Hi! My name is Liane, and I'm broken.

"We're to minister through our brokenness."

My mom shared that with me the other day, and I think I'm starting to get it.

I was used to being the outgoing one, the friendly one, optimistic and fairly confident.

But when we moved to Florida 5 months ago, I arrived as...the broken one. The scatterbrained one, the tired one, the one who doesn't want to make small talk with strangers, the one trying to hold herself together.  I was weepy.  My brain was foggy.  I was distractible and forgetful.  Sometimes grief (ah, blasted unpredictable grief), would come upon me without warning, without my permission, and at the most inconvenient times it seemed. Why is grief like that?  It lingers.  And pounces.

I felt like I had nothing to offer my potential new friendships here other than broken pieces of myself. And that felt horribly inconsiderate on my part.

I had just enough to offer my new job, but it was far from my best, and I knew it - and I hated that.  I felt clumsy.

Outside of my work acquaintances, I mostly avoided people for the first couple months we lived here.  We would get invited to a social get-together, and I would send Matt to represent us but would choose to stay home.  Church felt hard, not because I was angry at God, but because it exhausted me to answer people's well-intended questions about who we were, where we had moved from, what our summer was like, if we had kids, etc.  I didn't have pleasantries to exchange.  Just baggage to dump.  And I refused to dump baggage on some poor, unsuspecting, new acquaintance.

Can you imagine?

"Hey! We don't know anyone and just moved here right after having a miscarriage, and my dad was diagnosed with a spinal cord tumor the other day.  Our rental house is still partially unpacked because of a discovered roach problem which is really causing added stress.  We're on our last leg and feeling pretty raw but in desperate need of community.  Wanna grab lunch?"

I just wanted a friend who knew me, really knew me, to sit with me on my couch and let me be my worst self.  One Sunday morning at a church we were visiting, I had to excuse myself and quietly cry in a stall in the bathroom.  I just felt so...sad. And unknown. And lonely.  So I asked Matt if we could take a hiatus from church-hunting for a month.

Who is this girl I had become??  She was a drag.  I didn't like her very much.  I'd think, "When's the old Liane coming back?  Will she come back?  I miss her."

Are you ungracious with yourself sometimes too?  Matt pointed out to me I am far more gracious with other people's brokenness and mistakes than I am with my own.  It's true, but I don't know why. Probably something having to do with pride and sin and not receiving God's grace fully and needing a counselor.

I felt like two people.  There was the me who needed to be handled gently - the broken one, the hurting one, the one who was forgetful and was having trouble focusing and needed a lot of reassurance and was embarrassed about that.

And then there was the other me - the one telling the broken one to get herself together, to buck up, to soldier on.  The one with some dignity who was still competent and self-assured. The one who remembered that everybody struggles.  The one who thought that now was not the time to wallow.  There was a new grade level to learn, a work team to contribute to, a house to unpack, a city to explore, a church to find, a grocery store to locate, a bank account to set up, a DMV to wait at, a community to assimilate into, new friends to make.  And I'd think, "You can't afford to be broken right now. There's too much to do. Get on with it.  Nobody likes someone who makes excuses."

And the other one would whimper in shame, feeling defeated, wanting just a little bit of coddling.

I was convinced that it was not a good idea for the new girl in town to share her brokenness.
How on earth would it promote friendship?  I was hesitant to put this rawer, weaker, vulnerable version of myself out there.  Better to let the broken season run its course in private.

But, then, something wholly unexpected happened.

My guard came down after school one day when a coworker must have asked me the right question at the right moment with the right expression on her face.  Because before I knew what was happening, I was bearing my soul and crying with her in her office.  In my 11 years of teaching, I have never done this at work.  I barely knew this woman.  What was I doing??  I'm the new girl in town.  I need to be proving my competence and composure! And yet, there I was. Softly crying, then ugly crying.  Sharing sadness, stress, and concerns I hadn't shared with anyone here.  It was kind of embarrassing, but it mostly felt very relieving. To finally share my heart with a real person.  To be honest.  To feel known in this new place.

She shared a little bit too and cried with me and prayed with me.  And the next day, I found this book on my desk with a sweet note inside:  

(pleasant gasp) What's this??

How thoughtful!

