There's a new tiny member of our family. It wasn't something we were planning on. It was more of a spontaneous falling in love and subsequent adoption. A friend of a friend was looking for good homes for a litter of kittens and we went "just to look" (famous last words). Fast forward to finding myself the caretaker of the teeniest ball of fur who follows me like glue around the house and wants to snuggle endlessly. We didn't purposely do the kitten adoption thing to fill any kind of depressing hole in our collective heart, although I'd be lying if I said that nurturing a little-bitty creature doesn't feel good after the year we've had. We actually didn't really make the connection between our reproductively challenged adventures and this until we were driving home with her swaddled in a blanket. At that moment Chris and I burst into laughter because it became hilariously impossible to avoid the "coming home from the hospital" comparison. It is pretty funny to hear myself and Chris engage in conversations over the last couple days that could just as easily apply to a tiny person as to a tiny kitten. I'm seeing parenting styles emerge and actually finding the whole thing to be really fascinating and heartwarming. I didn't put this level of thought into it before we brought her home, but now that she's here I'm learning a lot (and not just that its next to impossible to empty a dishwasher when a kitten is obsessed with laying on top of your feet at all times). There isn't much more to say about the matter, but to let you know that my journey forward, to my surprise, includes a kitten named Munchie.

Today is going to be a short post because there are times in this process (and in life in general) where you don't know what to say. I've been honest about pretty much every other aspect of the journey and I want to be honest about this too. There are times when finding a fresh perspective just isn't easy.

In this two week stretch leading up to my surgery and would-be due date I'm feeling adrift (which is a nice way to say I've been a total mess of a zombie on the inside). I partially want to be coddled and partially want to be left alone. I partially want to talk because that's usually what makes me feel better, but I also don't want to (slash don't know how to) talk about it. The hermit lifestyle is seeming oddly appealing. This week is filled with pre-operative appointments. That means a lot of sitting in waiting rooms with medical record forms that require me to fill out : Number of pregnancies : 1. Number of live births: 0 (yeah, ok, I get it, thank you for hitting that point home, Universe). Yesterday I stared down at that very line and couldn't tell if I wanted to laugh or cry or just use the paper to throw away my gum. I honestly couldn't tell if I was bored by it or still freshly tormented by it.

I think we're allowed to have these moments. There are still so many in betweens and unknowns and things that can't be controlled that having it all sorted internally seems like a whole lot to ask. I was going to skip writing altogether this week, but I decided against that because I do want to say this : if you are out there not knowing how to put your finger on how you're feeling (no matter what happens to be going on in your life), I get that. I am working on giving myself a break. I am working on telling myself that there is no time limit on figuring it all out. I'm working on remembering that being lost is a crucial part of being found. I hope you can do that too. 

Over the weekend I was lucky enough to have a little escape with a dear girlfriend in her hometown by the sea. While there, I got to meet some of her family who were also in town. They were lovely and we had a great time getting to know each other. I felt instantly comfortable with them. As we chatted they asked how long I'd been married and about my job. Someone asked, "So are you guys planning on kids soon?" Dun dun dunnnnn. There was The Question. A question that has become unbelievably loaded for me this year. I've gone through phases with it. I'm in a relationship with it. It's my dearest hope and greatest enemy. It's nothing and everything. 

There was a time that question made me want to burst into tears. There was a time it made me extremely anxious. There was a time it made me angry. Now it does none of those things, but it still makes me squirm slightly only because I struggle with the right way to answer at this point in my journey.  How do I answer honestly, while not making the asker uncomfortable? How do share without over-sharing? How do I keep the conversation casual, without glazing over and disrespecting the deep hurt I'm still lugging around? So I said : "Yes, we definitely want to, but we've had a bit of a bumpy road in that area". I figured, that gives enough that they could inquire more if they wanted to, but if they were uncomfortable we could just leave it at that. One of the moms present offered a tip she used when she was having trouble conceiving. I could tell the miscarriage drift hadn't quite been caught and that was totally fine. Then there were some questions about how long we'd been trying and it started to feel weirdly disingenuous not to clarify. I figure, it is part of my mission to be open about this stuff anyway, so I shared (in as breezy a tone as possible where this topic is concerned) that the problem hadn't been getting pregnant as much as staying pregnant. This time it was met with understanding and was responded to in as kind a way as I could have possibly hoped for. As has been shown to me over and over during this experience, warm openness is 99.9% of the time met with warm openness in return no matter how potentially uncomfortable the subject matter. Despite any slight awkwardness, I am so completely grateful for every person that shows interest in an open dialogue about something that is so easily and often brushed under the rug.

