Getting On With It

I've always been interested in stories.  I wrote stories as a kid and stapled them together for my mom and dad.  The story problems in math always intrigued me..."You have two cups of milk.  To make a  a dozen cookies you need a half a cup of milk.  How many total cookies could you make with the two cups of milk?"  I did not care about the answer or really anything to do with numbers.  I wanted to know what kind of cookies?  Who was making them?  And why?  Was it a birthday treat or a special after school snack?  I would get so lost trying to figure out the whole story, I hardly ever got the number correct.

I love stories.  I get lost in stories.  Sometimes I get found too.

My love of storytelling was one of the reasons I started my blog. It is also a reason I wanted to get involved with Listen To Your Mother.  The more I write, the more I learn, the more I listen--my passion for and devotion to storytelling is not only growing, it's exploding.  The more open and honest I am with telling stories, the more open I am to hearing them.

I am paying attention more to all the stories around me.  And they are everywhere.  

The past few months I've kept a story to myself.  The story of my second miscarriage. There are a bunch of reasons I chose not to write about it or tell anyone (our kids don't know).  Mostly because I didn't know what to write or feel.  Partly because I needed to keep moving and hopefully move on, from both miscarriages.  

It's been a few months and I feel different.  I feel stronger.  I feel at peace.  I feel ready to get on with it.  Part of getting on with it for me is telling the story.  

So, here it is, the story about how stories helped me during my second miscarriage.  It was featured on mamalode.com.  Click here to read the story.

Due Date

When I was a little kid, my brother and sister and I used to treat our parents' wedding anniversary like a national holiday.  We woke up early and made them breakfast.  Then we put the breakfast on a tray, along with homemade cards, and woke them up by singing a silly song about love.  I am not making this stuff up.  Looking back now, I realize my mother had probably ingrained the importance of that date into our brains and encouraged us to do something special.  She was good at creating "something special" for people back then, it was kind of her thing.  Years after they got divorced I remembered the date of their wedding anniversary and felt a sort of pang of sadness.

Now I can't remember the actual date, it was sometime in August.  I also don't really feel any pangs.  But I do hold onto the memory of three sweet little kids believing in celebrating something special and believing in love.

Time is funny that way.  Special days, sad days, anniversaries, due dates--they can have a hold over us, give us pangs or remind us of a simple sweetness.  

Love this quote for all kinds of reasons.

This week was my due date.  

My miscarriage isn't something I think about everyday.  But it also isn't something I've been able to completely move on from.  For some reason, I never un-subscribed from the BabyCenter emails that update you with what is happening in the particular week of your pregnancy.  So each week since late August, I've been receiving an update like "Your pregnancy: 25 Weeks."  It became so routine, I deleted it without reading, much like I do PTA update emails.  Subconsciously I think I didn't un-subscribe because then it would be over, for real.  

On Monday, I got the email that said "Your pregnancy: 40 Weeks-Your Baby Is Due!"  Seeing the email, remembering the date, I felt a pang of sadness. Thoughts of how life would be so different filled my mind. Images of holding a precious new pink little baby filled my mind and my heart.  For a moment it was too much.  The pang turned into pain.  But only for a moment because I have moved on--there's been a lot of healing and living and loving that has gone on the past six months.   

Over time, the pangs and the pain will lesson, I may even forget the date, because that's life.  And that's good.  Because what I want to remember is what grieving has taught me, not what is has taken from me.  It has taught me to live more compassionately and honestly and patiently.  It has taught me that everyone handles life (and grief) a little differently.  It has taught me that I want my life to be about celebrating the something special and believing in love.


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One of my friends sent this quote to me the day after I came home from the hospital after my miscarriage last August and the words just spoke to me.  And helped me heal.

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The other side of grief and sadness can make people feel a little stronger too.  And sometimes I do feel a little bit like a bad ass.  Songs like this help.

Oversharing (it's a good thing)

Quick take a picture of it with your phone.  Pick a filter and share it on Instagram.  Pretty or quirky snapshots of our lives waiting to be liked.  Sometimes I don't know how to have something just happen without taking a picture of it.  I can't look at a sunset without thinking "holy shit that's pretty, but what would it look like with a Sierra filter, oooh or Toaster."

A lot of us are like that.  Are we all like that?  

We share our moments through filters.  Some people overshare.  Some people take selfies.  Some people take pictures of their kids, their dogs, their food, their sunsets.  

We want to capture the moment, remember it, hold onto it.  We want our moments to be seen.

There are people that say it's too much.  It's oversharing.
It's the same with updating our Facebook status or blogging.

When I shared the story of my miscarriage last week, I guess I wanted to be seen or heard.  I know I wanted it to matter.  I didn't have a plan really.  Writing has been my way of processing pain for as long as I can remember.  Most of the time I don't know what I 'm feeling until I write it all out.

