Tag: pregnancy loss

grief and loss · pregnancy loss

Names

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I’ve chosen to give ‘baby EL’ a name. It’s something more for myself; I don’t think husband has any particular thoughts on the subject and I’m not sure bringing up the topic would help him in his own grieving process so for now I’m keeping it to myself.

After our first loss, I re-read “One Thousand Gifts” by Ann Voskamp and this quote really impacted me. It basically speaks for itself.

In the Bible a name…reveals the very essence of a thing, or rather its essence as God’s gift. To name a thing is to manifest the meaning and value God gave it, to know it as coming from God and to know its place and function within the cosmos created by God. To name a thing, in other words, is to bless God for it and in it.

So I gave that baby a name. Husband was convinced it was a boy, so I stuck to that gender for names. I wanted a name that would reflect he fact that this child was a blessing from God and that it’s short life was ultimately always his.

-Timothy David. Timothy: honoring to God. David: beloved.

Since I gave the first baby a boy’s name, I chose a girl’s name for this little one. This name is one that I have loved for some time for what it represents, but also recognize that it would be a hard name to give to a child who would live a normal life. But every time I read David Copperfield I am inspired by the character of Agnes-she just embodies goodness, purity, and selflessness. And that’s what the name means: pure, innocent. Rather fitting for a little one whose heart only beat in the safety of a womb.

-Agnes Claire. Agnes: pure and innocent. Claire: bright

I just hope that I don’t find out some day that Timothy is actually a girl and Agnes is a boy. But I imagine they understand.

after miscarriage · baby EL · grief and loss · Infertility · pregnancy loss

And it’s over

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Today my hcg is 1.

Most of me is relieved; I know it can takes weeks sometimes for those numbers to drop all the way, and obviously until it drops the body still thinks it’s pregnant and won’t initiate the regular cycles.

So we’re a tangible step closer to being able to try again. And that is a good thing.

But there’s still a new ache at having this final confirmation that the pregnancy is completely over. Obviously I knew that already. And I don’t want my body to think it’s pregnant when it isn’t. It’s not the same level of ache. It just marks the final physical end to this season and that makes me sad in a different kind of way.

““““““`

I’ve entered a “read everything and try to remember all the things I know to be true” phase and I’m trying to keep track of things that jump out to. Maybe I’ll post some of them another time. At least I’m wanting to do something again.

I’ve also gone back on antidepressants as of Friday night, and have my first counseling session and spiritual care conversation this week.

It’s beginning to feel a little less dark. So I am grateful.

after miscarriage · grief and loss · journal entry · pregnancy loss

On the ugliness inside

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I feel like I’ve moved into an ugly place.

Not only am I finding myself thinking and feeling some rather unattractive things, I’m also confused about why I’m still feeling so miserable. I wonder if there’s a sadistic part of me that wants to stay unhappy. I’ll have a good day that is followed by more than one bad day; almost as if I’m rebelling against the attempt at being happy by intentionally focusing on what is making me sad.

So that in itself is ugly. I mean, how shallow and pathetic is it to make myself think about how crummy everything is? I know I have so much to be thankful for, I know that my spiritual framework should be starting a rebuilding process and that I should be focusing on God’s blessings and goodness and leaning into him as I grow through this.

But I seem to be counting my misfortunes instead of my blessings. 

And on top of that, my attitude towards other people who have what I don’t is becoming callous and bitter. I found myself annoyed last night by my sister-in-law’s response to some painful Braxton Hicks contractions instead of compassionate and sympathetic. All I could think about was how selfish she was being by making a big deal out of something that I’d give an awful lot to have. And as she cried through the fear and the pain I was trying to keep from having a meltdown over the unfairness of it all and angered by her eagerness to have this part ‘over’ when it wasn’t all that long ago that she was desperate to have it too.

I don’t want to pray, I don’t want to read my Bible, I don’t want to try to journal and process this out (other than my blog posts) because I think maybe I’m not ready to let go of the hurt and anger.

Losing a pregnancy after infertility has revealed some really ugly layers of my heart and I’m not really enjoying that very much.

