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.

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{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

I was pregnant

I was pregnant. And now I'm not.

I got the positive test on Thanksgiving morning. I had started to suspect it a couple days before, just like with Luke, and anxiously waited until I was really late to test. But I was still blown away at seeing the two lines. Once you've experienced years of infertility, it's hard to ever fully believe your body can do anything right. 

Thanks to the holiday, I had to wait five days to get a blood draw. It took forever, but I finally received the results almost a week after my positive test and they were good. My progesterone was high enough that my doctor didn't think I needed supplementation, but I still asked for it, just to be safe, and started taking it the next day. 

I had my first ultrasound in mid-December. It didn't go well, at least according to my standards. I was 7 weeks, 4 days, but the baby was measuring 6 weeks, 0 days.  But we saw the heartbeat and it happened to be a healthy heart rate for a six-week old baby. "It's fine," everyone told me. "You just ovulated late." "The dating is off." "You have nothing to worry about." My OB assured me that she saw positive outcomes in similar situations all the time. I could still miscarry, but my odds were the same as everyone else's.  "You have a healthy earlier-than-you-thought pregnancy," she told me. "I'm putting your file away and not expecting you to call."

I went home and sobbed on the couch with a comforter over my head. I was inconsolable.

By the next day I had made a decision: My baby had a heart beat and was alive and I was going to have hope because I was that baby's mother. 

The next three weeks went better than expected. I was able to have a happy Christmas, enjoy our trip up north to see my family, and rejoiced that I was pregnant with Baby #4 on my 37th birthday. We told the kids and they were thrilled. Clara wanted a sister, Luke wanted a brother, Clara rubbed my belly, and Luke reminisced by talking a little too much about my c-section where my "skin was cut open" and he "was pulled out." I don't remember being that detailed when I explained it to him.

I had my moments. I knew I wouldn't be pregnant for long and, at times, I let that slip. I won't need maternity clothes, I told my mom. I won't be pregnant the next time I see you, I told my sisters. I feared my follow-up ultrasound appointment that was so, so far away but inching ever closer. 

Ryan had a work trip coming up - a freelance gig covering the National Championship Game for the BCS -  that would take him out of town for four days. I dreaded it for the obvious reason - all alone for four days with three kids and no family nearby - but I was also scared to death that I'd miscarry while he was gone. "That's crazy. Don't say that," he said. 

The first two-and-three-quarter days went great. Really, really well. The days flew by, no one came down with the stomach bug, everyone slept through the night (well, not Luke, but he doesn't count), and we were closing in on the last day. Baths were finished, jammies were on, and we were hanging out in the living room trying to catch a glimpse of daddy on the sidelines of the game on TV. 

That's when Clara happened to find a prayer card that I had stashed under a lamp in the living room way back around the time of that first ultrasound.  

"What's this?" she asked. I told her what it was. "Can you read it to me?" she asked. Of course, I said.

It's my absolute favorite prayer card. I cling to Our Lady's words during times of anxiety. But they've always been just that - words. Even in their most helpful moments, they were a two-dimensional reassurance.

I snuggled in my favorite chair with her and read aloud Our Lady's words to Juan Diego. Somewhere around the question "Am I not your Mother?" something happened. I'll take me about a thousand times longer to explain it than the time it took for it to actually happen - and I will not even remotely do the experience even close to any justice - but suddenly the words became real and very three-dimensional. And for a quarter of a second I understood everything and saw something. It was Our Lady, holding us and it was bright and it was colorful and it was warm. And I immediately understood that unlike the many times I had read the words before, and thought, Oh, how nice that Our Lady will help us out here on Earth, that what it really meant, what she was really telling us, was the we need not worry because Eternity awaits us. There is no need for anxiety when there is God, when we will one day be with God. I know those are just words on a computer screen right now, but they were REAL to me. And I felt in that moment, I saw in that flash, that Our Lady was holding all of us, she was holding me, and more specifically for me that night, she was holding my baby right then. And I burst into tears. 

They weren't sad tears. They were tears of being overwhelmed. I don't know exactly what it was that I felt or saw in my mind's eye, but it made me cry. 

