Six Plus Two

Hello world.

It's been quite a while.

Time marches on, doesn't it? Nothing makes it any clearer to me than looking at my growing children. Lily turned five years old a few months ago. She's tall, smart, sensitive, and sweet. She goes to pre-k and adores every minute of it. Anna will be three before November is over. She is independent, smart, silly, and has an adorable little face buried under a head full of blonde curls. They are our joy, our girls, the ones we got to keep. They constantly teach me new things about myself -- some good and some not so good. Parenting challenges me in different ways every single day, stretching me so far beyond my comfort zone. But each day I'm ever mindful of the privilege it is to do this job. I'm grateful.

Last month my little family did something we've wanted to do for several years. It was a beautiful, cloudless, blue-sky day that was almost fall-like in Southeast Texas. My husband picked up six balloons on his way home from the office, three pink and three blue. We loaded the kids up and drove a few miles to our favorite park, explaining to the girls what we were going to do and why. It was October 15, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.

We spent a few precious minutes taking pictures -- Lily wasn't feeling well -- knowing that we weren't trying to get the perfect shot. We just wanted some sweet photos to commemorate the moment. My dear husband, however, is good at lots of things, including photography. In just about five minutes, he was able to capture some images that made our eyes tear up when we looked at them later that night. The pictures represent to us all of our children: the six in heaven plus the two on Earth.

We let the girls release the balloons (coincidentally, Lily's favorite color is blue and Anna's is pink), watching them go up until we couldn't see them anymore. We talked about heaven. We hugged each other, and we returned home feeling peaceful about having done something tangible to honor our babies. It was a beautiful day, in more ways than one.

Of course, we still think about them. Forgetting is not what we're about. This family wouldn't be what it is if we didn't remember all it took to get here. The first baby we lost was due in January of 2003. She (Emily Grace) would be approaching her teenage years. The youngest of the six (Aaron Joseph), miscarried in January of 2007, would now be eight years old.

Time flies.

And we always remember.

Aaron Joseph

This is the sixth and final post in the series I've been writing about the babies we miscarried. The time felt right to give them all names and to revisit the experience one by one, as a way of remembering and as a memorial. I appreciate the opportunity to use this blog as a step in the healing process, and I'm grateful to those who have faithfully read along, commented, encouraged, and prayed. These precious ones will always be part of our lives. I'm honored to call them by name.
Emily Grace, Callie Elizabeth, Luke Daniel, Adam Louis, Agnes Faith, and Aaron Joseph
***

Just four months after we lost our fifth baby, I discovered I was pregnant for the sixth time on December 11, 2006. It was really soon but we felt like we surely must be close. We'd had dozens of tests run, discovered a uterine septum and had surgery to correct it, and were planning to try the progesterone supplements and blood thinners again. Since our specialist was an hour's drive away, we were working with my local OB/GYN for lab work and treatment in the early stages of the pregnancy.

Pregnancy number six would be another roller coaster ride. We spent a long time with things up in the air, not knowing whether it was going to work out or not. It was hard and it was emotionally exhausting. And it was all happening right around the holidays, which seemed to make it harder.

Early signs showed that the pregnancy was going well. The first HCG results were higher than my previous pregnancy, and the progesterone was high. I started the nightly Lovenox injections in my stomach right away. A week later, on December 18, the HCG was rising as it should be. We scheduled an ultrasound at a local imaging center on December 21 but were only able to see a gestational sac. It was a start, but we had to leave that day knowing we would spend the Christmas holiday with the big question hanging over our heads. Oh, how we'd been hoping to spend Christmas with the knowledge that our baby was okay and growing.

We decided to go ahead with our travel plans. Spending that time surrounded by our family seemed like a much better idea than staying home alone and worrying. We packed up a basket full of injections, put the progesterone suppositories on ice, and headed for Louisiana and the comfort of home and family. As soon as we got back home and the office was open, I called to schedule more blood work on January 2, 2007. HCG came back: 95,000! After a week and a half of waiting, it was wonderful news! We planned for an ultrasound and the doctor told us that we should be able to get a look at our baby with numbers that high. We knew better than to let ourselves start celebrating but we felt sure that we would at least have an answer, one way or the other.

The ultrasound on January 4 didn't go as we hoped. There was a yolk sac this time but still no growing baby. We knew it wasn't good but we continued to hope and pray for our miracle. Later that evening I had a little bit of bleeding. My heart dropped into my stomach as I thought it was the end. To my surprise, though, the bleeding tapered off and then quit. I had another lab appointment on January 9 to be sure the numbers were still rising. They were. It was ultrasound time again. It had now been a month of injections, desperate prayers, and worry. And hope. Always hope.

We returned to the imaging center on January 15. At ten weeks along we knew we should be seeing our baby. As soon as the image of the yolk sac was visible on the screen, we could see that there was still no growth. No flickering heartbeat. Just an empty sac. This pregnancy had been a blighted ovum, which is when a fertilized egg implants but doesn't develop into an embryo. Conception occurs and your body prepares for pregnancy, but the yolk sac remains empty and the baby does not grow.

 I had a D&C on January 22, 2007. It was three days before my 30th birthday. There was no party, no big celebration. My sweet husband had arranged for many of my friends and family to send special cards and letters, which he gave to me in a big bag on my birthday. My mom came and made my favorite cake: chocolate with chocolate icing. We spent a quiet day at home as I recovered.

In a way, after six times, I'd gotten used to dealing with the tough news and even the surgery and recovery. But you never ever get used to the pain and devastation of loss. Each and every time brought such overwhelming sadness and disappointment. And guilt. You name it. There were so many emotions and unanswered questions. We had to accept that we would probably never have those answers this side of heaven. Our specialist told us with regret that even she didn't know what else she could do to help us. We knew we'd reached the end of the road with her. The call came from the OB/GYN who told us she didn't think we'd ever have a baby. I felt like I'd hit rock bottom.

There's a familiar expression that I think applies here: "Don't put a period where God has put a comma." That's how I felt. I wanted a second opinion. And honestly, if another doctor looked at me and said no, and if we felt God leading us to stop, then we knew we'd need to find the strength to put it all to rest. But I just couldn't let go until I knew for sure. One thing was certain that even I in my weakest times never doubted, though. We were going to be parents. We just didn't know yet if our family would grow through a successful pregnancy or through the gift of adoption.

The weeks and months (and eventually, years) that followed were hard. We found a new doctor in the big city and had our first visit with him on July 16, 2007. For the first time we truly felt that we'd found a doctor who had the knowledge and experience to help us. The best part was that even after all he knew about our history, he didn't think we were a hopeless case. After six pregnancies and six miscarriages in six years, we had hope again. And it would keep us going as we faced something we didn't expect -- three years of infertility. But that's a story for another day.


I love the name we've chosen for our sixth baby. Aaron is a boy name that we've both loved for years. Joseph is my father-in-law's middle name, and was also my maternal grandfather's middle name. While getting ready to write this post I looked up the meanings of these two names we'd already picked, and what I read confirmed that they were right. It's one of those things that forms a lump in my throat and brings tears to my eyes.

Aaron means "mountain of strength."
Joseph means "God shall add."

This pregnancy holds a lot of meaning for me. Looking back at it now I can see that it was in some ways both the end and the beginning. Of course I didn't know it at the time, but praise the Lord, it was our last miscarriage. It was the end of a very long and painful chapter in our lives. But it was the start of a new decade of my life -- my thirties -- and while one chapter (well, it felt like an entire book) was closed, another was opened. I can look back on it years later and remember the sorrow I felt while at the same time appreciating that the old was gone and we were right on the edge of a new, fresh start. There were two beautiful miracles right around the corner. God shall add. And He had been my mountain of strength.

