I haven’t posted anything in a little over a week.  It’s been a crazy week, and I needed to drop out for a while and process; a self-imposed writer’s block (more like complete thought avoidance measures).  Today is exactly one month from the actual miscarriage, and six weeks from the day we found out we were pregnant.  Of the two weeks I was pregnant this time, one week was good and full of morning sickness and happy thoughts, the other was spent waiting for the inevitable.  The last month felt like it was a year long.

To recap the last week alone: my niece was born last Tuesday, Wednesday I hit and killed a dog with my car (that’ll be another post), Thursday I shot pictures of my honorary nephew and his beautiful mom as well as my niece coming home for the first time, Friday I picked up a cow with my mom (we each got half, and I now have about 200 pounds of beef in my freezer – yum), the weekend was full of more baby time, Monday we had to take our very sick cat to the vet where she will be until at least Friday afternoon with possible kidney failure, and the rest of the week I have battled the stomach bug.  The icing on the cake is that the next few weeks will be among the hardest for me in dealing with the miscarriage.

Believe it or not, the first few weeks are “easy” compared to what the next several weeks will entail.  I’m not sure why it is so, but I am apparently not alone: several great sources of information about grief and miscarriage point out that it can often be harder to deal with the loss around six weeks to six months afterwards.  My theory is the first few weeks are just survival, and then you get back to the daily routine over the next few weeks.  At some point you start to feel a little normal, and then it hits you that you shouldn’t feel normal at all, raising all new feelings of loss and guilt, etc.  To me, the especially difficult part of pregnancy loss is marking the milestones you’re missing.  By this week, we should have heard a heartbeat and seen a distinct baby on the ultrasound; another few weeks, and we’d be entering the second trimester.  Seeing my husband hold my niece makes my heart ache that much more with the desire to have our own baby for him to hold.  It’s so hard not to want that when you can see it right in front of you.

It is beautiful to watch my niece and her parents: their transformation from a regular couple into doting parents overnight is amazing, and I pray they keep up the good work for the rest of their lives.  I hope to be similarly amazing some day.  In the meantime, here are a few of my favorite pictures from the last week:

My niece will be born today.  There is a world of words fighting for expression, but that’s all I can think of immediately when I look at the otherwise blank page: my niece will be born today.  Today, I will meet the little girl we’ve been waiting for, and I will fall in love with her tiny face, her fingers and toes, her every wiggly move.  Today, my heart will break wide open at the sight of one tiny, little girl; all the things I’ve managed to keep at bay for the last few months won’t have anywhere else to go in the face of this precious little one.  Today, I will have to find feet for my faith when they only want to run the other way and cry.

This being the first grandchild in our immediate family brings a host of things to mind: we should have already done this two and a half years ago; I should have at least heard our last baby’s heartbeat by now if she weren’t gone; I’m so happy for my in-laws that they get a granddaughter to spoil; I’m going to be the best aunt ever (unless my sister ever has the opportunity); the timing couldn’t be more hurtful.  Why God saw fit to let us get pregnant and lose it just before my sister-in-law’s due date is so far beyond me, Hubble has a better chance of finding a clue.  Why couldn’t we wait another month or two (or six) to repeat the process?  Why couldn’t the process end happily just once?

I don’t want to ever greet my niece with all of the turmoil her presence stirs in me; it’s not her fault, and I know I will never really associate her with anything other than her own personhood.  It’s just hard right now to see that side of grace.  Her birth is just too wrapped up in all the fresh feelings of inadequacy I’m still fighting right now: fear that we will never have an answer, pain that we might never experience the birth of our own children, embarrassment that I failed yet again to carry to term, anger that I am at such a loss to control anything, and the list goes on.  All of those things are just too close in the rearview mirror not have a foothold in my thought pattern.  They are getting easier to vanquish, but maybe not today when faced with such a contrast of new life being born against the backdrop of my too recent loss.  It is not a simple thing to defeat the knowledge that I have brought nothing but death from my womb in spite of my biological purpose in being a woman and my spiritual calling to evidence life; I don’t feel like a life-giver.  I don’t feel like the Grim Reaper either.  I feel – I don’t know exactly what I feel – maybe jealous that I don’t yet know what my sister-in-law is experiencing today.  I know it’s not so simple as jealousy, but there are too many things swirling around it to identify, and the desire to compare our situations is overwhelming.  I certainly feel like I’ve failed my family.  Even though there is absolutely nothing I could have done to change things, that feeling is inescapable when viewing the pride and joy on my in-laws’ faces.  That’s how we all should have looked so many times by now that my head splits open when I think of the sheer volume.  How many times do we have to be disappointed before my parents, my siblings, my husband and I can share that kind of joy?

