My Last Best Year: Recurrent Miscarriage

Two days after I posted My Last Best Year’s initial blog, I had a positive pregnancy test.  Glory!  The raw truth is that conception has not been our primary burden, but it had been a while since I had seen that plus sign and the joy was overwhelming.  I Sarah-laughed at the irony of it all, receiving what joy I could; bracing myself all at the same time. 

I have been pregnant before.  Twice.  Now three times.  I am familiar with the first trimester and all the joy and barfiness it brings.  I am also painfully familiar with a burden it brings…oh, I weep as I write…the fear and fragility that it brings…I weep and I realize even more…the loss that it has brought.  This is not as it was meant to be.  Lets do away with that platitude.  (In case you missed it, “I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”)

This is not as it was meant to be.  We knew our babies were at a high miscarriage risk since the loss of our second one a few years ago. Yes – we know that we have a balance translocation (chromosomal) issue.  We know it is an “uncommon” translocation and therefore the probability of a “live birth” has to be drawn from family history.  We know each of our babies has a 50/50ish shot of making it past the first trimester.  And we know that none of ours has.  This is not as it was meant to be. 

For the last few months I have been doing life and trying to keep from tossing my cookies because I, in fact, was pregnant.  And today, I am, in fact, not.  What terrible news.  But there is a glimmer of hope: I watched one less episode of Friday Night Lights yesterday than I did the day before.  (Thank GOD for Netflix).  I went to the gym today.  I am increasing my hours at work day by day.  My laughter is as spontaneous as my tears.  And I feel Faithfulness rising up like fruit from a tree. 

We lost a baby.  Our third.  And for now, even with all the problem-solving that is available to me, I am grieving – sheltered and as God allows.  Strangely thankful amidst the anger and certainty swimming in a sea of doubt.

My Last Best Year: Deeply Personal Very Public Information

Today I turn 34.  Ever since my health went haywire at 25, I have welcomed each birthday as a gift; thankful for more time to be with people and live more fully.  More time to give, love, and heal.  I have truly celebrated aging.

That is, until sometime in the last year or so.

Although I have not made a public announcement of our desire to have children, some things are apparent: we are in our mid-30s, happily married for 5+ years, financially stable, in good health, we welcome children in our home and lives…so…”Do you have kids?”  Family building is such a deeply personal affair, yet so very public.  The answer, plain-as-day, is no.  So maybe this isn’t an announcement after all. 

We have a deeply personal story here.  Complete with joy, pain, sex, surgery, giving, receiving, herbal teas, financial worries, love growing, sobbing, chromosomal testing, medical specialists, anger, you-name-it analysis, prayer, hope, travel, drama, applications, helplessness, empowerment, fixing, waiting, castor oil, dreaming, needles, resting, discipline, licentiousness, counseling, tinctures, test kits, and God, God, God.

Any western woman knows the line the medical community draws in the sand: 35.  Frankly, I think its BS for a jazillion reasons. Nonetheless, this damn statistical line is hovering in my peripheral vision…and this is me giving it the finger.  (See that?  That’s my middle finger).  And, mysteriously, less loudly, I want to give it a warm embrace all at the same time.

Happy 34^th Birthday to me!

Here’s to being unashamedly, (but appropriately?), open in my 34^th year. 

My Last Best Year. 

the good old days (aka - learning how to post blog photos)

 I have always had mature taste.  Maxing and relaxing, with Mickey and Sly.

Mersi and me bonding over conversation hearts. 

Beach Body Talk

Elly and I sat at the shallow end of the ocean where the waves break for the last time.  She had dug a hole when the tide was higher that had filled with water we sat in.

“Would you like to come to my spa?  Ellyanna’s Spa of Rest and Relaxation?"

 “Why of course, of COURSE.”

 “We will start with a sand and mud treatment..."

She spread soppy, goopy sand all over my bare legs.

“You have thighs like Nonnie’s,” contemplates aloud my sweet, soft bodied, 7-year old niece. 

Yes.  I do have thighs like Nonnie’s; squishy, shapely, noticeable.

