Here We Go Again

It's so tough. Sometimes, I wish I would have kept this blog anonymous so I could be completely honest about everything—without co-workers, friends, and family knowing every detail of my life—but then, I wouldn't be able to share pictures, and what fun would that be? I know you only continue to visit my blog to look at photos of my chunkalicious boy (and I can't say I blame you—he's pretty awesome).

Anyway, I promised myself I'd be 100% open on this blog with regards to my reproductive issues (whatever they may be) because I originally started this thing in hopes of making somebody, somewhere feel a little less alone—but at the same time, I really don't want the entire IRL world to know all of my private business.

After mulling it over for a few days, I've decided that while I have no idea who the hell reads this thing—or who may stumble upon it in the future—it's important for me to be honest with you.

So here goes.

I'm having a miscarriage. As I type this, I'm losing a fourth baby. Well, I guess waiting to lose it would be a more accurate statement. My poor stupid body is hanging onto a doomed pregnancy.

I'm sad, but more than that, I'm angry. I'm angry that after dozens of tests and painful procedures last year, nothing turned up anywhere. I believe in bad luck. I don't believe in this kind of bad luck. What the fuck is going on?

When I realized this pregnancy was most likely over a few nights ago, I snatched Arlo out of his rock 'n play and brought him into bed with me. I held his tiny hand, kissed his scrumptious cheeks a thousand times, and soaked his wild and wonderful hair with my tears.

And marveled at what a miracle he really is.

Danny and I have made five babies (just typing out that number makes me sick), and only one—our sweet, perfect Arlo—was able to join us in this world.

I'm doing my best to treat this loss as a reminder—albeit a painful one—of how truly blessed we are to have Arlo.

Shared the news with Danny by putting this shirt on Arlo and calling him into the room to help me with a dirty diaper (that didn't exist).

But I'm not sure I needed one. 

365 Days

365 days ago, I got a positive pregnancy test, and—well, you know the story—I lay awake in bed for hours on end, waiting for Danny to come home from work so I could share our happy news by saying to him, "Kiss your baby and tell him to stay in there and grow big and strong."

I started this blog while I waited for Danny to come home that night, having no idea what direction it would take. I didn't know if I'd lose the pregnancy and end up with an infertility blog, or if I'd actually get to document my third pregnancy, from pregnancy test to delivery. I did know that I was going share everything until, come hell or high water, I got my miracle.

A million prayers, hopes, tears, laughs, kicks; the loss of "Twin A;" and 8 months, 6 days later, Arlo was born. One of my first thoughts upon seeing him was that he possessed the beauty of all 3 of his lost siblings, and somehow, he's gotten more gorgeous every day. I love my little miracle with a ferocity I can't explain.

And I feel blessed beyond measure that this is what I'm posting a mere 365 days after starting this blog.

What a year.

And thank you for coming along for the ride.

Baby Celis #2

It's March 16th. This is the date I associate with the loss of our second baby, even though she was still technically alive a year ago today. It's been a sad, sad day for this mama, and since I've been reliving the whole awful experience since I woke up (all month, to be more accurate), I may as well share with you the story of Baby Celis #2. I owe it to her anyway.

I've mentioned this before, but I always refer to Baby Celis #2 as a girl, even though we could never verify this because the testing we had done later came back inconclusive. I've seen her in my dreams, though, and I bought a ladybug Halloween costume for her (she was due October 29th) long before she was even conceived. My gut tells me she was a girl, and that's all the proof I need.

After our first loss, Danny and I took a small break from trying to conceive. We were just too damn broken. During this break, everybody we've ever met either announced their pregnancy or had a baby, and it was brutal. The first month we decided to try again, I knew we'd succeeded. I would have bet my life that pregnancy test would read positive on February 17th, 2012. And it did. I hadn't missed my period yet or anything—it was too early for that. Like with all of my pregnancies, I just knew.

I contemplated holding off for two days before actually testing, so that I could tell Danny on the 19th—his birthday, but I didn't for two reasons: I was too excited to wait, and I didn't want to forever tarnish his birthday if something were to go wrong with the pregnancy. It's so sad that I was already programmed to think this way.