Aaron Joseph,
We had so much hope for you, precious boy, but we know that you are safe with Jesus right along with your brothers and sisters. Thank you for keeping hope alive within us and for showing us that the Lord would be our mountain of strength. We love you and miss you so, so much.
Love, Mommy

Agnes Faith

This is the fifth post in a series about our babies in heaven, all miscarried in the first trimester. The first four can be found here: Emily Grace, Callie Elizabeth, Luke Daniel, Adam Louis. Thank you for remembering them with me.
***

Every single loss is hard. Each one broke our hearts. It took a while for us to pick up the pieces after we lost our fourth baby. We thought surely, after finding out about the uterine septum and having it removed, we had figured things out and would be bringing home our baby. Instead we had another unfulfilled due date, in February 2006.

After the miscarriage we'd kept ourselves from the doctor visits. We didn't return until February, seven months later, for a consultation. Our doctor gave us a few suggestions that we could look into. It was good to have options, but it definitely felt a lot like grasping at straws. Try seeing a urologist for further sperm testing. Talk to a high-risk pregnancy doctor. Consult with a geneticist. Have lots and lots more blood work. (It's a good thing I'm not afraid of needles.)

My husband saw the urologist and was tested for sperm fragmentation. That turned out fine. No worries there. The high-risk pregnancy doc did some tests and thought we could try using blood thinners with the next pregnancy. My doctor was on board with this and we were willing to try it. The geneticist, after looking over all of our history, determined that she didn't think a healthy, full-term pregnancy was completely out of the question for us. Although we knew these were all just ideas and medical opinions, that was particularly nice to hear since our former OB/GYN would later call me on the phone and tell me that she thought I had a genetic problem that would prevent me from ever having a biological child. Wow. Talk about having the breath knocked out of you. Looking back I realize what an inappropriate opinion that was to give a patient, over the phone, when you aren't even qualified as an infertility specialist. Some days it truly felt like everything was working against us.

We knew the odds didn't look good. But we weren't ready to give up yet. There were many, many days when I thought about it. I felt incredibly weak. I was tired and discouraged, and depressed. It became increasingly harder for me to go anywhere and to face all of the questions about why we didn't have any children and what we were doing about it. Everyone had an opinion, a suggestion, and just the right answer for what we should be doing. They said we weren't thinking positively enough, we were worrying too much, we needed to take a break and relax. They said that this was all happening for a reason and that God wouldn't give me more than I could handle. And I began to hate hearing all of it. All of those words made us feel like we were doing something wrong; like it was my fault that our children couldn't survive in my womb. Or that God was trying to teach me a really hard lesson that I was apparently too dumb or had too little faith to grasp.

And so I started keeping it all inside and sharing as little information as possible with those people I knew didn't really care and were just curious. I stopped going to baby showers because it was just too hard. Even going to church was becoming almost unbearable. While I never turned my back on God, I definitely began to question His plan and wonder why this was happening to us, and why it happens to anyone at all.

Even in this state of mind, though, there was a determination inside of me. The desire to be a mother had grown, moving me forward and helping me to take another step, even if it felt small. I had a husband beside me who never gave up hope and always believed that we would have children. And through all of it, God really was teaching me new things about my weakness and His strength. He was teaching me about waiting and trusting and resting and hoping, and above all, about realizing that I serve a God who is infinitely bigger than my circumstances, my fears, and even infertility and miscarriage.

And so, after a new round of tests that revealed no obvious problem but with a few new options to try, we found out about our fifth pregnancy on July 27, 2006. With this pregnancy I began using daily Lovenox (blood thinner) injections in my stomach. Even with no fear of needles, it was a hard thing for me to get used to at first but became a bit easier as time went on. A blood test confirmed the pregnancy and we were back to waiting and hoping for good news. A few days later things were looking pretty good. The HCG levels were rising and progesterone looked good.

We were feeling confident. So much so that we made the (just over 2 hour) drive to Louisiana to celebrate my mom's birthday on August 6th. On Monday the 7th I went for more lab work. I felt hopeful as I waited to hear more good news, but it was not to be. The call would come later the next day, but before the phone ever rang I already knew. I woke up the morning of August 8, 2006 with cramps and bleeding, knowing I was losing the baby. I had been only about 6 weeks along.

It surprises me today to read what I wrote in my journal in the days after our fifth miscarriage. Somewhere inside I still believed it would happen and knew at that point that we would give it at least one more try. It might sound crazy but we suddenly had the feeling that we were getting closer. At that point it felt like we'd been climbing the mountain for so long that we must be near the top, even though we still couldn't see it. We had to be closer.

We've named this sweet baby Agnes Faith.

I know that Agnes isn't exactly a trendy name these days. While I consider it a classic, it's not one of those that is enjoying a big comeback. It was, however, my great-grandmother's name, and she was truly a treasure. She was the most precious, sweet, kind, gentle, French-speaking old Cajun lady that you could ever imagine, and we all adored her. My mom was particularly close to her grandmother, and Mom was always so pleased to have Granny's name, Agnes, as her middle name.

August 8th, the day I miscarried, was Granny's birthday. She passed away in 1999, but I have so many fond memories of her. There were exactly 101 years separating my Granny and my little Agnes. I'm incredibly honored to name my daughter after her and after my sweet mom as well.

My mom is amazing and has been such a huge supporter and great influence in my life, teaching me about faith and modeling the kind of mother I always hoped to be. When I think of the name Agnes, I have two wonderful and strong women who immediately come to mind. I like to think my sweet little Agnes would have followed in their footsteps.

Her middle name is pretty self-explanatory. Faith. It's something I can't imagine my life without and it's the number one thing that helped me through this struggle. Without my faith in God I don't want to imagine where I'd be today.

Agnes Faith,
Oh sweet girl, your name is very special to us and we love imagining what kind of woman you might have grown up to be. We miss you, sweet one, and love you so much! I can't wait to wrap my arms around you.
Love, Mommy

Adam Louis

This is the fourth of six posts I'm writing about our babies in heaven. Thank you for continuing to remember them with me as we go through the process of naming each of them. They are all loved and missed! You can find the previous three posts here: Emily Grace, Callie Elizabeth, and Luke Daniel.
***

The year 2004 had brought our third miscarriage in three years. It felt like we'd been through so much, but we had no idea what was still to come. Our fourth pregnancy would be one of the most difficult and darkest times we would face. (And I'm sure this post will be a long one as there are a lot more details about this pregnancy. Thanks in advance for sticking with me.)

While we had begun some initial testing, it was at this point that we realized it was time to really investigate what might be going wrong. The first step was exploratory surgery, which we scheduled with our specialist on November 12. During the hysteroscopy, the doctor could not see both of my fallopian tubes at the same time with the scope, suggesting that my uterus had a different shape or an obstruction.

The next step was an MRI and and IVP test, which we scheduled for December 2. The tests came back showing the better of the two scenarios that the doctor suspected -- I had a septum (like a wall) dividing my uterus. She told us it's a congenital deformity and that it was likely to be the cause of my miscarriages, considering it can create concave areas in the uterus, making it difficult for a baby to grow. The really good news was that it could be corrected with outpatient surgery.

I wasn't excited about hearing that news, but it definitely gave us something to hold on to. This could be the answer! Maybe we finally had a REASON, medically speaking. We started 2005 with a renewed hope and on January 21, just a few days before my 28th birthday, I had surgery to remove the uterine septum. The doctor also looked for endometriosis, which she didn't find. We felt like we were in good shape to start trying again after some time to heal. I didn't have a regular cycle until March, and then I decided to have my wisdom teeth pulled in April. After all of that was done we were ready.

The positive pregnancy test came on June 9, 2005. It was the start of a roller coaster of emotions, with the biggest ups and downs we had experienced yet. I had still been using the progesterone and following the routine that I explained in my last post, so on day 30 I took a home test. It was negative. It was my fourth time around, though, and I had a feeling otherwise. Four days later I took another one. Positive. I went that same day for blood work. HCG 1266 and progesterone 41. Great news, they said. Things looked promising.

