Without infertility

You know how sometimes people who have been divorced will say they wish they'd never met their ex, except then they wouldn't have their children so... well, they can't really regret it ever happening?

I have decided that's how I feel about infertility.

I really hate infertility. Despise it. I didn't like a second of it while it was happening, and I don't like looking back on it now. It makes me angry when I find out other women I know are going through it and my heart breaks for those who know the pain of it firsthand.

But, for me, without it - without that annoying, manipulating, demoralizing, cruel, soul-crushing monster (did I go too far?) - I wouldn't have my babies.

So I can't really wish it never happened.

In fact, I have to embrace it with open arms and even thank God for it.

I'd love to say we would have adopted even if I hadn't been infertile. But I'm going to be honest. I just don't see us conceiving every couple of years, working to feed all those mouths, trying (and probably failing) to save a buck or two for college, a bigger home, savings...and then, on top of it all, saying, "Hey, I know a great use for those tens of thousands of dollars we don't have - let's adopt!"

I know us, and I know we would have thought we couldn't afford it. We wouldn't have had a reason to take a risk and trust that God would provide.

And even if we had adopted, who knows if we would have done it at exactly the time necessary to adopt Clara and Esther?

I can't even think about that for too long.

And, if I had been fertile, who knows if everything would have led up to me conceiving Luke exactly when I did? That timeline probably would have been thrown way off by other pregnancies.

So I thank God (and infertility) that it worked out just so, leading us to know these precious souls, who were always coming into the world right when they did. And that we were there, ready and willing, to catch them upon entry.

Infertility also brought me closer to God, strengthened my marriage and toughened me up. And I know I was supposed to find joy in suffering, but I don't know if I ever got quite that far.

Joy aside, it did teach me more than I ever hoped to know about suffering. And crying. And jealousy. And confession. And redemption. And grace. And miracles. And God's ability - and desire - to make all things new.

All of our stories lead us to today. And, in our case, it's a sad chapter that is forever a part of us, that made us who we are, that allowed God to fashion our family just so.

We wouldn't be here without infertility. Not here, at least. Not with these three kids who we adore beyond all imagination asleep in their rooms, with a baby gate shutting off the kitchen, number flashcards hanging from our mantel.

So, like that divorcee, I can't wish a second of it away.

Darn you, infertility. I really wanted to wish we'd never met.

The dirt about anger

I've been struggling with something ever since my miscarriage. I've hesitated talking about it, and I'm not sure why. I've come clean about all the details, so what's so different about this?

For starters, there's a lot of shame in it for me. And guilt. Immediate guilt. There's also sadness for my babies. And embarrassment, that I'm not the mom I want to be, or should be.

The deal is that hormones, or grief, or who knows what, is causing me to have a very short temper. Which means I am angry a lot. You know how there's usually a build-up to that boiling point where you explode? Mine is bubbling below the surface all the time. It just takes one thing - a small thing - to set me off. And even though I know I have a problem and desperately want to deal with it, it's hard. Really hard.

Two days ago it was particularly bad. I yelled at Clara and Luke all day. And I cried all night. How could I do this to them?

I vowed to get better. I would stop myself before I yelled. I would resist the urge, walk away. That was my plan.

And then, the next day, this happened.

Funny, God. Really funny.

You have to understand, the things that were setting me off in the weeks and days prior were things like Luke not looking at me when I spoke to him. Or Clara not picking up toys fast enough. I battled with Luke for 12 hours one day about taking a single bite of macaroni and cheese. We're not talking big things here.

So both of my kids, covered in mud, methodically plastering it on our swing set, was more than enough reason for me to yell.

And, I hate dirt.

But the thing is, I wasn't even that mad. I clearly thought it was funny enough to run and grab my camera, and climb the playground equipment to take all sorts of shots (it's "shooting from above" week in my photography group, in case you're wondering why every shot looks like I'm oddly hovering over top of them. And, yes, I am dumping them all here because a post about anger needs some levity).

But did that stop me from yelling? Of course not. They dirtied their clothes, they wiped mud all over their toys, they made SUCH A MESS FOR ME TO CLEAN UP. And I made sure they knew it.

And you know what I yelled most about? That they wouldn't look at my darn camera.

As it was happening, I even saw myself from the outside looking in. Or, rather, heard myself. I sounded like a crazy woman. Or, at least a very mean woman. I looked around at the neighboring yards, afraid someone might be witnessing this.

I did not want to be this person. She was ugly and out of control.

