This is my 40th post on The Ever Forward Blog. It is hard to even recognize the girl that let loose her pain onto the very first page of this blog with not a clue what would come of it. Over the last 40 gestational posts the following things have been brought miraculously into my life : I've been put into direct contact with thousands of you who I have never met, but who have been through the same indescribable pain. I have connected with old friends in a new way through the lens of this experience. I've been given the incredible opportunity to heal through processing my experience in writing. 

I'm very nearly feeling like a normal person again (whatever that is) here at the 40-post mark. Just yesterday a dear friend shared with me that she is expecting. Along with being overcome with excitement for her, I was overcome with a wave of gratitude that she was able to just tell me freely and not feel the need to tiptoe around me (you know who you are, that was a huge gift, thank you!). It was refreshing to notice in myself that I could receive this news with a genuinely open heart. There was no forced "oh i'm so haaaappy for you" with gritted teeth. I celebrate her joy with every ounce of my being because I pray that that same joy will come to me at some point regardless of what my journey has been so far. 

It's not over. It will never fully be over. This is the part I am still working on accepting. The day I found out I was pregnant my entire world tilted into a terrifyingly beautiful technicolor roller coaster and I can't un-feel the things I felt. Once you've experienced that connection to motherhood it rips open something inside you that never heals over completely. I am reminded of this at the most unexpected times.

For example, when my girlfriend told me about her pregnancy she also told me they were already able to tell her the sex of her baby. She is only half a week further along than I was when I was told there was no more heartbeat so I instantly took to the internet to Google : "earliest they can determine sex of baby" and learned that there is now a test that can determine the gender very early on. I felt like the wind was knocked out of me. To my total surprise I felt a sickeningly intense longing to know what my baby would have been. Regardless of whether this actually would have been an option in my case, the thought of it took hold of me ferociously. Emotion sprung forth with a magnitude that I hadn't felt in months regarding this topic. Why, I wondered? Where the heck is this coming from? I'm still processing it and I haven't fully cracked it yet.

I took an extremely informal poll (full disclosure, it was seven people--four women and three men--hardly going to win any scientific research awards). Three of the women said yes they would absolutely want to know and the other four I polled said no. This obviously doesn't highlight any major trend, but the one definite commonality was the definitiveness with which people answered. It was visceral. They either knew it was a yes or knew it was a no with zero second thinking. For me, maybe it's something about my voraciousness for knowledge regarding this entire experience and of my body in general. Perhaps it's also something to do with wanting to experience every part of that pregnancy for as long as it lasted. I have never shied away from the raw details of my lost pregnancy and this feels no different. It's not about the gender. I wouldn't have cared if it was a boy, a girl, a boy born in a biologically female body, a girl born in a biologically male body, or a unicorn. Perhaps if I am to lay myself bare here (and, really, what's new?), what it's really about is feeling one tiny, but extremely tangible, step closer to this child I wanted so desperately and lost. It would have been one more layer of realness. Yes, it might have been another layer of sadness too, but it was always going to be heartbreaking anyway. 

For some of the people I spoke to who said "no" they explained they didn't see what the benefit of knowing would be if the fetus was never meant to grow into a boy or a girl to begin with and I do understand that logically, but emotionally and illogically (and lets face it, that's where I generally live) I would have needed to know if I was given the option. The initial emotional impact has passed and now I am just curious to hear what you think out there--wether you have experienced this or not, what are your thoughts?  I've included an annoynymous survey below (how tech savvy am I?!) or you can write in comment section or to [email protected].

The fact that this issue sparked an emotional reaction goes to show that even after 40 weeks, 40 posts, 40 months, 40 years, I am forever changed, but increasingly well equipped to grapple with the questions, learn about myself, and move forward. Thanks for sticking with me for the last 40, you have no idea what it means to me.  

At the risk of being lumped in with the faceless masses of clichéd girls in oversized sweaters clutching pumpkin lattes to their chests at this time of year, I must say I do love Autumn. It's my favorite time of year. The leaves are starting to crisp up into oranges and ambers, the air smells delicious, and the skies are still bright blue (thank you for indulging me). The quality of light is shifting and that seems to have a ripple effect through everyone whether we directly notice it or not. 

