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.

Brave Enough

Over the weekend, I had an unexpectedly severe flare-up of pain related to the chain of surgeries I had following my miscarriage years ago.

It's amazing how that pain can take me right back to the raw grief of losing our baby Jordan. It's like scent... how certain smells will put you right back in your grandmother's kitchen on Christmas morning.

I was in terrible pain Friday night and was unable to rest until about 4 in the morning. I got up Saturday, desiring to go to church with my family.

I was emotional, as I always am when I've been in that level of pain -- that pain that flashes me back to the reason for the surgeries. The pain that represents sweet beginnings and possibility scraped out, leaving years of physical and emotional complications.

Our daughter Hannah is an old soul. She is a compassionate girl who has grown up with a Mama who struggles with pain. It hasn't always been something I can hide from her and she has consistently handled my rough patches and my heart with a tenderness that astonishes adults.

This is the girl that told me when I was in the dark spaces of mourning Jordan, "Grief is like when you get something in your eye, and you have to cry and cry to get it out." She was 4 years old.

This is the girl that curled up next to me when the pain literally dropped me to the floor and smoothed my hair while saying, "Medicine takes a long time to kick in, sweetheart, but it will kick in." She was not yet in Kindergarten.

Saturday morning, I hugged her, apologizing for my tears as I explained to her, "Mommy had a bad night."

"It's okay, Mom," she told me, hugging me back. "I think God chose the right children to have a pain mama. Me and 'Nally' are okay with it. We're brave enough to have an arthritis kind-and-loving mother."

We're brave enough...


With tears in my eyes, I tucked away her reassurance and that phrase into the pocket of my heart. Brave enough. And I decided that I could be brave enough too. I took my girls to church, and I smiled through the pain. Not to discount it or try to hide it, but because life is beautiful and life is good. Every day, even the hard, is another chance to love and to form relationship and community with those around us.

Let's be brave enough to do that.


Let's be brave enough to do hard things, and not give up, and rest when we need to, and make memories regardless of our current physical ability, and encourage those around us, and grow. Let's be brave enough to keep on when it would be easier not to, and to believe in the good when good is hard to find.

Story Made Beautiful

I want to thank you for being here with me Thursday, as I used some of my courage to not only remember our baby {that is so easy to do} but to speak his name.

Jordan.

Your comments and your tears were a gift, and I thank you.

6 years. Shocking that it has been that long, but as you know if you've read this story before, I had a healthy child afterward, in the midst of some years which are easiest to describe as the years of Perpetual Operations.

Not only was she healthy, she was hearty -- born pink, crying, 9 pounds and 8 ounces of second chance.

Today she is tall, lanky, and turning FIVE this month. A "rainbow baby", or baby after a loss, she is my breathing representation of grace; a symbol of God's presence in my story.

We named her Natalie Kate.

Having children was my life-long dream and there were a few times when I thought it might not come true. Life threw obstacles. And yet, here they are, these little women, my dreams come to life.

So humbling. So humbling that He saw fit to allow me to be a mother, their mother. So humbling that it worked out, in spite of, despite, the obstacles.

I am so grateful. Soaked through to the bone with gratitude. This was what I yearned for, and they are here. Not all three, no...

Not all three, and that is hard.

But these two, Hannah and Natalie, they are here and they are breathing and growing, and I breathe thanksgiving and grow faith.

He has made my story beautiful, even with not-so-beautiful ingredients.

Breathing gratitude today.

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.

National Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Day

Today we remember, on a national scale, the babies gone too soon due to miscarriage, stillbirth, infant death, SIDS...

If you are one effected by a loss like this, please share a bit of your story in the comment section. It can be just a date or the name of your little one. You are not alone!

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.

Puppy Slippers

his mother writes to tell us 

thank you

for the money we sent for Christmas

she says

he used the money to buy puppy slippers

my heart pounds a bit, holding her letter

once, after the miscarriage

i saw a baby boy that looked like our girls

dressed in denim overalls and puppy Robeez

the sight nearly undid me

and now she writes to say

he chose puppy slippers,

this little boy we sponsor, the same age our baby should be

the gift he is to me

is far more than the gifts he chooses

with our American dollars

the whisper of my heart

they saw a setback where i felt a death

they sent a card when i craved a funeral

they've long forgotten while i remember on

"how many children do you have?" they ask

"two," i say, while my heart whispers three

and i hold them all, two in arms and one in heart

"he will wipe every tear from their eyes.

there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain,

for the old order of things has passed away."