We went in for the first ultrasound on June 20 but saw only a gestational sac. This did not devastate us. We still felt very positive and thought we needed to give it some more time. When we saw the doctor that day, though, we were surprised (unpleasantly so) to discover two things: first, our regular doctor was gone. She wasn't working there anymore and we did not like this new doctor. Second, the new doctor (whose bedside manner was lacking all sensitivity) abruptly told us that the sac looked too large and the numbers were too high. She didn't think the pregnancy would last.

Folks, I don't need a doctor to coddle me or try to make me think things are okay when they're not. But her delivery was awful. I had more blood drawn and we left feeling frustrated, confused, and lost. We had a real connection with the other doctor and she was gone. We went there that day thinking our baby was okay and left thinking we'd lost another one. The news came that night: my HCG and progesterone were still looking very good. We scheduled another ultrasound. In the meantime, we decided to try calling our other doctor, the one who had left. We felt funny about calling her at home but we were so unsettled and didn't know where else to turn. She answered, and she was totally great about it. Even better, she told us she had moved to an office in Houston and that we could follow her there if it was what we wanted. It was.

We kept the ultrasound appointment that we'd already made (June 27), and we went in praying that we would see a yolk sac this time. We did! We were relieved... until Dr Doom came in to tell us again that it wasn't going to work. I know that a big part of the anger and frustration we felt at that time was out of sheer denial, or refusal to accept more bad news. We weren't doubting the doctor's ability to do her job, but we couldn't understand why she did not seem willing to let us have an ounce of hope. Things WERE progressing, and until they weren't, we were going to have some HOPE. After some persuading, she agreed to do another ultrasound in two weeks.

July 11 finally arrived. We had prayed our hearts out. We'd even decided to tell our church family this time so they could be praying with us. And after all that hoping and all that praying, there it was: a heartbeat. Our baby looked amazing. There was the little head, the body, and the arm and leg buds! The baby was measuring 8 weeks, 2 days, and even the doubting doctor seemed surprised. She said that aside from a bit of a fast heart rate, the baby looked fine. Today as I write this eight years later, I'm looking at the cherished ultrasound pictures, paperclipped in my journal, of that sweet little baby. He was our dream come true. Our hearts were so full of love for that miracle.

After that visit, we made the decision to make our next appointment with the doctor with whom we felt more comfortable. Even if the news was going to be bad, we preferred to hear it from her. We informed the doctor and had our records transferred to the new office. A week later, on July 18, we made the hour-long drive to the see our old doctor. We were excited to have the ultrasound and get another look at our growing baby. And the baby HAD grown, measuring 9 weeks. And there were the chambers of the heart... but the heart wasn't beating. We saw it as plainly as she did. Our doctor was surprised. We were shocked. It had been only a week -- just 7 days -- since we'd seen the heartbeat, and our baby had died.

After we talked to the doctor for a little while, she checked again just to be sure of what we saw. I appreciate that she did that for us, but we knew it was over. It felt like she was giving us a moment to say goodbye as we took one last long look at the screen. She asked me if we wanted her to print a picture and I said yes. I have that picture here with me now, too, that last precious image of our baby. He looks perfect to me, even though I know his heart wasn't beating and his soul was in heaven. It breaks my heart to see it, but I'm grateful to have it.

Every loss is hard. This one was particularly hard for us. We felt more heartbroken than ever. There had been so much hope and so many prayers -- so many of them answered in those 9 weeks. We were learning to trust a God who loves us and cares about us, and who sees the bigger picture and knows all of the answers to our questions.

I'm thankful that we got to spend as much time carrying this child as we did. We got to see him on an ultrasound screen more times than we had with any other pregnancy. We watched him grow and saw that flickering heartbeat, reassuring us that he was here and he was real. He had lived longer than any of our other babies had to date. And I'm thankful that we got to stick with a doctor who was sensitive and considerate of our needs during that time. On the day of the D&C, she invited us to her office to do a final ultrasound so we could be certain. Again, I know she did that just for us. There was no lingering look this time, and she did that for our benefit, too. Even though I know he'd already gone to heaven by then, we said goodbye to our fourth baby on July 22, 2005.

We've named our second son Adam Louis.
Adam is a name I've come to love in recent years. I considered it for Anna if she'd been a boy. The last name Adams is a family name on my mom's side. Louis is my husband's middle name, and had been his paternal grandfather's middle name as well. Of course I love having a son named after both of them, and I also really like that Louis is a French name. It reflects our heritage and is part of our home state, Louisiana's, name, too. Louis means "famous warrior," and we certainly felt that our little guy was a fighter. Our Adam Louis's name was chosen with lots of love and from a long line of family names from both sides of our family.

Adam Louis,
Your daddy and I are so grateful for the time we got to spend with you. We never got to hold you, but we knew you and loved you so much while we prayed and hoped for you for nine weeks. Thank you for giving us that hope and for teaching us to keep holding on, no matter what. You were worth it! We love you and can't wait to see you again one day.
Love, Mommy

Luke Daniel

This is the third post in a series about the six babies we miscarried. Naming these precious ones has been an honor as well as a healing process for us. The previous two posts can be found here: Emily Grace; Callie Elizabeth.
***

In March of 2003 we found ourselves at a crossroads. In less than a year's time we'd had two pregnancies and two miscarriages, both at 11 weeks gestation. Both times we found out that our babies were no longer living when ultrasounds revealed that they appeared to have stopped growing around 7 weeks and their little hearts had stopped beating. We were heartbroken, and now we were scared.

My OB/GYN at the time recommended that we go to a local Center of Reproductive Medicine to have some initial testing done. We talked and prayed about it and decided we had nothing to lose. It was definitely worth a try. Our first appointment there was in August of 2003, and we began with lots and lots blood work and a semen analysis. Our blood work came back pretty normal and hubby's tests were stellar. Because my results showed the MTHFR mutation, I began taking extra folic acid along with my prenatal vitamin and a daily aspirin. We also tested my progesterone and came up with a new plan. Each month I would start taking extra progesterone on cycle day 17 and go in to have blood drawn 4 days later to check the level. I would return for another blood draw on cycle day 31 to check for pregnancy. This continued for several months. It was frustrating to see the days and months pass with no change, but we continued on because at least we felt like we were doing SOMETHING.

After a while when it appeared that my progesterone levels were staying nice and high, I continued using the supplements but didn't go for blood work each and every month. Every few months we'd go in and talk with the doctor to check on things and talk about the plan. We knew there were more aggressive things out there but we felt sure that another pregnancy would come, and we felt good about taking these steps and monitoring things to try to give the baby a better chance. We were stressed. We were nervous. It hadn't taken us this long to get pregnant before but we tried to remain as patient and calm as possible.

More than a year passed before we saw our third positive pregnancy test. It was September 24, 2004, and we were so very hopeful and anxious to find out if things would be different this time. They were different, but not in the way that we'd hoped. My first HCG check on September 27 came back at 349. On October 1 it was 666. We knew these numbers weren't looking good. We checked again on October 5 and it had dropped to 49, and I lost our third baby on October 7, 2004. We'd hardly had much time at all to even let it sink in, just a few short weeks, and just like that it was over at 6 weeks gestation.

We were so sad. So disappointed. In an effort to hide ourselves from the world and try to find some peace in the situation, we quickly planned a getaway to New England, just the two of us. We spent the next week surrounded by beautiful fall foliage, cozy bed and breakfasts, and gorgeous lighthouses on the east coast. It was a wonderful, comforting trip, a place we'd always wanted to go and at just the right time of year. We needed it so badly and we both look back on that time as a very special memory.

I love looking back at the pictures we took on that vacation, but I can still see the sadness on our faces. Of course we realized that there was really no escape from what was happening in our lives -- to us, and to our babies. Immediately after we returned home, I had one final blood draw to confirm the HCG was negative.

We decided to name our baby, our first son, a name that was at the top of our list for favorite boy names: Luke. Luke is a name we always liked. It's a good, strong Biblical name, which is true about every single boy name we've chosen, and true about his middle name, Daniel.

