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.

• 
  

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.

• 
  

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." 

9 Lessons from 9 Months of Deployment

Ryan came home over a month ago from a tour in Afghanistan and Iraq... and life has been a whirlwind of plans coming together ever since. Between traveling to SC to work on our house and list it for sale and coming home to a gnarly sinus infection, draining is the best way to describe his leave. Even though it has been a busy month, I've been trying to soak in just being together again.

Today he went back to work so I sat alone with my coffee this morning, folding towels and really allowing myself to decompress from the past year and start to understand the deployment.
By "understand", I just mean process and see its role in our relationship. I know there will be more interrupted years of deployment so it's important to me that I allow it to mold itself into our life together- an integral part of military family life is distance. That will never change so if I'm unable to get comfortable with it, it'll just be a nuisance and nothing to learn from. I'm always looking for a lesson.

Many of the things I learned, I had to keep re-learning. Every time I would reach the realization or epiphany, I would kick myself because "I already knew this". So deployment required me to give a lot of grace to myself. I think that should be the overarching theme of any deployment for any situation over any amount of time for any person at all: give yourself all the grace, and others too. Chances are you'll bump into more people that just don't understand than people that do.



I think what I'm taking away from this 9 months is much different from what my husband is taking away. Much different from what my friends or their husbands are taking away. Because it really is such a unique experience for each person. So if you're reading this going into a deployment... please don't see it as absolute advice or guidelines. Rather, just know that your experience will present its own challenges, rewards, and lessons.

Speaking to my own experience:

1. Heart goals are as important as physical goals. I started out with a plan to lose 50 lbs by the time Ryan came home. While I did lose a little weight and improve my health, I did not shed 50 lbs. Instead, I felt a calling to become a birth and bereavement doula. I spent more time and energy chasing that goal than I did losing weight. And in the midst of it, I was really hard on myself. Because while others can maybe do both, I just had to rest my heart and body when I could. Bereavement is a heavy, deep practice and self care in the form of rest became a priority for me over the deployment. When I received my credential, I felt so much relief over that struggle: I did set a goal that I achieved. I answered what I know to be a clear call from the Lord and so much pride washed over me. I became happy with my heart- which is just as important as being happy with my body. So, both!

2. "Stay busy!" can be the worst advice anyone can give a military spouse. CAN be. I know this sentiment is well-meaning. It is intended to help us not focus on the time passing or the what-ifs! For me, I know how to keep my hands busy. I also know how to really avoid looking in the mirror or showering for 4 days because there's no time between all the running I've been doing. I think social media feeds a "need" to always look like you're doing something cool. While I used to be all about literally doing something at all times, that type of busy-ness really feeds my anxiety. Ignoring that blurb about my own self, I constantly sought schedule fulfillment for much of the deployment, actually. It got to the point that I felt so distant from my friends sitting right next to them- because my brain was already in the next thing I needed to do. I learned about myself that I am now more physically introverted and time alone is a need I have, so that I can really be present for life. Next time, I will work harder to find a balance between over-scheduling my life and keeping my mind occupied.


3. Independence can be a learned trait. I don't believe I have always been a definite independent woman. I appreciate the ways I am able to depend on others, specifically Ryan, pretty much every day. When every part of life at home was on my shoulders all of a sudden, it seemed overwhelming. So I just bit off a little at a time. And soon I was managing all of the responsibilities that living alone can incur. I'm really proud of the independence I achieved when it's not my natural inclination to handle all things.

4. Accepting help is important to the process. In the same way that independence did not come naturally, asking for and accepting help once I found my independence did not come naturally either. I'm so thankful for neighbors and friends that don't take "no" for an answer. It's absolutely impossible to do everything on your own. Something will certainly break or go wrong. I had to learn that it's not only okay but sometimes the best idea to accept a hand when it's lent.

