My Last Best Year: Shame and Miscarriage

Have you ever had that feeling that you should NOT have said what you just said?  Not because it was inappropriate or hurtful to someone else.  (Not the mechanism that teaches us about social norms and who is safe and who is not).  But because you have a sense that you should have kept that truth about YOU hidden because now people know that there is something wrong with YOU.  The reflex that says – “Run and hide!  Now they know how messed up I am!”

I have felt the shame reflex quite a bit as I have shared my story of infertility/pregnancy/miscarriage.  Not just after I have hit “post” on my blog, but as I have shared with family, friends, groups.  I get that this could be because of my own story and wounds, (and some of it is), but as I talk to women about this more and more – worldwide even – I get a sense that it is something bigger. 

Could it be our culture’s uncomfortableness with grief, pain, and emotions in general?  Or could it be an even older, broader story?  A story about women’s truest glory?  And women’s shamiest shame?

I won’t pretend to have enough knowledge or wisdom as an ambivalent, freshman feminist to say anymore.  But I do pose the question: what is women’s truest glory?  That maybe childbearing is an analogy of, but not a full expression of?  Because I have a sense that once we get some taste of that, shame and miscarriage will no longer go hand in hand.

(And by the way, blogging about it is one way of me giving shame the finger.  For more than just me).

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: Why I Blog

Every blogger has their own motivation(s) for writing and every person has their own opinions on blogs in general.  Plat-forming? Narcissism?  Cry for help?  Boredom?  Loneliness?  Business-building? Charity? 

I am not even going to try to get into the entanglement of all my motivations for blogging, but I am clear on a few things.

#1 – I don’t write to garner support…although sometimes that does happen and I welcome it.  I think I can write more openly and freely as I go along because I do have amazing support in my life.  Amazing people, primarily.  People that love me in the brokenness, in me and around me,  and see through all the BS to who I really am.  People that free me up to be real and so really heal.

#2 – I don’t write for advice.   Although I am open to feedback and sometimes ask for it, I have got plenty of information at my fingertips.  Good healthcare, spiritual friends, counselors, family.  I really don’t need any more advice, spiritual or otherwise.  I find that when I want to give advice, it is to fix someone and I am not writing to be fixed.  Real help, I am open to; advice, I am not.  Except in some areas – like my broken water heater, or what color I should paint my dining room, or if I really should follow the coral-color lipstick trend…so maybe I will share a Daily Dilemma or two…

#2 – I want more stories about the broken places, in the actual broken places.  And the Life that springs up there.  I live in a culture (White, Middle Class, Christian) that tells a lot of stories of triumph and healing – but mostly after the fact.  And only victorious ones.  There is a natural propensity to isolate, and therefore self-protect, when life is up-side-down, but I believe that Grace allows us to be more free in our most broken places - in the midst - messy emotions and bodies and humanity and all.  I could use a little more story-telling like that in my life. 

And so I set the stage to blog a bit more about the last couple of months in my Last Best Year, and all the joy and sorrow in it.

My Last Best Year: Brian's Story

Brian is my friend and business partner.  I initially met him through my husband about 5 years ago and our families have been getting to know each other since.  I love the Newmans!  Here is his life unscripted story to share:

I arrived at a very successful church in 2006 to be the #2 guy in the shadow of a dynamite preacher/senior pastor. Within a year he was removed and the church was spiraling into a church split. And I was spiraling into depression.

For the first 3 months after the pastor left, another pastor and I preached most Sundays. It was like speaking at a funeral, except people in the congregation came back periodically to see if the person was really dead. Every Sunday felt like a sucker punch to the kidneys for me. Each successive Sunday became more and more painful as people left.

I vacillated between a few perspectives on this church mess. Perhaps reality is somewhere in the midst of these thoughts:
Thought #1 : Everyone wants a "rock star" for a pastor and the star will eventually crash, either due to self-inflicted wound or other circumstances;
Thought #2: God orchestrated the whole thing to show the folly of human empire-building;
Thought #3: The emotional pain caused by this church split was and is staggering to me!

In the midst of all of this I struggled deeply: WHERE IS GOD'S GRACE IN THIS MESS?
Trite answers from well-meaning people did not help.
Spiritualizing the mess did not help.
Blame shifting certainly did not help.

The question haunted me. I got depressed, probably clinically so. For quite some time. I lost faith in the institution of the Church. At points I thought I might lose my faith, and almost did.

But as the old hymn says, "I have decided to follow Jesus, no turning back, no turning back." It is in that following (dare I say obedience) that I began to rediscover grace - in the form of spiritual brothers and sisters who sat with me in the mess, who did not have simple answers to hard questions, and who challenged me to forgive (myself, others, God).

