had the words to say on the occasion - after three miscarriages, we were holding a gorgeous little boy in our arms.  So no one said much.  And that was okay.

But things went south quickly.  Ronen's blood sugar levels were dangerously low, and his body temperature wasn't very reassuring.  He was placed into an isolette to warm him up inside our room, but then transferred to the NICU almost immediately.  I don't even recall what my reaction was, other than to soberly nod as the nurse was explaining why they took him away.

In the hospital room that night, while my husband slept fitfully, I scratched myself nearly raw from the morphine - not realizing that I was even doing it.  I slept for minutes at a time, as my vitals, pain level, and incision were checked constantly.  The next day, my husband made his second trip into the NICU to see our son, who was still in the isolette, wires attached to his chest and an IV strapped into his incredibly tiny hand.  

The next nine days were, to be trite, a roller-coaster of emotions.  One hour, his blood sugar was perfect, but the next, it dropped by twenty points.  Although his body temperature regulated fairly quickly, there were other concerns.  He was, after all, technically a month early.  We were told that he may be out as early as the weekend after his birth, but each day brought new challenges.  He was a sleepy baby, and very hard to rouse for his feedings.  He wasn't taking enough formula.  His blood sugar was unpredictable.  All of these things, we were told, were normal for preemies, and we just had to wait things out.  He wasn't losing weight, though, which was encouraging.

Finally, after lots of prayers and what seemed like an eternity, our little man was given the all-clear to come home with us.  Though I'd visited him frequently in the NICU, trying to breastfeed and just get to know him, I could not believe I was taking home this tiny and helpless stranger.  His every need was my responsibility.  I was more overwhelmed, I think than I was nine days earlier, when we learned he was coming out, one way or the other!

So, I now have a thirteen-day-old baby in my house.  He's my baby, though I'm still having a very hard time wrapping my head around that fact.  My husband is utterly enamoured of him and keeps exclaiming that he looks like me (he does).  I'm going through the ups and downs that virtually every new mom experiences: the constant trickle (or flood) of self-doubt...the challenges of feeding a newborn...the sleep deprivation...forgetting to eat (trust me; it's the first time in my life that I've ever actually, truly and genuinely forgotten to eat)...struggling to accept help from friends (it's that awful pride thing that tries to convince new moms to handle everything by themselves)...and trying to have patience with myself as I deal with a new role, a new body, and new fears.

All in all, though, I have to brag - my husband has been pretty much my hero these past few days.  It only seemed fitting that this past Father's Day was his first as a father, even to a son stuck in the hospital!  He has risen with me for most nighttime feedings, has brought me little treats, has encouraged me to drink lots of water to stay hydrated, has tried to keep the house clean, has been as supportive to me as he knows how.  I'm dreading the day he has to return to work!

And what about the cats?  Well, Loki seems terrified of the baby and will only eye him from a very safe distance.  Thor is curious, but not curious enough to really bother him, as long as he still gets his cuddles and pets from his beloved Mommy Cat (he does, though not as frequently).  Freyja still hasn't acknowledged the baby at all yet, but Ross and I did notice a change in her behavior.  Although Thor and Loki had both been left alone for a few days before, when we went on vacation or on weekend trips, Freyja had not.  We think she was terrified of being abandoned, because since we've been home, she has been even clingier than usual.  She jumps into visitors' laps and simply has to be in the room with one of us (usually me).  She is following me into the bedroom and bathroom now, which she only did rarely before.  We're convinced that she was abandoned before, which is why she showed up on our porch to begin with, and she's afraid it will happen again.

Only cure for that is to shower her with kisses and cuddles so she knows she is loved and we're not going anywere!

I've decided that I won't be blogging too much about my baby.  And, on social media, I'm limiting who can see pictures and details about him.  Things are just too unpredictable nowadays, plus I'm worried for his own privacy someday!  I don't know what the internet will be like in ten years, but if Facebook is still around, does he really need to see that I posted pictures of his diaper blowouts or bathtime exploits?  Boy, I'm grateful that my mom never had Myspace...