This experience got me thinking about The Question. It got me thinking about how we talk about this stuff and the self-imposed timelines and restrictions we put on it. 

One of the first follow up questions that is often asked when I share about my miscarriage is : "Oh, was this recent?"  When I say it was six months ago I wonder what that means to the asker. What does it mean to me? Does that mean I should be over it by now? Is the time to talk about it drawing to a close? Do I get some sort of extension because I still have so many unresolved reproductive medical issues? Of course anyone would say, there is no "right answer" to how long to mourn or how long to talk about it, but sometimes there is a certain undeniable internal pressure to "be okay" and to make it feel okay for others too. I guess the best we can hope to do is answer The Question in a manner that is consistent with where we are in our journey and not to judge that place. Maybe the answer is as simple as the truth. I can't control if I make someone else a little uncomfortable with the truth of what is going on with me and if I shy away from the topic I miss an opportunity to normalize the larger conversation about miscarriage. I think if we find ways to share from an honest and comfortable place, then others will pick up on that energy and everybody will benefit. I mean, I'm not saying you shouldn't also read a room before launching into a charming miscarriage anecdote (thats not a thing), but if the asker seems interested, then there is no reason to be embarrassed to share the reality of the situation.  Answering the questions that get thrown our way after miscarriage without that pesky added layer of shame seems like an important step in the quest Ever Forward. It sends the message to others, and more importantly to ourselves, that life can move forward and feel normal despite experiencing something traumatic.

What ways have you found to answer potentially tricky questions about miscarriage, infertility, or otherwise? 
Leave your suggestions in the comment section if you have ideas--i'm sure they'd benefit everyone who reads!! 

I started this blog because after my miscarriage I wasn't finding what I personally needed on the Internet. I was craving access to the story of someone who could relate to what I was going through and who was approaching it with real-talk, self-reflection, and even a dark sense of humor every now and again.  Okay, basically I just wanted to know I wasn't crazy (or at least that I was that I was in great company if I was). Since I began this blog I have been overwhelmed with the amount of women who have come forth to say they completely relate and who have relayed their own unique viewpoints. It has sparked a sense of community that has been extremely validating. For me, the very act of sharing my truth in this forum has been empowering and clarifying. Now I would like to offer that same opportunity to anyone out there who is interested. I want to share the sense of camaraderie and support that I have been so grateful to have found through this blog.  SO..... I have decided to expand my Guest Blogger section to invite some of you to share publicly the powerful observations and reflections that I have been honored to have you share with me privately. I want to offer this site as a space where women can put their experiences out in the world boldly and in turn receive the kind of supportive feedback and understanding that we all crave. 

I know how maddening it is to feel bogged down by the emotions that follow miscarriage/infertility. Chances are, a lot of women who read this blog know about those things too. All too well. The comforting things is : no matter what you are experiencing, chances are, someone else out there has been through it, can relate, and has maybe even figured out a way to cope with it that you haven't thought of yet. I think as a group we have the potential to support each other and move (ever)forward in a really profound way. As a drama therapist I especially believe in the benefit of collaboration and shared stories in the therapeutic process and I would love to bring that spirit onto the blog for the mutual benefit of all reading and sharing. 

