halfway

    in pregnancy loss communities, when you have a living child after losing others, that child is called a "rainbow baby."  it's like a rainbow after a storm: something beautiful after something turbulent and dark.   when you have a living child before losing one, that child is called a "sunshine baby." it's like the bright happiness before the darkness rolls in.  

    today my son, my triple rainbow baby and sunshine baby all in one, turned nine.  my sister sent around some old photos and videos from nine years ago, and it utterly astonishes me that much time has passed since i first held his tiny beautiful body in my arms. one photo, taken only a few days after we were home, shows me cradling his head against my heart, both of us at total peace.  i couldn't stop looking at it, tears streaming down my face.  only hours previously, my now-comparatively enormous son had crawled into my lap and nestled his head on my chest in exactly the same way, snuggling contentedly and naturally into my arms, without any thought or self-consciousness.  i recognized the look on his 3-day old face as the same that appears on his 9-year-old face: the peace of being surrounded by love.

    "i am grateful for all of it."  i whispered these words out loud, looking at the photo.  and i was thinking not just of him, but for the three that went before him and the one after, that cleared and tilled and fertilized and prepared the soil of my life to be his mother.  the loss isn't forgotten because healing is not forgetting.  healing is acknowledging the babies you’ve lost and also celebrating the joy of the babies who survive.

    family lore (and a vivid memory that i have) has it that on my ninth birthday, my mother kneeled down, hugged me, looked me in the eye, and said "i can't believe my time with you is already halfway over."  while my mom has mixed feelings about this tale, i have always remembered it as a blessing: i knew i'd been given wings long before i knew what that would practically mean.  i didn't say any of this to my son today, but what i did think was, "i can't believe i've had so much time with you already, especially when i had no time at all with the others."

    i'm thankful that time's boundaries don't apply to love.

celebrating loss, celebrating love

for awhile now, it's been guaranteed that i'll at least post here twice a year: around Mother's Day, and on October 15th, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, also known in our home as Tummymuffin Day.  this year... October 15th came and went.  no post.  what happened?

what happened, i am astounded to admit to you, is that i... forgot.  yeah. i forgot Tummymuffin Day.  the feeling in my body when i realized this was first a hollow feeling of disbelief, and then a wash of hot shame and regret, like i'd somehow betrayed my family and all of you.  i questioned my priorities, my time management, my authenticity.  as i calmed down, and forced myself to mindfully consider, i had an insight: i'd forgotten the date. i had NOT forgotten the Day -- in other words, i had not forgotten what makes October 15th usually so important, simply because i cannot.  the loss of my other children is always there, and it makes itself known in wildly different ways.  

recently, i was asked in front of a group of people that well-meaning, but ultimately complex question, "So is he your only one?"  i gave my usual response, "Yes, and i didn't think i would even have one; i lost three before and one after him!" i've said this many times, but for some reason, as the questioner said "Oh, I'm so sorry!", i felt a glow of compassion and freedom for my four other Tummymuffins; there was a joy in knowing that will always be mine right alongside the sadness that i will never know them as i do my living son.  my heart felt peaceful.

however, only a few days before the 15th, i overheard a woman mention a long road of infertility, and when i looked over, i saw her face was frozen in an all-too-familiar rictus mask of 'being strong' -- the too-wide smile, the too-bright eyes.  the other person said "Well, at least you and your husband are having fun trying!" and it suddenly felt like the world around me went into horrible slow motion; i literally had to put my head between my knees to clear the roaring in my ears. i quietly sobbed into my jeans, bewildered by the absolute tidal wave of emotion.  i felt like i was leaking for at least another hour; every time i thought i'd "gotten over it" i would cry again.  the inner turmoil didn't subside until i recognized that the cracks in my heart are actually shared ravines with so many other women, and that maybe by tumbling in, i was sharing in a communal experience of that pain.

i live in a city that enthusiastically celebrates today and tomorrow as Dia de los Muertos, otherwise known as the Day of the Dead.  (for a long time, most people outside of Mexico or communities with a Mexican-American population had never heard of it, but then Pixar gave us the beautiful film Coco.) yes, the whole point of the two-day event is death, but it is an exuberant explosion of joy, love, respect, and community.  families remember loved ones who have died not with sorrowful mourning, but with grateful happiness that their lives intersected.  in fact, it is customary when sharing memories of the deceased, to purposefully pick the funniest, most entertaining memories possible.  there is singing, dancing, and of course eating...it's a party, and the spirits/memories/souls (you pick) of the departed join.  it is not twisted glorification of darkness or spookiness, nor is it a romanticized view of death.  it is the acknowledgment of the human cycle of experience, and it is an honoring of who we are as humans who love and who lose those we love.

so even though i did not light my candles for each Tummymuffin on the 15th, i will light them tonight, celebrating the existence of their little brief lives with joy even as i honor the cracks in my heart that need no mending, for they are forever part of me.

not my choice

here i am, seven years into this journey of motherhood between losses, and i'm still deeply ambivalent about Mother's Day.  sure, i am beyond cynical about the commercial part with packed restaurants and overpriced flowers and cards, but i find it easier to place myself with the people for whom Mother's Day is difficult (see last year's Mother's Day post) than slip beatifically into a role of a smiling mommy having adoration force-fed to her.
ok, maybe i'm still beyond cynical.
but here is the thing: none of this was my choice.
i struggled with infertility before each pregnancy.  not my choice.
i experienced motherhood four times only through happy nausea, hopeful tiredness, proudly tight pants, blessedly hearing a heartbeat, and then crushing grief.  not my choice.
i wrestle with the reality that there are millions of secret mothers with invisible children out there, just like me.  not their choice.
i know that there are also plenty of hurting secret dads out there too, who have even less space and social permission to experience their grief.  not their choice.
i have already hugged several friends who are dreading Mother's Day because their mom won't speak to them, or is a squizillion miles away, or is dead.  not their choice.

i told my patient and understanding husband that i didn't want anything special for Mother's Day, since i still feel so negative and sad about it, which confuses me.  "are you sure?" he asked.  "you know that's not your choice to make."
i did not like this answer, and said as much.
"honey," he said, "our son gets to decide that.  Mother's Day is for him, too."

clearly i married up.

and my wise and beloved husband is absolutely right.  our child is all whispers and secrets and hiding things in daddy's closet and dashing around and happiness.  he keeps asking me how long it is until Mother's Day when he will be able to, if his excitement is any indication, unleash what must be surprise awesomeness of epic proportions.  "it is a special day!" he proclaims. "for special mommys! and you are my only mommy so it is special for you!!!"
this is so clearly Not My Choice.

what is my choice, then, is to accept that my confusing cynical gloom cloud can coexist with the sparkly rainbow sunshine of my family's joy, and neither shall negate the authenticity of the other.  and i shall choose to inhabit the sparklyness with all my presence, and in so doing, honor my invisible children by holding space for them in that expansive joy.

international pregnancy and infant loss remembrance day

on this October 15th, on International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, i'm incredibly honored to have been interviewed by the courageous and wonderful Shannon Vandermark, creator and host of the podcast "Happily Ever After...Without Children."  when she first asked me, i was surprised she would want to have someone who has a living child on the podcast, but i understood why when she explained that she wanted to hear the perspective of someone who can say from experience that having a child isn't some kind of magic bullet that wipes out all the pain and grief of infertility and multiple pregnancy losses.  as easy as it is to think that "just having a baby" would make Everything All Right Again -- satisfying all the longing, wiping away all the pain, making everyone happy -- it's simply not true.  the opposite of happily ever after without children is not happily ever after with children; it's sadly ever after either with or without children.  each person responds to grief and loss differently, and each must choose what that Ever After will be.  joy and sorrow dance in lockstep; our enormous capacity to love brings with it an enormous capacity for pain.

you can look in the right sidebar under "labels" and see that i've written extensively here about this emotional duality and how i do not believe that L is a "happy ending;" that motherhood after loss is a unique experience that is affected daily by the struggle that preceded it; that grief has no expiration date, and of course, about the importance of Talking About It. this day is a huge part of that.