Clara asked me what was wrong and I told her I was crying about the baby. About a minute later, I felt something wet and reached down to touch my pants. When I brought my hand back up there was blood on it. 

I jumped up and began to lose my mind. I ran to the bathroom, calling my mother on the way. "I'm bleeding!" I yelled into the phone. "From where?" she asked. I thought at the time how that was such a silly question. But to everyone else who wasn't expecting a miscarriage at every single moment, that statement could have meant I had cut my finger while chopping vegetables. 

My intense freak-out lasted about five minutes and then, as I walked around my bedroom frantically, I had the realization that my actions were not matching up with my thinking. My mind, for once, was calmer than I was outwardly acting. Slow down, I told myself. Don't freak out just because you think you're supposed to. Even then I knew it was just plain odd that my mind wasn't freaking out. I knew it had to be due to a force outside of myself. 

Things weren't okay, but I could handle it. I thought about calling my friend who had just left about an hour earlier, but I knew she had three kids to put to bed. So I texted another friend, Sarah, who is pregnant with her first. She responded in seconds. I later found out my mom (who lives many states away) had immediately gone on Facebook and sent messages to both of those same two friends, asking if they could come over and help. Sarah was on her way.

I didn't end up going to the ER that night like I had wanted. The on-call doctor assured me there was nothing the ER could do anyways, besides an ultrasound. But if it was waking up in the night in pain and bleeding that I feared, they weren't going to stop that. I would call my doctor in the morning. 

I assured Sarah she didn't have to sleep on my couch like she wanted to and also found out she had to go into work around 4 a.m., in just a few hours. And yet she did not even hesitate to come help me that night. The kindness and generosity of others during this entire experience has simply amazed me. 

I never thought I'd go to an OB appointment to confirm a miscarriage all by myself. Why would I? That would be a nightmare. And yet there I was, doing just that. Ryan was beside himself with grief and guilt. He couldn't believe he was on the other side of the country when this was happening. But he was and we had to make the best of it. And we were able to, thanks to more generosity. My other friend braved the cold and brought her three children to my house that morning to babysit my kids, and off I went to hear the terrible news.

The woman checking me in told me there was a balance on my account, but that I didn't have to pay it then because "you'll definitely be back!" I think she even ended with a second, "Definitely!" No I won't, I thought.

I waited among women at all stages of pregnancy, the ones who had regularly-scheduled appointments. Eventually they called me back and the nurse tried the Doppler. Not surprisingly, there was nothing. "I don't think we can fit you in for an ultrasound today," she told me. Oh, dear God, I thought. 

She left and then - thank God - returned to tell me they could squeeze me in and I was immediately ushered to the ultrasound room. "Are you alone?" the tech asked, because she wanted to know if it was okay to close the door behind me. I lost it at her question and shook my head 'yes' through the tears. She was very sweet and remembered me from last time, she said, as I cried. "Do you have any cramping?" I shook my head 'no'. "Do you have any bleeding?" I shook my head 'yes'. 

What happened next was just what I expected. No heartbeat, and the baby measured 6 weeks 1 day, one day further than at my last ultrasound in mid-December. Yet, yesterday, I was 10-and-a-half weeks into my pregnancy.

I cried off and on as I once again waited in the waiting room, when I read texts from family, as I waited in my doctor's office (her actual office, the one with the desk, which is where you go once you have no more baby), and as my doctor explained my options. But I was, for the most part, stable. Especially for being all alone. 

That afternoon wasn't bad, thanks to the extreme kindness of friends. I returned home and relieved my very generous friend who had spent half the day with all six kids. And before I knew it, my friend Sarah showed up with big bags of lunch, cupcakes, and bagels, and sat with me and my kids all afternoon during the time I baby-sat the little boy I watch. I can't tell you what that meant to me. 

I have been wondering why I have felt so strong because, honestly, I'm the weakest person I know. I have some theories. I think Ryan might sort of be my crutch (my fault, not his); when he's around I can fall into my typical emotional mess during difficult times. It's what I do because he is there. Without him, I simply can't. It's like when one of my kids gets badly injured - when blood is involved, or a bump the size of a soft-ball immediately protrudes from their skull. If I'm not alone, if someone else is there to help, I feel faint and my legs don't work. I am totally and completely useless. Yet, if I'm alone with them, I can handle it. I rise to the occasion because I have to. I'm pretty sure that's what happened the past couple days. 

