If starting the last post was hard, this one will be even harder. It was somewhat easy for me to recount all the facts of the story, but it won’t be as easy to revisit all the emotions and  share them in a somewhat coherent manner. I guess I’ll just pick up where I left off…

When we thought we would be having a baby, we decided to redo our floors, which had been on our to-do list for awhile. This required that all our furniture be piled into one part of the house and be removed from all of our rooms. For about a week, Matt and I slept on sleeping bags in one small bare spot in the “man cave,” surrounded by a bookshelf on one side, a couch on another, and two desks on the third side. If a miscarriage could ever have poor timing, this would probably be it. Our house – the one place that should’ve been our place of refuge – was a disaster zone.

The day that the miscarriage was confirmed, Matt and I stayed out pretty much all day – not wanting to go into the office, but not being able to go home because of the guys working on our floors. Not having much of a desire to do anything, we decided to watch the newest Narnia movie. I can’t even really remember much of it. What I do remember was that I cried whenever I saw Aslan. I’ve always loved that God is depicted as a lion – an animal whose mane I’d love to bury my face in, but also one that commands reverence and awe.

But to see Aslan – and to think of God – that day made me want to turn my face away. If I were face to face with Aslan, I wouldn’t want to run to him. I’d turn away and pretend I didn’t see him, because I wouldn’t know what to say – and I wouldn’t know if I’d even want to say anything to him. The thought of being in the presence of God and not wanting to run into His arms made me extremely sad. I didn’t want to feel that way, yet that’s exactly how I felt. But if you asked me right then if I was mad at God, I would’ve said no.

The next day, I left the house the same time Matt went to work. Again, I wanted to stay in bed, so Matt said he’d go the office and find a hotel room on Priceline so I could have as much solitude as I wanted. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to get around to doing that till late afternoon, so I spent pretty much the whole day at Target. I went through a shopping list and then spent several hours in the Starbucks inside the store writing in my journal and finishing up Christmas cards. While I was busy and out, I was less likely to think about the miscarriage.

But that night as I tried to sleep, resolved to go back to work the next day, I had time to let the sadness creep back in. Whenever I can’t sleep, my automatic response is to pray to God to help my mind rest and for my body to fall asleep. But that night, I caught myself. Why would I pray to God to help me fall asleep when this was the same God we prayed to every night for a healthy baby? And then it hit me. I was angry at God. I was questioning why God allowed this to happen to us. Again. And partly out of relief that I was being honest with myself and also partly out of sadness that I felt that way, I began to sob.

That was just the first of many, many nights and days when I would feel torn about my emotions, and would often end up in tears because I was confused over how I was feeling and how I thought I was supposed to feel.

I can’t explain what happened to resolve that hurdle, but I do remember having to leave church early the following Sunday because I couldn’t stop crying toward the end of service. When I got home, I didn’t even eat lunch. I laid in my sleeping bag and cried. I finally figured that I would pray – but I had no words to say. It was like I dialed God’s number and just stayed on the line without saying anything. After maybe 30 minutes, I fell asleep. And when I woke up, I felt like a burden had been lifted. I no longer felt angry at God, and if anything, craved anything that reminded me of Him. He was hurting with us and walking through this with us, and I didn’t want to shut Him out anymore.

The hard part about telling so many people about the pregnancy was that so many people knew about the miscarriage. But that was also a blessing, because a lot of people were praying for and thinking of us. Going back to LA to spend Christmas with Matt’s family also brought on some anxiety. We knew the time off was needed. But would I be OK? Would I be a complete mess or would I put on a brave face as to not make people feel uncomfortable? Fortunately, Matt’s family told us in advance that they would give us whatever we needed – time on our own, time together, whatever. That was really nice. Matt’s mom also made sure that I received physical rest and nourishment, something I wasn’t paying as much attention to.

Over the next few weeks, we heard from many people about their own experiences or those of people they knew that were similar to ours. “So and so had two miscarriages – and then they had their two kids.” “I had three miscarriages, and the pregnancies that followed were fine. Don’t worry, it can still happen for you.” It was encouraging to hear those stories of hope. And I began to feel hopeful.

