Hear Me Out...

Okay.  Deep breath.

Let's get back to basics.

This past week, it was made known to me that people have been..."talking about my blog."  Okay.  Great, I think.

No.  Not great.

Despite the excitement I had developed over the birth of this blog and how it has helped me to cope, I was told that several posts had people...concerned.

I want all of you out there who have expressed this sentiment to know this:

I.  Am.  Okay.

Really.  Really.

But I guess that some things need to be clarified before anymore posts get written.  I want those of you who read and care to hear me out and hear my heart.

Okay, here goes...

1.  Contrary to popular belief, I do not--I repeat, DO NOT--hate pregnant women.  Have you picked your jaw up off the floor yet?  I know that it seems hard to believe, but I really don't.  I love pregnancy; I think it's a beautiful God-given experience, and it's a big reason why I chose to enter the field of nursing that I did.  Because of the sheer volume of pregnant women in my life at the moment (and given my circumstances), it's tough because I so envy this beautiful God-given experience.  Gosh, it's wonderful, and I'd love to be able to join in.  But just because I write tongue-in-cheek statements or posts (see "Top Ten Reasons," if you dare), I hope that you will take them with a grain of salt.  I use humor to cope with tough things. 

And if you read a post and wonder if it's about you, there's a really good chance it isn't.  I had heard that a new mom was truly upset at a post that I had written because she felt it was about her, and it wasn't.  Sometimes, they aren't about anyone in particular at all.  There's a reason I don't use names.  Remember...there are more than twenty women in my life who are expecting.  There's a good chance you're nowhere in here. 

But really, I don't hate you.  I care about this special time in your life, even though I'm often inept at showing that.  When your baby comes, I will probably ooh and aah and coo and giggle and marvel at what a great job you did.  Be excited for yourself and don't pay my pregnancy statements any mind.

2.  Hard and heavy posts don't indicate a perpetual mindset.  When I started writing about my experience with pregnancy loss, I wasn't drawn to journal when I was having one of my better days.  I was and am still often drawn to journal when I'm having one of my hard days.  Note that "intense" posts (see "Big Boys Don't Cry" and "Crash and Burn") aren't posted every day.  I imagine that posts like these are what provoke the "concern," but I hope it comes across that even the darkest and hardest entries end with some sort of hopeful or positive note. 

I do not live in a state that calls to mind the mood of "Crash and Burn;" those feelings have actually become fewer and farther between.  There are days--can you believe it?--where I laugh my head off, dance across our bonus room, sing at the top of my lungs, smile until my cheeks hurt.  I am able to fully grieve some days and fully rejoice in my newlywed life other days.  So because I choose to share about a hard day with you does not mean that all day I have been sitting in a corner in my bedroom in the fetal position with the lights out singing Kumbaya as I cry myself to sleep.  I mean, come on.  I've only done that twice...

3.  I'm willing to be open and honest if it can help someone.  In the days after our second miscarriage, I was directed to Angie Smith's blog "Bring the Rain."  And oh my gosh, her writing was so precious to me.  I clung to her words.  I clung to her lessons, to her pain, to her hurts, to her frustration.  She got it.  She understood.  The feelings I felt no longer seemed abnormal or out of place.  And as I began to write about my own experiences, that feedback within the first day was so affirming.  I got thank you messages for writing and attempting to help others to become more aware of the pain that accompanies a struggle to have kids. 

I'm not naive enough to think that I'm everyone's cup of tea or that everyone processes or grieves the way I do.  But I hope you won't be naive enough to think that these feelings are rare.  Women have talked to me who miscarried decades ago, and they tell me how they still think of the ones they lost.  It sticks with you.  So, I will keep being open and honest about my feelings, not to please you or even to give you something juicy to read.  I'm doing it just in case there's a girl just like me out there searching for someone who gets it.  Who understands.  Who isn't afraid to talk about the hard stuff.  And I hope that somehow, some way, maybe it will be of comfort to her.

4.  I don't want to be a "fair-weather Christian."  It drives me nuts when people get what they want in life, and then they're able to talk about how wonderful the Lord is, to praise Him, to spread the news of His goodness.  It's easy to praise Him when things are easy. It's harder to praise Him when things are hard.  I want this difficult time to be a season of spiritual growth for me, and I want to learn to praise Him, even when the clouds haven't passed.  Even when it's still dark.  Even when it's pouring.  You can still praise Him when things are hard, it's just harder to do it.  I'm trying so hard to learn how to do that, and I want for you to come along the journey with me and to learn from my mistakes. 

