A Different Kind of Love Story

"How could one person, not very big, leave an emptiness that was galaxy-wide?"
{Sheldon Vanauken, A Severe Mercy}

Dear Jordan,

Seven days ago I was walking around, alone, in Target... something that rarely happens. I passed the baby section and felt it again, that pang of loss. That deep ache of missing you. I have had the gift of giving birth to two healthy babies, your sisters. I have had the experience, twice, of caring for a newborn, of nursing and sleep deprivation, and I have raised them past infancy, past toddlerhood, past the preschool years. Your sisters are now six and nine. I don't take that gift for granted. But it doesn't erase the pain of what I missed out on with you. You are unique and I lost you.

There's just one you.

Which is why the tag on a small soft elephant designed for babies slays me. The tag that says Just One You. Carter's is so right. Each baby is a precious, irreplaceable individual. That's why the part of my heart that belongs to you will always be empty. Because you aren't here to fill it.

You are forever a baby in my mind. I cannot imagine you as a school-aged child. You are only what you ever were -- a tiny baby unblemished by the hardness of life. You are only love.

To talk about you is to validate you as real. You were not a dream or a nightmare. Seven years down this road, when I mention you, people may assume I have not healed. This is untrue. I write about you to honor you as my child, and to record you as part of my legacy. I talk about you to untangle the ethereal thoughts and emotions, to sort what can't always be sorted.

I speak of you to give myself the gift of loving you out loud.

Ours is a different kind of love story.

For the Woman Grieving Her Baby

In 2005 I lost a child at 10 weeks gestation. I had no symptoms of anything going wrong. I went in for an ultrasound and discovered that our baby had no heartbeat. They told me this was called "Missed Miscarriage." It was a type of miscarriage I didn't know existed.

In the years since, similar things and worse have happened to women I know -- neighbors, college roommates, childhood friends. And I've learned that no matter how much I hurt for them, our experiences are not the same. I want to help and I want to say the right things -- ideally one exactly right thing that will bring comfort or an ounce of peace.

Sometimes I plan tea parties in my mind. I daydream an event in my home where I would gather all these women on my couches and tuck warm blankets around them. My home would be clean. The coffee table would hold boxes of the softest tissue. My kitchen island would offer cookies and fresh fruit and tea and coffee and hot cocoa. Big, big mugs to hold enough hot liquid to help swallow down each other's stories; to wash away the hurt.

I would design them all a journal. I would hand it to them, wrapped in tissue paper and string, with a sprig of Forget-Me-Nots. I would say, "It's okay to remember. It's okay to process the loss of your sweet baby, your child, until you have nothing else to say. Until the brutal mourning transitions into a fragile, yet beautiful butterfly that flies free and simply lands on you from time to time, a reminder."

I would lend them my books on miscarriage, stillbirth and infant loss. I would offer anything at all to ease the grief.

Most of all, I would say, "Please don't think you are alone."

I would say, "Find safe people to talk about your baby with. Find people who will listen and not try to minimize what you're going through."

I would say, "People will tell you, 'At least you have your other child(ren).' Yes, that's true, you do. You have someone else to get out of bed for and to pour your love into and to hold when your arms throb with emptiness. But children aren't replaceable. Your living children do not replace the unique bond you formed with the one who died. You have every right to remember and grieve and miss the one who isn't here. And you have every right to love the lost and carry the memory of your sweet baby in your heart, even though your arms cannot do the holding."

I would say, "Grief has its own timetable. Even when you think you've already grieved your loss, it may come back. It may hit harder two years down the road than when it first happened."

I would say, "Miscarriage is not a heavy period! Miscarriage is the death of a living, growing baby. Your baby." 

I would say, "In the darkest pockets of sorrow, you may feel you're going crazy. Grief and madness are not the same, but on this journey, they may feel that way. You will survive this. However, if at any time you have thoughts of hurting yourself or others, or if you begin to make plans or fantasize about your own death; if you can't get out of bed for days on end, please tell someone you trust. Please say the words, 'I need help.'"

