Writing Grief Part III- An Education

I am so overwhelmed by all of you who have shared here this past week. Thank you. I am trying to respond to each of you and those of you who have emailed through facebook as well, but I don’t know if I will succeed. Please know that I am honored by your stories. I am humbled to be able to share and walk with you. 

When the news hit that our baby had died, we were numb. Our doctor let Josh and I sit alone for a while and then came back in to the room asking if we would like a cup of tea. She was so aware of our emotions, so comforting. We realize now that this is not always the case. She encouraged us to go home and spend the weekend processing. She wanted us to have some time before making decisions about how to proceed. 

Although I have had several friends who have miscarried, beyond that one word to describe their loss, I had no details…no idea about what to expect. I wanted to talk to people I trusted about their experiences. I was honored by my friends who shared with me, who grieved with our family, who told their stories in hopes that we would be peaceful in our own choices.

Our doctor pulled up some statistics for us and we learned that after the death of a baby in the womb, 75% of women pass the baby on their own within 4 weeks, 60% within 2 weeks. For those of us who need brushing up on our fetal development facts, the baby leaves the embryonic stage of development at 6 weeks and enters the fetal stage. A miscarriage when the baby has entered the fetal stage means that miscarriage can be much more difficult, often requiring a D&C to prevent infection and avoid the risk of hemorrage for the mother. At eleven weeks, I fell into the more risky, latter category.

Although we thought we had time, I began to miscarry on my own on Christmas Day. My parents were with us; my sweet mama made a feast. I spent most of the afternoon in bed consulting our doctors and coordinating medications with the pharmacy before they closed early for the holiday.  We decided to stay home to ‘deliver’ and be in constant contact with my doctors. They called often, they emailed encouragement and sympathy…even as they celebrated with their own families. They were kind, and they made sure I had some serious pain medication in hand and were willing to meet me at the hospital at any time.

I read about miscarriage at home and felt prepared. I highly recommend reading this linked resource to anyone facing similar circumstances. It was invaluable to us. I also found an article about how to support someone experiencing miscarriage and emailed it to my mom and my husband. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to have anyone ask me how I was doing. Answering ususally led to a breakdown of tears. So, having something already written to pass along was all I could do. I also was so encompassed with grief that I did not know what kinds of questions to ask. It would have never occured to me, on my own, to ask to keep our baby’s body for genetic testing and burial. But I am so thankful we knew. I am so thankful for whomever the writer is of these hard, sad detailed words: the education and direction they provided has blessed me beyond what I can communicate. 

It took two days before I miscarried my baby. I experienced true labor and contractions strong enough to take my breath away. I nearly fainted on the bedroom floor before Josh caught me. I thought about heading to the hospital several times.  It was almost exactly like what is described in the documents linked above: horrifying and raw and surreal.

I questioned whether I should have gone through this process at a few different times. I questioned whether I should have just had surgery: one giant anestetic and no memory of the physical loss.  I didn’t know at the time what grace miscarriage at home was for me. I needed to experience fully and engage in what was actually happening. I still didn’t want to talk, but the time I had to lay in my bed, to journal, to read, to sleep…every moment was a necessary one in my ability to grieve well. My own denial had to face head on the reality of my loss. I didn’t know then that I needed to lean in and be fully present, even in my pain, before I could ever think of experiencing rest.

Writing Grief Part II- Discovering a True Christmas

The hallow blow came in the midst of the Christmas hum.

Baking, wrapping, listening to music and harmonizing along at the top of our lungs; sweet moments together tucked in around the corners of prepararations for our holiday were being found in abundance. With my parents visiting, the children were able to play and go iceskating with them while Josh and I headed out to finish shopping together, take in a steamy latte, and hold hands as we walked past vendors and the wafting smell of roasted chestnuts in the middle of the afternoon. I was thrilled to be able to take in the smells and sights of the city slowly with him and choose something special to awaken wonder in the eyes of our little ones. 

