Symptomatic

When I was a little girl, before puberty, I dreamed of a wedding someday. As many little girls do, I went through periods of dreaming of marrying a prince. I dreamt of a movie-type romantic love.  I dreamt of being a mommy someday.  

When I hit puberty, I still had these dreams, but they were tainted with fear and worry. As many girls do, I suffered from self-esteem issues related to my appearance. I worried people thought I was ugly and fat. 

But, I also had added worries, and they haunted me for years. Well, they still haunt me sometimes. 

As most teens encounter, I began developing some acne. I felt so gross, because nothing seemed to help clear it up. I was sure people thought I was crazy hideous.

Next came a change on my arms. I started noticing the hair on my arms was darker and thicker than it once was. I thought maybe I was part man. It sounds stupid, but I had nightmares. I tried shaving my arms a couple times, but felt it worthless because it would just grow back, quickly, dark and coarse. I resigned to wearing long sleeves as much of the year as possible and just cry about it. I was certain I was a freak. And I was pretty convinced no one would ever think I was pretty.

And then toward my 20s, I started gaining weight. I wasn't really any less active in college than in high school. In fact, I would argue I was more so, walking campuses constantly, for example. But it didn't seem to help.

However, by the time the weight gain had started, I had met a new friend. His name was Jake. I thought he was pretty good looking. I had a crush on him I his from myself, or tried to ignore, for over a year. I met him in 2001, and the crush started a few months later when he caught a ride with his best friend and surprised me for my 18th birthday party, having traveled hours to get there. He wrote the sweetest, longest message in my birthday card (I still have it), and after, we emailed, talked on the phone for hours, wrote letters, and visited as much as possible. He would drive five hours to come see me for one night. He would kidnap me for a weekend. 

I just never imagined he could love me. I was too nerdy. Awkward, ugly.

But, in the fall of 2002, as I lay on my dorm room bed, he told me "I love you, Nicole." And I confessed that I had fallen in love with him, too.

It was surreal. There have been countless times since then where I have doubted him. Not necessarily his love, but his attraction to me, and whether or not I could believe if he said I looked great, or was beautiful, or sexy. And I would doubt whether or not he could just honestly love someone he wasn't really attracted to.

I love myself. I've gotten there, by the grace of God and support from family and friends. I do. But I still suffer from self-esteem issues. Especially from the symptoms of PCOS that I suffer. These things that haunted me since puberty, made me question if I was really a woman (or if maybe at birth my parents just decided to raise me as a girl). These things I didn't understand until college when I researched them more, and after college when I was diagnosed with PCOS after we began trying for a family. (Oh, I married Jake, in case you're new to my blog).

These symptoms cause me the most self-doubt and negative thoughts when  meeting new people for the first time. At job interviews. Around groups of kids. I still opt for long sleeves if the weather allows it. I try not to show my arms or full body in photos, if I can help it. Kids, as blunt as they are, sometimes ask me about my arms, or if I'm part werewolf. (Depending on the kid, sometimes I say yes, and they think that's so awesome.) I worry that one day my kids will get made fun of because their mom looks like a gorilla. Or is hairier than their dad.

I worry that the first things everyone notices about me when they see me in person is that my arms are hairy, my skin isn't clear, and I'm pudgy. I worry they are embarrassed to be seen with me. I hate it. But I am pretty good at hiding my dear and carrying on. 

Last night, I took this self-portrait for my August Moms group, because someone asked the pregnant mommas to show off. I was in a hurry and not paying a lot of attention, and uploaded it without "proofing" it to hide my flaws- those ugly symptomatic arms especially. In my caption, I apologized-ish for showing my gorilla-esque arms because they're unsightly and embarrassing.

And one momma replied she hadn't even noticed until I said something.

And this morning, she reminded me that there are some people who see me as beautiful, for whatever reason, or who don't see what I see in the symptoms that cause me so much self-doubt. She reminded me that my husband thinks I'm beautiful, and attractive, even if I don't see it. He even told me I was last night (or it may have been the night before). 

It reminded me that some people really like me for me.

On my blog, I sometimes wrote serious topics. I write for me, but also on behalf of the countless others who may relate but not be able to express.

I cherish every comment my blog receives. If you wish to comment, but prefer anonymity, you may comment that way. If you need someone to talk to, but don't feel comfortable commenting here, you can reach me at Nicole.m.worthley[at]gmail[dot]com

Blessings!

It's not that I'm brave.

I've been told in the past that I'm a great writer, too good a writer, or brave for writing. 

My own husband, today, sent me this:

I laugh now as I read that he says "you know it."  Pfft. I would argue I'm your common, every day blogger, just typing it out as it comes.

I digress (big shock, I know).

I posted last time about the paradoxical feelings of being joyfully, miraculously pregnant while you have dear friends suffering a loss. 

I recieved this comment:

It was written by a dear friend, one I admire and respect, who inspires me to be a great, God-loving mommy to my own boys, both by her blog and in real life. When I read it, I smiled, feeling, honestly, a bit of self-esteem boost, knowing she was willing to publicly say such a thing to me. Especially because I don't see myself as brave.

On Facebook today, I saw this:

I was totally not expecting to see it. I had completely forgotten I had given permission for them to use that letter. It can be read on their blog here:

http://elegantmommysiouxfalls.blogspot.com/2013/09/to-my-angel-baby.html

A few friends, my husband, and I began discussing it. And the topic of "bravery in my blogging" came up. 

"I just feel like... I've been there, maybe you have, maybe you are, maybe you will be, but it won't be alone, because I've been there too. So don't be ashamed."

I write my life. I write about things I've either been through, am going through, or am passionate about. I have receive comments occasionally, not often, but I have thousands of views for the blog and sometimes hundreds of views on posts. I rarely look at my stars, because they just don't really matter. I'm not pleading for comments, though, admittedly, I love them.

But it's just not really about that. 

Today, I told my friends, that I just love when people are willing to openly tell me (via comment, email, or Facebook message, whichever is their comfort level)  that they relate to what I wrote about. I realized after I said it, it could come off a bit conceited, but that's not what I meant. I meant it in that "I just feel like... I've been there, maybe you have, maybe you are, maybe you will be, but it won't be alone, because I've been there too. So don't be ashamed." 

I mean it in that I believe it is important to know YOU are not alone.

I don't so much care about me. I know realistically I am not alone, but not everyone knows that. I've gotten comments before reflecting the sentiment that for the first time, after reading about my experience, they felt they weren't alone anymore.

That's what it's about when I blog intense subjects.

My friends pointed out that some of the things I write about are still a bit "taboo" to some social circles and media sites. Lots of people do not want to acknowledge them. 

I write about infertility and pregnancy loss a bit. Because I've been there. Because I KNOW others struggle and might not feel they have support or someone who understands.

But, sadly, most of the time, society and social media wants to brush these subjects under the table.

I'm here to say I think that is absolutely preposterous. There is NO reason that a woman (or a couple) should be made to feel ashamed for something they are already heartbroken about. 

So, I guess, if that makes me brave, so be it. 

If you are someone needing to reach out, feel free to comment below. It can be anonymously, or if you feel more comfortable, my email is nicole.m.worthley[at]gmail[dot]com

Peace to you all.

Conflicted

 

It is absolutely heart-wrenching to suffer with infertility. To try, to battle, to lose month after month, while friends and family around you bring new life into their families. It's crushing to hear people say "we weren't even trying!" or "we got pregnant the first try!" when you live, day in and day out, in the agony and turmoil that infertility brings.

I know. I've been there.

It's so incredibly hard to lose a baby. It takes your breath away. It makes your uterus ache with emptiness, and your arms ache with loneliness. The hot if a positive pregnancy test shattered and stomped on with the absence of the heartbeat that was once in your womb. The constant ticking of the clock that no longer brings you closer to the joyous birth of your miracle. 

I know. I've been there.

When I went through those dark journeys, I did so openly, not caring that there would be (and there were) judgements and ridicule, shame and condemnation, for choosing the level of openness that I did. I knew that if I held it inside, seemingly to hold it all together, my hope and my spirit would crumble quickly. (You can read about my journeys here on this blog.) 

