To be Happy Once Again ... the journey to being whole once again

"I just want to be happy" is what I hear myself telling my husband and my friends.

Grief.  It is real.  It is raw.  It sucks.

Everything is healing and everything is a trigger at the same time.  Walking on eggshells of my own regarding myself.  I do not know how I will respond to any stimuli.  I want to be okay.  I want to be more than okay.  I want to heal.

Walking through grief is something that I saw others going through, wished them well, prayed for them, and thought "what would I do in their shoes?"  I had no idea how I would respond.  I had no idea what grief for me would look like.  But I thought about it.

In class we are leaning about unrealistic optimism where people generally think that they are better off then just about everyone else around them and when compared to others, they will not experience the same negative outcome in life that other's around them face.  To some degree I have thought about this.  To some degree I have wondered what my reaction to loss would be.

The first three days after learning that our baby Nolan Edward did not have a heartbeat were such a roller coaster.  The first 24 hours were filled with such sorrow and uncertainty.  After the initial shock subsided, I began pleading with God that this was all just a mistake.  That another scan would be done to reveal that our baby did indeed have a heartbeat.  But then day three left me going to be physically feeling the start of what was inevitably my future.  By day four I was in so much physical pain I was praying that it would be over soon.  I was praying that I could make it to the hospital for surgery because I had been through this physical process before and I was not willing to endure it again.

The third day following surgery I was felling amazing.  I was able to get around without much help, I could taper off the pain medicine, I was overall feeling like I was in a better place.  Within 16-18 hours that feel-good-feeling was gone and the pain was quickly spiraling out of control.  No over the counter pain meds were touching the pain I was experiencing.  I ended up calling the on-call OB and she sent in requests for antibiotics, a prescription pain medicine as well as for tests to be run immediately the following morning, but if the pain intensified, to go to the ER.  She had to find a pharmacy that was open 24 hours since it was now late at night and by the time she called me back to tell me which pharmacy it was at, I was already keeled over in so much pain I opted to head straightaway to ER.

ER did not give the answers that I so desperately wanted.  Two ultrasounds, pain pills, and a couple of swabs and samples were done.  "The start of an infection; take these antibiotics and call your doctor if you have any other concerns or the pain worsens."

Three days later ... I am calling the OB office because I am still in pain.  I am at work and taking round the clock over the counter pain pills that are doing nothing.  Maybe a second infection they think.  Come in first thing tomorrow morning.

Still an infection.  The antibiotics from Sunday have done nothing.  Now try stronger antibiotics.  Come back in a week.

And within three days I am feeling so much better.  Still not 100% pain free but I can physically function.

Which then leads right into the emotional aspect of this whole process called grief.

I have certainly been trudging through the murky waters of grief since that awful afternoon of May 11.  But it has been riddled with hope that my baby was still alive, the agony of physical pain and just wanting to miscarry already so the pain would be over, to going through surgery and recovery, to an even more painful infection ... that finally 15 days after learning my baby had died, I could allow the lid to come off from the intensely building emotions and feel what I wish I would have been able to feel from day 1.

Grief.  It has certainly not been anything close to a walk in the park.  The sorrow that overtakes me is unbearable at times.  The tears that flow, the emotions that fluctuate, the hormones that are trying to regulate.  It has been absolute torture.

The learning how to navigate these new waters has been scary.  Often I feel like I am in a canoe by myself trying to propel and steer at the same time.  Spinning in circles.  Spiraling out of control.  Hitting every rock along the way.  Getting sucked downstream further .. and further .. and further.

My husband has been amazing through this process.  He definitely processes differently than myself, but his strong and steady emotions have been extremely healing for my weary soul.

I have been working through devotional plans everyday on loss, grief, miscarriage, and longing to be a mother.  Often I do more than one devotion a day just because I need to be re-grounded in scripture and truth.  Without God I cannot imagine trying to process this grief.

Others have reached out to us sharing their story, sharing their daughter's story, sharing their wife's story.  Knowing we are not the first to walk this lonely journey has been healing.  Talking about my babies has been the most healing.  Knowing that others want to hear about the journey brings me great joy and gives me permission to grieve in the way that brings me the most healing.

I have jumped right back into normal life the best I could.  I went back to work after a week off.  I only missed one class period of summer classes.  Staying in this place of unknown scares me greatly.

Only though time and the good grace of God will I come out stronger on the other side.  Only though this experience will I be able to relate to other women who have gone through this and who will go through it.  I pray that no one else has to experience this grief and heartache yet I understand that we live in a broken world and that so much of this heartache is inevitable.