==============

But I have decided in light of all this that it’s time to make an effort to get “better.” There may be a sadistic part of me that likes being miserable but I know I can’t stay here. So I’m working on finding a therapist and going back to counseling, and have started the process of meeting with someone from my church’s care ministry.  I’ve also reached out to my doctor to ask if it’s wise to resume my antidepressants.

And maybe once we hit Thursday (the 5 week mark; the point at which the time of grief is equal to the time of joy) something will just shift and I’ll subconsciously just start to move on. Who knows. The mind and heart are strange beasts.

after miscarriage · grief and loss · Infertility · journal entry · missed miscarriage · pregnancy loss

4 weeks later

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It’s been four weeks. In one week, we will have known that our baby had died for the same amount of time that we thought we were going to be welcoming that same baby in October.

Strange. It’s been a blur and it feels like it was just yesterday; how has the time spent grieving already almost passed the time rejoicing?

In terms of processing/functioning, the roller coaster has leveled out a good deal.

  • The ‘ugly crying’ episodes are fewer and farther between; even crying has lessened. Monday was rough though; it was emotionally exhausting returning to my doctor’s office for a follow up appointment and I’m so tired of having ultrasounds of an empty uterus.
  • The anger rears its head occasionally but even that has turned into more of a “Really, God? Why?,” “I just wish you had allowed things to be different,” and a more resigned “I still don’t understand why you would give us a baby that you knew we so deeply wanted and then just take it away.”
  • The depression is less intense; I’m able to function a little bit better and have found that sometimes I actually almost want to do things (like art or reading or going for a walk). I still don’t really do much, but at least I can imagine having enough energy and desire to pursue my interests.
  • I did notice over the weekend that it actually made me upset to be starting to feel better. I guess it was a fear (unfounded) that not being so sad anymore meant I somehow didn’t really love my baby all that much. Chalk it up to the myriad of weird emotions and stigmas attached to early pregnancy loss.

But all that aside; the aching emptiness is still there. And I hate it. I hate that in one fell swoop one of my deepest purposes was sucked away and that I’m left in the aftermath bearing an empty womb and an empty space in my heart that will always belong to a little waterbear that we will never meet this side of heaven.

Honestly, I’m still too raw to even hope for the next time. In a sense, there is hope and there is an eagerness to be able to try again (the waiting for a new cycle feels like such a waste of time)…but the greater part of me is still numb to the possibility of trying and afraid of what might be ahead-months of infertility or more devastating loss.

After all, God never promised a rainbow baby after a miscarriage or infertility. Some people don’t ever get their rainbows. At least not in this sense. So I’m trying to stay realistic but also trying not to lose hope that he will show us grace and demonstrate his faithfulness to us in this specific way.

It’s a weird place to be.

I’d much rather just be 12 weeks pregnant. But I suppose that’s a duh.

 

 

 

after miscarriage · grief and loss · missed miscarriage · pregnancy loss

I Will Carry You

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(Repost since the formatting was all off before)

This song is really ministering to my heart right now. It is a beautiful picture of how a mother’s deep love for her child is only a reflection of God’s love for that child; a reminder to give thanks for being given the opportunity to have and hold and love a child for the entirety of it’s precious life; and a promise to never forget and never stop loving that child.

I Will Carry You (Audrey’s Song)-Selah

There were photographs I wanted to take
Things I wanted to show you
Sing sweet lullabies, wipe your teary eyes
Who could love you like this?

People say that I am brave but I’m not
Truth is I’m barely hanging on
But there’s a greater story
Written long before me
Because He loves you like this

So I will carry you
While your heart beats here
Long beyond the empty cradle
Through the coming years
I will carry you
All my life
And I will praise the One Who’s chosen me
To carry you

Such a short time
Such a long road
All this madness

But I know
That the silence
Has brought me to His voice
And He says?

I’ve shown her photographs of time beginning
Walked her through the parted seas
Angel lullabies, no more teary eyes
Who could love her like this?

I will carry you
While your heart beats here
Long beyond the empty cradle
Through the coming years
I will carry you
All your life
And I will praise the One Who’s chosen me
To carry you

 

after miscarriage · grief and loss · how to · missed miscarriage · pregnancy loss

Various wisdom

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I’ve had a couple of very wise things spoken to me in the past weeks. I have been trying to check in with people I consider much more mature/spiritually wise than I am (one of our pastors, a family friend who has counseled a lot of women in various things)…and these conversations have been very helpful overall in just verbalizing what I’m feeling and working through thoughts etc. But they also result in a thought/idea or two jumping out especially and giving me something to mull over or be encouraged by.

