Oakley's Birth (Pt. 3) Goodness and Grief

If you missed part 1, find it here

All tears dried and a holy quiet settled over me. Dave whispered in my hair, “You did it Carrie. That was amazing. We have a son!”

Nurses draped warm towels over us and begin discussing logistics of getting us out, but I was again in my own world. This one of total bliss. The fact that 5 minutes ago and for the last 20 hours I’d been consumed by pain was already an impossibly distant memory.

It was as if a breeze had rustled heaven’s curtain. For a moment, I was not seeing hospital walls but a glimpse into paradise.

“Let’s get you out before either of you get cold,” Kim said. Gentle hands supported me while others carefully held the baby against me, his cord still attached. My biggest concern with a water birth was having to stand up so shortly after delivery. But I felt no faint or nauseous twinge. I walked the path of white towels they’d laid from the tub to the bed like it was a royal carpet.

Then I was in bed, a mountain of heated blankets around us. Dave was cutting the cord. Mom was kissing my forehead and slipping out to get some rest.

 Kim said I had a second degree tear that she would fix up. The final big fear. I registered about as much concern as if I’d been told I needed a stitch on my elbow.

Dave switched the music to the Labor Love playlist.

Morning light filtered through tinted windows.

Stevie Wonder sang.

A baby that smelled of heaven nuzzled against my chest.

I was enraptured.

 “At some point we need to name him.” I grinned up at Dave. I never dreamed I’d be the person birthing a baby that didn’t have a name. But here I was, and it added to the charm.

Dave called in an order for breakfast.

“What sounds good that we can we get you right now?” the nurses asked, listing off options of drinks and snacks.

“Apple juice!” I announced.

Never have I savored a drink more than the sweet, icy juice. Never have I felt so satisfied as when the crisp flavor filled my mouth and finally quenched my thirst.

John Denver sang You Fill Up My Senses. 

Eventually a bit of humanity crept into my euphoria. I polished off the juice and waited for our tardy breakfast delivery. Around 10 am. an ultra-perky lactation consultant arrived, pretty stoked to get us up-to-date on all things breast-feeding. Except, baby had just made the journey of his life, and mommy had not fully slept for 32 hours. As Ms. Consultant, with her freshly curled hair, chatted at high volumes about latches and football holds, baby slept slack-jawed, not even slightly interested in sucking. I attempted to smile but instead nodded into the pile of warm blankets. My eyes crossed when I tried to study diagrams of milk ducts.  

But it wasn’t nap time yet. Triage rooms were filling up and it was time for us to vacate the delivery room.

We gathered bags and I moved slow but with less misery than I ever imagined. Baby was weighed and measured and diapered and then nestled back against my skin in our new room and finally it was just us. Smelling and kissing and staring at his wrinkled fingers and wisps of long hair.

 JohnnySwim sang, “You’re my Hallelujah.”

 “Oakley?” Dave said. We said a few other names, but every time we said “Oakley” we smiled. I had debated hardest on a middle name, wanting a connection to the girls and the special way our family had been built.

“Alexander?” I offered. “He can honor the uncle who cared for his nieces and meant so much to us all in Ethiopia.”

“Oakley Alexander.” Dave said.

We called our girls and tried not to cry as we described their baby brother and listened to their delight.

Finally. Baby named. Phone calls made. Oatmeal eaten. It was time to sleep. But I kept needing one more look. One more kiss.  

“You’ve got me touching heaven

Got me touching heaven”

I could feel it, a roaring river of tears beneath the surface that would break through over the coming days. The magnitude of this experience was going to be a mess of emotions to work through. All of my fears hadn’t come true. All kinds of good things I could have never even imagined happened instead. It was going to be a process to accept the favor offered me while some of my dearest carried stories of tremendous disappointment, suffering, and loss. I was the most undeserving, and it would take months for me to accept that goodness, like grief, wasn’t something to make sense of, but rather something to simply receive and experience.

I could have never willed myself to create all my body and emotions had accomplished in the last 24 hours. It was an expression written in my DNA and triggered by such a complex sequence of events, and I would have to make peace with the fact that these feelings were not mine to manipulate. That when the body, mind, and soul all find a synchrony within instinct, there are incredible feelings that serve a purpose of nourishment and nurture and survival. Instincts can be triggered and love summoned, but without the perfect participation of hormones, the emotions may not cooperate.