When I told Danny the news, he was happy, of course, and he fell in love with our baby right away, but he was as reserved as I was. We didn't let ourselves talk too much about Baby Celis #2. (She's all I thought about, though. How could I not imagine what she'd look like, what her laugh would sound like, what her favorite color would be?) We didn't buy anything for her because we didn't want to have to find a place for it later, if things went wrong. We just focused on making it to March 12th, the day of our first ultrasound, the first time we'd see the flicker of her heartbeat. Then, we would really celebrate.  

When I woke up on March 12th, I was overcome with a sense of doom. I had no reason to feel this way. My hormone levels were "twin-high," according to my doctor. I hadn't had any spotting, and everything seemed normal. There were no physical signs that anything was amiss. Plus, the chance of me miscarrying again was only 13%. But I just couldn't shake the skepticism. 

During the ultrasound, when the tech said, "Baby does have a heartbeat. It's 78 beats per minute..." I cried immediately because I'd researched fetal heart rates enough to know that was at least 22 bpm too low for our baby to be okay. Danny cried because he was so happy that his baby's heart was beating. That's what destroyed me the most—his hope.

A tiny little cloud in the gestational sac, measuring 6 weeks instead of  7.

My OB told us things could go either way at that point, and to come back in 4 days for a follow-up ultrasound. In the meantime, we were to go to work, live our lives, and interact with people—you know, act normal. She told us not to lose faith, but my heart, my gut, my intuition, something told me we wouldn't be taking our ladybug home with us in October.

What kind of mom would I be if I just gave up like that, right off the bat, though? What kind of wife would I be if I didn't lay awake at night with Danny, rubbing my belly, begging that weak little heart in there to beat harder? I hoped with everything I had that our baby would survive, but mostly, I hoped and prayed that Danny would be okay when he learned that she was gone. Those 4 days are a blur.

On March 16th, 2012, that tiny heart was barely beating. The tech let us listen to it, and I'll never forget the sound. Beat, beat, beat...pause...pause...beat, beat...pause. So sporadic. My OB told us it was definitely over, that the heart was giving out, and that we should come back in 3 days to make sure it had completely stopped—and we would schedule a D&C.

All miscarriages are horrendous, but this one was exceptionally gut-wrenching. Danny and I spent 3 days praying that our baby would give up, so we could officially say goodbye to her and start trying to move on. What a shitty position to be in, to beg your baby to pass away. We held each other close. We sobbed and rubbed my belly, willing that sick, itty-bitty heart to stop. We felt the same kind of sorrow we felt after our first miscarriage, only this time, we were met with fear, too. The fear that something was wrong with one of us, the fear that we'd never be parents. 

Our next ultrasound was March 19th, and it confirmed that our baby had no heartbeat. She was really gone. The D&C was a breeze compared to my first miscarriage, which happened at home. Emotionally, though, I was a mess—and I was for a long time.  

I don't feel as broken as I did then, and I definitely don't feel as hopeless—but I do think about my lost babies every single day. I still cry for them, especially on days like this. It infuriates me that anybody thinks I can replace these babies with a healthy one. I know people think this because they've said it.

A friend shared an article with me, "How a Man Handles a Miscarriage," which I found beautiful and very well written, and this line really stood out:

"That [lost] child will always be autonomous in your thinking. A separate being. And should always be thought of that way."

You always will, Baby Celis #2. Sweet little baby, I wish I would have outwardly celebrated you more. I wish I would have bought you all the presents you deserved, no matter how painful it would have been to find a place for them later. I wish I would have told the world about you, so they could have celebrated your short life, too—and then cried when it was over.

But I've cried enough tears for a thousand people. And I love you enough for a million. 

Nurse Maria

I had a boring OB appointment today—ya know, just pee in a cup, get weighed, have my blood pressure taken and fundal height measured—and when the nurse, Maria (she must work every single day, because I've never had a different nurse), was taking my blood pressure, we chatted about how amazing it is that I'm already over 31 weeks along and how far we've come on this crazy journey. She told me that time is going to fly from here on out, and I'll be holding my miracle before I know it.

Then, she said, "I'll never forget you, you know. I've been doing this for a very long time, and there's just a handful of people I know I'll always remember. You and your sweet husband are two of them."

She went on to tell me that she often thinks of Danny crying all those months ago, and how she was so touched by his compassion—and that she remembers thinking, "What a lucky lady to have a husband like that. And what a lucky baby."