I am afraid that I will lose it at the hospital today, and I don’t know how to handle that.  I can’t not be there (I know, it’s a horrible double-negative, may the English fanatics forgive me), but I can’t be there either, not completely, not emotionally; some part of me will have to be hibernating to make it through the day at the hospital, to even be in the hospital’s maternity ward at all.  My last visit there was for a d&c, and I can still describe in intimate detail the wreath on the door of the neighboring room with blue ribbons and two doves signifying newly arrived twins.  The truly dumb thing on my part is that I am dreading dealing with the entire scenario, even though I know that God will get me through it.  I’m just not looking forward to facing it with God, and facing it without God would be unimaginably horrible.  I know he’s with me, but I don’t completely trust him enough to see today from his perspective.  I trust him enough not to hide from today, but it’s already hurting my heart.

For those of you who go to church with me, this may look familiar (and to whoever wrote the prayer guide, God had his hand on today’s message for me at least).  Two Sundays ago, everyone was given a 28 day prayer guide.  Today’s message:

“Pray to keep your eyes on Him today.  Pray that every challenge and every difficulty will pass   through His tender hands and that you will be at peace knowing He is in control.”

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.  Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change and though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains quake at its swelling pride.  The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our stronghold.  Psalm 46: 1-3, 7

So, to my dear niece: I have loved you since I knew you were on your way to the world, and I promise to love you always with the deep and abiding love of Christ.  I cannot protect you from the trials we must all endure, but I promise to be a voice of love and reason when you do face them.  I will not spoil you the way your grandparents will, but I will spoil you with the fiercest love any aunt has ever known.  And today, for a few minutes, I will wish for all the world that you were mine.

Have you ever had one of those days where you want something, but you have no idea what that something is?  I often find myself physically hungering for something satisfying that tastes remotely like water crackers and milk and honey; I can’t even describe the taste because I’ve never experienced a taste like it.  Maybe that comes from years of an overactive imagination trying to process what manna must have tasted like.  I feel sure that if I were ever party to some Indiana Jones search for the Ark of the Covenant, the thing I would be most interested in is the jar of manna.  What did it look like?  What did it taste like?  Something to look forward to knowing in heaven, I guess.

The word manna is actually Hebrew for “what is it,” which is apparently what the Israelites wondered when God sent it to them for food.  It wasn’t meat or bread or fruit, it was what-is-it.  About once a week (maybe more if I’m dieting…) I crave what-is-it.  But I never bother to look for some kind of food that will taste like what-is-it because I know I won’t ever find it on earth.  That what-is-it longing is just my taste buds yearning for heaven in a way I haven’t learned to do with all my heart yet.  There must be some balance to fully living each moment while waiting for heaven and the perfect love and justice and peace that come with it.  After losing five babies, it is easier to see that life is extremely temporary and should be treasured as such, but it’s also easier to want to be in heaven where I can see the glorified bodies I never got to hold on earth.  Not to worry that I plan to shuck off the mortal coil anytime soon – it’s just learning to balance another weird dichotomy of living on a temporal plane while always watching and waiting for eternity.

We had our appointment with the fertility specialist yesterday, and it went much the way I expected.  The doctor is testing for a few more things, and we meet again in three weeks to go over the test results.  The doctor was pretty great; he spent over half an hour just going over my charts from the other doctors and talking with us.  I have every confidence we are in the best medical hands we could be in, so I trust that we’re in the right place.  If there is anything to find and fix, this man will find it.

Based on our history and previously healthy test results, the doctor more or less said there wouldn’t really be anything else to look for if these blood tests are normal.  This round of tests will look for more antibodies and clotting factors than have previously been tested for.  If anything does show up, then we should be able to treat it in future pregnancies.  If nothing shows up on the blood tests, then we are faced with trying again and having the new doctor follow us through the pregnancy from the beginning.  He would monitor everything more closely than is really possible in a regular OB office.  Then, if things go south, he would do a d&c so they could do chromosome testing on the embryo.  My interpretation is bleak at best, I know, but we are faced with the same circle of gloom and despair with every test: I am always hoping to find something wrong with me so we have something proactive to do next time; finding nothing but healthy normal ranges means that all we can do is try again and hope for the best, which hasn’t really worked for us yet.