But as weeks turned into a month, and then another month, those stories comforted me less and less. I wondered if those mothers even remembered what it was like to be in this waiting period, and if they did – why weren’t they in touch? Did they no longer remember the sadness they felt after their miscarriages, before they had their healthy pregnancies? I also began to realize that everyone else had moved past this and probably thought I had as well. Sometimes it seems like even Matt has moved past this and would also forget if I weren’t the only anchor holding him back to it. I certainly don’t expect any of our friends, co-workers, even family members to remain in our pain as long as we are, but it’s so nice when people remind us that they are thinking of us.

I remember one conversation we had with my parents via Skype. We talked about something that we have planned for the same weekend as our original due date. My mom later emailed and said that she detected some sadness in my voice, so it’d be good for us to get away when the due date arrives. I couldn’t remember if I intended to be sad, and then I wondered if my mom was being too sensitive. But then I realized that I should be grateful that she is thinking about how I may be feeling and also that she chooses to tell me that she remembers our pain. And I know when the due date rolls around, I have no doubt she will be thinking of us. And I will be grateful that she remembers.

I am also realizing that many people feel uncomfortable in my pain. Even telling people about the miscarriage made me feel like I was responsible for their reaction. I do believe that most people who don’t ask me how I’m doing are simply being respectful of my privacy. I understand that and would do the same if I hadn’t gone through this. But even when I mention the miscarriage or say something like, “When I was pregnant, I remember….” , I could sense when the person I’m talking to is uncomfortable. So I back off and change the subject, because I don’t want them to be uncomfortable. But in doing so, it means I’m not being fair to myself. I’m pretending like I’m not feeling a certain way or that I don’t remember a certain time in my life – for the sake of that person. It’s one thing to always talk about it when it happened 20 years ago. But how can anyone expect me to not be thinking about the miscarriage when it happened only three months ago? Can I pretend like we never saw the little peanut on the ultrasound machine, and that we never saw its heart fluttering? Am I supposed to act like I never fantasized about having a little one running around the house? Of course not. But why do I feel like people expect me to act like it never happened?

It’s a strange feeling, wanting to talk so openly about something that has caused – and still causes – me so much pain. But after hearing from other people who continue to grieve over their own losses, I realize that it’s quite normal. It’s normal and healthy to want to validate your pain and emotions, and it’s OK to want people to remember the baby that you lost. That’s the primary reason I’m writing about this here. I would feel dishonest with myself if I were to return to blogging after my break without mentioning the miscarriages. My perception is that outsiders see a miscarried baby as something unborn that never breathed a breath in this life – therefore, it had no real life to grieve for. But it’s more than just a physical loss – it’s a dream that was never fulfilled, and that can be just as heartbreaking. I want to tell people about our experience, because it’s not right for people who go through this to go through it alone and be misunderstood.

In January, when I got together with Keba, she said to me, “I can’t believe I haven’t seen you since I lost the baby.” Her word choice was subtle, but it spoke volumes to me. She could have easily said, “I haven’t seen you since the miscarriage,” but acknowledging that we lost a baby demonstrated that she knows we’ve suffered a great loss. And because it’s a big loss, it’s OK for us to feel the way we feel, even if it makes no sense to us or the people around us. To recover from losing a baby sounds more serious than simply recovering from a miscarriage. I still use the term miscarriage because it’s the easiest way to refer to the situation, but it sounds more clinical. I also tend to use that term because it makes people feel less uncomfortable, which may or may not be the best thing to do.

Keba is due to deliver her first baby in less than a week. Over the past nearly five years, she’s become one of my closest friends – and definitely my closest friend in town. We make a point to see each other several times a month, it seems. I don’t always want to surround myself with pregnant people, but I can’t imagine not being a part of her life during this exciting time. I want to hear about her pregnancy, so she entertains my questions and lets me know how she’s doing – which, to me, honors me by not feeling sorry for me and by not feeling fearful that I’ll hold her pregnancy against her. She also asks me direct questions about how I’m doing, and never makes me feel like I have to hide my emotions from her. If I start a sentence with, “When I was pregnant…” or “If we’re able to have kids, I want to…,” she doesn’t flinch. She gives me plenty of room to hurt, doesn’t judge how I feel, and then continues to share messages of hope.