I didn't ask her which baby she was referring to—or whether she meant the time we cried hysterically because our second baby's heart had stopped, or if she meant the time we cried tears of joy upon hearing Guido's heartbeat for the first time. She was there both of those times.

It didn't matter, I guess, because she was right either way: Guido's lucky beyond comprehension—and so was our second baby, because she may not have been with us long, but dammit, her daddy loved her.

And I know I don't even have to try to explain to you how lucky I am.

...and to All a Good Night! (By Danny)

Christmas Day is finally here, but our biggest gift won't arrive for another 99 or so days.  I can remember how magical the Christmas season was when I was a kid, how much anticipation and joy I felt, and it makes me happy to know that my little man will be feeling the same way in a few short years.

A couple weeks ago, I felt the baby move for the first time.  Wow.  I couldn't ask for a better gift than that.

Amanda and I have gone completely crazy with buying every cute thing we can find for our boy, and I couldn't care less.  I don't care how financially strapped we are, we will always find a way to make our Christmas magical (even if I have to sell my favorite guns).

This time last year, we were still mourning our first loss.  I kept replaying our ER visit in my mind. It was one of those life-defining moments you wish so hard you could just go back and erase. All of our fantasies of Christmas mornings felt like they were just flushed down the toilet.

Fortunately, feeling my boy move for the first time was also a life-defining moment, but the kind that makes you thank God or whatever it is you believe in for letting you experience it.

I imagine that this time next year will be another one of those moments. One of many.

Baby Celis #1, Part Two (The Sad)

Today is the one year anniversary of the worst day of my life—the day we found out Baby Celis #1 was gone. I promised (my baby, Danny, and you) I’d share the sad part of Baby Celis #1’s story today. Here’s Part One, in case you missed it. 

And here we go—Part Two. 

Did I mention how happy Danny and I were? Deliriously. Ridiculously. Otherworldly.

But then, I started spotting. It was unsettling, but I definitely wasn't expecting the worst. When I was about 9 weeks pregnant, I had my first appointment with my (former) OB. She did an exam, assured me that my spotting was completely normal, and sent me on my way. Of course I believed her, so I breathed a huge sigh of relief and returned to my rightful place on cloud nine. 

The very next day, on Thanksgiving, actually, my spotting picked up—and the doubt crept back into my mind. When we prayed before dinner, I silently begged God to let my baby be okay. While our loved ones talked about what they were thankful for, Danny squeezed my hand and smiled at me, his way of letting me how thankful he was for me—and for our baby, who was still our little secret, for the most part. I fought back tears. 

The worry increased—along with the spotting—and then the cramping started. I didn’t quite believe I was miscarrying, though. I'm not entirely sure what I thought, but that Sunday morning, when Danny got home from work, I told him we needed to go to the Emergency Room. I'll never forget how hopeful he was, how crazy he thought I was for not thinking our baby was okay. Or maybe he was just really convincing because he loves me so much.

Our first stop was Metro Hospital, where they put me in a room and literally forgot about me for 3 hours. Nobody checked on me as I lay there bleeding, so we walked out, and went to another Emergency Room. 

The 7 hours (I clearly wasn't a priority) we spent in the second Emergency Room are a blur. I remember being pumped full of liquids and being really cold. I remember they wouldn't let Danny accompany me when the ultrasound tech wheeled me off to her exam room; I hated being away from him for those 45 minutes. I remember the same commercial kept airing over and over again; I don't know what it was for, but it was the holiday season, and the word "joy" was bouncing all over the screen. I remember telling myself that if our baby was okay, and if it was a girl, her middle name would be "Joy." 

I think he was a boy, though, and I always refer to Baby Celis #1 as such.

People talk about defining moments—moments they can pinpoint that truly changed their lives, made them who they are. My defining moment? Hearing the doctor (I call him "Dr. Maroon" because he was wearing either a maroon shirt or a maroon tie) say the words “no heartbeat.” I don't remember his entire sentence, what came before or after. I just remember those two words leaving his mouth, and driving into my soul, into my core—into my own heart—and shattering everything in their path.     

Danny let out a wail that haunts me to this day. I’ve never heard a pain so deep. He collapsed against me and buried his face in my arm, and I know he wished he could crawl right through my skin and get the fuck out of that room. Get the fuck out of that hospital. Get the fuck out of that nightmare. All I could do was stroke his hand with my thumb and cry with him. I can still feel his hand in mine. I can still feel his face against my arm. I can still feel my own body being shaken by his sobs. 