I was born into motherhood without birth, and I would have to grieve what my girls and I never shared. I’d missed it before, but now it throbbed through my body. I would mourn as I fed Oakley, his body instinctually finding mine. I would promise myself to tell them about what a woman’s body can do, what their first mommy had done to give them life and start them on a journey of love. To weep with them again at each stage of awareness over what they lost with her and never shared with me. And someday, to tell them how, while I was a muddle of hormonal infatuation and fear and frustration, when they cried over a scraped knee or disappointing day, the sound of their sorrow would trigger a surge of milk. Death, adoption, and depression had robbed them of too much. Still, my body sought to comfort and nourish them just the same.

The tears would fall another day, the sleep would fall another year. For now, I might as well live fully while I was awake. I lifted my baby back onto my chest.

NeedtoBreathe sang,

“Oh, it’s so clear

Come a little closer

All of my love is right here”

Oakley’s eyes found mine, a little clearer now, and gazed steadily, us memorizing every detail of the one we’d known for months and finally seen face to face.

Oakley's Birth (Pt. 2) Able To Deliver

If you missed Part 1, read it here

8:00 pm. It was dark and pouring rain. I’d dreaded the car ride. Everyone acted like it would be awful, seat-belted for 50 minutes. I had my water, tea, and toast beside me, pillow in my lap. I breathed slow and Dave reached over. “Squeeze some of your pain into my hand,” he said.

In between contractions I made two playlists, Labor Hope and Labor Love. Why were the playlists made on the way to the hospital at 40 weeks 5 days? Valid question. But those songs have become holy ground.

The drive didn’t feel long. In fact, I felt a bit of relief. We parked and stared at the hospital lights.

 “This is it, babe. We’re going to meet our baby.” Dave said.

 I didn’t move. “I’m afraid,” I said. “Please pray.”

 Dave took my hands and prayed softly and then opened the door and came around to mine. We walked in slow.

Leaning against the counter to give my name, I wondered what I looked like to the people in the waiting area. I had no clue what number to rate my pain. I sensed the nurse wasn’t convinced I was in active labor. I was only 3 cm. She put the monitor on my belly. “Oh!” her eyebrows raised. “You are having some pretty big contractions.” She made a call and came back saying Kim was on her way.

 We got the only delivery room with a jacuzzi. I was glad, but aware that I didn’t care as much as I’d thought I would.

 The nurse chatted chipperly and typed on her keyboard, asking an endless stream of questions while I sat on a birthing ball and leaned against the bed, waiting to answer until I could speak above a whisper. Over the phone, Kim assured the nurse to honor my request to avoid an IV unless a need arose.

 When the nurse drew my blood, I told Dave to squeeze my hand as hard as he could to distract me from it all.

My eyes were shut, but I felt something running down my arm.

Mom arrived.

The nurse was apologizing.

I’m don’t know what happened, but when the draw was over she mopped blood from my arm and our hands and Mom grabbed a wash cloth and scrubbed my leggings. They didn’t want me to see it and faint. I found it funny.

When I settled into bed, Dave brought in my applesauce and weathered mug of raspberry leaf tea. I didn’t touch the food, but intermittently gulped tea and water. Kim had instructed me that if I wasn’t getting an IV, I had to make sure to stay hydrated. Constant thirst made it easy.

The minutes and hours blurred, sensations the only memories:'

frightening fatigue.

Aching cold.

Warring thoughts.

Unquenchable thirst.

 I’d expected to be hot. I took tank tops and made sure Dave had a jacket. Instead, I got chilled soon after arriving and didn’t warm up for hours. My shivers shook the bed. Gretchen, my soft-spoken nurse, heaped warmed blankets on me. I was so tired but unable to rest.

 “I’m still thirsty,” I told Dave. He handed me the ice water again.

 “Maybe gum will help,” I said. He got a piece from his bag. I chewed it desperately. But when a contraction reached full strength I couldn’t synchronize breathing and chewing and swallowing, so I’d grab it from my mouth, breathe, and then shove it back in.

“I haven’t seen this method,” Dave said, and amusement lifted us for a moment.

 12:30 am. Mom suggested a hot shower. Dave walked with me to the bathroom and sprayed my back with hot water. I found more breath and relief from the cold. Eventually the shower chair became uncomfortable. I pulled my leggings and sweatshirt back on. My legs were weak, knees shuddering with shivers again. Dave brought the birthing ball and I leaned against the bed and buried my head in my favorite pillow from childhood. The soft familiar smell hugged my tired face.

