Care Package

My parents have lifted me out of countless pits in the past. They cannot rescue me from infertility and miscarriage and I know this eats them up. They don't like to see their children suffer and they also mourn for their grandchildren who will never be. Though they can't fix this problem for us, they are great at showing their love and concern in practical ways. Last night they dropped off a care package - something to brighten our day and help us escape for a little while.



All the fixings for a movie night, including jammies for both of us.

Things like this get us through a yucky evening - less because of the content and more because of the comforting knowledge that they took the time to do something nice in our time of need. It helps more than they could ever know.

Comes in Threes

Thursday, April 7, 2011



It happened today. I have miscarried/am miscarrying. For the third time. And life goes on as if it doesn't matter. Miscarriages are strangely received by society - especially such early ones. Its a death - our child's death. But there are no memorial services, no flowers sent, no casseroles delivered. Amazingly, many people who know what's happening don't even mention it or ask how I'm doing. Do people just not know what to say/do? Are they embarrassed about the subject? Or do they just not grasp how utterly devastating this is? The nonchalant manner in which the event is often treated even tricks my brain and plays with my judgment, causing me to second guess my own emotions and my own convictions about the significance of the loss. I start to think maybe its really not a big deal. I go back to work much earlier than I feel ready to because I don't want to blow it out of proportion. And then I scream inside my head "how could you blow your child's death out of proportion?" But people on the outside don't have any connection to the life that was fleetingly in me - its more like an abstract concept than a reality for them. I don't know what its like from the outsider's perspective anymore. I just know how lonely and dismissive and small the typical societal reaction feels for those going through a miscarriage- the death of someone's child, their dreams for the future, and a portion of their soul.

Time Bomb

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Our plan was for both of us to go back to work today. Randy made it. I didn't. I just wasn't ready yet. Lying in bed this morning I just could not fathom going about my daily tasks as though things are normal when they are actually so, so wrong. I'm a time bomb, just waiting for the child inside me to die, after all. I stayed in bed until noon and probably would not have gotten up even to eat lunch if not for my sister. She came to bring pizza, hang out, and deliver a fresh supply from her stash of the TV show we are currently using as an escape from reality. She also provided a friendly ear to listen to my incessant fears, which have morphed from: "what if I can never get pregnant?" (check) to "does my life even have any purpose? what was the point of my existence?" and "what makes me so bad that my babies can't live inside me?" I really can't imagine having to go through today alone, without someone to pick me up, dust me off, and take care of me.

So Close

We were pregnant. And then we weren't.



Its happening all over again. A phone call from the nurse on Friday to tell us we were pregnant. A phone cal from the nurse on Monday telling us that our follow-up tests show that a miscarriage is imminent.

I have a baby. And its dying inside me. And there is nothing I can do about it. Again.

We are numb. We are tired. We are worn down. The tasks of daily life seem impossible right now - how can we go about our lives as though everything is normal when everything is so wrong? Piles of laundry, dirty dishes, and meal times that come and go seem simultaneously trivial and overwhelming.

It feels like no one is in charge. If someone was looking out for us, why would we get SO close after all this time, just to be devastated again? We were ready for another negative result. We were not ready to lose another child. If this is part of an overarching plan, its a plan I want nothing to do with. I feel broken and scarred by this journey. I know life will go on but right now I have nothing left.