Dr. Maroon kept saying, "the fetus.” Each time he said the word was like a sock in the gut. The fetus, the fetus, the fetus. My baby, you heartless bastard. My baby.

We didn't get so much as an "I'm sorry" from anybody working in the ER that night. Everybody was so nonchalant, and when I say that nobody cared, I'm not exaggerating. We'd just found out that our baby was dead, and nobody was the least bit fazed. Our entire world had just been turned upside down and set on fire, and nobody could take two minutes to offer us a few words of consolation. Not that we could have been consoled anyway.  

Dr. Maroon told me to call my OB on Monday to decide what our next steps would be—most likely a D&C, since the baby had been gone for 4 weeks, and my body wasn’t recognizing the loss like it should have been.

But we didn’t make it to Monday. By the grace of God, just hours after Danny wept all over my belly, telling Baby Celis #1 goodbye—and that it was time for him to physically leave us... he did. 

I'll do my best not to get too graphic here, but I am going to mention it because people tend to forget about the physical aspect of miscarriage. I know I never thought about it until I experienced it. The baby doesn't just disappear. I'll spare you too much detail, but suffice it to say that on November 27th, 2011, with Danny by my side, I spent 3 horrific hours in labor with our tiny baby. As if the emotional pain weren't enough, wave after wave of burning pain ripped through my body. I know I've heard this comparison before, so if anybody ever tells you a miscarriage is "like a period," please know that they're sorely mistaken.

I remember every single second of those hours. More tears than anybody should ever have to cry. More blood than anybody should ever have to see. More physical pain than anybody should ever have to feel in their own goddamn bathroom. And the heartache... 

Danny and I didn't leave the house for 6 days. Those days are a haze. We stayed in bed and cried together. My body still hurt, and for days, all I could say was, "Why? Why our baby?" We didn't know which way was up or which way was down, whether it was night or day. We finally left the house on Saturday to buy me a birthday present, since my birthday was the following day. (My own birthday is just another reminder of all we've lost, along with Thanksgiving, of course.) I picked out a pendant to honor Baby Celis #1, and aside from when it was on hiatus due to a broken chain, it hasn't left my neck since. It never will.

My 28th birthday. Danny made me let him take me to dinner. This picture makes me sad because I remember how torn apart I was.

I’ve spent a million hours wondering what this child would have looked like, who he would have been. I’ve thought about him every single day since October 27th, 2011—the day I found out about him. I’ll always wonder, and while my crying isn’t as frequent as it once was, I know I’ll never run out of tears for my first baby.

My sweet, sweet June Bug, whenever I think of my first baby, it won't be the first baby we bring home from the hospital; it will always, always, always be you. You are the one who made me a mommy. You are the one who first changed my life forever. You are the one who made me and your daddy love each other more than anybody's ever loved anybody or anything.

And I hope that in the short time we had together, which I’ll always cherish, you could feel how much we loved you. 

How much we love you.

Party in the Woods (By Danny)

We had our 17-week ultrasound on Tuesday. Our doctor had said we may be able to find out the sex if we wanted, but we thought we would be able to restrain ourselves. We thought wrong. I already KNEW it was a boy; I’ve had a feeling since Amanda told me she was pregnant. Seeing his little weenie on the screen just validated my beliefs.

Amanda was convinced I would have been upset if it was a girl, but I wouldn’t have been.

Knowing this baby is a boy makes this all so much more real. During the ultrasound, we were able to see his entire skeleton and beating heart, which is incredibly creepy and really cool at the same time. We could also see the outline of his face. HIS FACE! Fortunately, our boy has a pronounced, defined chin, and he did not inherit that trait from me.

Already, I’m daydreaming about having guys’ night with my boy, about taking him to movies, teaching him to lift weights, and maybe even going for motorcycle rides together. Things that I wish I could have done with my dad, I’ll get to do with my son. Maybe he’ll grow up to be a cop like his old man…

When we first learned about Baby Celis #1, our first angel, it was right around this time of year. I remember feeling uneasy and completely unprepared for fatherhood. Amanda and I had decided that we needed to go get married as soon as possible, so we made arrangements at the courthouse for a November 4th wedding.