The name Daniel has special meaning for us, since it was my husband's grandfather's name. The name had meant something special to his mother as well. It was after studying the book of Daniel in the Bible that Pop's mother had given her life to Jesus. She said then that if she had another son his name would be Daniel, and she kept that promise. Her Daniel, our "Pop," was one of the most amazing men I've had the privilege to know. He was a missionary, a preacher, a pastor, a carpenter, a WWII veteran, and truly the kindest, gentlest father and grandfather I have ever met. (I wrote a post about him here, after he passed away in 2009.) We certainly looked up to this man of faith, as we do his Biblical namesake. I know he's with Jesus now, just like our sweet little boy.

Luke Daniel,
What a special boy you are to us! We hope you know how loved you are. Part of your name came from a man who was very special to us, too, who lived his life to honor his Savior. We can't wait to see both of you in heaven one day. You were with us for such a short time but are no less loved. We miss you so much.
Love, Mommy

Callie Elizabeth

This is the second post in a series about the six babies we lost to miscarriage. We made the decision earlier this year to give each of them names as a special way of remembering them. You can follow this link to read about our first baby, Emily Grace. I hate that it's been so long between posts, but this week's Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness/Remembrance Day brought all of these memories back up for me again. Thanks for reading.
***

After my first miscarriage in July of 2002 I was in shock. It rocked my world and I wasn't sure how to continue. I was so hurt and I wanted to grieve, yet I wanted to quickly move forward at the same time. Never before had I actually wanted to be a statistic -- I was desperate to be one of those people everyone kept telling me about when they said that miscarriage was very common and that it would all work out fine. Everyone had a story about someone they knew whose first pregnancy ended in miscarriage before they went on to have a healthy pregnancy right after. All I could do was hope that might also be me.

My sister, who had been due with her second child a month before my first, gave birth to a beautiful baby boy on December 3, 2002. I was thrilled to be in the delivery room when he entered the world. Being an aunt is such an incredible joy to me, and I was nothing but happy on that day. It was only later, after a family member pointed out that it must have been hard for me after losing my baby, that I let myself grieve my loss again. It had been an experience I was eager to share with my sister, but I felt hopeful that soon my time would come. Instead of making it more painful, loving on my brand new nephew was like a balm for my aching heart.

My unfulfilled due date passed in late January of 2003, closely followed by the suspicion that I might be pregnant again. There was indeed a positive pregnancy test on February 10, 2003. We were nervous but excited, certainly hoping we would be meeting our sweet baby around our due date of October 10, 2003. While the first loss had made me skittish and overly cautious, I had no reason to think we would have the same problem twice.

There aren't many details recorded in my journal about this pregnancy or the next one. After our first baby died in my womb, I put some of the things we bought for him or her, along with the pregnancy journal, up in the closet of what would have been the nursery in our new house. I didn't want to forget her short yet meaningful life, but the memory of her was so fresh and so raw. I couldn't let myself feel it completely just yet, so I saved it all up and busied myself with other things while hoping I would soon be holding a sweet bundle of my own.

My memory is fuzzy, but I know that the second pregnancy progressed almost exactly as the first one had. I'm beginning to recall how nervous I felt about going back to the doctor, even to confirm the pregnancy. I knew I was pregnant, but I'd fooled myself into thinking that I could keep potentially bad news away by simply avoiding it. Besides, I was just sure it wouldn't happen to me again. No news was good news to me, I thought, and I continued to hope and pray that sweet baby into existence. That sounds completely ridiculous to me now (not the hoping and praying, but the avoiding of information) but it was my funny way of dealing with it at that time in my life, I guess. I finally did go for the exam and the blood work, and a week later found out that all the numbers looked good. (Hooray!)

My joy lasted only about a week before the awful news came. We went for an ultrasound on March 25 and were again crushed to find out that the baby was no longer living and growing. Again, at 11 weeks gestation, we found out in that little room (with a little experience under our belts -- we knew what that silent, empty screen was saying this time) that I would miscarry for the second time. All my hopes again came crashing down. How could this have happened in such a similar way? Was there something wrong with me? This time, on top of my grief was a growing sense of fear.

After the physical pain of my first miscarriage, I decided to schedule a D&C. I'm still very glad for that decision, as I know I wasn't ready to face that trauma again so soon. The blood work showed that my HCG was falling. Even though I know she was already gone, I remember my sweet baby on the day she left my body, on Friday, March 28, 2003. Again, I don't know for sure that our second baby was a girl, but I know that we had envisioned ourselves with a couple of daughters in the early years when we would innocently allow ourselves to dream and plan for the future -- a future where we never imagined losing our first two children to miscarriage.

In those young married years, we had two favorite girl names always tucked away that were special to us: Emily Rae and Anna Elizabeth. I think it's special that our two daughters here on earth still carry one of those names each (Lily Rae and Anna Evangeline). We chose the name Emily Grace for our first baby in heaven.

Our second baby we've named Callie Elizabeth.

Callie is not a name I've always known. It's totally new to me. I don't personally know anyone by that name but it's funny how, much like how you suddenly begin hearing a word that is new to your vocabulary, I'm hearing it everywhere lately. I chose it as a tribute to two special women in our lives -- my sister and my husband's sister, and two of the best aunts our children could have ever asked for. It is a combination of my sister's name (Connie) and my sister-in-law's name (Allison - nicknamed Allie). Callie. I think it's adorable. And her middle name, Elizabeth, is the only one left that we haven't used from our original favorite girl names, and it's a name we've always loved.

The name Callie means "Beautiful" and the name Elizabeth means "God is my oath."

Callie Elizabeth,
Our beautiful girl, we miss you and we love you so much. Your daddy and I had so many hopes and dreams for you. We wish more than anything that we could have held you here, but we know we will have that chance one day in heaven. Oh, how special it will be when we finally see your face along with Jesus, who loves you even more than we ever could dream!
Love, Mommy

Emily Grace

This is the first in a series of posts I'm writing about the six babies we lost to miscarriage. We never named those babies until now, so I wanted to write something about each of them as a memorial. It should be mentioned that we do not officially know the gender of each baby, but we have decided to name three girls and three boys. We feel comfortable with that decision.
***

We found out about our first pregnancy on May 6, 2002. When I look back on that time, what I remember is pure excitement. We were downright giddy. I'd been doing all of the charting and tracking and temperature taking for a few months and there we were. It was definitely a planned pregnancy. My period was late and I had my suspicions, so I took a home pregnancy test on a Friday but it didn't convince me. That second line -- was it there? Or not? We went out of town that weekend and I remember feeling that excitement the whole time. We attended the first birthday party of the son of some of our dearest friends. Lots of good friends of ours from our first young married couple Sunday School class were there, many of them with their own young children. I looked around the room in amazement, wondering what it would be like to have our own child, too. We kept quiet about our suspicions all weekend, even with family, and tested again the following Monday at home. It was definitely positive. My hubby was home sick with a cold and we were just in awe. We were young, had just moved to a new town (and state) a year earlier, he had a great new job (his dream job, really), and we had been looking to buy our first home. Things couldn't have felt more right.

My first appointment with my new OB/GYN was May 14. A blood test confirmed the pregnancy and over the next few weeks we began telling our immediate family members in special ways. I told my sister first. We told my sister-in-law at her birthday party and my mom on Mother's Day. We told my in-laws at a family gathering for my brother-in-law's graduation. We were on Cloud 9, and our families were so happy too. My sister and I were due just a month apart. She was expecting her second child that December and my baby was due January 21, 2003. We've always been so close and we were beyond excited about being pregnant together.