And I was struck by the fact that my brokenness didn't deter this new acquaintance.  She responded in love.  Christ's love.  Huh, Christ's love is down here in Florida too? ;)


The next week, a different coworker (one I didn't know and rarely see) quickly ducked into the nearest classroom because she felt tears forming and didn't want to cry in the hallway in front of people.  The classroom she happened to duck into?  Mine.  Coincidence? I think not.

She was quick to apologize and simply said she just needed to gather herself for a minute, she was having a stressful week.  I gently asked her what was going on.  She proceeded to share very honestly.  And my heart felt great sympathy for her.  Over the next hour, we talked in my empty classroom about real pain.  I asked questions, she shared.  She asked questions, I shared.  And, by the end of the conversation, a friendship was formed.  Another friendship that started not with jokes or even common interests, but simply with ... honesty. Honesty about brokenness.

Five names are coming to mind of people here who, after I shared my story, in turn, shared some really hard and painful stuff in their lives - some things that I can't imagine having to bear.  It was an honor to be entrusted with their hearts. Is that how they felt when listening to me share about my pain?  Was it not a burden after all?

I found that I could empathize in a different way than I had been able to before.  I felt myself actually feeling more deeply for them.  I knew what it was like to have recently cried hard about something.

An old friend's wise words have come back to my mind with clearer understanding.  She used to say, "Vulnerability breeds vulnerability."  Who wants to share her pain with someone she thinks has it all together?

I'm learning something here.  I'm learning that brokenness in fact can help create bonds.  It has acted as a relational catalyst of sorts, not a hinderance as I had feared.  And I'm not talking about a trite "misery loves company" sort of thing.  Nor an unhealthy codependence. No, this feels hopeful.  And good. A reminder that I'm pilgrimaging through this life alongside others who know longing and pain and have learned to cling to Jesus.  I love these new and few, but real, friendships God has provided here so far.  May He receive much glory through us sharing our brokenness with each other and looking to Him.  Together.

Farewell Kansas City: Saying goodbye to my students

We have been in Florida for over 4 months.  There is much to say.

For now though, I feel reminiscent and impressed to write a farewell message to Kansas City.  It's overdue.

I'll start with my class.

In May, I said goodbye to my 2nd graders.  They were a great bunch - eager to learn, thoughtful, comical - a delight to me.

I was careful not to burden them with my emotions that last week of school, as I was processing the miscarriage.  They had no knowledge of the pregnancy in the first place and needn't be informed on their last week of school.  Besides, we had the business of learning to get to.

Still, some children are perceptive and sense when something feels "off."  A couple of my girls brought me bouquets of picked dandelions at our last recess, and my most hyper boy even took time to make me a little dandelion ring and presented it to me with such gentleness.  It was very sweet.

And I saw again, on that last day, what a gift these children are and was glad God saw fit to entrust them to me.

My apologies for the weird circles.  I just don't feel comfortable displaying their identities 
without asking for parental consent.

We ended the year with a little donut/milk party, sitting in a circle on the ground together, reciting our sound-offs, chants, and songs and sharing our favorite 2nd grade memories.  It was a sweet time.

We had recently learned how to write different kinds of poems - limericks, haikus, couplets, acrostics, etc. And I was really excited to surprise them with framed acrostic poems of their names on the last day. There's just something about seeing your name in print.  Especially as a child.

Looking into their faces, as happens at the end of every school year for me, all their good qualities and individual endearing quirks and ways they have grown came to the forefront of my mind, and I got all sentimental inside.

Here are some highlights from our year:

Girls' Christmas tea and ornament exchange

Fresh off the boat!
Arriving to "Ellis Island" hoping to start a new life in America on "Immigration Day."

This family is hoping not to get deported by the immigration officer.

Deported!
(They were making sad faces)

immigrants getting their first taste of bananas
What are these strange fruits?

On his paperwork, I see that "Sven" here can't read English.
Sorry sir, I have to deport you.

Relieved citizens, after taking the oath
(everyone made it to America eventually)

Other memories:

enjoying the symphony

observing ants tunneling in their gel farm - so interesting!

simple machine demonstration

proudly displaying our class science fair project - they all pitched in to put it together

On the end of the table there is "King Cluck", our mummifying chicken.  The children developed a dear affection for King Cluck and asked eagerly to check the salt everyday to see if he was ready for wrapping.  We wrapped and "buried" him at the end of the year in a "secret, underground" tomb.  May he rest in peace.