That we would have a routine measurement of our new babe snuck into our date was a fleeting thought, we were just focused on being able to take in one another fully and enjoy some time alone. As I rode uptown to meet Josh, my stomach started churning. I had been feeling for quite a while that this pregnancy was different. I wasn’t nearly as sick as I had been with the other children. I continued to tell my doctor that I just didn’t “feel” pregnant. After two sonograms with a healthy baby and steady heartbeat, I began to attribute this feeling to all I had waded through in welcoming this sweet one and determined to just be thankful that I was feeling so well. Afterall, every pregnancy is different, every soul’s story distincly their own.

But something stirred in my heart in that taxi soaring up Park Avenue. I could discern an audible whisper, deep in my heart, “I’m here, I love you. I am still the same today as yesterday.” I began to shake and a tear streamed down my face. I knew that God was speaking something to me. I knew what He was asking. “Will you still trust me? Will you still rest in me?” I didn’t want to answer Him. So, I texted my husband. He was running late, likely not able to meet me until after my appointment.

Arriving at my doctor’s office I sat before the lights of the Christmas tree in front of a warm fire, sipping a cup of coffee from their mack-daddy Keurig. The nurse came out to bring me a brownie: they had received too many gifts from patients that day to eat themselves. I considered how rare this place was. I felt like I was in a home. I actually took a picture and posted it online because a place like this, so cozy and kind seemed unreal.

And then I waited. I waited a long time. Apparently, a computer glitch made it impossible for my records to be found. So, as the only patient there on the last office day before Christmas, what should have taken moments became an hour. 

I waited exactly long enough for my husband, nearly 45 minutes away, to join me for the sonogram.

Kindness, again. I wasn’t alone.

And he held my hand, not on the streets taking in sights, but tightly in those minutes of seeing our baby on the screen. This time with more pronounced form, sweet hands visible, head tucked at the chin…but still. No heart beat.

The hallow blow. It flattens you.

Once I could form words again, these are the ones that poured out in my journal, and then in a letter to our family and close friends:

It seems strange to celebrate and be feasting at a time when our hearts are naturally full of sadness and loss. But we are remembering the beauty of Christmas in this. Our lives are messy. They are complicated. They are broken. And the beauty of this season of Advent, of waiting and preparing our hearts for the coming of Jesus, is that he does indeed come! He cuts right through the hurting of our hearts, the darkness of our communities, the bleakness of our sin and he is Emmanuel; God with us.

And so we are remembering more than ever it seems, that His coming matters. It matters to us every day in our grouchy moments, in the ones that catch us with guilt, in the times that bring us to a place of being undone. This year we are laying aside the Christmas Eve meal I would have liked to have made, the last minute bustling  to wrap gifts. I’m not worrying about checking off my list the frosting of cookies to perfection, or having everything in place for Christmas morning. We are remembering at our core what is really important. We have to. The juxtaposition of Christ’s coming and saying goodbye to our little one reminds us of our desperate need for Jesus to be here with us. We are desperate for him alone.

Writing Grief

 Our first blurry shot of our little Peanut November 2011

This new year, I had planned to tell you I was pregnant with our fifth child. I was waiting, for the first time ever, to share the news only after I was out of my first trimester. I was waiting because even though we want to welcome as many sweet babes as the Lord gives us into our family, I was scared and in shock,  processing about what life would look like having five children in the city (read: freaking out about how crazy it was all going to get!). I needed a sense of quiet to bond and attach and begin to ready myself for this new little person.

The journey to welcome this child was a deep one inside my heart. I think in a way my fears about logistics and stares and the “can I really do it all with five?”  kind of questions that came allowed me to embrace this baby with added sweetness. Because, to be honest, it wasn’t natural for me. It was something I fought for, intentioned in my life. Welcoming this sweet one was, in many ways, a battle wrought in my heart to trust God fully, to receive the gift of a life and to choose joy.

