The Storm

There are no buns in this oven 

Welcome to another crazy year. We are so excited and also stumbling on trepidation.  We don't know what the future holds; ups, downs, turns and crazy twists.  We've been working like crazy planning for our future, and trying to keep a hold on what life throws at us, and I wanted to write down our thoughts and feelings.  Our pains and excitements.  Please share in our joys and sorrows.
This post is the most near and dear to me, and weighs heavy on my heart. It occupies my mind 95% of the time. This is a post made in an attempt to shed light on what feels like an unmentionable topic and an isolating situation.
I've never heard of anyone talk about miscarriages, I've heard stories of infertility, but never about how many miscarriages it took to get the perfect soul or to never get a perfect soul.  I've never heard anyone say I'm five months past miscarriage, or I'm three months from my would be due date.
I know the families that were so excited to make their announcement and then nine months later there were no babies and no words. When I read their stories I wanted to give them a thousand cyber hugs, but I know it will never be enough.  I wanted to say I'm there for you, I know what you're going through,  but then people will know that I've been there too.  And I'm also afraid I will have that infertility stigma, that people won't know what to say, or what to do.
I, like a lot of families assumed infertility was the ugly disease that inoculated the beautiful neighbors but not us, never us.  I never imagined babies would pass through my body and heart but never my hands. Now that I am part of that small percentage that feels broken and rendered useless by mother nature, I also feel alone.  I feel guilty. I feel judged.  I feel angry.  I feel pressured. I feel like my whole self is one big scream being muffled by a crowd of "When will you have kids?" "Are you pregnant?" "You need to have babies and fill up that house?" "How many kids do you guys want?" And the occasional "You've got time?" "Why would you want kids now?" "Just wait.?"
I have a million thoughts a day.  I think about what would have been, who they would have been, what could I have done differently, but most importantly why?
Why me?  Why us?  And lastly in my few moments of clarity, what's next?
Some days I'm to the point that I don't care about the ten pregnancies progressing in real time online, but I do, I don't want to go to another baby shower, but I do, I'm not happy for another happy family expecting...again, but I am.  I see pregnant women walking down the street and I'm instantly mad and sad, why her?  I don't want to talk to another pregnant woman about when they're due, where they're birthing, who they're using, and what they're expecting and God forbid it's the wrong sex.
I feel the judgment of a thousand people, and whether it's real or perceived it is debilitating at times.
I feel broken, because I can't fulfill one of the many roles as a woman, but one of the biggest ones that sets us apart.  But it's not just a role, it's not a check mark I can put next to my life's story.  It's something I want, we want, we want to be parents.  In a world so overcome by achievements and status quo I feel like it's shameful to say I want to be a mom, Josh wants to be a dad, we want a family.  We don't just want a baby, we want a toddler, potty training, learning how to read, we want pre-school and junior high school, we want dating problems and bad grades, we want college tours and graduations. We want all the aspects of parenthood; the good, the bad, the ugly, the messy.
I know I'm strong and smart, talented beyond belief, with a loving supportive family. But when you get to this point and then nothing, it's hard to not doubt yourself.
Everyone talks about how to prevent pregnancy, how to plan for a pregnancy, what to do during pregnancy and the millions of books preceding pregnancy and what to expect from your bundle of joy.  Nobody ever tells you want to expect when you can't expect, or when you do, but it's only temporary.   This topic is miscarriage, it is infertility, it is grief, and depression.