Visiting a one-room schoolhouse after reading Little House on the Prairie
It's like stepping back in time.  I love it.

last day hugs

It was a good year.  Though it may have been my last year ever teaching 2nd grade. (sniff)

I now teach 4th grade in Florida.  God, in his graciousness, has led me to another wonderful classical, Christian school here.  I love it so much.

If a 2nd grade position was open, I would have asked for it.  But I'm not as intimidated as I once was about changing grades, and think the transition is helping me grow as a teacher. I arrived here really excited about it actually.  Nervous, but excited.  I love the 4th grade curriculum I'm teaching, and I love going deeper with older students.  And my colleagues are fantastic.

Still, I will always remember with such fondness the past two years in Kansas City, teaching 2nd grade to these precious ones.

What will I get for this?

Those who plant in tears will harvest with shouts of joy.

They weep as they go to plant their seed,

but they sing as they return with the harvest.

Psalm 126:5-6

I was reading this today and imagining what "harvest" I may get to enjoy after all this is over. Twins perhaps?  Matt getting exactly the residency he wants?

And almost as quickly as I thought those thoughts, another thought came to mind.

What if those things aren't the harvest?

That if they don't happen, God's word says a harvest is still to be had.  So what is that harvest?, I thought. What will I get after all this?  I'm planting in tears.  Show me the money.

And then this simple word:  Jesus.

More of Jesus.  Oh, I cry.  More of Jesus Himself.

A friend (who's no stranger to pain) wrote me this before the $#@% hit the fan this week, and I'm going back to it now:

Of course you grieve and question.  Feel it all, drink in every ounce of it, even though it's bitter.  At some point it will feel like you have a secret between yourself and God because there is a connection in grief and confusion that once He settles your churning soul, you will know Him in a way nothing but grief can produce.

So I'm hoping for that.

Processing a miscarriage (part 3) - Um, nobody told me about this part

Don't worry, there's not going to be a "processing a miscarriage (part 10)."  I didn't know there would be more, but I think this is it.  Oh, I hope.

*I talk graphically in this post about blood and stuff.  I'm positive it's over-sharing.  I really don't care.  Feel free to click out of my blog right now and spare yourself.

Again, I'm writing this for myself and maybe for some other woman who has a similar experience in the future and is muddling through.  It's faster to type and process than to write with my pen.  I'm perfectly fine if nobody reads this.  Maybe they shouldn't.  It's long and overly detailed and stream-of-conscience and in desperate need of an editor.  I just need to sort through what happened, I think.

Those who want to come along for the ride, let's go.
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Gushing blood weeks later?
More clots?
Passing out?
Blood pressure tanking? 
Emergency room?
Possible blood transfusion?

What?  Nobody told me about this part.

I got back from the hospital this week after Matt took me to the emergency room Tuesday night.

I thought a miscarriage was a one day thing followed by a few days to a week (maybe two) of period-like bleeding, that eventually tapers off.

"Alright, that sounds doable.  I'll opt for that instead of surgery," I thought a month ago.

Fast forward three weeks. The bleeding hadn't stopped.  I thought some days it was about to stop and felt hopeful.  Then a few days later, another big gush and passing more blood clots. My heart sank and I felt frustrated every time that happened.  It was just dragging on, this miscarriage business.

I thought myself admirably steady after the first day(s) of miscarriage, until Matt came home and found me in a pile of delayed-reaction kleenex the next week.  My hormone levels were all whacked up too, so that was probably a factor.

My delayed reaction gained momentum with each passing week of bleeding.

Still, I was never overly concerned about my health because I was reading account after account on the internet of other women who bled for weeks after the miscarriage started. I only read about ER visits if their pain got really bad.  I had no pain at all, so I had a false sense that I was fine.

I was annoyed by the dragging out, but not alarmed because I had no cramping, no dizziness, nothing.  I went about my days, grocery shopping, meeting friends, cleaning.  I appeared pretty normal on the outside and felt pretty normal on the inside.

And my doctor's office seemed unconcerned when I went in for routine lab work after the first week. In fact, I had to advocate for myself to even speak with a nurse because nobody was following up on me.  When I told her how much had come out that first day, she said I had probably passed the majority of the pregnancy tissue and the bleeding would probably slow soon.