And it changed me. I experienced such peace and expectant longing for this sweet baby. I started having dreams of holding a newborn close on my chest. I began shopping for the latest technology in cloth diapers…

But, today I am not writing to tell you that I am pregnant. I am wriitng to tell you of our loss, at 11 weeks , of this sweet child. I really don’t want to be writing this here. Some days, I don’t want to engage or write at all. I would rather go on not talking and going slow; staying home and relying on the comfort of my family and a few good friends for times when the tears flow. But, writers…we annoy even ourselves with the compulsion to tell a story.

And, I think this is a story that needs to be told. Because of the mamas I have met in the last few weeks that have honored me with their own stories, with their own wounds, some never feeling they could say out loud that they grieve still… I know I can not be silent. 

So for the next few days, I’m sharing the story of my miscarriage here. Boldly, earnestly, and above all with hope. Hope that those of you who need more space to reflect and grieve might carve it into your regular life somehow, that those who want to love alongside a hurting mother will be further equipped, and that in sharing my story, it will prompt you to share your own. My greatest hope is that as we trust one another with our words that we will love and listen well and bring honor to the memory of our little ones.

I would love for you to join me.

The New Thing

 Even my babies can handle an SLR!

Its a new year, with new beginnings, new hopes and intentions and goals. There is something incredibly satisfying in putting away the old and purposing toward something new ; In feeling like you’ve put new skin on, opened something fresh and untouched, or seeing the expanse of wide, open space, full of possibility stretching out before you. 

Life just feels BIG at the New Year doesn’t it? And there is a lure to believe that anything is possible. I like that feeling. 

Last summer, as I sat with a friend I’ve known my entire life, we began to share how we grow and change and adapt to life as mothers. How do we quench our thirst and drive to learn more and expand our hearts and minds? And how do we attempt such a feat with the work of small children and homes to run and jobs to do? Each of us live away from all our family and old friends, she in Dubai and I in New York and each year we make the trip back to spend the summer by the lake, camped out in the homes of our familes, longing to give our children a sense of life as we knew it growing up. We laughed about how crazy our lives were making homes in two places, attempting to engage two cultures and geographies at once. We both feel stretched quite enough already, thank you very much. 

But I don’t want to ever stop stretching. And neither does she. And then she shared with me her wild idea…to go back to college. My college years were  a season of a perpetual New Year. Anything was possible, I could be anything, study anything, travel anywhere…It was really four years of days on end that held the wonder now crammed into one January 1st.

She explained that if each year, we chose a subject we wanted to immerse ourselves in learning about, we could read a book a month and really know it. Because, as she said, “If you read twelve excellent books about something, you really become quite an expert.” My heart began to swell and my mind began to churn out ideas and subjects, areas of study I would love to master: Linguistics, French, Shakespeare, Photography, Midwiferey, CSS coding, Piano, Painting, Art History, Poetry and Theoretical Physics,and and on and on. 

And so here I am, to invite you to join me in my wild journey to expand this year. Choose one subject, twelve books and be open to learning. You can easily check the texts and syllabuses used by colleges and universities in your area of study, or patch together your own.

Because I think it will benefit my family and my blog, with my husband’s beautiful professional photo library at my fingertips, I’m going to study photography this year. I hope to engage not only the technical aspects of composition and editing, but also the artistic components. I’m going to begin with the methodology but mix up what I read with inspiration from artists portfolios and museum trips. I think it will be rich for my soul to dig in to and I won’t have any lack of objects to capture with my four littles and the city outside my door.

So, what would you want to take time to learn? Will you consider joining me?  Leave some love in the comments and tell me what you dream of sinking your mind and heart into! 

Merry Christmas!

Hoping you and your families have shared a wonderful Holiday! 

                                    Merry Christmas!

NYC Christmas Bucket List

photo credit:TreehuggerThey have arrived! My parents are here this morning, after a long red-eye flight and we are ready to adventure through the city this week, soaking in all the holiday splendor. Last Christmas we were homesick and craving our old stomping ground traditions in Washington state, so we hopped on a plane and spent three weeks there with family and enjoying all our old shenanigans.