5. It IS hard "without" kids. Nobody ever said it wasn't hard without kids, but one time (ahem, the re-integration training) it was implied. I walked in when introductions were happening: say your name, how many deployments you've endured, and how many kids you have. I sat praying to not have to take a turn and get the pity looks when I claim my babies, until a young girl introduced herself and explained this was the first deployment and they had no children yet. The facilitator said "Oh, that's okay. It can be hard without kids too." And that really bothered me, so much that I was wishing I'd had the chance to chime in after all. The reality is it was extremely hard for me to live in my home alone without my husband. Deployment is hard for everyone, kids or not. Ours aren't in the home and personally, that was an added stress and sadness in my day to day. I also can't count the number of times it was actually said to me directly, "At least the kids aren't here to have to deal with too".... Ya'll. All I wanted all deployment was for my sweet babies to be here asking for Daddy to call or to be able tuck them in with his shirt. Standing in the hangar as our soldiers walked in, I was overwhelmed with a mix of joy and sadness that our children weren't there to welcome him home. Every experience for the rest of our lives, there will be three missing. That does NOT make any load lighter to bear. Aside from that, I know that those who are childless by choice do not think they had it any easier than those with children in the home. It's not a contest.

6. Stress affects the immune system very deeply. It took a good four months for me to really get a grip on deployment. Its a wonder why for the months between December and May I was quite literally ALWAYS SICK. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. My luck even landed me with walking pneumonia and food poisoning between sinus infections. I credit much of the time I spent sick to my addiction to busy-ness and some of it to unavoidable stress that comes with my husband working in a war zone. I feel that kind of stress is unavoidable, but recognizing it and managing it with self care and vitamins (go ahead, get the ~essential oils~ out too) is crucial to my health.

7. Embrace Self-Compassion. This part is absolute advice for everyone. I was so hard on myself so many times when I thought I shouldn't feel or think a certain way. When I had a pity party, it got worse because I would punish myself for feeling bad. The truth is while feelings are not logical, our thoughts can be. Logically, any military spouse enduring deployment can see that a lot is on their own shoulders. We have to learn to be gentle with ourselves and allow a bad day or two or three or seven. Self compassion helped me learn from my mistakes. It also helped me be more optimistic as well as gracious with others when they make mistakes. Military families are resilient- and resiliency comes from embracing compassion and understanding of ourselves.



8. You're not a bad wife if you turn the news off. About two weeks before Ryan left for Bagram, Bagram was bombed. In all our preparing for the deployment, I had not prepared my mind for the realities of war. Suddenly they were all at the forefront of my thoughts and I could not control the fear that crept in. This really affected our relationship in the days before deployment and in the first few months. I caught myself glued to every media outlet that mentioned the Middle East, believing that I am not a well-informed citizen, then I must not care about what is happening there. When our friends lost member of their flight school family to a fatal crash stateside, the fears began spiraling out of control. Bad news almost every day, all around the world- even home. It was a normal occurrence that if I hadn't heard from Ryan in over 24 hours I would fully expect to arrive home to a government vehicle in my driveway waiting on me. I understood how often this unhealthy thinking occurred when I did it at my Momma's while I was visiting home. As I was walking out the door to spend the night in a different town, I let her know that in the event I could not be contacted or found she would be called or visited. She looked at me in horror that I had planned out and expected any minute that I would be receiving a casualty notification for her son in law at any given moment. It had only been 42 hours since I'd heard from him that time. I realized I needed to change something or I was doomed to catastrophize for the remainder of our deployment and every deployment after.
So I turned the news off.
And it didn't magically absolve my fear, but it did stop feeding it. I finally knew how to control that aspect of my anxiety and I could sleep better at night. Its absolutely alright to turn the news off. I honestly haven't turned it back on. I have a much better handle of reality and goodness in the world when I'm not watching it.

9. I can do hard things. I knew this. I'm a resilient person. I'm a brave woman. I live as a bereaved mother. But this was different and I'm still not sure I can explain how difficult it was. Either way, it got done and it feels like a huge achievement for myself and for our marriage. I wrote, I studied, I photographed, I spent time with the Lord, I loved on my friends. I lived each day with some type of intention (a fun memory is my daily photo project).
Roughly adjusting back to a two-person home is a blessing not lost upon me. That's not to say that reintegration hasn't presented its own challenges and lessons. But I'm so thankful I get to do hard things with him home now rather than 8,000 miles away. I'm thankful he is safe and his mind is sound. I'm thankful I get to do more hard things down the road, always as Mrs. Coker.