The guilt hit me like the mud that Clara had flung at me (accidentally?) a few minutes before. I knew I was wrong. I needed to reign it in. I had promised myself I'd work on it, fight whatever hormones were making me mad, not let the way I was reacting to grief negatively affect my children. And yet here I was, yelling once again. This was my chance to change things.

I went inside, put Essie down for a nap, and took a deep breath. They are kids. I technically never told them not to make mud and play in it. They weren't fighting. They were actually having the time of their lives.

In fact, it could even count as the day's homeschooling. They were out in nature, they created mud from water and dirt...that's science! And they were working together, and it was so cute. And they were playing, doing what kids do best and should be doing the most.

They were creating life-long memories.

There was no need for me to yell. I decided to not even calmly discipline them. And I apologized for losing my temper. I've been doing that a lot lately, apologizing. And losing my temper.

And the clean up? Ridiculously easy. I might even let them do it again.

I'm hoping things will get better. My hcg hadn't yet hit zero when I last had it checked two weeks ago (but it was really close), so that may be affecting things.

And grief. I've heard a lot lately about how grief can lead to anger. But it's not like I'm angry at God, or angry that I'm no longer pregnant, or angry that my baby died. I am just angry. And, I've started to notice, it seems to pop up a few hours after I happen upon reminders of what I lost, like pregnancy announcements from women due around the same time as I was. But instead of getting angry right then, it's like a little sneak attack, hitting me later and about seemingly nothing at all. It's just woven into the fabric of our everyday lives. I'm just mean.

But that's what gets me - I'm not mean. I'm not perfect, but I usually require the normal amount of provocation to lose it. And I can't help but think about the future, and how I don't want to look back and regret wasting a second of my kids' childhood. It really is an amazing time and I'm so, so incredibly happy...which makes me feel all the worse about my temper.

And I know that, in the grand scheme of things, this likely won't be that big of a deal. I'll reflect on it as an understandable - even normal - reaction to a traumatic event, a reaction that hopefully lasted only a month or two. But I still well up with tears when I think about my babies and how my anger outbursts are affecting them, no matter how short-lived it may be.

The other night, after that long day of battling over a bite of food, Luke looked up at me from his sippy cup and asked if I still loved him. Wow. Really? Safe to say my heart broke right in two.

He's just an innocent little boy. Who doesn't always want to eat his dinner. And who likes to play in the dirt.

So I'm working on this anger thing. I know I can't walk around whispering like Michelle Duggar all day, but I also can't do nothing. I need to be myself, do my best every day, and use my children as inspiration - remembering how much I love these three babies and how they need a mommy who is calm, gentle and loving.

They don't deserve this, and if it means that I have to work twice as hard to overcome whatever it is that's causing me to behave this way, I'll do it. 

So there it is. I think you know everything now. And please, feel free to shower me with all your tips for dealing with grief, anger, and remaining calm with little ones. And I can share advice on cleaning up kids caked in mud, because I'm an expert now.

What they're really thinking

I have a confession to make.

You know all those photos I post of happy, smiling kids? Well, in reality, they're often not all that happy. At least in that moment. 

Often, they're downright annoyed with me bringing out my camera yet again. I know I am relentless. I know I ask a lot. I know they don't always see my vision. And sometimes those sweet little faces just can't hide it anymore.

This can't be happening. She can't seriously want me to act natural while I pretend to make hearts out of yarn. What does that even MEAN?

Sometimes they're confused. I mean, they really want to get this whole photo shoot the heck over with. Yet, they also want to make Mommy nuts.

This is what you wanted - my fingers stuck up my nostrils, right, Mommy? This won't delay things at all. Just take this picture.

They're also really good at playing to the camera, and really letting me see that sparkle in their eyes.

She said she wanted me to stare blankly so that my eyes look completely and utterly empty, right? Good. I've got this DOWN. I mean, seriously, is there an Olympic sport in this? Cause I'd get gold. 

And then there's Essie. She's at that age where she just wants to run out of every shot.

Hey, Mommy! Is this good? Get me running! And reeeeaaaally blurry!

That's where treats come into play. Aaaannnd sometimes they fall out of mouths.

What, Mommy? You didn't give me this treat so you could see me chewing it in the picture? Oops! There it goes! Did you get that??

They're always adorable, I don't have to worry about that. But sometimes that adorableness hits a whole new level...called HOT MESS.

I'm ready! And I ran my buttery hands through my hair just for you, Mommy.