 Of worse concern than my body was that I couldn’t find comfort in my mind. All the reading and conversations on positive thinking, on riding the waves of pain, on visualization and the opening flow of breath, it felt unattainable.

I tried to melt the tension in my forehead, jaw, feet. But I could not find confidence that my body would truly deliver, that I would make it through. I felt at the end of my rope, but I knew I had a great climb yet ahead. I feared my fear, worried my inner turmoil would worsen and prolong the process.

 “I need to sleep.” I moaned.  And then I did. I jolted and realized I was drifting off between contractions. I jumped again, mid-sentence.

“What?” Dave asked, his face against my hair.  

“I was talking in my sleep,” I said in confusion. “ I’m freaking talking in my sleep during labor.” We both appreciated the irony, since I’m the worst when it comes to falling asleep.

I had Dave turn on the hypnobirthing audio, hoping to get ahold of positive, peaceful thoughts.

Mom started the diffuser with lavender and lemon oils.

I willed my spirit to lift but my thoughts rebelled:

I can’t relax my abdomen, stupid!

Good smells…

It smells like Lysol.

“You’re not helping!” I scolded myself.

“You’re doing a good job, Carrie. Your body was made to do this,” Mom said, taking a turn rubbing my back.

 “I can’t do it, Mom. I can’t do the hardest thing in my life when I’m this tired.” I was too tired to cry.

 “Let’s ask about Nubain,” Mom said.

 Kim checked me. “You’re a good 4 cm, 5 with a contraction. Your cervix is soft and the baby is low. I think it’s a great time for Nubain,” she said. “It will give you some much needed rest, but won’t stop your body from doing its work.”

 I heard her instructing the nurse, “give an injection, she doesn’t need an IV.” I was desperate enough I wouldn’t have resisted, but I felt so grateful for her quiet, confident minding of my wishes.

“I want anti-nausea meds,” I said.

“You’re only getting a half dose, and Nubain rarely causes side effects,” they said, “but we can give you something to make sure.”

“Yes please.”  I’ll be darned if I get sick from medication.

They gave me a tablet to dissolve in my cheek.

There was a prick on the top of my leg.

A bandaid.

The wall clock glowed.

2:30 am.

Hynobirthing music played from the speaker.

A belly band held the monitor on so they could watch baby’s heart rate without disturbing my mountain of warm blankets.

The lights dimmed.

Dave says I was out in minutes.  

Finally, I was riding the waves. I would surface as the pain mounted, see the dim glow of parking lot lights through the curtains, Dave’s sleeping silhouette on the couch, the quiet movement of my mom keeping vigil from the rocking chair. Then with relief, I’d glide back into oblivion. The sound of my own breathing would bring me to the surface again.

(She says at one point I called out in a little girl voice, “Mom? Mom? Is it ok that I’m sleeping?” The gentle hands that had soothed my myriad middle-of-the-night concerns through childhood, took their place to tuck in my now 32-year-old tossing. I have no memory of the exchange.)

Surfacing for a strong wave of pain, the baby startled and stretched and my eyes flew open as a burst and soaking sensation flooded my body. “My water broke!  Dave! Mom!! The baby just broke my water!”

Lights came on. Blankets were thrown off. Nurses walked me to the bathroom. Contractions came quicker and harder.

4:30 am. I’d almost made it to morning. I had strength back in my body.

“I want to be in warm water,” I moaned as the shivering resumed.

“Then let’s get you to the tub,” the midwife responded.

“Are you sure it’s time?” I asked. I’d wanted to wait until at least 6 cm to save the relief of the water for when I needed it most.

“I can check you again if you want, but I don’t think I need to.” She said.

5:08 am. They walked me to the tub. I sunk into water and felt relief from the shivering, but pain rolled fast and hard. I was exceedingly thirsty.

 “I want ice!” I croaked. Dave brought the spoon to my lips and I crunched feverishly, frantic to get it swallowed before my entire being became focused only on breathing. I feared I would choke if it were in my mouth a moment too long. I heard myself rakishly crunching and thought, “so this is what they mean by becoming animalistic.” I almost cared enough to be self-conscious. But then I was awash again and all that mattered was staying alive.

 My thoughts were narrow, no buzzing from thing to thing, no analysis, no awareness. The intensity gripping my body was sickening. Mom pressed a cold washcloth with peppermint oil to my forehead. Was this it? The “transition phase” where most of my labor dread had dwelt? The predicted combination of relentless contractions coupled with sweating, nausea, and mental despair described my worst nightmare.

