When I was diagnosed with a jankity uterus (to use the medical term) I was referred to a reproductive endocrinologist/surgeon who I was told would discuss my options moving forward. Being the Type-A gal I've always been, I called immediately to schedule my appointment and get the show on the road. I was given an appointment ... two months from the date I called.  Now, maybe that's reasonable in the world of Waiting For A Manhattan Specialist Who is Really Good at Her Job but it is just NOT reasonable for Very Impatient and Anxious Foiled Mama with Eight Thousand Questions. So at first, I was a bit disheartened, but then before long I gave into the fact that the next step was simply waiting for my appointment to arrive. I love my OB and this was the surgeon that she highly recommended so I decided it was worth the wait. I got comfortable with the whole waiting thing. I took weekend trips, I had cocktails with friends where the conversation did not revolve around my tragic reproductive system, I did a lot of writing, I started remembering that I am actually pretty valuable and even fun as a person separate from all the difficulties of the last six months. 

Then the day came. The day of my long-awaited appointment. It seemed surreal that after all the anticipation, all the ignoring, all the adjusting, all the distancing, all the moving forward, all the reclaiming of my role as a wife/friend/daughter/sister, it was now time to plunge back into the role of the patient. By the time the day came I was completely dreading what I had been praying would speed toward me just a few weeks earlier (I'm just so very hard to please, aren't I?). By the time the appointment came around I wasn't even sure what I wanted anymore. I knew I wanted a baby in the ever-present aching way that I had become accustomed to, but climbing another mountain toward said baby seemed more than I could wrap my head around. Just when I had let my hyper vigilant mommy shield down, it was time to go back into battle. I met a dear friend (the one who has been through all this garbage too) at a cafe before the appointment and broke down in tears the second she sat down. "You're just going to let the doctor give you information" she told me and it helped calm me down. Sitting down and gathering information. Alright. That seemed civilized. I could do that.

The appointment did begin in a quite civilized manner but gained speed like a tornado and ended up whipping us into an all-consuming vortex. I went in prepared simply to talk about surgery to correct my uterine septum and left with knowledge of a potential blocked fallopian tube, an appointment for a (quite uncomfortable, i'm told) HSG test, and down 12 vials of blood which were waiting to be analyzed for everything from genetic markers for disease to insufficient ovulation. All of a sudden we were scheduling a sperm analysis and bandying around terms like In Vitro Fertilization if X, Y, and Z happened to go wrong. Whoa whoa whoa whoa WHOA!!!!! I thought. I just barely wrapped my mind around this whole having to have surgery for a separated uterus thing! It was clear we were not in Kansas anymore. 

I left the appointment feeling flooded with the very information I thought would be comforting. My only life raft was the systematic plan that the doctor had laid out. The plan is complex and filled with PS's, Also's, and caveats (I won't bore you with those), but I tried to boil all the elements down to the very bare minimum : 1. do the HSG to make sure my fallopian tubes don't need intervention, 2. schedule uterine surgery, 3. recover, and 4. try again. Being the natural born worrier that I am I scoured the plan for actionable items. What can I do to make this go smoother, quicker, more successfully?? And then it hit me. There is NOTHING I can do. All I can do is put myself in the right hands (check), have a basic, but not neurotic level of information to be an informed self-advocate (check, for the most part, although some of this stuff has made me seriously doubt my understanding of the human body), and show up when I have an appointment (have you seen my planner?! check!!). 

It turns out the biggest actionable item on my part is reminding myself that no amount of googling, or fretting, or obsessing will change the plan. For better or for worse, this is the situation that I am in and now I just have to continue checking off boxes until that baby is in my arms. There will be plenty to do then I hear. Ideally I will get to a point where I can even luxuriate in the feeling of everything being out of my hands. I'm shooting for a very zen, Buddha take the wheel approach to this one. 

The interesting part that perhaps some of you can relate to, is that in the midst of all these things that I cannot control, there are a great number of things I actually can control that feel insurmountable (or simply uninteresting) in the face of all the medical commotion. For example, I could be developing a really on-point workout plan to lose the last of that post-miscarriage depression weight, I could be writing these blog posts well in advance instead of scrambling at the last minute, I could be kicking my private practice into hyper-drive. However, focusing on the things I can't control keeps stealing focus from those I can. Call it being human, call it just being ME, but I think finding a way to switch this imbalance of allocated energy is a big part of the work of moving forward. There is a fresh frontier of gray area between being gentle with myself and letting myself off the hook that I continue to butt up against and weed-whack through.  I'll keep on finding ways to transfer my desire to take control to those things I actually can control and as I do you better believe I'll continue to report back from the frontline. 

I'm going to go out on a limb and say I think we can all agree there is no more universally appealing sight than a handsome guy carrying a baby in a baby sling or carrier. There is something about the total love, protection, and humbleness of that image, to me, sums up so very much of what is right with the world. Two days ago it was Father's Day and I will selfishly admit I did not give it as much thought as I gave Mother's Day, but that certainly did not mean it passed by unnoticed for us. I was oddly cranky for a good part of that day and it wasn't until my husband (Chris) and I acknowledged the bombardment of "First Fathers Day" posts on social media and the overall weird energy of the day that the fog lifted. Since then I've been thinking a lot about fathers. 