So in the interest of trying to use this space to continue to process and hopefully be an encouragement to someone else…here’s a couple things I’ve had shared with me that have made a difference as I process this grief and this loss.

When I talked to my pastor, I was days out from realizing how angry and upset I really was over what had happened. I know in some capacity that it is okay to verbalize our feelings (even negative ones) to God, and that it’s even okay to feel negative ones towards him as long as we do not sin in those places. I mean, the Psalms are full of expressions of hurt and confusion and anger. And God already knows what we are thinking and feeling anyway, it’s not a surprise to him if we express it.

So naturally, my pastor encouraged me to wrestle out these questions and hurts with God. To allow the truths that I know to be the framework to which I return eventually, but to be willing to acknowledge what is *real* for me in this moment even if that is not consistent with what I know in my head to be true. And then he had this insight to share.

Often, in our sadness and grief, we withdraw. Most people who are sad just want to be alone to cry, or be held in silence. But when we are angry, it leads to expression. We move towards the person we are angry with; and we tell them so. In this sense…of being a means to move us back toward him, maybe God actually prefers (poor word choice) that we be in that place of anger because it means we aren’t just isolating ourselves anymore.  (though this is not a universal truth; if anger is what makes you withdraw then the opposite would perhaps be true…*shrug*). It made sense to me. I don’t get angry often; but in the times of being confused and hurting it is easier to go to God and simply be honest about those feelings and it usually feels better after getting them out.

Then, earlier this week, I talked to my family friend. Of her insights (and there were several), the one that made the most impact to where I was in that moment was the following observation.

For Christians, because we believe in a sovereign God, suffering in our lives can often be a harder thing to understand and deal with than it is for a nonbeliever. Because if God has control of everything in our lives, then when really hard things happen to us that don’t seem to have a reason it’s natural to think that “God could have stopped this from happening and I don’t know why he didn’t.” And even if there is the faith that there must be a reason we also know that we may never know it and it’s hard to be okay with that.

Granted, we obviously have a hope and a joy and a confidence in loss and pain that nonbelievers cannot have; so at the end of the day we don’t grieve as those without hope…but for the nonbeliever, there is usually just the “well, life happens and it’s all chance” mentality that at least takes away the internal struggle mentioned above.

Somehow hearing that made a huge difference. Christians are constantly told that suffering is good for our character, that we should expect it, that God works all things for good…and that is absolutely true. But it doesn’t mean that we should be expected to instantly be okay when we experience suffering; and that wrestling with the questions of “why” is actually part of the process of God producing a deeper faith and a deeper relationship with him.

So in a nutshell:

  1. When our anger prompts us to move towards God, it’s completely okay to express those feelings. It’s better than withdrawing and shutting him out.
  2. Suffering for the Christian is deeply hard, and it is completely okay to not immediately be okay.

 

 

 

after miscarriage · grief and loss · Infertility · journal entry · missed miscarriage · pregnancy loss

Because I can’t reply in real life…

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The ongoing saga with my sister-in-law continues.

I love her, I really do. She’s been a blessing to me, a friend and a sister from the beginning. She’s rejoiced in our highs and grieved in our lows. She’s fun and sweet and caring.

But as we’ve navigated this fertility and pregnancy loss journey she’s had her share of moments that make me want to just tell her what I think. It’s just not worth losing the relationship or burning bridges with my husband’s family so common sense tells me to keep my mouth shut and my fingers still.

[As a brief refresher…we started our TTC journey somewhat similarly and within a few months of each other. Initial unexpected (but still wanted!) pregnancies, early loss (mine chemical, hers a little later but baby stopped developing around 5 weeks)…and then within 8 months she was pregnant again and is due with her “rainbow baby” at the end of May. We tried for 15 months, did an IUI cycle, and after seeing a heartbeat, our baby died just past 7 weeks.]

