My Yellow Brick Road Has Potholes

Guilt is a Four-Letter Word

2011-03-20T10:25:00.009-05:00

There's a line in a Tori Amos song, "I have enough guilt to start my own religion." I've heard the song, Crucify, many times but never heard that line until last week. I hate guilt. It's a useless emotion that only serves to make us feel bad about our choices. Why can't we be gentler with ourselves?

I feel guilt over what I did or didn't do that may have hurt my babies. Alex and Amelia never gave me signs that they weren't well. I was diligent about listening to my body, even calling the nurse when I felt nervous that I wasn't showing yet with Alex. Of course, I received the "all women are different and this is your first pregnancy so don't worry" line. I knew something was wrong, but didn't want to be perceived as "hysterical." A couple of weeks later, the ultrasound confirmed the worst. I know there was nothing I could have done.

Amelia died under very similar circumstances. We discovered at 10 weeks that she had died at 7. As with Alex, there was never any bleeding, and I felt helpless. I wondered why my body was killing my babies. I demanded testing and answers.

Even with blood thinning treatment, nothing could have saved David. He had a chromosome abnormality. I actually felt relieved that something happened to him that was completely out of my hands. Having a healthy son the following year confirmed my suspicion that the blood thinning treatment was the answer. I was angry at my doctor for not testing me for that after Alex died. I had to let that go.

I never suspected Elizabeth wouldn't make it. I was doing the same treatment. After we found out she had died, I thought back over everything I had done or didn't do. I tortured myself with wondering. Was it the peppermint tea I drank to alleviate the nausea? I had used sunscreen with deet once. Was it that? Did that kill my baby? How can so many babies die for no reason?

Gabe left me naturally at barely 6 weeks, and I know he was not well. I never got to see him on an ulrasound and will never know what happened to him. Even though he was with me for such a short time, the memory of the day we lost him haunts me.

I had bleeding with Madeline. Because I had lost Gabe after bleeding, I was convinced the same thing was happening. I was beyond terrified. I went to the bathroom constantly to check. I would pull over to the side of the road while I was driving so I could check. My doctor thought I had a hemorrhage, and a week later she suspected we had lost a twin. I chose not to believe that - it was too much. I asked if I should be on bed rest, and my doctor said there was no evidence that would help. I went with my doctor's orders and went back to my life, knowing that I would go insane with anxiety if I laid around all day. I also had a two year old who needed me. Should I have insisted on bed rest? Could I have saved her? She is who I feel the most guilt for.

I went to an expert before conceiving Rebecca so I could learn what else could be done. I took a different medication that made me impossibly tired and nauseous. I had the stomach flu for a couple of days with her and insisted my doctor give me an ultrasound so I could see if she was okay. Once we learned she had a chromosome problem, I assumed it was due to my eggs being too old. One more thing to feel guilty about.

I know rationally I had no control over what happened, that I did everything in my power to keep my babies alive, but that doesn't always offer solace. I think there will always be a small part of me that wonders what I could have, or should have, done differently.

What can you say

2011-03-03T17:24:00.007-06:00

A friend asked me to help her understand what to say to someone whose baby died. So, from the vantage point of my experience, here is my tutorial.

(These are ideas for the well-intentioned friend or loved one who just feels at a loss for what to say or do. A list of ignorant and insensitive things people say - that's a subject for another post.)

Saying "I'm sorry this happened to you" is always a good start. Saying "I care about the pain you feel" is a nice follow-up.

If you you know the baby's name, use it. If you don't know, ask "Did you name the baby?" Then, use it.

Sit with your friend while she cries, and you don't even have to say anything. It may feel awkward to you, but it's comforting to her.

If you want to offer help in the immediate weeks or months, be specific. Do not say "Let me know if you need anything." You know how women are terrible at asking for help? Take a mother who has just buried her child and multiply that by one thousand. Her world just turned inside out, her heart is splintered, it hurts to breathe, food has no flavor, and she can't see past five minutes from now. Does this sound like someone who can pick up the phone, dial a number, and articulate a need? Say "I'll call you tomorrow at 3:00 to check on you. Is that a good time?" Or, "I'll bring you dinner Friday night (and leave it on the porch if you don't want to see anybody)."

Ask her about her baby months after the death. Make a note of the date it happened and call her on any anniversary (one month, six months, one year, two years). If you can authentically say that you think about/love/miss her child, tell her that.

Acknowledge her on Mother's Day (and the father on Father's Day), even if they have no living children. Parents without living children are still parents.

Give her your time and your ears. Don't give her your opinion or premonitions for the future. Let her talk about her baby, the dreams she had for her child, the nursery she created, and the future she has lost.

Do not compare the death of your mother, sister, pet, etc. to the death of her child. This is a unique loss and should be treated as such. Unless you have experienced this kind of death, do not say you understand. People want to be heard more than they want to be understood. Unless she specifically asks you to talk about it, hearing about your pain will not help her.

Ask her how she's doing, and listen carefully to what she says. Some people don't say anything to someone who's grieving because they don't want to remind the person of their loss. You aren't. She thinks about her baby every day, and she wants you to remember her child. It hurts more to not say anything.

Do not tell her "At least you can get pregnant" or that she needs to be grateful for the other (living) children she has. This was a unique child who she loved and cherished. She lost a unique human being who can't be replaced like a pair of shoes.

Finally, be patient with her. She is in pain. She may not be able to tell you how much she needs you or what your support means to her. If you love her, you will be gentle with her. Your relationship will deepen and strengthen because of the effort you made.

The power of language

2011-02-25T16:20:00.004-06:00

I hate the term "pregnancy loss." I've hated it since my first baby died and someone said to me, "I'm sorry you lost the baby." What? Huh? I didn't lose the baby. I didn't put him down and forget where I left him.

Why don't we call it what it is? Why can't we say to someone, "My baby died." I didn't lose a pregnancy. My baby died.

I also hate the word "miscarriage." Do you know what the term means? "Failure to attain the just, right, or desired result." Women all over the world who have this experience have been told they failed. The suggestion that we did something to end our babies is beyond cruel.

I know, I even use it in the title of this blog. I've been conditioned, I suppose. The rationale is that it makes people feel better. Saying a baby died is too harsh, too sad, too in-your-face. Who cares about other people's reactions? Why is that my problem? Why should I be made to feel like I did something wrong? The horrible guilt I feel for what happened to my children is enough on its own. Don't burden me with that label.

There's another term I've been seeing around lately - Baby Loss Mama (or BLM, if you're in a hurry). I'm torn on that one. I like the intent of it, but it still has the word "loss." It's also kind of a tongue-twister. Try saying it 3 times fast. Really.

The medical term for me is a Habitual Aborter. This is actually in my file. This is so offensive to me, it makes me sick to my stomach.

Maybe I should come up with new names. I could be an Angel Mama. I'm not sure how I feel about angels, though. I like "spirits." I'm a Spirit Mama! Hey Dr. Obstetrician - put THAT in my file!

Okay, I just had to get that out. Breathe, and release.

Point of no return

2011-02-20T11:57:00.004-06:00

There is no corner of my life that my experience with recurrent pregnancy loss hasn't touched. My experiences have affected my relationship with my husband, my interactions with my coworkers. It has impacted what I read, how I spend my time, and how I relate to strangers. My experiences have affected my body and my relationship to it. My friendships have been affected. I've lost friends; I've gained new ones. I'm grateful for the new ones. I mourn the lost ones.

I know that I have pushed people away. My friendships with women who haven't had my experience have suffered, in part, to my unwillingness to let them in. I felt I was a burden to them because they were having healthy children. I assumed they didn't want to hear about my pain. Some of these women contributed in their own way to the demise of our relationship, which is something I have never and will probably never share with them. There was the friend who was struggling with infertility. After my second miscarriage, she told me she'd rather be dealing with what she was dealing with than with what I was dealing with. That was 6 years ago, and it still hurts. My relationship with her never recovered from that. Perhaps if I had talked to her about how that comment hurt, about how her lack of compassion affected me, that relationship could have been saved. Perhaps not. I know I didn't do anything about it by choice. I chose to not forgive her.

I wonder if I should go back to this friend and to others to explain to them how I was feeling at the time. To tell them "you said this" or "you didn't say this" to let them know that I was hurt and to give them a chance to explain. But, I don't. I assume they don't care anymore.

The yardstick with which I measure the people in my life changed after my first baby died. The expectations I demanded in a friend were already pretty high. After my first loss, I measured people by the amount of compassion they demonstrated towards me. If they didn't show any or, worse, didn't show enough, then I let them go. I didn't have the energy to sustain those relationships, not when I was changing so much. I no longer felt like the person I was when I entered the relationship. To stay with them meant I had to set new expectations, verbalize my feelings, and be patient. I did little of that. I think people who haven't spent time mourning a deep loss can't fully understand the amount of energy it requires to go about with your life. When your life profoundly changes it takes every amount of strength you can summon to get out of bed and function. Thankfully, routine allows you to operate on autopilot. The amount of energy it takes to sustain a relationship that isn't feeding your soul in the new way you need, is excruciatingly hard to maintain.

I never wanted this experience to define me. It has, however, changed me in ways that I can never return to.

Why I Avoid Facebook

2011-02-16T14:56:00.001-06:00

In the beginning, I thought Facebook was pretty cool. My husband was posting things daily and sharing stories of what he had read from current friends and reacquainted ones. I appreciate the genius of the concept. After all, humans are social creatures. We have a need to connect. We all want people to bear witness to our lives. So, I can see why people want to share details of their daily lives, post pictures of their kids, hear how their high school friends have turned out, and share things that are important to them. It also provides a way for introverts, like myself, to be social without having to imbibe alcohol in order to relax.

So, I opened an account and starting adding "friends." At first, it was fascinating. People I hadn't heard from in years (and frankly, hadn't thought of either) were now friending me. I could read updates on their lives at the click of a button. Got a few minutes of downtime at work? Check out new status updates. Want to share my big news that I'm training for a half-marathon? Put it on Facebook!

What I wasn't prepared for was the updates I didn't want to see. The announcements that friends were having their third baby (two of these updates popped up in the same week). The belly pictures. The "I'm at 20 weeks and can celebrate!" Facebook had opened up another portal for pain. I now had a whole new way to get updates on everyone I know who's having a baby, just had a baby, or wants to have a baby. I tried to balance the joy with the grief, feel happy for them while feeling sad for me, understand that other people have the right to be happy while I grieve. And, then I couldn't anymore. I was very happy when I discovered the "hide" feature. Uh oh, so-and-so just announced her pregnancy. Quick, hide before you have to read any more!

It brings up such a complexity of emotions. Take feeling happy for someone who is blissfully pregnant for the first time, sprinkle in the gratitude of the miracle of a child coming safely into the world, fold in a cup (or two) of jealousy, add a dash of guilt for feeling all of these things, and what you're left with is a nasty piece of lumpy dough that sticks in your throat and leaves you miserable.

I have no control over women in my office being pregnant. I have no control over being surrounded by pregnant women and babies in public, in movies and on t.v. I do have control over what I read online. Right now, Facebook is not a place I want to be.

P.S. Be sure to read my last post if you haven't already entered in my giveaway. And, while you're here, leave me a comment on how you feel about how social networking has impacted your "baby full" life.

Something to celebrate

2011-02-14T13:20:00.005-06:00

To celebrate the unveiling of my new blog design, I'm doing my first giveaway. I've been reading the recently released book, They Were Still Born, which is a collection of deeply personal essays written by parents who have lost babies due to stillbirth. It is heart-wrenching, honest, and hopeful. I read a little bit of it every night, and each story touches and teaches. I want others to experience it, as well. Leave me a comment with a way to reach you by February 20, and a copy of the book will be yours.

A huge barrel full of gratitude to Franchesca Cox of Small Bird Studio for helping me create this design for my blog. She has the perfect blend of skill, patience, and creativity. If you want to update your blog, Franchesca also graciously gives a discount to bereaved parents. Thank you, Franchesca!

I have so many things to write about my journey....there are more posts coming soon, I promise! Thanks for walking the yellow brick road with me.

Put it down, if only for a moment

2011-02-06T09:29:00.013-06:00

"You haul around this grief, all the time, and there's no place to put it, no one to help you set it down."

This sentiment so perfectly encapsulates what I feel that when I read it, I had to read it again. And again. And again. I could have written it. I didn't write it. David Hlavsa in They Were Still Born did. This is an incredible collection of personal stories from bereaved parents of children who were born still. I was at the library yesterday with my son on one of our regular weekend excursions to return books and discover new ones. I approached the section of "new non fiction" and this book was sitting on the shelf. As I saw it, everything else slipped away and this book was the only thing I was aware of. To see a book about stillbirth sitting on the library shelves where so many people could see it, borrow it, read it, share it. I felt that book had been placed there just for me. It's what I wanted to see after my first baby died in 2003, and I couldn't find books from parents who had lost what I had lost. What a long, hard journey we've taken to get to the point where not only are these books published from mainstream publishers, they are common enough to be placed prominently in a library. And, while my births aren't called stillbirths in the medical community, I also birthed my children. I feel the pain these parents feel. I recognize their grief as my own.

