The House is Back to Normal

We took all our Christmas stuff down this morning. Man, the house looks naked. I just love Christmas time, and I love decorating the house, but when it's time to take it all down I get a little sad. It's like I have to go through the post-Christmas blues before I'm ready give the new year a try. Last year Mom and J took down all our Chrismtas since I was banished to the bed. I think I'd much rather have Mom come do it every year!! HA HA!!!

I am doing better, but just when I think I'm beginning to get a hold on my feelings those darn anniversary dates pop up and slap me in the face. I still have one more big one to get through...the D&C date. But I think I'll be able to handle it. I just need to focus more on trusting God to get me through it rather than letting my sadness blur my thoughts.

Tough Day

A year ago today I got the news that something wasn't right with my second pregnancy. After my u/s and appt with Dr. K I went home on strict bedrest for 5 days. I knew then that everything was not going to end in my favor, but J had all kinds of hope. I frantically called my mom and gave her the news, and within the hour she was on the road from Houston to be at my side. It was a scary day, and the beginning to a very emotional week and a half that ultimately ended in me having a D&C.

But to this day I still hold some anger about the loss. And to be honest, most of that anger is directed at God. Why didn't He let my little one live? Why did I have to endure another loss? While I still have no answers to those questions, time has healed my heart a little, but deep down I know that I'm still angry at Him for not stepping in and saving our baby. How do I let that anger go? Will I always feel this way? For instance, I still have a hard time praying every day. I've gotten out of the habit, and I just can't seem to remember what it was like to have prayer be a part of my daily routine. I don't read my Bible every day like I did before the loss. And I find myself sitting in silence just listening to other people pray in church rather than having my own prayer time. How do I get back to the deeply religious, very faithful person that I once was?

It's been a year...and my life still isn't back to normal. I think about my losses every day. Will it always be like this? Will I ever be able to let go and release the anger that I'm feeling? I want to. I really do. I'm sure a psychologist would say that I really don't want to let the anger go because that would somehow mean that I'm willing to forget what happened. So that's why I'm holding on. And maybe that's true to an extent. But I can't keep living like this anymore. I can't still be angry about this a whole year later. I've prayed to God to help me let this go, but then I think about it and it all comes flooding back. How do I truly release it so that when I think about it I'm no longer filled with such anger and resentment? Anyone have any experiences they'd like to share?

Our Little Angel

We miss you so much Little One. I should be holding you, and snuggling with you, and doing all the things that Mommy's should do for their newborn. But you aren't here. You are safe in the arms of Jesus, and I will see you again some day. We love you so much...

Love, Mommy and Daddy

Sisterhood of Sadness

I saw this on FF, and wanted to post it here. Get your hankies!!!

Sisterhood of Sadness
Author Unknown

"I was once a member of the Pregnancy Club, my membership card consisting of two pink lines on a stick. I was eager to pay my dues, just like all the other members. Morning sickness, stretch marks, cravings -- I welcomed them all.

But they never came. And before I knew it, my membership was revoked. No real reason -- at least none I could discern -- other than bad timing, perhaps. Or, at least, that's what everyone's been telling me. That and "God's plan."

Miscarriage is a terrible word. As if one has dropped something, or carried something incorrectly. Similar to "mistake" or "misunderstanding." How I longed for it to be either of those things when I learned my baby was gone. Surely, it was a mistake, I prayed. If they would just look again, they would learn it was all a simple misunderstanding.

But the ultrasound screen showed otherwise.

1 out of every 5 pregnancies ends in miscarriage, say the books. That statistic terrified me when I was pregnant. So many lost babies, I thought. How can I keep mine from being one of them? But now that mine is one of them, that 1 out of 5 seems awfully small.

Or, at least, it did. Until soft-speaking female voices started whispering to me in my grief, "It happened to me, too." Their eyes told me the stories of the pain that we shared, the pain that only a woman who has carried a child - and lost it - could know. For some, it was fresh pain. For others, it was dulled by healthy babies since born.

A sisterhood of sadness.

It's a silent group, this new club of which I have recently become a reluctant member. Our membership cards are the scars we will always carry on our hearts. Our dues are paid in blood and tears. It is a painful initiation, and one never ceases membership. Because one never forgets.

I am joining, not because I want to, but because I wasn't given the choice. But at least I know I'm not alone. At least I know there are hundreds of thousands of women with me, however silent and invisible, quietly holding my hand."

9w3d Ultrasound

I was told to come in fasting. Just in case. There we sat, in the very same chairs we sat in a week ago. Waiting. I looked at all the other women sitting in the waiting room. Some old, some young, some pregnant, some not, some with their spouse, others with friends. I longed to be blissfully happy and big, huge and pregnant.

When they called us back my heart sank. I knew there had been no changes. No good ones anyway. I was no longer nauseated. My breasts were no longer full and achy. This was all just a formality. This time we were crammed in a small, dark room for the ultrasound. We weren't in the nice spacious room with the color monitor and comfy chairs. Mom and J had to stand in the corner, and the only monitor in the room was the one that the technician had on the machine. Kind of made me feel like they knew the outcome already. Why waste the nice room on the woman who lost her baby?

The technician asked me if I was ready. Of course I wasn't, but I quietly replied, "yes." When she found the baby she immediately said, "There's the fetus, but there's still no heartbeat, Hon. I'm so sorry. This isn't a good pregnancy." At that I wanted to jump off the table and end the session, but she kept looking. For what, I don't know, but she looked at my ovaries again. They were still there. She measured my sac size, and it had gone down to 6w4d. Then she measured the baby's size. There had been no change. I had lost my baby. I had what they call a "missed abortion". Does it really have to be called a "missed abortion"? Why can't they call it a "missed miscarriage"?

We went straight in to see Dr. Kleinpeter. When he walked in he apologized and said he had hoped things would have turned out differently. He gave us the option of letting nature take it's course, but made sure to tell us he had no idea how long that would be, or I could have a D&C that afternoon since I came in fasting. I opted for the D&C. I just couldn't bear to wait any longer. I wanted this whole nighmare to be over! He made a few phone calls, and I was on the schedule for 1:00.

We went in to talk to the pre-op nurse. She was so incredibly nice. She told us all about the prodecure and what to expect in the days to come. She filled out all my paperwork, and then we were off to the out-patient surgical center for admissions, bloodwork and the D&C. It was all happening so fast.

They immediately put me in a room, and not long after I was bombarded with nurses wanting insurance information, others were poking and prodding to get my blood and put in the IV line. Then we were left alone to wait for them to come get me for the surgery. We tried to talk about other things, but there was still an elephant in the room...I had had another miscarriage.

The anesthesiologist came in and game me a little something to relax me. As they wheeled me out of the the room J and Mom both gave me a kiss on the forehead. Then they wheeled me in the operating room. Dr. Kleinpeter was waiting on me when I got there. He had just finished performing another D&C on another poor woman. Today just wasn't a good day for his patients. Country music was playing in the room, and I heard Dr. K singing. I can't recall the song, but I remember being surprised to hear him sing. He wasn't half bad. He came over, grabbed my hand and told me everything was going to be okay. Then the anesthesiologist put the mask on my face and told me to take deep breaths. I remember taking 3 breaths, and then the next thing I remember is waking up in the recovery room.

I was in a lot of pain when I woke up. I had bad cramps, and I felt a burning sensation. That, I learned, was from the catheter they used to drain my bladder before surgery. The nurse asked me if I was in pain. I told her I was so she gave me some pain meds through my IV. I asked her if it was over. She said, "yes" and patted my hand. I started to cry. I couldn't believe it. My baby was gone.