~ revelation 21:4 ~

The Nights that No One Sees

It comes on gradually throughout the day and by evening I am quiet, thoughtful, moody. By bedtime I feel angry -- at the dishes that are overflowing from the sink for the second or third time today, at all the chores and responsibilities and stressers in my life, and at the lack of solitude and time for myself and the interests I want to pursue.

I go to bed, overheated from anger and doing yet another load of dishes.

I wad up in a ball and press my eyes -- left right left -- as if I mash my hand against my eyes enough times the tears won't be able to escape.

But they do.

My chin quivers and the tears pours out like they haven't in months and I can't figure out what I'm crying about.

It can't be the dishes.

He says he's sorry and is there anything he can do and volunteers to rub my back, and all I spit out is, "My back doesn't really hurt much right now."

It's 5 years from one of my post-miscarriage surgeries and I know that it's possible that my body stores memory and has some sort of internal calendar and that given the state of the pain in my lower abdomen, even if my best friend hadn't reminded me of the surgery anniversary today, my body would've remembered on its own.

I'm sobbing now. Big, loud, noisy sobs that turn my nose so stuffy I can't breathe and eventually I go to sleep with my mouth open, waking periodically with a mouth that feels like I've been sucking on a cotton ball. But not before I cry out a series of disjointed statements and phrases. Phrases about judgment and feeling uncomfortable in certain settings and the longing and the missing and the stress and the ridiculous things that come out at times like this that really aren't a big deal at all.

In the morning, purple eyelids inflated with tears greet me in the mirror. I feel embarrassed and ridiculous and still quiet -- hushed by the big loss of a very little life.

Once Upon a Time: A (Not So) Fairy Tale Ending

Once upon a time there was a happily expectant family. Already blessed with a child, they were thrilled to be pregnant with their second child. They told all of their friends and family, purchased crib bedding and nursery decor, and the pregnant woman went to bed every night with her hand on her belly and What to Expect When You're Expecting on her nightstand.

And then something completely unexpected happened. Towards the end of her first trimester, the woman went in for an ultrasound, and with no warning whatsoever, was told that her baby had died.

We are that family.
I am that woman.
That was our reality just over five years ago.

A procedure was done and I went home no longer pregnant.

And then, perhaps because I was doing such a good job of keeping it together emotionally, my body fell apart.

Four surgeries happened: in January 2006, again in January 2006, January 2008, and March 2008.

And in between the surgeries, we were given the gift of joy: another baby. Born healthy.

And in between the surgeries and the pregnancy and the delivery and the raising of two beautiful girls, my body continued to throw a fit, this time in the form of chronic pelvic pain, often severe.

So here we are today, five years later, and our daughters are healthy and happy. Our youngest recently turned 4 and we are gearing up to celebrate our firstborn's 7th birthday, later this month.

And we are still one child short of what we expected.

So just after the 5th anniversary of losing our middle child, whom we named and loved and miss, we decided to pay tribute, somehow, to the memory of that sweet baby we wanted so badly.

Allow me to introduce to you a little boy who has stolen our hearts. This is Cristian:

Cristian is a little boy from South America, about to celebrate his 5th birthday. It is our privilege to sponsor him through Compassion International*. Cristian was born just a couple months before our baby's due date.

Sometimes Happily-Ever-After doesn't happen, but in this case, we found a way to make some good from bad.


*If you have never heard of Compassion, please take a moment to visit their website and learn more about them, 'Like them' on Facebook, or even consider sponsoring a child. 

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.

Rainbow after the Storm

We were thrilled to be expecting another baby. My doctor told me that he would order an ultrasound at 6 weeks, the soonest a fetal heartbeat can generally be seen on ultrasound. He was very sensitive to the fact that being pregnant again would be an anxious time for me. He was right.

In the days before the 6 week scan, I nearly vibrated with anxiety. I was so worried that we would lose the new baby; so afraid to bond, lest this baby die too. All I could do the day before the appointment was pray and repeat mantras like "Faith over Fear." There is a wonderful song written by Donald Lawrence and performed by Janna Long (of Contemporary Christian group Avalon) called "Somebody Loves You". I listened to that song on repeat for days before the ultrasound, and on the drive to the hospital that morning.