I was drawn to this book. I carried it around in my arms barely aware of what else was going on around me. And, while I knew it would wait until I got home and was in the privacy of my bedroom before I read it, I couldn't wait. It was like a gift that was begging to be opened. I sat down in the cozy armchair in the children's section, and I began to read the stories. As I sat in the library reading this book while my son played with the train table, I was deeply aware that I was going to cry. I tried to hold back my tears; I don't want to cry in public, with my son nearby. Those are the two things that cripple me and cause me to shove my pain down deeper - the fear my pain will be on display and I'll have to explain it to people who won't understand. In that moment of holding back the tears so much that my head felt it would explode, I decided to let it be. Let my pain be. Let my grief be. Let my sadness be. Let me be. I cried. Not shoulder-sobbing or ugly crying; simply tears welling up in my eyes and dropping slowly down my cheeks. And, it was freeing.

When I came to the quote from David Hlavsa in the third essay of the book, I felt understood. Somebody, a man even, had perfectly captured a feeling I've had for the seven years I've been conceiving, birthing, and grieving babies. My arms are tired, my soul is exhausted, my heart is heavy. There's nowhere to put down my pain. There's no escaping it. I've thought about my babies every day since they left my body. I can't even escape the pain when I sleep. I dream I'm pregnant. I dream I'm not pregnant. I dream I've had a baby and someone has taken her from me.

There are people who do try to "help you set it down." There are people who see my pain, may feel it themselves in their own way, and want to relieve me of it. I received a card after my last miscarriage from a family member who I haven't seen in a long time. She has grieved her own children over many years, and she was kind enough to reach out and acknowledge what I was going through. She said she knew how painful the experience was, and then she shared her own stories of loss. She held on to my pain and made it lighter for me, if only for just a little bit. She'll probably never know how much that support meant to me.

We have to create ways to put our grief down, to let our pain be, to let ourselves be lighter. If only for a moment.

The Power of Sharing

2011-01-20T17:32:00.019-06:00

Thank you to the lovely ladies, Paula and Joanna, who graciously bestowed me with the Stylish Blogger award.

You Pay it Forward when you receive this award, so here we go:
1. Thank and link back to the person who gave you this award.
2. Share 7 things about yourself.
3. Award 15 recently discovered great bloggers.
4. Contact these bloggers and tell them about the award.

Seven things about me:
1. I daydream often about living in a house by the sea.
2. I love to knit, especially gifts for others, and wish I had more time to do it.
3. I learn something new from my five-year old son everyday.
4. I would love to quit my job and travel the world (Italy and France are at the top of the list).
5. I have a major sweet tooth.
6. I'm originally from the South and achingly miss the food, the accents, and the people.
7. I will someday write a book about how my losses have shaped my life.

Here's Round 1 of my favorite bloggers:
Alissa at On KK's Butterfly Wings.
Melissa at Amazing Mikayla Grace
Christa at Fumbling Towards Motherhood
Wifey at Semi-Fertile
Jennifer at The Blue Sparrow
Sharing Your Thoughts

It still amazes me that my words reach people and inspire comments and accolades. There are so many blogs out there now by bereaved parents. It's so sad that there are so many women who have these experiences to write about, and yet it's so comforting to know there are so many women who share what I feel. When I had my first miscarriage in 2003, I don't think these kinds of online resources existed (if they did, I was oblivious - and I looked...a lot). Now, you can find hundreds of blogs that are written about baby loss, and hopefully, find a few that resonate for you.

I think this explosion of online journals illustrates the need we have to share our thoughts and feelings. To say without censorship or shame what we feel, what we're experiencing, the struggles and pitfalls, the sorrow and the anger. After I spend time talking with my therapist, sharing with a mutual BL mom, and commiserating with my support group, I feel understood. I feel less alone. I feel lighter. The power of talking out the pain can not be underestimated. We all must find somebody we can talk to who will help us navigate the pain, who won't say "It was for the best" and "It's time to move on." We need people who will listen without judgment, care about your feelings more than their reaction to your feelings, and hold your hand as you feel through the pain. I hope you have someone in your life who does this for you.

Nowhere is safe

2011-01-16T16:20:00.005-06:00

Everybody is pregnant.

Of course, that's not true. When you want to be pregnant and you're not and won't be ever again, it certainly feels like EVERYONE IS PREGNANT. Every time someone in my office has her baby, I sigh a breath of relief. "Good, I don't have to deal with THAT anymore." Then, WHAM, somebody else shows up giggling with her happy news and talking about whether it's a boy or a girl. Great, now I have to figure out how to avoid HER now. I've canceled my subscription to a parenting magazine because it was page after page of happy pregnant women, advice on planning a birth, and suggestions on how to make it through the final weeks of pregnancy. What a cruel joke. Then, there are the celebrities. I realize I do this to myself when I pick up the latest People magazine and read about who is pregnant, who just delivered, who is thrilled to give their son a sister, blah blah blah. I'll admit (here and nowhere else) that I take in their news with a lot of judgment - judgment that sprouts out of the head of a giant green monster.

Here's the conversation in my head: Kelly Preston had a baby at 47? That's crazy. How is that possible? Oh well, good for her. Victoria Beckham is having her 4th child? Seriously? Doesn't she have enough to do? I then have to remind myself that celebrities lose babies, too. That, however, doesn't make it on the cover of People.

I hate these thoughts. I hate to admit them. I hate that I still have them after all my "healthy processing through the journey of grief." It can't be healthy to feel such rage toward innocent strangers whose happiness is earned and whose news should be celebrated. Their happiness has nothing to do with my sadness. I can (I should) be happy for them while being sad for me.Of course, I'm thrilled whenever a soul makes its way safely to this world. So many of them don't. I just wish one of them could be mine.

Rebecca

2010-12-22T20:41:00.002-06:00

She was our last child, our to-be Christmas baby. Our last opportunity to add a second child to our family; to give our son a sibling. To, we hoped, have a daughter. We decided when we conceived her in the spring that this would be our last pregnancy. We had been through six miscarriages before her and couldn't continue to deal with the nightmare of pregnancy. She was with us too briefly, only 9 weeks. We thought she was okay, until she wasn't. She had a fatal chromosomal error, a flaw of nature that doomed her from the very start. I know she wanted to be here with us, and she just couldn't. I mourn her as deeply as I mourn her brothers and sisters before her, with the added layer of finality. She was our last child; the last one we will name. On this night that she was due, December 22, we chose a name for her. I love her and I miss her, and I know her spirit is with me. And, now, I have a name for her. Her name is Rebecca.

To remember they lived

2010-12-09T19:25:00.007-06:00

"If you know someone who has lost a child, and you're afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died -- you're not reminding them. They didn't forget they died. What you're reminding them of is that you remembered that they lived, and that is a great gift." ~ Elizabeth Edwards July 3, 1949 - December 7, 2010.

I have no pictures, no locks of hair, no footprints, no graves to visit. I have no mementos of the seven lives that lived within me for such a short time. Without tangible proof that they existed, I'm left with wondering how to commemorate their lives. I've discovered that jewelry fills that hole. I have three necklaces that represent my babies - one with birthstones, one with names, and one that symbolizes the tears I have shed for all of them. My most recent piece is a bracelet called A Bracelet for the Broken Hearted. It is made of rose quartz, which is the stone of compassion and unconditional love. It has a heart on a band aid that represents a slowly healing heart. Hanging from the bracelet is a teardrop charm that represents the tears we must cry as we begin to heal, and the heart within a heart charm symbolizes the new tender self that is growing within. If you want to find this bracelet for yourself or to give to someone else, it is made by a woman in Canada who sells her jewelry on labelledame.com.

These pieces of jewelry are things I wear so I can touch my seven little spirits, since I am unable to touch them physically. These pieces of jewelry are something I can hold in my hands, since I was unable to hold my babies. They bring me peace and strength and courage. They also give me a conversation starter for my babies, a topic that is rarely brought out into the world. The jewelry is for me, and it's also for them. It's to let them know that I think of them always and to show them that I haven't forgotten that they lived.

Right to be sad

2010-11-13T09:04:00.005-06:00

I'm so grateful for the words this community shared with me through my last post. I wasn't sure whether anyone out there would find me again, since it had been so long since I've been actively writing. I was in a dark, sad place when I wrote that last post. Reading about your pain and feeling the comfort through your words was healing.

It took me a couple of days to feel better after writing that post. I kept doing what I needed to, all of those things that are sometimes unbearably hard to do and that keep us going because they give us a routine and something to think about other than our feelings. The blessing came when I did feel better. That's the mystery of grief - you go into the sadness and come out into the light. Knowing I will be okay once I go through the emotions gives me the courage to continue feeling them.

The hard part for me is creating the moments when you can safely feel them. How do you manage your grief in your daily life without others treating you like you're crazy? Most people think grief is linear, that it "goes away" after a few months. In my experience, this couldn't be farther from the truth. How do you honor your grief when there are so many other horrible things happening in the world? I feel that my grief is such a small thing compared to other tragedies. It's a constant tug-of-war between what I feel and what I think I have a right to feel. I must let go of the judgment, the fear, the uncertainty. I remember a wonderful moment in college when a friend who had had a painful life tell me emphatically that I should never allow anyone to tell me I didn't have a right to feel sad. I will hold on to that and let others think whatever they want.

A Brief Return

2010-11-05T21:09:00.004-05:00

I haven't written a post in almost two months. I could say that I've been busy, that work and motherhood and home give me so much to do that I don't have time. I told myself that was the truth for a long time.

The real truth is that I haven't written a post because it would mean I'd have to think about my grief. I've hidden from it for a long time, refusing to face it. It's come knocking, and I am too afraid to open the door. I need to deal with it, I know I do. I know that's the healthy, responsible thing to do. I just can't. It hurts too much. I'm afraid if I let myself feel it, I won't feel anything else ever again.

I resent this pain. It's like a sore I want to cut out of my skin, be rid of, and forget it ever existed.

I don't want to talk about it.
I don't want to think about it.
I don't want to look at it.
I don't want it to be a part of me anymore.

Just make it go away.

Supposed peace

2010-09-11T09:49:00.005-05:00

It was supposed to be easy. I just wanted a birth control option that I wouldn't have to ever think about. It seemed like a good idea. It turned into an entire morning spent at the doctor's office. It involved serious stirrup time and my husband making jokes to get me through it. It involved getting an ultrasound in the same room where we had the unbearably painful look at our deceased baby. Flashback...flashback....flashback. It turned into going back to the doctor to have the damned thing removed. It turned into making another appointment for another day for another attempt. It will involve sedation, and perhaps the twilight sleep will dull the pain. I just wanted something that would make life easier. I just want some peace.

One foot in front of the other

2010-09-03T19:06:00.010-05:00

You lace up your shoes even when you don't want to go. You brace yourself, and you begin. You put one foot in front of the other. You breathe in and out. You keep your eyes open to your surroundings. You take in water and food to sustain yourself. You run through the pain because you know it won't last forever.

Sometimes others are with you; sometimes you're alone.

You put one foot in front of the other.

You look down the road, not straight down, because the energy of looking ahead will help move your body forward.

You take deep, even breaths.

You put one foot in front of the other.

You take a break every now and again, sometimes to walk, sometimes to stretch, sometimes to simply stop. You know you will start again; for now, you need a break.

Every so often, you look up and notice the beauty all around you - the yellow flowers that decorate the road, the butterflies that circle around you, the green leaves of the trees that shelter you from the sun, and you smile in gratitude.

You run through the pain, even when you think you can't...take...one...more...step.

You put one foot in front of the other.

You stop at the bottom of a large hill and choose to walk up it. Tomorrow, you'll sprint up it. Today, at this moment, you will walk.

Running...grieving...you put one foot in front of the other, and you breathe.

Running away

2010-08-29T14:12:00.002-05:00

August has been a very busy month for me, which is why I haven't posted anything for awhile. My family went on several long weekend trips and one very long road trip across several states. Work has been busy and my son is gearing up to start kindergarten in a few days. I'm also training for a half-marathon and going for runs has taken up a lot of mental and physical energy.

It's been a blessing that I've been so busy. Keeping my mind focused on what is next to do on my list, where I have to be later, what I have to plan for...it never ends. It keeps me from thinking about the death of our child in May and our decision to not conceive again. Whenever little thoughts start to creep in my mind, I immediately shove them back down. Whenever I see a pregnant woman or baby, I try to force the happiness up and the sadness down.