I hope that my wounds are turning to scars. Scars remind us of past hurts but they are now healed wounds. That is my hope.

My Last Best Year: Amanda Grace's Story

I got to know Amanda Grace last summer; what a delight she is. Read and love her for yourself:

I moved to the mountains to go to school. I packed my bags and carried the essentials. I came to the mountains to find my future. And when I got here, I somehow saw that the present and future melded. And quite abruptly, crashed into one. I was focused on the finish line, the end goal, the perfect A. I came here to conquer, not to struggle. I moved here to graduate not to linger. And what have I found in these wide-open spaces? Freedom. What have I found atop mountainous places? A clean slate. I came here with the end in mind. But what I found was that the end made me blind. You see, sometimes the finish line is an unknown destination. Forget the crowds, applause and cherry red ribbon. The journey may just be better than the end.

To climb a mountain is to reach the top. But when we trudge forward, race, blindly sprint, we miss the view. I moved to Colorado with three expectations: I would graduate in 2 ½ years, I’d get married and I would make one friend (yes, just one-I had extremely high hopes). Will I be graduating in 2 ½ years? Not even close. Am I soon to be married? Yeah, not exactly. Do I have a friend? I do, and I am blessed to say I have many good, incredibly gracious ones.

I struggle with unmet expectations. I hate failing. I can’t stand disappointment or a plan not coming to fruition. And broken dreams? Well, it must be time to dream a different dream. I came to Colorado for the mountaintop. But there is more to it than the view from top. There are the valleys, the morning dew, the evening chill and the dancing stars. I moved here with closed spaces in mind; safe plans in sight. But plans like that? They become our noose, our clenched fists. I no longer want fenced edges. I want to live in wide-open spaces and mountainous places. Free to fail and brave enough to climb.

My Last Best Year: Janna's Story

I asked my nearest and dearest to write about life unscripted.  And their own process with that.  And my brave, beautiful, and bold friend Janna took the bait first.  Bless her.  Here is her story: 



You know, I thought I had it all.  Got married when I was 23 (perfect in my mind), traveled the world and lived the dream.  Around 27, decided that it was time to start trying to have kids (perfect in my mind).  So, we tried.  For 3 years we tried.  At some point, in the midst of the waiting and 2 miscarriages, we decided to start the adoption process, which we had wanted to do anyway.  And then it all came together.  We were adopting 3 wonderful Ethiopian girls, while I was 4 months pregnant and counting.  What wonderful timing (perfect in my mind)!  4 kids in 5 months. And everything came together perfectly until it all started to crumble.  What I didn't know was that I struggled with some things that would never really surface until kids were introduced into my life.  Suddenly, my perfect world disintegrated under a lot of sin.  I could no longer lie to myself about having it all and living in a bit of heaven on earth.  All I saw were my failures, inadequacies and junk.  And it got worse...and worse...and worse.  And God continued to let me spiral downward and didn't step in to fix it just so I could feel better about myself.  

It was like I was a puzzle.  I had it all together but the pieces weren't in the right places and you couldn't make out the picture it was trying to portray.  And then, God stepped in and began breaking the puzzle apart, piece by piece by piece until all of the pieces were scattered all over the floor.  And I was so mad!  Sure, the puzzle wasn't perfect before or even recognizable but at least it was together!!  Now, it's just a mess!  And then, after 3 years of my own form of hell, He started to put the pieces back together, piece by piece by piece.  It's not done yet and it's not how I would've done it but then again, one thing I have learned from all this: I am not God.

My Last Best Year: A Strange Thankfulness

I have a strange thankfulness recently as I connect with other women that experience infertility.

Before I lodge that gratefulness though, let me remind us that not all infertility is alike.  Bearing life is a fragile, miraculous, delicate process; the "reasons" can be countless, and many are mysterious.  And even if some of us are alike in technical terms, each of us has our own story with this.  In such a place of vulnerability, honoring each person is key.

There are strings that lace us together though, and one is commonly this: feeling like our bodies have betrayed us.  For many women, this is the first experience of their body not doing what it is supposed to do.  Yes, what it was designed to do.

And here is where a strange thankfulness arises in me, quiet and sure.   The battle of body betrayal was fought in my 20s.  Deep within me, even as I walk steps each day, I am acutely aware that this body's function is a fragile, precious gift.  I can steward it, I can honor it, but I cannot control it.

And so, even with our own brand of infertility, I have at least this: a knowledge that this life, literally - this body's life, is not my own.  And neither would be one that I am to mother.  Freedom.