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.

Guilt-Trippin'

Here it is, boys and girls.  We're in the home stretch.  According to the cute little app on my phone, baby should be arriving in (give or take) 42 days.

And I'm feeling all the expected emotions: excitement, anxiety, impatience, fear, joy, concern, delight, marvel, worry...

...and guilt.

When my track record included nothing but miscarriages, I remember telling pretty much anyone who would listen (including God) that I would prefer the most painful, complicated pregnancy - so long as it produced a healthy, full-term baby - to remaining childless.  When my friends suffered through their pregnancies (ending up dehydrated, bed-ridden and/or fatigued to the point of hospitalization), I considered that preferable to having my children die within my womb.  That's not to say I was flippant and disregarded my friends' pain.  It was just something that, in a strange way, I envied.  It was a pain I hadn't been able to experience.  With that pain came a promise that I'd been denied this far.  It was like I was more than willing to trudge through the desert to get to the Promised Land; I just hadn't been liberated from Egypt yet.  (I wanted to make a Charlton Heston reference and a Moses one seemed appropriate.)

So why am I feeling guilty?

Because, other than the very scary subchorionic hematoma that haunted my first trimester, I've had a relatively easy pregnancy.  Instead of the acne explosion I was dreading, my face actually cleared up and became less sensitive.  Instead of day-long morning sickness, I had maybe a dozen bouts with mild nausea - I never threw up.  Instead of being battered all night long by tiny legs kicking nonstop, I've found that the baby actually has "quiet time" when I'm sleeping and is rarely active after 11:00 PM.  In fact, other than my weight gain (which has admittedly been a little excessive, although my doctor is not concerned), I've had practically zero issues.  Some back pain here, minor swelling there, and an insatiable desire for peanut butter in all forms, but really - nothing to write home about.

But...I'm done.  I'm tired of being a human incubator.  I want my figure back.  I want to wear cute clothes again.  I want to wear my impractical, beautiful four-inch snakeskin-print heels!  I want to hold my baby in my arms and not my belly.  I want to be able to sleep on my back again.  AND OH MY GOSH I WANT TO EAT SUSHI AGAIN!

So, I'm feeling guilty because I'm also feeling like I don't have the right to be totally over being pregnant.

These thoughts are probably not so different from any other lady's, six weeks from her due date, and yet they make me feel selfish.  I'm the one who swore a hellish pregnancy was still better than a lifetime of miscarriages, and I'm STILL complaining about my fairly symptom-less eight-month stretch.

I still have friends who cannot have children, or who struggle to get pregnant.  Even in these past few months, I've been contacted by friends who recently miscarried and wanted to tell me even before their own families, simply because they knew I'd been there and wanted my take on things.  It broke my heart to see them go through loss - sometimes more than once - but I was truly honored that they trusted me with their grief.

Which seems to complicate my frustration with this pregnancy.  I'm so very torn between keeping my mouth shut about the discomfort because I feel guilty sharing it, knowing there are people who would do quite a lot to be in my position - and being swept, via my experience, into the ranks of fierce, fabulous women who wear their stretch-marks like tiger stripes and who have no shame in being mothers.

Of course, worrying adds neither days to my life nor health to my baby.  I'm just going to have to go with what I know - keep things honest - and diplomatic - and public.  That seems to work for me.  

So, to summarize: it's the Final Countdown and, even if I'm not emotionally ready for baby - my body most definitely is.  Let's do this, Baby Godlove.  Not too early, but please don't be tardy, either!  Making people wait for you is soooooo rude!

Team Pink or Team Blue?

If you're a friend or follower of mine on social media sites, then you already know.  But for those of you who might not be aware...

It's a boy!