Running has been very therapeutic. It's the one time in my day when nobody needs something from me. I am free to be with nature and my thoughts. It's hard work, but it's paying off. I have a ways to go until I'll feel comfortable running a half-marathon, but I'm in better shape than when I started. It's given me a sense of accomplishment. Running provides me with an outlet to think and problem-solve as my feet pound the ground. It also gives me a way to be in charge of my body. For the last seven years, my body has been through so much - invasive tests, painful procedures, a c-section, breastfeeding, daily injections, medications, morning sickness, fatigue. I feel badly for my body and wish it could have been different. When I run, I'm in charge of how fast I go, where I go, when I start, and when I stop. There is empowerment in being in charge of my body, and it's something I haven't had for some time.

I know there will come a time when the thoughts will become too much for me to push away, and they'll be forced up and out. I know that my mind and spirit are protecting me from having too much to deal with, and that one day I will have to deal with it. When that time comes, it will be bad, and I'll survive. Knowing I have so much support standing with me makes all the difference.

Seven Little Spirits

2010-07-31T13:19:00.003-05:00

I have seven little spirits who are with me always. I wanted each of them desperately, and each of them coming into my life changed me in a different way.

Alex is my first spirit. His arrival into my life was sudden and unexpected. We thought it would take months to conceive him, and he arrived within weeks instead. His heartbeat on the ultrasound was strong and he was beautiful. We weren't told a gender, since he was still only 9 weeks, but I felt strongly that he was a boy. He would have been my family's first grandchild. He stayed with me for six more weeks, despite his passing days after the ultrasound. Losing Alex knocked the very breath out of me. I cried every day for months and questioned how the world could be so cruel. I didn't think I would recover from that loss, but I eventually accepted it and assumed it wouldn't happen again.

Then came Amelia. My first girl. I was so devastated at the loss of Alex that I did a major disservice to Amelia. I was so out-of-my-body with grief that I barely remember my pregnancy. I do remember the day we found out Amelia passed. She was with me for 10 weeks, even though she lived for only 7. The day I found out I would had lost not just a baby, but a daughter, was one of the worst of my life.

David. He's my third. I took a six-month break from getting pregnant after Amelia so I could focus on healing. Once I was ready, he came along quickly. We knew from the beginning that David might not be healthy, and we had many terrifying ultrasounds until the bleeding started at 10 weeks. The ultrasound at the ER confirmed he had died. Initially, we were told he wasn't a fully formed baby, but rather a blighted ovum. I was summoned by a doctor a few weeks later who told me that he was a baby, that he was a son, and that he had too many chromosomes. I walked out of the doctor's office dazed, as if my heart had been ripped out of my body, my body steamrolled, and my heart put back in my body in a different orientation than it came out.

Elizabeth came next. Oh my, I was so excited to be pregnant again. We thought we were in the clear with her, because we had birthed a living son a couple of years prior. It took six months to finally create her, and I was thrilled. I assumed the treatments would save her. She left us at 8 weeks, after only growing to 6. I was taken to my knees once again.

Gabe wasn't with us very long. We'll never know what happened, as he left me naturally at 6 weeks. I'll always remember him being with us on our 10-year anniversary trip.

Oh, Madeline. Where to even begin...I was so sure you were going to make it to this world. You gave us quite a scare with all that bleeding, but with each weekly ultrasound you were getting bigger and had a strong heartbeat. You left us at 10 weeks. I took medication to help release you, but it didn't go well, and we had you at home. It was more horrific that I can even describe to lose you that way. I'm so sorry. Losing you had profound effects on me. I created this blog one month after you were gone, and I began creating the Share of Madison support group later that year. The loss of you also brought me a dear friend, and I thank you for leading me to her.

Our seventh spirit doesn't have a name, yet, but she will soon. We're just not ready for that, yet. She knows she's important. She's being patient with me, and I appreciate that. She's the last spirit I'll have, and I feel very melancholy about her. I really thought she was going to make it, since I was rendered useless by nausea and fatigue. She had too many chromosomes and didn't have a fighting chance. I know she would have joined us here if she could have.

My spirits are a blessing that I wish others could experience. People ask me how many children I have. I want to say "I have one living and seven spirits. They're right here. Can't you feel them?"

Worn out

2010-07-06T09:28:00.005-05:00

Balancing the myriad of emotions that come with grief (anger, sadness, bitterness, fear, anxiety) with the stresses of everyday life is wearing me out. I soldier on. I go to work. I raise my son. I clean my house. I prepare meals. I train for a half-marathon. I make vacation plans and prepare for birthday parties. All the while managing the grief.

All the while concealing my pain. Waiting for someone I haven't spoken to in awhile to ask the opening question that never comes (So, what's new with you?) so I can share my latest happenings. Seeing a pregnant woman and wanting, waiting, to feel happy for her. Averting my eyes in the baby section of the department store. Recognizing that people want to, need to, find normalcy and happiness in their routines but wanting to shake them out of it with a cry of "Don't you understand what has happened to me?!" Knowing that sustaining a friendship means talking about the triviality of life and not just the life-changing stuff, but wanting acknowledgment of it anyway. Forgiving others for their discomfort and ultimate dismissal of my misfortune. Recognizing the look of pity and sorrow in others' eyes and feeling I need to comfort them rather than the other way around. Wanting desperately for others to realize the magnitude of what has shifted in my life - going from trying to have another child to resolutely accepting that it's just not going to happen. Wanting to talk about the book I'm writing about my journey through recurrent pregnancy loss and being aware the topic will stall any further conversation. Wanting to get on with my life for the sake of all those around me, but feeling it'll betray the memories of my babies. Wanting to tell my son about his phantom siblings but knowing it'll just confuse him and depress me. Wanting to feel some peace in my life and fearing it'll never come.

I'm tired of being on this train. Can I get on another one now?

An answer and a wish

2010-06-23T08:55:00.004-05:00

I went in to see my doctor a week ago for my post-D&C checkup (I've never hated two letters as much as I hate these two). On the drive to the office, the tears developed. I managed to hold them back through the time in the waiting room and the ridiculous routine the nurse takes me through every time I'm there. Once I was half-dressed and sitting on the exam table, I let the tears flow. I sobbed my heart out for the injustice of the experience. I was supposed to be there with my husband listening to my baby's heartbeat and not to check to see if my now-empty uterus had healed. I sobbed for my baby and for the death of my dream of having another child. I kept sobbing, even once the doctor came in. She was an angel, getting the exam over quickly and painlessly. She left the room so I could get dressed and came back with news I wasn't expecting to receive.

We have an answer now for why our baby died. She had Trisomy 15, a chromosomal disorder. It's such a roller coaster of emotions to receive news like this. On the one hand, I'm grateful for an explanation of something that was out of my control. She didn't survive because of an accident of nature, not because of something I did or didn't do. For most of our losses, we've received an answer along the lines of "everything's normal and we just don't know what happened." We then make up stories for what could have happened. This is definitive - it's an answer. Because this particular chromosome disorder has a high likelihood of recurrence, it's possible that it was the cause for some of our other losses, particularly the three babies who couldn't be tested for various reasons. We'll never know. It'll always be a mystery. On the other hand, I'm devastated. It's horrible to find out that a baby we created wasn't healthy. This chromosome disorder causes developmental abnormalities. To think she may have hurt or suffered in some way is more than I can handle. I try to put that thought out of my mind and believe that she felt peaceful and loved and wanted to be here with us, but just couldn't. Even though we decided before we got pregnant that this time would be the last, this information makes our decision to not conceive again a solidly shut door. I wouldn't want to conceive now knowing that this (in addition to countless other things out of my control) could happen again.

I find myself wanting to change - dye my hair brown, wear clothes I wouldn't ordinarily wear, take up hobbies I've never tried before. I think that if I don't look the way I normally do, don't live the life I'm used to, perhaps I won't feel the way I do. If only it were that easy.

Silent Survivors

2010-06-16T09:14:00.007-05:00

A friend of mine, and fellow RPL'er, referred to me recently as a "7-time miscarriage survivor." I like being referred to as a survivor. So often, I feel like a victim of circumstance. My body failed. My doctor didn't find anything. And on and on. The idea that I have SURVIVED this terrible ordeal gives me a feeling of bravery and hope.

We are silent survivors. Most of the time, people in our lives didn't know we were pregnant. For many of our pregnancies, we weren't visibly pregnant. We grieve silently and for a lot longer than others realize or understand. Cancer survivors get walks in their honor. Alcoholics get medallioins for surviving sobriety. We don't have this. We don't get a beautiful wing of the hospital dedicated to our treatment. We don't have armies of researchers looking into the causes of our losses. We don't have celebrity fund raisers. We are silent survivors.

Though, we are not alone. I am so blessed to be a part of this community. I've said since my first loss seven years ago that I now belong to a club nobody wants to be a part of. Despite the circumstances, I'm touched and amazed by the outpouring of grief, kind words, and prayers that you are sending my way. This experience has opened my world to embrace the compassion and generosity of people I have never and will likely never meet face-to-face and who understand what I'm going through in a way others can't. It is so unfortunate to make acquaintances with those who are also grieving the death of a child, because this is a pain you never want anyone else to understand. It is also a blessing to be part of a community that cares so much and feels the pain of others experiencing this unique tragedy.

So while I may not be able to thank all of you personally, please know that I tuck your kindness in a place of my heart that I access often. Thank you, truly, deeply.

Instead

2010-06-06T17:18:00.004-05:00

This is the week I'd been waiting for, fantasizing about. The week that would have marked the end of the first trimester. The week that I was going to finally feel comfortable telling extended family, friends, and coworkers that we were expecting. The week that I was going to be able to do what all of my friends have done lately - post on Facebook that we were having a baby and then wait for the congratulatory messages to pour in.

Instead, I will go to my OB's office later this week to have a check-up to make sure I'm healing from the D&C I had two weeks ago because my baby died.

Instead, I will make those few final phone calls to the people I still need to tell that the baby died.

Instead, I will avert my eyes when I see a pregnant woman and pretend to feel happy for her.

Instead, I will see a baby in a stroller and wish she was mine.

Instead, I will go on with my life attempting some sense of normalcy as if my world hasn't changed forever and in a way that most people are oblivious to because we haven't shared our tragedy with them.

Instead, I will work on the baby blanket that I'm knitting for a friend knowing that the blankets I've made for my babies are gathering dust in the closet.

Instead, I will survive.

Instead.

Coping

2010-05-23T09:32:00.005-05:00

I sometimes get asked how I'm dealing with what has happened to me, how I'm coping with having yet another miscarriage. I'm not sure if people are actually wanting an answer, but I got to thinking about it. I have the conventional ways: leaning on my husband, writing on this blog, crying when I feel like it, talking to my therapist. I also have ways that aren't so conventional, but are very necessary to my healing. Making a list of these ideas was helpful for me. So, here it is.

1. Online shopping. The idea that a package is going to show up on my porch in a few days gives me something to look forward to. Right now, it's a new bathing suit.

2. Beauty products. I am a beauty products junkie. Always have been. There's something about a new mascara or shampoo that makes me happy, albeit temporarily. I could spend hours in the cosmetic aisle of Walgreens, Target, or Sephora (if I'm feeling indulgent). I may already have 30 lip glosses in the same shade of pink, but another one will make me feel better.

3. Reading a book, watching t.v. or a movie. I like the opportunity to escape into someone else's life, even if it's only for a hour. Robin Hood helped last week; now, I can't wait for Sex and the City 2, the ultimate escapism movie for a girl, to come out.

4. Gummy bears. They take me back to my childhood. They were the first thing I wanted to eat when I had my braces taken off. I don't know what it is about the sweet, chewy candy that brings me comfort. Thankfully, my son enjoys them too, and sharing them lessens the guilt.

5. Indulging in things that I don't allow myself to have during pregnancy: coffee (even though I only drink decaf, I don't want it when I'm pregnant), alcohol (which I don't particularly enjoy but will drink to say "F you" to what happened), pain medication (prescription, of course), and the occasional sleeping pill.

Unfortunately, exercise and cleaning the house didn't make this list. Maybe when I'm feeling stronger in a few weeks or months, those things will be more appealing. For now, I'm going to Sephora (with gummy bears in hand).

It wasn't supposed to end this way

2010-05-20T11:41:00.003-05:00

I had five weeks to imagine. I had 41 days to dream about what it would be like. I had 59,040 minutes to contemplate how our lives would change with a second child.

Then came the ultrasound. At seven weeks, there was a heartbeat. At nine weeks, there wasn't.

It wasn't supposed to end this way.

I'm supposed to be telling my co-workers about the happy news. I'm supposed to be posting on Facebook that we're expecting. I'm supposed to be telling my son that he's getting a brother or sister for Christmas.