I think what makes me really love this time of year has something to do with its relationship to change. This is the time of year when decay becomes beautiful and even though the end of summer is bittersweet there is an electric energy in the air of things to come. It's a time when Mother Nature holds our hand through an inevitable ending. And if you started reading this blog because you too lost a baby (or know someone who did), then you know that it certainly doesn't always feel like the Universe is holding your hand through an ending. So when this kind of seasonal coddling does occur, it feels noteworthy. All we need to do is look to the trees to be reminded that life is cyclical and that, like it or not, it ceases to cycle for no one. 

This time is steeped in nostalgia for me and leaves me feeling particularly reflective (Shocking, I know. I hear you thinking, "Does this girl ever stop with the reflection?" No. Not really. She doesn't). The fact that the Jewish New Year/high holidays fall at this time of year also kicks up this sense of contemplativeness. As I atoned for my undoubtedly multitudinous missed steps over the past year, I also got to thinking about what I want to carry with me forward into a fresh new year and what to leave behind. I've been feeling pretty positive since my surgery (punctuated by the occasional fun little wave of light weeping and panic of the "What am I doing with my life?!" and "Who am I?" variety. You know, just light stuff), so when taking stock of what I would "leave behind" as I step into a new year, it seemed the obvious and obtainable choice to finally drop some of my miscarriage baggage at the door. I don't ruminate about it on a daily basis anymore. I've looked at it from many angles and raked it all over the coals plenty over the last year. You would maybe think that putting it behind me would feel easier at this point. The seasonal endings and beginnings of Autumn remind me, however, that no matter how much I've healed, walking forward baggage-free is never really an option. The leaves that fall decompose under the snow and nourish the buds that will burst forth in Spring. Nothing truly gets "left behind". As much as I like forward moving motion, I am grateful for this. There is actually something sad about the very thought of "leaving it behind" because it implies loosening the connection to a moment in my life that was profound for many reasons.

I think the best we can hope for in this season of change is to be like the trees. We have to find ways to honor the scars that are carved deeply and permanently into our trunks and remember that cicatrices don't stop leaves from bursting into spectacular color, falling, and then starting to grow again. Over and over we cycle like this which means there is always a second chance right around the corner.

You know that saying, "You Can't Go Home Again?" I was wrestling with that saying a lot during a recent visit home to see opening night of a play my dad directed. I wanted to prove it wrong. Initially, all signs pointed to this saying being full of bologna. For example, the second I got home I was cradled by the smell of the air, the comfort of my childhood home, the familiar faces, and the easy unpretentiousness of a place that I know like the back of my hand.  I found myself smoothly slipping into the parallel universe version of myself that still inhabits that world. Can't go home again?! I thought. Ha! Watch me! 

However as the trip went on, I couldn't ignore a nagging conflict inside me. The last time I was home for an extended amount of time I was there to be in a play. It was a moment in my life where I had just left years of working 9-5 as a therapist in a hospital environment. I felt liberated in many ways. I was happy and on fire. It was a summer of late balmy nights, local bars, memorizing lines by the water, doing what I love, listening to the same much loved albums on repeat as I drove around town, and quality time with friends and family. I felt young and wild and free and bursting with possibilities and life. During my recent visit home there were times it felt like slipping on an old article of clothing that you expect to fit a certain way, but after wearing it around a bit you notice the seams are pulling slightly in a way you didn't remember. Had it always fit like this or had time shaped me into something new? I started to wonder if maybe it wouldn't be quite so easy to go back home in the way I always knew it (ugh I hate being wrong). 