I see you standin' there all alone / Feelin' like all hope is gone / You cry yourself to sleep every night / Nothin' ever turns out right / Well, I'd like to encourage you / Just to let you know you'll get through / There's a light on you from above / Oh, don't you know.../ Somebody sees / Somebody knows / Somebody sits high and looks low / Somebody's watching / You're not alone / Somebody loves you so / Well, I know you don't understand / Just how you fit into the plan / Life has been so unfair / Sent you problems too hard to bear / Well, I'd like to encourage you / Just to let you know you'll get through / You gotta stand tall and be strong / Oh don't you know.../ Somebody sees / Somebody knows / Somebody sits high and looks low / Somebody's watching / You're not alone / Somebody loves you so/ Don't you know somebody loves you / Don't you dare give up the fight / Just reach deep down inside you / Oh, my God is there to guide you / And when you really need a friend / Don't hesitate to call him / He will be there to answer your prayer

I finally came to the conclusion, after listening to the song dozens of times, that no matter what happened with this pregnancy, God would get me through it. I couldn't bear the thought of losing another baby, but I was reassured that God saw me, He cared, He loved me so much, and He had a plan...

As soon as the tech began the scan, we saw a tiny baby. Soon after, we saw a flashing heartbeat. Seeing that sign of life was wonderful. The baby was measuring on track; the heartbeat was nice and strong. The tech printed me an ultrasound photo with the words I HAVE A HEARTBEAT typed on it. I walked out of the hospital with a permanent smile -- couldn't help it. The sun was shining, it was spring and our baby had a heartbeat!

There were several things that got me through the pregnancy, anxiety-wise. Losing a baby stripped me of naivety. I knew now that not only do people die, babies die, mine included. A few weeks after the ultrasound, I rented a Doppler online. From about 10 weeks along until I could feel the baby move regularly, I kept it, and when I felt myself being sucked into that spiraling vortex of fear I would check for the heartbeat.

From early on in the pregnancy, I began having pain and it would continue...

When I was beginning the second trimester, the due date for the baby we lost came and went. Two of my friends remembered me. One sent a beautiful e-card, and the other left me a voicemail saying she was thinking of me and hoping I was ok. It was touching to me, that even though I was expecting a new baby, the one we had lost had not been forgotten.

As we got closer to the halfway point, and the big level II ultrasound that could also reveal gender, we grew more and more excited to know more about the baby. Jonathan thought it was a girl. My journal from that time reveals my thoughts, "I really don't care which we're having -- losing [our baby] has made me less picky. I just want a healthy baby."

At 19 weeks 3 days, we had the ultrasound. Jonathan & I went together. Right away we saw the heart, still beating away (a sight I never became unaffected by), and little girl parts. She weighed 12 ounces and measured about 9" crown to rump. She had a cute little nose and little stick-out ears like Mommy and big sister Hannah. She looked perfect -- spine, brain, legs, feet, hands, elbow, shoulder and stomach. Her dates were right on track. We were so beyond thrilled and excited for Hannah to have a sister, and to be expecting a healthy baby.

We chose the name Natalie Kate.

As the pregnancy went on, Hannah became increasingly excited about her baby sister. At 22 weeks, we went to the county fair, where 2.5 year-old Hannah went on her first (kiddie) fair ride with Daddy. I waved to her from outside the little fence, and she held out her hand like a traffic controller, hollering, "Stay there, Mommy! You won't fit!"

At 24 weeks, she was resting with her head in my lap when my stomach made a sound. She leapt up, alarmed, and exclaimed, "OH! Nally, you scared me!"

Jonathan asked her, "What did Natalie do?"

"She burped, with her tiny mouth, in my ear."

Big sisterhood appeared in other ways, too. Hannah spent time talking to my belly, and singing "Jesus Loves Me", personalizing it to Natalie with the words "Jesus loves Nally so..." At one point she told Natalie, "Don't come out yet, Nally, the doctor's gonna help you."

By the beginning of the third trimester I was experiencing so much pain, it was difficult to function. I had a break-down at an OB appointment and for the remainder of my pregnancy I took prescription pain meds (safe for the baby), and used a heating pad to help with the pain. I also went to see a chiropractor and began having regular adjustments. Chiropractic care helped a lot and I was able to take less pain medication.