Trust me, as thrilled as we are, both Ross and I are shocked off our rockers.  I was convinced I was carrying a girl.  Most of my friends thought it was a girl.  Heck, even my Italian-American, meat-loving, gun-toting Papa was excited to have a granddaughter.  

Maybe in a few more years.  But first up, a bouncing baby boy!

Our anatomical ultrasound could have been nerve-wracking, but our technician, Connie, was relaxed and friendly.  Ross asked her to check the heart for abnormalities, which she is supposed to do anyway, because, in the back of our minds, we wondered if this little baby might suffer from the same heart defect Ross was born with.  We immediately received the news that the heart was fine...as were the brain, bowels, spine, and everything else - even the baby's tiny little toes!

I suppose things didn't look too different than the 8 bazillion sonogram images my friends have posted online, but when it's yours, it's just a little more - magical?  Miraculous?  I don't know.  It's pretty neat to get to post pictures of my little guy on my bedroom mirror and think that, in a few short months, I'll be seeing him face to face.

Even though we "cheated" and learned the gender before we had originally planned to, we went ahead and had my stepmom's birthday cake act as our gender reveal cake.  We wanted to keep things pretty intimate, so we just invited family and a few of her closest friends to join us for a little party.  She didn't know the cake she was cutting was going to be pink or blue, though, so she definitely started to cry when she put two and two together (which was pretty quickly; she's a smart cookie).  A cheer went up when she sliced the cake to reveal its neon blue interior.  Of course, everyone would have cheered if it was pink, too.  I think our friends and family were just as relieved to know that the baby is healthy and growing normally.  

We are immeasurably grateful for that.  Trust me.  

What I'm less than grateful for is the comments I've gotten.  I shouldn't really complain; I haven't had the onslaught of them that some of my friends have received (my buds Matt and Jaime, happily expecting their FOURTH little girl - because they actually wanted a large family - get nasty looks from total strangers because they have - gasp! - more than two children).  Still, hearing, "You're big for 21 weeks - are they sure it's not twins?" is a bit of a stab in the gut.  "Why, yes, I am certain that all four of my ultrasounds were incorrect and I'm not carrying a single child, but actually a litter of them!"  I mean...people...I'm five feet tall.  I'm all chest and hips.  I have virtually no torso.  There is nowhere for the baby, plus my internal organs and pre-existing fat stores, to go.  My other favorite comment was from a family member who insisted that the name we chose would cause the child to be made fun of his entire life.  Never mind the fact that we carefully chose it for its meaning, significance, lack of uber-trendiness, and sound with our last name (which, as you know, is pretty distinct). 

Fortunately, most folks have simply been as joyful and grateful and excited as we are. 

I'm wondering what these next few months are going to be like.  Although I didn't suffer the morning sickness that bothered a lot of my friends, I've had pregnancy rhinitis for the past four months.  That's pretty much non-stop sniffles and watery eyes.  It's definitely been unpleasant.  And, now that I'm showing, I'm swinging between feeling like an absolute goddess (ooh, I am glowing, aren't I?) and wanting to curl up in a ball and cry because none of my clothes fit and I am already having a hard time putting on my socks (thankfully, they still fit).

They say it's quite a roller coaster, and I'm inclined to agree.

Christmas Redeemed

Since I was a teenager, Christmas has been a difficult time for me.  My parents separated immediately after Christmas when I was 14 or 15.  Suddenly the holidays were split between Mom’s family and Dad’s.  Though my parents never “fought” over us, my sister and I were nevertheless shuttled between Bridgeville and Crafton, sometimes further, depending on who was in town that year. 

 

I lost my job at Starbucks a few days before Christmas is 2008.  My mom moved in the same week, and it was extremely difficult for both of us.

