Mara Elidi

This is a first trimester birth story, the story of my fourth child.
I give this as both an opening and a caution, because parts of this story may trigger anxiety especially for those who are currently pregnant or have experienced miscarriage at home. There are also physically graphic parts to this story to describe the events following my miscarriage.

On May 1st, after 9 months of trying to conceive, a little help from letrozole, and a cross-country move... we learned I was pregnant.
That day and the weeks that followed were full of anxiety but also of intentional faith and thankfulness. Nausea, headaches, tenderness, fatigue, and emotional instability all made me so happy to feel. Knowing I feared attaching to this baby, I attached anyway. We took advantage of BabiesRUs going out of business and bought a bassinet and swing. We were requesting Ryan be placed in follow on courses so I could deliver here before we move again. We were speaking like we would bring a living baby home in January. It was pure joy every time we saw a heartbeat on the sonogram screen. 

Today, it has been one whole month since her birthday. Since we held her and kissed her and smelled her. I was 13 weeks pregnant when I had her at home. 

At 12 weeks 5 days (and the day after the 3rd anniversary of Eden's funeral), I went to the ER. I was having abdominal and back pain with little relief and felt something was not right. I told my husband he didn't need to come, because I had hoped I was just being worried. Pregnancy after loss after loss after loss can make someone feel like they've gone insane with worry and assumption that they are no longer carrying life.
He went to work, and I headed to the hospital. They'd seen me there four times already, for pneumonia once and three times for fear that something was wrong. This time, something was. 

A quick note about my experience in the ER this time- it was terrible. It was cold, cruel, and rude. No one would speak to me during the ultrasound. They all spoke over me and addressed each other without answering my questions or requests to see my baby. I knew, and no one would tell me. There was time between the scan and the nurse practitioner coming in for me to call and tell Ryan he needed to be there, for him to drive all the way from post to downtown, park, and come in to calm me down. I still held hope that I was being silly, because surely someone would have come in by then. The nurse practitioner smelled like cigarettes, because she took a smoke break and discharged me before she came in to tell my that my baby had died. She shrugged her shoulders when she said it. We were rushed away on a day that they'd already told us they weren't busy. It was gross. My experience with my Baby Errol at 6 weeks was exponentially more gentle. When I feel comfortable, I'm going to write a letter and take some doula materials up there, to show them the importance of kindness and bedside manners during bereavement. I hate that so many mothers find themselves in this kind of experience when their babies die before 20 weeks.

That afternoon, I was able to see my OB doctor. He came in compassionately and sat with me, laying my options on the table: wait and let the miscarriage begin naturally, have a D&C, or take the induction medication at home.
My decision was based on past experiences. Mason had been gone over a week before I found out, and it was almost two weeks by the time I was induced. I couldn't bear to wait for my body to take it's course, as it was betraying me even in that moment. Secondly, I wanted to avoid the sadness and lack of closure I had with Baby Errol. I knew I had passed him. I saw him in a tiny sac, in my toilet, and I flushed my baby. I wanted to see, hold, and kiss my baby. A D&C would not allow for that. I chose the induction at home. 

This happened on a Tuesday, and we wanted to prepare and spend the time we had with her as well as the immediate time after without rushing, worrying over work or anything else. We chose Friday morning as a time to start the medicine, understanding I could take up to 24 hours of the medicine (cytotec) before a D&C would be the next step.
The days between gave us time to prepare for a "home birth". We bought little blankets, a new nightgown, a box to stain and carry her in. We chose a jasmine and wild orange oil blend for her scent memory. I took self portraits with her inside me. Ryan made arrangements for cremation at the funeral home. We prayed over the coming days. We named her. 

Mara was a character in the Bible, Ruth's mother in-law. Her name was Naomi until she changed it when her sons and husband died, declaring that the Lord had dealt bitterly with her. It felt appropriate that week. I prayed candidly, telling God that I was confused and bitter. Yet, I was so thankful. From the moment we had a positive pregnancy test, we referred to this baby as "Baby Sunny". She came when we moved away from the gray skies found the literal sunshine. We found the name Elidi, which means gift of the sun. Together, these names fit our girl perfectly.

Friday morning was spent quietly listening to music and crocheting two tiny blankets (one for her, one for us) from the one I started the day Ryan returned from deployment and we began trying to conceive. Ryan came home around noon, and the quiet labor began to pick up. I laid on a heating pad and sipped tea. The waiting was peaceful, the pain had a purpose. It was a centered and spiritual experience.

In the afternoon, I felt my water "break". I had no bleeding before this point. Things happened quickly afterward.