Working through grief sucks.  This whole experience of losing my babies sucks.  It is awful.

I am thankful for the grace and patience of my husband and my family and friends.  Grieving the loss of Nolan Edward has been so much harder than losing baby June Rose.  Everything has been magnified a thousand times.  The pain, the endurance, the time ...

Healing is happening.  Slowly.  But healing is happening.  I will be restored.  I will embrace my new normal.  I will take time to feel the feels and process the emotions.  It will not be perfect, but it will be mine. 

"Close Your Eyes and Breathe it in"

"Tell your heart to beat again

Close your eyes and breathe it in
Let the shadows fall away
Step into the light of grace
Yesterday's a closing door
You don't live there anymore
Say goodbye to where you've been
And tell your heart to beat again"

I heard Danny Gokey's "Tell Your Heart to Beat Again" on the radio today.  It has been one of my favorite songs for a very long time.  I remember watching a video on the meaning behind the song and if memory serves me correct, I believe there was a person on the operating table having heart surgery and the doctor spoke aloud to the patient that it was all them in that moment -- they needed to tell their heart to beat again because medical intervention had done all they could do.  

At first I drove along and was filled with extreme peace and overwhelmed by my Abba's great love for me.  Then grief hit.  Hard.  I began questioning why I could not just tell my baby's hear to beat again.  All I did for days was basically beg God to put life back into my baby.  I prayed that maybe it was all just a mistake.  I prayed that this was not happening again.  And then all the physical signs of miscarriage began and there was nothing I could do except pray that it was over quickly.  

Processing emotions does not come easy or naturally for me.  It is so much easier for me to put my own emotions aside and make sure that those around me are comfortable.  I can laugh, joke and find humor in my loss because then I know no one around me is uncomfortable.  It is once I begin diving into the emotional aspect that I start to sense the uneasiness and I shut down with sharing emotions.  

The pain, the physical pain has been so unimaginably hard.  It is difficult to share just how much pain this miscarriage has brought.  I am hopeful that I am on the correct medication to get the pain managed and me physically on the mend.

Tomorrow will be two weeks since we learned our sweet baby went to be with Jesus.  It has only been eight days that my sweet baby was delivered sleeping.  It has been  the hardest thing I have physically ever been through.  Our first miscarriage only 4 months prior hurt, but it was so easy and so short compared to what the past ten days have endured.  

--

It was not until this week that I felt I could relate to God in such a profound and intimate way.  I have always felt close to God.  I had always heard that God understands our suffering.  I heard it.  I knew it.  But it never sunk in or took on a personal meaning to me.  Until this week.  I was reminded that God ultimately understands and knows the same pain I am experiencing because He, too, lost a Son.  God knows my pain.  God endured my pain AND took my pain upon the cross. 

I was rendered speechless as I let that truth sink in.  

-- 

I certainly do not have anything figured out.  I do not know how to process the loss of my babies.  I never envisioned that I would be walking this journey  barely 8 months into my marriage.  I always knew it could be this hard, but I certainly was not expecting it and nor was I prepared for it. 

I pray that with the help of God, my husband and I will continue to press into Him and cling to each other.  We continue to be surrounded by the biggest sense of community that I have ever been accustomed to.  Most of the time I feel completely unworthy of so much love.  I struggle enough trying to process our loss.  Then to embrace and accept the love that is shown to us ... I am still learning how to be loved.   

Remembering Nolan - A Rainy Day in May

A Rainy Day in May (A Tribute to Nolan Edward)

All day long with a steady rhythm,

The clouds released their precipitation.

A doctor’s appointment loomed in the distance

Which left me wondering with great anticipation.

Barely four months had passed since a terrible loss,

Where Baby June Rose went to heaven to be held.

The memories of that day loomed over my head,

Emotions and pain in my heart grew and they swelled.

Was the sky crying because it knew something I did not?

Were my fears unfounded and were they for naught?

I wanted answers, I wanted relief,

“Is my baby ok?” was my only rational thought.

A wait that felt like eternity, A nurse that eased all anxiety,

The doctor walked through the door and offered a scan.

As my baby’s perfect body appeared on the screen,

No life detected, no heartbeat seen, this was not the plan.

Silence echoed through the room,

Emotions running wild and free,

Orders placed for a second opinion,

“This cannot be real” was my plea.

A second scan showed the same results,

Measurements taken, and pictures printed.

Life stood still while

My baby’s image on my heart was imprinted.

Options discussed, and waiting was chosen,

It is Mother’s Day weekend,

There was so much happening,

Too much to comprehend.