I wanted Kim to check and tell me I’d transitioned. But the risk of being told “not yet” would be my undoing. I was operating from breath to breath. Unable to access my mottos, verses, or visualizations.

 “Turn on the music.” I muttered to Dave between breaths. “Labor Hope playlist.”

 “God has not given you a spirit of fear but of power and love and a sound mind.” Mom whispered.

I tried to remember a mental exercise I’d read in a book. Visualizing the alphabet, each letter going by 3 times. I used a different font each time. A a A.  I couldn’t remember how it was supposed to help.

 “More ice.”

 B b B.

 I tried to visit my happy place. Big room. White furniture. Glass walls. Green plants. Soft rugs. Open the sliding doors. Feel the breeze.

 “More ice!”

 Ocean. Beach. Name everything that starts with S. Seagulls. Sand. Sunshine. Salt. Spray. I can’t think of anything else. It’s not helping. So thirsty. SO THIRSTY. Am I getting ready to puke? My body feels frantic. No, you’re not thirsty before you puke.

The contractions barely had a start and stop, more like a slight lessoning between feverish tightening. At the peak of one I felt an instinctual surge, almost like a sneeze but down instead of up.

 “My body’s trying to push!”

 “Let it do its thing.” Mom said.

 Was I relieved? Excited? Scared? The sensation was startling and icky. But I had a sense that progress was being made.

 Each contraction now peaked with a low, groaning pressure. Mom and Dave said later they could tell I’d transitioned and my breathing changed, but the midwife didn’t interrupt my zone to check me.

 “More ice!”

 I heard Dave shift from holding my hand to reach the cup, and knock it over. The nurse went to refill it and I felt I would famish waiting for the cold pebbles to reach my mouth.

 I was too withdrawn to be peevish, I only remember two irritations. One was the terrible screech of the heart monitor. When the nurse put the it through the water to get the baby’s heartbeat, it made a horrid sound in the otherwise calm room. I hated it.

 The other brief irritation was when I was facing the edge of the tub, my head buried in a pillow. I was desperately trying to access a happy place again. Sand. Sky. Soar…music was playing but I was in second to second combat against frantic, and couldn’t concentrate enough to gain comfort. I heard sniffing. Someone is sniffing. Is Dave sniffing? He knows it’s bad on his sinuses. And that I hate it! Why won’t someone get the boy a Kleenex?! I almost popped off a sharp command to do so, but then submerged into primal thoughts of breathing and swallowing again.

 (Later Mom and I were reminiscing. “I’ll never forget when you were clearly at one of the hardest points,” she said. “A song came on and Dave was holding you and tears started rolling down his face. Then the nurse, who’d been at your side all night whispering encouragement that you never heard, started crying. We all were.”

“Thank God I didn’t yell to stop sniffing.” I told her through my own tears. My people were so present, willing me to strength.

Later Dave heard this chorus and told me it was the song:

“I know a breakthrough is coming

By faith I see a miracle

My God made me a promise

And it won’t stop now”

            -Elevation Worship)

I opened my eyes and heard The Sound of Music. The lights in the pool were green. Green is good. I like green. The rest of the room was dark. The pressure was increasing but so was my awareness between contractions.

6:40 am. “let’s check and see where things are,” Kim said. “Oh! Your baby could not be any closer! You’re at a 10 and probably have been for a while. Let’s have this baby.”

Kim became more involved, leaning over the tub and coaching me to put all my energy into pushing. The vortex of pain lessened its grip and I caught my breath and exchanged bits of conversation. Pushing felt like shoving a vehicle up hill on ice, impossible to get traction.

I couldn’t settle on a position. I was weak and aching everywhere.

“I can see his hair!” Kim exclaimed.

From the little red speaker Lauren Daigle sang,

“I hear you whisper underneath your breath

I hear your SOS, your SOS

I will send out an army to find you

In the middle of your darkest night

It’s true, I will rescue you.”

“You’re doing awesome, Carrie!” Mom said. “He has long hair!”

I looked over towards her. “But he’s not moving!” I said. I still had persistent doubt that I’d actually be able to deliver.

 “Can I feel his hair?” I asked.

 “Of course!” Kim laughed. “It’s your body!”

I felt little wisps of soft baby hair. He was right there. I’d felt him! Maybe this whole thing would actually work.

“I am strong and full of life

I am steadfast, no compromise…”

the Heslers sang.