May 22 arrived, along with the much-anticipated first ultrasound. It was my first ultrasound experience and I was full of anticipation. My bubble burst, however, when it didn't go very well. We were worried, but were reassured that it was probably just too early to see the baby just yet. Maybe I ovulated later than I'd thought. I'd been having irregular cycles, so it made sense to me and it all seemed to add up. Blood was drawn and my HCG level had gone up appropriately. The doctor didn't seem worried. A second ultrasound was scheduled for a week later, and on May 29, 2002, we saw our baby's heartbeat for the first time. What joy we felt at seeing that tiny flicker! The baby measured 4mm and the doctor said she thought I was 6 weeks along. We went home with those coveted black and white first photos of our little bean, and they went right up on the refrigerator so we could see them every day. We were so very relieved that our worrying had all been in vain. It had given us a little bit of a scare -- and definitely put our celebrating on pause for a moment. In my journal I wrote these words:
"If I learned anything this week, it's how much I am really anticipating this baby and how attached I already feel to it. I also felt in a powerful way how God can be my strength when I am weak."

How true those words would turn out to be.

We lived in bliss for the following few weeks. I had an uneventful OB appointment on June 11. Things were progressing well, or so we thought. We'd found a house and were set to close on June 28. Two days before that, however, I began noticing some brown spotting. The doctor suggested I might have an infection. I never expected the worst. I knew several people who'd had spotting and bleeding early on in pregnancy and everything turned out okay. We signed papers for the house and I took it easy, but I noticed the discharge becoming heavier over the next few days. I started feeling crampy, and I started feeling scared. My doctor did an exam on July 1 and said everything looked normal. She tried doing an ultrasound but told us she wanted us to go to the hospital to get a clearer picture there. By now we'd been waiting all morning and our worries had reached their peak. At 11 weeks, we should have been able to see a great picture of our growing baby on the screen, but we learned at the hospital that our baby was way too small and was measuring more like 7 weeks. We returned to our doctor in tears as she told us to expect a miscarriage.

Expect a miscarriage. But the fact was, I had NO IDEA what to expect. I'd been expecting to hold a brand new baby in January and now I was devastated. All of our plans came to a screeching halt, along with our hopes and dreams for this little baby we already loved. We didn't want to believe it was true even though we knew it in our hearts. I was afraid of having a D&C and I felt a strong desire to let things happen naturally. I think it was my way of being absolutely sure the baby couldn't make it. I was trying to cling to anything I could, any hope that we wouldn't lose the baby, but by July 3 I'd begun cramping and bleeding. We passed the time by working on the house. I didn't do much working, but family members came to help out and to keep me company. We tried to stay occupied, distracted. We kept the grief just below the surface while we waited.

By Friday evening I could tell things were changing. I went back to our apartment to try to rest, but the pain was tremendous. It came in waves for hours, all during the night, as I labored with our child. Around 4 AM I reached my breaking point. I couldn't handle the pain any longer and I began passing large clumps of blood and tissue. We called the doctor and decided to head to the ER when the pain became absolutely unbearable. I don't know what I expected them to do for me, but I was too scared to stay home at that point. After I was admitted and they brought me back, a doctor came to examine me. I remember it very vividly, that immediately after I was reclined on the bed there was one last wave of pain and it was instantly over. I knew at that moment that our baby was gone. It was around 5 AM on the morning of July 6, eleven years ago.

The doctor told me the miscarriage was "complete" and did a final ultrasound. I was brought to a room to rest and recover from what felt like my worst nightmare. I was traumatized, but doing okay physically. We went home later that night feeling like we were still stuck in a bad dream. My emotions were all over the place a few days later as I wrote in my journal. I was torn between the overwhelming desire to have a baby and the absolute fear of going through such an awful experience again. I felt angry, sad, disappointed, and scared. Above all, I was truly heartbroken. I wrote in the journal:
"I know that the pain of this loss will be with us forever. It's so hard for me to think I will ever be ready to risk trying again, yet I know we want a child now more than ever. How do I get through another first trimester? Before that, how do we find the courage to try to get pregnant again? Emotionally and physically, I don't see how we would handle another miscarriage."

When I read those words now, after everything I know would come after, I can see that it was my fear doing the talking. And looking back I know without a doubt that I would be willing to endure a whole lot more for my children. That first loss felt HUGE. And it was. I didn't know that it was just the beginning. I had no way, yet, of realizing how God would see us through and give us grace for that moment and every other trial and every other miscarriage that followed.

Sometimes I think about the young woman I was then. I remember the joy and the excitement of those early days and I wonder, if I could go back and talk to her, what would I tell her? The answer is -- nothing. I would let her feel that same happiness all over again. Ignorance is bliss, and I would never spoil that for her by trying to prepare her for the hardships and disappointments to come. I'd let her live right there in the security of that moment, enjoying the feeling that her dreams were about to come true.

I don't know whether the baby we lost was a boy or a girl, but I know that we had imagined ourselves with a couple of little girls... someday. Our favorite girl name was always Emily. I can say with certainty that, if that baby had been born here on earth and had been a girl, she'd be our Emily. We thought about using the name years later but it never felt right again. While we still loved it, we truly felt like our Emily had already come. We've given her the middle name Grace, because it was the beginning of one of the biggest lessons of grace we would ever receive. Through that time and everything that was to come, our gracious Lord held us in the palm of his hands. He already knew our story -- beginning, middle, and end -- and we had to trust that he was walking right along with us.

Emily Grace, 
Mommy and Daddy love you so much. You are our first child and the one who began to show us how much love we had in our hearts and how much we wanted to be parents. You were the beginning of a dream and a longing inside of us. We know that you are safe with Jesus, and we can't wait to wrap our arms around you one sweet day. We love you and miss you, sweet baby. 
Love, Mommy

Calling Them By Name

I often look back on our experience with recurrent miscarriage. I still think about those precious little babies, all six, and wonder about what might have been. Recently I've been looking at it all again with fresh eyes. It has just been heavy on my heart and on my mind a lot in recent days.

This week I found the pregnancy journal that I started in 2002 and I've been reading through it. I actually started writing in it a few months before our first pregnancy, when we had first started trying to conceive. Of course, we had no idea there would ever be any problems. It was all coming from a very sincere and innocent place. I was excited and hopeful and I took a few minutes to write my feelings down in a journal, hoping to one day share them with our child.

After the initial excitement surrounding that first positive pregnancy test a few months later, what follows in the journal are pages and pages of heartbreak, rising and falling numbers, and expected -- then unfulfilled -- due dates. I used the little notebook (ironically, boasting a cheerful floral print on the cover) to record the whirlwind that we were wrapped up in for the next several years. I wrote quite a bit about events and also about feelings at first, but the feelings began to show up less and less as the years went on. It became more of a place to record data, mostly the cold, hard facts. Doctor visits, test results, surgery dates, HCG and progesterone levels, and Lovenox injections filled the pages, with some mention of our hopes and our fears sprinkled in.

But one thing is missing from those pages and from the entire experience, and it has always bothered me. We never named our babies.

It's not perfectly clear to me why we didn't give them names at that time. I think a big part of it is because we were kind of in shock. We still talk about that time as though we were living in a fog. The grief was so heavy and so consuming. All we could do was put one foot in front of the other. We kept trying and trying and trying, and we sought help as much as we could. We were desperate to figure out what was going wrong and why our babies kept dying. It wasn't AT ALL that they didn't feel real to us. Instead, it was so very real and so very painful that we couldn't allow ourselves to take that step. We thought about dates for a while but they began to add up and we distanced ourselves from trying to remember them because IT HURT SO MUCH. It was so difficult to process all of the miscarriages and all of the due dates and so many complicated feelings when we were right in the middle of it all. I think it was just too raw. The wounds needed time to heal.

I had my last miscarriage in January of 2007 and I was introduced to the world of blogging a little more than a year later. This blog was born in May of 2008 and it helped me so much as I worked to process everything that had happened. I didn't know if anyone would ever read anything I wrote, but I wrote anyway. I finally put words to the grief and the heartache that we'd been feeling. It felt great to write out all the sometimes dumb and sometimes insensitive things that people had said to us. And mostly it helped me begin to heal as I found a community of people who actually understood what I'd been through. I found people who also felt the anger, hurt, grief, and desperation... but they also felt the hope.