I realized last week or so that the reason her pregnancy has bothered me so much (and especially now) is just that it is a stark reminder of how unfair this is. I don’t understand why they get their rainbow, their reminder of God’s faithfulness and grace…and we tried for months longer than they had to and then lost another baby. It just hurts. And she tries to act like she understands but as I explored in a previous post…you can’t be sympathetic if you haven’t experienced the same thing. So her attempts at encouragement and comfort often just rub me the wrong way.

Today she sent me a long text telling me about how she was hanging up clothes in her daughter’s nursery, bawling while listening to a song about God’s faithfulness and remembering how hopeless she felt in the 8 months that they tried and how grateful she is to be doing something so simple as organizing baby things…and how she is completely confident that this will happen for us too.

I have multiple responses I want to send. None of which I will, so this blog post gets to be my venting space.

  • “Oh, you know? Just like you KNEW that everything was 100% fine with this pregnancy?”
  • “Yes, the hopelessness of trying for 8 months after a miscarriage and then having a successful rainbow pregnancy is the same as trying for 15 months and losing what should have been our rainbow baby. I’m so grateful you know exactly how I feel.”
  • “I’m glad God is faithful to you; but it’s really hard right now to see his faithfulness to us at this moment after infertility and recurrent losses. And thanks for reminding me of that *and* all the happy baby related things you get to do while I’m still actively grieving the loss of mine and the further postponement of getting to do all those things myself.”
  • “Oh please, tell me more about how blessed you are to be bawling in your baby’s nursery. I’m sure that will make me forget that I’m once again not pregnant.”

Yeah, I know. I’m sarcastic and bitter.

Loss and infertility will do that to you sometimes.

Looking forward to a day when these well-meaning comments don’t make me want to crawl into a hole and die.

after miscarriage · grief and loss · Infertility · journal entry · missed miscarriage · pregnancy loss

Two weeks later

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It’s been two weeks since that appointment. Every key moment is still crystal clear in my head. I hate that I keep reliving it but I can’t seem to stop.

I’m riding the rollercoaster of emotions and it doesn’t seem to be letting up at all; in fact, new emotions have joined in the fun.

I was initially just utterly sad (mixed with some confusion and frustration)…I think the initial shock and sadness from the loss and the anticipation of the final loss kept all the other emotions from making their appearance.

Now that the physical aspect is over; anger and depression have been thrown in the mix.

Depression in that I literally cannot interest myself in anything. I make it through my work day pretty well, but the minute I get home (whether I had one visit or five) I just want to crawl into bed and either sleep or mindlessly play on my phone. I don’t even want to watch TV. I just stay in bed; and eventually the sadness wins out and I have a cry (or several). I don’t want to eat; I feel hungry sometimes but nothing sounds good and when food is actually in front of me I have a couple bites and I don’t want anymore. My husband will try to make me laugh and he does a good job for the moment but the sadness comes right back. I have no energy and can’t focus. It’s actually starting to worry me a little bit; I know it’s still early in the grieving process but I also know that I’ve dealt with chronic depression before so I’m concerned that my tendency to be somewhat depressed already is going to predispose me to a major depressive episode.

And then there’s the anger. I guess it’s anger at God (which I’ve never really had before and I’m still struggling to acknowledge because it seems wrong somehow; more on that another time perhaps?)…and anger at a myriad of factors related to the situation.

  • I’m angry at the unfairness. We already experienced one miscarriage and then had to deal with infertility on top of that; it’s absolutely unfair that we get to go through a second (and infinitely harder) miscarriage when we did everything right and when we so desperately wanted this baby.
  • I’m angry that other people get pregnant without trying, get pregnant when they don’t want to be, get pregnant and end their pregnancies.
  • I’m angry that we don’t even get to find out if something was wrong with the baby (apparently there wasn’t enough tissue to be able to run any DNA testing) so that now I have to be even more afraid that it will just keep happening.
  • I’m angry that he would ask us to walk through this again months before my sister and sister-in-law both have their babies.
  • I’m angry that we are 1 in 4 (miscarriage) and 1 in 8 (infertility) and 1 in 100 (recurrent miscarriage).
  • I’m angry that there may be no clear answers this side of eternity why this happened. 

