Balancing Act

This month has been so emotionally conflicting already,and I'm only 4 days in. I've been feeling a lot of things. Grief, excitement, fear, anger, and even a little bit of abandonment. 

Anyone who has had a loss, and I feel like this especially applies to pregnancy loss, knows that there are a million dates that serve as tiny reminders. Most women can tell you exactly how many weeks they should be, because every Wednesday is a reminder. Every month after a loss, they remember. Every due date, every anniversary, or special day. In my case, there are two painful dates this month. On September 26th, 2014, my water broke and within hours my precious Matthew died. On September 28th, 2014, I saw my baby for the first and last time. Everything that happened within those 37+ hours is burned into my memory forever. 

Have I thought about it every day since it happened? Thankfully, no. I've had my share of distractions, both happy and not so happy since then. I have another baby to love, but of course he will never replace the one I lost. But lately, everything reminds me about how much I miss my firstborn. Going to birthing classes and talking about possible hospital interventions. Hearing the words "epidural" or "cytotec" at these classes and feeling the urge to weep and tell everyone there what happened to me, because I just want to tell my story over and over again until it doesn't hurt so bad. Even checking my calendar, my eyes go straight to the 26th and 28th. 

I've been finding myself just wanting to talk to someone about my baby. To just tell them every single painful detail without feeling like I'm bothering them or upsetting them. 

I wish I could say that I have only had happy feelings about this pregnancy. I wish I could say that it's been so easy to get excited and bond with this baby before he enters the world. But truth be told, it's been terrifying. I love him so much, but it's still not even real to me that he will probably be born completely fine, and most importantly, alive. I feel an urgency to get things ready for him, yet at the same time feel a familiar fear that I will come home empty-handed again. Just yesterday, he had stopped moving for about 15 minutes or so, and I was already preparing myself for the worst possibility. But of course, he was just fine.

 I told this to my midwife who gently said, "He is allowed to nap, you know." Of course he is. I know what I need to do, which is trust in God and not myself. Worrying does nothing. I know that. But why does it have to be so hard? Why do I have to always be "in control"? It's exhausting. 

 

I don't want anyone to think that I'm just an anxious mess all the time and that I don't find joy in anything. God is still sovereign, and comforts people like me. I have more good days than bad. But it's been really tough these last few days to keep my joy and to not be anxious. 

I just ask that anyone who reads this prays for me. Pray that I can find peace. Pray that I can trust God more. Pray that I don't continue to struggle with these fears after Benjamin is born. 

Because You Were Dying

Lately, I feel as if I've taken a few steps back in my grief journey. I'm not entirely sure why. But I do think it probably has something to do with having depression already and pregnancy hormones. Whatever the reason, I believe I may be struggling with some PTSD symptoms. Namely flashbacks. Randomly remembering, in excruciating detail, the most upsetting "scenes" from my loss. Painful, short memories play over and over again in my head until I force them out. It's almost as if my head is a projector and my eyes are the screen. All I can feel are the painful memories, and it's extremely overwhelming. Little things trigger them and there's no telling what will.

That being said, I feel the need to write down my latest flashback in the form of poetry. I never really write or read poetry, but it seems to be the most appropriate way to express how I feel and what is going on in my head.

Because You Were Dying

I lay there, exposed
Being prodded and poked
Hoping for the best,
Yet knowing in my mind it was the worst
You Were Dying

They put the ultrasound wand on my not-so-round belly
not round enough
To see if any of your home was left.
You were still, unmoving, yet not quite gone
but I knew
You Were Dying

They analyzed this
and took samples of that
Never saying you were gone
Yet I saw in the midwife's eyes that there was no hope
She knew that
You Were Dying

They put the doppler on my skin
listening for signs of life
130 BPM
Still there, still normal,
but slowing down
Because You Were Dying

She shook her head
and looked at me with such pity
"I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do"
My skin shattered like glass
I felt ice in my bones
I pleaded with God
at the top of my voice
to take me with you
Because You Were Dying

The cruel irony of being surrounded by life-saving equipment
in a hospital
and none of it could help you.

The crushing weight of reality
making my heart shatter
and my lungs burst

Knowing I'd never see you cry
or laugh or grow up
or just be alive.

Because You Were Dying
and I remember.