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On July 6th at 4:19 pm, our sweet baby was born to me in the bathroom, by the yellow bathtub.

That familiar silence was so loud.

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I caught her, called Ryan in, and rinsed her off gently. 

We took her in the kitchen, where we had flowers and candles and her blankets near her box.

We took pictures of her alone and with each of us. I heard myself keep repeating, "Oh, she's just so cute!" because she was really cute and I was just in awe. Her face looked to be smiling, her hands together, her legs folded. This was the first time any of my babies has been outside of me and still inside my home. The dogs stayed close by, curious and gentle. It's so special to me that it happened this way, truly a generous answer to prayer that I just wanted to hold my child.

It wasn't long after that when we tucked her into her blanket and the box we picked just for her, then took her to the funeral home.
In the car before we went inside, my precious husband blessed our baby. We're probably not "qualified" for this but nonetheless we felt the presence of Jesus in the front seat of my Kia. He dedicated Mara to the Lord, we cried, and carried her inside.

When we left I began bleeding heavily, through my pants into the car seat. Ryan rushed me home and the bleeding kept picking up. I wanted to seem okay physically, and we were both hungry from not eating all day. So I sent him to get supper. I started getting dizzy, wondering how much water I'd really had through the whole process.

He walked back in the door 20 minutes later with Chick-fil-A, which has been our "after baby" meal every time. I simultaneously walked back into the bathroom to change the chux pad I had been cutting to fit. The next thing I knew I was nearly fainting, sitting on the toilet with Ryan running towards me and yelling to keep me alert. I then drifted off, I couldn't see at all and I could only hear myself sobbing, overcome with what had happened hours earlier. I don't remember anything else- how I got up, cleaned up, or got to the couch where I had a wet washcloth on my head and was being fed and given water when I finally came to. Once I ate and drank a few more cups of water, I fell asleep and slept through the night. The next few days were a blur of crying, sleeping and watching mindless television.

The following Monday I went in for a follow up, but when I explained that I was still bleeding, my OB was concerned that the miscarriage wasn't complete. The ultrasound showed that some placenta tissue was left behind, and the next course of action was to take a "less intense" version of the induction medication, this was called Methergine. It was familiar to me because I had taken it in the shot form for retained placenta after Mase, before my D&C. I didn't remember anything about it because I had an epidural. The problem was, for THREE days, my pharmacy nor any pharmacy in town had it and needed to order it. When I finally started it, I realized that it was not less intense by any definition. 

I had every non-life threatening side effect, the worst being the back and abdomen pain. 

I writhed on the couch for three days. I have never felt that kind of pain before. I didn't sleep, couldn't eat, just cried and moaned while my uterus was being forcefully emptied. I was passing huge clots like the night she was born during the entire time. I passed the little placenta on day two. 
Also on the second day, before Ryan left for work (he wasn't able to miss class without being reset) I asked him to call the doctor and tell him I just wanted a D&C now. Helpless, he got on the floor beside me and held me. I'll always remember what he said that morning: "You have done the hardest thing you'll ever do, four times now. You've already survived something that doesn't make sense to survive. You can do this, you know you can." He said it, knowing that at this point, a D&C would not reverse or prevent the pain I would continue to feel from the medicine. It was already started and would continue even if I skipped the rest of the doses. There was no sense in getting the surgery. It would have not made it better, simply worse. Yet, he did not say that. He was being a doula to me, and gave encouragement instead of presenting the wall even I knew was there in my right mind. 

I finished the doses and the pain subsided with a little residual soreness. I finally stopped bleeding a few days ago.

At the end of that first week, our baby's urn had arrived. At the funeral home, Ryan transferred her ashes into the urn carefully as I watched. We brought her home and placed her on the mantle, next to her brother. I have matching urns for two of my babies now. 

I wanted to go to SC for my sister's wedding shower and planning this month, and the pain went away just in time. I even took a little detour on the way back home to spend a few nights in Helen, GA and be alone. Two weeks in, I had not yet grasped that my baby was gone. I was focused on physically trying to heal that I  blocked myself from grieving properly. It was a completely traumatic month for my body. My time alone was to force myself to understand and begin to grieve, and I'm not sure it even worked then, because the emotion and clarity is just starting to sink in.

The commotion has now gone away. The calls and cards and flowers come in the early days, and we are so thankful for the immediate answer of love and support to our hurt. We know we are cared for.
But it's always especially quiet when the hard days actually start. And a month later, as I begin to understand what's happened, it feels very lonely. Maybe even lonelier this time than any time before. I feel people have grown tired of this. I know I have. I wish my daughter were here, living inside me. I wish they were all here and this was a stupid mom blog about fun summer activities when you're pregnant with three more under four. 