Shots with all three are always loads of fun. Sometimes we have boycotts.

This is working. This is working. She's soooo mad right now. 

And other times they try to stare daggers right through me.

You are going to suffer for making me do this, lady. And Luke may still be smiling like a baby who's having gas, but you better believe when stuff goes down, he's with me. 

But at least it encourages sibling bonding.

Luke: Why, oh why is she humiliating us like this? Clara: I promise we'll get through this, Luke. Together.

They are seriously little troopers though. I can really get in their way. Always stopping them from something fun, just to get a shot.

Luke: Tell me again, why exactly does she want us to HUG in the snow? What does snow have to do with HUGS? Clara: Don't ask questions. Just smile. 

But they'll have their childhood documented, right? They'll be SET when it comes to Throw Back Thursdays in 2034. 

"Hanging with the Moms back in 2014! #tbt"

And sometimes, Mommy gets pictures of her babies that make her really happy. And maybe cry a little.

Because I still can't believe I have these three little subjects to bribe into posing. And I just want to capture every single moment with them. Okay, every moment might be too extreme. I promise I'm working on it.

Telling our kids

I've been asked a lot about how my kids are doing with everything going on with the miscarriage. Do they know? What did we tell them? How are they handling it?

Yes, they know. I had wanted to tell them I was pregnant immediately. I mean, could you imagine spending every day, all day, with three people with whom you can't discuss your pregnancy? And it was ALL I wanted to talk about. And it's not exactly like they are co-workers or acquaintances. They are my kids. They are closer to me than my right arm.

Ryan wanted to wait. I got it. But I couldn't resist. So I would talk around it with them. Kids, would you want Mommy to have a baby in her belly? What would you want to name it? So, would you rather it be a brother or a sister??? All purely hypothetical questions, of course.

On the day of our first ultrasound, we left the girls with a friend and brought Luke (I didn't want to burden her with all three of my crazies). Clearly not as clueless as we might have pegged him to be, he listened intently and soon realized we were looking at a baby in Mommy's tummy on the black and white screen.

And then we got bad news. He saw me cry in the dimly-lit room. He, and his sisters, saw me cry once back at home. I looked at Ryan as I laid on the couch and said I wanted to tell them. He didn't stop me.

So we told them there was a baby in Mommy's tummy and that we all needed to pray that the baby grows. That was pounded into their heads so much over the next few weeks that, post-miscarriage, Clara was still hung up on it. "But the baby's going to grow, Mommy," she'd assured me. "We need to pray."

In the weeks that followed that ultrasound, I sucked up any sadness I had and tried to maintain some normalcy. We rejoiced in Baby #4's life. We all prayed for our newest family member before meals (so much so that it was hard to get out of the habit later). We talked about babies and they kissed my belly.

And then they were by my side, quite literally, when I first realized I was most likely miscarrying. It was just me and the three kids home that night, with Ryan away for work. Clara was sitting in the same chair as me when I first noticed the blood. (On a side note, I keep trying to remember what I did when I got up. Did I toss her aside? Did she fall out of the chair? Did she just sit there, stunned? It's really the only thing I can't remember from the whole ordeal.)

They heard me call my mom. They heard me yell, "this is it....this is it" into the phone. I vaguely remember them standing at the bathroom door.

Later when I gathered them together and told them that a friend would be coming over to put them to bed, I also told them that the baby might not be okay. How could I not? Once again it was just me and them. They saw my tears, they were probably afraid. I had to say something. Luke's response: "Mommy, did you see red coming from your crotch?" Oh my gosh. He heard me frantically telling that to two people on the phone over the course of the chaotic night, and apparently I had used the word "crotch". At least hearing my son say that word over and over brought a little comic relief to a terrible moment. And reminded me to watch what I said around them, as much as I could.

The next day, after the ultrasound that confirmed things, I told the older two that the baby had gone to be with Jesus. Luke immediately started crying. Touched, and concerned, I asked him what was wrong, thinking my deep little boy really got it. Turns out he was scared that my newly unoccupied womb meant he would "get small and go back in my tummy." Ya, that's about right for a three-year-old.

They quickly embraced the went-to-be-with-Jesus concept, and talked about it a lot. But, as kids will, they sometimes forgot. And Clara's (very understandable) confusion quickly came to light. She still talked about the baby in the same way she had before, she just tacked on "...in Heaven with Jesus" to the end of whatever statement she made.  An example:

Clara: I'm going to save some fishies for Catherine.
Me: Honey, Catherine is in Heaven with Jesus.
Clara: But she might want some fishies.
Me: That's very nice of you, but she's in Heaven with Jesus.
Clara: Well she might want some fishies...in Heaven with Jesus.