As much as it's cliche and as much as you might not want to hear it right now, I would tell you, "It gets better. I used to think that perhaps those further down the path of loss -- further healed -- hadn't had as strong of a connection to their baby as I had to my Jordan. But no matter how long it takes, no matter how many times the grief comes rolling back in -- the strongest ocean waves threatening to suck you under -- it will get better."

You will always remember. You will hold that baby in your heart and carry them your whole life. You will not forget. But eventually, after enough tears and hard work to process this huge, huge hole in your life, the memory of your baby will not bring pain. It will bring a tender, sweet joy.

It's okay to do exactly what you feel will bring you healing. It's okay to write down what you're feeling and not mince words. It's okay to crouch in your closet and sob. It's okay to find the innermost part of the forest and scream. It's okay to sleep with a teddy bear when your arms feel so empty they might detach from your body. It's okay, friend, to do what you intuitively know will help.

Maybe that's planning a ceremony. Maybe that's a memorial service. Maybe that's making messy art. Maybe that's buying a baby blanket even though you have no baby to swaddle. Maybe that's starting a blog. Maybe that's training for a marathon. Maybe that's raising money for organizations that fight for children. Maybe that's sponsoring a child.

In our family, there's a day every fall that we call Jordan Day. It's not a birthday and it's not a celebration, but we make a special meal -- always Mexican food, as that's what I craved when I was carrying Jordan -- and we light candles and eat as a family, and we remember and acknowledge the missing member of our family.

Healing will come. You'll never forget. You'll never feel it didn't happen. But healing will come. It will leave a scar, but you will heal.

Until you heal, please know I am crying tears for you and with you. Because I know the depth of my love and longing for Jordan, I can imagine the depth of yours. So when you need me, let me know. I will walk this path with you.

You are not alone.

A Baby with a Name

{our sweet firstborn, touched by loss at a young age}

Six years ago today I went to the hospital, pregnant with a baby with no heartbeat. Some hours later I went home to my pig-tailed firstborn, not quite two years old, no longer expecting our second, a baby we were going to name Benjamin Jack or Sierrah Grace.

Some weeks later, in the beginning stages of grief, Jonathan and I decided to name our lost baby. I have never shared that name publicly. It has felt too personal to me, too sacred.

We named our sweet little one Jordan.

Jordan means "Descendant" which I loved because this was our child, whether we got to keep him (?) or not. Jordan can be a boy name or a girl name, and although we have always felt our baby was a boy, we have no proof of that and no way to know.

I loved that it is a Hebrew name, just as Hannah is. I liked that even in death, they shared something.

I also loved that this baby, so wanted and so loved, had a name that began with the same letter as both of his parents.

So there's no birth certificate, no hospital baby bracelet, no ink-stamped little footprints, no announcement picture. But there's another child in my heart. Not just Hannah and Natalie, but Hannah, Jordan and Natalie. I have two living children; two here to hold and to raise, and a third I hold in my heart.

Jordan Lynn: carried in my womb for 10 weeks; carried in my heart for a lifetime.

Never forgotten, not for a day. Particularly remembered every year on this date, November 10th.

The Gifts in the Pain

Last time I wrote about my health, in this post, I said that in a future post I would tell you about the hidden gifts found in chronic pain & illness.

To do that, I have to go back a bit.... back to 2005 when we found our tiny family going through something we never thought we would face. At an ultrasound towards the end of the first trimester of an uneventful pregnancy, we were told there was no heartbeat.

Losing that baby has been a defining event in my life. Just like marrying Jonathan and giving birth to Hannah and Natalie, losing our {very loved, wanted, and anxiously awaited} baby helped shape the person I am today.

Miscarriage was not something I knew much about. I did not have any close friends who had been through it, my mom had not experienced it, and although I knew it was a disappointing, sad, awful thing, I had never heard of the type of miscarriage that happened to me: Missed Miscarriage, meaning that for whatever reason, a woman's body does not catch on to what has happened when the baby stops developing or dies, and does not begin the process of passing the baby.