A while back Chris, wrote a guest blogger post about miscarriage from the dad's perspective. After Fathers Day came and went, he, of his own free will (I swear!) suggested he write another little post to check in with the babyless papas out there and re-engage that side of the conversation. Where does the dad fall in this? The physical repercussions are shouldered by the female in this experience and so often it feels no other choice is left to the male (or non-pregnant partner) than to blaze forward while still being available to care for the emotional and physical needs of their partner. Just because Chris talks less about our miscarriage and doesn't have the physical reminder of doctors appointments or blood work, doesn't mean he fell in love with the idea of the baby and felt the subsequent loss any less deeply. This was very apparent as we lived through our First "You're Not A" Father's Day. 

Here are his reflections : 

Guest Blogger Post #2 : The Husbands Perspective (Pt 2)

Father's Day has alway coincided with my father's birthday. We always have a barbecue to celebrate the coinciding occasions and this year was no different. However, this year I noticed all that dad energy in a very different way. 

I was caught off guard when a close friend of ours, Jeremy, text me : 

The sweet sentiment and the hilarious emojis made me surprisingly emotional. Something about being recognized as an almost, but not quite father got to me. 

I heard the echo of myself telling Becca: "It's ok, we are young and there is plenty of time, we will have kids when the time is right." I truly believe those words, but in that moment when I saw that text, the truth was that I was sad.  It reminded me that our journey is not yet over and we have more hurdles to overcome. 

It also got me thinking. How do we men who at one moment in time were ready to identify as fathers characterize ourselves now? I imagine us as a group of Peter Pans "Lost Boys" who, as the story goes, fell out of their prams when the nurses weren't looking and were sent off to Never Land. Perhaps that imagery is a bit too literal, but it was the idea that kept popping into my head. What happens when the life you thought was prescribed for you is taken away by a twist of fate? 

The Lost Boys are trying desperately to hold on to memories that are fading whereas I for the most part have tried not to desperately clutch to what happened. Despite my efforts it still emerges for me when I least expect it. While I was musing on Peter Pan, I read a version in which at the end the Lost Boys are adopted into Wendy's family, but Peter Pan refuses. He is in Never Land forever. One thing that has become clear to me is that staying in this in-between emotional Never Land is not going to work for me. Perhaps Peter was too afraid to open up his feelings and ask for the support he needed and so perpetual limbo was his only choice. Living though my first not-Father's Day reminded me to keep that dialogue open with the men in my life that love and support me. It's not easy to do. Guys don't really sit around talking about babies or lack thereof, but if we don't share that part of ourselves in the context of this experience I fear we will be stuck in Never Land forever. 

Sure, I could probably just keep barreling ahead never reflecting on these things, but I don't think that would do justice to the kind of man and father I strive to one day be.  I wanted to write this today just to recognize for all the guys out there who have been in this situation, that it is hard. It is hard to not know what will happen next. It is hard to watch your partner suffer. It is hard to be somewhere in between husband and father. We may be the Lost Boys of the miscarriage story, but we are living through it and trying to figure it out just the same. I have found that speaking my side of the experience out loud and having it validated by Becca, family, and friends has helped me move forward a lot. 

I am just returning from a fabulous getaway weekend to Jeremy's (my best friend, if you're new to the Ever Forward blog cast of characters) hometown. It was a visit flooded with family, laughter, delicious food, happy chaos, and babies--gorgeous tiny people as far as the eye could see.  Above all, however, what struck me during our visit was the extreme level of maternal energy. It is palpable within the homes of Jer's mother, sisters, and grandmother. This energy settles around his close-knit family like a protective shield and seems to make everything within its reach glow with a kind of well cared-for comfort. When removed from my usual environment it's always interesting to take stock of the things that are shifting within me and those that are too stubborn to budge so far. This weekend of family goodness allowed me to do just that.

Our tale begins in front of Jeremy's mom's refrigerator. It is, in a word, perfect. It's a portal to a mythical land where jams and leftovers don't take up permanent sticky residence well past their expiration dates. It is meticulously stocked and laid out in anticipation of her children's wants and needs. The fruit and vegetables are washed and sliced and neatly lined in tupperware. There are little tubs of chicken and tuna salad and roast turkey. There is fresh squeezed apple-ginger juice and pineapple-mint juice (because obviously you need two pitchers of fresh-sqeezed juice). There are bottles of coconut water and kombucha. There are dried apricots that taste so much better because she thought to chill them. I stood in front of this majestic microcosm of a perfect world and said to Jer, "Do you think I'll ever be able to pull together a mom fridge like this?" to which he jokingly said most definitely not. My maternal inadequacy became a bit of a running joke (of my own making) in several moments over the course of the weekend. For example, when we ate Grandma's famous chocolate chip cake we joked that I would never be able to make it with the special secret ingredient (love, of course) that makes it taste so good. When Jer's mom seemingly effortlessly produced a flawless family dinner for a bajillion people I joked again that this was all soooo out of my league. 