Then there was the time I returned home from Essie's 12-month check-up. Luke asked what the doctor said, and I told him, "Great! She's healthy!" To which he replied, "so the baby's coming back?" With all of my doctor's appointments lately, he misunderstood who this one was for.  Broke my heart right there.

Before the burial, Clara drew a picture to include in the baby's tiny casket. As she drew, she whispered to herself, saying, "Her heart wasn't beating. It froze. And her eyes didn't open because they were filled with gunk." I can't explain the "gunk" part, but I'm thinking she got the frozen heart stuff from the movie Frozen, which she had seen three times at that point.

The poor things saw a lot. I was in no state to entirely hide my emotions, and they listened closely to anything said within ear-shot. So confusion was setting in. And it's not like I had a chance to research what to do and say. That's not really my style even under the best circumstances; I tend to shoot from the hip. And this was definitely not the best of circumstances.

So I bought them a children's book about Heaven. It's about a little boy who visits Heaven with his guardian angel. He sees how amazing it is and flies around to see all that is there (except God), including many things that appeal to children, like ferris wheels and dinosaurs. They loved it. And then a couple days later Luke tells me, out of the blue, that he didn't want to leave me and go to see the dinosaurs. Oh, boy.

The good news (or bad news, depending on how you look at it) is I mentioned his comments to our pediatrician at an appointment a couple days later and she said that type of thinking doesn't usually start until around age seven, so he's advanced. Advanced in anxiety? Yup, he got my genes.

One of my favorite parts of the entire experience (yes, I have favorite parts of a miscarriage) was Luke going through a very big Crucifixion obsession at the same time. It was perfect for me, and no doubt God's hand. Over and over, he asked me to read to him from his children's Bible book, the scourging through Jesus' death. He was focused on the mocking, on the soldiers, on Mary's sadness, and on Jesus on the cross. Every time I got to it, he would fill in the line, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" It was balm to my grieving soul to read those sorrowful mysteries, written for a child, to a child, time and time again. And the reminder that Mary watched her Son die was just what I needed as I grieved my own loss of a child. God knew it was a time when His message needed to be very obvious and very direct.

As things have settled back down, they don't mention Catherine or Heaven really at all anymore. They're kids. They deal in the moment. They move on. But I'm not so naive as to think this may not stay with them for a long time. They're both very sensitive, with great memories. But I think they needed to experience this very real part of life, even at their ages. I just hope I handled it appropriately, in a way that won't cause them any harm. Molding and shaping kids is hard.

And I do hug them all a little tighter lately. And if they want to cuddle when I'm busy, I try to stop and savor the moment. I do it for them, to be present for them after being distracted last month. And I do it for their sibling, who I won't get those same chances to snuggle.

One of these things is not like the others

I took the kids to story time at the library today. It was an unusually tame trip, except for accidentally locking my children in the van with the keys and having to wait for Ryan to come save us. But before all that, as I was paying my late-book fine and checking out - Essie in my arms and the older two somewhere within eyeshot - the nice woman behind the counter asked if they were all mine. 

"Yup!" I answered.

"Well, where did that red hair come from?" she asked, as she looked from kid to kid.

Odd man out

I can't tell you how often I'm asked that. It's brought up more than Clara's tan complexion, or Essie's blue eyes. It's not our children who we adopted who are noticeably different, but the only one who actually shares our genetics. 

Ironically, it's Luke who sticks out, like a beautiful red-headed sore thumb. 

"Look, Mommy! Clara has red hair just like me!"

When it comes to our kids' looks, we've heard every comment you could imagine. Clara and Luke have the same eyes...the girls have my hair...Essie and Luke share that pale skin...Essie got her blue eyes from her daddy...Clara and Luke just must be twins.

It's the eyes, for sure.

Someone even spoke Spanish to me once after Ryan told him that Clara was half Mexican. He just assumed it must come from her mother. (Yes, I got excited that I could pass for Mexican. And no, whatever you're thinking, I wasn't outside in the pitch-black dark of night. Okay, maybe I was).

Don't you see the resemblance?

I've come to the conclusion that people see what they want to see. And it made me realize that when someone remarks about how I look like my sister, or my mother, they just might be making conversation. People assume Clara is my biological daughter so their mind draws the necessary conclusions. And they also might think my darker-skinned husband is waiting at home. Or, it may be our matching shirts.