She also has gone through a different type of loss recently, so we both have our moments when we mention things that remind us about our losses – but our conversations also can be lighthearted and fun. We’re not just moping around all the time, and sometimes, I feel like people who don’t understand where I’m at might be afraid that I’ll just sit around and cry if they ask me about the miscarriage. So instead, I make a point to spend the most time with people who allow me to be myself – whether or not I want to talk about the miscarriage – and who don’t act awkward if I want to talk about my feelings.

I continue to struggle. A lot. And each day, each week is different. Sometimes I feel alone in how I feel. Sometimes I feel angry at other people. Sometimes I don’t feel like doing anything – and then I am hard on myself for being lazy. And then I try to tell myself that it’s OK to take care of myself and just do what I want to do right now. Sometimes I can’t rejoice in the news of someone else’s pregnancy, but then I force myself to talk to them about their pregnancy, which usually makes me feel happier for them. But then when they don’t acknowledge my situation, I feel like they’re not mentioning it because they don’t want to feel bad that they’re pregnant while I’m not. A lot of times I wish I could talk to people about how I feel, that they wouldn’t look uncomfortable when I even slightly refer to the miscarriage.

There are many days when I’m unmotivated at work and get irritated at every little things. But then I hear about people in situations much worse than mine, and I end up thinking of things I’m thankful for. Sometimes I get sad that I can’t bond with people who are moms, and then I get annoyed with moms who don’t have anything to talk about besides their kids. A lot of times, I just want to work out, because it provides me with physical and emotional rest. Sometimes I wonder where all those people are who were so overjoyed at our pregnancy or the ones who have been through miscarriages. And I wonder who else has gone through what we have – and still don’t share their pain with anyone, thus continuing the cycle where people can’t talk about their grief. Then I think about friends who’ve experienced grief in the past, and how I failed to check in with them, thinking I was being respectful by giving them space and not taking the chance to see if they needed support. And then oftentimes, I am so thankful for the few people who remain with me and make a point to push aside their discomfort to ask me how I’m feeling – not just in general, but in regards to all the baby stuff.

Just a few weeks ago, I had another positive pregnancy test. But within a week, the pregnancy was over. I found out it was chemical pregnancy, which means the egg was fertilized, but never was implanted in my uterus. I tried to be cautious about not being too hopeful and, fortunately, I had less than a week to get too excited. I sometimes find myself playing it off like it wasn’t anything too serious. If a miscarriage sounds clinical, a chemical pregnancy sounds even more so. But the truth is, my hope was stomped on again, and I have to pick up the pieces all over again. But I don’t feel defeated. Discouraged, maybe, but not defeated. As the Psalmist said, “…from the depths of the earth, you will again bring me up,” and that’s the truth to which I’m holding.

I’ve started to write this post in my head many, many times over the past few months. Several times, I felt ready to write, and figured it was just a matter of finding time to get something out. But something would always happen to show me that I wasn’t quite ready yet. Even now, after all the half-written mental blog posts (usually thought through in the shower), I’m still having a hard time starting this.

I’ve been tempted many times to simply post a video link (usually about Harry Potter) or a blurb about something interesting that happened to me that day. But if I did, without first addressing where I’ve been mentally these past few months, I’d be doing a disservice to what Matt and I have experienced. Then there’s the issue of privacy – is it inappropriate to write about this on a blog? After many years of keeping a blog, I feel that it would be inappropriate for me not to be so transparent. I don’t know who all reads my blog, but I know that most people are already aware of our situation. Putting my thoughts down here will only shed a little more light on how things have been for us. If anything, this is more for myself than for anyone else. And, in anticipation of how long this post is going to be, maybe I will be the only one who can make it to the very end of the post. :)

That said, let’s begin.