So when we went in that day, we were happy, jovial, silly, and frankly, naive to the realities of what women go through in doctor's offices and ultrasound rooms every day.

Just moments after we were calling the baby by both names we had already chosen (one for a boy and one for a girl), we were told there would be no baby after all. No baby coming home with us the following Spring, no baby sibling for Hanny, no baby kicking soon. No baby to use the Winnie the Pooh nursery decor I had just purchased.

No baby.

I had a procedure and it was supposed to be over. My body, they said, would heal quickly and we could wait a few months and try again, have another baby.

But just days after I thought it was over, the complications began...

In a nutshell, over the course of the next few years, there were infections, antibiotics, ER visits, ultrasounds, hospital stays, surgery, bedrest, no lifting, surgery, no lying down, a new pregnancy, PAIN, a healthy delivery, PAIN, surgery, PAIN, PAIN, surgery, PAIN stretching on for days and weeks and months and (literally) years.

I have no idea how those years looked from the outside, all I can tell you is bits of how it felt from within, but even that is a blur and graphic and a mixture of joy and grief and severe daily pain that is indescribable if you have never experienced it. I've said it before and I'll probably say it again: it's amazing how much pain the human body can endure.

The gifts in the pain of those years is still a stretch to identify, but I remember how light I felt when it finally began to back off. I felt like I was flying. I could run. I could lift my daughters. I could sleep without heating pads. I could mother without medication. I could truly live.

I vividly remember how good it felt and how I knew I would never again take for granted life without pain. I remember it well because it was not long ago -- not long before I began experiencing increasing levels of pain and stiffness in my spine, neck, jaw, hips, shoulders, ribs, chest, wrist & hands, knees, ankles & feet. Not long before I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease (a chronic disease) called Ankylosing Spondylitis. A disease that could  hunch me over and fuse (lock) my spine, a disease that could rob my ability to run, wreck my ability to walk, and devastate my ability to function daily.

It's been almost a year since I was diagnosed with AS, and some of the gifts that I had already found, thanks to experiencing deep personal loss, are firmly planted in my heart and outlook: a passionate desire to love with intention, to love well and consistently and to use my words to express that love before it is too late. I know now, and have felt all too keenly, the fragility and frailty of life. I have lost friends and classmates to car accidents, I have lost my very very dear and special Grama, completely unexpectedly and suddenly to a massive stroke at a young age. I have lost elderly and sick grandparents. But the most difficult, for me, has been the loss of a child. It's been nearly 6 years, and I still feel the hole in my heart and our family every day. It gets easier, yes, but it does not go away.

I believe one day I will hold that baby. Some days that is the only way I bear the absence of a child that was never here.

So what are the gifts?

I don't take those I love for granted.

I love with intention.

I use my words.

I use my creativity to heal.

I turn it around -- instead of asking every day, "Why am I going through this pain?" I look for the beauty around me, big or small, the overlooked things in nature, everything I can do that day, and I feel awe and wonder at it all and remember how very blessed I am to be alive; to be able to live this day.

I simplify. This was born out of my fatigue and pain levels, and serves me well as I limit what I do outside of our home so that I can better love and care for what and who is inside my home.

I slow down. This was born out of my inability to walk quickly, to stand for as long as I would like, etc... It's still hard for me, but I try to remember to take more breaks to rest, to snuggle my girls, to sit down and read to them, to make memories.

I do when I can -- When I can walk, I walk. When I can hold my girls without pain, I hold them. When I can get up early and be SuperMom, I donn my proverbial cape. I am so much more eager now to say YES! to life; to getting out in nature and being with those I love and to truly living.

So these are the gifts. They are beautiful, profound, sometimes-not-learned-until-late-in-life-or-until-it's-too-late gifts. I honestly feel very blessed to have been given them early in life, so I can better see what's important  and what's valuable and what truly matters.

These are the gifts. I hope they inspire or comfort you.

When Every Heart Stops Beating

There comes a moment when every heart stops beating.

Classmates, community members, an aunt killed in an instant in car accidents.