I truly believe that was a turning point for me. The fog began to clear. Around the same time, we sought help from a new fertility specialist and our hope was renewed somewhat. The next part of our story involved waiting. We didn't have another pregnancy until 2010, and that was the one that brought us Lily. Anna arrived two years later, and now she is more than half a year old. 

Time has passed. My husband and I have had lots of occasions to reflect on it all and to talk about it with some perspective now that we can look back on that time. A little bit of distance helps. And I think having our daughters has helped too. They remind us daily of how far we've come and of all it took to get here. They also remind us, in a way, of those precious six lives -- the babies who aren't here. Lily and Anna remind us how much we loved and wanted their siblings who came before them. We've just realized recently that now is the time to go back and fix something that we felt was left undone.

We've decided to give them names.

I don't know why, but the time feels right for us to do this now. A few weeks ago I asked Chuck to write down some names that meant something to him and I made my own list separately. We've compared notes and talked through it together, using the journal to help us remember details and how we were feeling at the time of each loss. I thought it would be nice, as a memorial, to write a post about each one of our babies individually. The first will appear at just the right time next weekend, if I can get it written in time, on the anniversary of our first miscarriage -- July 6. The posts won't always work out that way, but we thought it would be a good way to start. I want to share their names with you, too, here on the blog, if you'll indulge me.

It has been an emotional time to ponder all of these things. I can't remember the last time I had a good cry over all of it, but the tears have been flowing again this week as I've spent time focusing on our sweet babies and the memories surrounding our brief time with each of them. Oh, how I miss them! I wish more than ever that they could have stayed here with us but I know there will be such a sweet reunion someday in heaven, when I can finally see their faces!

And now, I'll look forward to finally calling them by name.

It Never Goes Away

I am the mother of a twelve-month-old little girl. I wake up each morning and rescue her from her crib when she cries. I feed her and change her and play with her and rock her to sleep every day. I snuggle her and read to her and count her little toes.

I am also the mother of six little ones in heaven. I've never seen them face to face. I've never held them in my arms or kissed them on the cheek. I've never smelled their hair or tickled their tummies. I miss them, and they are missing from me.

That feeling of loss never goes away.

I think there are a few misconceptions about having a baby after recurrent pregnancy loss. One is the idea that finally having a child erases all the pain of past losses. It doesn't. Having my daughter has helped my heart to heal, but one child never replaces another. Besides that, the 33-year-old woman I was when I gave birth to my daughter last year was not the same as the much younger woman I was when I lost my first pregnancy in 2002, my second in 2003, my third in 2004, my fourth in 2005, my fifth in 2006, and my sixth in 2007. Just as each of those children was unique, the loss of each and every separate baby affected me in a different way. Each came (and went) at a different time in my life and carried with them their own individual hopes and dreams. They don't get all lumped together in a section of my heart labeled "loss." Each one occupies his or her own space.

I think another misconception is that once you've had a healthy baby after loss, all of your fertility issues must have been solved. If I'm being completely honest here, this is one of the things that I feel still separates me from the "fertile world." Even though I finally carried a baby full-term and I've looked at her face every single day for over a year now, I still don't walk around feeling like a "regular" mom. Granted, I don't really know what a regular mom might feel like, but I imagine she might not think too much about her fertility. I imagine that she and her husband decide they want to have a baby and... well, they do. No, I don't know what that feels like. So when friends casually say things like, "Oh, the next time you have a baby, be sure and do such-and-such," I'm not sure how to react. I guess I appreciate that they're thinking positively about my chances of doing this all over again. And, trust me, I sincerely hope that they're right. But it doesn't change the fact that it took six failed pregnancies and three subsequent years of infertility -- nearly nine years total -- to bring home my baby. I cannot and will not forget about that. It's my reality and my story. It's part of who I am now and it won't ever go away.

Trying again just isn't that easy, even after a successful pregnancy. I don't know when I'll be ready to start all over again. And really and truly, I don't mean for this post to be negative or pessimistic. I just mean for it to be honest.

October 15 is a special day for pregnancy and infant loss awareness, but these feelings are with me every day. Today I'll hold my daughter closer, I'll remember my babies (and yours) in heaven, and I'll pray for those who are hurting.

Because I know it really never goes away.

Opening Old Wounds

Last night we attended the infant CPR class that we signed up for a few weeks ago. It went well and we learned a lot. I did get a sick feeling and chills all over when we watched some of the scenarios on the video. I guess I wasn't expecting that, but it was quite scary to imagine myself in those situations with my child (or any child). We were glad that we went, though, and we certainly hope we never have to use what we learned.

Something else I wasn't expecting was that the class was held in a building I used to frequent. I have a lot of memories in that building and not many (okay, none) of them good. The very first fertility clinic we ever visited is just a few floors up from where we met for the class. I realized a few things when we revisited it last night.

First, that feels like a lifetime ago.

Second, I don't remember feeling a whole lot of hope back then.

It was actually 2003 and not really a lifetime ago, and it was after my second miscarriage. The pregnancy had progressed a lot like the first. I'd made it to 11 weeks, almost the second trimester, before we discovered that something was wrong via ultrasound. I thought I was 11 weeks along, but the baby had not survived that long. Twice. We decided to pursue some initial testing before trying for a third, which we finally achieved a full year later. That pregnancy was short lived, though. It hadn't even gone as "well" as my first two and I remember how hopeless we felt.

But is it possible to feel hopelessly devastated and yet hopeful in a way? I guess I was a bit hopeful. I was young and we still had avenues to explore. It was so, so hard having to lose those three precious babies, but we had a purpose. We wanted to find out what was wrong, why this was happening, and we wanted to "fix" it. And it was that same year that we discovered I had a septum in my uterus. Aha! An answer! More testing and a couple of surgeries followed before pregnancy number four, which we were sure would make it. And oh, we were hopeful then. But there we were in that same dreaded building, two years later, with a doctor who told us that, quite frankly, she didn't think that our beautiful baby with the beating heart was going to make it. And she turned out to be right, much to our shock and horror. We didn't want to believe her because the baby was growing and had survived longer than the others. So we ran away from her negativity and sought another opinion. Yes, the baby did look okay! But we needed to keep monitoring the pregnancy. At the next visit, our baby had died. Again, a part of me had, too.

From there we tried to pick ourselves up and start again. We had more tests. We returned to that same building to consult a high-risk pregnancy doctor, who seemed to lose interest in us after our next two pregnancies didn't last very long despite his recommendations. And yes, again in that same building we were shuffled back to my original OB-GYN, who in her complete lack of knowledge about treating recurrent pregnancy loss, told me (over the phone, no less) that she was sure I had some kind of genetic problem that would prevent me from ever having a normal, healthy pregnancy. While I had been devastated before, I think that was the day it felt like my very soul was crushed and my heart completely broken.

Even though we weren't sure we could pick up the pieces again after six losses and such a grim prognosis (or opinion, as it were), it began to feel like a brand new era when we left that building behind and sought help from Dr G. We let the sun set on that place and moved into a new day. It was still hard. It was scary to start again. What if he looked at us like we were crazy for pursuing this? What if we were setting ourselves up for failure again? There were certainly hopeless and fearful times ahead. It took two and a half years before anything happened and during that time we still didn't really find answers. Six babies gone and still no answers. That was truly difficult. I had become pretty good at trying not to dwell on it or think too much about what we'd been through. When I look back now it was like I had been living in a fog for years. Starting this blog and going through the process of writing about it helped me work a lot of that out. I started letting myself feel the sadness of loss again, but soon I started to feel another familiar feeling, too. Hope.

No, I never expected that going to that class last night, circling that parking lot again and stepping back into that building, would open up so many old wounds. But I see now how far we've come and how much we had to overcome to get here. That's why I still don't feel like an ordinary pregnant woman, I guess. I know deep down inside that the odds were against us and against this baby. Yet somehow, here we are.