I’m angry that God would give us this child (because after dealing with infertility it is even more clear that each pregnancy is divinely ordained by God and is a gift from him) and then take it away. I’m angry that he would give us both a deep desire to be parents, finally allow us to conceive after months, fall in love with this little life the minute we saw it’s tiny heart beating…and then let it die.

He didn’t have to let it die. I could still be pregnant. And I’m not.

I know all the things that are true. I know that God is always good, that he is faithful, that he uses trials to shape and strengthen us. These truths inform my framework; so I know that eventually once the intensity of the grief lessens and I manage to work through the anger that somehow I’ll be more like Jesus and closer to him. And I know that is what my ultimate goal is supposed to be.

But right now, I’m just hurting.

after miscarriage · baby EL · D&C · grief and loss · missed miscarriage · pregnancy loss

Happy birthday, little waterbear

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March 29, 2019 at approximately 2:30 pm…our baby was born.

I had a D&C. It is done. I am no longer pregnant. (I will probably write another post on this experience later; it was rough)

My pregnancy lasted 54 days. I knew I was pregnant for 43 days. I thought I was pregnant with a growing baby for 35 days. Our baby lived for 37 days.

Numbers. I guess they don’t mean a whole lot. But they are all I have for this little one.

Little waterbear. One of my pregnancy apps let us pick the ‘size’ comparison and we were primarily using ‘strange but cute animals.’ At four weeks, baby was the size of a “waterbear,” which is a tiny, strange, resilient little creature that apparently can survive in the vacuum of space. The cartoon drawing of said waterbear was extremely appealing to my husband and from that moment on, it was our little waterbear even though the animals changed each week.

2/3/19-3/29/19.

Too soon a memory but forever in our hearts.

We love you.

Happy birthday.

 

after miscarriage · baby EL · grief and loss · Infertility · journal entry · missed miscarriage

I am having a miscarriage.

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(Sensitive content to follow-also a rather long post)

I am having a miscarriage. Again.

This is so surreal and heartbreaking. And the minute we saw that heartbeat for the first time I knew that if this happened, it would be infinitely harder than before.

Miscarriage number one was a chemical pregnancy; no question now. Of course we still grieved…with any pregnancy loss it’s a loss of dreams and hopes and of knowing that this is a life you won’t get to know.

This one…we had a baby growing, we saw our little one with it’s precious heartbeat. And then it was gone. It is gone. I can’t even quite wrap my head around the depth of the grief right now. It’s easing just the slightest as the days pass; but I know on Friday when we have the D&C that the intensity will return.

——-

I keep replaying that office visit in my head. I was so nervous for days before that something had gone wrong; and that fear was present in the waiting room but mixed with the excitement and hope of getting to see that everything right on track just like everyone else was so confident about. And the first part of the visit was so normal; blood pressure, history…then into the exam room where the NP went over genetic screening options and breastfeeding, diet advice, and telling us that we could visit the hospital ahead of time to be able to see the maternity department.

Then she went in. I think I knew almost immediately; she could barely find it and when she did it was clear the sac was too small and the baby didn’t look like it was supposed to. I’d seen enough ultrasounds of babies at 8.5 weeks to know approximately what the shape should be. She mumbled something about ‘well, it’s definitely in the uterus,’ then a moment later said, “I’m not finding a heartbeat.” I think I still had a sliver of hope that maybe it was just the machine or her technique, but then she measured the baby. When I saw the 7w2d I knew it was over. 9 days behind and no heartbeat could only mean that the worst had happened.

I don’t remember much after that, just that the tears started and she talked for a while about what the next steps were (while I was still in the stirrups with a ultrasound wand inside me…); then she left us alone. I cried hard for a while and my husband just held me; when I was composed enough we went downstairs to have blood drawn and repeat ultrasounds in the radiology department. In this interval I texted my mom and my manager (to alert her I’d need some immediate time off); husband texted his parents as well.

Both of those ultrasounds were silent and cold and all the while I just cried silently; I couldn’t see the screen from my angle and ultrasound technicians aren’t supposed to comment about what they are seeing even if they know (so I didn’t expect it). My husband thought he knew when she was looking/listening for a heartbeat and even he could tell that there was nothing there.