In August 2009, Matt and I began trying to start a family. I was naive. I thought it would happen pretty quickly. After all, I was healthy – I exercised, had annual checkups without any hiccups, and had a regular cycle. When I didn’t get pregnant within the first few months, I was incredibly disappointed. Every month when my period arrived, I cried.

It was really hard to be in situations where I knew people would ask us about kids. “Soo…” they would start off, sidling up to me with a raised eyebrow. “When are you guys going to have kids?” That’s probably one of the hardest questions for someone who’s been trying to conceive. It reminds people, yet again, that they still haven’t gotten pregnant. It’s a lot better when someone tactfully asks, “Have you guys thought about having kids?” And, it’s not like someone can say, “We’re going to have kids in 12 months and 13 days.” Even worse is when the question is followed up by a comment about my age. For the record, I’m turning 33 in April. I’m not *that* old. Also, the question implies that the couple *must* have kids, when in fact, having kids is an option. In the same vein, it’s like asking someone when they’re going to get married. If there are relationship challenges that the couple is working through, marriage is probably a sore subject.

The truth was that it had taken us awhile to get to the point where we knew we wanted kids. Before we were married, I thought I wanted to be pregnant by the time I was 30. When I interviewed for my current position, one of the questions I was asked was, “When you look back at your life in 10 years, what do you want to be your greatest success?” My first response (that I probably shouldn’t have blurted out) was, “To be a good mom.” I think that response gained me the support of the boss who hired me, as well as another woman who had a strong influence on the team. Everyone else wondered if I was going to quit once I had kids. So, probably not the best response for an interview, but I was just being honest – and I still got hired.

But when 30 approached, we realized we weren’t ready for kids yet. I actually had to do a lot of soul-searching about why people had kids in the first place – and why we wanted kids. After all, there’s a lot more that we could do if we didn’t have kids. Or, if we decided we wanted kids, why not go straight to adopting, since there are too many kids out there without loving families? I wrestled with the topic until finally in early 2009, I decided I was ready and wanted to be a mom. Matt could’ve gone either way the whole time, and I think he was sort of waiting for me to make up my mind.

After about six months of trying, I was discouraged, but the high expectations had begun to wear off. We were doing everything we needed to do, but we just weren’t seeing the double lines on the pregnancy test. Fast forward to June 2010 – Father’s Day weekend to be exact. Dorc was in town with us. I took a pregnancy test – it was positive! I wanted to tell Dorc right away, but Matt wasn’t home at the time, so I didn’t say anything.

His response was just as I imagined: nervous excitement. His hands got clammy, and he asked, “Are you sure??” We were both excited, but really, really nervous, as we thought ahead to all the changes that would be coming our way. My thoughts centered on raising the child, doing crafts together, going hiking…our little embryo was already a child in my head. Who would he or she look like? What would he or she be like? Matt was more practical – he was mentally going through our list of future house projects, wondering which one we could tackle before the baby arrived.

Sadly, we didn’t have to think about all that for too much longer. I’d been training for a half-marathon and went out during lunch later that week for my last training run – just an easy 2 miles. After the run, I noticed some light spotting. Within two hours, I began cramping. I tried to get comfortable in my chair and focus on my work, but I was getting really nervous. I went to the bathroom and saw what I feared. I called the doctor’s office right away and they told me to come in. I shut down my computer and bolted out of the office. With one hand on the steering wheel and one hand tightly holding mine, Matt drove quickly to downtown Seattle as I cried in the passenger seat.

One blood test and an ultrasound later, the doctor confirmed that I miscarried. She and the nurse reassured us repeatedly that it had nothing to do with our sushi binge in Vancouver the week before or my two-mile run earlier that day. The miscarriage is my body’s way of getting rid of something that wasn’t developing properly.