So I figured I just needed to wait it out.

From day to day, the bleeding would slow, seemingly.  Then, nope, nope.  Not stopping.

A gush could happen at anytime.  Once when I was standing in the kitchen.  Another day when I was sitting on the couch.  It caught me off guard every time.   And I would run to the bathroom, blood dripping down my legs, tears stinging my eyes.  When is this going to be over, God?  I'm done with this!  I'm ready to move on already!

Then I'd wipe my eyes after a few seconds, rally, and move on, thinking "It's almost done, Li. You can do this.  That was probably the last one..."  Exhale.

I was at the park with some friends this past Tuesday night.  Felt fine.  Laughing, talking, normal stuff.  Matt was at home studying for his National Boards Test which is in two weeks. (It's arguably the biggest test of his life and will help determine his residency.  He's done with med school classes but still has to take the big bad Boards.)

Driving home from the park, another gush.  A big one.  A really big one.

It's nighttime. I'm in the driver's seat alone, fifteen minutes from home.  I tried to hold it in but it kept coming. I could feel the seat of my jeans filling with blood and clots.  I felt it going down my legs to my ankles.  I drove as fast as I could home, trying to recite Psalm 23 out loud, choking back tears.  It was horrible.  Horrible.

Made it to my parking spot at home, lost it emotionally, waddled up the stairs, the back and inside legs of my jeans soaked down to my feet.

Once inside, Matt got me to the bathroom, took my clothes to soak them, wiped the floor, and sat with me for the next hour since I couldn't leave the toilet.  It had slowed but just wasn't stopping, a constant drip/stream.  I had calmed down though and was reassuring Matt that I felt physically fine, because I did.

Matt kept asking if I felt dizzy and lightheaded.  I honestly didn't and resisted him taking me to the emergency room. 

me: "We can't afford that.  Lots of women bleed for a few weeks. This is normal.  It's startling, but it's normal.  You have to study. You need sleep.  I really don't feel dizzy at all..."

Matt (eventually): You're losing too much blood.  I'm not asking you, I'm telling you that we're going to the emergency room.

We had just been to a doctor's appointment that same morning for Matt's anxiety, and I knew he had taken some medicine that makes him sleepy, so the thought of us driving to the ER at 11pm with him all hopped up sounded ridiculous to me.  But he assured me that he was 90% clear-headed, so off we went to the ER.  90% will have to do.

We laughed at what a mess we were.  "We're quite the pair right now," I said. ;)

At 1am in the ER, I sent Matt home to sleep because he had slept maybe 4 hours in the past 2 days.  His anxiety was persisting lately, and he was running on empty from studying for his Boards.

When he was gone, my blood pressure dropped more, and I passed out in the bathroom giving a urine sample.  I don't remember getting from the bathroom down the hall to a bed. I woke up with all the doctor and nurses' faces staring over me but couldn't hear what they were saying.  They're voices were like Charlie Brown's mother's voice - all muffled.  Mwa-mwa-mwa-mwa.  But then I came to and started apologizing as tears streamed out the corners of my eyes into my ears (I don't know why).  The ultrasound tech did his thing and the nurse monitored me and changed my IV fluids over the next few hours. Everyone was very kind and attentive, but I wasn't allowed to go home because of the whole passing out/losing too much blood thing.  I tried to sleep but couldn't.

They wanted to call Matt to tell him I had passed out, but I requested that they please don't call him and just let the man sleep for a few more hours.  I'd call him in the morning.  What could he do, anyway?  I was stable.  It's best to let him sleep.

They admitted me to the hospital, and Matt came early the next morning.

I HATED the timing of this for Matt.

He can't afford not to study right now, Lord!  He needs his rest, Lord!  You say your timing is perfect, but this seems like the worst timing to me.  Let me be okay for now, then afflict me after June 23rd when he's done with his Boards.  Deal?

I wasn't allowed to get up from the hospital bed or be alone because I was a "fall risk."

The trick is Matt had to study, much as he wanted to stay with me.  He finally turned to me and said, "We need help."  So we sent out an SOS to our friends and asked if any lucky takers would be willing to sit in a boring hospital room and babysit me to make sure I stayed conscious, yada yada, while Matt went to study.