I don't relate well to people who haven't experienced "hard stuff."  Maybe some people do, but I don't.  Growing up in church, the testimonies that stuck with me, the ones that were hard-hitting and powerful, were ones where a huge life change had occurred.  It was amazing to see someone like a former alcoholic, drug user, atheist had come to know the Lord.  The parable was called "The Prodigal Son" for a reason; no one would have cared if it was called "The Prodigal Son's Brother Who Stayed At Home And Never Did Anything Wrong Ever."  I hope that sharing this experience will help you relate to me in some way because I get it.  I get what it's like to have things not go the way you want.

But it's okay.  We're going to make it.  I can feel it.  We're going to make it out of here alive.

This is a lot, I know.  But I wanted to be able to speak from my heart and let you know that I don't want this experience to get the better of me.  My writing is how I cope, how I process, and I'm watching God use it to mold me into whatever He wants me to be.  There will probably still be days where you'll see an intense post or two, but know that I'm still okay.

Really.  Really.

And I'm hoping that now the only thing anybody's concerned about is if I actually ever sang Kumbaya in the fetal position...

2 Big Reasons To Smile

I dumped a lot of tough feelings and thoughts on you the other night, and I want to thank those of you who sent me messages of encouragement, telling me you are praying for me.  I'm so grateful for those who continue to visit the blog--it brings more encouragement than you could know when people tell me they've been reading.

Thanks to your prayers, I am feeling much better today and choosing not to dwell on the negative aspects of the moment.  All things considered, my life is pretty wonderful, and I'm thankful the Lord has blessed us as He has.

Today, I am looking at the precious things I have, two of which were snuggled next to me this morning...

They are so stinking silly and so stinking cute, and I just can't help but smile when I look at them.  So, in the spirit of choosing to smile today, I've selected some of my favorite pictures of my silly stinkers.  I hope that they will bring a smile to your face, too.

Yes, that's her tongue...we call this her "doober face."

3 reasons to smile :)

There are more pictures of Zoey because she is such a ham!

Hope everyone has a wonderful rest of the day.

Crash and Burn

Crinkling sand beneath my warm toes, I listened to the waves as they smashed against the beach.  Breathing a deep inspiration of therapeutic, salty air, I exhaled the troubles that had wound my nerves so intricately for the past several months.

Ahh.  This is the life, I thought.  Miles from frustration; ages from pain; far from worry.

It was sweltering hot, and with perspiration dripping heavily from my chlorine-soaked ponytail, I stepped lightly to refresh my feet in the ocean water.  The tide bathed and tickled my toes, and because of the brutal heat, my body begged me to venture further out for a cool dip.

The waves, which had originally lapped sweetly against my ankles, began to vigorously charge against me as I waded deeper and deeper.  As long as I could see the waves coming, I could brace myself for their strength.  But when I turned my back to the approaching tide, the force felt stronger.  Harder.

I couldn't tell where or when they'd be coming.  The deeper I got, the faster they hit.  The harder they got, the weaker I realized I was.  Some were so strong that they knocked me over.  Some knocked me under.

One.  After the other.  After the other.  Until I briefly questioned, "Will I ever regain my footing?  Will I drown here?"

I think it's only fair for those of you who have accompanied me on this journey to hear the "real stuff" that I go through in this grief.  Yes, I've been trying desperately to make lemonade from this sour season, but you know what?  It would be wrong of me to lead you to believe that every time I have a setback, my first thought is, "Well, golly gee whiz.  What valuable lesson can I learn today?"

This isn't Mr. Rogers' neighborhood.

Sometimes, I find that I can move to a place like this quickly.  But, folks, it isn't always that simple.

Exhibit A?  Let's journey to yesterday morning...

Sunday morning.  The alarm sings to let us know that it's time to get up for Sunday School.  To be honest, it's a struggle every week over whether or not we'll go.  Not because we don't love the class.

Our class roster has quickly become a list of nothing but parents and parents-to-be.  It's a fairly small, intimate class, so it's impossible to hide in the crowd, and I often find myself wedged between a rock and a hard place...or a pregnant belly and an even bigger pregnant belly.  Two of my classmates are set to deliver in the next month or so.  A third pregnancy was announced two Sundays ago.  We were one of three couples left who weren't expecting.

So let's drop a bomb, shall we?