The next day, Na and her friend Julia arrived for the Rock ‘n’ Roll race that weekend. I didn’t say anything to Na, as I believed it was best for all of us – but especially me – not to have that become the focus of the entire weekend. I needed a distraction, and their visit was a perfect way to get that. I didn’t want to drop out of the half-marathon. After all, I’d trained hard to get to that point. I also felt like it was a way for me to feel like I was moving on and recovering emotionally from the miscarriage.

A few days after the race, I boarded a plane for Orlando, where I met up with Abby and Melanie for our much anticipated trip to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter (aka Harry Potter Land). Abby and I met up a few days prior to Melanie’s arrival, and we had several days of driving around the state and visiting small towns along the Gulf coast. It was just what both of us needed – a physical and emotional break. We made impromptu visits to small bookstores, drove around trying to find boba, and got caught in rain storms on the beach. When Melanie arrived, the excitement went up a notch, because this meant that our visit to Harry Potter Land was approaching. The night before our day at the park, we were absolutely giddy in the hotel room as we worked on our iron-on tank tops.

(I’m diverting just a second, but I just remembered that when we were at Harry Potter Land, in line to get into Ollivander’s wand shop, Abby’s husband called her on her cell. Abby picked up, chatted for a few seconds and then asked, “Is there a reason why you’re calling? You know today is Harry Potter day.” Apparently Jason was just calling to say hi, but Abby quickly made it clear that she was busy. Too funny.)

Anyway, the Florida trip was just what I needed at that time. Being with Abby and Melanie and doing anything Harry Potter-related is always the perfect distraction for me. A day after I returned to Seattle from Orlando, I got on another plane – this time to Indonesia for work. The two trips were completely different from each other in every way. Seeing new things, meeting new people, and experiencing WV’s work firsthand was unforgettable – and, again, these distractions were well-timed.

When I returned from that trip, I thought things were fine. I had been too distracted by new and exciting experiences over the past two weeks to think much about the miscarriage. But I soon found myself crying a lot at night and wanting to avoid social situations. Matt and I then agreed that we’d tell a few close friends about the miscarriage. We also decided not to tell our families, as we knew they would be really concerned and worried. We did feel that telling a few other people helped, since I was able to process my emotions more, and didn’t feel the need to hide what was on my mind when I was with our friends.

Jumping ahead to October – I had another positive pregnancy test! This time, we approached everything completely differently. The first people we told were our families. Matt was actually in LA for a weekend, so he was there in person while I was on Skype. At that time, we told them about the previous miscarriage and asked them not to tell anyone about the current pregnancy.

At week 9, we had our first appointment with the doctor and saw an ultrasound of the little baby on the monitor. Now I know why people refer to their babies as “peanut.” I tried not to cry when I saw the fluttering of the heartbeat on the screen. Everything looks great, our doctor said. Although we should’ve been more cautious, given our history, we decided to tell people at work. Matt, typically even more cautious than I, showed more excitement after seeing the ultrasound. He was scheduled to lead devos for his group that week, and wanted to share the news. In turn, I told my team that same week as well. That was the first time they all found out we’d even been trying. Over the next two weeks, we found out that maybe five or six other couples at church were expecting within a few months of us.

My pregnancy symptoms were pretty mild. I attributed that to my mom and grandma’s mild morning sickness, but now I wonder if it was simply because my hormone levels were too low. Either way, I felt pretty good. But at week 11, I started spotting – and was told that it was normal (which, for most women) is the case. But two days later, while watching an episode of “Glee,” I felt more cramps. By 10 pm, the cramps had stretched across my abdomen, similar to menstrual cramps. I knew this wasn’t normal. I forced myself to fall asleep.

For the sake of the faint-hearted, I’ll skip over the details. Basically, I woke up at 3 am and knew I was having a miscarriage. We got to the doctor’s office as soon as it opened, and they were expecting us. I hated walking into a room full of waiting pregnant women, knowing that I was no longer one of them. An ultrasound revealed that my fears were true. The baby was gone.

I think I’m going to stop here for now. The post is already pretty long, and I think I need to give myself some space. But I’m glad to be back on my blog. Thanks for waiting patiently.