Friends came and were wonderful.  Matt left and tried to study but came back in 10 minutes to be with me because he said he couldn't focus.  Poor guy.  He kind of looked like a wreck, not that I looked much better.  I felt like such a burden to him (not because he made me feel like that, but because there was no way around this situation being burdensome to him.  I hated that so much.  He was so concerned.)

I was given a medicine to make me pass any pregnancy tissue I hadn't passed yet.  This would cause more bleeding, but once everything that was supposed to be out was out, the bleeding would stop.

Bleed more I did.  Think Grandma's jello mold, but it's not see-through, and it's very dark red and has melted into a puddle but you can still see giant clumps of the jiggly jello on top. That's what I was sitting in in my hospital bed.  Cups of blood and clumps.  The nurses and Matt helped me get up to change me and take me to the bathroom (fall risk, remember).  I desperately wanted to feel clean and was cleaning myself up when I felt lightheaded and heavy-legged and passed out again.

Matt caught me, dragged me to the bed, and lightly slapped my cheeks and yelled my name until I came to about 30 seconds later, I'm told.  Again, I don't remember getting from the bathroom to the bed.  Just woke up, this time to Matt's concerned face looking at me and nurses putting rags on my head and doing stuff.  I ached seeing that look on Matt's face. He has to study, Lord.  He doesn't have time for this.  He doesn't need this right now.

My coworker Jean had come to the hospital at about that time, and I saw her face appear above my bed.  She had tears in her eyes and cupped my face maternally, which made me tear up.  I always feel free to cry with her.  She's my friend and coworker, but deep in my heart, she's my Kansas City mom.

I didn't want to cry with Matt because of the pressure I know he is under; I didn't want to add to that.  He said I could cry with him, but I really fought it and found myself downplaying the situation for his sake.

A chair potty was put by my bed, now that I officially was not allowed to take any steps anywhere.  Here is picture of said chair.

Could I feel anymore geriatric right now?

Day turned to evening.  I was hooked up to a heart monitor, and my blood pressure was taken regularly.  I could see Matt's concern at the numbers; he knows what they mean better than I do.  80/50 I guess isn't good.

My hemoglobin (blood count) levels had dropped from 11 to 10 to 9 and eventually to 8 that day.  (12-16 is the normal range).  The doctor told me they would consider giving me a blood transfusion if it reached 7.

Ok, blood transfusion possibility.  That isn't likely, I thought.  More upsetting to me at that point was that I wasn't allowed to shower because of "vasodilation", blah blah blah.  I felt so gross and wished I had showered the day I ended up coming to the ER.  I had been moving out of my classroom that day, packing books in boxes, sweating in the KC heat. It was a baseball cap/no makeup kind of day.  I had come to the hospital in that sweaty baseball-capped state, and now I just felt downright disgusting.  I was ready to get this show on the road so I could get home and shower.

The doctor was a different bird and kept saying that my body was smarter than she was and that it would eventually figure out what it's supposed to do. ????  She wanted to do more rounds of the bleeding medicine.  Matt knew I would need a transfusion if we went that route and was really uneasy about it, asking the doctor if they had my blood type on-hand at the hospital, how long it would take to get it to me, etc. 

When she then went into her obligatory spiel about the risks of the blood transfusion, I finally started to feel overwhelmed, and my friend Catherine handed me a kleenex.

Matt asked if we could have a minute.  My friends gathered round my bed, held hands and prayed.  And I felt a peace wash over me.

Frankly, the doctor seemed opposed to doing surgery because her shift was ending and gave Matt a look when we told her we wanted to go ahead with the d&c.  I was nervous about going into an operation with a doctor who seemed a tad begrudging about it.  Would she "accidentally" nick my uterus?  My friend reassured me that she had taken the oath and would give me the upmost care she could.

I'm told the operation went well.  They found the reason for the bleeding and removed a stubborn piece of tissue my body was trying to expel.

The next day, the nurse brought a shower stool and Matt gently bathed me and washed my hair.  I was so happy to be getting clean!  With my IV arm wrapped up and my other hand gripping the side rail, I felt helpless and pitiful.  And I felt like I was getting a glimpse of our life five decades into the future.  I looked at him with grateful eyes and made some reference to The Notebook.  His love in that moment overwhelmed me.

My blood pressure was steadying and the bleeding had stopped, so after some instructions (including "taking it easy for next few weeks" - um, we've moving in 3 weeks across the country, doc.  No can do.), we were told we could go home that day!