That's not true, though. The truth is my baby died, again. I know its hard, what is there to say? Nothing. There never has been a script I could hand someone and, damn, aren't we all so exhausted of this happening? I know it takes energy to support a mom who has lost her baby, I've gotten so much of it over the past three years. Now I'm adjusting expectations of others and of myself so I can be gentle with us both. I'm in a place of fresh grief for the first time in two years, and I'm thankful for this "business break" I've been taking so it can be my sole focus. This is all so familiar and foreign at the same time, and I'm going to take my time navigating it. The start for me was writing Mara's story today, writing my story of my sweet fourth baby. Now I'll be reading it back to myself until it doesn't sound like someone else's anymore. 

"For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far 

outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."

2 Corinthians 4:17-18

Self Portrait

I was inspired by some of the photographers I admire to pursue the art of the self portrait this week. I feel like there are new developments in the person I am, and I feel like the only thing to do is capture it. Creating this portrait then inspired me to write, something I have felt less than inclined to do in the past year. Somehow, this photograph helped me decide to share.

Ryan and I have not been vocal about the pursuit of living children since Mason died. The reason for this is because I decided I was finished being pregnant then. For about a year, we were sure that I never wanted to be pregnant again and our family would thereon out be grown with adoption. 

However, an epiphany came to me in March of last year. I felt peace wash over me and a message that praying and believing that I could carry a living child was allowed. So, we began praying and believing. 

I chose not to share this then because I always carry this pressure that outsiders would think that a living child would "fix" our grief, that a living child is all we sought. We don't need that kind of projection on our choices, nor judgment for trying to conceive. The testimony I want to have all of my life is that our babies aren't the end goal- Jesus is. Even in deep pain, we still have a Good Father. I've wanted to continue to show that life can be abundant even without living children. Because it can and will. 

At risk of oversharing, I was extremely fertile when our babies were conceived. Every time, on the first cycle. We were extremely cautious after Mason. So, we believed that since Ryan came back in September, I'd be six months pregnant by now. A friend joked that at the homecoming she wanted to jump in front of me and intercept my fertility, given my history he'd look me in the eyes and it would be over. It made me hopeful and a bit cocky.

But here we are, six months and some very strange cycles later. I saw my doctor this week, with a late end of cycle and 4 negative tests. A blood test confirmed negative, but he is pretty confident that I'm not ovulating for whatever reason. I will wait to begin the next cycle and try Letrozole.

On the grand scale of infertility, I know this is not comparable. I know it is six months (two of which were kind of expected) and not six years. I hope my friends struggling so long with infertility know that I am aware that this is short, fixable, and merely a toe-dip in your world. 

But I am wrecked. I feel broken where I once was sure my body did its "job". As a woman, I feel foreign to myself and angry. I'm shocked at best. Ryan is away for perhaps another month, and the loneliness (even though I've been surrounded by sweet friends) is real. I can't truly explain exactly how I feel with words, and so that's where my self portrait came in. 

I wanted something to do with my hands, and the only obvious thing was the piece of needlework. I chose colors for a baby blanket in August and started on it the very day Ryan came home. It was a tangible thing to represent our belief and hope- this is being made intentionally. It will be used for the next baby in our home. 

I still believe that, but I don't know when or how. I never did. Another friend mentioned to me this week that after loss we still have this false sense of control, and it's true. I thought I even had control over when another child would be placed in our arms. 

That's why I chose this shot. There are a few obvious technical mistakes and I still love it. I felt everything was controlled when I sat down but you can see the yarn coming unraveled by the chair and my eyes followed a car driving past the house as I tried to gather it all back together. I lost focus on what was happening, and created a true-to-me self portrait. I feel alien from the moment this week, navigating through this new unraveling in my heart. 

That is where we are. Where I am. I choose transparency again, in hopes of framing how we'd like to be reacted to in this part of our journey. Please don't offer any self cures or suggest what route you believe should be taken. We do have plans for adoption, but that would require some stability for our family- at least knowing we'd be in the same state for longer than 6 months. We eat healthy enough. I track my body well. I use oils and no unsafe medications. We don't want a surrogate. We aren't sharing to seek the counsel and solutions we know many others may have, we are seeking support and prayer in the wait. Please, don't be dismissive.

As always, we are still so thankful. While this week has revealed some new layers of grief, we know that we are loved. I also know that recently I may have been defensive at kind comments that imply you're praying for our family to grow, and for that I apologize. It's truly appreciated. We have, however, come to pray with a "yes and amen." We know that our plans don't always match His ways and so we seek both- a living child and the peace to live with a "not right now."