More than a few times, when reporting a good test result, I have been faced with holding back the rant I’d like to let loose on the unsuspecting commenter.  Usually the person says something along the lines of, “Well,  that’s good – you’re healthy, and now you know that’s not the problem.”  There is nothing wrong with that line of reasoning, except it frustrates the hell out of me: if that’s not the problem, then what is?  I know how messed up it is to hope for some bizarre disease or structural malformation to treat; it is not sane to wish for a health problem (although I think we may all do it at some point in an effort to avoid something else we see as far worse).  I’m not sure how much more sane trying again is at this point.  I keep hearing the quote, “The definition of insanity is trying the same thing over and over again expecting a different result.”  Am I not the walking definition of insanity, then?  The ugly truth is that, in this situation, I would rather find a problem because then I would have a circumstance I could control.  There, I said it: I want to have some control over the process and outcome.  I want to know going in that I have bettered my odds at a successful pregnancy.  I want to know that this time, statistics are on my side.  Bizarre medical condition = discernible and treatable condition.  Thus changing the current equation, healthy parents + pregnancy = miscarriage.

But the flip side to my desire for control is the effect it would have on my faith.  If I could control any part of the equation, would I still be trusting God?  I think so, but usually my desire for control reflects a lack of faith and trust in some part of the system.  Finding nothing on the blood tests would mean continuing in faith through another pregnancy, which I would do, but I would not be happy about it.  I know the pain and devastation another loss would wreak on our lives, and I’m a little exhausted and more than a little depressed about the prospect of yet another miscarriage.  Before you feel tempted to reply with some affirmation of God’s power, I know that God could provide us with a successful pregnancy.  I know it could happen because God can do anything, but those of you who are still tempted to encourage me on this point have to realize that blind hope in a possible success means it hurts that much more to fail.  Statistically (and I know that statistics are meaningless to God), I have less than a 50% chance of a successful pregnancy, even if no cause is found (this link shows the average of the stats I’ve read online, and they actually cite their source material: http://miscarriage.about.com/od/riskfactors/a/miscrates.htm).  Based on that, I’m doing really well right now to have more than 50% hope of success when we try again; that rate will improve with time and distance, and I recognize that rating my hope possibly indicates that my faith is woefully lacking.

A side bar on the statistics, or all the things you never wanted to know but are reading right now anyway (I can’t recall all of the sources, but a general overview of well-vetted stats can be found on most sites like American Pregnancy Association or What to Expect, etc.): only about 1% of the population experiences recurrent miscarriage, defined as 3 or more pregnancy losses.  Of those 1%, less than half ever find a diagnosis.  On the positive side, women with two or fewer miscarriages are really no more likely to miscarry in their next pregnancy, and some sources even say that women with recurrent miscarriage who have no medical explanation for it have a 75% success rate in their next pregnancy, making them only slightly more likely to miscarry.  Of course, there are some sources who put my success rate at 5% or less after more than four miscarriages.  The bottom line is, often the doctors are as clueless as we mere mortals are, and if you try anything enough times, you might succeed.  Or go completely insane.  I’m still waiting to figure out which direction I’m headed.

Lest my statistical rant or my morbid desire to find an actual problem in the blood work have left you terrified that I require constant adult supervision, here’s my bottom line.  We will wait for three weeks before seriously thinking any more about tests or trying again or anything related to it.  There is no point in discussing options without all of the facts.  I will try my hardest not to think about it until we have actual results and the good doctor’s opinion.  If our only option is trying again with close observation, I’m sure we will, but it will likely be at least five months before I want to think about that.  I pray everyday that God will “help my unbelief,” and I still believe we might have our own children.  And I’m sure we will pursue other options when we’re ready for that step.  In the meantime, we wait some more.

Bargaining is one step in the grief process, and I’ve certainly done my fair share of it.  While I didn’t really bargain much during the pregnancy this time, I have before – begging God to let us keep the baby in exchange for never having another one or for losing something else, anything else.  I have bargained after the loss in a futile attempt to find answers.  Yesterday, I was reminded of another kind of bargaining I’ve done.  There is no reasonable explanation for anyone to experience five miscarriages.  For that matter, there is no reasonable explanation for any miscarriage.  But somewhere after our second or third loss, I began telling God that my losses were acceptable if it meant that someone else didn’t have to experience it.