So here is your chance to share and play an active role in this little (but mighty) community we are building! Send your stories and thoughts to [email protected] (keep them short-ish, maybe 500 words or less)! They can be absolutely anything that you want to get off your chest regarding the experience of miscarriage, infertility, etc. Also, if you have already sent me your story or thoughts in the past and want to give me permission to post them here drop me a line again and let me know. You can request to keep your story anonymous or not, just specify what you would prefer. Keep in mind! --you don't have to be someone who has personally experienced miscarriage or infertility to submit a story-- it would be equally appreciated and important and interesting to have the points of view of partners, best friends, siblings, parents, grandparents, aunts/uncles, dog walkers, physicians, reiki practitioners, shamans, spirit animals, and acquaintances.

Lets shake things up a little with some new energy, new voices, and new perspectives! I can't wait to hear from you! 

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. 

A sweet friend sent this along to me last month and I wanted to pay it forward to all of you ...

It's from a great blog called *the longest shortest time*. They asked their online community of mamas to share songs they found healing when coping with miscarriage or infertility : 

click here to have a listen

For me, a long drive with the windows down and the music up is always endlessly healing. The urban equivalent of that is to put my earphones in and take a long wander through the city and watch the neighborhoods change around me as I work out whatever thoughts and emotions are plaguing me. 

My own personal miscarriage coping playlist on Spotify is called 
"Songs for a Post Apocalyptic World"  --and boy have I given that sucker some wear over the last few months. 

There are two phases of my playlist : Phase One for when I need to just marinate in & feel my feelings (ok fine, some may call that indulging in a bit of a wallow) and Phase Two for when I need to stomp the pavement like a dang warrior...and it's a constant tug of war between the two isn't it?

A few favs from Phase 1 of my personal playlist include: 
Unf*cktheworld : Angel Olsen  (has been on solid repeat for me. WARNING: May cause full on crying in subway stations  and drug stores across the city)
Truth : Alexander 
I'm In Here : Sia
Ride : Lana Del Ray (special nod to the lyric "I'm tired of feeling like i'm f*@king crazy")
Keep Breathing : Ingrid Michaelson (I think i'm just a sucker for cello accompaniment...that'd be my beautiful little sister the cellist's doing)
Blood : The Middle East (again, with the possible public weeping)

 

Twelve days after I was told that their was no more heartbeat thrumming away inside of me, there were still no signs of natural miscarriage. My pregnancy symptoms were beginning to abate ever-so-slightly, but the knowledge that I was still carrying around two gestational sacs and a non-viable embryo was beginning to feel like a heavy burden with no end in sight. After you miscarry, there is often a choice to make that few people talk about which is strange considering the prevalence of the experience (but I suppose also not strange considering how little all of this is spoken about). It seems cruel, but after the saddest moment of my life, I had to decide if I would wait indefinitely for my body to begin the process of miscarrying, take a medicine that would cause me to painfully contract and miscarry at home, or go under anesthesia for the surgical route.  After speaking to my OB about the risks of natural and medically induced twin miscarriage I made the decision to go with the surgical route and scheduled a D&C. I hated every second of making that decision, but the doctor recommended it for me and I also felt it gave me the best chance of moving forward physically and emotionally. 

As I perused endless websites and message boards about what to expect before, after, and during a D&C, I kept coming across the term “rainbow baby”. At first, I took a knee-jerk liking to this term due to my natural affinity for and fierce allegiance to gay culture. I learned however that in the “online miscarriage world” (to which my first response, if i’m honest, was: “please kill me that I’m part of this”), it actually refers to a baby conceived following a loss. I shied away from the cheesiness of the term in that context initially, but as I read more about it I found myself completely moved in spite of myself. As a drama therapist (read: metaphor junkie), I suppose it should not come as a surprise that it began to really appeal to me. I love the idea that a rainbow doesn’t erase the pain and destruction of the storm, but rather is evidence that something beautiful and light can emerge after the darkness. In a perfect world I will end up with a little double rainbow baby (and i don’t mean more twins--just a darling little homosexual son to soothe my heart with his winning tiny fashion sense and delightfully sarcastic world views).