The heart monitor was on my belly again. Several times I heard the nurse say a number and Kim respond, “I’m fine with that.” I briefly wondered what number would not be fine, and what that would mean.

Kim was giving quiet instructions. There was movement around me. A nurse on one side, mom on the other, Dave behind me, holding me up with his gentle presence. I heard them wheel the baby bed over.

 There was a change in the atmosphere. The dim hush of the night was exchanged for lights, movement, quick conversations about warmed blankets and taking photos, and who would do what when the baby came. At least someone thinks a baby will be arriving, I thought.  

“Who’s going to catch the baby?” Kim asked. “Dad?” she looked at Dave, and he looked at me. “Grandma?” Kim asked Mom. They all looked at me.

“I want Dave here,” I said, clutching his hands. “Mom can.”

Dave held me tight. Mom grinned and put on gloves.

All the voices.

All the power my body could possibly summon.

All the pressure and weight and downward force my senses could possibly endure.

 “Good! Good! Good! Don’t stop! Give it all you can!”

One final gasp and heave and desperate yell from my entire being and suddenly, Kim’s voice: “Open your eyes! Take your baby!!”

I looked down and saw the softest little body lifted onto my stomach.

I reached for him and my hands shook so badly I could hardly grasp him. The feel of his warm, wrinkled skin and tiny heaving ribcage in my hands, his wet hair brushing my chin, are etched in permanent memory upon me.  

I looked into his face as his eyes opened and met mine and a wave of desperate wonder, of love and relief, as powerful as the waves of contractions just seconds before, washed over me. I cradling his head, luxurious soft hair against my neck, and wept uncontrollably. 

Broken Vessels Amazing Grace rang from the speaker.

“Time!” Someone called out.

“7:27” Another voice answered.

It’s morning. I made it to morning. I had a baby. I’m holding my baby.

Part 3 conclusion coming soon…

Oakley's Birth (Pt. 1), It's Time

If birth stories are your thing, I’m going to share parts of mine this weekend as I reminisce on one year ago.

I was 40 weeks, 4 days (Or 41 weeks, 2 days if you count by my first date) and going in for yet another checkup. As it had been the whole pregnancy, I still couldn’t engage my emotions. For a person powered by feelings, this was a real bother.

 Months earlier, lying in bed waiting for Dave to come home from planting, I’d felt a sensation like bubbles rising and popping just below the surface of my abdomen. My eyes widened and flooded with tears. Something, someone was stirring around to wave its first hello.

I didn’t know what to make of my tears.

For six more months I felt pokes and hiccups and waves and kicks, and my hands followed their movement, never tiring of tracking these greetings beneath my skin. We watched the screen while a barely even black and white image of fingers and feet and a little round nose came into view. Week after week I heard the louder and clearer beating heart. Still, it didn’t feel real.

I didn’t even know what feelings to hope for. I’m the queen of unrealistic expectations. I set my heart and happiness on ideals I create in my imagination, and fall flat time after time when all the feelings don’t fit into place. Having a baby was my big exception to high expectation. I’ve never been a baby person. Never been enamored by pregnancy and birth. I’ve been face down more than up in my motherhood journey. So I did not set my happiness on this baby. Rather, I spoke with counselor, midwife, husband, family, and friends about the likelihood of this being a very hard season. I know my propensity for depression, especially with a hearty dose of hormones and exhaustion in the mix. I couldn’t imagine that baby cuddles would be much of a cure-all. I don’t mean to sound harsh, truly I expected to experience love and delight, but I thought it would take time to get there.

I walked into my post due-date appointment and Jalana, my favorite midwife, greeted me. I’d wanted to stay off the hope/dismay rollercoaster, so I’d decided to wait until after my due date to check for dilation.

“Things are starting, you’re at a 2.” She grinned when she told me she had a high success rate among the midwives for membrane sweeps- success being that labor started in the following 48 hours. She recommended trying it in hopes of avoiding my family history of making it to 42 weeks.

I scheduled an ultrasound for the next week but all the staff said, “hopefully we won’t see you!”

My two desperate prayers were “please let me avoid an induction” and “however it happens, please let birth be an experience I remember with joy, not horror.”

That evening the girls and I skipped (sort of) the mile loop of Fort St. Clair, laughing, watching an albino squirrel, and soaking in the scenes of fall. We delivered taco soup to Dave. He shut down the combine and hopped in the car to eat with us.

“I’ve been feeling something different than Braxton Hicks” I said. There was an expectant energy in the air.