The last several weeks of the pregnancy were difficult. I felt like she would never come. I was huge and heavy and hurting, and trying to chase a very active toddler was nearly impossible.  But finally, 1 year and 2 weeks after losing our previous baby to miscarriage, I went into labor.

Natalie Kate was born on a chilly Wednesday in November about noon. She came into the world healthy and hearty, weighing 9 lbs and 8 oz. As soon as she was born she began crying. The nurse wiped her off and handed her to me, and as I held her, I said, "It's okay. Mommy's here." She recognized the sound of my voice and stopped crying. I looked into her slate blue eyes (that have since changed to brown) and her gaze met mine. She trusted me. She knew she was safe.

It had been such a long journey to hold this healthy baby in my arms, and I was unbelievably grateful. She was born just a few days after Thanksgiving, which was exactly how she was welcomed into our family ... with great thanksgiving.

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.

My Miscarriage Story -- Part III

Over a month after my D&C, I was still having pain and was sent for an ultrasound. The test showed an ovarian cyst. I was prescribed painkillers and referred to another doctor. The day before my appointment with the new doctor, I was sitting down to dinner with Jonathan & Hannah when I began feeling worse. In addition to the pain, I felt lightheaded and icky. I couldn’t get comfortable. The pain heated up and soon I was on the floor in the living room. The first of the two excruciating episodes I had that night lasted for 30 minutes. The pain felt like a horrible contraction that would not subside. I had no idea what was happening. My mom called the ER who had her call the hospital’s on-call OB/GYN. When he called back, the pain had subsided. He said that I could wait to see my new doctor the next day unless the pain became unbearable, or I developed nausea. A couple hours later, episode #2 hit and I was again on the floor, in tears, with nausea. This time the horrible pain did not subside for 90 minutes.

Jonathan took me to the ER. I had another ultrasound which showed the cyst the same size as before. The doctor admitted me overnight for pain control. I spent that night on pain killers and when that wasn’t enough, I had a shot of hardcore pain medicine. The new doctor came to see me in the hospital the next morning, diagnosed me with an infection, and after discussing our options, sent me home for five days of bed rest, antibiotics, stronger painkillers, and lots of fluids. I was to come back if the pain got worse, but the doctor thought the cyst would shrink and go away on its own soon.

I spent the next five days in a recliner at my mom’s house, as she looked after Hannah and me. A few days after easing back into my regular routine, still in pain, I went to see the new doctor for a follow-up appointment. He said the cyst felt bigger, and my infection was gone. I was sent for another ultrasound which showed the cyst to be significantly larger, so large that the ovary was now four times the size of my ‘good’ ovary; my uterus had been shoved over to a different place.

Just as my swollen ovary and large cyst had shoved my uterus out of the way, so the pain and physical complications had shoved my grief out of the way. I simply had no capacity to continue grieving while managing the ongoing physical complications of the miscarriage.

Surgery was scheduled to drain the cyst and remove it, and lab work was sent off to test for cancer markers. I spent the next few days drugged to handle the pain, nervous about the surgery and anxious about the lab results.

The lab results came back negative for cancer, and the surgery went smoothly. The surgeon did a laparoscopic procedure, where they made three small incisions, one in my belly button for the scope, and two lower on my abdomen. They found that the weight of the cyst and the enlarged ovary had caused my ovary to torse (literally twist) twice. Now I knew the cause of the excruciating pain episodes. Ovarian torsion is dangerous as blood flow to the ovary can be compromised when the ovary twists. I was told in recovery that I was lucky my ovary had not strangulated and died. I came out of the surgery sore, but hopeful that the pain would now resolve, and I could get on with living my life. I was kept in the hospital for the next 24 hours, sleeping with my hospital bed inclined, so the ovary would not twist again before the swelling from the surgery could go down. If it twisted again, that would mean another surgery. I wrote in my journal that day:

“When I first woke up from the surgery I felt really bad. My throat was extremely dry and sore from the tube, and it took me quite a while to be able to swallow and talk. I got emotional and cried because I didn’t want to have to stay overnight and have Hanny worry.”