Our storm began on May 11 and lasted 11 weeks. Tuesday July 19th we came in for an ultrasound to hear babies heart beat and see how we were progressing.  We were so excited, I picked Josh up early, we couldn't wait any longer. We went to the imaging center, where we were greeted and asked how far along we were, etc.   We were taken into a room with mood lighting and calm music.  They put on the gel, and started moving the monitor around.  We were still excited and joking at what looked like parts on the screen, and time passed, and more time, and still there was searching.  She finally asked us if we were sure we were as far as we were.  We assured we were, we've been tracking this pregnancy since before this pregnancy was a pregnancy.  She was frantically searching, and the mood immediately changed.  You could cut the tension with a knife. All of our worst thoughts were being imagined. We had made it so far and now time had stopped.  Once baby was found, she couldn't detect a heart beat, (with their imaging, a heart beat is supposed to be detectable at eight weeks, here we are one day past ten weeks.) She questioned us again about babies age, because baby was measuring closer to eight weeks.  We left morose, we left not knowing what to think or feel.  We were handed an image of a sac with a little white dot in the middle.
Shock settled in as we made a follow up appointment, and it lasted the entire work day.  As I was driving home every emotion hit me and I broke down into a million tears.  I cried, Josh cried, and we didn't know what to do.  We surrounded ourselves with good friends and said a million prayers and blessings.  The next day we went to work, and we tried to remain positive while still expecting the absolute worst.  I read experience after experience, consulted page after page, trying to find signs that what we were experiencing was normal.
 That evening we took a blood sample, and tried to prepare ourselves for the result.  But how can you?  The following 12 hours were indescribable.   We tried desperately to get some sleep.  But how do you sleep when a life could be ending...or had already ended?  We received a call at nine and were told our hormone levels were perfect for 10.5 weeks.  Relief!  They weren't even a little bit low, they weren't high, they were just perfect!  A wave of temporary relief settled over our minds and bodies.  However, the blood test is a set of two blood draws done two days apart, and it's the second test that gives us the information we need.
On Friday, July 22nd, we went in bright and early for our second blood draw.  After the blood draw we went out for desert because it was my birthday after all.  The results came back negative and we went in on Wednesday for another ultrasound, which was also negative. We cried and we screamed, and the hour and a half drive back all I could think was the best thing that could happen to us was being hit by a semi,  to end our misery, our anger, our guilt.  We did everything in our power and it still wasn't enough.  It took three days of constant contractions, bleeding, and straining, for my mind to overcome and for my body to listen.  Our pregnancy was over and this was the end.
This is miscarriage:
Miscarriage is lying in pain for 72 hours as your uterus contracts shedding the sac and fetus you tried so hard to grow.
Miscarriage is talking each other off of literal ledges because the hopelessness is too powerful.
Miscarriage is feeling overwhelmingly weak but being told how strong you are.
Miscarriage is laying in a pool of your own blood as your body struggles to push and not push and move itself to alleviate the pressure and pain.
Miscarriage is surpassing the recommended amount of painkillers and still feeling excruciating pain.
Miscarriage is carrying a life one day and adjusting to emptiness the next.
Miscarriage is a host of people telling you statistics of how many women have miscarriages, but just not caring.
Miscarriage is seeing therapists and asking for a miracle.
Miscarriage is lying on a bed unable to move as the world carries on without you.
Miscarriage is being asked how you're doing and trying not to cry when you answer.
Miscarriage is leaving work early and crying the whole way home.
Miscarriage is months of grief.
Miscarriage is suffering.
Miscarriage is a daily battle with your mind.
Miscarriage is postpartum depression and grief tied up in one lousy package.
Miscarriage is falling asleep to breathing out the bad and breathing in the good.
Miscarriage is telling yourself it will be okay a thousand times but not believing it will be.
Miscarriage is realizing it was over before it began.
Miscarriage is not being able to do anything about it.
Miscarriage is physical, emotional, and mental healing.
Miscarriage is being drenched in darkness in the middle of the afternoon.
Miscarriage is being overwhelmed by the silent judgments around you.
Miscarriage is hate.
Miscarriage is loathing everyone and everything about and around you.
Miscarriage is wanting to reach out but not knowing how.
Miscarriage is lashing out.
Miscarriage is being misunderstood.
Miscarriage is hard.
Miscarriage is death.
Miscarriage is learning to live with your losses.
Miscarriage is seeing the meaning to your suffering.