The night before our wedding, I went out for a drink with my best friend Joe. I was telling him how I thought I wasn’t ready to be a dad and how scared I was. Joe proceeded to tell me that it would be great:

“It’ll be like in Robin Hood when Little John comes down out of his treehouse yelling, ‘I HAVE A SON!!!’ and everybody starts partying in the woods. It’ll be great, we’ll take our kids camping together, you’ll yell at my kids and I’ll yell at yours when they’re goofing off… you’ll be fine.”

Those images stuck with me after losing our first two babies. For a while, it seemed like they might never come true. This ultrasound is one step closer to that party in the woods.

Happy Birthday, Baby Celis #2

Today's one of those rough milestones that I'm looking forward to putting behind me. Unfortunately, I have lots of days like this--days that should be very different than they actually are.

Baby Celis #2's estimated due date was October 29th, 2012. Today. My arms feel so empty.

I couldn't wait to bring her home from the hospital in a tiny Halloween costume.

I know she was a girl because a) I dreamt of her a thousand times and b) I bought a newborn ladybug costume 2 years ago (before kids were even on our radar), and I know it was meant for her.

Halloween hurts my heart this year.

Baby Celis #1, Part One (The Happy)

One year ago today, Danny and I found out we were going to be parents. In honor of our first angel, I'm going to share that story now. Part of it, anyway.

I've said before that I'll never really write about my miscarriages because I can't do the pain justice. I'm not sure I can do the joyful times justice, either--but I’ve since decided that I owe it to my babies to tell their stories. Plus, Danny’s been asking me to write about them—and there’s not much I wouldn’t do for that guy.

It makes sense to start at the beginning, with Baby Celis #1. I’ll give you Part One today—the one year anniversary of my first positive pregnancy test---and Part Two on November 27th—the one year anniversary of the day we said goodbye to our first baby.

I'm allowing myself one hour to write this because if I fiddle with it until I think it's good enough for my baby, I may never finish it.

Part One. Ready, set, go.

When I took a pregnancy test during my lunch hour on Thursday, October 27th, 2011, I was only kind of surprised to see two lines appear. I obviously bought the test for a reason. We all know how babies are made. Plus, I thought my period was late (I never kept close track), and moreover, like with my pregnancies that followed, I just knew.

I didn’t tell Danny immediately because I wasn’t going to tell him something so momentous over the phone. Also, this is ridiculous, but I wanted to make sure I was pregnant (by peeing on a million more sticks). I didn’t really allow myself to think about the baby in my belly that afternoon. My main focus was Danny and what his reaction would be. Just two weeks prior to this, he’d told me that he didn’t want to start a family for at least 5 years. We didn't know it, of course, but I was already pregnant when he'd said that. Life's funny, I guess.

When I got out of work, I took another pregnancy test--a fancy digital one this time--and sure enough, an undeniable "pregnant" appeared on the little screen in a matter of seconds.

My hands shook as I walked out of the bathroom with my positive pregnancy tests. I found Danny, who was on some weird muscle man diet at the time, in the kitchen, browning some ground beef and making hard boiled eggs. I said, “Now, don’t freak out—but I took this test at lunch, and there are two lines, and I took this test just now, and it says ‘pregnant.’ It must be true."

The color drained from his face. He grabbed the tests and examined them, then he grabbed the wall to steady himself. He managed to squeak out, “I have to sit down. I have to get some air,” and ran out the front door. I followed.

And that’s when it happened. As we sat outside on our stoop on that sunny fall day, freaked out and wondering how the hell we were going to handle this, our hearts opened up and swallowed that sweet little life we'd made together. We fell in love with our baby, just like that.

We were going to be parents! We were going to raise and nurture and shape and love a human being who was going to be the best of both of us. Yes, we were terrified--but we were also ecstatic. We made a baby, and on June 27th, 2012 (I'd already used an online calculator to figure out our estimated due date), we'd be able to hold him or her in our arms. Because isn't that how it always works?

We knew our lives would never be the same. We just didn’t know in what ways—or to what extent.

We ran down the street to tell Danny’s mom (yes, I live 7 houses down the street from my mother-in-law), and she laughed and cried—and we laughed and cried. I wasn’t sure how she’d react since Danny and I weren’t married yet. (Not that it’s important, but let the record reflect that we'd been engaged for 5 months.)

