We have three dogs and two cats – making us just a few animals short of starring in our own episode of “Hoarders,” I know.  If you have pets you know and love the unconditional love they offer; in my opinion, the maxim “Make me the kind of person my dog thinks I am” is a noble goal.  I think everyone should know the love of a good dog at least once in their life (because you couldn’t help but adopt another one once you’ve experienced that).  Our animals each have distinct personalities, and for the last week my dogs have taken on “Operation Comfort” in their own unique ways.  Any time I have cried, I immediately have three attentive noses and cautiously wagging tails headed my way.  Brook, the German shepherd, takes up defense, crawling up next to me and assuming her protective stance, occasionally growling if she thinks the boys are being too rowdy.  Tuck, the red one, sits on the other side and looks worried; he will lick my nose or eyes if I look at him, and he’s been known to cry, too.  (He also has “migraines” whenever I have them, too.)  Bear, the black fluffy one, tries to slap the sad out me; though not gentle, his approach is perhaps the most proactive.  He brings all of his favorite toys and whacks me with them (you haven’t lived until you’ve been beaten about the head and neck with a slobbery monkey…) until I give up and play fetch.  Bear also likes to hug – he likes nothing better than to crawl up on your lap and lay with his head on your chest.  It sounds sweet, but Bear is sort of a drooler, and he slaps if you quit petting him.

With all of that attention, it’s hard to stay sad or angry for long.  It’s amazing how much our emotions disrupt the “pack” – I can’t imagine how much more that effect must be magnified with children.  This morning started out with some pretty painful cramping.  I got out of bed long enough to open the door for the dogs’ morning constitutional and to take some prescription strength ibuprofen.  By the time I got somewhat settled back in bed, I had both cats and Tuck the Worrier snuggling up in lieu of heating pads.  Today promises to be full of ibuprofen, heating pads, and the consoling power of dog slobber.

I think most people who’ve gone through difficult times look back at some point and think, “Well, I never saw that one coming, “ or “If you’d told me a year ago that this would happen…”  When I look back to my college years, I expected that I would find an interesting job, get married, and start a family.  Then the chaos of marriage and kids and work would ensue in some happily tumbled domestic fairy tale.  If you had told me then what my experience would be to date, I would have believed the greatly talented husband and the wildly interesting job.  I would not have been able to process losing five babies in miscarriage.  If you had told me the miscarriage part even five years ago, I would have said, I know people who have made it through that kind of loss, but there’s no way I’m strong enough to deal with that.

And now I find myself on the other end of the last four years, slightly dazed and confused, but surviving.  I began thinking about things I wouldn’t have imagined for myself in the last decade.  I would never have imagined writing a blog, for one; I used to equate blogging with diarrhea of the typing fingers (and I have never wanted to be an inappropriate web sharer, providing way too many details better left unsaid – there are some things that should never, ever be published).  I would never have imagined that I would have the courage to share some of the things that I have written or posted in the last two months.  I would never have imagined the strain a decade of life together and five miscarriages could put on my marriage, but I also would never have imagined the growth and grace that have come out of my marriage in the last six months.

When I started the blog, I thought it would be a place to share some of my creative writing and the personal aftermath of multiple miscarriages, but I never thought I would be posting “live” about another one.  (I’m still assuming that lab work today will confirm what my body’s been saying all weekend.)  I know the process, and it’s a little scary to think about sharing it while it’s happening.  The stages of grief are pretty tough to work through, and I was never too public about what I was dealing with before the blog.  I promised myself when I started blogging that I would be honest, warts, doubts and all; now that I am faced with sharing the denial, rage, acceptance, et al, I am terrified anew that I’ll be a lot like the naked emperor.   A ridiculous response to be sure, but it’s the honest one.  It’s still hard for me to imagine that anyone but God could love me for exactly who and what I am, and sometimes I struggle to believe that God loves me just as I am.  I am astonished every time I look at the blog stats that people actually read what I write (people, as in more than one person, as in not just my mom who might be forced at gunpoint to read…).  It’s an amazingly enabling feeling that combats the fear.

The next six months will be hard to write about honestly; it’s much easier to say I’m doing well and only post happy things, but it wouldn’t be the truth.  I know it would not be helpful to anyone else going through the same thing.  Some days are much easier, even downright hilarious while my brain reboots over the next six weeks of the “ditz” stage (I was not aware until the second miscarriage that stupid is actually one of the stages of grief, but last night I called the refrigerator a microwave six times…), and some days are bleak and scary.  But this time around, I’m sharing as much as I can (decently) put into words.  I know it will make me look harder at the process, which should help me to move forward, but you, dear reader, are in for a ride through crazy town.  I hope you packed your clown suit.