The response I got from my oversharing surprised me.  It was love.  So much love.  Emails and messages from friends that had gone through their own heartbreaking miscarriages.  Emails and messages from readers I don't know personally who shared their personal stories of loneliness and grief.  Emails and messages of support and encouragement.  

Friends left treats and flowers on my front porch, they hugged me at the football game, they took me out to lunch.  

I felt the love.  My story, my miscarriage, my pain, mattered.  I mattered.  It helped.

My hormones are still a little all over the place.  I'm quieter than normal.  I cry sometimes when I remember I'm not pregnant anymore. But it's getting better, healing is happening.

I know this because Saturday night I sang Whitney Houston songs at the top of my lungs and I danced in my kitchen (much to the chagrin of Lucy).  In fact, that is my advice for anyone on the precipice of healing...sing Whitney songs, preferably any song from The Bodyguard soundtrack, as loud and proud as you can. I promise it will help.  And then, if you feel like dancing, do it.

I'm on my way back and it feels good, I know that for sure.  I also know for sure that sharing and oversharing my story has allowed people to give me the support and love I didn't know how to ask for and I am eternally grateful.  So, I will keep taking pictures, keep documenting, keep writing, keep sharing because it all matters.

Here's what else I know for sure, right now:

• Cher + the Golden Girls have magic healing power too.  Check out this totally amazing fabulous mash-up:

• One more week until the first day of school and half the kids can't wait.  I'm both happy and sad--I look forward to a routine, but I will miss them so much.

• The Whitney Singing Therapy works.  Here's the song I really got into on Saturday night. Try it. 

The Miscarriage

"Well, I mean you have four children, you are blessed," said the nurse patting my arm in an attempt to comfort me.

I was in a post-anesthesia fog, my eyes were almost swollen shut from crying so much, but I nodded.  "I know, I know, I am blessed," I agreed.  I tucked my legs up underneath my chin like a child and closed my eyes.

Then she put a blanket around me, one of those blankets that felt like it had been in a toaster--a little stiff, but warm.  She tucked the edges under my side, leaving her hand on my hip for a minute.  "You all alone?," she asked concerned.

"Yes," I said, feeling more alone than possibly ever before.

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It all started almost two months ago.  I wasn't feeling like myself.  Tim and I were concerned, but not overly concerned and we never considered that I might be pregnant.  Then I took a nap, or rather the nap took me.  I couldn't stop it, I sat down on the couch to watch a movie and I slept and slept and slept.  And here's the thing, I hate napping.  I don't nap.  Unless I am pregnant.  Tim went out and bought a pregnancy test the next day.

Still not believing I could possibly be pregnant, I peed on the stick and two lines appeared.  Two lines mean pregnant.

"Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck," I said over and over and over.  I was like Leonardo DiCaprio in the movie about Howard Hughes, The Aviator, where he goes crazy and can't stop saying the same thing over and over.  I clasped my hand over my mouth just like he did in the movie and still the "holy fucks" kept coming.  I was seconds away from taping my mouth shut like Leo did, but then Tim opened the door to the bathroom and grabbed me and I stopped.  I started crying instead.

"How did this happen?" he asked.  

"Well Tim, we're finally the fucking one percent, just not the one percent everyone wants," I half screamed.  "Nope, we're the one percent that's mentioned on the warning label on the back of the Trojan box, you know the one percent that can get pregnant using a condom! We're like a god damn After-School Special for old people."

I cried more.

We were done having kids.  Four was our number.  Four kids are what we dreamed about when we were dating.  Five? We never talked about five.  

I was scared.  Scared of being too old.  Scared of not having enough money or enough love.  Scared of the emotional toll it would take on me and how I wouldn't be able to be the mother I wanted to the original four.  Scared it would make our marriage harder, life harder.  Then I hated myself for feeling all of these feelings.  And I cried more.

Then I wiped my tears away and made dinner for the family.  Life went on.

It was actually Tim's birthday, so we sang and had cake and carried on just like normal.  But Tim and I knew everything was different.

Over the next few weeks, the nausea and exhaustion became extreme.  I could barely make it through every day.  I stopped taking the kids to the pool, there were no family bike rides, no spontaneous nature hikes.  There was a lot of eating, laying around and just getting through.  I didn't feel like talking or writing or dancing.  I didn't even feel like crying or being angry.  I didn't feel--there was just being tired and sick.

Then one morning I woke up and I didn't have to throw up.  I felt happy. I looked at my four kids and felt even happier.  "Why not?" I thought.  "Why not add to my sweet family?"  More love, that's the way I started to see the pregnancy.  I touched my already growing stomach lightly, lovingly and for the first time thought, maybe...maybe we, I, could do this.