It wasn't supposed to end this way.

I'm supposed to be making lists of baby names. I'm supposed to be hanging out in the baby aisle of Target stroking the soft blankets and picking out a theme. I'm supposed to be joking about my cravings for Pringles and Snickers.

It wasn't supposed to end this way.

I'm supposed to be upset (but secretly thrilled) that my pants are already too snug. I'm supposed to be pulling my maternity clothes out of the basement. I'm supposed to be holding off on buying a bathing suit for our summer vacation until closer to August and I know how big I'll be.

I'm supposed to be finding daycare. I'm supposed to be converting the guest room into a nursery. I'm supposed to be researching prenatal yoga classes.

It wasn't supposed to end this way.

I'm supposed to be making prenatal care appointments. I'm supposed to be glowing with excitement. I'm supposed to be pregnant with a living child.

This dream...it wasn't supposed to end this way.

Complete

2010-05-10T12:10:00.003-05:00

How do you know when your family is complete? Do you look at your kid(s) and say, "Yes, this is enough." Do you have a feeling like something is missing from your life? Do you search everywhere you go for this missing thing, wondering when you're going to find it? What if you don't get to choose how or when to add to your family?

Through my journey of healing, I've come to a state of peace with what has happened to my family and how different it is from what I dreamed of. I've come to a state of peace in knowing that my family is perfect just the way it is. If my husband and I have only one living child, that is more than enough and I am grateful.

I still think of people I know who have had all the children they want, and I envy them for having "completed" their families. They decided to have another child, and they had one. I realize this is simplifying things a bit, but that's how it looks from an outsider's perspective.

Even in the absence of logic, I picture a baby girl in my future. I imagine myself pregnant with her, being at the hospital for her birth, and introducing her to her big brother. These thoughts give me hope. It may just be wishful thinking or crazy daydreaming, but I like it and I'm going to keep it.

Anything is possible

2010-04-18T18:32:00.003-05:00

I want a baby. I do. Bad.

It's life-affirming and a relief to want this as much as I want air in my lungs and ground beneath my feet. Since my sixth miscarriage one year ago, I thought I would never feel this way again. It's also terrifying to want something so much. It's vulnerable. I'm vulnerable. I am so grateful for the life I have, and yet I'm putting out to the world that there is this thing I want. It's scary to do so, because I realize I may not get it.

This isn't like wanting a raise or a really good hamburger. This is my life. My family. My Dream.

I want to feel a baby kicking my ribs.

I want the baby shower my co-workers are throwing next week to be for me.

I want to argue about baby names with my husband.

I want to hear my son talk about what he's going to teach the baby.

I want to kiss the top of a newborn's head, count fingers and toes.

I want to nurse.

I want to rock a baby to sleep.

I want to buy little clothes and tiny socks.

I want to negotiate with my husband where to put the bassinet.

All I can do is try again, and then hold my breath.

Maybe if I get weekly acupuncture treatments.

Maybe if I give up decaf coffee.

Maybe if I take extra vitamins.

Maybe if I eat only organic food.

Maybe if I take extra thyroid medication.

Maybe if I take progesterone.

Maybe if I do yoga every day instead of once a week.

Maybe if I meditate.

Maybe if I just think positive thoughts.

Maybe if I don't think about anything at all.

Maybe if I don't clean out the litter box.

Maybe if I pray.

Maybe if I don't want it so badly.

Maybe if I want it badly enough.

I will choose to do these things. I will choose to do these things because I'm convinced that somehow, something will magically keep my baby alive. I will choose to do these things because I hope. Once you choose hope, anything is possible.

Bring it on

2010-03-21T15:01:00.005-05:00

For 12 hours, I thought I was pregnant. I haven't been tracking my cycles, since there hasn't been a reason to. When my acupuncturist noticed that my boobs were bigger than the week before, I began to wonder. When he felt for a pregnant pulse and didn't find one, I told him it was just a case of PMS. That was Thursday. Friday came. No period. Saturday came. No period. I started counting backwards. Sunday came. Still no period. On Monday, I panicked. I wasn't ready to be pregnant. I hadn't started the progesterone supplements. I hadn't had enough acupuncture treatments. I couldn't be pregnant. But, what if I was? Would that be so bad? Could I start the progesterone later in my cycle and have it still be effective? Could I increase the number of acupuncture treatments to catch up?

Monday night, she arrived in all her wondrous glory. I was relieved. And then I was sad. Relieved and sad. I should be used to this combination of emotions by now, but it still catches me by surprise. I realized I was sad because I do want to be pregnant, which I haven't wanted to be in so long. The idea of being pregnant felt...right.

Sitting across a table on Tuesday from a woman bursting with her first child, I thought "That should be me." I take this as a sign that I'm ready for it. A sign that all of these months of waiting have been productive. It's been exactly one year since my last miscarriage - "last" is an interesting choice of words, since I do hope it is my last.

I will take my melancholy as a sign that I'm ready for the adventure. Bring it on, baby.

You can be my stake in the ground

2010-03-07T14:24:00.007-06:00

One of the most difficult and confusing aspects of my journey through RPL has been my friendships with women. I have a long history of difficulty negotiating the complex world of friendships. I've always been a solitary person, only rarely coming across someone I wanted to expose my innermost self to. In elementary school, I would stick close to one friend or find something on the playground that interested me more than the superficiality of acquaintances. Throughout junior high, high school, and college, I often had only one serious friend at a time. If that friend moved away, I would take lots of time to heal before opening up to a new one.

The complexities of RPL invade every aspect of your life. One aspect that is unavoidable is that once you reach a certain age and have been married for a time, everyone in your inner circle of friends starts having children. As a member of this unwelcome society, I was getting pregnant and losing babies faster than my friends were starting their families. Eventually, though, they caught up. Then they passed me. I have one living son while my friends are on their second and third children. Have you ever experienced sitting at a stop light and once the light turned from red to green, everyone took off down the road while you were left sitting in your stalled car not going anywhere? It's like that. I'm stomping on the gas pedal, yelling out the window for them to wait up, wanting so badly to move forward and get where they are going, but being trapped inside a broken car.

I feel left out in this game we call "building our families." I've been pregnant more times than 99% of the people I know, and yet I've gotten the raw end of the deal. The short stick. The low card. The bad egg. Even before I had miscarriages, making friends was hard. Now, it feels impossible. Earlier in my journey, I thought I couldn't be friends with someone who hadn't had a loss. I thought we wouldn't be able to relate to one another. I realize now that isn't true. I've made connections with women who don't have children of their own, and I've been turned off by women who have had similar losses to my own. So, thankfully, that simple explanation doesn't explain it. I think it's that I have always valued depth in a relationship. I value those who can go deep with their emotions, who can bear witness to seeing mine, however painful. We are inherently social creatures. It's in our biology to connect. I have to go way beneath the surface with someone to connect with them. If someone can't tolerate those depths with me, I move on. I go far away, and it would take a lot for me to return.

I don't impose my pain on to people who don't want it. I am selective about how I share my journey. I am aware that my journey is hard for others to understand and they don't know what to say. It's never my intention to burden someone with something they can't handle or don't want to be a part of. I will let you off the hook. I am not Humpty Dumpty. You are not here to pick up my pieces to put me back together again. I am a willow tree. I will bend. I will not break. If the wind gets very strong, and you can handle it, you can be a stake that braces me in the wind. And, together, we will weather the storm.

Share newsletter

2010-02-27T14:15:00.002-06:00

The March/April Share Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support newsletter is published and available here for you to read. The topic this month is one close to my heart, recurrent pregnancy loss. I contributed an article chronicling my journey, and there are many other stories that you may relate to.

New Share Your Thoughts post

2010-02-10T10:25:00.001-06:00

What do you do when life doesn't deliver the choices you made? You reframe your life. Read about how I'm trying to do just that at the Share Your Thoughts blog.

Lots of questions, but no answers

2010-02-07T13:04:00.002-06:00

I've been able to put my pregnancy plans on hold since September while I've worked with my specialist to find reasons to treat. I didn't have to make a decision about getting pregnant because my specialist told me not to. It was comforting to not have to make a decision about this. I've made a decision to get pregnant seven times. The joy and excitement of making that decision, throwing out the birth control, imaging that we're creating a baby...it's all gone. I now dread the decision. I've done all the testing I can. My previous OB, new OB, fertility specialist, and recurrent pregnancy loss specialist have done all they can do. My thyroid tests have me stabilized on a dosage. I have the prescription for progesterone. I received test results that I have no medical reason to do Heparin. There are no other tests for me to do, no more procedures. I'm now faced with making a decision.

Since my live was changed on July 29, 2003, I've developed a spirit of living in the moment and taking things as they come. I can no longer go with the flow. I now have to monitor when I ovulate so I can start taking the progesterone at the precise time within my cycle. It will now become a project that will consume my ever waking moment. I will have to look at all the other obligations in my life and figure out when I can work this one in. I will be going to the doctor every several days for HCG tests, thyroid level checks, progesterone checks, and the ultimate terrorizing experience...ultrasounds.

It makes me wonder...am I up for this? Do I want to do this again? Can I handle another pregnancy? Do I want another child that badly? Can my marriage survive another pregnancy? Can I be the wife, mother, employee, friend, support group leader, human being that I want to be while I'm consumed with being pregnant? So many questions that have no answers.

I try not to think too much about these questions, but they are there and they are normal. I still prefer to live in the moment and only plan the things that I really have to in order to get stuff done and get where I need to be. In the past week, I've been to two funerals. Both of them were for people under the age of 50. It's sobering when the world smacks you in the face. These people were here one day and gone the next, and they left grieving families behind. They are a reason to stay in the moment, to not worry about what's happening next, to take solace in the fact that what happens will happen and it will be okay. Life is precious, no question.

New Beginnings

2010-01-12T09:07:00.002-06:00

It's been a busy few weeks for my family. We spent all of 2009 preparing to sell our house, and it finally happened. We got the offer in mid-December and closed last week. We also bought another house that is brand new and vacant. We'll be able to move out of our house and into the new house without having to worry about temporary housing. It's amazing how things work out.

It's bittersweet to leave our little house. When we bought it nine years ago, we had only been married two years. Trying to have kids was still several years away. It was the start of a new life in a new place, and it was exciting. A lot has happened to us since we bought that house. We brought home one baby, and we didn't bring home six others. This is the home where we chronicled my pregnancy with Tyler, taking pictures of my growing belly every month. It's the home where we hosted many out-of-town family and friends, and where I had my 30th birthday party. This is the home where we became parents, where our son took his first steps, where he learned to say "Up!," "Mama," and "Dada." It's the home where I dressed up as the Cat in the Hat for Halloween when Tyler was two, and he handed out candy by the fistfuls.

This is also the home from where I called friends to tell them my first baby died. And where I miscarried my last baby. This is the home to where I came after another devastating doctor's appointment, curling up on the couch, waiting for the fissures in my heart to mend. This is the home where we made friends, learned how to survive a Midwest winter, and where I discovered gardening. This is the home where my husband and I truly lived our vows of for better or for worse.

This home will be in my heart long after we lock the door.

I am excited about living somewhere new, and it seems perfect to me that this new beginning comes at the opening of a new year. In the middle of a desperately cold winter in Wisconsin, we will pack up our belongings, which have grown exponentially in nine years. We will truck over to a town that has a delightful, small community and a great school system. We will unpack our memories, and we'll start growing new ones. I'll have new appliances to discover, a walk-in closet to organize, and a playroom to set up. Our child will have more space to run around, my husband will have his cave, I will have the bathroom I've been dreaming about, and we will count our blessings.

I can truly say, happy new year.

Latest Share newsletter

2010-01-04T19:16:00.006-06:00

The latest Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support newsletter is now published. You can access it here. The focus of this newsletter is Meeting Milestones. I contributed an article on how I celebrate my children. It was emotionally draining to write, and I'm so glad I took the time to put these thoughts in writing. Those of us on this journey know milestones are an incredibly difficult thing to deal with, andI hope you find something here that is meaningful to you.

I hope the new year brings you peace, love, laughter, and many blessings (in whatever form you can get them).

Happy Holidays

2009-12-17T12:20:00.005-06:00

I want to take the opportunity here to publicly recognize a wonderful jewelry designer who helped me create a beautiful necklace that bears the names of my children. Jennifer with the Divine Designs Boutique offers a large selection of jewelry you can personalize at a very reasonable cost. I ordered my necklace online and it was around my neck within a week. I looked extensively for the perfect necklace for me, and Jennifer made it a reality.

While you're out here reading through my blog, hop over to the Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support blog to read my latest entry in Share Your Thoughts . I write about a transformational few days in a conference center outside St. Louis. I hope you enjoy the journey.

I wish you all a peaceful holiday season and hope for the new year.