Waiting to go home, in the quiet of the morning, I resorted to taking a selfie.
Oh no - a selfie. Things have gotten bad.

heading home!
Oh, and that's what my hair does when it dries naturally.  Part curly, part straight.  It's unfortunate.

While waiting for Matt to pull the car around, I had a moment with the nurse who wheeled me out.  I made some comment about how my stay was short compared to people who have been there for months and are battling much harder things.  She said, "Yeah, well, you went through a hard thing too."  And my eyes watered at that.  I'm still having a hard time shaking that pesky thought that real grief is relegated to harder situations, and my situation doesn't quite make the cut.  So any look of genuine sympathy coupled with a word of validation causes tears to well up in my eyes.  I want people who have gone through harder things to say it's okay with them if I cry over my thing.  I need their permission.  Like I can be a junior member of their club or something.

Once home, Matt wouldn't let me climb the stairs to our apartment by myself.  I told him I felt fine, but he said, and I quote, "There's no way I'm going to let you walk those stairs."  He was still worried about the possibility of me passing out.  Though I thought it completely unnecessary, I sighed and submitted and let him give me a piggyback ride up the stairs. We laughed when I said I might be safer climbing them myself because I had seen him trip up those stairs a time or two.

Now that we're home, he's been very protective, won't let me do much, and even lent me his baseball bat as a cane.  I know I don't need it, but I smile and use it for his sake.  It looks ridiculous.  I'm willing though to do anything that can help ease his anxiety because I know he's under a lot of stress right now.

Four of our med school friends came over and brought brisket for dinner because they know I need iron. It was comforting to be with them, knowing that they medically understand and are not phased by the gore of my story because they've seen all sorts of things.

I forget that all this happened because we were trying to have a baby.  That stinks.  Like you think you're going to get cake, but instead you're handed a plate of poop.

Here are some things I've gathered so far:

- I love my husband and should listen to him.

- Grief is complex.

- I have good friends.

- Nurses make the world go 'round.

- I will never again take for granted bathing and going to the bathroom by myself.

So now, I don't know what.  The doctor said it may take a few weeks to gain my full strength back.  A friend is currently over here cleaning my bathroom and folding my laundry as I type this, and I feel guilt about that (?).  I've never been on this side of need before.  But I know the Lord has something in this for me to gain, to learn, to grow. And I want what He wants for me.  I want Him.

Processing a miscarriage (part 2)

*Warning:  I don't go into a lot of detail, but I talk briefly about the actual miscarriage in this post.  If you get squeamish about such talk, please don't read.  And I apologize in advance if it's TMI.  I'm selfishly writing this more for myself.


My last post was my surrender to the sovereignty of God and my proclamation of His goodness and presence in the midst of disappointment.

This post is my questions, struggle, and human attempt to understand something confusing, which I know I can't fully understand.  But it's natural, I think, to wrestle and try to make sense of things.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

The actual miscarriage happened at home, thankfully with Matt by my side.

He was great and went into "doctor-mode," monitoring my fluid intake, checking my blood pressure, making me take iron supplements, even cleaning up accidental stains.

I felt badly for him and asked if he was grossed out, as it was startlingly more messy than we anticipated. But he said he's seen far worse these last two years, so he was fine.  He said he just felt "very alert and aware."

The cramps were manageable, and emotionally it wasn't as terrible as I had feared.

In fact, during the actual miscarriage, I felt emotionless.  Numb?  I don't know.  For whatever reasons, my emotions were turned off.

Maybe because a couple of dear friends lost babies further along than I was, I partly didn't feel I had the right to grieve as much as they did.

And with my case being a "blighted ovum," I wondered if my baby, well, existed.

I never saw the baby on the ultrasound.  Never heard a heartbeat.  Just saw an empty sac.

So how do I mourn this?  Do I mourn this?

I'm not seeking validation, just understanding.  I don't know what I'm grieving.

I started wondering if I was cold-hearted and cavalier about the miscarriage since I felt nothing emotionally at the time of it.

But in the days that followed, my mind started thinking things, and my heart started feeling things.  I tend to process events slowly over time.

Since Matt's a med student, I defer to him when it comes to medical knowledge.

"So was a baby in there ever?," I quietly asked him on the couch a couple days later.