October 15th is the internationally designated date to remember and promote awareness of pregnancy and infant loss, and to give those affected by it a worldwide community of solidarity in grief and hope.  for many who swallow their sorrow, this day is perhaps the needed "permission" to recognize the pain of losing a loved child before or briefly after he or she was born...and this would also include the would-be grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings, godparents, etc.  

tonight, for Tummymuffin Remembrance Day, our little family of three will light five candles; four for the children we will not meet, and one for our bonus miracle L. we'll hug and talk about the things that make us a family.  later, i will speak aloud the names of those i know who are remembering their lost children, and light candles for them too.  this will be happening in hundreds of thousands of places literally around the globe.  there will be so much light, and so much love.  

and if you like, you can listen to me talk about October 15th at the following places below  (warning: mild profanity.  it is, after all, an honest conversation from the heart and i saw no need to self-censor.  apologies in advance.):

You can find today’s episode with Erika on the Happily Ever After show:

On iTunes:
https://itunes.apple.com/…/happily-ever-after…/id1384705637…

Or Spotify:
https://open.spotify.com/show/1UetPrpvp7Ns75SUmgltJA

Or ACast:
https://www.acast.com/happilyeverafterwithoutchildren

Or simply on the web here:
happilyeverafterwithoutchildren.libsyn.com/

bouquets

i see that now i come here to post twice a year: once on National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, and once on Mother's Day.  i didn't intend to do this, but i suppose this is because these are the two markers in the year when one simply cannot NOT remember.
i'm having a small existential crisis right now; the construct of "Mother's Day" is still not really that cemented into temporal reality for my son, and so it's up to me to figure out what i "want to do for Mother's Day." my original idea has been sidelined due to capricious weather, and i still have a very, very fraught and confusing relationship with the holiday.  after having a small meltdown about it, my wise husband pointed out that perhaps it is just that what i would like to do is NOT have a Mother's Day, just a normal family day.  oh. huh. but of course.
an artist i regularly appreciate for her keen human insight, Mari Andrew, created an illustration that is titled "Thinking of You." it depicts six different lovely bouquets of flowers, each one with a caption underneath:
:: Mothers Who Have Lost Children
:: Those Who Have Lost Mothers
:: Those With Strained Mother Relationships
:: Mothers With Strained Child Relationships
:: Those Who Have Chosen Not To Be Mothers
:: Those Yearning To Be Mothers
this more or less perfectly sums up how i feel about Mother's Day and explains to me why i still cannot approach this day with anything like peace.  i have no problem celebrating my own amazing mother, but i have a hard time celebrating my own motherhood without also acknowledging those other bouquets i've held and still hold.
i used to feel incredibly guilty about my turmoil over the holiday for various reasons, but now i'm choosing not to. it takes a lot of energy to choose not to feel guilty about something, and that's probably where the existential crisis is coming from.
i see that my last post dealt rather thoroughly with the idea that something as wrenching as infertility and/or pregnancy & child loss remain potent through time, circumstance, and growth -- both negatively and positively -- and so to any of you who are awkwardly clutching any of the above bouquets, especially you secret unseen mothers, i hope for you some measure of joy and peace even as what feels like legions of other women triumphantly wave their "normal" bunches of mom flowers.
and remember: until we speak, we do not know one another's stories...so please: tell a trusted friend or family member, or even me about your bouquet(s), especially if they are still painful, for there is no shame in them.

pregnancy and infant loss remembrance day

very recently, i went to a movie with my husband -- we can do that sort of thing now, because L is now in kindergarten, and we can enjoy the early bird shows.  We were the only people in the theatre, and we were pretty early, so my husband went to use the bathroom, leaving me alone with the ads for concessions and insurance and lawn care and mobile phones and whatever it is they run forever before you actually even get to the trailers.

i was excited to be feeling like a grown-up, relaxing in an air-conditioned movie theatre, on a date with my husband, when an image came on the massive screen in front of me: a woman looking at a pregnancy test, with a slowly spreading smile on her face, and then a shot of her and her partner, cuddling happily with the test in hand.  i sat in shock for a second, and then completely, unexpectedly, and utterly lost it.

it literally felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my chest.  i gasped for breath, clutching the back of the oversized plushy seat, heaving with sobs.  while the lizard brain part of me fell to complete pieces, the rational bits of me were terrified: what if there's someone in the projection booth and they think i'm having a heart attack? what if my husband comes back right now and finds me like this? and what, for the love of all that is holy, is happening to me?

i curled into a fetal ball into the corner of the seat and tried to breathe through the giant, primal sobs. i scrabbled around in my bag for a tissue, and tried to keep from drowning in my own tears and snot.  i had no idea what that ad had been selling, and didn't even really understand what was happening to me in the moment, but i certainly knew why it was happening: it was the concentrated grief of all those many, many pregnancy tests...and how even the positive ones amounted to a negative when it came to actually having a child.  it was the memory of the last, unexpected one that hurt the most.

"that's all i had for some of you," i whispered, "just blue lines on a stick. i wish you were more. oh, i wish you had all been more!"  and then -- like a switch had been flipped -- the sobs just...stopped.  it was as if the acknowledgement of my lost babies' presence in my life was the truth that needed to be spoken to acknowledge the grief and send it back to rest.

i stabbed the tissue furiously at my eyes, blew my nose, and did box breathing while the lights went down and the trailers started.  miraculously, my husband did not re-appear until a few minutes later, and the darkness effectively hid my swollen eyes. we proceeded to enjoy a movie like a couple of happy teens cutting class. now, you'd think this abrupt emotional shifting would've ruined things, but instead i found myself simply relieved to know that They Still Matter A Lot. 

so why do i tell you this very personal and awkward story?  because you can see the tickers in the right-hand column (scroll down if you want to) saying it's been eight and a half years (!) since we first honored a would-be day of a child that never came -- and the sorrow still packs a hard punch.  it's another October 15th, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day (click the links if you want more information on what this is), or "Tummymuffin Remembrance Day," as we call it in our home.  with time, each one is no easier than the last...they're just different.  i wrote in my last post about growing within the measures of joy and sorrow, and as my story shows, said growth will likely never be done.  i will likely always carry some pain of hopes crushed, just as i live every day the joy of a dream fulfilled beyond measure in so much more than even the life of my one living son.

friends, there are a lot of other parents tonight who will be lighting candles, remembering the ones they never met and choosing to courageously keep loving them anyway.  so please break the silence: offer a word of encouragement.  say "i love you and i'm remembering with you." give a hug.  light your own candle. ask for stories. say their baby or baby's name out loud.  just be there. 

and thanks to all of you who have been there, some of you for each and every one of these October 15ths over the last many years, who have extended so many acts of love that have defined our family in ways we could not imagine.  my candles will be lit tonight with so much gratefulness because of these, because of you.

the measure of a (wo)man

recently, someone said to me they had realised a basic truth about life: that the measure of joy in your life is in no way connected to the measure of the amount of sorrow.  in other words, if you are very happy, it doesn't necessarily mean you should have very little sadness. and if you are struggling with some overwhelming challenge that leaves you  breathless with grief, this shouldn't preclude the presence of joy in your life.
there is no other day in the calendar of my adult life that so starkly racks this usually hazy duality into sharp focus than Mothers' Day. i am at the life stage now where more and more of my friends are losing their parents to the inevitabilities of age -- cancer, heart disease, accidents not recovered from.  they miss their mothers (and fathers) with a raw emptiness than i can only guess at.  i have my own inkling about it though, because i still miss my four lost children in a way that startles me.  how is that chasm of grief still so deep, and dark, with edges i cannot see? 