What about here?

Generally, I tend to believe no one is really thinking about us all that much anyway. And, if they happen to, I don't mind because I'm sure it's just innocent curiosity. And, if they ask, I'll happily tell them about adoption.

I just love their differences.

Or, I might not. Like today. It wasn't necessary, so I didn't go into it. Yes, they are all mine. And where did that red hair come from? You know, we're not exactly sure!

They must be related :)

But we think we'll keep him.

We buried our baby

Tomorrow it will be a week since we buried our baby.

Two days earlier, we prepared her to leave our house. We took her out of our refrigerator, where she was stored, and and I cried as I placed a tiny Miraculous Medal pin inside the white towel that held what remained of her tiny body. The pin had been on all three of our babies' carseats over the years and I thought it fitting it would take its turn with Baby #4.

I asked Clara to draw a picture for the baby on a piece of paper I had cut small. She drew, honestly, what looked like the image seen on early ultrasound pictures, but I told myself it was a coincidence. As she drew, she whispered to herself about Catherine Gerard.

I wrote "To Catherine Gerard, We love you" on one side of the paper and placed the small drawing in the towel. I dipped my finger in holy water from Lourdes and made the sign of the cross on the sac, then wrapped up the towel one last time, wondering if we should have used a blanket, if there was more we could send with her. I made myself finish and then brought her to the living room where Ryan read a prayer for miscarried babies and we prayed. All five of us drove her to the funeral home.

The burial, on Wednesday, was a beautiful service, held in a chapel on the grounds of a Catholic cemetery. There were so many people there that Ryan and I, having left the kids with a babysitter, had to walk a ways from our car. It was standing room only in the chapel. As soon as I stepped inside my eyes met the eyes of a friend, a woman I know from the moms group at our parish. I didn't expect to see anyone I knew.

We stood for a few seconds, until someone made an announcement asking everyone who wasn't a parent to give their seats to those who were. We sat down on a pew in the first row. A few feet in front of us, sitting on three tables draped with white cloth, were 20 tiny white caskets. Each one had a small piece of paper attached that listed the names of the babies inside. I looked at the back of the program we were given and counted the list of names. Services like this are held every six weeks, yet there were 84 babies being memorialized that day.

Next to us and behind us were men and women, all nicely dressed, quiet, serious. The man seated to my left held a tissue and the woman next to him held his hand on her lap. To our right was a teary-eyed woman sitting alone.

A man from the funeral home spoke, welcoming everyone and explaining what would take place. He introduced a bishop from a Christian church (priests preside at some services, but not that day), who stood directly in front of us, behind the caskets, to speak.

The bishop told us why we believe our babies are in Heaven, what Scripture says to support that, and why it is so important we do what we were there to do that day.  In his booming voice he validated all my feelings of doubt about going through these motions to bury something many consider a fetus (who, in our case, grew so slowly she never actually entered the fetus stage). He said we needed to do this. A baby in the womb is a person and no less important in the eyes of God than any of the rest of us. His words were beautiful and powerful.

I cried, wiping my nose on the rough sleeve of my coat, wishing I had brought tissues.

When he finished, the funeral home man announced we were to form a line to walk past the little caskets. Ours was the first one, all the way to the right. We walked up to it, touched it, and I nervously took some photos with my phone. I forced myself to overcome any reservations about documenting the day.

We walked outside where everyone was gathering and I scanned the crowd. Probably not surprisingly, I was drawn to the mothers. It was clear who they were. They looked exhausted.

Soon members of the Knights of Columbus walked in procession out of the chapel carrying the caskets, one at a time. I was overwhelmed by the respect given these tiny humans.

Once they were all placed inside a car that was to be driven to the grave site, we all walked the short distance for the burial.

The Knights once again solemnly walked each casket from the vehicle to the grave, bowing slightly after handing off each one. We stood close enough to read the name Catherine Gerard Nobles as it went by.

After all were placed in the shallow grave, someone spoke once more and then welcomed those of us who brought flowers to place them nearby.

It was over. I said hello to my friend from church, and discovered our sad stories had similarities. I watched as one woman wept uncontrollably by the grave as a man held her. And then we walked to our car.

And, as I walked, I tossed around in my head the very fresh concept that I now have a child in a cemetery.