 

For many years, I cried at the sight of Christmas lights because they reminded me of the times before my parents separated – decorating the tree, listening to the Beach Boys’ Christmas album (which my dad later admitted he hated), and watching Mom make Christmas cookies (I wasn’t allowed to help, probably because I was so clumsy).  For years, I cried because I never had a date for Christmas.  I was lonely. Even as a fairly well-adjusted person, and a person with a strong faith, I had a hard time during the holidays.  I can see how someone who was struggling with depression or  a serious life change might have an even harder time.

 

The first Christmas I allowed myself to really enjoy was the one immediately before my wedding. Christmas 2009 saw my bridal shower, some weight loss, and a general sense of excitement and hope. I was going to be married two weeks later!  My first Christmas as a wife was rather disappointing, though, as Ross and I got our signals crossed about gift-giving and there was some miscommunication that I almost let ruin the whole day (fortunately we can laugh about it now).

 

The next two Christmases were marked by loss.  In August of 2011 and in May and September of 2012, we lost our babies – not to mention several friends of the family near the holidays, as well.  Christmas was hard.  Seeing images of that sweet little Baby in His mother’s arms, singing songs to the infant Savior, and passing by Nativity scenes showing the adoration of the Christ – it was all so very emotional.  Times like that, I was grateful for a small family.  I didn’t have dozens of cousins with babies of their own showing up at family parties.  Instead, I grew closer with my dad’s family – it’s just my Grandma, my aunt and uncle.  We live close together, and grieve together.

 

This year, we lost my mother in February and Ross’s grandmother in July – and then, a dear friend suffered a miscarriage just recently.  We admit, we’re getting to that age where people and things are beginning to pass away.  The knowledge that our friends have lost jobs, lost parents and grandparents and unborn babies, lost their faith…it doesn’t make things easier.  We’ve had a tough four years, Ross and I.  We can say, with all modesty, that we’re grateful we’ve stuck it out.  We know people have gotten divorced for far less than what we’ve gone through.  We are grateful to God, our church, and our family and friends who have been understanding and supportive through all of our trials.  They have helped us laugh, let us grieve, encouraged us to hope, and loved us faithfully.

 

This year, Christmas was different.

 

Christmas Eve marked the end of our first trimester.

 

Yes, we’re pregnant.  

 

And this baby is going to make it.

 

We found out on Halloween (what a treat, huh?), although I knew it about a week prior – in spite of a negative test. Since I’d switched OB-GYNs after my second miscarriage and received excellent, sympathetic and professional care with my third loss, I knew that I would be given a lot of attention this time around.  Earlier genetic testing and blood work had revealed that there was nothing “wrong” with either of us.  We prayed, waited, and wondered, and felt that it was best to try again this past fall.  My doc put me on progesterone even before we conceived, in order to help my body support a pregnancy.  It must have worked.  We’ve seen or heard the heartbeat four times now, and the baby is growing at a steady rate.  I’ve been praying over the baby regularly, and the verse that was quickened to me was John 10:10, “The enemy has come to steal, kill, and destroy, but I have come to that you may have life, and life abundant.”  These are the words of Jesus and have brought me great comfort.  Although we believe that our other children are in Heaven, they never got to experience the joy of getting to know Jesus – the journey of walking with Him, of turning from sin and choosing a life of love and hope.  This child will have that opportunity – not just for eternal life, like his or her siblings have already received, but for a fulfilling and joyful life with Christ on this earth.

 

Still, the “perfect pregnancy” I was hoping for, alas, is not a reality yet.  When I started to bleed around 7 weeks, I was rushed in for a ultrasound, but nothing was determined other than the baby was fine.  Two weeks later, I went back for a follow-up and we learned that I have a very common condition – a subchorionic hematoma.  That’s a super-fancy name for a bleed in the uterus.  It’s rarely a problem for the growing baby, but it can cause a lot of bleeding and inconvenient (ie., terrifying, especially for a woman who has lost three babies).  The problem with mine was that, at least at 9 weeks, it was the same size as the placental sac.  Fortunately, problems arise in only about 1% of pregnancies with hematoma.  In fact, a very recent study, done in October of 2013, revealed that the rate of miscarriage among women with hematoma was no higher than women without them, provided that a viable pregnancy had been established (ours has).  That was so encouraging, even though I bled nearly every day for almost six weeks.  Happily, a late December check-up revealed that the hematoma had dramatically shrunk in size and my bleeding had stopped.  Baby was growing! 