I also believe that I mourned this loss back in December after that first ultrasound. Not that I think I won't continue to mourn it; I completely expect the grief to come in waves. But Tuesday was just confirmation of what I already knew. I actually felt relieved, in a way, to know I no longer had to pretend to be optimistic, since everyone but me believed all was fine. We could now move on from this weird limbo. 

My three children are also a huge reason why I believe this experience has been manageable so far. Not only do they keep me busy, but they remind me of all that I've been given. Blessing upon blessing upon blessing. And, since this all has happened, I can't help but stare at them and wonder how anyone is born. Life is so fragile in the womb. How did Luke make it? It's sometimes too much for me to think about for too long.

Of course, God's grace is ultimately the real reason behind my current stability and sense of peace. At some point yesterday I had the thought that, well, so much for all those prayers for a miracle I've begged God for during this pregnancy. Then I remembered the rope He threw me seconds before it all started, in the form of a prayer card, brought to me by my daughter, and the flash of inexplicable Divine Love and assurance that I experienced. That was my miracle. That was my answer to all those prayers. He thought of little me and gave me a gift that I could carry with me throughout the terrible experience that was about to come. And, I realized, that's what trusting Jesus is all about (a concept I've struggled with a lot in the past): He may not will the cup to pass us by, but He'll never leave us during our struggle. And, if we let Him, He may even become present to us in a very real way.  

And as for my baby, I have a very simple view of it right now - she is in Heaven, where we hope and pray all of our children will eventually be. Why should I mourn that? Yes, I mourn for me, but not for her. 

Trust me, that is of God because I'm not normally a rational thinker in times of stress. 

Is it odd that I'm sharing all this? I don't know. Maybe it is. I have been given a gift of peace in a difficult situation and I feel compelled to talk about it. I'm also selfishly sharing my story to ask for your prayers. The physically painful part is yet to come, and I would appreciate any prayers for that you are able to offer. 

Let me also state that I know how lucky I am to have experienced a pregnancy, let alone two. That is not lost on me at all. I thank God that I was able to conceive again, and marvel at the miracle of it, no matter how short a time it lasted. My prayers are always with those still waiting to become mothers, and I'll offer up the emotional and physical pain that is to come for all of you.

Busy busy

It's been a crazy couple of weeks.

Luke, feigning concern, is actually happy to see someone other than himself messing up a photo for once.

A first birthday, Christmas, an 8-hour trip up north, a rare day of work (outside the home, that is) and bringing-home-the-bacon for me.

Do I look like I have a lot of information to offer on improving your marriage?

Fun with my family...

What percentage must be smiling for it to be a success? I'm hoping 33.3.

Lots of great food, Luke's first college basketball game in which Ryan left the tickets in Virginia but it all turned out fabulously.

He did so great, despite the much-talked-about mascot being on Christmas break. Oops.

An 8-hour drive back home a day early to miss the Great Storm of 2014, my birthday in which I turned old, and a brand new laptop which also happens to be my FIRST laptop since I started blogging believe it or not and will allow me to blog much, much more. Or so I hope.

Surely I missed something there.

Now we're back at home, we seem to have lost our baby and gained a toddler.

"You want the shot, the apple stays."

 A walking toddler, at that. With lots of curls and opinions.

Please ignore the fact that my daughter is in the fireplace. It's clean and non-working. I swear.

We have more toys than we know what to do with, and I'm pretty sure our house is shrinking. Ryan's working overtime this weekend and I'm hunkering down as if a snow storm is coming, stocking up on bread and milk and processed food because I'm not leaving the house with these kids except for Mass.

Our little southerners. Pretty sure Luke is sock-less.

So it's kind of been survival mode over here in recent weeks. It's in a good way, but still survival mode.

A complete lack of anything that resembles normalcy means school has taken a back seat to the craziness. That worries me, because there will always be craziness. I also haven't seen the inside of a gym in weeks.

Life will get back to normal soon. I think. And then I'll be longing for a little crazy to shake things up.