i am five years into being the mother of a living child, and every day of those five years has changed and shaped and challenged me in the best and most exhausting ways possible.  i have never before felt so much love, and joy, and also terror, and frustration, and above all, how strong i am.  my son is a miracle in every way -- and i know that the tenderness i feel when he puts his small arms around me is all the more fierce because i truly never thought i would have this experience. 
some of you have followed this journey from the beginning; some of you are new to it, and so i will admit to you all that yes, i gave up.  the clutching hands of my exhausted soul were cramping up after years of infertility and three lost babies, and i felt i had to simply let go of hope.  it actually felt good, like releasing a spiked iron ball into an ocean wave.  in time, i realised that it was being replaced with another, different kind of hope: hope for me, hope for my amazing husband, hope for the family of two that we were.  and since that was what i already had to work with, i didn't have to hold it so tightly.  so when i lost the much-wanted, and not-realistically-hoped-for-pregnancy after having my miracle-gift son, that spiky ball had been growing soft algae at the bottom of the sea for several years already.  getting through the day by focusing on my everyday, present hopes alongside recognising my crushing anger and hollow sadness felt actually normal.   i suppose i can call this Growth, or maybe it's just Growing Up. because generally, growing up isn't fun, but it is certainly healthy and good.
please don't hear what i'm not saying: i am not saying to anyone dealing with the grief of a denied future to just "give up hope." what i am saying is that the more i do the hard work of internalizing the dual nature of joy and grief; of having and having-not, the more i grow and the stronger i become.  letting go of hope for a dream that is not going to become a reality is a true loss, AND that loss is not connected to all the dreams that have come true; they should not lessen one another in any way.  there are many other things in my life that require this awful, messy work, and i cannot shrink from them with an unfounded fear that to do so would somehow decrease the overflowing joy in my life.

sigh. this all feels rather inarticulate, and i suppose it should be, since this is a lesson-in-progress.  i "know" all this, and yet i find myself more and more falling into the trap of guilt and denial over any present sorrow i still feel for my missing children: i have so much -- SO MUCH in my life that is rich and beautiful and marvelous, including a robustly alive son whose face, i am told, looks like mine. (strangers who tell me that on random playgrounds have no idea how deeply meaningful that is, how it feels like they are actually saying, "my dear lady, may i congratulate you on winning the Grandest of the Grand Prizes?")   shouldn't i just be able to leave those years of loss, and grief, and disappointment behind me? isn't it selfish to still sometimes cry so hard that i must sit down because something, anything reminds me of my other Tummymuffins? can't i just be happy with what i have?
the truth is, Mothers' Day is still emotionally conflicted for me. i cannot fully access the joy of my little son reciting a poem to me about our love and giving me a tiny flowerpot, without also fully accessing the years of pain this day has meant for so long -- both to me and to so many i love who are "secret mothers." both are real, both are completely heart-exploding, both are inextricably part of me, and neither negate the other.  perhaps the measure of joy and grief in a life is actually a measure of love.

national pregnancy and infant loss remembrance day

my neighbours are landscaping their front yard, and it's currently a childrens' paradise, with huge piles of stones and dirt everywhere. they have a daughter only a few months older than my son, and a few evenings ago, they were happily playing together in their makeshift "construction zone." L drove his bulldozer up and down a dirt hill, loading piles of fragrant soil into his friend's little cement mixer.  her mom and i stood nearby, contentedly watching our kids play and enjoying the last moments of daylight.

we first became friends when we both had huge pregnant bellies and no real idea what to expect.   we shared maternity clothes, nursing shirts, baby food gear, kids' books and toys, and each others' yards.  after awhile, we also discovered that we shared the experience of three prior miscarriages previous to our fourth child's live birth.  and recently, we've also shared the grief of letting go of the dream of a family of four, as she also has experienced secondary infertility.

as the sunlight began its steady autumn-evening fade, she turned and asked me, hauntedly, "how do you let go of what you never had? how do you deal with the guilt of wanting another child when you already have one against the odds? how do you move on?"

i listened. i breathed deeply. i was silent. the sound of our kids laughing made me wonder if she also sometimes thinks about how it would be to hear her child's laughter mixed with that of a brother or sister that never was.

at this time last year, i was aching and so angry, hollow and raging, fresh from the loss of Tummymuffin V and full of unanswered useless questions, most of them starting (and ending) with the word WHY? in this year's span, i've healed a lot; i've let go more, but i have done so mostly quietly.  i have yet to write about the unexpected laying to rest and naming of my last lost baby; perhaps my silence is evidence of how soul-weary i am from these sorts of thoughts.

you see, i don't have an easy answer to her question.  it's really asking: how do you balance feeling unbelievably blessed and unbelievably cheated? can you? should you? i don't really know. what i do know is that i still don't think you really "move on" or "get over" pregnancy loss and infertility. you have to move with it; accept its presence in your life, and make it an acknowledged companion so it doesn't become some parasitic vampire of your actual identity. 

recently i have noticed that perhaps the lack of peace i feel is possibly -- dare i say -- feminist in nature: that pregnancy loss, and the insidious culture of silence that society imposes around it, is part of the acceptance of the idea that a woman's worth is measured by being someone's wife (you attracted and caught someone! you win!) and someone's mother (your ladyparts all work! good job!). i'm astonished by how often i hear comments that imply that i'm cheating my son, or i'm being irresponsible or selfish, or even that i "have it so easy" because i have only one living child and i do not (actually cannot) plan to have another.  i can rationally reject these comments, just as i can and have rationally rejected the many unintentionally devastating comments regarding my pregnancy losses and infertility.  but they take their toll.

so on this Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, or as we call it here, Tummymuffin Day, i lovingly and humbly make this request: please don't ask the couple "so when are you going to have a baby?". don't say to the parents " oh but (s)he needs a brother/sister!".  and for the love of all that is holy, please do not ever say to any woman, "you better hurry up and have a/more kid(s); your clock is ticking!".  and if you are privy to the details of someone's family-making journey, and you know there has been tragedy and roadblocks, just saying "i love you and support you" goes a long, long way.

as the sun became a red-orange glow, and the outlines of our precious children's beautiful, vital, innocent bodies showed against the pink-tinged sky, i turned to my friend, put my arm around her shoulder, and said, "you know, some moments are better than others. in the best, i am simply grateful. and i let THOSE moments define my life. this is one of them."  

tonight, i shall light my candles and speak the names of my own lost children, and then love my friends by speaking the names of theirs, and i will hear my own life taking shape. and i will be grateful.