I got dressed again and we went home. The NP called a few hours later to inform us that the results indeed showed that there was no heartbeat. She repeated our options, and advised we take the weekend to think about them. (or she simply told us that it would be okay to take some time after I said that I honestly had no idea how to proceed in that moment).

———

We spent the afternoon attempting to rest; telling additional family and a few close friends…all of this interspersed with quite a few breakdowns on my part. Deleting all the pregnancy apps on my phone brought a fresh round of tears; somehow it felt like I was erasing all evidence of this child but I also knew that I wouldn’t want to keep getting email notifications about ‘your baby today’ when it was no longer relevant.

We headed out later that evening to spend the weekend with my parents. Husband had an interview in their area the next day so he was already heading up; and he just seemed to know that I needed to be there. My mom has become the most amazing person in a crisis; she just seems to know when to listen, when to talk, when to distract, when to be present, when to excuse herself. Just being there (and away from the house) allowed the reality to sink in a little more gently.

Woke up Friday morning crying. Cuddled with my husband for a while and that helped, but this made me realize that mornings bring fresh reminders of this new and painful reality. Going to bed each night was hard too because then the distractions of the day faded and the emptiness sets back in.

Saturday night we got home; and there were flowers from an out of state friend and a care package from my sister-in-law (almost an exact copy of the things I left for her when she had her miscarriage). Husband had to run to his parent’s home for some medication, so I came up alone. Walking back inside to the emptiness of our home (for a season, anyway) in addition to seeing these thoughtful but unwanted gifts (I mean, I don’t *want* flowers and bath salts and tea…I want my baby to still be alive) brought a fresh round of tears. After sobbing on the floor in a fetal position for a while, I texted my sister and we talked until I calmed down a little bit.

Sunday morning we went to church; it was hard but good and definitely where we needed to be.

The rest of Sunday was just spent relaxing. Both of us dreading going back to work but also not wanting to just sit around at home all day not doing anything either; both of us completely drained and sad and confused. We both managed to get through our work days today; and now he’s at the gym so I’m making use of the time to attempt to get some of my thoughts and experiences down on “paper.”

——-

My primary thought is: “this is not fair.” We’ve already had one miscarriage, we’ve struggled to conceive for over a year, we’ve had to spend time and money and energy on some level of assistance….and then we finally get to rejoice in what seems to be a healthy pregnancy and we finally start to get excited about the future…and then it’s ripped away in a moment. Miscarriage by itself is hard enough; miscarriage after infertility is even worse.

I am sad. I feel empty, I feel like I (currently) have no purpose. I spent the last 5 weeks being so careful about what I put in my body and how I took care of myself…and now suddenly none of that matters and my womb is (essentially) empty again. I am confused…and hurting…and jealous (of those who haven’t had to experience any of this).

I believe that God is good, that he is sovereign, and that somehow all this is part of his plan; I take comfort in knowing that even in this he is faithful and we are not alone. But it doesn’t mean that I can even begin to understand why he chose this to be our path.

——-

In terms of our options, I have chosen to proceed with a D&C at the end of the week assuming the process has not already started (and given how far along I was I really don’t expect that natural process to begin for a least a few more weeks). I hate that I have to have a surgery to remove my baby from me; but I also know that I can’t take the emotional toll of waiting on a natural miscarriage with the knowledge that my baby is dead inside of me. Taking medications to induce the miscarriage at home was the other option; but that will mean that I still experience all the pain and bleeding and emotional trauma of being reminded of the loss every time I use the bathroom…and there’s a risk here of the process not completing and then we’d have to have a D&C anyway.

Our infertility doctor recommended that we get the baby’s DNA tested for chromosome issues; it is highly likely that there was a chromosomal abnormality that would have been incompatible with life and that is the reason for this. If so, then hopefully such a thing won’t happen again. If it’s not the baby, then she wants to do a workup on me to evaluate why my body can’t seem to sustain a pregnancy.

If we are able to know the baby’s gender, I want to know. I want to give this little one a name. It made me a mother, and by giving it a name I am acknowledging that gift and choose to thank God for the blessing that it was to have and nurture this child even for 5 short weeks. I hope we get to have a child (or several) living earth-side…but even if somehow that is not in God’s plan…I am a mother.