I've been blessed now with four pregnancies, and the births of two sons.

And in this fourth pregnancy, I find myself on the opposite side of the some of the darkest of journeys motherhood, or the pursuit of motherhood, can bring.

This time, I've been the one to openly confess that, despite years of infertility battles, we conceived without trying. 

I feel like I should be over the top overwhelmed with pure joy in this miracle that we never imagined would come naturally. And yet... 

I've been conflicted, openly, from the beginning, mostly regarding the timing of this new miracle.

However, there's more to it.

This time, I'm the one with the baby growing inside of me, while multiple friends that I love so dearly, struggle through the darkness of infertility, miscarriage, or the sheer longing to be a mother but the inability to be one due to various other life circumstances.

When I was going through the battles and the loss, as I said, the pregnancy announcements and births were quite a paradox. There was the incredible joy I felt for those I care for, but also the sharp stabbing pain in my own heart and hope. Jealousy, anger, despair- they are miserable and lonely emotions. You feel ashamed beyond description to feel the negative side while also the joy for them. You find yourself either distancing or trying to overcompensate by being extra interested. Not always, but sometimes. I've done both to various extremes. 

You try so hard to discount your negative feelings, because you think they shouldn't be there.

I say, embrace them. Explore them enough so you can understand them. Then, pick up the pieces of your broken heart, and try to heal. Somehow.

I don't have the magic answer. For me, it was being surrounded by support. Love. Empathy and encouragement. Understanding. Compassion. Prayer. Blogging.

It may take years, but I believe you can heal.

But, I digress.

I'm learning about the other side, as I said. I'm now the one who, God willing, will be delivering a baby in April. I have multiple friends due to welcome new life into their families around the same time.

But, I also have a few friends who were supposed to join. That's what their pregnancy tests confirmed. That's the joy they've embraced so fully, dreamed about, and maybe even shared with the world. And suddenly, as happened to me, the dream was shattered. They've empty wombs and broken hearts. And, no matter how much I portray I understand, I'm now a living, breathing reminder that they lost their child.

I am sure it was so with the previous pregnancies, though I cannot say with the certainty that I can this time around.

And, while I'm reveling in my miracle, my heart breaks for my beloved friends. Perhaps they need to distance themselves from me because just the sound of my name brings them to tears. Or, perhaps they've reached out for my comforting ear and empathy.

Either way, I cry. When I cannot sleep, and I feel the early flutters of this life I side me, I often find myself praying for these amazing women. Tears well up in my eyes, and my throat constricts with intense sorrow. 

I feel ashamed. I feel embarrassed. I want to withhold my joy and be private about this miracle. I want to take back my pregnancy announcement so we can be as we once were.

But I can't.

 It kills me inside every time I want to share, but feel incredibly rude in doing so. But, I know also that it's no good for friendships to deny my joy either. It seems the unselfish thing to do, but it doesn't necessarily mean its the right approach. 

It isn't my "fault" that I am pregnant, just as it isn't their "fault" that they no longer are. One of my dear friends said that to me recently, while we discussed how her loss and my sustained (this far) pregnancy affected us. 

But then, what can I do? I don't want to be the salt in the wounds that have not healed. 

I pray for them, knowing that I cannot heal them on my own, but that my God can. And, I pray it happens sooner than later. I pray they can embrace their sorrow, and hope for the joy that will come again someday.

And I miss them. 

I'm not sure I've made a concise point, but I'm hoping that my thoughts, which help me process, reach those out there that need it.

Love to you all.

Note: while I cherish all blog comments, I understand sometimes it is scary to put your feelings out there. You are able to respond anonymously, but if you are wanting someone to talk to, feel free to send me an email at Nicole.m.worthley[at]gmail[dot]com

Dear Sprout,

Dear Sprout,

Today was the day that your father, your brother, and I were "due" to meet you, see your face, hold you in our arms. April 18, 2012 was the predicted date that you'd enter this world.

I can barely wrap my mind around the fact that it's been 32 weeks since your heart stopped beating. It's been 31 weeks since we found out you were gone. It sounds so recent, and somehow, it seems like forever ago. I sit here, tears falling softly down my face, as I remember how beautiful my life was with you in it, and how devastated I was when you left.

Somehow, though, I feel strong. I wonder how long that strength will last.

My goal for today, while I celebrate your Auntie Allie's 13th birthday, while also observing the life you barely began to live is simply to smile. I hope to fight back tears and carry on with the day. I want to embrace the joy you brought us, as I embrace your father and also your brother. We have gotten through the loss so far, and I know that we can continue onward.

While I am sad that your'e gone, I know you're in a better place. I know that you never suffered the cruelty that this world can bring upon a person. You lived, so briefly, in a serene, calm place, and then ever so quietly went to meet our Maker.

I know that He has held you in his arms, even though I was unable to hold you in my own.

I know that there's a purpose in all of this- in your short life inside of me and the eternal life you began living, what I deem to be "too soon," and while I often sit and wonder what it is, I have decided to let it go. Someday, I will know. Until then, I will just embrace the fact that you happened to me- to us, and that it was a perfect and beautiful gift.

In a way, I suppose I should thank you, too, for giving your father and I the chance to become parents once more- for giving Spencer the opportunity to be a big brother to your little brother or sister, who we currently call Bo. It breaks my heart that there is no way that the two of you could exist in this household, on this earth, living this life together, but again, I know that someday, we all will be reunited as a family. I know I will live my earthly life imagining, from time to time, the day that the reunion comes true.

Baby, sweet baby, I miss you. I love you. I thank you for giving us the opportunity to know you exist and to love you forever. I carry you with me always.

Someday, Sprout, I will hold you.

Love, Your Mommy

Almost Due.

It's almost April 18, 2012.

That wonderful Wednesday, my youngest sister will turn 13. Man, that makes me feel old!

That same Wednesday, last August and September, was slated to be our due date with Baby Sprout.

I can so clearly recall how "perfect" we thought that pregnancy worked out to be. I mean, really, being due on my sister's special birthday!? It was AWESOME. I for one, had prayed about it constantly since I calculated what that date would be, just asking God to allow it to happen. When I tested positive early morning on Sunday, August 7, I was shocked with disbelief, but through the roof with excitement. We told my sisters about the baby that morning already, we were so overjoyed!

And, as life would turn out, we lost Baby Sprout in the middle of September. Grieving and healing from the loss of the baby was a huge process to me. It was overwhelming for days before I finally could make it hours without crying. And over the weeks, and months as my body healed from my D&C, my mind started to heal as well, with the prospect of trying again for that second birth.

A sidenote: Sometimes, I get confused as to what to call Baby Bo. Is Bo my third child? Or is Bo my second child? I opt to say second child because it's less confusing for everyone else. Second child, third pregnancy, perhaps?

Anyway... On December 12, 2011, I tested positive again, and was cautiously optimistic and excited with the "perfection" of this pregnancy as well. As I had calculated that due to be August 26, 2012, which was just days after Jake's twin and his girlfriend, one of my best friends, were to be home for a wedding from Alaska. It seemed another pregnancy too "perfect" to be true, and for weeks I was scared of the same fate. Jake and I relish every movement (even if they wake me, or if Bo seems to be trampolining off my bladder during a 2.5 hour car ride) that we feel, knowing that Bo is alive and growing and gearing up to meet his/her family.

Now, I'm 21 weeks along, with an adjusted due date of August 19, 2012. We, again, are beyond overjoyed at the idea of bringing a sibling into this world for our wonderful son.

When I got my memorial tattoo for Sprout in November, it really helped me to find peace in the situation. Never once was I really mad at God (as I shared in a group not long ago at Operation Prom Dress), but I was frustrated, sad, and disappointed that it all happened. But then, it was like a release. Letting go of the sorrow as much as I could, I guess, and moving on to what lies ahead.

And I don't think I've cried over the loss since.

Until last night. Out of nowhere, it seems. I guess I was thinking about what the date would be next Sunday, when Jake and I have plans, and how my sister's birthday is only a few days after. And then I realized.. that was our due date. If that pregnancy had gone well, I would be due any day now. Or maybe, just maybe, we'd have already met Sprout. Maybe we'd know if Sprout was a boy or a girl. Maybe... And I got to wondering if Sprout was our son, or our daughter. I feel like the baby was a boy, though of course, there was no way for us to know.