2:00 am I sat up thinking I had period cramps. When I fully awoke, my eyes widened. I waited a while to make sure I wasn’t imagining the pain, then I downloaded a contraction counter app. They were 4-6 minutes apart, lasting around 30 seconds. I watched the app for another hour, then decided to do something useful with my sleepless state and take a shower. The warm water soothed me. So much the contractions stopped. I crawled back in bed at 6:00 deflated. In an hour I’d be starting the day on 2 hours of sleep with nothing to show for it.

When Dave kissed me goodbye I said, “I was up all night with contractions.” His eyebrows jumped into his hair. “Don’t get excited,” I said glumly. “It was probably a false alarm. Go to work.”

I dropped the girls off at their class, went back to the Fort, and walked as fiercely as my weary body could move. I text Meg to ask how her contractions started. I could feel them creeping in again, but not regular. I went to Walmart and made a return. I became increasingly uncomfortable and suddenly desperate to get out, fearing I might be the next “People of Walmart” episode with maintenance paged to isle 12 for an amniotic spill.

Back in the car, I sent mom a screenshot of my contraction counter app. She was careful not to get too excited, but said if they were coming on in the morning, I’d likely be having a baby by the weekend.

I picked up the girls. I’d promised them a stop at the library and though I was getting extremely antsy to be home, I decided to go, thinking it may be a while before I’d be able to take them again. At the counter I smiled through clenched teeth, pretending to be interested in a kid’s program the librarian was telling me about. On the way home I called Mom. “Send someone over.”

Leaning against the kitchen counter, I willed myself to stay calm while I made PB&J’s. When Kj arrived, I gladly handed lunch duty over and told the girls I was going to rest.

I ate some peanut butter toast and applesauce, analyzed the contraction counter stats, and called my OBGYN office for the pager number of the midwife on call.

2:00 pm. I paged, Kim answered. She kindly asked about my day, encouraged me to take a bath and relax at home for as long as I felt comfortable. She said I likely wasn’t in active labor yet but to trust my instinct.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. “This isn’t how I’m supposed to feel.” I kept thinking. “I’m supposed to be packing my bag and watching a funny movie and washing the sheets so they’re fresh to bring my baby home to.”  Instead I was terrifically tired and restless. I had no interest in anything on my “labor day” list.

4:00 pm. I wished for Dave to be with me. I laid down. Got up. Paced from the bathroom to bedroom. Called Mom. Burst into tears. “What am I supposed to be doing right now? How do I know when to tell Dave to come home?” She urged me to let him know how I was feeling. This was the tension of having a baby during harvest season that we knew we’d likely find ourselves in.

My final call to Dave was choppy. Between my tears and long pauses to get my breath he kept saying, “Are you there? Can you hear me?”

 “It hurts to even breathe. I can’t talk!”

“Do you want me to come home right now? Should I call someone to put away the combine or do it myself?”

“I have no more words for farming,” I said through tears. “I just want you here.”

(My brother Landon was working with Dave and told me later, “You should have seen him. He kept forgetting what he was doing, checking his phone every few minutes, he couldn’t focus on anything.” Dave said he was so relieved to finally know it was time to shut off the combine and come home. I was too wrapped up in my own state to give much thought to the feelings on his end.)

Sometime in the waiting for Dave I wandered out to the kitchen. Kj had music playing quietly.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” She asked. Our normal chat and banter was gone.

“I don’t know what to do with myself.” I hesitated, “This is dumb but there is one thing I really wanted before I went to the hospital. I wanted to paint my toenails.”

Her face lit up. “I brought nail polish to do that for you but I wasn’t sure if you were up for it!”

“I’m sorry if I curl my toes,” I warned her. “I’ll try to hold still. And please don’t look at my gross toenail. I’ll paint that one.”

I sat on my bathroom rug and watched her paint a glossy wine color on my toes, bad nail and all. It was the happiest moment of the day. I gained such comfort from her touch. In the laborious hours that followed, the color would catch my eye and a wave of joy would wash over me seeing one place on my body that looked dignified and remembering Kj’s care.

Dave came home. I was increasingly withdrawn.

I paced aimlessly. I felt sad about feeling sad but I couldn’t muster excitement over the tired, the fear, the pain.

Mom came in and rubbed my back.

“How am I supposed to know when it’s time to go in?” I asked Mom. “You’ve done this six times, just tell me what to do.”

“It’s time.” Mom said.

She helped the girls gather their bags while I attempted to finish packing mine. Finding the few remaining items felt impossible.