i will not, i will

there have been so many things i've wanted to write about coming to terms with "not having another one," and also grieving the loss of a baby after having a living child.  one of the realities of this is that as a full-time parent with a small child around, one is almost always tired, and autonomous time is scarce (and only comes in increments of several minutes or less).  yes, this affects posting on a blog, but more than that, it greatly changes the process of mourning changes and losses.
this recent Mother's Day was a really tough one. i've written before about the challenge of this day for women who are infertile and/or have suffered pregnancy loss, but i was really quite unprepared for how much i'd still have mixed feelings about this day.  last year when the holiday came around, we were at a wedding in the mountains and were too busy celebrating that.  but this year we're right now in Germany, visiting my in-laws, and "Mutterstag" has been exported in all its commercial glory to this country too.  my son is still too young to do the whole breakfast in bed/card/present/flowers/etc. thing, and i told my husband that he should concentrate on his mom and direct all of L's attention to her as well.  we had a lovely day with a long all-family bike ride through the woods (yes, very Black Forest-y) to a little restaurant where we had homemade bratwurst and kuchen, and we laughed and L played, and we all delighted in our love for one another and the good mothering that got us there.
there was such sharpness and strength to that joy: hearing my son's pure lilting giggles while seeing my husband and his mother share a good story, the warm sun filtering through trees, the clean, crisp smell of spring and growth filling my lungs every time i drew breath to laugh.  that tangible joy felt like a sturdy shelter, and even a natural respite, from the heavy grief that permeated the other hours of my day, and i believe its brightness was intensified by the contrast, and its protection.  it made me grateful for many lessons hard-earned about the complementary nature of joy and grief.

today is the Would-Be Day for our fifth child, who is yet to be named.  i feel somewhat lost as to how to lay her memory to rest; she is unlike our first three Tummymuffins, who were alive and real enough but still, for me as a mother, only promises of a future not experienced.  however, this Mother's Day, which was in cruel proximity to today, i couldn't stop remembering, as i sprawled on the floor, sobbing for all the things i now actually knew.  i couldn't stop remembering what it actually felt like to be 40 weeks pregnant; how full and heavy and taut and uncomfortable and thrilling.  i couldn't stop recalling the feeling of tiny feet kicking from within, or even the indescribable exhilaration of feeling my baby finally slide from my womb into the world and burst into full-throated life. 
over the last several months, i have tried to drink my full tea mug of grief, but there has been so little mental space and energy, and i think i only sipped when i should've stared into its murky depths and then downed it.  the Mother's Day cup was scalding, and bitter, and difficult to finish because it entailed recognizing that i was mourning for someone whom this time, i could truly imagine. 
today, i understand now as i did not before with my first three, what this would-be day will not have.   i will not feel the weight of a small beautiful body placed upon my chest.  i will not smell the sweetness of a soft, downy head.  i will not look down into bright clear eyes and see my own face reflected.  i will not be looking at my husband with pride and even deeper love as he cradles his new child. i will not see my parents, or my sister, or my parents-in-law, or my friends' joy at a new arrival. i will not have a little face nuzzled against my breast.  i will not gaze down in amazement at this marvelous creature that i, by some miracle, will call my own.  i will not fall dizzyingly, splendidly, exhaustingly in love. 
and yet, by the same token, i know what i do have.  i will experience bone-deep gratitude when i feel the weight of my son, formerly Tummymuffin IV, snuggled on my lap tonight.  i will run my hands through his thick, bewilderingly curly hair and hear him say in his sweet voice, "I love you, Mommy." i will kiss my amazing husband with decisive pleasure and pride, and tell him again that he is a wonderful father.  i will send photos of today's adventures to my family and know they will take joy in seeing our son's growth and exuberant happiness.  i will be flooded with compassion as i enfold my boy in my arms and comfort him after an inevitable bump or bruise, as he buries his wailing face in my chest.  i will gaze down in delight at him when he does something hilarious, and then in the next moment takes my hand and asks some astonishingly insightful question.  i am daily, over and over, falling in love.

oh my little Tummymuffin V, i will never know you, but i know how it is to be your mother.  happy would-be day, and happy Mother's Day too.  i love you.

national pregnancy & infant loss remembrance day

a few days ago, we drove past our very-pregnant neighbour's house, and she was outside with her daughter S, who is the same age as L.
"Mommy," he said, with that This Is An Urgent Why Question upper-register voice of his, "is S going to have a baby?" 
i explained that yes, her mommy has a baby growing inside her body, and that very soon S will have a little sister.  now, we'd just come back from a playdate at the park with one of his school friends, who also has a little sister.   L was very quiet in that special preschooler way that indicates Big Thoughts Are In My Head Right Now.  i looked in the rear-view mirror.  his brow was furrowed, and he looked worried. 
"L, your face looks worried.  are you having a big feeling right now?" i asked.
a little voice said "yes."
"Sweets, are you wondering if you are suddenly going to have a little sister too?"
he burst out in relief "YESSSSSS!!"
i'm glad we were driving, so he couldn't see my face.  part of me was laughing merrily, and part of me went very, very still.
"Oh L, it's ok.  don't worry.  that won't happen." i explained.
"It's not?!"
"No, honey, getting a little brother or sister usually involves a big decision made by the mommy and daddy, and then it takes a long time for a baby to grow inside its mommy's body.  so you get plenty of warning if you're going to get a little brother or sister.  it doesn't happen suddenly.  the mommies and daddies tell their kids way before it happens."
"Did B (another friend) know about his little sister before she came?"
"Yes, he did."
"Ok."  L was quiet for awhile, again with that Big Thoughts look. "Um, Mommy?"
"Yes, Sweets?"
(Quietly) "Is there a baby growing inside your body RIGHT NOW?"
my breath caught.  "Oh, no, my love, no. there is not. not anymore."
"Why?"

i swallowed hard.  "Babies can't grow inside Mommy's body anymore."
"But WHY?"
"Oh love, i don't know. i just don't know."
He was quiet again.  "Can we listen to the elephant song please?"
i gratefully turned on the kids' music CD and made it as loud as was safe, so he wouldn't notice me crying.

today is October 15th, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, or in our home, Tummymuffin Day.  (click links for more information, if you are unfamiliar with this -- it is observed worldwide, with candles lit from 7:00-8:00pm local time.)  tonight will be somewhat different -- we will be remembering our four lost children, instead of three.
you see, it's been less than a month since i had to say goodbye to Tummymuffin V.  yes, as i was writing that last post about closing and latching the gate on more kids -- i was, unbeknownst to me, already pregnant.  and then just as we were joyfully adjusting to this new reality, it was all over.  everything went back to being the same.  and nothing will ever be the same again.

as L grows older, and becomes more aware of other kids having brothers and sisters, our decision to Talk About the children we lost becomes more complex.  he knows that he had brothers and sisters that "no one got to meet," but as he starts to better understand that most people only talk about or know about siblings that are alive, there will inevitably be questions -- not just from him, but from others who won't understand why a little kid would be talking about babies that were never born. 
the reason is exactly why this day exists, first brought into being in America by Congressional decree (and then spreading internationally; most recently Australia passed a resolution to recognize it) -- because the lives of these never-met babies, even if they were so short as to have never been born, massively impact the lives of their families and friends.  my son's life is irrevocably shaped by the three before him, and now also by the one after. 

pregnancy and infant loss -- and especially the accompanying grief and sorrow -- is not at all a comfortable topic of conversation, but it is imperative that our society becomes more accepting and adept at Talking About It.  while every loss is unique, and especially every parent's response to it is also, they must be given the right to make a choice of how to respond in their own way.  and too many of them have felt that silence and secrecy is their only option.  it is incredibly hard to speak openly about this, and it takes practice with those you love and trust. 
if you have lost a child in pregnancy or early infancy, please know that you are far from alone. many of the links to the right will take you to places that have wonderful resources for coping with the grief, finding support, and talking openly about your loss.  you can also feel free to email me (my information is under the "About" tab at the top of the page).  talk to your partner about where you are in your journey; too often even in our house, i am surprised by where my husband is, or he is blindsided by how fresh the pain feels for me sometimes.  being open, at least in your family relationships, is a good start.

and for those of you who love someone who has had a loss -- or especially if they're revealing this part of themselves to you for the first time -- simply be present.  let them tell their story without judgment or any "fix-it" responses.*  give a hug and an "i'm sorry."  or if you already know of someone mourning a loss/losses, perhaps use this day to send a quick text or email to say "i remember with you."  don't worry that you might be reminding them of something painful; they are most likely all too aware of it on a regular basis.

keep talking. keep listening. keep loving.  thank you to all of you who have done all of this for me on my journey.  i promise to do the same.