When Babies Do Keep

Why do we grieve the passage of time

and curse the speed of a moment?

Why are we mad at growth

as if it can help it's purpose?

We cry out to it: please slow down,

ask the children to stop growing

as if it growing is something

they are not supposed to do.

As if a child getting older

goes against the natural order.

Perhaps we are sad that a moment passes

before we can soak it in.

But would we not be more sad

if the moment never happened?

If the only way to make time stand still

came to us

as if it is something

any of us actually want.

As if we'd ask for the most terrible thing

just to make a baby keep.

Sometimes they do.

Sometimes they are not going to get any older

before our eyes

and between our blinks.

Sometimes they stay the very same size

as they were when we first met them.

We know this.

We attended the funeral.

For some time can't move fast enough.

But here we are anyway

asking the children to stop growing.

In Defense of Shutting Up

It has been 8 months between my last post and this one. I've had a few reasons for not blogging- some of them intentional and some of them beyond my control. Either way, I feel so relieved to sit down and write about the things I've been reflecting on, even if it ends up being a word vomit.

Following Mason's due date, life became very overwhelming. Ryan and I had a few weeks in November to bond with each other and connect before he would deploy. Those weeks felt like hours and before we knew it, he was slipping his wedding ring off into my hand and joining formation to march out of the gym. I was suddenly in uncharted territory and it has taken me seven months to really get a good handle on navigating life and grief without my partner within tangible reach. I'll write more about that soon.
We watched people we love, people we consider to be reasonable, people we've come to expect some perspective from... come completely undone in the face of the election. That was exhausting- trying to avoid all politics and just care for our own hearts when many of the people we looked to to help cultivate a gentle atmosphere were caught up in those politics. I couldn't do anything but sit quietly and observe the chaos. This was the beginning of my writing break.

All three birthdays have passed for our babies. January 5th was our Baby Errol's, it came and went as quietly as he did. Mason turned one on May 19th. And Eden turned two Monday June 26th. I feel that the second year for Eden was harder than the first, but the timeline has been complicated as her second year was Errol and Mason's first.
Either way, this year was harder than the last. It's no secret that a miscarriage is societally seen as "less" than a full term neonatal death. There has been a stark contrast between the kind of support and love we received when we consider that we've lost three children. That's what they are to us. Our babies. And it felt like to some, they were not. That because we haven't shared Mason's face, he must not have one. That because we never even held a Baby Errol, he really wasn't here. And that is a shitty thing to feel. People have continued to tell us they always think of us and Eden. Conveniently excluded are our other two- whom Ryan and I call "the boys". Finding a way to build legacies for babies others like to pretend didn't exist is exhausting. Continuing on with life-long grief while outsiders would believe that there's a time limit is also exhausting.

It has also been a year that made the question "do you have any kids?" harder to answer than before. We don't know what to say anymore. If we say yes, then answer the questions that follow honestly... we usually walk away from some awful platitude that just hurts. We'll never deny our babies, but we've learned to skirt the topic with strangers and try to ease into it gently with new friends so they may understand first how we'd like to be treated after telling our story to them.

This blog kind of got out of control. Going viral after Eden's identity theft opened our lives to scrutiny that our hearts couldn't handle. I disabled comments of course, but emails kept coming. I was accused of killing my children, of getting pregnant on purpose to lose a child. Ugly things have been said in the face of our decision to be transparent with our marriage and with parenthood and with grief. I don't want my babies memories immediately associated with what happened to us, and I definitely don't want them associated with such awful accusations.
It is also hard to gather your thoughts with people watching (or reading). When you're vocal about your experience and something relevant to that experience or something you've said before (say a pregnancy announcement as an example), people look to you for your initial reactions so they may decide if you are gracious or bitter.
SO I felt I just needed to shut up for a while. The internet has brought us to some of the most supportive and loving friends, but it is not always a safe place for the grieving mother and father.