“I do.  I do have thighs like, Nonnie’s!  Isn’t that great?” 

Isn’t that great? ... It is.  It is great. 

(I have thighs like my mother’s.  And my grandmother’s.  And my great-grandmothers.  Isn’t that great?  My thighs have a story and a legacy and speak to the strength of genes, God-intention, connection and the comfort of the knowledge of where they come from).  

She leans in, belly on the sand, probing my eyes, taking my emotional temperature.

Slow seconds pass with her so near me.

She smiles, unlocking the search.

"Yep.  It is.  Would you like this sand and mud treatment on your arms?  You will have to sit up..."   

And we are back.  Thighs and souls in tact.

Blog Birth

I started this blog October 2010: at my kitchen island, with a (second?) glass of wine, whilst my husband sautéed mushrooms in a cream sauce to go with our filet mignon, on a Saturday night; bluesy music playing.

After a soul-crushing-ultrasound Wednesday, a black-hole Thursday, a hallowing-surgery on Friday. 

…questions, projections, recollections…swirling.  When life is a blur, we eat steak.

When hell threatens my core again, apparently I start a blog…and eat an expensive steak.

I had thought about blogging for years, but there was something about this loss, at this point in my story, with this movement of grief that made me say, Oh hell no.  Hell no.  This time, this fear, this loss, will not shut me down, or shut me up.  I’m writing. 

Thanks be to God.

And so I started this blog, yet held this blog birth close.  Close and protected.  Until now.  Because part of my writer’s block is blogger’s confusion: not so much what to write, but when.  So, now I weave in to this a fabric of motherhood.  Even though today we have no children in our home.

There is a very real space in life that needs more and more hopeful, loving words.  That holy, inward space; womb-like.  Lets put out there and celebrate it, no matter how the story unfolds.

You Will Never Look Like Her

Actually, "Then Meredith Said..." would be appropriate for the title of this blog (and maybe a few more).

I was 15, she was 17 (or something like that), and there I sat, staring down the pages of a Seventeen magazine.  I wanted to be Krissy Taylor.  Or rather, look like her.  In bounces my sister, who uncharacteristically plops herself down right next to me.

You will never look like her, she said.
What?
You will never LOOK LIKE her.

And off she went.

I have told this story many times to many people over the years, because it is an important scene in my story of being at peace in my own skin.  And almost always, the reaction of these ladies in my life is something like, "Oh.  I'm sorry. Yuck.  That's mean...," with sympathy in their eyes.

Its interesting, because, even then and there, in my teenage brain/body/soul, although feeling somewhat caught, somehow I felt a little more free.

What She WAS NOT Saying:  You will never feel good about your body.  You will never be beautiful.

What She WAS Saying:  You will always have your body.  You will always be your brand of beauty.

And somehow, whether she intended it or not, I was freed up.  Gone with comparison, on with collecting.  Gone with competing, on with connecting.

My Sister, MBA

My sister graduated with her MBA from The Darden School of Business at UVA (University of Virginia) last week.  She is pretty amazing. 

But that fact is only the tip of the iceberg as far as amazingness goes.  I have not yet mentioned that she is "Momma" to a spicy 10 year old and spunky 8 year old...who go to school, cheerleading, gymnastics, and have slumber parties.  And that she works full time.  And she has a husband.  And she went to China and South Africa for two weeks at a time in the last year.  Is your head spinning?  Mine was when I stayed with my beloved nieces for a week in March.  Living her life as a mom with out all the other parts almost did me in. 

I like her, love her, and respect her immensely.  It wasn't always so.   Her spontaneity (impulsivity?) and fire scared me.  I am guessing my planning (control?) and sugar ticked her off.  Not ever enemies, but hardly even civil at points, we made it through as each others most common playmate and ended up as trusted friends.  Ah, sisterhood.

Congratulations, Mersi.  Looking forward to celebrating with you at the beach in less than a week!

7 Years Later: Waiting Room

The family and friend's journey parallels that of the patient, but rarely do their experiences intersect.  It is a strange and careful distance, a precious and dear closeness. 