Does that sound dramatic? Some may think so. After all, I was only 11 weeks into my pregnancy. And worse yet, the baby grew so slowly that she only measured 6 weeks and one day when her death was confirmed*. And we buried her? In a cemetery?

I'm here to tell you that yes, we did. And our baby, and all the others there beside her, deserved all the respect shown them that day.

And here's why: I was pregnant with a real baby. In our case, we were so blessed to see our baby's heart beat. She was alive. And then, unfortunately, she died, just like everyone will eventually. Her time just happened to come before she ever left the womb. She was smaller than a penny, but she was real and important and our child. She would have played an integral role in our family, an unknown role that will never be filled and will always be missed.

Our baby was only ever a human baby. If she had lived, she was only ever going to grow to become an older, larger human. She would have been Essie's play mate, maybe even her life-long best friend. She may have had red hair like her brother, and liked to draw like me and Clara. She surely would have given us headaches, and hugged us too many times to count. She may have married and had babies of her own.

What I delivered two Saturdays ago was my child, no matter how small or recognizable. Size or age doesn't determine a baby's value after a child is born, and neither should it matter in the womb.

She was a life, formed by our God. She deserved so much more than what we gave her last Wednesday. She deserved to be born and cry and keep us up at night. But I'll be forever grateful for the program, run by our diocese and a local funeral home, that so generously allowed us to bury her free of charge. We are so blessed that burial was even an option, that so many strangers worked together to show us that she was valued. It was pro-life in action. It was one of the most real, tangible life-affirming experiences that I've ever been a part of. And, sadly, in this day and age it felt very counter-cultural.

Those parents beside us that day were grieving their babies, and they were nothing less than babies. Not tissue, or merely embryos or fetuses. They were their children. And they are loved.

Rest in peace, Catherine Gerard.

"Here the will of God is done, as God wills, and as long as God wills." St. Gerard Majella

*We saw a heart beat at 7.5 weeks, so she was at least alive at that time. She died sometime between 7.5 and 10.5 weeks, but only ever grew to the size a baby should be at 6 weeks, 1 day.

****************************

{Addendum}

I have a confession.

I had a hard time writing this post and I think that's because I couldn't figure out who I was writing it to. But tonight, it suddenly occurred to me - I wrote it to myself. It's hard for me to admit this, but pre-miscarriage, I think was one of those people who didn't quite understand someone burying a six-week-old in-utero baby. I don't think I would have gone so far as to have a conscious thought that it was weird, or wrong. And I would have definitely prayed and felt sadness for those who grieved. But if I heard they were going to visit their baby in the cemetery? Well, way back in the far reaches of my mind, I might have had the passing thought that it was a bit extreme. 

And I'm pro-life. Always have been. I know it's a human life. I know it's a baby. I know my son was once a six-week old fetus in my very own womb. So if I can somewhere, deep down, feel that all the pomp and circumstance isn't necessary for babies who pass away so early in the womb.. then I know others must too.

So now I realize that I wrote this for me, to convince myself that what we were doing - what I needed to do the second I realized our baby was gone - was right and necessary. And I wrote it for those like me, so that we can start to change the face of miscarriage. If we are pro-life... if we pray for women considering abortion to see that fetus in their womb as the child that she is... then we have to treat miscarried babies the same way. 

My miscarriage

I want to share with you both the physical and emotional aspects of what I've experienced so far. On the physical side of it, I felt strongly that I needed to share the story of my medically-induced miscarriage using the drug Misoprostol for two reasons. Number one: because I didn't find many stories like mine online. I think sometimes the worst-case scenarios are the ones that people feel compelled to share, for obvious and understandable reasons. My story, though, is one where it went better than I could have ever hoped for, and so I felt like I should put it out there as well. Yes, it is scary and will most likely be very painful, but there's also a chance it may not be all that terrible. At least physically-speaking.

Number two: Miscarriage is something that isn't talked about a great deal, also for obvious reasons. I didn't know squat about it before it happened to me. I probably half didn't want to know and half didn't want to ask. So I feel compelled to share my story with the hope that it could help someone else. Even if you never suffer a miscarriage, you will know someone who has or is currently. Maybe this will help you to help them. 

On the day an ultrasound confirmed my miscarriage, when I sat in a chair in my doctor's office, she sat beside me and offered me three options: miscarry naturally, which would need to happen within 30 days or infection may set in; miscarry with the help of medication, which would take place, hopefully, over the course of one day; or have a D&C, a surgical procedure for which I would be under anesthesia. 