 *you can find posts about helping someone who's had a loss under the "advice and resources" tab at the top.

my another

-->that's the giant exhalation of breath that i just released. 

i've been struggling for awhile with what to continue writing about here regarding my personal journey, mainly because i had no real conclusions.  that's a problem; this blog has always been about life in process.  at the same time, because it dealt with what i now think of as one of the more publicly asked-about intensely private decisions ("so when are you going to have another one?"), i wanted just a little more clarity about what constitutes a "complete family." and how that definition can either continue to be a carefully-constructed faux reality, or an acceptance of the actual story.

get to the point, i hear you saying.  ok, well, even choosing the verb for how to say this is awkward: we've chosen? decided? accepted? come to an understanding? embraced?

fine, then.  we have, in our own ways, and together, (fill in the verb from above list here) that L will most likely be our only living child.

looking back on the pendulum swing of a journey that got me here, i know that it started with the blueprint i always had for "family:" 2 bio parents, 2 bio children.  this is what i lived; this is what my husband lived.   i never questioned my personal idea of "family" -- while i am very familiar with all the permutations of other people's families, my family was four people.  and thus, i think, i absorbed that this number is what would make our family complete. 

i remember driving home from one of L's earliest post-birth checkups, his impossibly tiny, freshly-hatched infant body asleep in the back, and me with my body still healing from the birth and milk newly come in, saying to my husband, "so...i guess we're going to start trying again as soon as possible?".  one of the nurses had made a passing comment about how ideally a new mother needs a solid year to heal/adjust to motherhood/go back to being an unpregnant body before another pregnancy, and my first reaction was mentally screaming "I DON'T HAVE THAT KIND OF TIME, LADY!"  i was looking down the barrel of 40, coming out of three miscarriages and years of infertility, and i thought: we gotta get going on this next kid.

despite exclusively breastfeeding my ridiculously hungry baby, my cycle came back when he was just 4 months old.  my OB/GYN, whom i love, called it "a particularly adventurous egg."  then, 28 days later, i had another period. and then, another 28 days...another period.  inwardly, i rejoiced.  this obviously meant my reproductive bits were back online, and we were ready to have another baby! 

only those 28 days kept coming and going, like clockwork.  they didn't stop.  at first, i was too sleep-deprived and overwhelmed by new mommyhood to really care too much; it was only after L's 1st birthday that i started to worry.  no, actually, it wasn't worry.  it was more like the slow decay of of a bouquet of cut flowers: my hope was wilting, being replaced by the "oh no, here we go again" dread.

secondary infertility is defined as when you can't conceive or carry to term in a given period of time following the birth of your biological child without assisted reproductive techniques or fertility meds.  it is a very real and common thing, and it's talked about even less than the "silent corrosion" that is primary infertility.  even medical professionals are known to downplay it, along with well-meaning friends and family ("just keep trying!"  "relax!").  the problem is, the toxic emotional cocktail of sadness, anger, frustration, despair, self-blame, etc. that usually accompanies infertility now comes in a big tall highball glass of guilt and criticism.  having an existing child (or children) means you have their welfare to consider, and other people (and maybe even your own internal voices) can be astonishingly vocal about the perceived selfishness of wanting to increase your family.  the emotional duality of being grateful for your child while still mourning the ones you didn't have, i have found, extends not just to babies lost in pregnancy, but also babies not conceived.  both situations mean facing and grieving the lost future that you hoped for that will not come to pass.

over time, the answer to the very common question, "so when will you/are you going to have another one?" has shifted.  it's gone through a lot of permutations, listed here in all their wilting-flower chronology:

"hopefully soon!"

...

"we're 'leaving the gate unlatched' and hoping for the best."

...

"we're so grateful for this one, and we do hope there will be another."

...

"we're trying to be patient -- it was a long journey to have this one and we're grateful just for him."

...

"we didn't even think we could have him, so who knows?"

...

"we don't know if we can or will. we're just grateful to have him."

...

and now, the current one:  "he IS our another one."

the pendulum has reached the other side, and i don't think it's going to swing back.  it shouldn't -- because the resolution of saying goodbye to our previous imagined incarnation of family (2 parents, 2 children) and instead fully, mindfully accepting and rejoicing in our actual family (2 parents, 1 living child), means that we can also move forward in our story being the best family we can be. 

after the first two miscarriages, our wise long-time family therapist told me: you must take your circumstances and choose a direction.  either you can stay defined as the grieving mother with empty arms, or you can be Yourself, and that weeping childless mother is a component of Who You Are.  he reminded me of this during our last visit, when my husband and I went to seek his counsel on this very difficult decision.  we can mourn this piece of our family story, but it is not who we are.  we are not a family with Not Enough Children.  we must be a family with One Child, who is even more than we may have at one time hoped for.  we are a family of three, and that is, for us, abundance.

i am broken; i am restored (rinse & repeat)

today is Mother's Day again.
i'm actually glad that instead of feeling like i have to acknowledge it, i'm in the mountains with my family, joyfully celebrating the wedding of a dear friend that i've known for almost a quarter-century.  this weekend has been about redemption of the deepest sort, because after the brokenness and betrayal that my friend has experienced in past years, it has been a true miracle to watch him take hold of healing, restoration, and trust again.  it has been a gift to watch him come back to life, and i am grateful to be able to witness it. 
yesterday, as i watched from a distance as they took wedding photographs standing amongst ancient, mossy trees, i saw only gratitude and peace on their faces, not the giddy excitement that usually marks a younger, first-time-around, newlywed couple.  these friends have seen a lot of life, and know better than many the realities of storms and crashing downs and the thick stupor of grief.  i took a deep breath of the sharp clean mountain air and the verdant smell of rain and earth and felt my Redeemer saying to my spirit, "Child: i am there in the restoration, and i am there in the grief.  i have seen all that has gone before and i know of your pain and your joy.  if you want to believe in Me, believe that i am a Healer, and that i am with you in your anger and impatience over wounds that require healing.  i'm letting you see redemption today because you need to see this part of the story."
right now i can hear the sparkling laughter of my child inside our little mountain cabin, and the voice of my husband laughing with him.  i'm thinking of all the wounding and healing and waiting and not-knowing and redemption and impatience and love and life that i have so far known, so much of the most intense parts of all of that wrapped up in this ongoing journey of family-making.  i'm thinking about this article posted by a friend of mine about a Catholic cemetery in New York that has a special section for miscarried and stillborn children -- what has stayed with me is how the women interviewed for the article lost babies 45 or 50 years ago, and had other living children, and yet still ached for the baby or babies they never "got to take home."  i'm thinking about one of them, in her nineties, i think, talking about how people tell you you're "lucky" to have the kids you have - -and you agree -- yet you never stop missing the ones you didn't.  even now, i still fall apart at unexplained, random times over my three Tummymuffins i carried within me, but never got to meet.
today i would rather celebrate the secret mothers -- the ones who are still hoping, still waiting, still grieving.  even the ones who are also, at the same time, fully rejoicing in the miracle of any living children they might have.  just as my newly-married friends know, acknowledging the brokenness allows you to truly revel in the healing -- and just as brokenness is not the end of the story, neither is healing.  while Process may not be poetry, it is Truth.