Right next door to that building is the hospital where I miscarried some of our babies. It's also the hospital where we will meet our daughter in about 11 weeks.

It feels strange to think that one day a building on that street will hold happy memories for us. Unless they tear it down someday, that building full of sad memories will stand next to the hospital where Lily will be born. Even then, in the years to come, it will be a memorial to me of all we went through to get to this place. And that will give us all the more reason to rejoice.

Big Ultrasound

Today brought plenty of worries and apprehensions as we prepared for our big ultrasound at the OB's office. Fortunately, the afternoon was one of celebration and thankfulness for the two of us. After all we've been through to finally reach this point, I think we're both still dealing with some level of disbelief that this is actually happening!

I'll give you a quick update on today's appointment. It wasn't long after the ultrasound began that the technician gave us the confirmation that our baby is definitely a girl! She wasn't modest today and we were able to see things pretty clearly. The technician was really nice and very talkative, but I really did wish she'd spent more time telling us what she was measuring and what we were seeing. At 21 weeks it was pretty obvious most of the time, but there were a few times when I felt a little lost. The visit went very well, though, and we were so relieved to get a good report today! We had a good look at baby's heart and brain as well as her arms and legs.

After the ultrasound we saw the doctor, who said that the baby looked "middle of the road" on everything, which was a good sign. At this point our baby is wonderfully average! Since I was seeing Dr R today, she went ahead and counted this as my OB visit even though it's a week early. We did all of the usual things: urine test, blood pressure, measuring the belly, listening to the heartbeat, etc. I was surprised and a bit relieved that I was actually weighing 2 pounds less than last month! Before you groan, let me tell you I've been a bit worried about weight gain. Last time I had gained 6 pounds instead of the recommended 4 for the month and I really was concerned that it would keep piling on too fast. After today's weigh-in I feel better about things evening out for this stage in the pregnancy. I actually don't know exactly how much I weighed before getting pregnant (I don't have a reliable scale at home and my specialist almost never weighed me), but I think as of now I've already gained about 18-20 pounds.

Today I also talked with Dr R again about the c-section discussion. We told her that we'd decided to go ahead and make the decision (with her approval, of course) to have a c-section delivery because of the concern of a rupture as a result of previous surgeries in my uterus. She was absolutely on board and very supportive of the decision. I think she was going to make the same call anyway, and it was clear that all three of us felt better about having it decided. Honestly, I don't feel at all disappointed or that I'm missing out on anything. Chuck and I are completely at peace with it and feel it is the right decision based on the information we had. As I told Dr R, we consider it a miracle that we're having this baby at all, and we just want her to get here as safely as possible for both her and myself. So, decision made! And now I only have to count down to 39 weeks instead of 40! :)

After our appointment Chuck and I spent the rest of the afternoon together running errands. James Avery (the jewelry store) had called earlier in the week to tell me that the charm I wanted engraved was ready for pick up. (You can click here to see the charm and read the original post.) We purchased it a few days before Mother's Day and they said it would be 2-3 weeks for the engraving, so we were happy that it was ready and that we could get it today as a celebration. I appreciated your suggestions so much about what the charm should say. We went in with several ideas written down (some of them yours) but ultimately decided on just two simple words: our babies. The size of the charm definitely influenced our decision (it's much smaller than it looks online), but we are so pleased with it. It seems like a good continuation of what the front says and it reads nicely together, "The heart remembers... our babies." This journey continues to be one of great joy mixed with years of grief and sorrow, and finally, remembrance. It seemed appropriate that on a day of so much happiness we would have a sweet reminder of where we've been and what we've lost. No matter what happens we won't ever forget that.

We finally returned home after a long afternoon of working on our baby registry and a celebratory dinner together. It was a great day, but definitely one we're happy to have behind us so we can continue to move ahead feeling more and more confident. Thanks so much for your prayers for us and for this baby!

*I have added more pics to the ultrasound link you can find in the sidebar. I added a few of the 3D images from last month and some of the best pics from today's visit. A few of you have asked to see pictures of me as well, so I'm working on getting a couple of those posted on the web album. Thanks for showing interest in how our baby girl is progressing!

**Next post: our baby's name! :)

Mother's Day: Halfway There

It's time for Mother's Day again, a day that is often so painful for those of us who live with infertility and/or pregnancy loss.

This year the holiday has found me in a different place. It is the halfway mark of this pregnancy, 20 weeks, and in more ways than one I feel halfway there. I still feel as though I have one foot in and one foot out.

This year I will be wished a "Happy Mother's Day" by people around me. Obviously I think that's a very sweet sentiment. I don't want to hold back my feelings of joy and celebration about this little miracle inside! I feel like I've been climbing a rocky, steep mountain for almost a decade. As anyone would do when they can finally see the summit, I feel the excitement of it and cannot wait to reach that point. A sweet friend who climbed her own mountain told me something wise that has stuck with me for a couple of years. She said that the longer we climb, the more our perspective changes as we work to get higher and higher. It's true. When I look around, I see things differently than I did 2 years ago, 4 years ago, 6 years ago. There are some who have to climb much higher than I will, and I'm sure the view will be different up there.

As excited as I am about being halfway through a pregnancy, a goal we feared we might never, ever reach, I can't forget that my path along the way is marked by six tiny crosses. Although our babies don't have actual graves here, we live with the memory of them as we move forward. This baby I'm carrying won't replace the ones we've lost. Of course we will welcome her with so much love and so much joy when she arrives, so much so that I can hardly imagine the complex emotions that I'll be feeling on that day, but we will always remember how much love and how many hopes each of those lives represented. We wanted all of those babies and we love each of them so deeply.

I guess what feels funny is that this year, at 20 weeks pregnant, people will observe me and declare me a mother. I haven't tucked my own children into bed at night or sent them off to school or cooked them a single meal... yet. I don't feel like more of a mother than I did on Mother's Day 8 years ago, the day we announced to my mother that we were having our first baby. That, to me, feels like a lifetime ago. I am so much closer to my dream of bringing home a baby, and that does mean so very much to me. But all these years I've felt like a mother without her children, the kind of mother who only gets recognized by those closest to me, those with particularly sensitive hearts and sympathies, and those who have walked this same lonely road.

I wish we lived in a world that recognized a 6-week pregnancy as just as real and just as loved and wanted as a 20-week pregnancy. It's so sad to me that so many women who have been through pregnancy loss are excluded from this day. And there are those who spend their days hoping and wishing for a pregnancy that hasn't happened yet. I believe that they are mothers, too. I've met a lot of people who haven't had children and yet have the heart of a mother. I wish Mother's Day could be a day where all of those beautiful women felt recognized and appreciated.

So, this year I feel halfway there. My heart is overwhelmed with joy at the idea of holding my precious baby! I still can't believe this is the year that it will happen.

My heart is also saddened because of the sweet babies we didn't hold.

And it's saddened because so many are still hurting and still waiting.

I want to acknowledge all of the mothers out there, whatever your story, and all of the amazing women who continue to climb mountains. Happy Mother's Day to YOU, sweet friends.

A Tale of Two Trees

This week we added a new tree to our back yard. It is the second time we've planted a tree for our babies, only this time the circumstances are different.

Our first tree was a Bradford Pear. We purchased it and planted it in 2002 after we went through our first miscarriage. We've watched it throughout many seasons and it has been a sweet reminder of God's faithfulness as we've watched it grow, especially when the new leaves and little white blossoms appear each spring after its branches have been bare. (I've written about that tree before in this post.) It remains very special to us and has gone on to represent all six of our precious little ones that were born into heaven.


We have a pretty spacious back yard, but it soon became obvious that it wouldn't be practical to plant a large tree for each child we lost. Instead, we nurture that one tree and keep pretty flowers planted around the base all year round. I can see that tree every single day when I wake up and open the living room blinds to let the sunshine in. I love that tree because it reminds me of our love for our children, the desire to keep pressing on, and the growth that has taken place in our lives and hearts over the years.