I started sobbing. I told Jake that in over a week and a half, Sprout would have been due to be born. It was so overwhelming.

But, of course, I realize I am already over halfway through this pregnancy with Baby Bo. God gave us this gift, too. And this time, God willing, we've been able to progress smoothly, and God willing, will be able to meet our son or daughter in 19 or so weeks.

While it doesn't take away the loss, it helps to cope, some, I guess. But I'm torn. It's hard to be sad about the child we lost while we are getting ready for another child, now. But, Bo will never replace Sprout. Bo is just the given we were given after Sprout left us. And it's okay to be sad, I think. It's okay.

I'm not going to let it bog me down. I'm not going to dwell on it and take away from my sister's birthday. I decided if I wrote out how I feel, maybe, once again, like it did right after the loss, it will help me cope and move on. So, here's to that prayer.

Scared-y-Pants can hit a ball!

Two months, or so, ago, my reproductive endocrinologist told me that I was going to be put on birth control and Metformin for two months, to let my uterus heal, post D&C surgery, before he would feel that we could "safely" start trying for another baby.

Well, two months is almost up.

When he first told me that, it felt like a giant stab in the hope sector of my heart. I felt like birth control was the complete opposite solution to my problem (though, medically, I understood why he was suggesting it, and of course, agreed to take that route), prohibiting us from having another child (temporarily, of course). The past two months, I have struggled with that over and over, each night as I took the tiny pill. I swallowed it hard (literally and figuratively, haha), and what do you know, I made it through it without excessive amounts of emotional baggage. Woohoo.

Now that we're getting closer to "starting over" on our journey to bring a brother or sister for Spencer into this world, I am nervous. More nervous that I was before we conceived Spencer or Sprout, I think. Maybe not more nervous. Maybe different nervous. And somewhat scared. With the potential to be terrified.

I am not necessarily scared that we won't get pregnant. I believe that we will. I hope it is sooner than later, even.

But, I am afraid of being pregnant again. I know that sounds strange, but hear me out.

When I was pregnant with SJ, I was super excited. I was nervous because we found out before I was four weeks pregnant, and cautious about it at first, until we heard the heartbeat. Then, we shared the joy with the world, and a few months later, Spencer was born.

With Sprout, it was the same. I was nervous (more so than with Spencer, looking at the event retrospectively, but we found out just one day earlier than we did with Spencer, too), and when we saw the heartbeat for the first time, we shared our joy publicly again.

Only, of course, we lost Sprout.

So, when we find out we're pregnant again, I'm nervous of how I will feel about it, and how I will react. Will I be invested in it, filled with joy? Or will I be totally detached and terrified to lose another child? I can't know, of course, and I hope it's the first option, but knowing myself, I could see the second coming to fruition just as easily (hey, I'm being honest).

Will I be too nervous to be "normal" feeling about it? Will I be overly-cautious? Will I over analyze every little thing and foresee another miscarriage? I sure hope not. I will try not to. I will pray that I don't become "that kind of woman," but, the possibility is seriously there, and it makes me nervous.

When we see a heartbeat again, will we feel comfortable sharing? I feel like we would, because, following the same path of thought as the first two pregnancies, if we share the news, we enlist countless friends and family as a prayer and support system. So, probably.

But, will I ever feel "at ease" being pregnant again? Or will I just be terrified?

I try not to think about it, but I can't help it.

I know they say that a miscarriage doesn't usually mean and increased risk for another miscarriage. But, you just never know.

So, there you have it. I'm a big scared-y-pants who wants to be pregnant so intensely, but isn't quite sure how to handle herself when that time comes again.

New subject.

Racquetball! Yeah! I never really saw myself being a racquetball player. I won't lie. The most I'd had interest in racquetball courts was in college when Jake and I would sneak our guitars into the racquetball courts at SMSU, turn off the lights, and play guitar and sing in the dark. (If you've never done that, do it, it's a phenomenal experience acoustically.)

But, a few weeks ago, I decided I would like to join Jake at the wellness center, and by golly, he invited me to learn how to play racquetball. Feeling a bit spunky and daring that day, I agreed to do just that.

Now, I won't brag, but I am a great racquetball player.

Haha, no I'm not. I am a great loser though. Meaning I haven't scored more than 6 points total (if I recall correctly) in my entire career (which is about three weeks long now), but I tell you what, I have FUN. Yes, I will admit, I enjoy playing racquetball!

Jake is a really good sport about it. He doesn't play "full force" against me, and he intentionally avoids beaming with the ball, especially in the head (I actually haven't been hit once by Jake, and I have accidentally hit him at least 3 times (which I apologize for repeatedly as he tells me it's his own fault)). He doesn't hit the ball insanely fast either, so I actually have a chance of lugging my slow self toward it and may actually hit it!

I have scored points though (not sure if they were "pity points" or not, but I'll pretend they are legit), and I have caused quite a few (at least 9) side-outs, AND I HIT THE BALL many, many times. I can even serve fairly reliably! Yeah. That's right. I'm a player. (Haha.)

Some day, maybe I'll even start scoring enough points to warrant having my own racquet, and not have to touch the creepy over-used-super-germy-from-tons-of-sweaty-hands racquets at the wellness center. That's my goal. To be good enough I can buy a $30 Wilson Hope Racquet (because it's a girly one that donates to breast cancer research).

And, to note, while I am "not good" at racquetball, I think I might be even worse at Squash, which Jake taught me to play on Sunday. But, again, it was a fun game!

Of course, the extra perk to my new found interest in racquetball is that it is making me go to the wellness center more and utilizing the membership I've been paying for, while also benefiting my health. ;-)

And now, to check on Wendell, who has been whining in the bathroom for about 45 minutes after I gave him a bath because he got sick all over himself in the kennel earlier, and I wouldn't let him tear around the house soaking wet, but didn't feel like wrestling him dry.

In honor of my babies.

Many suggested after my miscarriage of Sprout, that perhaps I should buy, find, or do some sort of "memorial" to help with the healing process, and also to hold onto our baby's memory.

I contemplated this for quite some time.

I researched different ideas, and the one I seemed to bond with most was a necklace. I liked the idea of planting a tree, but we rent our place, so it just didn't seem... fitting, to plant a tree here. I didn't want to plant a tree at anyone else's place, though I contemplated that too.

The more I thought about the necklace, though, I just wasn't... sold on the idea. I love necklaces, don't get me wrong, but with Spencer around, and working as a childcare provider, the thought of wearing a necklace all the time that would just get yanked on and choke me wasn't as appealing as I had originally thought.

That's when I decided what I'd do.

However, when I decided what I was going to do for Sprout, part of me felt a little... ashamed, to be blunt, that I wasn't doing something to memorialize Spencer. I mean, sure, I HAVE Spencer with me, and I can see him, hold him, hear him, watch him, smell him... but, it just didn't feel right to not celebrate him in a way that I would Sprout, despite Sprout never being a "full" part of our daily life, I guess.

So, I decided I was going to do something in honor of both of my babies.

Here's what I did in Spencer's honor:

And here's what I did in memory of Sprout:

Yes, that's right. I got tattoos. I decided that it would be perfect to get a tattoo of Spencer's birth footprints (scaled down) on my abdomen, in the place I remember feeling him kick the most often. I had them scaled to about 1 inch.

For Sprout, I drew "generic" footprints, and had them placed near my heart. I had originally wanted to do just an outline of the footprints, because I never "felt" them, so they were kind of "empty" if you will, but the size I had them done (smaller than Spencer's) the artist said that the toes would be filled in, and the smallest, detailed/curvy parts of the prints would look filled in, and the rest wouldn't, and that might look strange, so he filled them all in. I decided on that location, however, because even though I haven't yet met Sprout, he/she definitely left a print, a mark, a lasting encounter, on my heart.