This wisecracking was all just silliness and fun, but looking back on it I think it reflected a very real paranoia that was ignited as soon as I started having reproductive issues. What if I am just not meant to be a mom? If you knew me pre-apocalyptically, you know this is the LAST statement I would ever make about myself. I, since a very young age, believed in my bones that I was meant to be a mom. I believed that because of this impenetrable fact, that motherhood would come to me naturally in the way that it is clearly so natural and right for Jer's beautiful sisters (who radiate the kind of cool, down-to-earth mommy warmth to which I aspire). But here I stand with the medical knowledge that, although I may have always felt I was born to do this, my body was, in fact, not.  I long for it to be a physically natural process for me, but I have to accept that it is just not at this particular point in time. How do I reconcile my long-cherished theory that I was put on this Earth to (among other things) be a mother when my dysfunctional uterus is telling me otherwise? How do I convince myself that it's not the Universe trying to steer me away? 

For this and other reasons, I have found myself shying away from children a bit since the miscarriage. This is insane for me, of course, because everyone knows that kids are my thing! Children and I have always had a mutual love, respect, and understanding. However after the diagnosis of having a uterus with special needs, I guess I started subconsciously second guessing myself. I feared the emotions that being around babies would trigger. I feared I would not be able to bear the rejection if a child placed into my arms sensed my tentativeness and began to cry to get away. Perhaps on some level I feared not being able to comfort a little one would be further evidence stacked against my insufficiency as a mom or as a woman. This sounds embarrassingly self-indulgent as I type it, but that is the raw truth of something that has run through my mind many times. It is hard not to take it personally sometimes and so I wanted to lay it out on the internet table in case you are out there thinking it also and feeling crazy because of it. You're not. Or at least we're crazy together and you're not alone. 

This brings us back to the hometown visit and the army of perfect littles that were running, skipping, swimming, jumping, snuggling, and playing joyfully around us all weekend. I was gearing myself up to feel crushed by sheer volume of successful pregnancies represented by their beautiful little selves, but instead something very different happened. I didn't think of any of that. All I thought about was playing hide and go seek, was coloring, was filling juice cups, was wiping noses, was cuddling tired babies, and dancing with wide awake ones. I felt myself swept into a family environment where grandparents and aunts and uncles (even honorary ones) pitch in so that love and protection happens as naturally as breathing. And I too felt it coming naturally to me when I was around my people -- the tiny ones. I felt mother energy flow out of me like sunlight in the way I always knew it was meant to. Warm and vibrant and easy. I was given the gift of having the kids reach up to be held by me or plop onto my lap and realizing that I know how to provide for them without thinking. It was a comfort, a reconnection, and a gift that I never expected to be so lucky as to receive from this trip. 

Those little ones formed a tiny apple juice-fueled coalition aimed at reminding me that my heart was made for maternal love even if my body wasn't. Maybe the only way to quiet the doubts is to jump in with childlike fearlessness and trust that instincts and fate will take over. This is a knowledge that I am sure my emotions and hormones will challenge from time to time, but one that I will do my best to keep rediscovering. I know I am heading in that direction. 

This is the story of the first time I woke up and my miscarriage was not the very first thing that flashed through my mind. 

I woke up. The sun was streaming through my windows. I distinctly remember thinking, what day is today? and then realizing comfortably that it was Saturday. I looked over and Chris was still asleep. I gazed at his long eyelashes and thought, as I often do, about how unjust it is that boys always get the loveliest doe eyelashes. I thought about how when he wakes we would go and have brunch around the corner. I’d get eggs benedict. Or maybe heuvos racheros. Chris would get French toast. We’d bring the paper and linger over mimosas. I reached for my phone and checked the weather. I walked into the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee while I waited for Chris to get up. I lit a candle that smells like freesia and the ocean to me. As I plopped myself down at the counter and opened my laptop, I noticed my blog was open. It hit me. I realized I had spent a good part of the morning without one thought of losing the baby or about blood work or about my wonky uterus. I remember musing to myself that this must be how it is. It must happen in tiny increments until one day I make it to lunch without thinking about it, and then to dinner, and then a day or even two might pass without defaulting to that now-familiar emptiness. I don’t recall exactly when on the calendar this day occurred (which I suppose is a good sign because it means there have been many of these days since), but I remember clearly the emotional response to the gift of a tangible sign that on some level my heart was healing. I felt hope beginning to take up more prominent space within me alongside the pain (which doesn't appear to be vacating any time soon, but rather taking up fairly amicable residence within me). I got to experience this new version of me for a moment as if the Universe was nudging me forward by giving me a taste of what could be. 

This is a short, but significant post for me. I hope if you are reading it out there in the world and you feel like there will never be a day where you are not sleeping, breathing, and living the pain of miscarriage (or whatever sadness might be plaguing you) every solitary moment, you can take my word that a morning will come where you will notice what you have before what you don’t. There will be a morning where you find yourself conscious of the possibilities that are available to you before the ones that were taken away.