I went home again to recover. A blur of sleeping upright in the recliner for five nights (as ordered), potato soup, milk shakes, pajamas, naps, my mom once again taking care of Hannah, sore incisions, and getting bored. I could not wait to get back to normal life. Whatever that was.

Exactly two weeks from the date of my surgery, I wrote a small p.s. in my journal: “I’m having pain again, and I’m worried. :-(” The next night I was again on pain medication, and went to bed with a heating pad. When I woke up, it was Hannah’s 2nd birthday. I confided in my mom that I was having pain again and she, immediately concerned, volunteered to watch Hannah while I went in to see the doctor. He ordered an ultrasound but it could not be done for several days, due to a busy radiology schedule. That evening we had pizza and cupcakes for Hannah with Daddy, Grammy & Papa, and watched a movie about monkeys. At bedtime I read her a story and we sang “The Bear Went Over the Mountain”, which Hannah called “Bears Mountain See Monkeys”, had prayers with Daddy and put my little 2 year-old to bed.

The pain got worse over the next few days; I had the ultrasound which revealed nothing impressive. That night I recorded feeling worse, limping and queasy, and again on prescription painkillers to deal with the pain. The following day we had a big birthday party for Hannah, with her little friends from church and their families. It was the first of her birthday parties I would host in pain and medicated, but it would not be the last...

My Miscarriage Story -- Part II

Just days before that fateful ultrasound, the future looked bright for our family. We had signed papers on our first house, moved out of the house we were renting, and settled the three of us and minimal possessions into a mobile home while we got the new house ready – the new red house that we had bought for the backyard, the safe neighborhood, and the 3rd bedroom for the new baby… I had even already purchased Winnie the Pooh crib bedding and nursery décor for that 3rd bedroom for Benjamin or Sierrah.

Now we returned home from the D&C to a “home” that was not ours, considerable work to be done on the new house, a toddler to try to explain the loss of her sibling to, recovery, and grief.

In those first few weeks, Jonathan & I spent a lot of time talking and crying together. We discussed so many things we had never considered before, especially regarding faith and theological beliefs. We set out on the road to processing and grieving our loss, all the dreams we had for our family and this greatly-desired second child, at the same time that we began remodeling our newly-purchased house so that we could move into it.

The support we received from friends and family was such a gift – I received flowers from my MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) group and from a former pastor and his wife. Cards appeared in the new house’s mailbox that said people loved us, were praying for us, and were so sorry we had to go through this. My sister called in tears over the news, and many of my friends emailed me their condolences. One card in particular sticks out in my memory:

“We shared with you as you dreamed about and anticipated the birth of your baby… and now that your hopes and dreams have ended with the loss of your baby, we want you to know that we share with you in your grief, too. Our thoughts and prayers are with you during this difficult time.”

The thing that helped the most though, I think, was when people cried with us and for us. One card we got said, “After I told our family your sad news, we all cried together. We are so sorry for your loss.”

We continued on with our lives – Jonathan working during the day and then working on the house at night, while I cared for Hannah and our home. I ate Dove milk chocolates and journaled. Late at night, after Jonathan returned from working on the new house with my dad, and after Hannah was sleeping soundly in her travel crib in her room, we would sit on the couch together and talk. I wanted to heal and time to pass so we could try for another baby, but it was also important to me that we not forget this baby. Little did I know at the time that forgetting would be impossible. I didn’t want to feel we had replaced this baby or that he didn’t matter, so Jonathan & I chose a name. We picked a name that worked for a boy or a girl, since I wasn’t far enough along to know the gender. The origin of the name was from Hebrew, just like ‘Hannah.’ We also chose a middle name. It was a sad time, but I was coping and I still had great hope for the future.

Little did I know what was yet to come…

My Miscarriage Story -- Part I

It is November and the rain has come again. My stomach has begun to bloat with a much-desired second child. The boxes of maternity clothes I wore while expecting my first have been dragged out of the dusty stacks in the garage. I’ve been feeling fairly well. Not as nauseated as with my first, when after every dinner I found myself in the bathroom. I’m proud to be starting to show. I love this part, where it becomes obvious that there’s a baby growing within me. I am a creature of comfort, and have been wearing a new pair of grey athletic pants with double pink stripes up the pant legs. When I go out, I look the part of “put-together-stay-at-home-mom,” but once at home I am quick to shed these classy garments, and cozy back into my comfy pants.

