Everyone knows the old saying, “Misery loves company.”  Obviously, I agree, or I wouldn’t be such a pill to deal with right now.  But I know there’s a much deeper truth in that maxim, and I call it “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pains.”  To be fair, it is more like a fraternal order, as there are plenty of men who face pain and loss, too.  Alas, “The Fraternal Order of the Traveling Pains” lacks the pun and the catchiness of my title, so the guys get to join the Sisterhood.  There is great innocence in those who have never experienced shattering loss, and I envy them in a way.  Can you imagine what I would give for my first pregnancy to have been perfect, to never worry about every pain or hormone fluctuation, to have heard just one of my babies’ hearts?  I will never know the innocence of pregnancy without the fingerprints of loss and devastation.  I only envy that innocence to a point because I now know a depth of emotion and strength in my heart and soul that I never imagined existed.  I think that’s what Steven Curtis Chapman was expressing when he said, “I have met the God I never knew,” in an interview after his daughter was killed.

There is a bond that doesn’t need to be fully spoken between people who have suffered through devastation; we have all met a depth of loss that brought a new depth of life to our experience.  While I may never have an “innocent” pregnancy, if I ever do carry a child to term, I know I will cherish every moment, every ache and pain.  Beyond that, I know the sadness of the other women who have lost a pregnancy, and God has endowed my spirit with new levels of empathy through my struggles.  A dear friend of mine who lost his sister described it as “the worst best friend you can have,” meaning that you now have a friend who can understand and comfort your soul, but only because they had to experience it, too.  There develops a shorthand for expressing the range of emotions that follow grief that someone on the outside can’t understand.  For instance, you don’t have to feel ridiculous admitting that you’d like to take your boxing gloves to work or church and clock the people who say ridiculous things to try to comfort you.  That sounds like overreacting or inappropriate behavior to someone who has never experienced a miscarriage (or any other loss, for that matter), but if you’ve been there, done that, and have the t-shirt, you’re secretly rooting for someone to actually do it, and you’d probably join the ensuing brawl.

As further proof that misery indeed loves company, I have found great comfort in other people’s survival.  Though miscarriage is not often talked about, it is more and more acceptable to discuss it or admit to it, which means that more people feel comfortable seeking help and offering help to others.  I am astonished at the sheer volume of women that I know well who have experienced miscarriage and infancy loss.  The more amazing thing to me is that those who have walked through it before me are beautiful, resilient women in spite of (or because of) their tragedies, and they give me hope that I will walk in their footsteps.  To know that kind of pain and to survive and grow past it is to learn a new depth of love to share with others who have lost, whether it is a child, a parent, a spouse, a sibling, or a friend.  It is the courage to share your battle wounds so that you can help others bind up theirs.  It is the inspiration of hope, and I hope it is a lesson I am putting into practice.  To the angels in my life who have had the courage to share their losses with me, there are no words to thank you for what you’ve shared and no words to comfort you except, I love you.   And to the angels in my life who haven’t walked this path but have chosen to share it anyway, you make every day easier knowing that I have friends like you to support me – you are honorary members of the Sisterhood, and I hope you will never have to become official members.

As loss becomes more reality than surrealist thought experiment, the pain creeps in.  The physical pain is fleeting, but the emotional pain sneaks up, inches in through cracks you can’t see until it flows out at some inopportune moment.  For me, this is usually at work, where I will spend the next two weeks (okay, maybe it’s more like a month) trying to keep my cool.  I will alternately want to fly into a near homicidal rage, laugh like a maniac, or weep like a tiny, lost little girl.  Mostly, I will be angry at everything for no explicable reason.  The cost of maintaining some semblance of sanity is usually a build up of stress that physically manifests as a migraine and enough tension in my shoulders to raise them to ear level even when I’m “relaxed.”

I have so far not discovered any magic bullets for dissipating the anger, and I’m sure that dealing with it and moving on is part of the process.  I just wish I could short-circuit this part.  I don’t like who I am during this phase; I have a mean streak that turns vicious, and I pick stupid fights.  I have amazing command of four letter words you can’t say on television (that part is mostly in my head).  The worst part to me is that I tend to dump a lot of that frustration on my husband, which is wrong in so many ways.  Although we feel it differently, I know he’s hurting and disappointed, too, and he’s trying with all his heart to support me, even when I’m this prickly.  As an armchair psychologist, I think anger is the easiest emotion to give in to, and it’s the hardest one to get out of because it’s less vulnerable than the raw pain and disappointment.  I have vowed to deal with this miscarriage at least a little differently; if nothing else, I am trying desperately not to punish my husband for something beyond our control.  I’d like to conquer the anger before it conquers me this time.

This will seem like a ridiculous comparison, but the story is a little funny if you have ever met our cat Clarence.  In the animal kingdom, injuries and wounds are seen as weaknesses to be exploited by other animal further up the food chain, so most animals will mask an injury to avoid becoming someone else’s dinner.  In one of the more hilarious examples of this behavior, our cat pulled a muscle while playing with one of the dogs.  The second he hurt his leg, Clarence started hissing and slapping at anything close by (the other cat, my husband, the bed spread…).  Every time he moved the injured leg, he hissed or growled, even if there was no other animal in the room.  Of course, we laughed after we checked him thoroughly and he was given a clean bill of health from the vet, but it’s not so funny to realize that I am doing the exact same thing right now.  It will be hilarious in a few months when I can laugh at this, but right now it’s entirely frustrating and embarrassing.