"We just don't know," he quietly responded, looking at me with sympathetic eyes.

"So . . . (struggling to understand) . . . tell me about conception . . . How does that work . . . like really work?"

It was like a dad telling his teenager about the birds and the bees, but on a scientific level. Cells this, cells that.

The egg was fertilized - the start of a human life.  But the baby didn't develop much beyond that and never showed up on the screen.

It's possible the baby was reabsorbed into my body (that's a horrible thought) or never got past the "4-cell stage" or the "8-cell stage" as Matt has learned in med school.

4-cell stage?  So did a person exist?  Did its organs form before it all broke down?

For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.
- Psalm 139:13

But my baby wasn't knit together.  I imagine a ball of yarn and some sticks, but no scarf.  The material was there to make something, but nothing came of it.

It didn't have a face.  How do I think about this??  While I'm a Christian and a pro-lifer, I'm perplexed and seriously seeking, wanting to understand what exactly happened in my body.

I felt like a 6-year-old-child when wondering out loud to Matt if God picks out a person's personality and forms a person's face before it's actually formed.

When does He think of those details of a person?
When does He imbue them with a soul?  Before He forms them in their mother's womb?
As He's forming them?  Before the beginning of time?

Then I thought of that verse in Jeremiah, the one where God knew Jeremiah before He formed him.

I knew you before I formed you in your mother's womb.
Before you were born I set you apart and appointed you
as a prophet to the nations.
- Jeremiah 1:5

So does that mean God knew my baby before it was formed (or, rather in this case, wasn't formed)???

This 4 or 8-celled being - Did God have a personality in mind for him/her?
It was a clump of cells at best in me.  Is it a fully formed person in heaven now?  With legs? And arms? And a face? And a personality?  Does it laugh?  And talk?

Will I meet him/her when I get there?
Does he/she have a name?  Is it one I would have chosen?

I tear up at those thoughts and feel a lump in my throat.
All of a sudden, that feels much realer.  Like an actual loss.

Is it melodramatic for me to mourn?
Are my tears justifiable when others are losing their 5-year old children to cancer or car wrecks?
Children they have memories with. ?
Children they've celebrated birthdays with. ?
Children who have personalities.  And faces. ?

I don't know if I'm thinking of this rightly.  It's all mysterious and weird to me.

After reading my last blog post, a mom of one of my students sent me this song yesterday. . . and I wept.

While listening, I felt permission to grieve.

I guess I do have emotions to process and questions to ask.  And I'm glad God doesn't sneer at my childlike, ignorant questions.  I feel heard by Him.  Small and confused.  But loved and heard by Him.

Processing a miscarriage

Matt and I were thrilled to find out I was pregnant right after my 32nd birthday.  Baby due November 28th.

Having no symptoms for a few weeks, I thought I dodged the morning sickness bullet, like my mom did (she never felt sick).  But then the nausea came on in full force, right around the time I flew to Orlando for a job interview in April.

The first ultrasound didn't go as expected at my 10 week appointment.

Excited to see little "Lentil" (as we'd been calling it for weeks), I stared at the monitor in anticipation.

A black sac appeared on the screen.  An empty black sac.  I didn't quite realize that it was empty at first, because as a newbie, I didn't exactly know what I was supposed to be looking for.  But I could tell the ultrasound technician was perplexed and moving her little wand all around my tummy trying to see something more.  There was no talking between us. Then:

Me:  "Is it supposed to look like that?" 

Her:  "Well, that is your gestational sac.  But I'm not seeing the baby or hearing any fetal heart sounds."

Me:  "Would I have the sac if I wasn't pregnant?"

Her:  "No.  You're pregnant."

Me:  "Huh."

After a long time of her rubbing that little thing around and typing all sorts of measurements into her computer:

Me:  (tentatively) "What are some of the reasons, even the bad reasons, why we may not be seeing anything?"

Her:  (with a very kind and gentle tone) "Oh, honey, I'm going to let the doctors talk to you about that. They know more about that than I do."

Me:  "Okay"  (a little bit of concern settling in)

The doctor told me I could just be earlier along in my pregnancy than they originally thought. Orrrr it could be a sign of an impending miscarriage. She scheduled me to come back the following week for another ultrasound.