 

Please know that, although this is really thrilling and life-changing, it is so scary to share it with you.  Although I believe this is finally “it”, and we’ll get to hold this little one in our arms in this lifetime, there’s still a bit of doubt nibbling at me.  Why wouldn’t there be?  I have a strong faith and friends who encourage me, but what woman, after three losses, wouldn’t be terrified to tempt fate? I am fortunate that my friends – especially the older women at church – have spoken life over me, spoken God’s promises over me, and spoken words of hope and prophecy to me.  It helps so much to know that I’m not the only one who wants to meet this baby!  There are dozens of people praying daily, and for me, that is a great comfort and it gives me strength.  These aren’t people who are whimpering weakly before God, ‘Please let the baby live!’  These are people who understand their authority in Christ, and who boldly come before God and remind him of his promises – as he commanded.  People who have been speaking scriptures over me, who have confidence when I do not. 

 

I’m “going public” now, even though I am afraid, because I know that there are childless women who read my blog.  I know that there are women who still grieve over their losses who read it.  I know there are men who don’t know how to help their wives, sisters, and daughters, who are struggling to have children, who read it.  I want to encourage others.  I want to open up my heart and share my journey.  Those who know me well know that writing is healing for me. 

 

We specifically chose this day to reveal our big news because it would have been my mom’s 59^th birthday.  We wanted to be able to remember today as a joyful day, when we got to share something special with our friends, rather than a day that “should have been”.  It’s the best way I can think of right now to honor her.

 

Thank you for coming on this journey with us.

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.

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.

Hesitation

Writing tends to bring healing and a sense of clarity to my life - particularly when I am dealing with difficult situations, so I am not entirely sure why I waited nearly a week to write about my miscarriage.

Most likely it's because we kept this last pregnancy very hush-hush.  Only a few people knew: our parents, a handful of prayer-warriors at church, and a select group of friends - mostly moms themselves - who were cheering us on and hoping that this was finally the one they'd get to coo over and spoil rotten.

Sadly, we were all disappointed again.

Please note, before you read any further, that this post does contain some slightly graphic medical references.  If that sort of thing makes you uncomfortable - or if you would prefer not to know certain details about my anatomy, then do not continue.  I am choosing to share stories like this in order to raise awareness and offer hope and healing to others who have had similar experiences - not for shock value.  The content is neither crude nor vulgar, but since this is a family-friendly blog, I felt that a gentle reminder about the graphic nature of this subject matter is in order.  Thanks.

Although, of course, we're not happy with the outcome, I must start my story by saying that this miscarriage was very different from my previous two, probably because I had a different doctor.  After we lost Bennett, Ross and I visited our friends Matt and Jaime at their new house in Brentwood.  As it often does when we're with friends who mourn with us, the topic of the miscarriages came up.  I mentioned to Jaime that I felt that God was urging me to look into seeing another doctor.  The way I described it to her, it was like I was going to McDonald's instead of visiting a gynecologist.  I paid for my order and got what I asked for, but there wasn't a sense of human interaction or compassion.  Just...fries.  So, okay...maybe that wasn't the greatest metaphor, but I think she got it anyway.  I explained to her that things got worse when I went in for my two-week appointment after my D & C in May...and the doctor asked me where my 3-month old baby was.  She was referring to my first miscarried child, who had been due on February 29th.  She had not only performed that surgery, but had also performed the one two weeks prior!  I responded quietly that I'd lost both babies, but inside I was just dying.  Had she taken - literally - three seconds to review my chart, she could have seen that I had not given birth yet.  I understand that these doctors see hundreds of patients in a week - and frankly, they aren't really looking at our faces anyway - but that was a painful blow.