Truthfully, I am pleased with the result. The location of Sprout's is a little higher than I had hoped it would be, but I will deal with it. If it were a necklace I was wearing, it would be noticeable. The tattoo will be visible if I wear lower-cut shirt lines. So, if I "need" my tattoo covered, that's not a real problem. I was afraid it would look "trampish" at first, but, hey, it's baby feet. And, as I said, if it were a piece of jewelry with baby feet on, people wouldn't judge. And, I'm proud that I tried, that I was pregnant, even if I lost the baby.

I know, I know, you can reference the Bible and tell me "tattoos are bad because you're defacing your body." I wish I found myself believing that 100%, but I just don't. In the same reference in the Bible, it tells not to trim your beards, (Leviticus 19:27-28) too. So.... yeah. I won't go into that debate, sorry.

A very deep, heartfelt thanks, to my sister-friend Samantha M., for helping me to attain these memorials this past Wednesday. <3

In totally unrelated news, I am having quite a long night! We are getting new neighbors upstairs, apparently. They're moving in tonight, after Spencer went to bed, naturally, and are very loud, and keep waking him up. Blah.

My friend Ryan fixed our computer! Wahoo! And, in light of that fact, I dumped all the photos I had taken over the last few days onto the computer, which effectively erased them from the memory card, and then I sorted them and such, and somehow in the process completely erased all of Spencer's first Halloween photos. NOOOOOOOOOO! I about broke down sobbing. Though, Melissa, Dez, and Ryan all suggested a recovery program, so I've been working through various free trials to see what I can recover off the memory card and put back on my computer. I know to some it wouldn't be a big deal, but to me, it is. But, it's going to be a long night of clicking through thousands of "possible recovery" files. Hence, my blog post, a much needed break from the stress of that situation.

I'm an emotional lady.

I'm an emotional lady. I think I'm always emotional, to be honest, but sometimes, my emotions are displayed more strongly. I don't say emotional meaning "sad" either. I just... experience emotions very vividly, intensely, however you would prefer to describe it. It's not in a manic-depressive (no offense to any readers) way, either. More that I just embrace whatever emotions I have, usually pretty straight on, and I am not afraid to show them.

That said, I've had an emotional evening.

Yesterday, I decided on my personal memorial for Sprout. I will share more about it at a later date. I have been thinking about it fairly continuously since the idea came to mind. I reworked the idea a time or two since then, but I think I've decided fully.

Thinking about the memorial so often has, of course, caused me to think about Sprout. Sometimes, it seems like a dream, the month and a half of knowing I was pregnant, and then the loss over a month ago already. I find myself, at times, wondering if it really happened or if I'm in some sort of psychologically twisted movie. It's hard to realize I'd be in my second trimester. I could possibly be feeling Sprout move.

Spencer turns 1 in one week, on 11/1/11. How cool a date is that? His golden birthday is nothing but ones.

It's bittersweet, of course. I mean, I am overjoyed that I have had a son for almost a year already! That's so crazy. Another surreal sort of phenomena, I'd say. I have been quite nostalgic the past few days, thinking back to a year ago, when I was pregnant, and called my dad for his birthday (which was two days ago) and his first question was whether I was in labor or not. (Of course, reflecting back to a year ago, being pregnant, does nothing for helping me feel better about not being pregnant still this year when I just was...) I remember sitting at home, having contractions for weeks, not too painful, but wondering when they'd get "bad."

I remember doing a CPR glass at 39 weeks pregnant. That wasn't... fun, by any standard. But, I passed, and did it all on the floor with everyone else in the class. What a rockstar. Haha.

I remember taking Wendell for a walk about this time last year, and he pulled me over a step on the sidewalk I didn't see and I biffed it and told Jake, and he freaked out.

I remember calling Jake from Wal-Mart while I was shopping with Tarah, and I said something like, "I've got sort of a crisis, call me back." He thought, of course, I was having Spencer. Really, I just needed to know which deodorant he'd prefer because the scent he always used for his favorite deodorant was nowhere to be found. Boy, did I get a lecture on using the words "crisis" or "emergency" loosely.

I watch him moving across the room from me at random parts of the day, just in awe of the fact that he is standing. That he's turning from an object he's standing by and taking steps away from it. That he signs for "more" and "milk." That he knows the sign for "bath" and gets super excited. That he says my first name!

He's definitely a dream come true. He is DEFINITELY a miracle.

And then, of course, I go back to knowing that we aren't having a second baby any time "real soon." I haven't even fully finished my first month of birth control plus Metformin. UGH. I feel a small stab in my heart every night when I take those loathed pills. Yes, I know they're supposed to help. It doesn't help me feel better about it sometimes, though it should. It depends on the day, I guess.

I've been struggling with my self-esteem and my hatred toward the PCOS diagnosis I have been given. PCOS is evil. Really. It causes acne, obesity, irregular cycles and infertility, excessive hair growth. Not one of those things is something anyone aspires to having. And, like many with the condition, I have all of those that I just mentioned. And, sadly, sometimes they just continue to get worse with age and time. Not always. I pray mine don't.

And it's even more frustrating because it feels like, especially with the acne and the hair issues, it's going to be a life-long battle. The solutions that they give for those, medically anyway, you can't really DO when you want to have children. You can't take the inhibitor medication for hair growth if you're wanting to have children, not until you're done, I've read, anyway. And with acne, they say birth control can help, but hey, that's not helping with building a family, either. So, I feel like I have to give up on more long-term solutions to those issues and wanting to feel like I look beautiful or even slightly appealing, because I want more children.

So, I deal with temporary fixes and the nuisances those bring.

But, I want children. Jake and I both want children. We have a child, but we hope to bring a sibling for Spencer into our lives, sometime in the next year, if possible.

And, as much as Jake tells me not to worry and stress about it, I am pretty nervous and worried about his upcoming appointment with the orthopedic surgeon to discuss the results of his shoulder and elbow MRI that he had done on Monday following a work-related injury. He doesn't think he'll need surgery. But, if he does, it could be a while before he can work, or work "fully," or whatever.. and, let's face it, the childcare business isn't a money maker.

Well, there you have it. My griping, whining, and emotions for the night. Tomorrow, I'll wake up, and probably feel a bit better about it all. But tonight, I'm kind of in a funk.

In other news, I am really looking forward to the next week or so. On Sunday evening, we're getting to see Jesse (Jake's twin) and Samantha (Jesse's girlfriend, my "sister" and a best friend) for the first time since August! Yeah! They're coming "home" from Alaska for a little over a week. I can't wait! I miss them so very much.

Monday, Spencer's going trick-or-treating. His first Halloween!

Tuesday, it's Spencer's FIRST BIRTHDAY!

Wednesday, we're celebrating Spencer's birthday still/again, and Samantha and I have a date planned.

Thursday... Friday... who knows.

Saturday, I get to see Rena, and Samantha! I think. Right? And Shari and Alyssa. And maybe my family! Who knows! Lots of preparation for Spencer's birthday celebration.

And then that Sunday... Spencer's birthday celebration! Woohoo! There will be quite a few friends and family there. I am very excited to celebrate the joy that Spencer's brought to our lives with them!

There, see, I ended with lots of joy and happiness. Hopefully, that helps offset the stuff at the beginning, especially for those readers who like a "happy ending."

Godspeed.

strength and courage

"Perhaps strength doesn't reside in having never been broken, but in the courage required to grow strong in the broken places." -unknown

I came across this quotation this evening, in the form of this greeting card someone had pinned on pinterest.com.

I had been browsing pinterest for about half an hour, trying to pass time until the laundry is done and I can fold it and go to sleep. Jake is on his overnight route tonight, and it's hard for me to sleep anyway, so I was hoping to get into a zombie-esque state of mind before I went to bed. I was doing a pretty good job of numbing my thoughts, actually, until I saw that image on my screen.

It stopped me dead in my... right-click-new-tab marathon.

I actually find it a bit amazing that I even noticed the quotation. As much as I love language,

writing, reading, poetry, prose... when it comes to inspirational quotations, I don't generally notice them. If they're sung to me in a song lyric, they stick, but if I see a quotation on a brightly colored square in a lovely accented bold font plastered on a Facebook page or other website, my eyes automatically (it seems) skim over it. I don't know, I guess I prefer to read things in paragraph and standard sentence form? That seems so... unlike me and my love for the arts, visuals, poetry, and such. Ah well, that's how it is. I pretty much skim right over anything of that nature.