Honesty at 18 Weeks

Well, I've reached a milestone in this pregnancy. I've reached the 18 week point. There's a lot of mixed emotions. Relief, anxiety, and even a bit of guilt. This pregnancy has been the polar opposite of my last. No bleeding, no reasons to worry, and at this point, no loss.

 While I'm so thankful, I sometimes find myself asking why. Why couldn't everything have gone right the first time? Why did I have to lose Matthew Paul in order to have this precious baby?

 If I'm being honest, it's been extremely difficult to bond with this baby. For several reasons. I think the biggest reason is that I was afraid to get excited until this point. I know that sounds cold. But I was so, so excited for Matthew Paul, even amidst all the problems I had. I really thought everything was going to be ok.

 I find myself walking into prenatal appointments expecting to hear horrible news, even though I have no reason to. At the first appointment I went to, it took the midwife 3 or 4 minutes to find the heartbeat (that's a reaaaallly long time). I started grieving after the first minute passed. I started accepting that I had lost another baby. Thankfully, she was able to find it and it was very strong. But then, in between appointments, I feel anxiety creeping up on me. Convincing myself that I have lost the baby and didn't know it. I've been torturing myself and in turn, losing the joy that should come with expecting a baby!

I put too much trust in the gifts God has given me instead of putting my trust in God himself. Now that I'm past the 18 week point, I can see that very clearly. I'm realizing all over again that both of my babies' precious lives were/are/always will be in the hands of He who created them. As hard as it is to admit it, that's a much better place to be than in my hands! As much as I want to try to be in control, it's MUCH better for God to be in control.

Romans 8:28 says "And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose". That means, no matter how this pregnancy ends, God is still in control, He still loves me, and He will work it for my good. Even in my grief, He still works things together for my good. Even in my depression, He still works things together for my good. It's easy to forget and wallow in my grief and depression. But even when I forget, He still works things together for my good! What a gracious and loving God we have. 

So, even though I wasn't very good at remembering God's promises through the first half of this pregnancy, I pray that He will give me the grace to keep them in mind for the rest of it, and after. 

What Not To Say

As February 26th (Matthew Paul's due date) approaches, I find that he is on my mind more than ever. I think about how I should be looking right now. 9 months pregnant, big as a house, waddling along. How I wish that were the case. While I am so thankful for this new pregnancy, Matthew will never be replaced. There will always be a hole in my heart. I'm still mourning his short life, almost 5 months later, though the pain isn't as sharp.

I'm grateful that I had so much support in my time of need. So many people, even people
I didn't know, were so willing to make us dinner, send me words of encouragement, get me out of the house, or just listen. I will always appreciate those people.

However, there were a few things that were intended to be helpful, but in the end were quite the opposite. If you ever find that someone in your life is going through a miscarriage (no matter how far along she is), please avoid saying the things below.

1.) "You can always have other babies/At least you have other children." Think about this for a second. Would you say this to someone who lost their two year old? Or their teenager? Of course not. I look forward to having more children, I really do. And I'm excited to be pregnant now. But this baby is in no way "replacing" the one I lost. I mourned HIS life because I loved him.

2.) "Miscarriages are God's way of telling you there was something wrong with the baby." I was told this more than once, and each time I honestly couldn't believe what I was hearing. First of all, in my case, there was nothing wrong with the baby. He was perfectly healthy and growing as he should've been. It was my body that couldn't get it together. Secondly, even if there was something wrong, do you think I'd love him less? That I'd rather have a dead baby than a baby with a disability? I would've gladly taken home a living baby that had autism, or Down's Syndrome, or that was missing a few toes than leave the hospital empty-handed. Please never, ever say this.

3.) "Sometimes God takes the babies that are too perfect for this world." This is pretty much the opposite of #2, but still unhelpful. It's like some strange, morbid compliment. It's a very fluffy, wishy-washy thing to say to someone in mourning.

4.) "I know how you feel. I had an abortion and I really regret it." This was never actually said to me, but a friend of mine. Abortions are never the same. An abortion is a choice; a miscarriage is never a choice. There's a time and a place to express these feelings, but it is never to someone who miscarried.

What should you do or say?

Listen.
Ask how you can help.
"I'm so sorry for your loss."
"I'm praying for you."
Only ask "How are you doing?" if you want a true answer. Be prepared for the truth; it may not be nice.

These are things that have been on my mind lately. Please know that I am so thankful for all the kind, helpful words I received. These are just a few things that hurt rather than helped.