Blessings

2009-12-13T08:40:00.009-06:00

One of the great blessings of the past six years of heartache has been the people I've met. People like Sharon, who was the first person who really understood and who introduced me to Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support, for which I am eternally grateful. And Colleen, who has traveled a very similar path as mine, who I find interesting and delightful, and who can make me laugh even in a doctor's waiting room. Like Hope, who I met recently at the Share retreat only briefly, and who made an indelible print on my heart. And there's Christa, a fellow blogger, whom I have never met in person and whose heart has expanded to include me. I'm grateful to Lori, whose healing presence in a difficult moment made it all better. There's Rose, who is one of my biggest fans and I hers. She spurs me on to write and write and write, and I love her for it. There's Cathi, the director of Share, who has dedicated her life to ensuring no family feels alone. She is an inspiration.

I am honored to be touched, however briefly, by each of these women who I probably never would have met had it not been for our shared tragedies. There's no greater gift than friendship. I believe our souls are changed through each of our relationships. I have learned from these women resilience, faith, trust, and the healing power of sharing your most difficult, shameful emotions. Our boat is a difficult one to be in, one nobody willingly joins us in, and I am grateful every day that these women are navigating the turbulent seas with me.

The Gifts from My Children

2009-11-28T14:58:00.004-06:00

My first baby made me a mother, and I am grateful for him and for his siblings who followed him. My children taught me how to love. My children taught me compassion, respect, sensitivity, and gratitude. They've made me a better mother to my living child, and I am blessed to have had them for even the short time they were with me. I mother them every time I offer kindness to a stranger, when I caress my child's cheek, when I take time to do something for myself, when I support my friends.

I experienced a life-changing moment in early November at a conference center outside St. Louis. I was blessed to be surrounded by men and women of the Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support organization and parents and caregivers from around the country who came together for an intense and emotionally draining weekend of learning how to support parents grieving the death of a child during pregnancy or early infancy. These amazing people gave me the courage to break through my grief and begin the process of mourning, to finally represent to the world what my children have meant to me all these years. My children were more than just a line on a pregnancy test or a fuzzy black and white image on an ultrasound machine. They were more than a heartbeat and morning sickness symptoms. They were my children, and I love them with the same intense ferocity as I love my living son.

Being surrounded by people who understood my pain and were grieving along with me, I experienced an intense shift deep inside that resulted in something so amazing and profound for me that it's difficult to express it with as much emotion as I feel - I named my children. I had not been able to give my babies an identity until that weekend. Now, I have. They are Alex, Amelia, David, Elizabeth, Gabe, and Madeline. They are my children. I love them, I miss them, I think of them every day. They are my gifts, and through them, I extend my gifts to the world.

Thank you, my babies.

Coming out on the other side

2009-11-15T09:54:00.004-06:00

I am coming out of the fog and seeing the beauty that exists when the sun shines brightly on the world. I took the prenatal vitamins out of the back of the closet and took one without feeling angry. I drank some soda because I needed the caffeine to help my headache, and not because I wanted to punish my body for not being pregnant anymore. I laid my hands on my belly and felt the soft slope of my own body, and not the void of a life that left me. I felt joy from seeing a picture of my coworker with her newborn son.

Time does not, in fact, heal all wounds. Time provides an opportunity to work through your pain. If you can work through your pain, you can learn to appreciate what you have and the time you have left. Every day, you make a choice to either get up to face the day or to put a pillow over your face. Making the choice to work through the pain takes energy and courage. It is working through your pain that will move you to the other side of tragedy - the side that enables you to feel grateful for what you have survived and what you still have. It's a difficult journey, filled with setbacks, tears, disappointment. Potholes. You can learn so much along the way. You can survive, and you can come out on the other side.

Coming out of the fog

2009-10-27T08:14:00.008-05:00

We get in our car to drive to work one day, only to find ourselves driving through a thick layer of fog. We wonder "Where did this fog come from? Why didn't anyone tell me to expect it? What do I do?" We feel afraid, confused, uncertain. What we do know is that we don't want to drive in fog. It's scary and uncomfortable - we can't see what's ahead.

We feel out of control and like we are a victim to the fog. We keep driving, more slowly than usual. Then, we start thinking clearly and realize there are things we can do to deal with the fog. We can turn on the dehumidifier to clear the windows, flick on the wipers to rid the windshield of droplets of rain. We can see better now. We are still afraid, driving slowly, hunched forward, gripping the wheel; doing whatever we can to protect ourselves and get to work safely. We are tempted to stop by the side of road and wait for the fog to lift. We consider that for a moment, then we forge ahead. We breathe deeply. We are in the moment and feel what we feel. We allow the fear and anxiety to wash over us. We accept this new reality.

Then, as if by magic, we come out of the fog. The sky is a brilliant blue. The sun is shining brightly. The leaves are amazing shades of orange, red, and yellow. The world is crisp and the air somehow feels cleaner. This view that we see every day driving to work is somehow different. It's crisper, a sharper image, and stunningly more beautiful than we ever realized before. We are confused - what happened? Did the world change? No, we changed. We are glad for the fog, now that it is gone, for it has given us a perspective. This perspective is a gift. We have strength we didn't realize we had. We have ways of coping with what we thought was unbearable and tools in our toolkit we didn't even know were there (or were there and we had just never needed to use them). Perhaps someone was in the car with us, and we learned how to ask for help.

If we had a choice, we certainly would have taken the easier route, the one without the fog, the one with a clearer path that we know how to navigate. Or, we would have stayed in bed with the covers pulled up to our chin. But, we didn't. We got up and we did what we needed to do. We accepted that this is the path we are on. We can't force away the fog - it's there, and we have to deal with it. We have to keep going and believe that it will, eventually, lift.

The unfairness of it all

2009-10-25T13:59:00.006-05:00

My specialist recommended an endometrial biopsy. I took several weeks to think about this decision. This doctor has researched recurrent pregnancy loss (RPL) for decades and knows her stuff. I believed her when she told me this would help us understand if I have a luteal phase defect (one cause being failure of the uterine lining to respond to normal levels of progesterone). This decision rattled around in my brain for days and days. I talked to a friend who had the procedure recently. It was painful. The results were confusing to understand (at least, without a doctor's interpretation - which, frankly, may not be more clarifying). This friend still felt pain from the spot where the tissue was cut out of her uterus. I talked to my new OB. She recommended not having the procedure exactly for the reasons I feared - the pain, the inconclusive results. She simply handed me a prescription for the treatment - synthetic progesterone. I thought about how many procedures I have had over the six years I've spent trying to have children. All the doctors (some known, others strangers), exam rooms, the time off work, the pain medication, the time spent curled up in pain that medication can't heal.

The answer came to me easily one day. I can't do it. I refuse. I will not have this procedure. The trauma to my body and my psyche is too much. I'll take the progesterone, absent the proof of need. I'll face the specialist to tell her I won't do this thing she thinks I should do. I'll do what I feel is in my best interest, despite the rational argument that taking medication is a risk, should be dosed properly, and may not help. Because thinking about the alternative - the PROCEDURE - is more than I can bear.

One of the frustrating things about RPL (there are many) is the unknown. The body's ability to create life is still a mystery, especially when it isn't successful. Some doctors are willing to test, others aren't. Some give out medications without proof, relying on the concept of Tender Loving Care, which is big in the reproductive medical community. It translates into "give the woman whatever she wants when she wants it - ultrasounds, beta HCG test, medication that may or may not help." Show compassion, listen to her, answer her questions. Giving us something to feel like we are DOING SOMETHING is supposed to help alleviate the fear and anxiety that comes with being pregnant when you've had RPL. Unfortunately, the tests are usually inconclusive and often lead to more tests. All of this means more crap we have to do. We submit to blood tests, painful procedures, talking to insurance reps who think RPL is the same thing as infertility and infertility isn't considered a medical condition, scheduling appointments, praying for approved referrals, waiting for nurses to call, not getting to talk to our doctors, taking medication.

The unfairness of it all is something I have to live with. Seeing someone effortlessly carrying a baby to term, complaining about morning sickness, whining about feeling uncomfortable. I have to remind myself that she just doesn't understand, that she doesn't live with my reality, that she has her own problems. My father always told me that life isn't fair. I remind myself that I have a bright and healthy child, an amazing husband, a loving family, a network of good friends, and work that I enjoy. Thinking about these things helps me keep this unfairness in check.

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day

2009-10-15T15:56:00.003-05:00

October is "Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month" and today, October 15, is "Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day." Please light a candle, say a prayer, or reach out to someone who has experienced this loss.

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

--Emily Dickinson

Gratitude

2009-10-12T09:18:00.002-05:00

I need to take a moment here to thank all of my wonderful readers. Your support has been tremendous, and I'm so very grateful. I'm overwhelmed by the compassion and tenderness each of you has shown through your comments and emails and references on your own blogs. Our little online community is a constant source of comfort and peace to me, and I wish all of you the very best.

My latest post for Share Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support is now posted on Share Your Thoughts. I welcome your thoughts.

My trip to the specialist - Part II

2009-10-03T12:33:00.004-05:00

So, I broke down. The stress of all the questions, reliving each of my losses, and feeling more and more confused took its toll. I dreaded doing this, prayed I wouldn't do it. I couldn't help it - the tears came. I sat with my hands covering my face, tears running down my face. I heard the doctor push a box of tissues toward me and apologize for upsetting me. She then continued with her questions and ideas. I tried valiantly to pull myself together and get through the rest of my appointment. The doctor showed me slides from her research and explained something about the differences between miscarriages at 6 weeks and those at 10 weeks. I don't remember anything she said. The last ten minutes of our time together is a blur. I agreed to work with my doctors at home on her recommendations. She recommended repeating the blood tests for autoimmune disorders. She also suggested an endometrial biopsy to test for luteal phase deficiency. We discussed the merits of taking progesterone in the absence of a test. She cautioned against using serious medication as a placebo. She requested I track down the tissue from my last miscarriage, which my doctor's office screwed up to the point of making it non-testable. This doctor can do another test, at a substantial cost. She recommended a bone density scan to rule out issues from taking Heparin in five pregnancies. Thank goodness she wrote all of this down.

I took the paperwork, the book, and the FedEx bio hazard pack for shipping my endometrial tissue (should I decide to have the biopsy). I was shuttled to another room to talk to the research assistant, who spent ten minutes explaining the research protocol the doctor is working on and requested my blood and urine samples so they could put them into a large database of study samples, with the express purpose of trying to better understand pregnancy loss. I had already read through the research consent form and decided I would participate, but I let her have her say. I'm sure it's required to talk through it with each patient so we fully understand what we are doing. I understand that my samples will be a part of a larger initiative to help other women, and that I won't benefit from it. I'm fine with that, I embrace that. Let me help other women. I thanked everyone and walked to the lab. I had been there over two hours, after driving for three and a half. I was hungry and anxious to meet my family for lunch. I approached the lab and was dismayed to see about 35 people waiting. I sat for five minutes, debating my desire to participate in the research and my need to squelch my hunger pangs. After a few minutes, I approached the staff at the desk and told them I couldn't wait any longer. She looked at my lab slip and noticed what I was there for. She told me this doctor feels very strongly about her research and would not be happy if I left without leaving my contribution. This angel called another lab and sent me to another floor. I donated six vials of blood, and was out of there in a few minutes.

What do I have now? More questions. This doctor challenged my deep-seeded, perhaps erroneous, belief that a highly invasive drug is my savior. The savior is wielding a double-edge sword. Save the baby, sacrifice the mom? This changed the framework I have had for years that Heparin injections kept Tyler alive. Maybe that hadn't nothing to do with his survival. Considering I lost three babies using that same treatment, it makes sense that isn't the cure. What value will these tests bring if nothing else is found to be wrong? Do I not take Heparin if the blood tests are inconclusive? Do I take a controversial drug that scares the heck out of me? Do I pursue getting the tissue from my last miscarriage so we can actually determine if the baby's chromosomes were normal or not? If she wasn't, the doctor said she would change her treatment protocol for me, since it's very likely there's something seriously wrong with me. What if my bone density scan indicates my bones are weaker from having taken so much Heparin? Will I not be allowed to use it again? Will I want to use it again?

This doctor did exactly what I needed her to do - she offered new insights, asked lots of questions, and made recommendations. Unfortunately, I didn't come away from the day with more hope, just more confusion. Was it worth it? It's too soon to know.

My trip to the specialist - Part I

2009-09-19T14:55:00.011-05:00

A basket case. That’s what I was for weeks thinking about my appointment with the reproductive endocrinologist in Chicago. What would she be like? What questions would she ask me? Would I be able to answer her questions? Would she be able to help us?