I hoped to avoid a D&C if at all possible, despite it being the more pain-free option (or so I'm told), because I've had a few surgeries in my day and didn't want to add one to my list if I didn't absolutely have to. At first, I thought I'd prefer to miscarry naturally, but suddenly the thought that it could start at any time of day or night, and may not happen for thirty days, didn't appeal to me. I actually had no idea there was an option to take medication to bring it on. So that's what I chose. 

I read a lot about medication-induced at-home miscarriages after leaving that office. It was such a complete unknown to me, as someone who had never had one and isn't in the medical field. I assume that's how it is for most people who have never lost a pregnancy. Even if we know someone who has gone through it, the details - the real details - just aren't discussed. 

Accounts of using the drug which I was prescribed - Misoprostol - are easily found online and vary widely. The stories included women suffering from flu-like symptoms, extreme pain, extreme blood loss, trips to the emergency room, pain starting after two hours, after eight hours, the pills not working at all, pain three days later...it goes on and on.

I started to feel as if I was about to go in front of a firing squad - an event to which I was driving myself - with no idea how long the entire scary ordeal would take. Would it be slow and painful? Quick and painful? Because, surely, it would be painful. 

What I took from all the stories was that it was going to hurt, it was going to be messy, and it would hopefully be over in one day. I'd probably get chills, I'd probably vomit, and it would feel like labor, at least on some level. I prepared myself mentally for something resembling a home birth that would end with no baby and no rejoicing. And I took some comfort in the thought that I'd be birthing this baby, even if it was six-and-a-half months earlier, and with a much different outcome, than I had hoped. 

Now, this next part deserves its own post, but I also need to include it here because it's a big part of the story. The day I learned my baby had no heartbeat, my sister Amy insisted that she and her husband, Joe, would be driving down all the way from New York to take care of me and my family through my ordeal. They took two days off from work, kissed their two kids goodbye, arrived Friday morning and took over. They bought us meals, fed my children, changed diapers, bathed them, sat with me, bought me a heating pad, folded laundry, and purchased items to wrap and place the baby in. They waited on me and completely took care of my babies.

I cried when my sister explained why they came to help. She said if I had gone full-term and given birth to a healthy baby, everyone would be reaching out to us. There'd be presents and meals and people there to help. So why should women who miscarry not receive the same care, especially considering they don't have the joy of a baby at the end of it all? That just blew me away. And if that's not truly being Christ to others I don't know what is. My sister is amazing. Words will never express my gratitude for what she and her husband did for us.

Ryan had to work the day of the actual miscarriage (it was a huge day in VA politics and I chose not to wait until he was off), so my brother-in-law took the kids to the movies while my sister hunkered down with me to wait for the firing squad to begin.

I had been spotting all week, since first seeing the blood on Monday night, and on Friday afternoon I saw some of the largest clots I'd seen yet and had some very slight twinges of pain. I called the doctor to see if there's a point at which a natural miscarriage has begun and the pills become unnecessary, or possibly even dangerous. The doctor said yes, it sounded like I may be miscarrying on my own and to not take the drugs. Disappointed (a natural miscarriage could be drawn out over many days), I asked if things slowed back down if I could still take the pills. She warned me that if I took the pills when it was already happening, the pain could be extremely severe but, ultimately, it was a judgment call.

Things did slow down, almost to a trickle, so I decided to take the medication as planned. I was nervous, but focused. I still wasn't feeling too emotional. I needed to push through this and get to the other side.

On Saturday morning I woke, showered, ate breakfast, and drank some water. I nervously took the pills at 10:20 a.m., along with four Advil, and laid in my bed to allow gravity to assist. I snacked while my stomach felt okay and tried to relax. 

Hours went by. I moved to the living room and watched T.V. with my sister, with my new heating blanket in place. I felt okay, but had begun to bleed much more, and thought I felt some flutters of pain in my abdomen. At 4 p.m. I was still hungry and wasn't nauseous, so we had subs delivered. I was doing well, but too well. I was starting to worry things may not happen at all.

At 5 p.m. I went to the bathroom, passed some more clots, and noticed two of my pills among them. I couldn't believe it. I texted my aunt, who is a labor and delivery nurse, who assured me I probably absorbed some of the medication and told me to try to put them back in. I did, but officially became frustrated that seven hours had passed and nothing had happened.

By 6:30 p.m. Ryan was home from work and the kids and my brother-in-law were home from the movies. My abdomen felt tight and I took four more advil. By 6:45 I felt I needed to move into my bedroom. The tightness had increased and had become uncomfortable. I didn't want to be around everyone any longer.