Unlike my cat, I have tried various methods of dealing with the anger.  One of the most physical outlets is the punching bag in my basement.  I don’t feel the need to put anyone’s picture on it; just punching the crap out of something is extremely satisfying, and the physical exhaustion releases a lot of the shoulder tension.  While deep breathing and meditation techniques are helpful, they’re not completely practical in the heat of the moment.  Maybe when I can perform the Half Lotus Toe Balance pose without using my backside for balance, I will have developed the meditation skills necessary for anger eradication.  This is unlikely to happen in my lifetime.  The two things I do best are write and retreat.  If I stop and write the feelings down, I acknowledge them, and I have time to think about why I am really angry.  I am slowly learning to let it go once it has been expressed; otherwise, I run around like a crazed duelist demanding satisfaction.  Letting go is not easy, so my other option is retreat.  Maybe I’m just tired, or getting older, but I have found no shame in retreat.  A time of escapism is an occasional necessity.  Books and television, even Facebook and Farmville, provide temporary distractions that can help you start going through the motions in other parts of life.  I have to be careful that this doesn’t turn into all out antisocial behavior.

This is likely to be somewhat controversial, but it has been my reality: I haven’t always been able to turn to Bible study or prayer to combat the anger and frustration; sometimes it has only added insult to injury.  This is not to say that my faith hasn’t underpinned my entire journey, but there are verses that cannot be explained away that still give me fits.  I have also experienced that a lot of modern Bible studies either lack the depth to truly address errant emotions, or they refuse to acknowledge that doubt is part of everyday existence.  I read through a Bible study book devoted to mothers who lost children at infancy or through miscarriage that provided so many contradictions and shallow expressions of loss that I would never recommend a study like that to another grieving mother.  That’s one reason I keep going back to solid writers like Charles Spurgeon, C.S. Lewis and Oswald Chambers.  I prefer straight shooters, even if the subject material is difficult; I may not like the answer, but I can deal with truth.  Fluff, not so much.

While I’m not disciplined enough to study like I should, I try to read several chapters of the Bible every day.  Right now, I will be reading through Psalms over and over again.  I have two favorite things to do while I study a psalm.  One is to rewrite the psalm in my own words and in my own situation.  A lot of psalms were written by David while he was under siege – I am not facing death by homicidal king or advancing army, but that doesn’t mean that God doesn’t hear my prayers.  The other is to take a psalm and turn it into a madlib.  We did this a few times in English as a Second Language (ESL) classes at church.  It may feel a little sacrilegious at first, but here’s the point I shared with our ESL students: the Bible is applicable to our daily lives, the psalms are a great format to use for prayers, and God certainly has a sense of humor, or we wouldn’t be able to laugh.

Shortly after my first miscarriage, I felt compelled to write. I wrote anything and everything that popped into my mind; I practiced creative writing exercises I hadn’t done since college. The writing obsession has followed every miscarriage and has been accompanied by a weird compulsion to buy pretty journals in which to put all that writing. I have battled a lifelong addiction to school supplies (nothing is quite so appealing as an untouched notebook and freshly sharpened colored pencils), so journal collecting became my new school supply shopping spree hobby. I found hand-bound journals, leather journals, floral printed journals, spiral notebook journals (insert Forrest Gump shrimp joke here)… I now have a shelf of about twenty unique and blank volumes waiting for copy. I have used, though not completely filled, about ten other journals.

I also have them stashed in assorted places; there is always one in my bag, there are two at my office in case of cathartic emergencies, and the great multitude of pages resides at home in my library. In spite of my school supply fetish, the truly nerdy part is that I planned out what I would write in each journal based on what the cover and binding and pages looked like. For instance, the black leather cover with the golden gilt-edged pages and snap closure was (or is when I remember to write in it) an event journal. The antique map cover with the magnetic flap closure was for my writing exercises; I was working my way through a photography magazine and writing whatever came to mind with each photo. In a fit of irony, my rant journal is the deceptively pretty cherry blossom printed cover with the Chinese symbol for happiness. It is also mostly pink, which further deepens the subversive irony given that I am not a very frilly girl. For some reason, I thought that the pretty pink outside might soften the venom that has been poured onto those pages. That journal will never be public because it is the one place that I have written anything and everything ugly that I needed to vent. It still gets opened on occasion, and it remains the most used journal I have ever written in. I’m not sure what that says about my anger level, but one secret to its success is that I have never dated a single entry. The anonymity of the dates in that book make it impossible to pinpoint exact times, and for whatever reason, that makes it easier to pour out the emotion and never look back at it. I don’t want to remember the hurt expressed so graphically in those pages.

Most writers use their journals as source material later, but this one will most likely be permanently shelved once it’s full. I allowed myself to spill out anything painful that needed expression without audible utterance; no one but God ever needs to hear most of what I think in my basest moments. I am learning to appreciate stripped-down honesty, but there are some things that move through your head that are so transitory that they are not a complete reflection of who you really are. I have dear sweet friends who can and will curse like sailors and angry Yiddish women or Irishmen briefly and privately when faced with seemingly insurmountable situations. Those all too human and weak moments do not define them or their true reaction to the situation at hand. My subversive, cherry blossom pink, Chinese happiness symbol (did I mention it has pink velvet ribbon trim?) journal is a record of all those horrible first reactions that you don’t really mean but you’d really like to say if there were no consequences for unfiltered speech. The true reason to edit those thoughts is that we should be speaking truth in love in order to edify ourselves and each other. Speaking without thinking is not a loving or commendable action. I wholeheartedly believe that we speak out of the overflow of our hearts (see Luke 6:45), which means my pretty pink journal is full of terrible things that were/are in my heart. But two things have happened with that journal: it has been a purge valve for the evil things stored up in my heart, and, as I have grown past the anger, I have written in that journal less and less. Now to find a more suitable journal for the rest of the journey…

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.