I watched a couple of days ago as my sweet husband worked on planting a new tree. It was a labor of love, which is exactly how we feel about what this journey has been.


It has been hard, too. So hard. But what kept us going was the hope for new life. So many times the new life was only with us for a few weeks or a few months before we had to say goodbye. But that older tree doesn't represent death, of course. Like this new tree, it also represents life! The babies we lost here are living an eternity in heaven where we'll join them one day for a sweet reunion. I'm not sure exactly what that will look like, but I have faith that one day I'll see them face to face.


The yard is now home to a brand new tree, this time a Crape Myrtle. We purchased this tree in honor of our baby who will be born on earth and placed in our arms in September. (Please let it be, Lord.) When it blooms later this year, it will be a beautiful display of light pink blossoms, perfect for a new baby girl! This one is planted outside of our bedroom window, a spot in our home that desperately needs shade and a break from the blistering Texas heat.


Both trees are special. Both stand as symbols for hope and life and growth. But they represent different times in our life, different steps on our journey, and different chapters of our story. One day our daughter will know the story of her little tree, and she'll know the story of that bigger tree that honors the memory of her siblings.

I want to leave you with a couple of quotes that have become favorites of mine. Just today my friend Amy sent this one to me in a message:

When the world says, "Give up,"
Hope whispers, "Try it one more time."
~Author Unknown

And finally there is this one, which speaks volumes and volumes to me:

"Never let the odds keep you from doing what you know in your heart you were meant to do."
-H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

As always, sending love and prayers to those of you who are waiting.

The Heart Remembers

I have a favor to ask.

While I'm not a huge jewelry person in general, I do really like my James Avery store and catalogs. I realize that only a few states have these stores, and I'm pretty fond of mine. For a few years I've been collecting charms for my charm bracelet and I have a necklace or two of theirs that I wear fairly regularly.

I've had my eye on this silver charm for a couple of years:


I want to get it in memory of our babies that we never got to meet on earth.

Here's where you come in. I was thinking of getting something engraved on the back but I have no idea what. It seems like an overwhelming decision for me. Of course there's always the option of skipping the engraving and just having the charm and knowing in my mind and my heart what it commemorates. But if you've got suggestions I'd love to hear them. I know you know this, but just to repeat the information, we have lost six little ones between the years of 2002 and 2007 to early miscarriage. We never did name any of our babies that we lost, simply because we thought it was too hard emotionally, especially once the number of losses started growing. I don't know if the back of the charm would be large enough to list out six dates, or if that would seem too impersonal. Anyway, I figured you guys are probably far more creative than I am, so I thought I'd take some suggestions. Any ideas?

My charm bracelet currently holds other things that mean something to me. It has an S for my initial, a "little sister" charm from my sis, a cross for my faith, a book for my love of reading, a "precious aunt" charm, a wedding charm that my husband gave me for our 10th anniversary, and a few other things that reflect who I am.

But I don't feel like it's complete.

Of course you can't quite tell one's whole life story from a charm bracelet. There aren't a whole lot of charms out there to mark the hard times and the struggles that shaped you into the person you are. Should this baby be the one we'll get to bring home (and every day we feel more and more hopeful that it will be), I don't feel right about adding baby shoes or a tiny silver baby carriage until I've recognized another very important part of my journey.

My heart does remember. It remembers every positive pregnancy test, every dream and wish for a baby, every moment that we found out it wasn't to be, every tearful, sleepless night, every doctor's appointment where we felt hopeless or hopeful. My heart remembers that, even now while I walk around with an ever-growing belly, I desperately want others who may just see me as a pregnant woman to know what my story is. I didn't get here on the express train. I had to hike, on foot, up a very steep and rocky path. I felt every bump and bruise that I picked up along the way, and that has made me all the more grateful for where I am. It has nothing to do with feeling like I've earned it, but it has everything to do with simply wanting people to know that I have a story to tell.

I have to say, too, that it has made me feel kind of bad for the times that I passed someone with a protruding belly out in public and didn't even want to look their way. Seeing that was sometimes pretty painful for me, and understandably so. When you are hurting and grieving, there are some things that are really hard to face in that moment. But the truth is that I didn't know their story. I didn't know what kind of struggle they'd been through to get there. (And, by the way, I'm not at all suggesting that pregnancy should only be granted to those who have struggled. I'm very thankful that so many of my family and friends were able to have their children with no complications and few setbacks!)

Last weekend my husband and I went to a wedding here in town. (Two of his co-workers were getting married to each other.) I didn't expect to know very many people, but when we arrived, we found a few familiar faces in the room and sat at a small round table with a guy my husband knows from work. His wife was also there, as was their young daughter. I had met the guy before but had never met either of the girls. We introduced ourselves and made small talk during the reception. It wasn't long before they shared with us that they are expecting their second child. Honestly, I wasn't sure what to do at first. Typically, this would be a pretty awkward situation for me. Even with the knowledge that I was 13 weeks into what appears to be a successful pregnancy, I was afraid that it would be yet another situation where we would be bombarded with baby talk and have absolutely nothing to add to the conversation. Oh, we've been there so many times before!

But that night was different. Instead of holding back and putting my guard up, I decided to tell them where we are even though our news is still not "out there" at my husband's work. And do you know what? It turned out that they had a story, too. They had suffered loss both before and after their daughter was born, and are now expecting a son. It reminded me that everyone does have a story to tell, whether it resembles mine or not, and whether our struggle is similar or totally different. And it reminded me that sometimes when I open myself up and be honest about where I've been, it invites others to do the same. They probably wouldn't have mentioned their history with miscarriage had I not mentioned ours. I might have thought that we were totally different when, in fact, we had quite a few things in common.

Just as her heart remembers her babies and her story, my heart remembers mine.

*********

Just an update for you:
Our first OB appointment is scheduled for Monday afternoon. We're almost there! Feeling nervous, but hopeful. I'll be 14 weeks tomorrow -- have officially entered the second trimester! As always, I'm so thankful for all of your prayers!


Please leave any suggestions for what you think would be a good engraving for the charm in the comments. Thanks!

Day of Remembrance

Today, October 15th, is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. While I think it is important to have a day set aside to remember and to spread awareness, I know that we all remember our babies every single day.

Over the last eight years, my heart has been divided into six tiny pieces.

I remember every time I see an ultrasound picture or a pregnant woman. I remember with every Christmas, New Year, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Halloween. I remember every time my nephews start a new year of school. I remember on any given day, when I realize how quiet the house is when I'm alone. And I remember every time my heart is broken when I hear about a friend going through this same pain.

It doesn't take much to remind me of the six babies that I've lost to early miscarriage. But the most solid, tangible reminder is the tree that grows in our backyard. We planted the small Bradford Pear in 2002, a few weeks after our first miscarriage.

The tree serves as a reminder in many ways. It reminds us of that first loss, right after we bought this house with the spacious back yard. Every few months we plant flowers around the base of the tree, in memory of that first baby and each of the ones that followed. We never planted any other trees there. This tree reminds us of each loss.


Each year when the seasons change, the leaves change color and eventually fall.


The tree stands completely bare for a few months, but every spring, without fail, there is new life. There are buds and tiny white flowers and bright green new leaves.

Above all, there is growth. When I look back at pictures, I'm always amazed by how much the tree has grown over the years. We don't always notice it because we see it every day, but little by little it has grown taller and stronger. We, too, have grown stronger little by little.

Last month, my husband spent an afternoon working on the flower bed. He removed the old bricks, measured and cut some wooden beams, and expanded the area, adding new soil and flowers. He had been sick all week and he came back inside exhausted and drenched with sweat, but I could tell by the look on his face that it was a labor of love.


Our tree reminds us of so many things: life, death, love, loss, grief, faith, hope, renewal, strength, growth, and God's provision. Each time we look at it, we remember.


Every day, we remember.