This is Miscarriage and infertility in a cupboard 

Lost: Where do we go from here?

Alone and abandoned: How could this happen to us? Isn’t there someone watching over us? Taking care of us?

No hope: If this didn’t work what does it mean for us? How do we go on?

Discouraged: Why try again? Why is it so easy for everyone else?

Embittered: How can we be happy for others?

Loss: Never get to hold our babies or make the memories or take the pictures.

Disappointed: We were so excited.

Fear of pity: What if we tell people and that is all they see or talk about? What if that is what we become known for and it is a painful reminder of our loss for the rest of our lives?

Isolation: What if we don’t tell people and we just keep it inside and no one ever knows how much the jokes and teasing about not having kids yet hurts.

Pain: I wanted to hold our child. I wanted to show them off. I wanted to watch over them and see them grow. I wanted to teach them, play with them and go on adventures with them. All gone.

Some days I can't help but feel sad and think of the excitement I once felt and the life I once housed and then feeling guilty because I lost a fetus when other parents lost children. I feel pain and at the same time not knowing if the pain I feel should be validated.  I feel shame in hiding the box of baby clothes we bought, the bassinet we were expecting to fill.  I want to keep it hidden so nobody asks questions and I also feel excitement and joy when I think our baby might be wearing them someday. It's a grief that just keeps coming, it rocks you to your core. Months will go by and you think you are finally stable. You will see a pregnancy announcement and you are right where you began months ago.  The isolation is real and it is sobering.  When everyone around you is talking about their newborn, or their gender reveal party, and you have nothing, just the memories of your own plans growing cobwebs in the depths of your mind.
You feel like you are the sole sufferer traveling this path by yourself.  It took me a lot longer than it should have to realize Josh was suffering just as much as I was.  This loss was just as real and as painful to him as it was to me.  This grief affected both of us equally.  Let it bring you closer together, or it will tear you apart. In time this love and strength will be the meaning to your suffering.  Your babies life will finally have meaning and this will bring closure.
People will downplay this tragic event, they won't realize that weeks and especially not months later you are still suffering.  Returning to work, and occasionally hanging out with friends doesn't mean you are healed, but it is a good start. Don't let their words hurt you, they don't understand, and the selfless part of you doesn't ever want them to.
One time I was feeling sick so we took a trip to the Dr. I was prescribed some medicine and we asked if it would interfere with a pregnancy.  After figuring out how far along I would be it was decided that at this point it shouldn't interfere because "it's just a bunch of cells."  In that moment I wanted to scream "But they are my cells.  These are cells we've tried so hard to collect and grow.  They aren't cells to be gambled with in the game of will this medicine interfere or won't it." But we said nothing and we skipped on the prescription,  and I was fine.  I do have words for the nurse practitioner who wanted to gamble with our "cells".  I don't hate you, I don't mistrust you.  I'm sure your job is hard, I'm sure you deal with a lot of angry people, and I know your job isn't easy, but you don't know who's cells those are.  The next time expectant parents ask you about a harmful medicine and the possible side effects, don't call their child, cells.  Those cells house hope and the future.  Offer alternatives, and if you don't know any look some up, phone a colleague, but don't devalue the life they are holding.
To the man administering the ultrasound that ultimately gave us the life shattering news, it takes more than a minute to compose yourself after a death and on the verge of a crisis.  So don't give us "a few minutes to compose ourselves." Don't throw statistics at newly grieving parents, because they mean nothing.  Tell us you are there for us, you know this is hard, but eventually it will get easier, but don't tell us the likelihood of it happening again minutes after "it" just happened.
To the family and friends who spoke amongst yourselves and shared our story without our permission, but never offered condolences or checked in on us, shame on you.  I hope you never go through this, but I hope you are never treated that way if you do.  Grieving parents don't have the mindset to tell you they're hungry or the dishes aren't done, or the lawn isn't mowed, they have the mindset to say nothing and be silent, so go and do.  These are the moments families step up or step down, and it hurts to think that some of ours were the latter.
To the family and friends that held our hands, made us eat, cleaned our house, soothed our souls, we will never be able to repay you.
Right now we are grieving, and I don't have the emotional strength to talk about this, because the hurt is all too painful and fresh.  But eventually this will be an event that has changed us and made us stronger.  A circumstance to look back on and gain from.  These babies are so much apart of our lives, and will continue to be.  I carried our last baby for 11 weeks, but our babies will remain in our hearts and on our minds forever.  We can't be happy for new families right now because we're relearning what happiness is. We can't go to baby showers, we can't hold your newborns, we need time.  We go through all the stages of grief every hour of every day, and our only respite is sleep, but together we're healing.
Once a miscarriage has occurred, or is imminent, there's not a lot of anything anyone can say or do.  The real healing starts by waking up every day and living, laughing at the good parts, loving those around you and crying when you need to.  You will cry, and you will need to.  You will need to remember the baby you once carried and never forget those feelings.
Let yourself be sad and let your mind handle the grief.

Post the pictures you never posted

Own this experience 

Remember it will take a lot of time