There was a strange dissonance between effortlessly clicking back into the girl I was last summer and feeling about a thousand years older after the physical and emotional torment of the last six months. It made me think of that trauma theory that one re-experiences the trauma in a new way with each stage of development. I feel like that might also apply to being placed into various environments. The sense memories of home lit up my recent struggles in a new and unfamiliar light. As part of the theatre community of my hometown I saw many, many friends and acquaintances at the play. There was an instant comfort with everyone, but also this odd feeling that I wasn't sure if the person I was speaking to was aware of my deepest, darkest personal reflections (cuz, ya know, crazy me went and put them on the INTERNET). It felt like I was re-experiencing my trauma through the eyes of all these familiar faces and they were re-experiencing me through the eyes of the trauma. Part of me desired to be recognized for the trail of tears that I have walked and another part desperately wanted to keep that from everyones' minds so I could be carefree, fun Becca again. Doing fine. Doing just great. The city is wonderful. No complaints. Thanks for asking. 

No matter how much traveling home made me long to morph back into the woman I was a year ago (who had no idea what was about to hit her), being home also shone light on the ways this experience has helped me grow. I feel more deeply than ever (I hear my closest confidents collectively groaning and saying, please! enough with the feelings! she feels deeply enough! no more! we surrender!!) and I take nothing for granted. I absolutely see the world in a very different way than I did just one short year ago. Yes, there has been more pain, but I have to imagine that with that comes the increased potential for joy. Maybe I was initially hoping that going home would magically transform me into the same old hometown Becca who isn't scarred by miscarriage, or infertility, or surgery, but by the end of the trip, I realized I wouldn't want to go backwards anyway.

So no, I guess you can't go home again and expect to be the same version of yourself, but you can allow home to be a touchstone, a magnifying glass, and most importantly, you can let home evolve right along with you. 

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. 

Hi mamas! I had some other ideas for a post today, but scratched them because I felt the need to check in with you all.  Congratulations. We lived. We made it to the other side of Mother's Day. For me, it was easier than I thought it would be in some ways and epically more difficult in other, less expected ways. I spent a lot of the day laughing at the pure ridiculousness of it all (better than sobbing, right?). The day began with me checking in with social media. That was a doozy. It felt like everyone I knew was celebrating their first Mother's Day and oh how the baby bumps were on parade. I felt an all too familiar aching emptiness that I thought was starting to subside. I don't begrudge any of those happy moms their joy because I hope to join them one day, but it still hurt. My mom called me before I even got a chance to call her to check in. My sweet husband flooded me with more and more peonies to soften my fall into the day and tiptoed gently around me. I guess it was fairly clear I was a woman on the edge.

We took about an hour drive out to a little inn for Mother's Day brunch with my mother in law, grandma in law, and the rest of the family. My grandma in law is a beautifully tough old broad who tells it like it is. I love her. She keeps it real. Recently however, her short term memory has almost entirely deserted her. As she wheeled up to me I gave her a kiss and said "Happy Mother's Day!" and she responded with a playful eye roll and "Ha! Can't say happy Mother's Day to you". Nope. Nope you can't, Gram. Nailed it. I know she didn't have any memory that I miscarried and therefore was treating me in the goodnatured way family members do when a married couple is perceived as making everyone wait forever for grandkids. I actually found it surprisingly hilarious and all I could do was just smile and keep plowing forward. When we went inside the restaurant they were giving roses to all the mothers. So there was an actual conversation that consisted of something like : "Ok, so who's a mom here?" At this point I was inwardly in a fit of semi-manic hysterical laughter at the absurdity of being made to publicly declare that I was very much not a mom. After I took that bullet we walked to our table and Grandma asked, "Why don't you have a flower, Becca?", "Because I'm not a mom, Grandma" which was met with another playful, "well quit making us wait so long, already!" look. My carefully constructed armor was showing cracks I could tell. 

We sat down at the table and my sister-in-law and her girlfriend arrived. They were holding a bag which I assumed was for mom or grandma, but they plopped it in front of me. They said they got me a little something because they love me and that it was inspired by this blog. It was a beautiful little statue that was meant to represent "reflecting and soaring". The recognition that this day was going to be tough for me meant the absolute world. I dissolved into thankful, happy tears that I had that kind of love in my life. I felt nothing but utter gratitude in that moment. In fact, there were quite a few moments of gratitude throughout the day that balanced out the harder moments. Dear friends and family reached out to say they were thinking of me. One such message from a friend said that she felt my pregnancy had "given birth to my warrior mama-ness" which is just about the best thing I've ever heard. This experience may not have left me with a baby, but it has certainly opened the door to a new conception of myself and a new strength. So even though mother's day highlighted the lack of a certain role in my life, I found it also unexpectedly shone a light on new roles and ways of coping that are emerging every day.  