All morning, Dru kept telling me that he had a funny feeling; like we shouldn't go that morning.  It had been a bit of a tough weekend (Saturday was my second due date, and of course we paused with grief), but I pish-poshed his concerns. For some reason, my stomach was in knots the whole ride there.

As usual, we were running a few minutes late but made it just in time for prayer requests.  My last shining hope of a non-mom-to-be eagerly raised her hand.

"I have a prayer request...and a praise..." she began.

My heart fluttered.  My fine-tuned, bitter, infertile eye scanned her for a tell-tale bump.

"We have a doctor's appointment this week..."

No, please, dear Lord, no...I feel a wave coming, but I can't see it...it's a big one...

"Because we're thirteen-and-a-half weeks expecting!"

She looked right at me when she said it.  Right.  At.  Me.  My face was numb.  I heard nothing after.  But as I looked around at my classmates, I realized I was the only wife who wasn't pregnant.

With a stupid look on my face, I sat there.  Frozen.  My ears bleeding from the news.  I carefully faced Dru and whispered, "We need to leave.  Now."  We stayed through the prayer, but as Dru gripped my hand as our leader prayed "...and bless this new life, Lord...," my body started to shake, violently rejecting the news.

We hauled tail at the sigh of an "Amen."  As quickly as we had arrived, we were out of there.  Dru started the car angrily, and we began to weave in and out of nearby neighborhoods.  He talked incessantly of shrubs and landscaping (it's become his "safe place"), and me?

I yelled.

One by one, I named them--those who had announced a pregnancy or had a baby in the last nine months.  The girls at work...our sister-in-law...our Sunday School classmates...this girl from Facebook...that girl from Facebook...those six neighbors of ours...

It added up to more than twenty.  Twenty. 

When I think about that number, I think my head will explode.  Really.  If you're scratching your head incredulously at my undying frustration, that's okay.  I'm thankful you don't understand.  But if you've been where we are--even a little bit--I'll bet you get it.

And as much as I want to be a "good Christian girl" and respond how I know I should, this sucks.

It's overwhelming, and it sucks.  And you know what?  As we drove around yesterday, I did something I haven't done in a very long time.  I questioned everything I believe in.

It is possible that even as a follower of Christ, even though you're searching for His promises, His grace, His mercy, His goodness...you may not feel it.  You can find it, but you may not feel it.

I spouted off vile things.  That God doesn't see me.  That He has forgotten about us.  That He must not want us to have a baby.  That He just flat out doesn't care because if He did, then it wouldn't hurt this much.  I cursed the fact that He was asking this much of me.  While so many others have it so easy, He's making it hard for us.  Everytime a wave comes, He doesn't let me get my breath before another sends me crashing to the bottom.

Stop it, God.  Stop!!  Give me a break already.  I need a break.  If He is so great and good and wonderful, why won't He come save me from this pain?  Enough already!

I just couldn't feel Him.  And because I couldn't feel Him, because He was letting me drown, I doubted that this whole experience was nothing more than a reason to put us down. 

In my heart of hearts, I know this isn't the truth.  I know that.  But what you feel can make what you know seem like a farce.  When they don't seem to match up, emotions can override what you know to be true.

But as I picture how I must have looked to my Father--pitching a fit, screaming at Him, attempting to claw free from His steadfast grip--I imagine that, just like a Daddy does when His daughter falls and hurts herself, He has me sitting on a kitchen counter examining my wounds.

Kindly, He takes my hand.  Yeah.  They're pretty deep.  They're ugly.

And while I wipe my teary eyes, hoping that it will take nothing but a kiss to soothe the pain, He pulls out a cleanser to wash over my wounds.

But it burns.  It hurts.  It feels awful.  Because it hurts, I doubt what He's doing.  It must not be working right.

"My child," He says lovingly, "this will help.  I know it hurts, but this is going to make you better."

Instead of trusting that He knows what's right, that He knows what I need, I kick and scream and doubt that He who created my inmost being isn't giving me what I need.

He is.  It just isn't the way that I want.  I want the kiss.  I don't want the burn.

Friends, I'm sitting on the counter getting my wounds cleansed tonight.  It's terribly unpleasant.  I'm kicking, screaming, and crying.  And I don't want it to have to be this way.  But I ask, I beg, that you pray for me and my ugly, wounded body, and that I'll surrender it to the Healer--the One Who gives me what I need and not what I want.

Yeah, the Doctor is in, and even though He's working on me tonight, He's open to new patients.

Need an appointment?  I'm sure He'll see you next...