For example:

Generally speaking, something even as basic, bold, and punchy as this little ditty wouldn't catch my attention.

I wish I knew why. Hopefully, dwelling on that won't keep me up all night.

But anyway, for some reason, the quotation above caught me, in all it's unlikeliness to have done so.

That's pretty... lucky? Or meant to be?

I think that's a pretty fantastic, and quite fitting, quotation/proverb to relate my current season of life to.

It's been over a month now since we lost Sprout. On the 15th of October, I cried my eyes out to my husband, telling him how I'm just not feeling like I am "over it," yet, and asked him to accept me for that, as I accept him for having moved on.

I still don't think I've moved on. But, I do feel stronger somehow. Until that day, I hadn't really cried about it in over a week, so naturally, that little meltdown caught me off-guard. I shed a few tears on my birthday, thinking about it, and how I was pregnant last year on my birthday and "should have been" this year (in my mindset, of course), and up until this evening when I read of another friend losing an unborn child, I was tear-less again.

I hate to say I'm "proud" of that, because it seems a weird place to issue the term "pride," but I do take some peace in knowing that my heart is mending.

Yes, it was broken. It still aches for my lost child. But, it's healing. Slowly, steadily.

I will admit there have been a few days here and there where I just didn't feel I had the courage to face the fact that I had to get up, go on, knowing I'd lost a child. But, I did it.

I would have been in the second trimester now. I soon would have been feeling my baby move for the first time. Those are moments I am missing, longing and aching for, as I type this.

But, I know that someday I will have those moments again.

I haven't much else to say about it, I guess. I already feel that I've babbled enough.

In perfect timing, the dryer just buzzed.

Godspeed, friends.

A Perfect Heart.

Last night was a bit of a scary night for me.

I went to bed around 11, after getting Spencer back to sleep.

Then, I woke up around 12:20 to the strangest, most intense pressure in my chest. It felt like my ribcage might actually shatter if I moved. It wasn't a stabbing pain or shooting pain or anything like that. It hurt, but it was mostly pressure. I tried best I could to wiggle around and change positions, but nothing was helping.

So, I text my husband a handful of times and tried calling, but assuming he was asleep, I got up and started to "research" it online.

Never a good idea, really.

Most things I found were pointing toward a possible heart-attack. I didn't feel like (not that I'd really know, I guess) I was having a heart-attack, but I was definitely concerned because the pressure was relentless. I toyed with the idea of calling the 24 hour nurse hotline for Sanford... and after telling myself it'd be best to have an idea whether or not it was life threatening, especially since I was home alone with my baby, I gave the number a call.

I spoke with the nurse, who was very kind and helpful, for about 20 minutes. Based on my description of the symptoms, and my lack of erratic heart rate, sweats, breathing difficulty, she told me it didn't sound like a heart attack. I was very relieved to hear that from a medical professional. She gave me a few options of what it could have been: heart-burn (weird, right?), a delayed reaction to my D&C, a reaction to the birth control + Metformin regimen I am on currently, or some underlying heart condition that could point toward an oncoming heart attack. She strongly urged I see a doctor within the next 72 hours, the sooner the better, just in case.

I tried to sleep after that, but it was very difficult. I kept thinking, even though I didn't feel like I was at risk of dying last night, that if something did happen, Spencer would be alone, hungry, soiled, upset, and cold. Or if I did need to call 911 due to increased severity, who would take care of him? If I had to drive to work the next morning, what if something happened to me and we got in an accident and he died?

The pressure lasted over an hour and a half.

Yeah. Late nights, as I've mentioned, aren't always my thing.

Jake ended up calling, and I cried my fears to him and talked to him a while, and eventually, around 3, fell asleep until SJ woke me at about 3:45. Then, I had a hard time sleeping again. I am not sure I got more than 3 hours "quality" sleep last night.

This morning, I made an appointment, and this afternoon, visited my doctor. After a review of my night's symptoms, blood draw (which took 3 stabs, because the technician forgot he had to fill two vials, so he switched arms, and couldn't get any blood from that arm, despite probing and moving the needle, so he went back to the first arm), an EKG, and 2 X-rays, it was decided that my heart was in perfect (or near perfect, as close as it can be, I guess, so she explained) condition. My doctor was very impressed, and I was quite relieved.

So, we discussed possibilities. I suggested my thoughts on an anxiety issue, but she said she wasn't certain that was the case, because of my lack of breathing, heart-rate, sweating, and anxious feeling while it was happening. She decided that it would be treated as stress-induced silent (acid) reflux for now. I am told I should take Zantac before bed for the week, but if it bothers me, or gets worse, to come in again next week to revisit other possibilities.

I explained to her the various stressors in my life lately. The miscarriage and emotions dealing with that. The lack of sleep I feel I'm getting. My husband's ever-grueling work schedule and his absence at home. My uncle's passing. Spencer's teething and mommy-neediness. My feelings of lack of safety in Sioux Falls at night lately. Etc. She asked if I felt depressed. I answered "no." I don't feel like I am depressed, clinically, as one would say. I have been emotional lately, but she agreed that is necessary with all that's going on. My sleeping habits haven't really changed much (I haven't been getting much sleep for a year now... haha), my enjoyment in hobbies hasn't. My appetite hasn't. My sense of faith hasn't. Stuff like that.

But, I do agree that I'm stressed out. Probably unhealthily so, lately. I feel like it's hard not to be when I feel like there's so much on my plate.

Either way, reflux or anxiety, I'm stressed.

I understand her concern about putting me on anti-anxiety medication without ruling out other possibilities, especially since in two months or so I hope to be trying for another baby. It makes sense to me. And I don't want to be on them if I don't have to be. So, I appreciate her concern and desire to rule out other options.

But, I will admit, I am not completely sold on the silent reflux diagnosis.

I guess we'll see.

standing three feet in front of square one

This morning, I had my dreaded post D&C appointment. I had been avoiding thinking about it as much as possible, because, frankly, it bummed me out, knowing the reason for my return to the reproductive endocrinologist. If all had gone well, I would have been done seeing him and already seeing my regular doctor for typical OB appointments.

Obviously, that is not the case.

So, I woke early to get ready for my 7:45 appointment, contained my emotions as best I could, and left on my five block journey to the RE's office, not knowing what to expect.

The appointment went well, I suppose, all things considered. Had a consultation to make sure I healed well physically and had seven large vials of blood taken from me for a slew of tests. Truthfully, though, I left feeling discouraged and frustrated.

As I told a few friends (and similarly posted on Facebook), we are back to the beginning- square one, if you will, but instead of actually starting there, we are starting behind square one, looking at it from the outside, waiting to begin where we were.

Let me explain. We had been (for both Spencer and Sprout) taking oral ovulation inducing medications. Specifically, I was taking Letrizole and using an hCG trigger shot to cause my follicles to mature and then release an egg.

Now, instead, I get to take birth control for two cycles. Medically, I understand, as it should regulate my system and prepare it to try again. Emotionally... not so much. I cried at home and on the way to work.

I just feel as if someone took a dagger to my heart. Didn't slay me, but sliced me quite enough.

I went from being pregnant to losing a baby instead of birthing one, and now instead of trying, it feels like we are preventing. I couldn't really get pregnant "on accident" before, and now... yeah.

It hurts. Even knowing the medical logic behind it doesn't make it easy for my heart to handle.

I pray the next two cycles pass quickly so we can be back "to square one."

in the middle of the night

It seems to me that my demons are lurking in dark shadows.

Specifically, they're waiting for me in the wee hours of the morning.

Oftentimes, when I wake in the middle of the night after being stressed during the day, I find that I lie awake, my mind teeming with thoughts that aren't necessarily "good." It always seems even worse when Jake isn't home, or is so sound asleep that I can't even wake him for a hug.

Tonight, I woke to Spencer's screaming, with Jake on his overnight route, and after changing a diaper, I headed back to bed, where, out of "nowhere" I find myself thinking about how hard it is to be alone.