Then again, neither is everyday life.
I've grown so tired of being asked when we'll have another baby. HEY my husband is deployed so it won't be today. What if we don't want to have another baby?
The problem is, it makes people uncomfortable to call me a mom or Ryan a dad as long as we have no living children. It makes me question our parenthood myself. I feel invisible. I feel taunted.
"You can have mine!" No, I can't.
"I could choke them." Please, don't.
And so when I am in a room full of mothers, my anxiety manifests in the form of believing that I have nothing to offer to the conversation. If I do offer something, it might shut the conversation down or worse, I very well may walk away from it being told my offering was not welcome or relevant because I am not nor will I ever be like them.

This anxiety evolved in my mind... when I did want to sit down and write and share, I couldn't. I physically could not get the words out and I had begun to believe that it didn't matter anyway. I was paralyzed at the thought of being vulnerable and pouring my heart out for none of it to ultimately matter.

I have been given my circle though, my own mom group. I was able to begin to cultivate friendships with other moms- some of them also having walked through unspeakable loss- where instead of feeling contagious I've been asked to keep children overnight. Where I can speak freely as a mother and a woman and no one questions whether they might value what I have to say. They make me a spiritual mom of their children and that kind of friendship is worth more than gold. I think being quiet with the world to "find" those people was needed.

Another thing I've been able to do since I've taken this time off is become a certified doula in birth & bereavement. In December I had the thought that I should, but I told the Lord he would have to be louder if that were an avenue I needed to pursue. He would up yelling by February and so I registered with StillBirthday. I turned in my final tasks last week. I think it'll add a lot to my presence at bereavement births as a photographer and with that being such a big "why" for me... it just feels so good to have done this. I'll be overhauling my business in the next few months to focus more on births and doula services.
In 6 months, I had written a whole paragraph for a book. It was not coming easily and it felt forced. I was deleting everything. So I put that down at the same time I started my doula course. I feel like in the next few weeks I'll be able to pick it back up again as well.

Really, taking this time to be quiet has been so needed in my grief. Learning to be alone and recharge and care for my heart and mind is an important step in healing that I never expected. I had been self medicating with busy-ness and oversharing and so when I finally shut up and cleared my schedule to just be alone, it hurt. It was like coming down off a high. I didn't know what to do with myself. Many things I'd been keeping at arms length entered my soul and I broke. I had no where to look but upward and nothing outward to work on... that meant working inward.
So me and God have had it out these past few months. When our relationship was pretty and I was hashtag blessed, I never had to question Him. But in the wake of loss and confusion, I still didn't want to question or doubt. I spent so much time just "yes and amen"-ing even when I needed to fuss that I did not fully confront the questions and anger when they arose. I won't go into too many details, but the quietness and down time allowed for me to seek the face of the Savior and discover undeniable truths for my broken heart. While it was hard, I can still say it was good. It's important to work out the kinks in faith every once in a while or else, is it really faith?

All of that to say I'm back to writing and I'm glad. If none of it does ultimately matter to anyone else, it matters to me. It's a part of my healing. It's for me. Hopefully it points to the Lord in suffering. Hopefully it gives hope of abundantly blessed life after loss even without living children. Hopefully it inspires someone or just makes them feel something. If none of that happens though, it inspires me. I like to talk about this life and this grief and all the love I have for my babies.
I had to shut up for a while to understand why and who for. Because it matters to me. For me.

Should-Be Birthday

Today was my estimated due date. I am 40 full weeks not pregnant. 

Mason should have been born today. Or yesterday. Or last week, or tomorrow, or two weeks from now. I know babies always come on their due dates, right?

I know it shouldn't be a huge deal that today is today but my heart feels the heaviest it has since the last time I held his little body. It's almost like my body knows it, too. I am tired, achey, and irritable. My arms hurt- they feel so very empty. I didn't plan to remember today, but mamas just don't forget things like this.