It Could Have Ended Here

It could have been the most memorable day of our lives.

Perhaps I would have woken in the middle of the night, much like they do in the movies, to the discomfort of ever-increasing contractions, perhaps my water having broken.

Maybe I would have shaken Dru to wake him, telling him anxiously, "I think it's time."

I'm sure he would have stumbled around nervously for the car keys, our overnight bags, maybe a quick bite of breakfast before loading my very pregnant self into the car.  We probably would have run red lights, sped consciously, woven through traffic.  He would have asked me constantly how I was feeling, rubbed my belly, told me how much he loved me.  That he couldn't wait to be a father.

I could have been settled in a spacious room surrounded by excited family, eager grandparents.  Staff might have asked repeatedly, "Is this your first?" followed by congratulatory sentiments and well wishes.

And then, when they would have told me it was time to push, butterflies would have sprung in my gut.

The moment I have been waiting for could have been within reach.

And when they would have told me that she was here--a girl--I would have looked at Dru and wept with an overwhelming sense of joy.

She could have been here.

I could have seen her face.  I could have held her.  Touched her fingers.  Kissed her cheeks.

I like to think that maybe she had her daddy's blonde hair and big, sparkling eyes.

Sarah.  It could have fit her.  Maybe she would have looked like a Sarah.

My second pregnancy could have ended here.  In an overjoyed hospital room.  In a healthy newborn.  In a happy ending.

But it didn't.  It ended months ago in a cold hospital room.  In a lost dream.  In tears.

Saturday was my second due date, and we are mourning the fact that our sweet Sarah isn't with us.  Our memories of her will only ever be limited to a positive pregnancy test and a couple of doctor's visits.

Our arms feel extra empty this week.  But praise Jesus, His arms are extra full.

Sweet Sarah, we loved you from the moment we knew you were with us.

Oh, how we loved you.  How we love you still.

We miss you, but we trust that there will be a day...oh, that sweet day...when we can see your face.  Hold you.  Touch your fingers.  Kiss your cheeks.

Until then, we'll be waiting...

Love,
Mama and Daddy

Top Ten Reasons It's Okay Not To Be Knocked Up

Yeah.  I pretty much need this list this week.  Hope you can find a laugh or two and a reminder that, you know what?  It's perfectly okay not to be knocked up... you know, for now.

1.  Date night can be any night of the week.  Monday night dinner and a movie?  Why, of course.  Tuesday night sushi and bowling?  You betcha!  No babysitters, no hassle, no "Ohhhh my gosh I'm so sickkkk and so tired I just wanna go to bed nowwwwwwww" sentiment; just you, your handsome beau, and a whole lot of L-O-V-E.  *wink, wink*

2.  Hello, forbidden foods.  Got a hankering for a glass of wine, a spicy tuna handroll, or some decadent soft cheeses?  Eat up, girlfriend.  Unless, of course, you're allergic to seafood.  Or you're an alcoholic.

3.  Rolling in the Benjamins.  It's easier to justify a wardrobe splurge (Anthropologie, I love you) when you're not spending every last dime on booties, onesies, and doctor's appointments.  Get your hair done.  Get your nails done.  Go have a spa day.  Treat yourself to something fabulous that reminds you just how fabulous you are.

4.  The numbers on the scale don't have to go up.  They can go down.  Or stay the same.  And you don't have to worry about looking like you're smuggling a watermelon under your sweater in a matter of months (unless, of course, you go overboard with the soft cheeses).

5.  There's no chance of terms like "mucus plug" or "birthing ball" entering your conversations.  Frankly, your friends will just like you better because of this.

6.  Strangers won't have compulsive urges to rub your belly.  At least,  I hope not.

7.  "I'm going to DisneyWorld!"  Live it up at a theme park, waterpark, or some other physically adventurous activity.  You won't have to worry about harming an unborn baby.  Or you know, exploding an inner tube on the Lazy River.

8.  No worry of involuntary flatulence.  A girl told me that she could literally propel herself across the room when she was pregnant.  Hmmm.  Okay.  Yeah.  I...I don't really know what to say to that.

9.  People won't avoid you on account of your, ahem, "hormonal rages."  No walking on eggshells around you, missy.  You're free to be the life of the party without fear that you'll burst into tears over your swollen ankles or mismatched socks.  And, you know, your husband won't be scared of you.

10.  You can still see your feet.  Yeah.  'Nuff said.

Got a good reason it's okay not to be knocked up?  I'd love to hear it!