That leads to how hard it was to be alone after the miscarriage, which leads to those feelings of abandonment, which I was able to shut out and move on from, but then the next monster lurking in the shadows came to get me.

Self-blame.

Yup, it got me. Snatched me right out of an exhausted state of mind and shook me to tears as I replayed the week leading up to the death of our unborn baby.

Now, I know, founded in scripture (which, for the life of me, I cannot quote, but I know it's there... or I feel it is...), that God didn't take my child. And, I know that my child waits for me in Heaven.

I believe that my child doesn't feel blame or animosity toward me, but of course, in the still, lonely, stressed out night, I begin wondering if he or she might.

But the blame game... ack! I can't handle it at night, especially. It's like my intellectual side has taken a nap and left only my overly exhausted emotions to roam free. That's not a good recipe for a tear-free existence, I will admit.

What if I did kill our child?

I didn't. I tell myself that. But then, what if?

What if? That's another wretched game.

I decided I had to get out of bed, and walk around, look at Spencer, pet the dog, and then get these tempting self-blaming ideas out of my head so that I can hope to sleep a little more this evening, between Spencer's abnormal waking every hour or so.

But, let it be known, when I wake in the middle of the night, things always seem so much darker than they really are.

I have a hard time with thoughts like this in the middle of the night. I've had nights sobbing for hours while my thoughts rampage through my mind leaving me feel bitter and scarred. I HATE it.

Hopefully, I will wake in the morning with a sense of renewed peace.

The report is in.

Today, I received a call from the doctor's office telling me that the results of the pathology report from the D&C were in.

According to the nurse, they found nothing abnormal or "wrong" with Sprout's tissues, leaving them unable to determine the cause of fetal demise, though it rules out chromosomal abnormalities, which is considered to be the most common cause of miscarriage in the first trimester. I was "hoping" that they would have found that to be the reason we lost Sprout, but, unfortunately for my "peace of mind," it was not.

There were no hormonal problems with my bloodwork that they found when I first found out I was pregnant, nor at the following appointments, and my levels from the day we found out we lost the baby were also perfectly normal, so that rules out another of the most common causes.

They found no malignant tissues, either.

As far as I was told, or could see during ultrasound, the cause wouldn't have been improper implantation, either.

They say that stress doesn't usually "cause" a miscarriage to occur, but a physical trauma to the mother's body could cause a miscarriage.

It leads me to wonder... I was having some pretty stressful days leading up to the date that they believe Sprout stopped growing. Could that have been the cause?

I was drinking low amounts of caffeine, though not ever day. What about that?

I fell backward into our wall and entertainment center two days before the aforementioned date. Would that have done it?

I don't know. I might never know. I try not to blame myself, because I don't believe that I really caused the miscarriage to happen, but when I hear the news I was dreading, that it wasn't something the doctor's could distinguish... well, that makes it a little harder to not wonder if it was my fault.

Someone asked me if I would really want to know the exact reason that Sprout didn't make it. I contemplated this a while. Right now, with the uncertainty and the borderline self-blame I am experiencing... yes, I think that I would like to know. I would like to know if it was something I did, truthfully, so that I could prevent it in the future. Granted, I will be trying to avoid the things I think could have caused it next time around, but I would like to know for sure if that was the case. If not, I would like to know if there's a genetic risk I carry, or Jake carries, or if it was just pure happenstance.

But, I guess, I will never know. Time to make peace with that.

It's So Hard.

The Dixie Chicks one recorded an amazing song, "So Hard." In a nutshell, two of the sisters wrote it in regard to their own personal life-experiences with infertility. I think it's amazing for two reasons, the first, that I feel I can relate to it on a personal level and I almost always get tears, and secondly, they helped bring public awareness to the infertility demon.

The song popped into my head a few days ago, after being "out of play" if you will, for quite some time. Specifically, the lines that read:

And sometimes I don't have the energy
To prove everybody wrong
And I try my best to be strong
But you know it's so hard
It's so hard

It's so hard when it doesn't come easy
It's so hard when it doesn't come fast
It's so hard when it doesn't come easy
It's so hard

It felt like a given
Something a woman's born to do
A natural ambition
To see a reflection of me and you

And I'd feel so guilty
If that was a gift I couldn't give
And could you be happy
If life wasn't how we pictured it

And sometimes I just want to wait it out
To prove everybody wrong
And I need your help to move on
Cause you know it's so hard
It's so hard

It's hard. Infertility can kill a woman's spirit and wreak havoc on her soul. Even when you have God by your side, as I feel like I did, it was still "so hard." SO hard. Heart break one month after another, sometimes for years.

But, in February of 2010, we won a battle against infertility, specifically Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome (what they "diagnosed" me with). On November 1, 2010, our miracle entered the world.

Naively, I thought that the heartache and memories of what it felt like to be infertile and to wage that war would dissipate, maybe not completely, but enough that I wouldn't have to think about it or feel them anymore.

I was wrong. Even after having Spencer, it was still hard to see people get pregnant with their second, third, fourth... children. It was hard to hear people say they were going to start trying and that only a few weeks later, they'd find out they were pregnant. It was hard, but it wasn't as devastating as it used to feel, at least. A little less salt on a somewhat healed wound, I guess one could say.

When we decided we were going back to combat against the PCOS, the heartache came back for a while, especially the second round of treatments. I didn't expect the first to work, but the second I had high hopes for. I cried a bit, and moved on more quickly than I did in the three and a half years of irregularity, lack of ovulation, and extremely scarce cycles, before we conceived Spencer.

Third time's a charm, they say, and the third round, we conceived Sprout. I was shocked beyond belief, but of course, completely overjoyed. Though, I had a guarded heart the entire time, and from day one, was terrified I would lose the baby. I guess that's a mother's intuition, maybe, a foreshadowing of the loss that recently occurred. Or, it could be coincidental, who knows. I was worried about it with Spencer, but not quite as much. I remember that this last pregnancy, I was even researching miscarriage and still having pregnancy symptoms while having a miscarriage yet, and things of that nature.

And then, we lost Sprout.

I hope I do not offend anyone out there who hasn't gone through infertility struggles, who has had a baby recently, who just got pregnant, who just announced they were pregnant, who is in the middle of a pregnancy, who is thinking about having a baby... what have you, when I write what is to come. I do not mean to offend anyone with the way my mind and heart feel sometimes.

It's hard, all over again, to see these pregnancies occurring and happening all around me. I have lots of friends and family, from "online only" friends to people I see on a weekly basis, who are pregnant. Oddly, though it kind of makes sense, once a person has a baby, it doesn't tug at my heart strings anymore. Probably because I too have a baby.

But the pregnancy announcements and belly photos and constant reminders that there are people out there continuing to grow a healthy child inside of them sting just a little bit.

I'm not saying I don't want to know about these wonderful blessings, nor do I want to ignore that they're surrounding me, because they do in fact still give me hope. I guess it's a double-edged sword in a way.

Infertility (or other reasons a person can't have a baby) do crazy things to a heart, in that you can be ecstatic for a friend, and devastated for yourself, all in the same instance, regarding the same situation. It stinks. I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

I guess some would call it "jealousy" which is another evil monster, and it might be a form of it. But, while I admit I do envy those women who are having healthy pregnancies, I don't do it in a spiteful, hurtful way. I feel that envy in a way that I'm sad for my husband and I in that we just lost a growing baby. I hope that makes sense.

These things are so very hard to articulate.

If I really sit and reflect, I can happily admit that it hurts less now than it did before I became a mother. It's just unfortunate that it still hurts.

Like I said, I hope I didn't offend anyone pouring my heart out there. I don't mean any of this in a hurtful or malicious way. I just... needed to get it out of my system again so I can move on. I don't hate anyone who has it easy, though it's hard to compare that to having it a bit more difficult, of course. I am not mad that others are having healthy babies. I just wish that was my husband and I, too. Hopefully, soon, Jake and I will be back in the "trying to conceive" group of the infertility community, and then, God willing, we'll be blessed with a healthy pregnancy and Spencer will become a big brother. I keep praying. I hope others are still, too.

A Good Weekend.