When I told her the story, Jaime reacted exactly as I expected her to - "GIRL!  NO.  ARE YOU FOR REAL?!  NO.  THAT IS NOT EVEN RIGHT!" - which made sense, since she had left the same practice for similar reasons (although fortunately for her they did not revolve around losing a baby).  Jaime excitedly and respectfully suggested I consider her doctor, a Christian who was both gentle and open-minded when it came to obstetrical medicine.  Funny thing was, I had been recommended the same doctor by about three other women.  I felt that it would be a wise move to at least schedule a consultation with him.  There had been no follow-up whatsoever to my previous miscarriages and, while I understand that two losses in an otherwise healthy woman don't automatically equal a medical anomaly, I thought there should have been more than a pat on the shoulder and a "Go ahead and try again."

I truly felt like I was obeying God when I switched doctors.  Everything was better - the staff was gentler, funnier and more personable.  The practice was considerably smaller, meaning that better care was offered (at least in my opinion).  My first meeting with the doctor left me feeling that I was in far better hands.  Little did I know that, nine days later, we would get pregnant and I'd be right back in the office again! 

I kept thinking that I was glad I had listened to God, because things would be different this time.  I would be getting more personalized care from a more engaged physician who took the time to ask me how I felt as well as the details of my medical history.  I was so relieved.  I settled back and tried to enjoy the first days of another pregnancy.

Unfortunately, it doesn't seem that the care of the world's finest doctors could have saved our baby.  From the start, things didn't seem right.  My hormone levels weren't consistent with the suspected date of conception.  Then, at our first early ultrasound, the technician misdiagnosed an ectopic pregnancy, which threw my already frayed nerves into a tailspin.  She then retracted and said that it appeared the sac was at the very top of the uterus - that it had literally implanted itself immediately upon emerging from the Fallopian tube.  I joked that it would be just like my kid to be such a lazy son-of-a-gun.

She didn't really think that was funny.

Neither did I.  She had almost just given me a heart attack.  I wanted to scratch her eyes out.

However, she noted that the sac appeared to be that of a pregnancy that was about four weeks old - but we'd dated the pregnancy to be over seven weeks old.  Still, that age was consistent with the hormone levels the doctor had checked.  I tenatively asked if we could have been wrong about our due date, because my cycle was irregular, and she agreed heartily.  We left the office with a tiny glimmer of hope.  I wasn't throwing up yet, and had few other pregnancy symptoms, but maybe that was just because we had miscalculated our dates.

Maybe.

Three days later, Ross and I were getting ready for work and I saw it - blood on the toilet paper.  I'd been watching for it since we first learned we were pregnant, which was the night of a youth meeting at our house.  I hadn't seen it, and I'd thanked God every time I didn't.  But there it was.  I took a breath before I panicked.  Sometimes, a pelvic exam - from an overly enthusiastic sonographer - could cause a little bit of bleeding during pregnancy.  I knew that was natural.  It had happened with Bennett before anything went wrong.  Besides, I had already scheduled an appointment with the doctor the week before, and I could talk to him in the afternooon.  I was not going to jump to conclusions.  But I heard disappointment in my voice when I told Ross what I saw.

At the doctor's office, when I gave my urine sample, I noticed more blood.  Just a little bit.  Not enough to worry a woman who hadn't already lost two babies.  I told the doctor, and he paused.  He told me not to give up yet, and that even though I was considered high-risk, that there was probably a 50% chance that things would be okay.  I clung to that...and I clung to the promises that God had given me...through the Bible, through his ministers and even through one young boy in our youth group, who bravely spoke over us the month before at summer camp.