We didn't tell the kids or the world.  I went to the doctor, got blood tests and scheduled my ultrasound.  It was becoming very real, but we still wanted to wait.  We'd never really waited before to tell people about being pregnant.  But this time, the kids were older and we wanted to tell them first.  And we wanted to be in the "safe period" and let them get situated in their new year of school before telling them.  But those weren't the only reasons.

I was scared again.  Scared of what people would think.  Scared of people judging. Scared of being the butt of the joke, the old lady that lived in the shoe kind of thing. You know, so many kids she didn't know what to do. I wanted to wait until I didn't apologize to strangers for getting pregnant.  Then I hated myself for feeling all these feelings and I cried.

Despite the irrational fears and horomonally-fueled anxiety, I started to get excited.  I thought about names.  I made a secret Pinterest board full of bassinets and maternity clothes.  I dreamed up blog posts about our family of seven. I smiled thinking about how I would stand out in the blogging world since I would be one of very few uber-liberal, non-homeschooling mommy bloggers with five children. I started laughing more and panicking less.

Then a few days ago I didn't feel right.  I started cramping and bleeding.  In that same bathroom where I said "holy fuck" 5,679 times in a row upon seeing the two lines and prayed to God that it wasn't true, I prayed again.  "Please God, don't let this happen," I pleaded out loud, but in a whisper.  

I called my doctor and in a hushed voice so the kids couldn't hear, I asked her for help.  She told me to head to the emergency room.  I told the kids I had to go to the hospital just to get my stomachache checked out.  I lined up a drop-in child care center to watch the younger three kids and left Peyton home alone.  "Hey, maybe when you get to the hospital, they'll find out you're actually going to have another baby, wouldn't that be great?" said Peyton reassuringly with a smile as I walked out the door.

"What can I do for you?," asked the kind-looking, older security guard at the entrance of the hospital's emergency room.

"I'm having a miscarriage and I need help," I stated.  The words felt strange coming out of my mouth.  I hadn't even told people I was pregnant and here I was telling a complete stranger that I was miscarrying.  It was all personal and sad and uncomfortable.  

It felt like I said and heard that word 451 more times in the next six hours.  "Miscarriage Behind Curtain 6" was my new name.  Tests had to be run. There was a system, a protocol that had to be followed.  Even though we all knew what was happening.  

Not long after I got settled behind my curtain, Tim showed up and held my hand and was by my side.

The dark ultrasound room was possibly the lowest point of the day.  The only sounds were the whirring of the air conditioning coming from the vent, the clicks of the computer from the somber ultrasound tech and my sniffling.  I am used to ultrasounds where the tech says "see your baby?" and then writes fun quotes like "can't wait to meet you!" on the picture to take home.  This time after the ultrasound, there was no picture.  She handed me a box of tissues and left the dark room to "give us some time."  Tim was there holding my hand still.  It was heavy and sad.

But it wasn't officially a miscarriage until my doctor, who was in the hospital performing a C-section, came and gave me the news.  I love my doctor and I am forever grateful that she is the one that told me finally what I had known/feared since praying in my bathroom that morning.  

I was wheeled to the operating room almost immediately for a D & C.  It was all happening very fast now.  IVs, anesthesia, papers to sign, different nurses, different beds, different rooms.  It was surreal.  It was all fluorescent lights and nurse buttons and beds with wheels.  It was like a movie and I was just lying in the bed watching it all happen.  

Tim had a job interview that he was supposed to go to at 4 p.m.  He decided to cancel it, but before I went in for surgery I made him promise he would go.  My amazing doctor offered to drive me home after she was done with her shift later that night(see why I love her?).  But Tim said he could be back by 6:30 and the hospital agreed to keep me until then.  I felt better knowing he was going as they injected my IV to put me to sleep.

After I woke up and they unwired me from IVS and blood pressure machines, I was wheeled into a cubicle looking space with a recliner.  There was no one in the room, no one.  I heard faraway voices confirming appointments and deliveries, but saw no one.  

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After the nurse asked if I was alone, I felt a little sorry for myself.

But then I just sat still. And fell in and out of sleep.  I stared at the ceiling and listened to nothing.  I felt peace.  I knew the moment I left the plastic-y, leather-y recliner and the warm toasted blankets life would go on--meals would need to be made, kids would need to be cared for, school supplies would need to be bought, work would need to be done.  So I sank into the peace and quiet of the moment.  I surrendered to the surreality of the whole day.  I honored my grief and my confusion.

When we got home I told the kids my stomach was better, but I needed to take it easy.  We are not telling them anymore than that.  

I am sure the surreality and the grief will continue, but so will the healing.

The next morning I woke up thinking it was all a dream, but then remembering it wasn't.  And then I made gluten free waffles and we all ate breakfast on the front porch.  Life goes on.  We carried on, just like normal, but Tim and I know everything is different.