I drove three hours from my home in Madison, WI to downtown Chicago. I have no inner compass and was nervous about finding the hospital. My GPS, bless her heart, tried to help me but she couldn’t see the roads closed for construction around the clinic. I finally spotted the parking garage. I was already running late, which exacerbated my anxiety. I traveled through every level of that parking garage. There wasn't a single available space. I left the garage and was directed by the gate attendant to the valet parking. Grateful, I got the car parked and headed in the clinic. I was running late. I didn't know where I was going, who I was looking for, or which set of elevators to get on. I did have a floor number. I finally made it to the right department and waited a few minutes before being called back (I guess there is an advantage to being late). I lugged my bag carrying all 200+-pages of my medical file, along with a two-page summary I compiled the night before of my seven pregnancies. I sat down with the nurse, who was perturbed that I hadn’t answered her phone calls. She had called me at work to touch base before my appointment. I had left my house at 7 a.m. and didn’t know she was trying to reach me. She consulted the treatment summary from my doctor, but hadn’t received my full medical records. I answered personal questions about my sex life, what diseases exist in my family, and whether I have any relatives from Canada. We then went through each of my pregnancies in detail. The summary turned out to be the best thing I could have done. Without it, I would probably still be sitting with the nurse.

I highly recommend to anyone going through medical treatment to get a comprehensive list of both sides of your family history. You'll never know when you'll need to know if your husband's paternal grandmother had arthritis.

I was weighed and pressurized and then taken back to meet with the doctor. The room I was taken to was tiny, cramped, with an examining chair that reminded me of my times in the hospital being prepped for a procedure. I chose to stand. I waited about five minutes, passing the time by watching the construction activity going on next to the hospital. The doctor came in and escorted me to another tiny, cramped room, this one with a desk rather than a examining chair. She asked me if I had any ideas about what was going on with my situation. It’s not often I’m asked a question I can’t answer; this one truly stumped me. I told her I hoped she could provide her opinion on what was going on and that I wasn’t sure there was anything else to be found. She asked me questions about my pregnancy history, medications, and test results. She was interested in every detail. Some of her questions were easy to answer. Were all my babies with my current husband? Yes. Did I have trouble conceiving? No. At what points during the pregnancies did the babies die? I knew that by heart. Other questions weren’t so easy. Had I been tested for cystic fibrosis? Not sure. Was I confident about the chromosome test results from the second baby? I don't know - why wouldn’t I be?

So many questions about such difficult experiences. What did all of this mean? What was she thinking? Did she know what was wrong with me? After about 20 minutes, she pulled out a piece of paper and wrote her recommendations. I needed more blood work (a lot of blood work) to see if I really have antiphospholipid syndrome (blood clotting disorder). I was tested for this once in 2004 and had been treated for it throughout my pregnancies. I needed to have the tests repeated. Since I had a living child, the results could now be completely different. Didn’t I know that? No. I needed an endometrial biopsy to see if I have a luteal phase deficiency. This would mean treatment with progesterone. Couldn’t I just have the treatment without the pain and expense of another procedure? No, the dosing must be accurate. Due to my extensive use of Heparin (a blood thinner) in five of my pregnancies, I needed to have a bone density scan. Did I know that Heparin affects bone density? I don’t remember being told that, but I must have been. Osteoporosis runs in my family. Could I be at a higher risk of having bone damage now? Had I taken this drug to save my babies, and destroyed myself in the process?

There was so much information. So much to think about. So much to do. It eventually became too much, and I did what I had prayed I wouldn't. I broke down.

To be continued…

Share Your Thoughts

2009-09-08T15:38:00.002-05:00

Please check out Share Your Thoughts for my September post. While you're there, be sure to read the amazing articles posted by some wonderful authors.

Survival

2009-09-01T19:32:00.004-05:00

Author's note: I am taking an unusual step with this post, deviating from my typical perspective of writing only about my personal experiences. I am taking liberties, I admit, drawing upon the collective unconscious from the hundreds of stories I have listened to and cried through. My words are not meant to judge or assume or patronize. Rather, I mean merely to provide perspective and hope. I welcome your comments.

We are survivors - we parents who have experienced the tragic death of a child before he is born. We have survived horrific ultrasounds that reveal no life where there once was the beat of a heart. We have survived making the impossible decision to miscarry naturally or have painful, invasive surgery, and the consequences of each. We have survived our babies unceremoniously being taken from our wombs while we lay in an anesthetized slumber. We have survived rounds of medical tests and hopes (and fears) something would be found. We have survived despair (and relief) when nothing was. We have survived not having graves to visit (or having graves to visit). We have survived pitying stares and ungracious comments from strangers and loved ones. We have survived doctors saying I don't know what's wrong with you, there's nothing else to be done, it's nature's way. We have survived silent tears, fearing reactions if we shared why we weep. We have survived facing down unimaginable horror and saying, "This will not break me."

We have also survived tremendous compassion. We have survived prayers and well-wishes from strangers who share our bond and friends who do not. We have survived unlikely compatriots sharing their own stories once they learned ours, and feeling less alone. We have survived advances in research that now identify more causes than ever to explain the death of a baby during pregnancy. We have survived getting up the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, and finally one day taking a breath that wasn't wracked with grief. We have survived creating new relationships and strengthening existing ones with those who have chosen to walk beside us in our grief. We have survived making the difficult choices to end relationships that didn't withstand our experiences. We have survived the incredible joy of realizing life can be beautiful, despite the pain, and perhaps because of it.

I believe it is not what happens to us that defines who we are. Rather, it is what we choose to do about what happens to us that defines our character.

We are survivors.

Bellies

2009-08-21T08:44:00.003-05:00

Placing my hands on my belly is how I connected to my babies when I was pregnant. I would find myself doing it without even realizing it. I placed my hands on my belly when I wanted to talk to the baby. It was my way of saying “I know you’re there, and I’m here for you.” It was also an instinctive protective measure. Somehow, I believed that placing my hand on my belly was keeping the baby safe.

I received many acupuncture treatments during my most recent pregnancy. I began those treatments believing they would make me healthier and ensure the baby received the necessary nourishment. My acupuncturist, a wonderful man who has supported me through some difficult times, was skilled at detecting the baby’s heartbeat. He told me several times that he could clearly tell the baby was alive. He believed the baby was a girl, and I chose to believe him. I remember one treatment in particular where I placed my hands on my belly and felt the baby. I distinctly felt a presence other than my own, and it was a tremendous feeling of connection. It wasn’t her heartbeat I felt. It was something more than that…it was her energy, her life force. I asked her to keep growing and staying strong. I told her I couldn’t wait to meet her. She died a couple of weeks after that.

I haven’t comfortably rested my hands on my belly since then. Lying in my yoga class, receiving an acupuncture treatment or a massage, times when I would naturally lie with my hands folded on my belly…I can’t do it. It is too painful. I find myself starting to place my hands on my belly, and then I move them because it doesn’t feel right. When my husband touches me there, I cringe. It’s as if my belly isn’t part of my body anymore – it’s a separate entity, distinctly different from the rest of me. Its existence to me is only as a womb. M womb is rejecting my babies, so maybe I’m rejecting my womb. I can’t reconcile myself to the fact that it serves more purposes to me than that.

This issue of mine is probably why I react so strongly when I see a pregnant woman place her hands on her belly. I want that feeling back so badly for myself that I recoil with physical pain. I will her to stop, to move her hands, to stop taunting me, stop torturing me with her healthy pregnancy. I want to feel happy for her, to reach back four years ago when I was pregnant with Tyler to understand how she feels, but it’s hard. I hope to reach that place of empathy and compassion eventually. In the meantime, I can only take it one day, one hand, at a time.

Next steps

2009-08-15T08:52:00.005-05:00

I had a dream last night that I was pregnant. The weird thing was I didn't know it. I just kept getting a bigger belly. I finally went to the doctor, and she confirmed I was pregnant. She said 27 weeks, but I wasn't sure if that was how far along I was or if that's how much longer I had to go. I was just relieved because it meant I was out of the first trimester. It's very disconcerting to wake up from a dream like that. "Am I pregnant? No, that was just a dream. Oh, well." That dream ended, and I then had a dream where I was around a lot of people and we were traveling all over the world. Everywhere we went, I ended up being next to a pregnant woman who was bragging about being pregnant. I would cry and cry, but nobody noticed.

I was reminded recently of one of the ways I coped with my most recent miscarriage. I looked back at my journal from my pregnancy earlier this year. Two weeks after the baby died, I wrote a list of things I could do now that I was no longer pregnant: drink wine, go for a run, carry things up stairs, eat whatever I want without getting sick. I was so desperate to make myself feel better that I had to reconstruct my present to be thankful for what I had, rather than what I didn't have. That's the only entry in my journal about that pregnancy. I was so fearful and anxious during that pregnancy that I couldn't even write about it in my journal.

One of the next legs of my journey is a trip to Chicago to see Dr. Mary Stephenson. She runs the Recurrent Pregnancy Loss Program at the University of Chicago Medical Center, and she is considered the Midwest expert on recurrent loss. My specialist told me that if anyone finds the next "cure" for miscarriage, it will be this doctor. I will see her in September, and I'm currently preparing for the consultation by thinking through everything I want to ask her. I have decided that she's the end of the road - there's nobody else left for me to consult. If she doesn't have any other answers, we'll just have to go with the knowledge we have now. I wrestle between feeling confident that she'll come up with another reason and accepting that she won't have any other ideas. There's also the potential that she will recommend a controversial treatment that I'm terrified of, and I'll have to make a difficult decision. I'll just have to do what I've learned how to do over the past six years...cross that bridge when I come to it.

The whole point of living is to believe the best is yet to come. --Peter Ustinov

The Blame Game

2009-08-07T11:01:00.008-05:00

In looking for an answer of "Why did my baby die?," I always turn to myself. I have blamed myself for anything and everything I can think of that might be an answer. I don't blame the things that doctors have theorized might have caused problems - the antiphospholipid syndrome or the low thyroid. These are things I have no control over and had no idea existed within my body, and therefore couldn't do anything about. No, I blame myself for the things that I can control. When our baby died in the summer of 2008, I was convinced it was the bug spray I used that contained DEET. I only used a little bit a few times when the mosquitoes were really bad, but I told myself for a long time that if only I hadn't used that, my baby would have been okay. Then, I became obsessed with the idea that the peppermint herbal tea I drank to soothe my morning sickness caused the baby to die. I only drank it a few times, but I was convinced the herbs killed the baby.

This all makes no rational sense. The female body does an amazing job of protecting a baby, even to the detriment of the poor mama. I remember vividly having a terrible stomach flu when I was five months pregnant with Tyler. I spoke to the nurse on call in the middle of the night, so worried that throwing up for six hours was harming the baby. The nurse reassured me that I was suffering much more so than he was, and that my body would protect him before it would protect me.

So, why do we blame ourselves? It's not because we hate ourselves. We are looking for a REASON to explain the unimaginable. Babies don't just die. There's got to be a reason. That's what we want to believe. The truth is that so much has to go right that any baby that survives pregnancy and is born healthy is a miracle. When a baby dies for no known reason, we want to understand. The only thing we can turn to is our own bodies and our choices. Then, when we're pregnant again, we'll avoid those things that caused the problems. That will give us some control.

When the test comes back that the baby wasn't healthy and would not have survived if born, it's such a relief. The trouble is, the tests can't find everything. Medical science doesn't do much for us. Very few clinicians study miscarriages; there's no specialty in obstetrics and gynecology for miscarriage. We're at the mercy of those dedicated professionals who want as desperately as we do to find an answer.

In the absence of an answer, what reassurance do we have that it won't happen again?

Share Your Thoughts

2009-07-30T10:59:00.006-05:00

You may be familiar already with the Share Pregnancy & Infant Loss Support blog. If you don't already read Share Your Thoughts, it's a wonderful addition to your online support toolkit.

I will now be a regular contributor to this blog. My posts will be published the last week of every month. Please check out my first post, as well as those contributed by other authors.

The post I wrote for Share is one I've been thinking about for a long time. I am honored to be asked to write for Share, and this is what it took for me to tune in to my thoughts and let the words pour out.

In charge

2009-07-27T08:25:00.005-05:00

One thing I've learned from my experiences is the importance of staying in control of my medical care. I always revered doctors, trusted them, believed whatever they said, took their words for the absolute truth, and never questioned their advice. After all, they went to medical school. What do I know? I've since come to realize that doctors are fallible. They don't know everything. They are human, and they are flawed.

I've had tremendous care through the past six years of having children, and I am grateful for that. My OB was smart, compassionate, and she gave me great care. When we had the ultrasound that revealed our first child had died weeks earlier, I said I wasn't leaving the clinic until I had the D&C, and she agreed. When my test results for antiphospholipid syndrome were borderline after the death of our second child, she informed me of the potential treatment options. I researched them tirelessly on the internet, printing pages and pages of studies to support that the heparin injections were my best chance of carrying a child to term. She listened to my demands, and she agreed to the treatment plan. When I asked for more tests, she agreed. When I asked to be seen every two weeks rather than once a month throughout my fourth pregnancy with my son, she didn't even hesitate. When I begged her for more ideas after our fifth miscarriage, she provided a different treatment for the suspected blood clotting. When I told her I started acupuncture treatments to build up my system, she supported me.