I ended the day feeling emotionally exhausted, but I lived. I moved through it. I laughed and cried and tried to grow. How did you do? I'd love to hear....

Last year when Chris and I were thinking about getting pregnant less seriously and in more of a vague “not not trying” kind of a way, he got me a bouquet of my favorite flowers for Mother's Day. They were perfect pink peonies and he attached a note that said: “for my future baby mama”. He gave them to me as kind of just a sweet joke, but it makes my head spin to think about the journey we’ve been on since then. When I laughingly and lovingly accepted those flowers I guess I was pretty naive. I had no reason to believe that when I was serious about a baby I wouldn't just automatically have one. Easy. Because miscarriage/infertility issues happen to other women and not me, right?

With Mother's Day approaching I have become acutely aware of a pervasive mommyness in the air more so than usual and certainly more so than I have in any previous year. Spring bursts forth with new life all around me and it's beautiful and reassuring, but it also sometimes hurts. Commercials, sections of stationary stores, advertisement emails all serve as reminders that in a matter of days I will find myself within a date on the calendar that could have been exciting and special and is now just kind of numb and blah (except of course for the opportunity to celebrate my own fabulous mama, mama-in-law, and the other beautiful mamacita friends I love). 

It got me thinking about the babyless mommas out there; an army of women like me who, in varying durations, experienced a powerful physical knowledge of motherhood and then had it taken away. Where's our day of recognition, I ask!? So guess what, mamas? I'm declaring that day TODAY. I'm pretty sure on the internet you can just declare days and they become official (right?). Today it is Tuesday and you might be working or caught up in the mundane details of midweek, but set aside just a small moment to honor yourself as a warrior mama who hasn't had the easy road, but who gets up every day and shines her light into the world anyway. I assume these emotions might also ring true for a mother who had a miscarriage after already having a child--so you ladies should feel included in this new holiday I just created too! 

Chances are you were all geared up for motherhood no matter what stage of pregnancy you were when you miscarried. If you're like me, you weren't even aware of how geared up you were until you found out that it was unnecessary to be so. Before I was pregnant I would sometimes think, "will I be a good mom? am I ready?", but then when I thought I was barreling toward motherhood whether I was ready or not, I felt myself morphing into the hot mama that I was going to be. I saw myself with a tiny baby slung to my chest while picking up groceries for dinner, going to museums, and chatting on sunny sidewalks with friends. I saw myself vibrant and smiling and unabashedly breastfeeding in pubic like a damn rebel. I saw the way that even though I was sleep deprived and cranky as hell I would lovingly inhale the little ones fuzzy noggin and talk to her like my new tiniest best friend and treasure. I saw the eclectic experiences I would expose her to and the crazy and wonderful people who would become her support system as she grew. I felt my heart expanding inside me in a way I had never felt. 

My question is-- when this process screeches to halt where does the residual mommy energy go? For a while I couldn't hold it in and felt it spilling out onto everyone in my immediate vicinity. I call this my mommylust phase and I still dip into it from time to time. It is marked by the compulsion to make everyone a warm beverage, tuck everyone in, and rock everyone to sleep. Everyone. I'm pretty sure it was creepy for all my friends and family. But today, on BABYLESS MOMMA DAY, I say lets honor the mommylust and all that was left over when our journey toward motherhood was prematurely discontinued. All those preparations and dreams and nurturing instincts are now part of me as I try to (as courageously as possible) walk the post apocalyptic earth as this mommy/not mommy hybrid. Today I plan to buy myself flowers and focus on paying homage to the person that I am and the journey that I've had. I hope you can too.

If you are so inspired : leave a comment on this blog post sharing a way that you celebrated yourself today - i'm sure it will inspire others to do the same !!