Yesterday, I found out that an old friend lost her baby, and it hurt me more deeply than my own recent loss did.  I had been telling God for days that he couldn’t take her baby; he had taken enough of mine to more than make up for my friend.  My bargain didn’t work.  I am devastated for her and more than a little confused by God.  I echo what a friend at church recently told me while speaking about our miscarriages: we know that God is in control, but I can’t imagine his purpose in this situation.  He was genuinely as much at a loss as I am in this situation.

I obviously don’t take the news of anyone’s miscarriage very well, as if their losses are somehow added to my own.  I take each friend’s or acquaintance’s loss like a personal affront, a revocation of the deal I made with God.  I would gladly take loss after loss – I have experience in dealing with it, after all, and no one else really needs to learn that skill – if it would spare the pain of someone else.  I want to erase my friend’s hurt and carry it for her.  I know I can’t, and I know that no human could take the pain of the entire world.  But I know that I would try, if it were possible.  I have tried to make that bargain, but it is not a bargain anyone but Christ can make.

I do not wait well.  That is a giant understatement.  Most people who know me would assume that I don’t worry all that much, but I am a closet worrier.  While I may never speak most of what runs through my head, my inner dialogue on waiting days is enough to turn any sane person into a paranoid schizophrenic patient.  People who can worry out loud at least have the courage to express the seedling of doubt that caused the worry in the first place.  I, on the other hand, let it run free until I feel stretched beyond my tensile strength.  At multiple points throughout any given waiting period, I have to force myself to sit still and repeat out loud that God is in control, not me, and there is nothing I can do while I wait but trust him.  Sounds easy enough, right?

On Thursday this week, we go to our first visit with the fertility specialist.  Having done more research than any well-adjusted individual ever should, I doubt there will be many surprises at this first visit.  I have no idea exactly what will happen, but I expect it to be like any first consultation.  The new doctor will look at our records and see what’s been done to date, and then he will present the options and that will determine the new plan of attack.  What can there possibly be to worry about until we know what the options are?  Let’s see…  What if he says nothing can be done?  What if he finds something almost impossible to fix?  What if our odds of success aren’t any better under his care?  What if our insurance won’t cover this?  And maybe the most terrifying, what if he’s confident he can help us?  Am I really ready to try again?  That last question is more fairly stated as, am I really ready to hope against all odds and then have that hope smashed to pieces – again?

What can I possibly do about any of those things by worrying?  Absolutely nothing.  Worry is clearly the expression of the fear of the unknown.  Spiritually speaking, it is unbelief.  Above all, I believe that God is in control; whether or not children are in his plan for us falls under that control.    We may not ever have children, which is something I can accept as beyond my control.  I firmly believe that I will have a successful pregnancy if that’s what God wants; my particular unbelief lies in the experience of repeated loss.  I know every day what it feels like to live the story of the father begging Jesus to heal his son.  There had been repeated attempts by people in his village and by the disciples to heal him, and then Jesus showed up and asked the father if he believed his son could be healed.  The father’s response: “Lord, I believe, help my unbelief.”  (Mark 9: 14-29)

In any given situation, God can intervene; things can go the way that we hope they will.  It’s easy to believe then.  What we do when God says no is not so easy.  Sometimes, we just have to wait for the right time.  Sometimes, we have to change our plans and hopes completely.  It’s hard enough to change your own heart – changing the hopes that our friends and families have for us is monumentally difficult.  They tend to be the voices advocating for the wild pursuit of a single outcome, and in my life, they have a harder time letting go of the baby dream than I do.  It shouldn’t really even be my job – to change someone else’s dream for me – but it becomes just another piece of the giant boat you attempt to turn with the tiny rudder that faith provides.  I worry more when I’m thinking about what everyone else wants from me.

I’d say about a quarter of my worrying over this week’s appointment is not being able to answer all of my questions right now (I really hate waiting).  The other 75% is worrying that the outcome will be a positive step forward.  It’s unlikely to be determined in a single visit on Thursday, but trying to conceive again means hoping for a positive outcome.  If that’s not the direction I’m supposed to be going, it will be another body blow, if not a knock-out.  Am I supposed to hope for something that I’m not supposed to have?  And, if this works, what was the point of all of that pain?  What did I do to deserve this?  Those are the real questions underlying the worry.  That last one is nothing but selfish indulgence, and I know it, but I am currently helpless to get rid of that particular unbelief.  Thursday is only two more days, and then I’ll have something new to worry about.