Mom and Dad were ready to take the girls. I waited until a contraction was over and went out, hoping to give quick hugs before another one took hold. With a brave face I gave kisses and told them this was the day we’d been waiting for! Then Dad wrapped me in his arms and my bravery crumbled. If a person could win a trophy for hugs, this man would have a shelf full. He rested his chin on my head and my tears soaked into his flannel.

“Is Mommy ok? Will Mommy be ok?” I heard my little girl ask. I smiled at her through my tears and made a break for my room before emotions over took us all.  

Then it was just Dave and I and a quiet house. Agonizing anticipation inhabited every cell in my body. Dave carefully moved about, carrying down the car seat, making himself a sandwich, holding me when I’d lean into the wall or dresser or bed.

Finally the bags and pillow and baby backpack were in the car.

“Let’s go, It’s time.” He reassured me.

“Wait.” I said. “Take a picture.”  

 To be continued…

Nothing Changed But Everything Did- A Miscarriage Story

I didn’t know it would be so hard to get the day out of my head. I can go back and watch my steps again in silent slow motion. I see me walking into the office, breathing slowly in the waiting room chair. I hear the brittle paper on the bed beneath me, the NeedtoBreathe song from the speaker, the static as the doppler searches for any hint of a throbbing little heart.

I see the walk to the ultrasound room, the forced smile I offered the tech, the ceiling tiles I counted while she quietly clicked the computer, never swiveling the screen to show me the outline of a mini baby. I watch myself walk out the doors carrying a “countdown to baby” calendar the nurse had handed me upon initial congratulations. I see the way I avoid eye contact with the pregnant mothers in the waiting room and make my way to the car. See how I look down at the images of women gazing at their babies and feel the first hint of cramps across my abdomen.                                                                                                                            

I hear the noises dim, everything becoming slow. Methodical. Stoic.

Pregnancy hasn't taken up much space in my thoughts or dreams before this summer. Adoption was our first choice of family making. When we made the leap from 0 to 2 kids, it took us a while to find our footing again and when we did, we discovered our ideas about family size had changed. We weren't against growing, but quite content with just what we had.                                             

I like to think I am prepared. I scroll through all sorts of scenarios, attempting to wrangle the emotions of surprise pregnancy, infertility, disrupted adoption, special needs diagnoses, difficult birth, etc. so as not to be caught off guard by pain. Somehow miscarriage didn't make the list. I've never seen myself as one in the 1 in 4 statistics.

Awareness is good, I’m no advocate of naivety. But it turns out, the preparation I think I have against being blindsided by pain or fear is mostly a mirage. I couldn’t have premeditated the peculiarity of this miscarriage pain if I’d tried.                                                                                           

I ask for a clear-cut description: How long will it last? How bad will it hurt? How sad will I feel? No one can give it to me, the ones who try get it wrong.           

Walking out of the doctor’s office, l feel frozen in place while the rest of the world waltzes on around me. A week becomes endless when every moment, mind and body are in a state of confusion; becoming un-pregnant, un-imagining the future.   

I am afraid. Of my body not doing all it needs to do, of inducing pain, of more bad news and medical procedures, of risking ever having to experience this again.                                             

Two voices clamor within me; one cruel and bitter voice railing at my body for not keeping life alive, for not even being able to miscarry efficiently. (As if these intricate bodies follow text book time tables.) The other is fragile; wounded and undone at the harsh words self-inflicted, knowing my body is only doing the best it can.

I’m surrounded on every side by fervent love and support. Yet, lying on the bathroom floor searching for any position to gain relief, any place my mind can go to find comfort, I’m desperately lonely.

My own sorrow becomes a side note when I see my daughters’. I look into eyes who have known greatest loss and watch their faces fall with another blow and ache from head to toe for any way to spare them from more pain.  

I dread to see the doctor’s rooms again. The swishing of a rapid heartbeat reverberates from a room down the hall the day I return, a sound track to my cynical thoughts as I stare at ceiling tiles once more and wait for confirmation that my uterus is empty.