My favorite engagement photo. I was actually pregnant with Baby Celis #1 when it was taken--but didn't realize it until 4 days later. An 11x14 of this photo is hanging in our living room, and I consider it a tangible memory of our first baby.

But she was elated. I remember her saying, “How did this happen?? Well, I know how it happened,
but how did it happen? Oh, it doesn’t matter!” And we all hugged, and laughed and cried some more.

Now, 3 people in the world were head-over-heels in love with Baby Celis #1.

We decided to visit our best friends, Josh and Sarah, who have a house full of kids. We needed them to tell us we’d be okay, that we were perfectly capable of raising a baby, and that nothing in the world compares to being a parent.

As soon as we shared our news with them, that's exactly what they told us. Cue more tears and laughter and hugs.

And even more love for Baby Celis #1.

Afterward, Danny and I went to our favorite pizza place to celebrate. I remember running across Detroit Avenue, hand in hand, laughing our asses off and bursting at the seams with excitement. We wanted to shout our news from the rooftops, but we settled with just telling our server. (For the longest time, we avoided that restaurant because I was afraid she'd remember us and ask about our baby.)

Remember the hard boiled eggs Danny was making? We learned that night that if you boil eggs for 3 hours, they explode all over your face and ceiling when you touch them. Hard boiled eggs will forever remind me of our first baby--in a good way, I think. We were so thrilled to be celebrating our baby that we forgot about everything else. It's sweet.

We spent the following weeks falling more and more in love with Baby Celis #1. (Oh, and we ran to the justice center and got hitched.)

So much joy. Reading the letters we wrote to each other on our wedding day. They're primarily about how awesome it was going to be to be parents. (If I ever feel like sobbing until I puke, I'll bust these letters out and read them.)

The happiest memories of my entire life are from when this baby was here with us—Danny rubbing my belly and talking to our sweet baby, poring over names and nursery photos, unabashedly buying cute baby stuff, brainstorming fun ways of telling the world our news, dreaming of traditions (ice cream-and-bookstore Sundays, cupcake-breakfast birthdays), writing our baby letters, wondering who our baby would look like, who our baby would be.

(That wasn't a bee pun up there.) The first thing we bought for Baby Celis #1. I very clearly remember wandering around Banyan Tree with Danny, trying to pick out the most perfect first gift we could find for our sweet baby. Danny couldn't resist this. It's been stashed away in a box for 11 months, and Danny and I just forced ourselves to peek into it last week for the very first time.

Our joy eclipsed any negative things going on in our lives at the time. Nothing else mattered. I remember laughing so much those days. I remember crying (happy tears, sometimes tinged with overwhelmed tears) until I laughed and laughing until I cried. It sounds corny, it sounds trite... but we were on top of the world.

I don't think I'll experience unbridled joy like that ever again. I know I haven't since, despite all of the wonderful things that have happened to us. Now, my happiness is always varnished with a thick layer of skepticism. I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not then.

If there’s anything I want people to understand (besides the horrendous pain that came later), it’s that I do have happy memories of our first baby. I really can look back at those days and smile (even if it is through tears most of the time).

My first pregnancy is divided into two distinct parts—the happy and the sad—so that’s how I’ll divide Baby Celis #1’s story. I’ll end Part One here, on a happy note.

Again, let me reiterate, we were so, so happy.

Added 11/27: Here's Part Two.

A Surprise from Aunt Rachel

"If you know someone who has lost a child [...], and you're afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that [their child] died, they didn't forget they died. You're not reminding them. What you're reminding them of is that you remember that [their child] lived, and that's a great, great gift." 

--Elizabeth  Edwards 

I just mentioned this the other day, but very few things make me happier than somebody acknowledging my lost babies. It doesn't happen very often, and I know it's not because people don't care. It's because they just don't know what to say.

My sister nailed it. Baby Celis got this sweet sheep in the mail from her today, and I got this perfect little note that got me all teary:

The note says, "Thinking about you and your little angels. Love you, Rachel." (I was going to refer to this photo as a blooper, but is it really? Every photo's better with a cat in it.)

In case anybody needs further proof that Danny's convinced this baby's a boy, this onesie also came in the mail today:

Danny got it from an Ebay shop, Little Munsters. (This is folded in half, by the way. I didn't want you to think I don't know the difference between a t-shirt and a onesie.) 