national pregnancy and infant loss remembrance day

today, October 15th, from 7:00pm-8:00pm (19:00-20:00) local time, there will be thousands -- maybe hundreds of thousands? -- perhaps millions? -- of candles lit in households all across the globe to remember babies who were lost before they were born.  in the United States alone*, it's estimated that every year, at least 1 in 4 (if not more) pregnancies end in miscarriage or stillbirth -- that's over a million.  this also means that almost 20% of the adult population of this country has personally experienced the death of a child (which includes miscarriage by an adult child). 
what do these statistics mean?  it means that chances are, you personally know someone who has experienced the pain and grief of a pregnancy ending without a living child — maybe it’s even you.  it may have happened recently, or years ago, but for many, there is still a need to remember and honor their precious baby.  because of the suffocating code of silence surrounding pregnancy loss, and in spite of or because it is so tragically common, many parents of lost children don't feel comfortable acknowledging the reality of their silent grief or even that they are parents.  that’s why this day was designated years ago to allow a simple way for them -- and anyone that loves them -- to recognise their loss without any apology or shame. 

merely hours ago, as i was dropping L (Tummymuffin IV) off at preschool,  another parent asked me “is he the only one you have?”  and you know what?  i choked.  i stumbled for an answer - “uh, well, yeah, uh, he’s my first born.” i said, and turned away.
at first i was so upset with myself — that on this of all days, i’d be reticent about talking about my other three children?! what was wrong with me?!  then i felt defensive — L started school a month ago and i’m just getting to know these other parents; preschool drop-off is not the right context to share something personal; given the semi-chaotic circumstances and my relative lack of sleep, i didn’t feel like having to explain through the other three and respond to whatever she would say...etc.  sigh.  i still don't know how i feel about this.  right now, i’m still trying to make sense of my conflicting feelings — sure, i am usually quite up-front that pregnancy loss is part of my story, yet all the reasons for not talking about it this morning are quite valid.  i guess i should just be thankful she didn't ask "are you going to have another?"
i am telling you this to show you just how unbelievably difficult it is for people who have lost a baby to miscarriage to talk about it openly. i’ve been talking about it publicly for the last six years and i tell you, i will still hold my breath and have a moment of hesitation before i click “publish.”  every single time i post to this blog, i have that pause of indecision: to share or not to share?  losing a child before he or she is born makes seemingly simple questions so diabolically complex. 

so today, on (inter)national pregnancy and infant loss remembrance day, if you want to finally start talking about it, this is your time to do so.  start with those you trust -- maybe even just your partner, or maybe a close family member or friend.  if it feels more comfortable talking to someone you haven't met, please contact me; my email information is under "about" at the top of the page.  if you just want to anonymously post your would-be child(ren)'s due date(s) in the comments section, know that i'll remember them with you.  we always have more than three candles in the window on our "Tummymuffin Remembrance Day" since we hold memories for several friends' babies, and we would love to honor your child too.
 and what if someone you love has experienced a loss?  please give them a safe, non-judgmental place to express their sadness.  say you love them.  say you're sorry for their loss.  give them a hug.  and if it's appropriate, ask about their lost child.  find out how old they'd be now.  find out if they had a name.  being willing to remember their child with them can be one of the most meaningful things you can offer.  you can find posts here and here about other things to say and not say.

today i also especially remember with gratitude all of you who have come on this journey with me, and have offered your love & support.  thank you for continued encouragement to keep talking and writing.  thank you for your strength.

*statistics courtesy of March of Dimes

what NOT to say to someone who has experienced a miscarriage

i've already written here about things you SHOULD say when someone you care about experiences a pregnancy loss; it's only fair to now share some things you should avoid saying to a family -- especially the woman -- who has just had a miscarriage.  some may surprise you, as they sound thoughtful enough on the surface, but they still can cause a lot of pain.  as before, for simplicity, i'll use the female pronouns, but please remember that male partners are also grieving and are deserving of your compassion and sensitivity. 

1.  at least you know you can get pregnant.  because many people knew i struggled with even getting pregnant before each miscarriage, this was something that i heard more than a few times, and i even thought this privately, to myself.  but it hurts terribly to hear it out loud from someone else, because it highlights the fact that after all the waiting and hoping...those hopes are gone along with that tiny heartbeat.  no one wants to be pregnant only to lose the baby!  also, it can make her feel guilty about her sadness, because she knows that "at least" she had an experience that many women who want children will never have. 

2.  at least you weren't that far along.  once, when i told another mother who'd asked if L was my first child, that i'd lost three babies before having him, she was horrified.  "how old were they?" she wanted to know.  i told her i'd lost all of them right before the end of the first trimester. "oh!" she said, visibly relieved. "they weren't REAL babies, then." 
gentle reader, saying the above phrase is a just slightly more polite equivalent to saying to the grieving parent that their loss was not a loss of a real child.  look, whatever you believe about when life/personhood begins, the fact is that very real hopes and dreams have just died, and the loss of those is reason enough to grieve.  in addition, each pregnancy loss -- no matter how far along -- comes with its own set of physical complications that can also be incredibly difficult to deal with.  (see sidebar for direct links to my posts about having an MVA  (manual vacuum aspiration) or a medically-induced miscarriage with Misoprostol (Cytotec), or click directly.)

3.  keep trying, it'll happen./you can always have another one.   really? because we tried and tried and tried and didn't get pregnant and then we had a miracle positive test and then we were so hopeful and we tried to be positive and think THIS IS IT THIS IS THE ONE and then...oh, hey sorry, no. and then rinse and repeat.
i know not everyone who experiences pregnancy loss also struggles with infertility (which i once heard called "the silent corrosion of hope"), but many do.  and even if they haven't before, they might at any time, given the staggering array of factors that have to all align for a pregnancy to occur.  as for telling someone "you can always have another one," maybe they won't. maybe now they are having to deal with the death of the dream of having a larger family.  in addition, one baby does not replace another.  L is absolutely not the "replacement" for the three i will never meet.  nor is he my "happy ending."  this is why also saying "just be grateful for the kid(s) you do have" is also so painful to hear.  someone's sibling -- and the dream of having a sibling -- is gone.  and besides, it's possible you cannot even fathom the depth of gratefulness she has every day for the child(ren) she already has.  it's probably what gave her the courage to try for another one.

4.  this was God's (or the universe's, etc.) will./these things happen for a reason.  grief is messy, confusing, embarrassing, non-linear.  it is understandable that we want to make sense of it, find reasons, quantify, explain.  but that is the personal, (mostly) internal journey that you need to let the woman experiencing the loss of her baby make on her terms.  at worst, saying this comes off as pretentious (you know the bigger plan? really?) and condescending.  at best, it comes off as dismissive of her pain and struggle.

5. it's really common./it's nature's way of ending an unhealthy pregnancy.  true? yes.  like stomping on her already crushed heart? yes.  she's probably already heard this from her doctor(s), because they are trained to state medical facts.  but you know what?  carrying babies to full term is also really common.  and this whole "nature's way" thing essentially is saying that her baby was unfit to live.  just as there are so many factors that result in successful fertility, there are a dizzying, layered, uncountable number of reasons why a pregnancy may or may not result in a live, healthy baby.  which brings me to...

6. you shouldn't have ridden your bike/kept working out/done belly flops in the bounce house at that kid's birthday party even when you didn't even know you were pregnant.  (all things that were really said to me, or in my presence, by the way.) it is astonishing how people sometimes forget that they should turn ON their brain-to-mouth filter.  not only is it rude to imply that it's the mother's fault, it's also insensitive and cruel.  don't try to find reasons for why the baby was lost.  definitely don't guess at what she may or may not have done to cause the loss.  most likely it was nothing that she did or didn't do, but the two most overwhelming feelings, after grief, that accompany a miscarriage, are guilt and failure.  pleas don't contribute to either of these.  i remember that after losing the third child, my (clearly frustrated) OB/GYN took my hand and said: "you'd think that with all the medical advances we've made in the last hundred years, we'd also be able to reduce the statistics with miscarriages, and we haven't.  i'm so sorry."  it's still mostly a mystery to doctors who are trained to know about these things, so please don't ever try to explain to a grieving mother why her baby is gone...and never imply that the reason is her.