It's amazing how you can sit and talk with a close friend from high school (or elementary school, college, work, church, camp, etc.) and even if you are only together for a matter of minutes, your mind can be flooded with the memories you made together.

Tonight, as I lay in bed (where I am writing this on my phone), I am playing a memory in my mind where my dear friends mart, Jason, and I were going to a movie together one summer evening. Jason was driving, with his Nickelback cd playing, and one of them decided he knew a short cut to get to the town with the theater. As it turns out, he was very wrong, and we got a but lost, and were too late to really enjoy the film, so we went back to Jason's house. On the way, a surprise thunderstorm and torrential downpour happened upon our journey, and we had to pull over and sit on the highway, being blinded by constant lightning so bright we could barely see. I remember hoping we didn't die. Haha.

I miss those days, but I am grateful for the present, too.

I had a pretty good, back-to-normal sort of weekend of minimal tears, comparatively, and less heart ache.

Saturday started out pretty stressful as our initial plans for the day were nearly ruined, but it ended in just a two hour delay, in which we missed Jason's wedding ceremony, but were able to make it in time to the reception. We were fortunate to be able to spend a few hours with some of my good friends from high school and some of their children. In fact, we filled a table with good conversation and tons of laughter. I love having friends that I can see rarely but still hold close in my heart, if that makes sense.

Sunday, I received hugs and prayers again at church, but I managed not to cry. Impressive, i think. Though, admittedly I cried st the end of the service, knowing it was the last service a friend of ours would lead.

Following church, we spent the remainder of the day with my dad and sisters (and one of my sister's friends). We had lunch, spent a few hours at Falls Park enjoying the weather and each others company, had frozen yogurt, and finished the evening with some laughs and conversation at our place.

Again, I made it through all their hugs without tears. I didn't start tearing up until just bow, writing this actually, and thinking how Sprout's due date would have been Allison's 13th birthday.

It helped seeing Spencer so happy on both days. He loved "chasing" and watching our friends' three daughters at the wedding, and seeing him smile and interact with my family and his daddy, and hear his silly laugh so often today, really helps me cope and realize that life is good, even when bad things happen.

I am exhausted.

A pretty good day.

Overall, I would say I had a pretty good day today. In fact, it's probably been the best day I've had, mood wise, in over 10 days. Crazy to think about it that way.

Again, I admit, I cried a few times, but it wasn't broken-down sobbing today. Just... calm, quiet tears. I was shocked, actually.

I thought about Sprout a lot today. I wondered if our baby would have been a boy or a girl. I wondered if Spencer would have fallen in love with his brother or sister. I imagined, as we went by the hospital on our way home, going back there in April to bring new life into the world.

My heart still aches for our baby, but, I held it together pretty well.

It definitely helped that I was given some wonderful hugs by Tarah (again, she's so wonderful to me, so... so wonderful), Auntie Kat (she gave the BEST hug of the day, sorry Tarah and B), and Uncle B. Yes, multiple hugs after a long day sure does help turn spirits around.

It helps, also, that I was able to just stare at my son at random intervals and realize how incredibly in love I am with him, how he is a literal miracle in our lives, and how blessed I am that he's with us. I will admit, at times, it's hard to watch him play, because for seven weeks, I had envisioned him playing with Sprout someday, and those images still pop into my head. I can hold one baby, but not the other. So, sometimes, his existence does rub a little salt into the wounds of my heart, but even so, I wouldn't give him up for my life.

I am optimistic that we will still bring home a brother or sister for Spencer, in time. Hopefully, sooner than later. Yes, we still want another child, close in age, to our first. Our loss does not change that, but rather, affirms those feelings.

I know that having another child will not be a "cure" for the heartache we've endured. And no other child will replace Sprout.

I'm babbling. I'm exhausted. But, tonight, I am in a pretty good place, overall. Praise the Lord.

It's been a week.

It's been one week since I woke up in the hospital, after my D&C. It seems so far away one minute, but then the next, I'm reliving it as if it was this morning that it happened. So is the paradox of life, I guess, where time moves just as quickly as lightning but as slow as one-legged turtle.

I am proud to say that today, I have shed less tears than I have in what seems like ages. Yes, I cried multiple times, but I cried less. Knowing that, I find some comfort.

As I mentioned yesterday, I've been listening to my husband's Sanctus Real "Pieces of a Real Heart" CD as I make my way around in the car. Today, another song hit me. It's called "the Redeemer."

Here are the lyrics:

Sometimes I just want to start over, 'cause everything looks like a wreck
And I need the courage to carry on, 'cause I can't see what's ahead
And there are places I've wished I could be, battles I've wanted to win
Dreams that have slipped through my hands
I may never get back again

But I'm still a dreamer, a believer
Oh, I've lost my faith in so many things, but I still believe in You
'Cause You can make anything new

Sometimes I just wish we could say all the things that are easy to hear
Ignore the injustice we see and explain every unanswered prayer
But I'd rather speak honestly and wear a tattered heart on my sleeve
'Cause in the middle of my broken dreams, redemption is here

And I'm still a dreamer, a believer
Oh, I've lost my faith in so many things, but I still believe in You
'Cause You are the answer, the redeemer
Oh, I've given up on too many things, but I'm not giving up on You
'Cause You can make anything new

I don't have every answer in life
But I'm trusting You one day at a time
'Cause You can make a weak heart stay alive forever
this is where Heaven and Earth collide
I lift my hands and give my life
This is how my weary heart stays alive

I feel like this song also fits my current life situation perfectly. Yup, pretty much every sentence I think was written to apply to me and where I am right now.

I was musing with a friend last night, and my cousin tonight, that there must be a purpose to all of this. I mean, I know that God didn't "take" my unborn child away. But, He did receive Sprout. I know that Satan wants me to blame God, and I absolutely refuse. As I said last night (I think) that's a very new thing for me.

And with that new way of approaching this horrific situation, I find that I have hope that there's a real reason for why this happened to us. Not that it's a good thing to have happened, but something wonderful is bound to come from it, if you're optimistic enough to think so.

I think something will. I don't know that I will know about it, but I frankly don't care. I just have to have that hope to help carry through, I guess.

I like to think that my suffering and sorrow will help someone out there someday. Maybe there's a woman out there who lost a child, or will lose a child, and somehow, they'll happen upon my journey, my emotions, my struggles, and my faith. And, maybe that will inspire her.

I know that I've gone through feelings of absolute abandonment and being morbidly alone in the last week or so. I know that I am not, but my demons allow me to think that from time to time. (Sidenote: here's a fantastic quote that I hadn't thought about before, although I use the phrase "my demons" occasionally. It's from the Beth Moore Bible Study I am doing at church called "When Godly People do Ungodly Things." Ah, fail. I can't figure out where Jake put my study guide, so I'll paraphrase. She muses that since Satan tries to mimic God to fool us into following him, he probably sends demons to each individual as God sends Angels to guide and protect us. What a war, right?)

But, I am sure that out there, somewhere, some woman is going through this alone. She may or may not realize God is there, and she may or may not have any other support. I like to imagine that a purpose for my suffering is to inspire or help that woman out there cope with one of the greatest tragedies and losses in her life.

And maybe I'm way off on all of my thinking. But, a woman can hope, right? I feel like I can hope these things, especially if they're helping me to overcome this intense struggle inside of myself.

That's all for tonight. I am exhausted to my very core.

The Power of a Song.

First, let me say that I made it through today, a week exactly since learning of Sprout's birth into Heaven, with less tears than I anticipated that I would have shed. Granted, it started out pretty rough, from 1:30am until about 4:15am, but the majority of the day, I was pretty calm and collected.

I did have an emotional time at Bible Study, which I was "brave" enough to go to, despite some hesitation and barely having any homework done, but having a wonderful table leader and friend in Kyla, who has been a big support during all of this, definitely helps. But, I made it through that with less hardship than I anticipated, too. God is good.

Today, I was driving to Barnes and Noble in search of God and in search of courage (that's where I did what little Bible study homework I finished), and I realized that for the past four or five days, I have been listening mainly to one song on repeat in the car. Jake had left his Sanctus Real CD in the car last week, and there was one song in particular that really caught my heart.