That's the first thing Danny's picked out for the baby all by himself. I guess a baby girl could rock it-- with the right accessories, maybe, as long as she's not one of those girls who looks like a boy until she's 2.

I may be guilty of buying a slightly girly onesie, but could you have resisted it?

Cute cute cute cute cute cute. Buy your own from Lucky Thirteen Design.

Didn't think so. 

Have I mentioned how difficult it is to find cute gender-neutral clothes??

Violet's Light

This evening, my friend, Megan, and I attended a Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day ceremony known as Violet's Light--named after the organizer's niece who was born sleeping last year.

Smiling as we remember our babies.

It was a very small gathering of people (you didn't have to be present to have your baby honored during the remembrance), but it was so, so sweet. A gazebo was lined with luminaries with our babies' names on them, and at exactly 7 P.M., we lit candles in honor of our angels.

All of the babies' names were read, and some people shared a few words about their experiences. I didn't get teary until I saw a couple of men cry. That'll do anybody in.

The luminaries glowing as 60 angels' names are read. 

I've said it before, but it bears repeating:  I wouldn't wish this kind of heartache on anybody, but it means the world to know I'm not alone--and that my babies aren't, either.

National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day

In 1988, Ronald Reagan designated October as National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. October 15th, in particular, is the day set aside to remember all the babies who had to leave us too soon—and to raise awareness for miscarriage, stillbirth, and infant loss.

It happens more often than people realize because it's still such a taboo subject. I hate that people choose to suffer in silence. I hate that people feel ashamed of something horrendous that happened to them. Our babies died! This day of remembrance gives people a reason to talk about their babies. Many survivors of loss choose tomorrow to come out of the closet about their losses.

I'm part of the 1 in 4 who knows the devastation of having to say goodbye to a baby, to a future. Three babies, actually. Three futures. I know what it's like to hurt so badly—to be so afraid of never being able to hold a baby of my own—that I literally bawled until I threw up. I know what it's like to watch my husband fall to his knees and sob uncontrollably. I know the isolation, the desperation. I know what it's like to be this close to giving up.

In the beginning, when I'd "only" had one miscarriage, I planned on keeping it to myself. After my second loss, though, I realized I owed it to my babies to talk about them—and to never stop talking about them. I don't want the world to forget my babies existed—if only for a short while. I want everybody to realize that lots of people (not just 60-year-olds or 500-pound people or crack addicts) lose babies. I want people suffering their own losses to know I'm here for them, and maybe the only thing I'll be able to do is swear and cry, and be pissed and sad right along with them... but I'm here.

If I have any advice for somebody who hasn't experienced pregnancy or infant loss—but whose loved one has, it's this:

• Just let them know you're there for them. Don't try to relate to what they're going through because either you've lost a baby or you haven't; there's nothing else in the world like it. I'm not saying you haven't experienced pain or suffering, but losing a baby, a part of yourself, is its own kind of hell.

• If you're pregnant, try to wait more than 5 seconds after their loss to break the news to them. This sounds harsh, but their own heartache overshadows any joy they can muster up for you, no matter how much they love you. There was a time in my life when you couldn't have paid me a million dollars to intentionally associate with a pregnant woman. If your grieving friend needs space, give it to them, and don't take it personally. They'll come around.

• I'm stealing this line from one of my fellow loss mamas: Sometimes a simple "I'm sorry" goes a long way. It's true—sometimes, that's really all there is to say. If you attempt to say much more than that, you run the risk of accidentally saying something stupid. (I could share countless offensive things people have said to me, but I'll refrain.)

• Lastly, for the love of God, don't pretend the loss didn't happen. I'd rather be asked a thousand dumb questions, or deal with a thousand stupid comments than have somebody who loves me not acknowledge my babies. I brought my miscarriages up when I was out with a friend who was clearly avoiding the subject once (I'd just come out about my losses), and she said she didn't think I'd want to talk about them. Why would I not want to talk about my babies?

I'm sure people wonder what's wrong with me, how a 28-year-old could possibly have 3 miscarriages—and here's the answer:  nothing. After seeing a specialist and having several painful and invasive procedures done, over 50 vials of blood drawn, and testing on Danny and me to make sure we're compatible, we learned that there's nothing "wrong" with either of us.