7.  why would you name it or have a memorial?/aren't you over this by now?  i have spoken to women who experienced pregnancy loss over 40 years ago, and they still get visibly emotional when they talk about the child they never got to know.  as i have written here before, you don't ever get over grief; you just move with it and get stronger.  also, questioning a couple's choice as to how they process the loss is not your business.  in fact, many women who were shamed into society's code of silence surrounding miscarriage when they first experienced it, find deep healing when they choose to finally recognize their loss in a ritualistic, deliberate way.  families might do anything from lighting a candle for their would-be child all the way to having a full service for them.  please don't judge.

8.  you must be absolutely heartbroken.  every pregnancy is different, and every pregnancy loss is different too -- physically, mentally, and emotionally.  parents who have lost an unborn child also choose to respond differently, so please don't assume that she's as devastated as you were when you experienced your loss.  while my experience has been that 9 out of 10 people i talk to about pregnancy loss have, at their honest core, true grief about the loss, there is always the 10th who doesn't.  maybe she didn't even know she was pregnant when she found out, or perhaps for whatever reason she didn't form any emotional attachment to the baby, or maybe she got pregnant again with a living child right afterwards and never really processed what happened.  in any case, don't make her feel guilty for NOT feeling bad; if you want to really know how she feels, just ask.  "how are you honestly feeling?" is a good place to start (see my post on things you SHOULD say).

please add any more suggestions in the comments!

circle

today, because i am so immersed in the love and joy i have for my little son, i am overwhelmed by grief for my three lost children.
or maybe it is because i miss my three never-met babies so much today, i am marvelously, vividly aware of the love and joy i am basking in with my tiny laughing living son.

the tears might be happy and the tears might be sad. i'm don't even know myself, but i also don't much care.  this is rich, deep, real life, and i choose to grow.

what to say to someone who's experienced a miscarriage

one of the most common questions i'm asked is variations of "my friend/co-worker/family member just had a miscarriage.  what do i say/what can i do?"
i have been very public about having three (since writing this, it's now four) pregnancy losses, and struggling with infertility* in between, so it follows that i've experienced a wide spectrum of responses. i'll start with the positive answer -- things you SHOULD say or do when someone you care about has a pregnancy loss.  here's my list of suggestions.  for simplicity, i'll use female pronouns, but be aware that men can be just as affected by a pregnancy loss, although perhaps in different ways.**  (you can find my post on what NOT to say by clicking here.)

1.  i'm so sorry.  no matter what your experience is with pregnancy loss, the fact is that a tragedy has occurred.  even if she brushes off your condolences, offer them.  she may be brushing them off because there is such strong societal pressure to stay quiet about miscarriage -- why else are we told to not tell people about a pregnancy until after the first trimester?  while it is true that someone's response to their miscarriage may range from disappointment up to crushing devastation, she's still lost a baby.  one of the most meaningful responses i got was a relative stranger looking me straight in the eye and just saying, slowly and with great meaning, "i'm. so. sorry." and then being silent with me.

2. your baby was loved and important, and i will remember him or her.  every pregnancy is the human embodiment of hope, and that hope was lost along with the child.  many mothers fear that since no one ever saw their child, their memory will be lost along with that hope.  acknowledging that the baby was important, and was a real child -- not just an idea or a dream -- is comforting and validating.  even now, when my sister or a friend refers to one of my lost babies by name, it is a huge gift.

3.  how are you honestly feeling?  asking this question really means i want to listen to you.  communicate that you are available to hear her vent, cry, verbalize tangled feelings, be angry and confused, etc.  asking this open-ended question -- as opposed to asking "are you doing ok?" -- indicates you're not asking her to feel better or braver or have a positive answer.  sometimes the one thing that gave me courage to keep moving forward was knowing that there were people -- including my amazing husband -- that were equally ready for me to answer this question with possible heaving sobs or with possible measured, rational words.  and that either way, i wasn't going to freak them out.

4.  when can i bring you a meal/a good book/my housecleaning talents? or when are you free this week for lunch/coffee/a Skype or telephone chat? in other words, offer what i've heard called a "practical act of kindness."  just saying "let me know if i can help" is nice, but it's also an invitation to do nothing.  of course, saying any of the above assumes that the person who's experienced the loss is a close enough friend or family member that you know her well enough to know what to offer.  i never wanted to be an imposition on anyone, and also -- especially when the grief was still fresh and just getting through the day without dissolving into a tearful heap was an effort -- i didn't have the brains to even know what it was that i might need help with. i deeply appreciated friends who were more specific and proactive in offering me tangible kindness. i'm an extrovert, so i wanted, no, i needed to be in the company of people, so offers to get together were greatly appreciated.  when one of my miscarriages occurred during a time when my husband had a particularly grueling work schedule, a friend came over once and quietly did her freelance computer work while i went about my day simply so i would not have to be alone in the house.

5.   i (or someone i love) lost a baby too. obviously, this is something you would say only if it is true.  and it is not the same as saying "i know just how you feel" which is NOT recommended -- everyone's loss is felt differently, and they lost their child, not yours.  however, simply stating that you have had a similar experience opens the door for her to talk about her loss more freely.  in her excellent memoir An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, Elizabeth McCracken, who lost her baby in her ninth month of pregnancy, writes:

-->

“All I can say, it’s a sort of kinship, as though there is a family tree of grief…When something terrible happens, you discover all of a sudden that you have a new set of relatives, people with whom you can speak in the shorthand of cousins…It happened to me too meant It’s not your fault and You are not a freak of nature. And This does not have to be a secret.”

6.  you are a mother.  i initially hesitated to include this one because it may be very personal, and you will need to be intuitive if this will help or not.  but recognizing that you do not need a living child to be a mother may be one of the most validating things for her.  the truth is that this affirmation, which i received from several friends, is a source of comfort and strength for me even now.   one friend, who isn't even a mother herself, sent me a handmade card one mother's day long before i had a living child to remind me she remembered our lost babies.

7.  i don't know what to say... you know what? it's totally fine to be at a loss for words in the face of an unexplainable tragedy.  when something awful happens to someone you care about, you aren't required to explain it away or make sense of it.  if you don't know what to say, say so out loud.  and then just give her a hug.  sometimes that's the most powerful way to show you are willing to shoulder a little bit of the burden of sorrow she now carries.

please feel free to add any other suggestions in the comments!


*what? how can you be infertile if you can get pregnant? in the wacky world of reproductive medicine, you can be considered infertile if you have actively tried to conceive for more than a year (or sometimes 6 months, depending on the age of the mother) without getting pregnant.  you can have a living child and still be considered infertile -- it's called secondary infertility.  in addition, if you have two or more consecutive miscarriages, you are also considered infertile.  yes, it's very confusing.