I am  still shocked at how calm I remained through the rest of the week.  "God," I found myself praying, "I know what is happening in my body.  I am losing this baby.  But if this is the baby you want me to keep, I am not counting out a miracle.  I know what medical science says, but I also know that your power raised Christ from the dead.  Your power put worlds and stars in motion.  It is not too difficult for you to quicken a tiny cluster of cells inside my womb and breathe life into them.

If this is the baby you want me to keep."

I had dozens of people praying.  So much encouragement.  So much love.  And yet...the blood kept flowing.  From brown to pink to bright, bright red, and I knew that our baby was with his sister and brother in Heaven. 

The phrase still sounds unreal, even when I speak it aloud, lips and teeth forming reluctantly, questioningly around the words, "I have lost three babies."

So why was this miscarriage different, even more peaceful than the others?  Without a doubt, the doctor's influence was immense.  They weren't ready to give up at the first sign of trouble.  In fact, even after I had begun to bleed, they continued to monitor my hormone levels to make absolutely certain of what was happening.  I had a final ultrasound to determine if there was any chance at all of the baby surviving.  That was far, far more than my old doctor had done.  With Bennett, everything was fine up until our third ultrasound, when they could not locate a heartbeat.  I was scheduled for surgery the very next day.  No research, no questions, no compassion - and no follow-up.  My heart aches even now, wishing that I had gotten a second opinion.  When this loss was confirmed, I met with my doctor, who offered his sympathy and gave us a plan of action (he will be referring us to a high-risk specialist). 

The first thing he said blew my mind: I did not need surgery.  My previous doctors had struck fear into my very bones regarding surgery.  They said that it was crucial to ensure that the body would return to normal - that I could scar or become infected without it - that it would "clean" the uterus for a future pregnancy.  All these things may have been true, mind you, but the last place on earth I wanted to be was in an ugly dressing gown, stripped of my underwear and my dignity, waiting to be stabbed and swabbed in a freezing, sterile room with half a dozen nurses refusing to make eye contact and the other half dozen artifically sympathetic to my loss.

"Your body is handling things on its own," the doctor said gently.  "Of course, we can perform a D & C if you need it - if you continue to bleed very heavily, but let's see how things work out on their own first." 

I can't tell you how much peace I felt in that moment.  For the first time, my body was actually making its own decision to release the baby.  Before, I had felt that my body betrayed me with two awful missed miscarriages - continuing to "act" pregnant even after my babies had died.  But in this moment, I felt that my body was doing the right thing.  The baby was not growing - for whatever reason - and my body allowed its release.

Of course, that doesn't mean the following week was a spiritual nirvana.  I was in a lot of pain, I was sad, I overate, and I practically bought out Wal-Mart's entire supply of jumbo elephant-sized maxi pads.  Fortunately, I was also able to load up on the ibuprofin since I could not longer hurt the baby with any medication.  A sushi date with Ross was pretty well-deserved, too.

And, speaking of Ross, can I just tell you that, never in my whole life was I more sure that I married the right man than when I saw how he handled our miscarriages?  He wept with me, he tried to make me laugh, he reminded me that it wasn't my fault, he refused to ignore the situation, he gently whispered to me that God keeps his promises and that we will have children someday.

We had picked out a name for this baby early on.  In fact, I was already using that name to talk to the baby.  Yet...after we lost him, I felt that it was okay if we picked another name for him and saved the first name for the baby we will be allowed to hold.  Ross was in agreement with me, and we picked out the name Galen John for our latest little one in Heaven.  Galen is Greek for "calm" or "peaceful".  Even as I was in physical and emotional pain while I was losing him, I felt so much peace...peace in God's promises, peace in the fact that my body was making its own decision, peace stemming from my husband's love and the support of my family.

I know that my daughter and sons - named after healing, blessing, and peace - are among the great cloud of witnesses the Bible tells about, and those witnesses cheer us on towards the great goal - the prize of Heaven, an eternity with Christ.  One of my goals is to look my children in the eyes and tell them how much I love them.

But something tells me that they already know.