Have you ever eaten a blood orange?  They taste a lot like a regular orange, but most of them are a little bit bitter, and their fruit is red.  It’s an interesting mix of tart and sweet, and that’s what this weekend is like.  I’m still a little bit in denial about losing the baby, but the constant spotting makes it an annoying reality.  It’s sinking in a little at a time.  But my weekend is so crammed full of happiness, that it’s a blood orange weekend; mostly sweet with a little hint of bitter.

My best friend brought her new son home from Ethiopia on Friday, and it was amazing and beautiful like nothing you’ve ever seen to watch his new family see him come home.  I know when I look at the photos again I will cry giant crocodile tears of joy.  (I’ve never understood why we say “crocodile tears” when they seem so dry and scaly; it seems like “elephant tears” or “whale tears” might be more appropriate.)  I had the privilege and joy of watching my friend’s family open their arms and hearts to this gorgeous little boy who speaks few English words but smiles big enough to light up a city block.

Saturday, I get to meet my childhood-into-early-adulthood best friend’s daughter.  My friend and I have talked on the phone and e-mailed as if we never had a time gap in our friendship.  I’ve seen tons of pictures of her little girl, but I am so excited to see her in person and to see her whole family for the first time in years.  I’ve had this weekend marked in my calendar for months, and no amount of disappointment will take away from the joy this time will bring.

Saturday and Sunday, we are celebrating the coming arrival of my niece with a baby shower and a tea, and I volunteered last week to take photos since my in-laws keep forgetting to do that.  I love that the showers and teas mean that my niece is arriving soon, and all of the baby stuff is achingly cute.  I also love that I get to take pictures; I love shooting my camera, and it lends a sense of purpose to my attendance.  Believe it or not, I don’t love mingling.  I’m not anti-social, but I am introverted enough that parties make me very, very tired of people and noise.  Being behind the lens provides a little distance while still allowing for brief encounters with persons of interest; cameras are perhaps the greatest invention ever for the terminally reclusive.

All of the activities and the new people to meet this weekend make it easier to let the shock wear off in little bits.  I know at some point soon I will run headlong into the brick wall of absolute reality, but having a few days of busy joy will knock down a few bricks before I hit the wall (I hope).  It’s easy to look at the timing and think about the bitterness of loss in the face of such happy events, but it’s far more comforting to let the sweetness take away some of the tart.  It’s a reminder of the abiding joy of Christ despite our physical circumstances: easy to think about, much harder to practice.  Thank you, God, for blood orange days.

Unfortunately, our blood work yesterday showed a drop in hormone levels.  Although the progesterone level was still in normal range (it ought to be with the extra I’m taking), it had dropped from Monday, and the HCG level dropped, too.  For the uninitiated, HCG is human growth hormone, and it should double every two days through the first trimester if the baby is still growing.  It’s not good news if it doesn’t rise as quickly as it should, and medically speaking, when it drops, you are just waiting for the inevitable miscarriage.  Our doctor wants to recheck the levels again on Monday before we make any decisions about what to do.  To my eternally optimistic friends: I have not completely given up hope that Monday could prove my body wrong – only because God can still do miracles.

Having been told multiple times in the last 24 hours that I’m “just being realistic” by saying the blood work confirmed what I already knew on Wednesday, I’d like to point out that I would be realistic if I were only looking at the numbers in the blood work.  To feel the kind of pain I’ve had for the last two days and to suddenly not feel nauseated and tired – to feel the exact same thing I’ve felt in the last four pregnancies – is to experience what the tests can only confirm.  To remain optimistic in the face of that experience would be an unhealthy version of denial.  Also, a word of advice if you’ve never dealt with a miscarriage: never argue with the crazy pregnant/miscarrying lady; it’s just frustrating to have someone (even the doctor) tell you what you’re feeling.  I have, in fact, vowed to kick my doctor in his nether parts if he repeats certain key phrases (“It will just feel like a heavy period” and “Well, just go get pregnant”).  Friends and family won’t be kicked because I know they mean well, but it occurred to me in writing that note of advice that most people have no idea how to handle a friend or family member losing a baby.  Here are my best tips:

-Hugs, flowers and chocolate (anything edible, really) are always appropriate.  Miscarriage is a really lonely thing because most of the time there is no body to bury and no marker or service to memorialize the loss.  When someone loses a spouse, people bring food, send flowers, have a funeral; after a miscarriage, people tend to give you space because they have no idea what else to do.  I know that everyone grieves differently and may not want to have people around, and miscarriage tends to be more private, but you can’t tell me that everyone who loses an adult family member truly appreciates being bombarded with people either.  If someone was willing to announce the pregnancy in their first trimester and announce the loss of the pregnancy, they’re not going to mind expressions of sympathy.