As an added bonus to finding out I had miscarried, I was told that there was evidence I had a uterine septum--a condition that would make future, continued miscarriages an inevitability without surgical intervention. This fact took the liberty of snatching away the last shreds of positivity I had been gripping for dear life. Every time someone would say, “you’re young, you’ll get pregnant again” or “people are often more fertile after a miscarriage” I would think, “yeah, but it's going to be a bit more complicated than that for me”. I suppose I could have been much more hopeful than that, but I was just not in a “glass half full” place at the time.

However, despite my newfound (and in hindsight, temporary…or at least not consistent) negativity, I set the idea of a rainbow baby on a shelf of very precious and private hopes for the future and decided on some deep hidden level I would move forward toward this magical little unicorn.

(gotta keep laughing through the rain…)

When we were only around 6 weeks pregnant, we started having this conversation about how this would be our last 9 months to travel just the two of us, so we booked the ubiquitous "Babymoon" (what travel site or women's magazine or major hotel/resort brand came up with that garbage anyway?). We couldn't necessarily afford it, but money is no object in the face of blind joy. We figured we'd thank ourselves later. I wrote a lovely letter to the Airbnb.com renter telling her all about how we would be coming to use her tropical oceanfront condo as a Babymoon escape, pushed send, the deal was made, and I promptly set to fantasizing about sunning myself under a palm tree complete with cute little baby bump sticking out of my bikini. 

Fast forward to today (when I would have been around 18 weeks…gosh that's hard to wrap my head around) with the reservation date quickly approaching. The renter lady emailed me to confirm our arrival details. She wrote : "we're happy to be welcoming you and your husband to celebrate your babymoon". I had forgotten she knew. It was like taking a bullet. A bullet I tell you. Ok, no, I've never taken a bullet per se, but I have to imagine. 

It got me thinking though. About Miscarriagemoons (is it possible i just coined the most bizarre term ever uttered?) They actually seem like kind of a brilliant idea, right? It's like a Babymoon! With booze! (that's how we'll advertise them) Chances are there is no time in your life when you have been more in the need of a vacation or in need of a chance to reconnect with your partner over something exciting. I, for one, certainly can't think of a better reason to drink guilt-free pina coladas (and I've dedicated considerable thought to the topic). I'm counting on stupidly high levels of Vitamin D to counteract the Ghosts of What May Have Been and we'll go from there. I'll report back from the other side!

EF FAIL #2: Because it's not as easy as you would think to destroy the evidence 
(and a bon fire just feels so permanent)  

This stack of items was super exciting to accumulate, 
but now they have to be hidden from me at all times so I don't have a total mental breakdown :

The Belly Book : I lovingly answered questions about the day I found I was pregnant, my cravings, our plans
Prenatal work out DVD : I know! how about instead I gain like 10 lbs of hormone and depression weight?!
Pregnancy, Childbirth, & the Newborn : I feel like this book actually radiates an aura of pain from wherever I hide it
Taking Charge of Your Fertility : aaaand instead it took charge of me
Children's Books : I always superstitiously lied and said these were for other people's kids,
 but [full disclosure] they were really for mine

Alright. I took the photo. Back to their hiding places they go. For now. 

This bottle of Veuve Clicquot 
has been taking up residence in my refrigerator since the day I found out I was pregnant. 
(That day happened to be right before New Year's Eve.) 

I remember thinking briefly : "Oh darn, I won't be able to have our nice champagne", 
but then laughed at what a ridiculously easy trade it was : a baby in return for bubbly. I'll take it. 

Every time I remember I can drink since the miscarriage it's like a sad little present. 
I think : "Oo! I can have a glass of wine"  and then remember instantly why that is. 

I have had plenty of conversations & laughs with friends over glasses of wine since all this happened, 
but I have not been able to bring myself to touch this bottle. 
It represents the very first moment I let myself believe I was pregnant. The start of it all.

Today, however, is my birthday. 
And I am going to pop this sucker and toast to moving Ever Forward.