**men, if you can, please be willing to talk to the male partner who is experiencing the pregnancy loss.  the code of silence surrounding miscarriage is even more difficult for men, and having another man to talk to about it -- whether about mourning the loss themselves, or how to compassionately deal with their grieving partner -- can be tremendously helpful.

international pregnancy & infant loss remembrance day

today, October 15th, is a day designated for the national remembrance of children lost too soon: babies lost to miscarriage, stillbirth, or newborn death.  all across the globe, people will be lighting candles between 7:00-8:00pm (19:00-20:00) local time to remember either their own children gone or in solidarity with other grieving/healing parents.  it is to increase awareness and to bring those marked by such a loss together in unity.  grief is isolating; knowing others can share your pain or understand it, without explanation or apology, makes it less so. 
in our home, we now observe this day as Tummymuffin Remembrance Day; we will remember and celebrate our first three Tummymuffins and talk about them with their brother.  L may have no clue what it's all about now, but as he gets older, he will know what the candles mean, and why they're important.  pregnancy loss shouldn't be a hush-hush topic; too often it's treated as a shameful secret that must be hidden...but why is that so? is it to protect others from feeling bad? is it to avoid the awkwardness of sharing someone's pain?

a few days ago, an acquaintance told me she was expecting again.  after the round of congratulations, she revealed that she'd lost a baby between this one and her living daughter, and had lost one before that.  i told her, seriously, that i was so sorry for her losses.
she brushed aside my condolences: "really, it's okay.  i mean, it's in the past. it's fine, it's fine."
i looked her in the eye and told her that i'd lost three babies before having the miracle fourth one.
she stopped, grabbed my hand, and said "oh. oh. you know.  you really KNOW then. yeah." and was quiet.
"i'm so happy about your new little boy-to-be," i said, "but i will remember and celebrate the other two with you also."
"no one has ever said that to me before," she said thoughtfully.  "they do deserve celebration, don't they?"
yes. yes, they do.

so please, if you or someone you love has lost a child before or right after birth, take a moment to remember, recognize, and celebrate that little life.  and offer comfort, hope, and healing to those who may need it.

for more information about October 15th, you can read more here and here.  for a thoughtfully-written blog post about it, you can go here.

an open letter to parents grieving a miscarriage

An Open Letter To Anyone Who Has Experienced Pregnancy Loss
(...actually a real letter i sent to a married couple i never met; i was asked to write to them by a mutual friend.  names have been replaced.)

dear Parents,

your friend, who loves you, told me that you have recently lost your first child, and asked me if i had any advice.  my heart goes out to you, and i am deeply sorry for your loss.  my husband and i also lost three (since the time of this writing, it is now four) children to miscarriage, all right before the end of the first trimester.
i've never been asked before to write directly to someone about it; i write a lot on a blog (www.tummymuffin.net) about it, as i know how isolating grief can be -- especially when it is grief for your unborn child that no one, not even you, got to meet.  i'm so sorry that you are having to mourn the loss of a dream and a future.  it is a real loss.

that is my first thing to say -- don't feel you must minimize or play down your loss.  it is a wrenching thing and no matter what your doctor, well-meaning friends and family, or anyone else says about statistics/commonality/you can try again/etc. the fact remains: you had a baby that you loved, and now you don't.
the next thing is: you do not get over or through the loss of a child.  you move with it.  let your sadness and grief be a healing thing, and give each other room to grieve as they see fit.  Father, you may be frustrated by your inability to "fix" this.  my husband's pain was the most acute over seeing me go through the losses, and was less about the losses themselves.  Mother, you may feel like your body has betrayed you and you've somehow failed all those who were being hopeful for the baby with you, especially your husband.  i think this feeling is common; i most certainly felt that way and many other women i know who have experienced babyloss and infertility say this is how they feel too.  PLEASE! be kind and gentle to yourself -- both the inner you and the outer physical you.  and allow others to be kind and gentle to you too.  you don't need to "tough this out."
next, i would encourage you both to trust each other and trust the strength of whatever it was that put you together and keeps you together.  whether that is good communication, a strong friendship, great sex, enjoying each other's conversation and company, your unconditional trust and love for one another, etc. -- or all of these things -- lean on it, and trust it to hold.  talk about what is happening out loud.  check up on each other.  be very honest about how you are feeling about further potential children.  you can and will be stronger because of this tragedy.
finally, i would strongly recommend that you ritualize/memorialize your baby in some way that is meaningful to you both.  we chose to give our babies names on their due dates and light a candle for them.  for one, we paddled out into the ocean on our surfboards and released flowers on the waves.  for another, we planted a tiny flower in a wooded area.  and for another, we simply sat together in a beautiful space and said our goodbyes out loud.  now we celebrate the short lives of our babies every October 15th, which is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day (more info at www.october15th.com, or you can find posts about it on my blog).

oh Parents, your road may feel unbearably long and your world suffocatingly dark right now.  you may wonder if you will ever be happy again, or if you will survive this.  you will.  you will heal, and you will have the stamina to keep walking, and there will be light, which is the love of all those who care for you.  i hope in some way this letter can be a small lantern for your journey.

peace to you.

happy ending?

well, hello.  sorry it's been such a long time since you've heard me here.  i'm sure you can guess why...

anyway.  thoughts. comments. hmmm.  this is harder than it once was, to listen to and transcribe these pieces of me, the internal me, She Who Has Things To Say.  but i'll try.
i recently received a communication from an old family friend who knew of the Tummymuffin losses but only found out about L/Tummymuffin IV's arrival from this year's Christmas greetings.  she was clearly overjoyed for us; she gushed congratulations and exclaimed, "i'm so glad your story has a happy ending!"
at the time, the comment was unremarkable, but lately it has bothered me more and more. i know it was well-meant, but it has troubling implications.  for those struggling with pregnancy loss and infertility, having a baby is NOT the answer to your pain and grief. it is NOT how you will ever be happy again.  it is NOT the end of your story, or your partner's story, or your journey towards family.  resolution does not come from a full-term pregnancy, a successful IVF, a finalized adoption, a decision to be child-free, or anything in between.
i believe that resolution comes from accepting the grief and committing to the ongoing process of healing.  i believe that resolution comes from learning to hold life with soft hands and knowing what to let go of, and when to let go of it.  i believe that resolution comes from understanding that gratefulness and pain coexist; joy and pain can be simultaneous, and not struggling against that reality.  i believe that resolution is not an ending, it is actually a beginning of being open to and aware of new things.
i am uncomfortably aware that this sounds dangerously like some gooey self-help guest on a bad daytime talk show.  but i am speaking from the hard-earned other side of experience.  not a day goes by that i am not acutely aware of how different the experience of motherhood after loss is from the mainstream messages i hear about parenting a child.  there is less to complain about, less to feel that i've lost of my pre-Tummymuffin life, less to take for granted, less to feel entitled to, less to grasp at, less to worry about.  there is more to savour in the small moments, more to let go of, more to feel wonder about, more to celebrate, more to fall in love with, more to slow down for, more for gratefulness to take root in.  i'm convinced that losing three babies, struggling with getting pregnant, and working through the resulting anger and pain has made the daily experience of mothering a thousandyzillion percent better -- because of the perspective.  now don't hear what i'm not saying -- i would still rather know my first three Tummymuffins on this side of life -- but the experience of not having them has made me a better, different, and stronger mother for their brother.
which i guess brings me to something i said recently to a friend who was looking for advice in dealing with losing a baby to a years-ago abortion; long-buried pain and grief were surfacing in terribly painful ways, and she was wondering if carrying that sadness ever got easier.  i've written here before that grief has no expiration date, but i recalled something i'd just read: it doesn't get easier, but you get stronger.*  do not look for ease.  hope lies in strength, growing secretly inside your crushed heart, showing itself when you least expect it. 
so.  i do not think my story is "ended," it merely continues on -- yes, with a very thrilling chapter about a baby boy -- but oh there is SO much more to unfold.  and so much more room to grow.

 *of course i had to search for the source of this marvelous phrasing; at the time i couldn't remember where the heck i'd seen it.  thanks to The Googles, here is the link to Beth Woolsey's post; wouldn't you know, it was originally said about being a mother...