An irreplaceable family member taken unexpectedly by a massive stroke.

A grandmother, bruised and frail, gone to leukemia.

The baby we never got to hold...

... and this loss, short in life, long in love, shows me how to love better -- to be more intentional. It urges me to love with my whole heart, to love fully every day, because every life we touch, every person we love is fragile. And it can all be gone tomorrow.

We need to love better, because there comes a moment when every heart stops beating. Yours. Mine. Our spouse's. Our children's. Our parents'.

So we love right now, in this moment, with this breath and this heartbeat.

My Miscarriage Story - Final Part

It’s been 5 years this week since we said goodbye, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of the baby we lost.

Between then and now, I had 5 surgical procedures and a lot of pain, both physical and emotional. It's been quite a journey.

Miscarriage is not what I once thought. Before I experienced it, I thought miscarriage was sad, a disappointment, a setback… I didn’t realize that miscarriage forever changes you; that the baby you lose is a child you will grieve, that even if you have a healthy child the next time, it doesn’t replace the loss. Children aren’t interchangeable. With each of my babies I formed a unique bond.

Losing our baby has changed me. I cry more easily when others hurt. The lense through which I view the world is different now. Loss has sharpened my perspective.

I also hold so much tighter to my daughters. Losing one has helped me not to take my girls for granted. I now view every healthy baby as a miracle. The process from conception to birth is so intricate, and I feel so lucky that I have two healthy children here with me. Natalie was born healthy and hearty (at 9&1/2 pounds) the year after we miscarried. I hesitate to use the words "our family is complete" -- I suspect no matter how many kids we could have, there would always be one missing -- but she is a piece that belongs to this puzzle, and she has brought us great joy. As they say, joy comes in the morning. For me, joy came in the mourning.

I believe we will hold our baby in Heaven, and that this loss will be redeemed there. Until then, I don’t know that you can fully heal. Maybe you just learn to cope; integrate the loss into the fabric of your life.

What helps me the most is to hold onto my faith. The hope I have in Christ is real, and I could not walk this road without Him.

5 Years Ago

5 years ago this month, i was pregnant with you

5 years ago this month, i craved mexican food

5 years ago this month, we were about to move from the home where you began

5 years ago this month, i was still nauseated

5 years ago this month, everything was going perfectly

5 years ago this month, we'd already chosen names for you

5 years ago this month, we'd already purchased your crib bedding

5 years ago this month, i knew nearly nothing about the many terms for losing a child

5 years ago this month, we didn't know yet that we'd never get to hold you

5 years ago next month, a lot of things changed forever

p.s. {if there was any doubt, i still miss you}

High Tide, Low Tide

It comes and goes, like the tide....

Today I feel the emotions of loss creeping closer again. Just a few days ago I was standing on the sunny beach, the water a great distance away. Now I see the wave coming and I know there's no point in running, because it will catch me.

I have taken quite a break in writing my miscarriage story. I didn't realize when I started writing it just how long it is and how many parts there are to it. I'm also not good at telling a story briefly.

So I'll be back to it. Thanks for being here with me.

The Promise of Easter

We lost a baby at 10 weeks. Every Easter since our loss, over 4 years ago, I have found new meaning in the crucifixion, resurrection, and what it all means:

• Mary's anguish as she saw her son die. Her desperate longing for it not to have to be this way. Not my son! Please, please, not MY son!
• The disciples' grief as they begin to feel the void He left; their shock. He's really gone? But we loved him! He mattered to us!
• What a desolate Saturday that must've been, with Jesus dead and buried in the tomb. How can this be? Can it be real? Everything is different now.
• The women's panic as they found the tomb empty. He has been moved! Where is He now? Can He not even rest in peace? Where do we find Him? Where do we go to remember Him?
• Their tentative hope, as they begin to realize that maybe what the angel says is true. He's alive? He is risen? All is not lost?

This weekend, I am lost in contemplation, feeling those same emotions felt on Crucifixion Friday, Desolate Saturday, and Resurrection Sunday. I sit changed by significant loss.