This year we are much more settled, feeling ready to engage our city and experience some of the wonder that draws people from all over the world here at this time of year! I am already amazed that I live in a place that appreciates aesthetic. From lights strung over Christmas tree stands on sidewalks, or wrapped around neighborhood trees, its as if everyone has done something, however small, to contribute to the beauty of this season. I am so thankful for the music, the holiday markets, the smell of roasted chestnuts wafting through the air (really, chestnuts!).  Here is our Bucket List for the week of celebration. If you are in the city or plan to visit, I hope you can take in some of these sights too! Enjoy the Links!

Rockefellar Tree- Of course we are planning to head to Rockefellar Center to see the big tree…is there anything more quintessential in New York at Christmas? 

Bryant Park Holiday Market and Ice Skating

Grand Central Station- Last year was a bust, but the light show at Grand Central is back on this year in the evenings, so we will go see the show one evening while in transport to the Rockefellar Tree and Bryant Park. We also plan to take in the awesome Train Show!

Cookie Decorating and Holiday Movie Night IN

The Rockettes- The Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall is a New York Classic! We can not wait to see the show this week, complete with live animals! 

American Girl Place and the Lego Store- The girls have tea reserved with grandma at American Girl Place, where their dolls will also receive some much needed {ahem} hair treatments. Jones and Papa are planning a trip across the street to the Lego Store in Rockafellar Center to see the amazing creations and build some of their own.

Pedicures at the neighborhood Salon this might be the cheapest thing to do in New York City. They run only $12 at most places and only $8 for children…amazing! 

Window Shopping- and looking at displays in Midtown and Soho

Christmas Eve Service at Apostles NYC

Dining out for Dad’s 60th In the Waterstreet District.

And not to be forgotten, a trip to see Santa at Macy’s! 

Paper Wings {From the Archives}

I’m thinking about change today. True, gritty, lasting change that comes in the form of miracles. Small moments plunged in the earth as a marker staking out something new. I’m praying big for people I love today, praying big for miracles and markers and for Christmas to be tangible and real. I want to know what it looks like to really believe the reality of God with us: light shining through the cracks, full bellies, soft hearts…hope. So as I think about change and the part I play in the lives of the people who so deperately need it, I found this reminder in my old writing files and I think it says just what is on my heart.

From Spring 2010

I had one of those mornings a few weeks ago when I woke up and felt my comforter snuggled around me and longed for the continued weight and shelter it provided. I wanted to tune out the buzz of our morning and just cocoon up for a good long while. 

We’ve been studying butterflies and their pupas, watching our wee caterpillars eat and eat and eat before they snuggle up too, in their coma-like comfy place. When they emerge as new creatures, they’ll have wet and weak crimpy wings—like my babies when they were laid upon my tummy, slathered wet in goo, chilled, ripped from comfort and their familiar cramped place of nourishment. 

We snuggled them close, put little knit caps on their bald, balmy heads…we tried to help them adjust  from the warm familiar womb. And in those first days, all the cooing and swooshing sounds, all the rocking had to slowly woo them to their new world. There was no way to rationalize with them about the beauty their new life would hold—about the wonder and experiences that awaited them—about the tastes and smells and love to come. There was no way to express that one day they would actually long to spread their arms and legs wide and be completely naked on a sheepskin rug. They were too much missing that crimped up existence; and so we rocked and soothed and swaddled.

On this morning, waking, I didn’t want to face my wet, wimpy wings- didn’t want to allow the chill of the cold air to infuse them with strength enough to fly. I wasn’t quite sure I could fly! Change was apparent, and I knew my wings were there, but I wasn’t fully convinced they would work. Does the butterfly know they will be okay when they are thrust out of their warm shell? I was craving someone to swaddle me, to rock me back and forth- to coo in my ear a promise that this change, this emergence, was good—that I would recover and find wonder outside the womb.