Can I please just wake up and forget all this grief,

I am only sleeping, and this must be a dream!

Rise and awake for a new day is shining,

Life is not as I recall it, as it does seem.

My heart is so empty but not my womb,

I have some time left to honor and cherish the life within.

Although scans show that death has occurred,

From day one I loved the precious life that did begin.

Prayers for a miracle that my baby does live,

Hoping each day that no goodbye will be said.

My God is bigger than the results of any scan,

Understanding death does exist, tears are still shed.

I will cling to my God and be firmly upheld.

Regardless of outcome, my faith is still strong,

I do not know what the days ahead hold,

But I know who holds them and to whom I belong.

My baby is likely to be delivered sleeping,

And memories of him are mine worth keeping.

My child has been loved from the very start,

And eventually we will be together even if we must temporarily part.

On Love and on Loss

Loss.  It can mean so many things.  A loss in a game of sports.  Lost in thought.  Losing your keys.

Misplace.  Deprive.  Taken away.

Two weeks into 2018 my husband and I endured one of the hardest weekends.  We never saw it coming.  We hardly even had time to let it sink in that we were expecting our fist child when in a blink of an eye (which was actually 48 hours from hell) our trajectory for the next year of our life changed.

Grief was real, but grief was quick.  We were back to work the next day and resumed life as normal.  There were few triggers for me, and the hardest day occurred three weeks after the loss when I received a call confirming my next OB appointment.  I had cancelled it but it never made it out of the schedule book.

Two months later we found ourselves staring at an ever darkening line on a home pregnancy test.  Overjoyed would be an absolute understatement.  Barely 24 hours had passed before we began sharing with those close to us that another baby was on the way.

We were told by well meaning individuals that back to back miscarriages are unlikely.  We celebrated the life that was growing within.

Nervous.  Anxious.  Hesitation.  I bonded with my baby but I could not escape the ever real possibility that something might go wrong.  Something may have already gone wrong.

I felt so different with pregnancy two versus pregnancy one.  I felt hopeful.  This time was different.  My body was recognizing this pregnancy.  My levels were rising, my hormones were all over the place but just starting to regulate.  Morning sickness came like a freight train and completely knocked me off my feet.

This baby is ours.  This baby is wanted.  This baby is loved.

The appointment day with the OB approached so slowly yet too quickly.  A wait in the waiting room that felt like forever.  I was impatient.  I was nervous.  I wanted everything to be okay but nothing anyone said could calm me.  I needed to heart our baby's heartbeat.  I needed to see my baby on the scan.  I did not know what to expect.

We were surprised with the option for an early ultrasound.  We started the appointment with this.  This was exactly what this momma needed.

As soon as I saw my baby on the screen, I saw the motionless body with no heartbeat.  The room was silent.  The tech tried to get a clearer picture, but I knew.  They knew.  As they began setting up for another scan in a different room I clung to my husband and we sang "How Great Thou Art" and prayed.  We were in a state of shock yet we were incredibly calm.  The peace that came into the room with us was undoubtedly the Holy Spirit.

We went to another room for a different scan.  Same results.  We asked for pictures and they measured our baby.

We talked about what moving forward looks like.  After our 48 hour loss in January, I am hesitant to endure another natural miscarriage.

It was the Friday before Mother's Day.  I went into the weekend knowing that I have two babies dancing with Jesus.  The first 24 hours after learning our precious Nolan Edward went to be with Jesus and his sister June Rose were by far the hardest yet.  I could not eat.  I could not sleep.  I could hardly think.

The outpouring of love and support from our friends, family and church have been unbelievably amazing.

We have received calls, texts, flowers, and meals.

As I write this my darling baby is still safely inside of me.  Walking around knowing I am carrying my lifeless baby is by far one of the most challenging things I have ever had to experience.

I may never have the opportunity to hold my baby in my arms, but I have held every single cell of my baby, encompassed 100% in love for the past 13.5 weeks.  For that I am eternally grateful.

There is a huge part of me that holds onto hope.  There is hope that another scan will be done and life will be seen dancing across the monitor.  Yet another part of me wonders how I could possibly recover from a trauma of believing for how ever many days it takes that my baby is dead and processing that, then to find out that my baby is actually alive and well.  Hopes are high, yet I am at incredible peace that regardless of outcome, rejoicing will be done.

There will be a way to honor our child.  While my child may not physically have life, the birth of my baby will be living bringing.

God is good and He will guide us through this valley.

We will have a child.  Whatever that looks like, God hears our prayers and knows the desires of our hearts to be parents.