The relief that my body has finally completed its grim task is shadowed by the next reality: It is done. Now life goes back to normal. I no longer have obvious reason to ask for help, cry at random, skip social outings. My body can resume activities, but my mind is still in the thick of hormone commotion, disoriented thoughts, and often overtaken by sad reminders: the grief of my girls, the absence of Jazzy’s comfort, the haunt of the prenatal vitamins on the counter and a newborn onesie on the dresser. Sometimes sorrow rises like a storm surge. I feel it’s ache pressing my chest, and when it crashes, it knocks the breath out of me. Fatigue is a lead blanket around my shoulders.                                                                                                                                       

I’m disorientated about what I’m grieving. It feels fraudulent. Did I fake this whole thing? To reference a time “when I was pregnant” sounds like a child’s imaginary motherhood. Does it even count if the baby didn’t grow? 

 I didn’t have a connection to a life within me yet. I never saw movement on the black and white screen, never felt it flutter within, never even felt my body expanding with its weight.

I want a system restore back to spring. Why can’t I resume the contentment I had with my life just a few short months ago? I envisioned a future that now I have to un-think, and nothing changed but everything has.

It isn't a tragic loss, I'm keenly aware of so many suffering so much worse. Nevertheless, hope deferred makes the heart sick and sad. Sad for the disappointment, sad for the way death casts a shadow no matter when or how it comes. 

I read and re-read every note, message, and text, amazed at how few words it takes to be lifted by kindness. No need to attempt making sense or better of the situation, the simple acknowledgment of pain and reminders of love carry me many moments and days. I have never savored every check in, every mention of a prayer offered, every hug and handpicked flower and grocery bag delivered so deeply.   

Amidst hopes and fears and thoughts of a possible next time, I look at my daughters lying next to me in bed and tell them with voice choked but adamant, “Having a baby is absolutely not something upon which our happiness hangs. Our family can stand complete and completely delightful to us as it is.” We have been gifted wildly beyond our deserving with two precious loves. To share in the wonder of a new baby together would be a delight, but there is goodness in store for us no matter what shape or size our family takes. We are not waiting on a delivery of joy. We have it already.

Life is brighter now. I’m surprised how hope springs up again from broken ground. How one can start to dream of better days and better news. Hope is often hard won in my heart, but it's shown up persistently of late.

My thoughts are less often “Why?”, and more often, “Why not?”. If suffering is world-wide, this whole universe groaning to be delivered from injustice, disease, and death, why not me? If it’s 1 in 4 women, why not me? If my place somehow leaves less space for my sisters, my friends, my daughters, in the statistic, I’ll take it willingly.   

I don’t know how I’ll feel next week or next month, what disappointments or sorrows may roll over me again. But today, I don’t wish this experience away.

Every woman who called or sat down beside me and quietly spoke her story, or willingly answered my questions and revisited her heartache for my sake left a lasting impression on my heart. Friends who’ve spent hours listening and reliving their own dark days in order bring a glimmer of light to mine have given me a new understanding of whole-hearted friendship.

Sisterhood shines bright if you look around the corners of this isolating loss.                     

Brittany, Becky, Kayla, Sandy, Alice, Megan, Melanie, Janna, Abbey, Amanda, Angie, Tina, Hanna, Kate, Alaina, Cielo, Erika, Allison, Sara, Michelle and others who prayed, thank you for being a light to me. 

If sharing a story can give companionship to another woman wrestling through the confusion of her loss or give insight to the sisters, spouses and friends trying to understand the peculiar grief of their loved one, I offer mine with open hands, cupped ever so carefully around the fragile edges of this sensitive topic.

Grief has many varying degrees. My recovery from deep disappointment is so different from another's recovery from acute grief, and even within the same loss, the process doesn't look the same.  Comparison and expectations of healing upon ourselves or others are unfair. Each storm moves on its own path and time.

For you maybe miscarriage was a blip on the screen, possibly even a relief, and you move right on. Maybe it was an emergency room and surgery and trauma upon trauma. Maybe it was confusion. Maybe it was a prayer answered and then revoked, and sorrow stings bitterly for months and years. There’s an open page for every version here.

Compassionate storytelling brings healing to the listener and teller alike.                                     

If you are living out your own pregnancy loss or any grief story, I hope for you what I’ve hoped for me: that you realize how much God and your people are for you. I hope you make peace with your body and deal tenderly with yourself. Look, see how she’s doing the best she can? I hope you don’t allow shame to taunt the emotions you do or do not have. There is no formula, no feelings rule book. Sit with whatever emotion arises and be honest with yourself and your people. I hope that hope surprises you, rising from your ashes. I hope in time you find it is well with your soul. And when it is not well, I hope you see a Jesus who weeps with you. 

I hope beauty shows up boldly in the Autumn of your life. And I hope Spring, when it returns (and it will), is glorious.

Love, C.