I left the office.  It was raining outside.  Sat in my car and called Matt.  Went to Panera across the street.  Ate lunch in thoughtful silence. Stopped to get a a large dark chocolate bar on the way home.

Once home and curled on the couch, I cried a little at the unexpected news and the possibility of something being wrong but found great comfort in the Psalms of trust (and that chocolate bar).

With a week to process the possible bad news, we felt somewhat prepared for the outcome.

The Lord buoyed me with hope and sustained me with his Word leading up to the next appointment.  The day before I was schedule to go back, I was meditating on Psalm 142:5 - 

I pray to you, O Lord, I say, You are my place of refuge. 
You are all I really want in life.

Psalm 142:5

I knew I would either experience Him as the Creator of a new little life in me or I would experience Him as Comforter.  Either way, I get to have Him.  And knowing His presence wouldn't leave me is what I clung to and found hope in going into my next appointment.

When the empty sac showed up on the screen again, I knew.  I didn't cry until the technician showed me sympathy and hugged me.  Then the tears flowed.  I felt sad.  Hope deferred really does make the heart sick.  We had wanted a baby so badly.

The ultrasound technician asked if I was alone, and I could tell she felt sad for me when I told her my husband couldn't be with me because he was taking his last med school exam.

But I knew I wasn't alone and sensed Jesus right there in that room with me.  Crying with me as I cried. His presence means everything to me.

I was grateful that Matt finished his exam in time to join me later at the doctor's office.  I told him the news and felt glad he was there with me.

Specifically, I have what is called a "blighted ovum" (empty gestational sac) measuring 7 weeks 5 days at my 11 week appointment.

Blighted Ovum (my layman's terms):  Something wrong happens during conception.  The gestational sac forms, but the embryo doesn't form properly.  The body thinks it's growing a baby though and makes pregnancy hormones, so you still get all the lovely symptoms of pregnancy though no baby is growing. Someone once described it as a cruel joke.

As odd as it may seem, Matt and I went to get sushi afterwards because I could have it now, and I wanted to celebrate him finishing his last final of med school.  I didn't want that accomplishment to get lost in the day.

It was a bizarre mix of joy and sadness that day, acknowledging both happy relief for Matt and sadness for the baby that never grew.

I felt for Matt, knowing the lightness he must be feeling after just taking his LAST FINAL of med school, while at the same time wanting to support his wife in her disappointment.  That's a tricky position to be in.

So we just talked openly about both realities, jumping back and forth in conversation.  We shared in each other's joy and grief the best we could, but (I think by God's good grace) understood it was unfair to expect the other to equally feel our own feelings.

It was what it was.

Matt is a wonderful support.  He sits by me and asks good questions and just offers his presence which I love.  I love being married to him.

My friends here have been wonderful too, some of them bringing meals this past week. When they offered, my first thought was "oh, that's not necessary", but then I felt urged to just let them be the Body of Christ for me.  If they want to do this, let them.  And it's been such a blessing and tangible way to receive God's comfort.  I'm so grateful to these sweet friends.

A coworker gave me flowers and a hug the next morning.  We took a moment and quietly cried as she hugged me.  Some people are just naturally good at entering into people's pain. Jean is one of them.

My heart stung a bit that next day when I helped my students write Mother's Day poems and make cards for their moms.  But my sadness ebbs and flows and coexists with hope.  The rest of the day marched on, and I felt pretty even-keeled for most of it.

Honestly, the busyness of ending the school year with my 2nd graders was a blessed distraction and even, at one point, allowed room for a little sarcastic humor - When I took my class to see the chicks that had hatched in the neighboring first grade classroom, my immediate thought was, "Well, I'm glad somethin's hatching." ;)

I know miscarriages are not uncommon.  It just feels so odd when it happens to you.  My heart aches with a new empathy for dear friends who have experienced loss in this area, some of their stories much more dramatic and heart wrenching than mine.

While I hope for children and have heard many post-miscarriage success stories, I know I'm not guaranteed or entitled to anything from God's hand and want to be careful not to put my hope in anything other than Himself.  I'm glad to be in His care, and I trust His plan.

Overall, I feel okay and am not in despair.  Just processing what was not and asking for a heart like David's, copying his prayer in hopes that it will take deeper root in me:

One thing I ask from the Lord, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the Lord and to seek him in his temple.

Psalm 27:4