Throughout all of this, I was talking to other women who experienced recurrent pregnancy loss and researching treatment options. It was after our sixth miscarriage that I really took matters into my own hands and determined I needed to see a specialist. I regret that it took me that long, but we get where we need to be when we need to be there. I wish my OB had taken this step, and my mistake was waiting for her to.

It was after my first meeting with a reproductive endocrinologist that I realized how much I didn't know. There are many ideas in the medical community about what causes recurrent pregnancy loss, but very little testing and, therefore, data to strongly support the many theories. I learned that OBs don't have a lot of information (my theory is that they are focused on their healthy pregnant patients and don't take the time or have access to review the research from the specialists). My specialist found a potential cause, low thyroid levels, that my OB had never even suggested testing. When my current specialist reached the end of the road with what she could determine, I asked to see another specialist. I hope to have that happen within the next few months. I won't stop until I feel I turned over every stone. Above all, even if nothing definitive is ever found, even if we don't have another child, I know that I did everything I could to remain in charge of my medical treatment. After all, isn't that all we can do?

Healing through music

2009-07-16T19:22:00.003-05:00

I find music to be tremendously healing. I have had some of my most cathartic cries to music (one of them cruising down the interstate at 70 mph). Tracy Chapman does me in really quick, as does Sarah McLachlan. I often have to skip Simon and Garfunkel's "Bridge Over Troubled Water" in my playlist or I know I'll be a mess. Music can also be uplifting and make you think about your life. I've been listening to Joshua Radin almost daily for 3 weeks, and the lyrics of the song "Brand New Day" really struck me today:

It's a brand new day
The sun is shining
It's a brand new day
For the first time in such a long long time
I know I'll be okay

Such a simple chorus, but very powerful to me right now. I feel like I can finally say these words and believe they are true.

Please check out the latest newsletter from Share: http://www.nationalshare.org/July-Aug_09_for_web.pdf. There's great information on creating memories of our children and healing through writing.

Surrender

2009-07-13T10:38:00.007-05:00

I surrender.

I surrender to the anxiety.
I surrender to the fear.
I surrender to the desperation.
I surrender to the jealousy.
I surrender to the sadness.
I surrender to the longing.
I surrender to the guilt.
I surrender to the wish that my life didn't include this experience.
I surrender the fight.

There is a sweet release in throwing your arms up to the sky and saying, "I give up. I can't do it any longer." There is peace in giving in to whatever balm you need to soothe your soul, whether that is a good cry, writing in a journal, digging in the dirt, talking about your baby, or running until you hurt.

There's a strength in surrender. I've been fighting a fight that can't be won. It's gotten harder each time, and I now surrender the belief that I can manage all of this as I have been. I accept whatever help I can get in order to feel better, whatever form that help comes in. I feel a sense of peace and comfort that I haven't felt in a long time.

I surrender. What a relief.

Lost and found

2009-07-02T15:22:00.009-05:00

I found my grief. It wasn't gone; it was just hiding a little bit. I have been able to deny my grief for a couple of months as I've been distracted by life. Denial is not just a river in Egypt. It's a very real, very helpful way to protect yourself from dealing with something you just can't bear. I was so busy dealing with fixing up our house to sell, living day by day with a full time job and my very busy child, taking an online class, and supporting my husband through his Ironman training. I was able to push aside the anger and sadness so I could focus on the distraction of my life. Well, the house is on the market, the online class is done, the Ironman training is becoming just the way things are, and the feelings are refusing to be denied any longer.

It's impossible to go anywhere and not feel the sadness. I just wanted to have a nice quiet day at the zoo with my son, and everywhere my gaze took me were families with two, three, or more children, and pregnant women strolling around. These families look happy, peaceful, content, like their lives are complete. My family is not complete, and it's painful to see those who are (or appear to be). I have denied the grief for so long and caused myself physical and emotional pain that today I chose to ignore what people would think and I felt the sadness. I had to sit with it, allow the sadness to be there, move through me, and come out in rivulets of tears running down my face as people sat next to me, walked in front of me, and Tyler grinned at me from the playground. It was an uncomfortable release.

I'm going to have to do this a lot more. Walking through my neighborhood, shopping at the grocery store, driving home, watching a movie, living my life. When I feel the pain ripping through my insides, making my head feel like it's going to explode, pools of tears forming behind my eyes, I just have to let it out. Maybe I'll just tell strangers my dog died. Maybe I'll tell them to mind their own business. Maybe I'll stop denying who I am and what I've been through. My grief is a part of me, it's woven into the fabric of my being, and it will always be with me. It'll get easier as I explore it, cry it out, talk about it, write about it. It'll always be a part of me. I accept that, and I will survive.

Painful, and necessary

2009-06-28T12:13:00.009-05:00

I was given permission recently to feel angry. It doesn't matter by whom, just that it was necessary and freeing. I struggle with anger - what purpose does it serve, how does it help? How do I forgive myself for feeling such an awful emotion about innocent people? I've said all along that I'm not angry. Sad, yes. Angry, no. What I learned is that I am feeling angry, but I'm suppressing it. I'm trying to accept that I will feel better and move forward if I express it. Who should I be mad at? I can be mad at everybody and at nobody.

I'm angry at my doctor for not doing more. I'm angry at my specialist for not finding a definitive answer. I'm angry at the hugely pregnant woman who flaunted her belly in front of me while I sat in my doctor's waiting room preparing to talk about the results of my latest round of tests. I'm angry at families who have several children. I'm angry at people who don't ask me how I'm doing. I'm angry at my coworker for being pregnant. I'm angry at my other coworkers for talking about the coworker being pregnant. I'm angry at a friend of mine who posted on Facebook the news she is having baby number 3. I'm angry at my body for not holding on to my babies.

I realize there are people out there who may be reading this (I really have no idea who reads this and who doesn't) and will recognize yourselves in this rant. I am okay with that, because it's not about you. It really isn't personal. It's about me and the unfairness of what has happened to me. The more I get the bad feelings out and release the judgment I carry around every second of every day for feeling this way, the closer I am to healing.

Breaking up is hard to do

2009-06-24T10:39:00.005-05:00

I broke up with my OB/Gyn today. I can no longer go to her office building, interact with her staff, or have appointments with her. It's just too hard. I associate her and everthing related to seeing her with pain, tragedy, anxiety, and sorrow. She understood, but it was still very difficult for me to end a long-term relationship. It was necessary, and we need a fresh start.

Going to an OB/Gyn's office after a history of miscarriages is unbearable. It just sucks being surrounded by pregnant women. And, babies. I did an unusual thing today. I was about to sit down in the waiting room when I noticed a couple with a baby were sitting in line of sight where I'd be sitting. Without pausing or even really thinking about it, I circled around that chair to sit somewhere I wouldn't have to see the baby...only to have a very pregnant woman walk right in front me. Seriously?!! I need a &%$# break.

I was at my OB/Gyn's office to have my post-op appointment. At the advice of my reproductive endocrinologist, she did a hysteroscopy to see if there was anything going on with my baby-maker that was contributing to the miscarriages. There was nothing. Everything was normal. This is good because there's nothing to fix, and it's bad because there's nothing to fix. The only thing that may be contributing to the deaths is my borderline hypothyroidism, which is being treated. We could see a specialist in Chicago, but I just don't think I can bear meeting with another doctor, enduring another round of tests, only to be told by an expert that there's nothing else to be done. How much disappointment and hopelessness can we endure before we give up? I guess only time will tell.

One day at a time

2009-06-17T09:21:00.005-05:00

Why is it when you're not pregnant, everyone else is? Of course, that's not the case, but it feels like it. I think it's like when you buy a new car and think you have the only one like it because you've never seen anyone else drive one, and then you see "your" car on every block. It's now on your brain, so it's everywhere!

I'm actually content right now to not be pregnant, which is a new experience for me. The past year of being pregnant three times created such anxiety for me that it's not something I'm interested in doing right now. I still feel hugely jealous of women who are successfully pregnant and will always feel that way. They have something that has been painfully elusive to me.

I'm focusing now on improving my health through better nutrition, exercise, and regular acupuncture. I'm seeing a reproductive endocrinologist who has some ideas my OB/Gyn hasn't explored. I'm paying more attention to my family, career, and self, something I can't do when pregnant. I'm focused on being healthy and feeling stronger.

I've let go of considering things like how old my son will be when he gains a sibling or how old I'll be when I have another child. I have no control over that. For anyone who has been able to plan their children to be exactly two years apart, for example, or to decide they will have all their children by the time they are 32...well, god bless. I've let go of those expectations. Forcing myself into those expectations has caused me tremendous anxiety and grief. It doesn't matter how old Tyler is when he gains a sibling - he'll be a tremendous big brother at any age. I don't want to be pregnant at 40, so I'll give up before then. I'll try again for another child when I am ready, whatever that looks like.

Fantasy Island

2009-06-10T09:56:00.006-05:00

I'm going to take a brief side street away from my main topic of this blog to fantasize a bit.

The past five months have been very difficult. In addition to experiencing our sixth miscarriage, my husband and I are working very hard to fix up our home so we can sell it quickly and reasonably. This grand plan has turned into three months of having contractors in and out, moving furniture, packing as if we are already moving, taking everything off the walls, and generally driving each other crazy from the stress. I have also taken on additional responsibilities at my already busy full-time job outside of the home and I took a semester-long online master's class in a program that supports my professional career. I've endured multiple tests and a surgery to further explore my fertility issues. My husband is training for the Ironman. Oh, and I've tried to keep my child's life as protected and supported as I can, including nurturing him through a difficult transition to a new preschool.

I'm tired.

So, here's my fantasy. I want to spend no less than one month on a beach on a tropical island (I'm thinking Hawaii, but I'm open to other islands). I want to have a private house that sits in view of the ocean and requires only a brief walk to dip my toes in the water. I want someone else to fix all my meals, including snacks and drinks, and to clean everything up when I am done. I want this person to wash all my clothes, which will consist of only four to five outfits (after all, how much clothing do you need on an island?). This person will wash my clothes, fold them, and put them away for me to wear again. The only thing that I will need to think about is what movie to watch or book to read next.

Anyone is welcome to join me on this island. I have only one condition - you may not require me to make a decision. Of any kind. Period.

Aloha.

Share and share alike

2009-06-06T10:38:00.000-05:00

The support I have received from other women who have experienced the death of a child has kept me going all these years. I want to take a moment here to thank all of you who have commented directly on my blog or have let me know through other channels that you appreciate this site and wish me well. That means so much.

Many of the women I've met over the years have been through the Share network. Share Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support is a phenomenal organization that is dedicated to providing resources, support, education, and hope to families who have experienced miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant death. Their website is full of useful information, and I encourage anyone to check it out (see the link listed on the right).

I heard about Share through a local women's newspaper. A friend told me in early 2004, after my second baby died, that there was an article about miscarriage in this newspaper. I picked up a copy of it and read the article that included an interview with a local woman who was spearheading a Madison chapter of Share. I immediately called her so I could get involved. I was desperate to channel my grief into something useful - something that would provide help to other women and reduce the overwhelming isolation that comes with this experience. We quickly formed a small group of women who began meeting at each other's homes to talk about what we were going through. The group built slowly, with some interest in regular meetings and more interest in informal support that manifested in two women meeting at a coffee shop or over lunch rather than full group monthly meetings. Sadly, my co-lead moved to the east coast several years ago, and I'm trying to keep the network going on my own. I hope to eventually run a support group, but will need more training and support to do so.

Keeping in touch with these women and continually meeting new women has really opened my eyes to how common our losses are and to how much we still don't talk about them openly. Sadly, there's a pervasive and palpable level of discomfort that comes with talking about babies who died. Yes, it's tragic and sad and unimaginable. It happens and it happens more often than we are truly aware. Thankfully, through channels such as the Share network, we have an outlet. It's so much better than it used to be, but there's still so much more progress to make.

New normal

2009-05-20T12:49:00.000-05:00

Being pregnant is obsessive. When I am pregnant, it's all I think about. It drives what I eat, when I sleep, what I think about, what I talk about, how I hold my body, where I put my hands, everything. Knowing that I am carrying another life becomes the center of my universe.

I think this is why it is so traumatic to suddenly not be pregnant. I've been through this six times, and it is shocking every time - shocking to my body, my mind, my soul, my universe. To go in one moment from carrying a living baby to not is beyond description. But, I'm going to try. I liken it to coming off drugs. Now mind you, I have no experience with illegal drugs; the withdrawal comparison, however, makes sense to me.