I am told this is what happened in the waiting room while I was in surgery.  I am told that my family took up most of the waiting room.  I am told that my parents, grandparents, aunt etc..., and church friends huddled around; my cousin learned to knit at some point in there.

I am told that when the doctor came in to tell of the surgery, of the thyroid cancer, that the whole waiting room went silent.  That my mom and dad heard the news first only due to the laws of physics; you know, sound waves and all; but really, they all heard at the same time.

I am told my mom cried, my dad was shocked, and my grandfather said, "Not her.  It can be me, but not her."

This is a sacred story to me.  One that is passed on by oral tradition.  The details maybe sketchy, but the heart of it is huge: I am loved.  While I was oblivious, hearing German, and emotionally dulled with pain meds, these others bore my story.

7 Years Later: Just An Earthquake

The inner ear has miraculous functions.  One is the levitating function.  This is part of what cues your body to feel weightless when you free fall, that you should push harder with your legs on an incline, that tells you you're more secure when sitting.  It is instrumental in the music your body makes called movement.  In my orchestra, it was a violin out of tune and on a different sheet of music: screeching, out of sink, and wildly erratic.

While I was sitting, I would suddenly feel like a phantom was pushing my body back.  When I was walking on level ground, it would feel like the ground was suddenly falling, ...or rising quickly and unpredictably.  My body would react "as if" and with in milliseconds of my sympathetic nervous system going into hyperdrive, reason would catch me and I would realize we actually hadn't entered into an Escher drawing or the movie "Inception." ("Lizzy, you aren't really feeling like your falling because in a higher state of consciousness you are careening down an elevator shaft." Although I did not say this to myself at the time because the movie did not come out until just last year, right?)  I would ground myself against a wall, in a chair, or keep moving in a deliberate walk to scream reality at my body that was totally out of sync.  And then I would break out in a sweat.  (That is a lot of work "behind the scenes," eh?).

Puerto Escondido had an earthquake the first night we were there.  I was on my hands and knees pushing my suitcase under my bed.  It felt like the ground was rising.  When reason caught me, I fell to my knees and felt around at the ground to remind me it was still; it wasn't.  I panicked.  "HOLY CRAP!  Save me!"

I looked at my parents.  And caught their eyes.  They were panicked too.  They were panicked too!

"I think that was an earthquake!" said my dad, just a couple seconds later.

"Phew.  Really?  For real? ..., ... Alleluia!  It was just an earthquake."  The locals talked about it for days.

7 Years Later: Esperanza

My parents had one more idea for my six weeks of FMLA.  They were going to Puerto Escondido, Mexico for a week..."why not come along?"

She said in her head, "Well, lets see...ummm...I am half numb!, I need medical care, I can barely handle the thought of being by myself for two seconds, (ie- I am experiencing some serious trauma symptoms, Mom and Dad!), and you want me to fly to Mexico City and waaaaaaaay south from there by myself?...!!!...!!!"

"We think you can do it."  Three weeks after my life sentence had been issued: Hope.

You see, the night I came home from the hospital I instantaneously grieved the loss of my plan for my life: my story was supposed to climax with me living in some remote corner of the world, in love, spiritually full, offering health to the masses (including glorious rays of sunshine and a constant cool breeze).  I think I heaved out through loud sobs, "I will never live in Africa;" it was symbolic yet real and raw.  How can you refrigerate injectable meds with no electricity?  I sobbed, and sobbed.  Grieved and grieved.

And Kindness stepped in through my parents Faith.  "We will get you there; you just need to say yes." And with fear that I let eek out in a constant state of teariness, (I quickly learned this was a way for me to prevent unpredictable, explosive bursts of anxiety), I boarded a plane with a kiss from my grandparents in Denver, navigated Dallas with God holding my hand, hugged and clung on to (for dear life) Gustavo in Mexico City, and fell into the embrace of my parents in Puerto Escondido.

"I was soooooo worried about you," weeped my Mom.

"I made it," my tears said as they bid good bye.  Puerto Escondido is hot!, with a constant cool breeze.