I don't really have much to say- I am just so sad. But I did want to write a little about him for his day. 

This surprising boy. I didn't think it was even possible that I could be pregnant with him when I found out I was. Then, we truly believed he was a girl from the beginning. His pregnancy was so much like his sister's. 

I was sick and I could only enjoy a few foods. My middle was growing fast. I was feeling him move sometimes. And it felt good. He brought with him feelings of expectation and security. I was believing that we would bring a baby home this month. 

But then I was laying there on the table, trying to erase what I had seen out of my mind: a still heart. My baby was not moving on his own accord. And there was no longer life inside me. 

So I called my husband before I even sat up and I told him what I saw and he told me he'd be home soon. (Thank you Red Cross & U.S. Army for getting him home THAT night). 

Two days later on May 19th, I was induced. At 9:50 p.m. we were shocked when this little boy was born to us. He weighed only one ounce. He was 4 3/4 inches long. His fingernails had already reached his fingertips. His nose was his dad's. Ryan's only words were "Mason Gregory" and then he was blessed by the chaplain. I'll never be able to replicate the sounds I have made when I've held my children, realizing they had died.

We spent time with our son until the next morning. We got fingerprints and footprints. We held him close, and then after meeting with the geneticist, allowed him to be taken from us. We went home shortly after that where we were loved on by our friends and family with meals and cards and flowers and scripture and prayers. And somehow, we lived. Somehow, I'm still alive. Looking back on these moments it's such a wonder to me. How I can go on living when my children don't get to is just beyond me. It isn't fair. It IS more than I can handle. God has handed me more than I can bear. I am so thankful that He bears it for me. 

Today we'll be going to see the movie, "Trolls" because Mason's size was closer to the troll doll comparison on my fourteenth week of pregnancy than the canary comparison on my fifteenth. Again, the bird is always a symbol for me that my children are safe and he was winking at me before I even knew. 

We'll eat some spicy food- I'm thinking buffalo wings since that was his favorite flavor. 

We'll be picking up a quilt made by a sweet woman using his baby blankets. 

We'll light his candle and take out his pictures. And we will remember all the joy he brought us, even if he only stayed a little while.

I wish I were holding him today- a big fat baby that filled my arms. I wish I were singing "You Are My Sunshine" to him again. I wish I could feed him, rock him, and be up all night with his cries instead of the nightmares that remind me that I can't do any of this. 

Today should have been his birthday every year for a very long life. Instead it is another missed due date for me and another day to honor a baby that isn't here. I can't explain how much I miss him and can't wait to hold him again.

An Update and a Note on Disabling Comments

In the past few weeks my open letter to Kristin Keel has resurfaced and made the rounds again, opening my blog up to many questions about the situation. I wanted to share with those of you curious what has come of the whole ordeal since January.
We pushed pretty hard down many different avenues to have her and her husband punished for, at the very least, identity theft of our child. Since there was no record of gifts and money they received as a result of their fake child's death, it has been impossible. There are, unfortunately, no proven laws broken against us personally. Maybe one day we will have the energy to initiate a bill that would make sure that online identity theft of a deceased person is a crime. We don't have that energy right now.

We've done what we can. I wrote the truth and published it here and it made its way to the eyes of all the people who grieved for a child that didn't exist. It helped loss support groups kick Kristin out so that she could not also prey on their children. It gave a name to the face that has tried to keep scamming so many more people. I said my piece. So, really, I've done my part.
It has been a really hard 18 months and it's just time for us to try and regain some kind of normalcy. The anger and bitterness that Satan tried to plant using Kristin really have no room here in the grief we are trying to tend to. Ryan and I consciously stepped back from the drama in an effort to keep a hold of our sanity and we have decided that forgiveness is the only way to free us from the hurt she caused. And we are also praying genuinely for a change in the hearts of Kristin and Troy. We are super grateful for the kindness and love and support we have received from the whole new wave of strangers brought into our lives by this and that's what we have to focus on.