I’ve taken to eating fruit in the evenings, while my husband and I watch our television show. Canned peaches are the current favorite. Pears and pineapple have had their turn too. We have been talking about this baby for so long that we’ve already settled on names: Benjamin for a boy (of course I’ll call him Ben), and Sierrah for a girl (the ‘h’ just makes it look more balanced I think, more finished. And of course that way it will go with our first daughter’s name – Hannah, also with an ‘h’ on the end.)

My little Hannah... Our firstborn, first known, first loved. She is nearly two and full of life. Pink elastics gathering her corn silk hair into pigtails (“pretties” as she calls them.) She’s blue-eyed and wide-eyed and curious about everything. She never stops moving, our little toddler tornado. We’re open with her about what’s going on, as much as you can explain to someone so young, we’ve explained.

“A new baby is growing in mommy’s tummy,” we say. “You’ll be a big sister, just like Mommy is a big sister to Auntie Sissy.”

At night when we tuck her in, Hannah tells the new baby “nigh-night” and kisses my tummy through my tee shirt. I love that she’s as excited as I am, and I can’t wait for our gender ultrasound to determine whether she’s getting a brother or a sister.

At ten weeks I go in for my first OB appointment. The doctor says my uterus is a bit small for ten weeks and he doesn’t find a heartbeat with the Doppler. “It’s a bit on the early side to hear it anyway,” he reassures me. Still, he says we’ll do an ultrasound to see how far along I really am, “check my dates.” I go in a couple days later with my husband, excited to see our baby, and not at all concerned. I’m sure our little Benjamin or Sierrah is just a tad small and will catch up in time. In the waiting room I say to Jonathan, “If it’s twins we’ll find out today!” Both of our families have a history of twins. He grins and flashes me a double thumbs up gesture. I wait impatiently for the ultrasound technician to come get us from the waiting room. My bladder is full with the required water. Finally a man comes out with a clipboard and calls my name.

In the room the tech chats with us about our new baby, is this our first baby? “No, we have a two year-old daughter.” The tech has a couple of kids too, he says. As he moves the wand around on my gelled belly, he grows quiet. Finally he says, “Jennifer, I’m going to go get our radiologist, because something’s not right here.” He tells me I can go empty my bladder now. While I’m gone, I feel numb. I know when we conceived. I know I’m ten weeks along. What isn’t right? When I return to the ultrasound room the tech is gone, and Jonathan says to me gently, “I think we need to prepare ourselves that this may not be a good pregnancy.” I nod and feel a lump in my throat, but am still numb. What’s going on?

The tech returns with the radiologist, who wears a cell phone clipped to his belt like my dad. He introduces himself, shakes Jonathan’s hand, and pats my knee, then turns to looks at the ultrasound picture frozen on the computer screen. After what feels like forever, he turns back to us with compassion in his eyes. “I wish I didn’t have to be the one to tell you this, but it’s always best to be honest,” he starts. He goes on to say that there are two sacs, but only one baby, and the baby has stopped growing and has no heartbeat. He tells us how sorry he is, and that they will need to send us over to see my OB doctor, just across the parking lot. “We’ll call over and tell him what’s happening.” I feel my chin start to quiver and I turn towards the wall, trying not to break down in front of these men I don’t know. If I can stay strong, I’ll be okay. I can cry in the car...just not here, not now.

We go across the parking lot to the medical offices, and I sit in the waiting room for less than sixty seconds, the tears streaming down my cheeks despite my best efforts to contain them, before the nurse comes to escort us back to a private exam room. The doctor comes in, a man I’ve known for years, “The nurse said you were in tears.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just in shock.”

The doctor explains to us that probably our baby had a chromosomal abnormality and was “incompatible with life.” He says that since my body has shown no signs of expelling the pregnancy (already we’ve stopped referring to it as a baby) we’ll need to schedule a D&C procedure for the next day, in order to prevent infection. I nod, and try not to come apart at the seams. Finally we’re allowed to leave, and the welcome privacy of the car brings more tears.