-Listen.  That’s it.  Don’t offer advice unless it is solicited.  I know it’s tempting, but avoid saying things like, “You can try again; you’re still young,” “You’ll have a baby when it’s God’s time,” “It’s better to have lost the baby early if there was a problem,” “Well, what’s the problem?  Why haven’t they found anything yet?” or my least favorite, “God must have something even more special planned for you.”  It’s not that these statements are not all true, but they tend to trivialize the loss.  Before you say anything, stop and consider whether or not you would say the same thing if the person had lost an older child.  If it feels inappropriate, it’s probably doing more harm than good.  (For example, you would never think of telling someone who lost a toddler that they can try again.)  The simplest thing to say is, “I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m here if you want to talk.”  The sweetest words of sympathy I’ve ever gotten have been from the guys at work who were at a complete loss for words.  Their bumbling around meant more to me than the most eloquent words ever could.

-Don’t be afraid to call or talk.  In any kind of loss, it’s hard to reach out; human nature tends to withdraw from people in tough times, so making the first phone call or sending the first e-mail is hard.  Women who’ve had miscarriages usually need to know that their baby hasn’t been forgotten.  Most people are afraid to bring up the subject so that they don’t bring up any bad memories, but you can check in without ever mentioning the loss directly: “I was thinking about you, and I just wanted to check in.  How are you doing today?  Is there anything you want to talk about?”  I’m a tough cookie to crack, but even I will spill my guts when I need to and I know the other person will listen.  I do, however, have a really hard time calling someone out of the blue to cry with or rant to.

All of that being said, I am not giving up hope that God can perform a miracle.  I am not expecting a physical miracle; the far greater miracle in my case would be to survive this loss with my faith intact.  I can appreciate why my family and friends want to hold out until Monday – it is a hope born out of love and a desire for me to experience pure joy instead of loss.  It is wonderful beyond words to have people who love me that much.  You should keep hoping.  I just hope you understand that I can’t, as much because it is a coping/survival mechanism as it is a realistic interpretation of the facts.  I want more than anything to have great news on Monday, but I can’t hope that hard and then be disappointed that badly.  It may not ever be in God’s plan for us to have our own children, and I can deal with that.  Most often that’s harder for other people to deal with because they don’t want me to give up; it is not giving up to admit that God’s plan and my desires may not be the same thing.

In the interests of being honest and sharing this whole journey, today was tough.  When I woke up, I knew something was off: my lower back hurt; my belly hurt; my boobs didn’t hurt.  And then I ate breakfast, lunch and supper without the company of my good friends nausea and headache.  I stayed home and tried to sleep today, but I wasn’t as tired as I have been.  I know all of those “symptoms” may be nothing, and they can all be part of a normal pregnancy, but in my gut I know something is wrong.

I’m not jumping to any conclusions; the blood work tomorrow will be conclusive enough.  I am sure that God has his hand on this pregnancy, and this baby may be very much alive.  I am also sure that while I don’t know anything about normal pregnancies, I know a lot about early term miscarriages, and this is what it feels like.  One day you wake up and you feel distinctly not pregnant, and then you feel like someone kicked you in the belly.  That was my day today.  Maybe tomorrow will feel different; that is entirely in God’s hands.

We just found out over the weekend that we’re pregnant again (hence the forced resting period).  This is our fifth pregnancy, and of course, the timing puts it right in our annual ritual of pregnancy loss.  The details, for those who are interested, are: we are almost 6 weeks, I have been taking progesterone and baby aspirin, and we do more blood work Thursday to track the HCG and progesterone levels.  So, by Thursday afternoon or Friday morning, we’ll know if this one is tracking as a healthy pregnancy or if we have trouble.  Please pray two things – first, I REALLY want to keep this baby, and second (and most importantly), I want to follow God wherever he is leading us.  If that turns out to be something other than what I want, I want to love him even more in spite of my loss.

I would also love not have a panic attack every time I have gas.  If you’ve been pregnant or spent any time with a pregnant person, you know that hormones change everything from your body’s shape to how it processes food.  Having never experienced a “normal” pregnancy, I find myself doing at least a mild version of panic attack with every little ache.  I have now become one of the sitcom women who is sure she’s in labor but turns out to have nothing but gas; only in my case, I’m sure something is wrong with the baby.  Also, having experienced the miscarriage symptom of all of the normal pregnancy symptoms suddenly stopping, I am extremely sensitive to not feeling nauseated all the time.  All of that being said, I trust that God is protecting this little one if he intends for it to be born on this earth.

Now begins the high wire act of balancing between faith and terror.  I know now that no matter what happens, God is still big enough to demand my love, and he’s loving enough to want a relationship with me.  Nothing else matters.  Most of the time.  Most of the time my desire to have a child does not overshadow God in my life – until I panic.  Peter’s got nothing on me; I’m pretty sure he walked more than two steps before he started sinking.  In spite of the knowledge, this time in both my head AND my heart, that God is in control, I can’t help but feel the terror of loss.  It’s a horrible, nameless feeling when you are powerless to stop the chain of events that you know will end in disaster.  I’d like to think I will relax even more after we get Thursday’s test results, but I also know I’m human, and unbelief comes with the territory.