Not my child! Please, please, not MY child! He's really gone? But we loved him! He mattered to us! How can it be? Can it be real? Everything is different now. Where is he now? Where do we go to remember him?

I look forward, with great hope, to the next resurrection, when I can say, "He's alive? He is risen? All is not lost?" because THEY said, "He's alive! He is Risen! All is not lost!"

It's not over yet...

My Miscarriage Story -- Part IV

Three days after my daughter’s 2nd birthday party, I was in surgery again.

My ovary had twisted for the second time. The surgery went well, and Jonathan took me home later that day. It was a gorgeous January afternoon, and I felt hopeful -- the sun was out, the surgery was over, surely now I could heal and move on. This time I had been discharged with some challenging post-op instructions: to sleep upright for 6 weeks to prevent the ovary from torsing yet again. The first night I spent in a pink recliner that had once belonged to my grandmother. Given my height and long legs, sleeping in a recliner is laughable as my legs hang off the footrest. We knew that six weeks of sleep called for a better option, so my husband brought home an electric hospital bed and he and my dad set it up in the living room of the mobile home. One of my job responsibilities at the time was verifying medical benefits, and I had to laugh as I phoned insurance companies from a hospital bed during Hannah’s naps.

Physically I felt better – weak and chronically tired from poor sleep sitting upright and everything my body had been through in the last two-and-a-half months – but in less pain. The most challenging part was the orders to not lift anything as heavy as a gallon of milk (that ruled out Hannah), and to sleep upright.

The other challenging part was my worry about Hannah’s well-being. Her new phrases, recorded in my journal, gave a glimpse of what was on her mind: “So bad”, “Hannah scared”, Come here, Mama”, “I coming, Mommy”, “Hannah cry”, “Mommy sore.”

One night she couldn’t go to sleep. I finally asked her, while rocking her in the pink recliner, “Are you worried about something? Is something on your mind?” Without a pause, Hannah, barely two years old, blurted out, “Yes! Mommy’s tummy.” Speaking soothingly, I told her that the doctor had fixed Mommy’s owie, and now my tummy was much, much better and she didn’t need to worry anymore. Sighing, she settled down, and the rocking lulled her to sleep.

My parents had made plans for a vacation long before my chain of events began, and shortly after my surgery they reluctantly departed. My sister made arrangements to miss school, and came from college to help us for five days. It was such a relief having help with getting Hannah in and out of her crib and the bathtub, and to have her Auntie Sissy around to pick her up and carry her. It was also so wonderful to have my sister to talk to.

The doctor cleared me to carry Hannah again, at my two week post-op appointment.

My sister went back to school.

My grandfather, special to both Hannah and me, died after a long illness.

I went back to sleeping in my normal bed.

And finally, three-and-a-half months after my D&C we moved into our new house, and symbolically, our future, as we were soon expecting another baby.

Hope

Loss changes your perspective. It makes you realize (sometimes in the most painful way imaginable) that things are not what matter, people are. This Christmas Eve day I am thinking of those who are celebrating Christmas despite the absence of someone they love. Maybe the pain is so deep or the loss so fresh, they are not even celebrating -- they are just enduring.

For those people, I am wishing for future Christmases that they can enjoy... when the hole in their hearts is not so raw, when the people they are missing are back in their company. Maybe that reunion will take place in this life, and maybe it won't happen until the next, but the thing that I love most about Christmas and the true meaning behind it, is Hope.

Hope that we will celebrate Christmas with grandchildren near.
Hope that next Christmas the child we are longing to adopt will be in our homes.
Hope that our siblings and children will return safely from serving our country.

Hope that the babies we have lost to miscarriage, stillbirth, SIDS, infant cancer ... will be restored to our arms once again.
Hope that the friends and family members we have had to say goodbye to, we will see and laugh with again.
Hope that came in the form of a baby born in a smelly barn.

Hope that is possible because of our Savior.

If you feel empty and alone this Christmas, if you feel the absence of someone you love, just hold on. Hold onto hope.