Here are the lyrics:

I wanna know why pain makes me stronger
I wanna know why good men die
Why am I so afraid of the dark but I stray from the light?

I wanna know why You gave me eyes when faith is how I see.
Tell me, is it easier to doubt or harder to believe?
Oh so many questions stiring in me.

[Chorus]
And I'm wondering why.
Sometimes the truth ain't easy to find.
I want to know all the answers, but I'm learning that;
These things take time, yeah
These things take time.

How can success make us feel like failures?
And the harder we fall the harder we try
The more I have the more I need just to feel like I'm getting by.
Oh so many questions in one short life.

And we spend so much time
Chasing our tails
Hopin' to find
Every last answer
To everything in life.
So many questions
Not enough time...


We all want to understand why;
Evil lives and good men die
On the way to Heaven the truth unwinds.
These things take time
These things take time
Yeah, these things take time.

I got to thinking about how I seem to have a pattern of finding a certain song or two for big events in my life, and they end up being played on repeat as I cope with hardships or exalt in joy. A few of the songs on the "soundtrack of my life" as I decided I would refer to it as, are "Martyrs and Thieves" by Jennifer Knapp, from my camp days, "If I Am" by Nine Days, from high school. "Name" by the Goo Goo Dolls, from my high school days. "Crash Into Me" by Dave Matthews, from falling in love with Jake. Those are just a few. I could go on and on, but I won't.

But this song, "These Things Take Time," that's the one I'm playing now. I, being human, want to know WHY this has happened to Jake and I. I want to be able to be done grieving and to be healed NOW. But, I won't know why, and I have to accept the fact that I can't just instantly be okay with it all. That's a short bit on why the song is so meaningful to me.

I feel like I'm starting on the upward climb toward healing. I feel moreso now than over the past week that I will get through this, with God and with Jake both beside me. I need them both, and I am not ashamed to say it.

At Bible study tonight, we were discussing how Satan attacks those who are strong in their faith and who are standing for the Lord. Part of me wonders if that might be part of what happened here. Jake and I conceived Sprout after joining a church, finding a faith family, and after I, personally, feel stronger in my faith than I may ever have in the past, that I can recall, anyway. And then, this tragedy strikes. But, instead of blaming God or being angry at God, or blaming myself, I decide to pray to God and take up at his side to help me get through it. In many other struggles I've gone through in my life, that wasn't the case, and I found myself trapped in powerlessness and sadness, numb to God and numb to myself, for quite an extended period of time. Reflecting tonight at Bible study really gave me hope that I am going to get through this, more easily than other traumas and tragedies and rough times in my life, even though, by far, I think this the saddest, darkest season I have had to face thus far.

That's reassuring.

And I know I've said it before, but I will say it again. I am so blessed by the support, encouragement, and prayers of my family, my faith family, and my friends.

Yes, tonight, I am still sad. I will probably shed more tears over our lost child. But, they aren't tears of hopelessness. And when I wake up in the morning and drive to work, I will hear the current track of my life soundtrack, and be reminded that it's okay to be where I am, to grieve how I grieve, and that I WILL be okay.

Sorry if this was mumbled and jumbled. I am exhausted.

Back-and-forth and to-and-fro, around-and-around I go.

Today was a back-and-forth kind of day. I didn't cry on the way to work, though I was close. I didn't even cry for a while at work. Though occasional thoughts and lines of conversation had me in tears, I did a pretty good job stifling them.

Some difficult conversations were had along the course of the day, however. There was one in which I was reliving one of my personal worst experiences within the entire thing, in that I went through the day of the D&C procedure, as well as the day after, without my husband anywhere near my side, or even in this town. I am not mad at him for that, but the pain and heartache are definitely still there. It's one of those things that the only person I really wanted or needed to be there with me was very clearly... not at all. It kind of kills a person, a little bit. But, I do not hold a grudge against him, I just pray I can sort through the feelings and hurt that his absence caused me.

Another conversation was about the entire mess of infertility coupled with the miscarriage. It can be very exciting to find out at 3 weeks, 5 days pregnant, but it's also a very nerve-wracking time, in that you have about 9 full weeks of first trimester fear to endure, where you're most likely to miscarry. This time, I thought we were "safe" like we seemed to be with Spencer, because at 7 weeks we saw the heartbeat. Little did I know that six days later (two weeks from today) that heart would stop beating. And it's hard to feel like it wasn't a child of mine, because for six full weeks (give or a take a few days), we were overjoyed at the possibility and then reassurance of this brand new life, this child we created... and then it felt like it was all ripped away.

I know it's not "as bad" as carrying a baby to term and then having it pass away, or have it pass away closer to term, but it's not "any better" either. It's still a lost child, deep down. That's how I feel anyway. It doesn't make me correct, it's just how I feel, so if you are reading, please do not be offended.

I know that many people name their unborn children, even as early as being lost in the first trimester. Some people have suggested that to me. I thought about it, but I don't feel like giving our baby a "proper" human name would bring any more closure to the situation. To me, Sprout is perfect. And someday, in Heaven, I will know if Sprout was a boy or a girl. Until that day, it doesn't much matter, I guess, because I refuse to dwell on that. Sprout is perfect as he or she is right now.

Anyway, even, amidst the tears, at one point, I had a hood laugh as Jillian reminded me of our hug on Sunday where I cried and shook in her arms, and squashed Spencer between us as he flailed to get free.

Fortunately, there were some very wonderful moments to help balance out the sorrow... like when Spencer and Grayson started playing with pans under the stove.

Or when Spencer, on his first ever attempt, climbed all the way up Jillian's stairs.

The drive home was on of the most difficult parts of the day, as instinctively, almost, I delayed last Tuesday in my mind, where I had started spotting heavily at work, and just felt panic and terror and completely broken as I called my doctor on the drive home, where the tone of her voice made me realize how serious my situation was becoming. When she said, "that worries me a bit more" after I told her I was cramping, I felt my heart sink into the pit of my stomach and became incredibly nauseated and overcome.

I tried to call my husband but he didn't answer, so I pulled over on the road and sobbed until I could focus to drive. Spencer patiently sat in the backseat watching passersby and playing with his toy hammer. What a sweetheart.

Thankfully, Spencer was able to bring me back to the present at bath time. I was sitting there, recalling how I was barely even able to put him in the tub last Tuesday, when he decided it was the perfect time to stand up in the tub, and almost instantly, start peeing. He watched himself going pee in his bathwater, saying "uh-oh" over and over, until after he was finished. I laughed so hard. Then, he was kind enough to dump a cup of water down my front. Needless to say, he brought me out of my funk and misery of the past week and into the present moment, where I have a beautiful, charming, and somewhat hilarious (in my opinion) miracle living with us.

Now that he is back in his crib, I can't help but picture myself last week, as I lay on the couch, weeping with my entire body, as I plead aloud to God, "Lord Almighty, please don't take this baby from us." I wept it over and over and over again. Am I mad at God for not answering my plea? No. Little did I know, Sprout was already with Him.

I have a stinging feeling that I will have a hard time falling asleep tonight, but hopefully, Jake will soon be here to hold me as I likely cry myself to sleep. Or maybe, I will find the peace I need beforehand, and I will drift off soundly. I pray that is the case, but if it isn't I won't be angry.

I know I still have a long road of recovery and healing before me, but at least, tonight, I'm going to take some relief knowing that I can still laugh and smile, and that with Spencer's help especially, I have done so more than once in the last two days. As small as he is, he is a big part of the strength I find that is carrying me through my sorrow. Even if I am sobbing uncontrollably, he finds a way to make me smile through my tears. It's incredible. Someday, when he's older, though I have been telling him now, I will tell him about how he helped me get through some of the darkest days of my life.

I am nervous for tomorrow, because I know that with the excellent memory God has given me, I will undoubtedly be having flashbacks to last Wednesday. But, instead of dwelling on that fear and anxiety, I am going to relish the fact that I made it through today, and pray that I make it through tonight. I will fight my battle and trudge through my mucky road and what lies before me tomorrow... tomorrow.

Thank you to everyone who has been reading my blog, following my story, inviting yourself into my sorrows, and befriending and praying for me along this journey.