Around this time I passed the largest clots I had seen yet, and wondered if it was the baby. How would I know? But I remembered that everything I had read and heard assured me that you'll know. My sister and I considered starting to save some of it, though, just in case.

In bed, I googled Percocet. I had the pills at the ready but feared feeling loopy. I called for my sister to come in and break one in half, and asked her to be prepared to give me it soon. I didn't think I was in enough pain to really need it at that point, but I had read stories of women who regretted waiting too long.

I ate a cookie as the tight feeling turned into contractions. They were constant - tighten, release, tighten, release - just like early labor with Luke (I reacted too strongly to the Pitocin, so the contractions were similarly constant). But they were, all things considered, fairly mild. I felt them, but could still eat a cookie. The pain was nothing in comparison to endometriosis pain I had been rushed to the hospital for in the past.

At 7:30 I felt like I needed to use the bathroom, but didn't want to get up. That's when I felt a gush of something and ran in. After more clots, I passed something much larger, something completely different than anything I had seen. It just can't be, I thought. I hadn't had any real pain! I had felt completely fine for eight hours, and had only slight cramping for the last hour. I had read accounts where the person said the pain would be so bad that I would feel like I was dying and would want to die. There was no way it was over.

But it was. The cramping immediately stopped. And my sister and Ryan agreed that what we were looking at was the sac. My aunt and my mom, both nurses, also agreed over the phone, based on my description.

I was in disbelief.

That's where I'll stop that part of the story for now. There is much more that happened next with the baby, but I just don't feel like I should share that all here. But I know I had a lot of questions about every aspect of it, so if anyone is going through it and would like more information, please feel free to email me. Hopefully I can help.

I am still in shock at how well it went. I really feel strongly that it was due to all the prayers everyone has been saying for me and my family, and I think it was just another way that God has been showing me that He is right here with me through it all. I also have guilt, though, since so many women have much worse experiences with the medication. My heart goes out to them.

Physically, I'm still doing well. On Sunday, the day after the miscarriage, I even went to 8:30 a.m. mass. I never expected to bounce back so quickly. I feel bloated, like after I gave birth to Luke, but on a smaller scale.

The emotional pain, though, began in earnest Sunday night. The baby was in the house with us but the reality was starting to set in that she would soon be leaving. Forever. And that broke my heart. We are beyond blessed to live in an area where there is a program that buries miscarried babies free of charge. Once a month there is a service and burial in a local cemetery, and we made it just in time to be included in the one being held tomorrow.  The program is offered thanks to a local funeral home, the Diocese of Richmond and the Knights of Columbus, and I just think it is one of the most amazing ministries I've ever heard of. And in all the interaction we've had with those who run it, they've only ever referred to our "baby". Talk about respecting the dignity of all human life.

It's been painful, though. I struggle with the finality of it all. I wept as I wondered what we should include with our baby in the casket. What we should name her. If I should look again. Nothing seemed good enough and I was distraught at the possibility of regret. I soon began to realize that it was my attempt at mothering her, and it was going to be impossible to cram a lifetime worth of love and care into a measly 24 hours. And while the body is sacred, that wasn't our baby anymore. She (or he...we don't know) is with God.

On Monday, we took her to the funeral home. It was hard. Really, really, really hard. We named her Catherine Gerard Nobles. We'll never know the baby's gender on this side of Heaven, but as I prayed the last few weeks I always found myself referring to "her" and "she." So we put Catherine first. And both names come from the saints I had a devotion to this pregnancy. Very early on I chose her a patron saint through a saint name generator, and St. Catherine, patroness against miscarriage, was the result.

Tomorrow is the service, and I have no idea how I will feel. I wish I didn't ever have to go to one of these, but at the same time I'm so glad that there is such a thing. And that our baby will have a final resting place that we can visit, even though she was so tiny. A person's a person no matter how small.

I have many more thoughts swirling in my mind that I'd like to get out, including how the kids have handled it all. I hope you don't mind me continuing to share my experiences here, because it's been helpful so far. It's also been incredibly helpful to read all of your supportive comments and I can't thank all of you enough for all of your prayers. We have felt them in a real way and we are so appreciative.

Baby #4 was only with us a short time but will always be part of our family.

Our only family photo with all four of our babies, taken before our first u/s when Catherine Gerard was still growing ever-so-slowly