The rest of the day is spent on the phone with close friends and family. Since we didn’t expect any problems, they’ve all known for weeks that we’re expecting, all been excited for us. I call my best friend and tell her. She’s silent. When I say her name she lets out a sob and it’s then that I realize she’s crying. Other friends cry too. I go through the rest of the day trying to wrap my mind around what’s happening. Trying to stay strong and take care of Hannah. Friends call and invite us over for pizza and a movie – are we up for that? We go, knowing we’ll be sad and shocked wherever we are. We watch a comedy and it feels good to laugh, even though inside I still feel numb. Everything seems off-kilter.

We go home and put Hannah to bed. I make arrangements for my mom to come over and be at our house early in the morning so we can go to the hospital, without having to wake up Hannah. I get into bed and set my alarm clock for an hour I’m still usually sleeping.

When my alarm sounds, I immediately remember the events of yesterday, and pry myself from my safe bed and get into the shower. In just a few hours I’ll be back home and no longer pregnant. We’re going to the hospital to get the baby out, but we won’t be coming home with it. We’ll never get to hold it or know it. This is it.

I walk into the hospital, into the same waiting room I waited in yesterday for my ultrasound. Such a difference in my mood from then. My hands are damp with nervousness and I wipe them on the legs of my grey pants with the pink stripes. It is quiet and still. It’s still very early and the normal hustle and busyness of the hospital has not yet begun. Jonathan reaches for my clammy hand and holds it between his.

My doctor and a scrub nurse appear and take us back to pre-op. They ask me questions about my medical history – is this my first pregnancy? first miscarriage? first surgery? No, Yes, No. They get me changed into a gown, and get my IV started, which seems to take forever. I hate IVs. I ask if I can keep my wedding ring on and they decide I can, as long as I put surgical tape over it. I have to go in now -- in to a shiny, sterile, cold environment where my baby will be taken from me. I need to feel my husband’s presence. If I can’t have him with me, I at least want my ring. As they wheel me into the operating room, I finger my wedding ring with my thumb. I am glad to have it, but the tape over it is pulling on my skin and covering the smooth band. It feels medical and artificial, just like this whole day so far.

“Okay Jennifer, just relax and count back from 10 for me,” says the anesthesiologist. I close my eyes and try to think of a more comforting place while I count, “Ten…Nine…Eight…Seven…Six….”


I wake up in post op, hearing voices talking around me. They mention medications and one of them mentions my husband. I don’t open my eyes just yet. I swallow and know it is really over. My throat feels shredded from the tube. I can feel that I am bleeding and am cramping severely. I force my eyes open and ask for a sip of water. A nurse in scrubs brings a Dixie cup of water and holds a straw to my lips. I sip a bit of icy water and swallow hard again. They ask if I’m in pain. I tell them about the cramping. They say that is normal and that they will give me more pain medication in my IV. I thank them. Every cramp reminds me of what is different now. I am groggy and sore and emotional. My baby isn’t inside of me anymore. I feel a hand in mine, and I look to my left to see one of my best friends, who is an ER nurse. It’s her day off and I didn’t expect to see her, but here she is, dressed in scrubs and hospital ID tag clipped to her pocket. “Hey…” she says sympathetically, and squeezes my hand as a tear slips down her cheek. “How ya doin’?”

Soon I am a bit more alert and my nurse friend goes to get Jonathan from the waiting room. When they come back he looks serious. He asks how I’m doing and I shrug, “The cramps are pretty bad.” I know that’s not what he’s referring to, but he just smoothes my hair off my forehead and smiles sadly. When I can stand up without feeling like I will faint or vomit, they have me use the restroom. I am startled by the amount of blood and Jonathan steps out to get a pad from the nurse. When I try to stand up the room starts to go black and Jonathan steps closer to hold onto my arm. There is a little bench in the bathroom and he helps me sit down on it and tells me to put my head down. I wait like that until I can see the tile floor again with no stars, and then we go back out. They get me back in my clothes – those grey and pink maternity pants that I love and a tee shirt with a sweatshirt over top – and into a wheelchair, and someone pushes me out while Jonathan drives the car up to the sliding front doors of the hospital entrance.

On the way home we stop at the pharmacy, where Jonathan dashes in to fill my pain med prescription, just as we did on the way home with brand-new baby Hannah. We drive home to find my mom and our little blondie, not yet two years old. I’ve been gone only 5 hours, but I am altered – not pregnant any longer.