Coming down from pregnancy is slow and painful as you negotiate a "new normal." Your body must readjust and your brain must stablize in the absence of that opiate-like feeling that comes with knowing you are carrying new life. Your entire being craves the euphoria you had during pregnancy, and your focus becomes getting that feeling back as soon as possible - no matter what.

Doctors used to advise that couples wait at least three months to conceive again after a loss. This was the edict for decades. Recently, though, research has indicated this waiting period can be more emotionally devastating for the couple. Without clear research that waiting is physically better, more doctors are advising couples to start again as soon as they feel emotionally ready.

It's different for every individual and every circumstance. With some of my losses, I wanted to be pregnant again immediately. After the second baby died and now after the sixth, I would rather give it some time and allow my body, my soul, and my relationships to have space to heal. It took two months for me to accept my new normal, and I'm not craving the old feelings as bad as I used to. I know the time will come when I will seek it out again. For now, I'm happy to leave it alone.

Stages

2009-05-04T10:39:00.000-05:00

I love that there are stages of grief. Seriously. I really appreciate that someone took the time to study and identify a predictable model for people dealing with loss and came up with Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance (or DABDA, if you like acronyms). When you're grieving, your feelings are unpredictable, unexplainable, and out of control, changing from one moment to the next. Knowing that other people feel the same things is helpful. It gives it a normalcy that is necessary when you are overwhelmed with emotions. It's comforting.

It was a relief to learn that the stages aren't linear (thank you, dear therapist). There are no easy established timeframes that you move from one to another in a set pattern. The feelings are all over the place. Over the course of one day, I can feel anger one moment, denial the next, a brief flash of acceptance, and then depression. The stages can't be forced; you must work through the feelings in your own time. Grieving is highly personal and shouldn't be rushed - either by the person experiencing it or those supporting the person. I find repeating the following phrase to myself is very helpful: "It takes as long as it takes." Feel free to try it.

I can identify clear moments when I've been in the trenches with one of the stages. Like when I said out loud to the universe back in February, "If you just let me keep this baby, I'll never ask for another one again. I'll hang up my uterus and call it done. Just let me have this one. " Bargaining.

When I had the ultrasound in March that revealed the baby died, I repeated out loud "This isn't happening, this isn't happening, this isn't happening." Denial.

Anger is the one I struggle with the most. Every now and again, I'll experience flashes of anger. Generally, I'm not an angry person. I see anger as unproductive and a waste of precious energy. Perhaps I repress it too much...oh well, I probably have some more work to do on this part of the grieving process. All the other ones...well, I'm pretty good at them.

'We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey'~Kenji Miyazawa

To spoil, or not to spoil?

2009-04-27T20:36:00.000-05:00

I often wonder how much my experiences have shaped how I mother Tyler. I think every time I buy a toy that I'm spoiling him believing he might be my only child, or I worry I'm smothering him out of anxiety that if something happens to him I'll no longer be a mother of a living child. (Incidentally, I don't think it's a coincidence that the word "smothering" is "mothering" with just an extra letter.) I've read stories of mothers who had only one child after miscarriages who caused tremendous issues with their child out of fear and anxiety. Thinking about how I've been shaped by my journey crosses my mind regularly when it comes to my son.

Of course, my active grief and anxiety impact him. How could they not? Along with feeling overwhelmed by motherhood when he was first born, my grief over losing three babies prior to his birth revisited me in the months after he arrived. I had read that it is very common for parents to feel fresh grief upon the birth of a child, mourning the child(ren) they didn't have. I knew it could happen, but I thought I was immune. I wanted him so badly, that I figured I would feel nothing but bliss. It seems counterintuitive - you have a child, what's there to be sad about? I never talked about what I was feeling at the time. I didn't want people to think I didn't feel blessed. That wasn't it at all. I mourned the babies I never got to meet, to name, to breastfeed. I had wanted them so badly, and I had to grieve again losing them.

In the past nine months that we've grieved the deaths of three more babies, I know Tyler feels something isn't right. We didn't tell him we were pregnant - that was a conscious choice. I knew it was very likely we would have to explain that the baby died - how could I do that to a three year old? How could we do that to ourselves? I don't even understand how or why. To someone whose favorite question is "Why?," there would be no answer. But, I know he feels the changes in us. I'm not as patient as I want to be on the days when I just want to grieve quietly alone or with Matt. Sometimes it's fortunate that there are no breaks from motherhood - his demands come first. It's a distraction. Other times, it takes all the energy I have to meet his needs. I have to be patient first with myself and know that I won't always feel this way. And know that when I'm in the Thomas the Tank Engine section of Target, buying one little train (or two) won't ruin him for life.

Answers (or not) and the road to therapy

2009-04-17T11:05:00.000-05:00

Once the initial shock of our first miscarriage in July 2003 wore off, we waited the recommended three months before trying again. This recommendation isn’t standard anymore, but it was common back then. We got pregnant again right away (we are freakishly fertile). I don’t remember anything from my second pregnancy. Nothing. I don’t remember when I found out I was pregnant. I don’t remember who I told or when. I don’t remember if I had morning sickness or not. Nothing. I was so steeped in anxiety and denial, I have completely blocked out that period of my life. I don’t remember having the ultrasound that revealed our baby died. I don’t remember what the doctor told me, except that the baby was only 7 weeks and was supposed to be 10. I do remember deciding to go back to work for the rest of the day and scheduling the D&C for later that week (which was in sharp contrast to what I wanted to do after the first miscarriage – then, I refused to leave the clinic until they did the D&C). My reasoning was that I had started a new job that day, and I was adamant that getting back to work was more important. Denial. What I most vividly recall is the phone call from my doctor about a month after the miscarriage telling me the results of the chromosome tests. The baby didn’t have a chromosome problem that would have resulted in death. She also told me the baby was a girl. My heart broke at that moment. That’s when I cried. Cried, and cried, and cried.

My doctor ordered a battery of tests to determine if there was something within me that was contributing to the babies’ deaths. I succumbed to a round of blood tests. They were all normal, except for one test that showed a slightly elevated level of phospholipid antibodies, which meant my blood may have clotted too much for the baby to have survived. I also endured an exam to determine if anything was abnormal about my plumbing. This exam, a hysterosalpingiogram, involved injecting dye into my uterus and looking around to see if there were structural abnormalities. No problems there. Except for something that looked to the radiologist like a fibroid or polyp. When my doctor and I learned that, we both jumped to the wonderful conclusion that the mystery was solved! There was something in my baby-grower that shouldn’t be there and that’s WHY! I had a hysteroscopy to have the thing removed, and it turned out to be decomposed fetal tissue left over from one or both of the D&C procedures (Sorry to be gruesome – for me, it is what it is). Oh, well. Let down again. There was no explanation, except for the possible blood clotting problem. Thankfully, that had a cure – western medicine has treatments for that! We’d use medication for subsequent pregnancies.

So, we decided to take a break from making babies so we could take the time to heal – for me, physically. For both of us, emotionally. At some point during these weeks, I recognized and accepted that I needed professional help. This was a huge decision for me. I keep journals. I am extremely self-aware. I often tell others how important it is to talk about their feelings. Unfortunately, I had a very hard time asking for help. I thought I was supposed to handle everything on my own. Well, that wasn’t working. I had a supportive husband, loving family members, kind friends, and amazing co-workers who were really friends that just happened to meet at work. I needed more. I needed to talk to someone who didn’t know me, had no emotional connection to me, and would not judge me for all the awful things I was feeling. Like how excruciating it was for me to be around healthy, happy pregnant women, the hatred I felt towards women who had several children, or the rage I felt for this happening to me when I had done everything RIGHT. Or, how I felt my dream of becoming a mother was slowing dying and I could do nothing to stop it.

I put myself in therapy. Therapy sessions were strange at first. She sat in her chair with a notebook. I sat across from her on a couch in a cozy office with plants, books, and art on the wall. It didn’t take long to figure out that her role was to listen, and I needed to talk. So, I talked. I talked, and cried, and talked, and cried some more. Once I opened up, it came out easily. She never said much. She was silently supportive, occasionally outwardly sympathetic, and never judgmental. My therapist let me say whatever I felt, and I often didn’t know how I felt until I sat on that sofa and let it pour out. Those sessions saved me. Literally...saved my life. I continue to be in therapy, with a different therapist now. She helped me when I was struggling with fresh grief and anxiety after Tyler was born, and she has walked with me through the three miscarriages I have had since then. We all need help, in whatever way we can get it. I’m not embarrassed to say that I go to therapy. My therapist is in my bucket, and we need all the people we can get in our buckets.

Isolation

2009-04-13T19:11:00.000-05:00

One of the most surprising and upsetting things I experienced with my first miscarriage was the isolation. I felt I was the only woman this had ever happened to. Even though I knew intellectually that this had happened before, the shock was overwhelming. I couldn't get over that people were going on with their lives as if they didn't realize my baby died. People were going to work, shopping at the grocery store, watching movies - didn't they know the world as I knew it was gone forever?! It sounds melodramatic, but it's honestly how I felt.

I recall vividly one night in the hazy days that followed the news when I was sitting on the couch sobbing my heart out. The phone rang. Not knowing who it was (this was in the days prior to having caller id - which I love, by the way), I answered the phone barely even able to speak. I answered it because I was desperate to talk to someone, anyone, about what I was feeling. As angels would have it, it was a friend from college who I hadn't spoken to in years. She had just learned from her husband, a good friend of Matthew's, of our loss. She had experienced a miscarriage several years prior, and she wanted to check in on me. How she knew to call when I desperately needed someone who knew how I felt remains a mystery. I guess she "felt" me way down South. That call, her knowing I needed help, was such a blessing. I felt, for the first time, that I was not alone.

Five miscarriages later, I'd like to say the isolation has lessened. In some ways, it has. In other ways, it's magnified. While I have met or spoken to many women who have had one miscarriage, some who have had two or three, I know one who has had as many as I've had. Until I received an email recently from that woman looking for support through Share who said she had six miscarriages, I honestly thought I was the only woman on the planet who this had happened to so many times. The difference now is that I know where to go to find others who have felt this kind of pain. I want others to have that, as well. I have also gotten much better at asking for help (I started at the very bottom with this skill, so I really have come a long way).

We have all felt grief - we all know someone who died, we've all lost something or someone important to us. Grief is unique, though, and the pain of losing a child who was never born is hard to understand unless you've experienced it. That's why I'm so grateful for organizations like Share - Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support. That organization, and the women I've met through it, have been a lifeline. More on this organization in future posts...

To feel any relief from grief, you must move through it. It's the only way. To do that, you have to talk about it, you have to cry, you have to GET IT OUT. For those of you supporting someone who has experienced this kind of loss or any kind of loss for that matter, reach out in whatever ways you can. It's hard when you are actively grieving to ask for help. There have been days when it takes all the energy I have to take a shower, eat, and put on clothes. Picking up the phone to call a friend feels insurmountable. Even if you haven't lost a child, you can listen. You can say "I'm sorry this happened to you. I'm here to listen." That's usually all it takes to melt the isolation away, even just a little bit.

Introduction

2009-04-06T20:43:00.000-05:00

My name is Cynthia, and I've had six miscarriages. I created this blog as a way to reach out to parents who have experienced the death of a child during pregnancy, stillbirth, or early infancy. You are not alone.

I've been married to my husband, Matthew, since 1998, and we've been blessed with a wonderful son, Tyler. We live in Wisconsin, having arrived here eight years ago by way of North Carolina and Florida. We work full-time jobs outside of the home. We have very full lives.

Matthew and I chose to wait until we had been married for five years before we decided to have kids. I assumed that once I got my body in "baby shape," healthy babies would soon arrive. Well, not so fast. We survived three miscarriages in fifteen months. My potholes. When our son was two years old, we tried for another child. Within nine months, we had three more miscarriages, the most recent one in March of this year.

I call this site "My Yellow Brick Road Has Potholes" because I feel a little like Dorothy. She knows where she wants to go and wants to get there so badly, but there are troubles along the way. While I'm not dealing with flying monkeys or crazy ladies with broomsticks, I have stumbled, fallen, and gotten bruised along the way. Nobody told Dorothy the journey would be so painful. Fortunately, she has the support of kind and able loved ones. Along with hope and a strong spirit, she made it to Oz and then back home.

My doctor is baffled, but my outlook is hopeful. With loved ones along the way, the journey is bearable. You may feel shock, sadness, bewilderment, rage, jealousy, or a number of other emotions. Your journey may not be what you thought it was going to be or even should be. I encourage you to put on your ruby red slippers, close your eyes, breathe, and allow yourself to hope. Your dreams can come true.