Another little piece of my heart

There are a lot of shitty things (I said it! Clutch your pearls!) about pregnancy loss. Today I'm pissed that my phone was smart enough to magically transform all the advertisements in my feeds to pitches for maternity clothes the second I added a pregnancy tracking app but is not smart enough to dial it back after 4 days of frantic "first trimester bleeding" google searches.

This time was slower and more drawn out than the first shocking, quick loss four years ago, but fast or slow, the anguish of watching a beloved little hope of life drip out of your body is a unique misery.

We were so very surprised to discover I was pregnant. Shocked, anxious, delighted, terrified, and full of nervous energy. I was not surprised to discover I was miscarrying a few weeks later. I tried to channel my inner Han Solo, but of course, I had gorged myself on all "the odds" the minute I saw those two pink lines appear. Pregnant at 40 is not exactly a walk in the park.

This lost pregnancy is something I can point to when people ask when we're going to have second or chuff my shoulder and tell me the stories of their college roommate's sister who had a baby at 46. "Look", I can say, "we tried, and it didn't work out".

Also, why is it still OK for casual acquaintances to inquire about one’s child bearing plans? Or strangers? Like, absolute strangers ask me why we only have one. Can you think of many things more sensitive or emotionally fraught than asking a person you barely know why they don’t have one/more babies? Seriously, people. Please stop. 

Trying to trust God with our "family planning" has been one of the hardest, most humbling spiritual and emotional experiences of adulthood. The pastor who conducted our pre-marital counseling wisely told us that in his considerable experience, nothing in married life will demonstrate our lack of control over our lives than whether and when we have children. People who desperately want to have children and do not, people who do not want children or who do not want them right now find themselves expecting, people who try to time their children around a timetable and are crushed when the plan does not play out the way they intended.

Nine years after that counseling, and I'm still smarting from the truth of it.

I spent about 11 days in pregnancy limbo. Bleeding, but no cramping. Hormones rising, but not fast enough. Being told by one midwife that I should not have “false hope”, and by an OB that we should keep checking hormones because “we’ve been surprise before”. Up and down, back and forth, clutching to hope and then peeling back away. Hours of almost every night of those 11 days were spent in panic-wracked midnight internet searching, blanket over my head, hands clutched around the glow of my screen, tears rolling across my cheeks and onto my pillow.

I started out looking desperately for a little hope that maybe, somehow, this would turn out OK. Some medical website that could tell me that some bleeding a lot of bleeding in the first trimester could be no big deal. A stat that would reassure me that my hormone levels could miraculously skyrocket after starting to tank. Inevitably, I ended up down a rabbit hole of pregnant mom chat boards. All of us, all of us dying to know that someone, somewhere, had gone through what we're going through. Someone knows what this is like. Someone had the same exact story - the anxiety, the heartbreak, the uncertainty, the desperation. Some of these anxious mommas went on to have healthy babies, some did not. But there in the dark, I found the words of comfort I needed: "that happened to me".

All those nights I lay crying under the blankets, I reached out to God in my typical, somewhat “unorthodox” way. Not with classic hymns or prayers or even scripture, but with my own personal mantra. U2 lyrics, naturally.

When I was all messed up
And I had opera in my head
Your love was a light bulb
Hanging over my bed

These words have comforted me over and over and over again in the dark and scary places, when my mind wanders down the Valley of the Shadow of Death. I’ve been there a few times now. The chaos and the clatter, the tragedy and the wailing – the opera in my head – are quieted by directing my gaze straight up, where I have always been able to see some glow of God’s love for me. Light my way.  

Here's what I want to tell you if you are in, or have been in, the shadowy trenches of miscarriage:

If you're angry, frustrated, confused, and heartbroken, you are not alone.

If you're relieved, calm, and resolved, and eager to move on, you are not alone.

If you're doubting yourself or you feel guilty or ashamed, you are not alone. And it is not your fault.

If you feel embarrassed for excitedly telling people about the pregnancy before it was "safe" and just want to swallow your loss and never mention it to another person, you are not alone.

If you want to tell everyone and write a blog post and get a tattoo or a piece of jewelry to remember and keep remembering, you are not alone.

If your desire for another child was galvanized by this loss, and you cannot wait to try again, you are not alone.

If you look at the grief stacked up on your soft heart and cannot bear to try this all again, you are not alone.

Over the past four days, I’ve felt every single one of these things, and around again, in swirling overwhelm.

Reach out to people and let them know that you need a hug, a drink, a latte, a walk, a chat. Reach out to someone you know who has been through miscarriage. Reach out to me, if you’re nervous about asking someone else you know. There are members of this semi-secret tribe of miscarriage mommas all around you. Every time you share your story, you’ll hear more and more from others who can tell you in real life “that happened to me, too”. Letting these stories shine out in the light of day may help another woman who is stuck in the dark and the secret.

I’ve decided to talk about it openly because even though I knew other people who had lost pregnancies, both times it happened to me the strongest feeling I felt was “alone”. Les was supportive and loving and grieving himself. My close-by girlfriends rallied with time together and favorite treats. My far-away girlfriends sent texts and love. But still, it’s something you ultimately have to face in private – either in your doctor’s office or your bathroom or a combination of the two. It is your precious body that goes through the physical loss. It still feels pretty dark and lonely.

You will get through it.

Today, I felt calm and resolved and ready to move on to brighter things. Until my damn pregnancy tracker app – which I deleted – sent me an email with the “due date countdown” as I crossed another week milestone according to their data. I unsubscribed from all the things and felt calm again. And now I wonder if I could make some money creating an app that would automatically scrub your media feeds and email from ALL THINGS BABY after a loss. Anyone know how to make that happen?

I ordered a simple charm from an Etsy artist. A gold disc with three stars stamped into it – two next to each other for the twins, and one off to the other side for this loss. Maybe someone will ask me about it, and I’ll tell them what it means. And for a second or two, I’ll speak about the brief existence of these glimmers of life, and maybe someone will feel less alone when they hear the story. It’s part of my story – our family’s story. I don’t know whether God will grow our family, or if we’ll stay small, but in this season, I’ll try to trust and be present in our now-family and not become paralyzed by the uncertainty of a maybe-baby.

It has been a rough few weeks for our little Wolf Pack. We’re on the upswing now, but corporate anxiety takes its toll. Even Pia was tuned in to the “differentness” of our behavior and conversation, our prayers and tears since late July. I suggest you try not to have a family crisis while trying to potty train and start a brand new daycare. Not the best combo.

If we’ve seemed weird or secretive or cryptically “off”, now you’ve got the scoop. Thanks for all your care and support. Love to all you mommas of babies not born.