I hated not having any answers. I prayed so hard that the doctor would tell us, "This is what's wrong with you, and here's the cure!" Instead, our official "diagnosis" was bad luck, and we were told to keep trying. I hated treating making a baby like a game of trial and error, but it was our only choice—and I'm so glad we didn't give up. I found a quote by Galileo, of all people—"I've loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."—that helped me soldier on. I remember chanting it in my head over and over and over again.  

I have this tremendous fear that people will assume that since this current pregnancy is going well, I'm cured—that I must be all better now. The truth is, while the fear of never becoming a mother has subsided, I think about the babies I lost several times every day. I love them so, so much. I'll always wonder who they would have been, what they would have looked like, what their favorite colors would have been, what their laughs would have sounded like. I'll always feel robbed and jaded, and jealous of the people who get to naively skate through their pregnancies. I don't cry as often as I used to—but the tears still sneak up on me every couple of weeks. I constantly still think about what should be.

I should have a 3.5-month-old baby, or I should be giving birth in 2 weeks, or I should be pregnant with twins right now. (Just hearing the word "twins" is enough to make my stomach turn.) This should be my first Halloween, first Thanksgiving, first birthday, first Christmas as a mommy. Should, should, should, should.

I hate it. I hate being part of this sad club, and I'd do anything to get out of it. I hate that anybody has to be part of this 1 in 4. However, I've met wonderful people who have helped see me through my darkest hour. I'm going to a remembrance service with one of them tomorrow night, and I can't wait to hug somebody who understands—and bawl our eyes out together as we remember our sweet babies that we'll never get to hold.

If anything good has come of this whole ordeal, it's that it's brought Danny and me closer together than two people have ever been. We've seen each other at our most vulnerable, and we love each other, respect each other, and "get" each other in a way that many couples never will. There's no shoulder I'd rather cry on, no tears I'd rather wipe away, nobody I'd rather have by my side.

Second Trimester

Today, I'm 13 weeks, 3 days pregnant, and this is officially the first day of my second trimester.

Two months ago, I was sobbing hysterically (that's an understatement) in the ER because I truly believed this pregnancy was over--and that Danny and I would never be able to have biological children.

And today, I'm entering my second trimester. Today, our baby's heartbeat was louder than ever on the doppler. Today, I feel so blessed.

...despite the fact that it's 3 a.m., and I've been awake for 2 hours because I can't stop peeing, and it feels like there's a campfire going on in my chest. This baby's kicking my butt tonight... but I think it's his or her way of saying, "I'm still here, Mom!"

You sure are, kid.

Welcome, World!

That's right. (Scooter's sign could also say,
"I ate a couch cushion this week," but this is a happy blog entry.)

I've been keeping this top-secret pregnancy blog for over 2 months, and we couldn't be more thrilled to finally share it with all of you. I can't believe we've made it to this point.

So, yep. After experiencing hell on earth, saying goodbye to 3 babies, and crying more tears than anybody should have to cry in an entire lifetime, Danny and I are pleased to announce...

I'm 13 weeks pregnant.

Here's the super short story:  We're expecting a baby on April 5, 2012! (11/27/12: Our due date changed to April 2nd.) Wahoo!!

Here's the short-ish story: 

July 23, 2012:  I get a very early positive pregnancy test (at only 3 weeks, 1 day pregnant).

August 11, 2012:  At 5 weeks, 6 days pregnant, we rush to the emergency room after lots and lots of horrific bleeding--and I know I'm miscarrying again. Surprisingly, an ultrasound shows that I have a hemorrhage that's causing the bleeding and pain--and a healthy little baby, measuring right on track!

August 14, 2012:  We learn that the hemorrhage is actually our baby's twin that had passed away. Surviving baby has a healthy heart rate of 129bmp and is the perfect size for his/her age (6 weeks, 2 days). Cue biggest roller coaster ride of emotions ever.  

August 29, 2012:  Baby has a strong heart rate in the 170s and is still looking great at 8 weeks, 3 days.

September 12, 2012:  At 10 weeks, 3 days, we have a perfect ultrasound (and I'll remember this as the day I actually start to believe that we might really be bringing this baby home with us).

September 26, 2012:  Another great doctor's appointment at 12 weeks, 3 days (no ultrasound is necessary this time, but we hear a beautiful heartbeat on the doppler).

For the long story, feel free to go back and read the 29 blog entries leading up to this one. Be sure to check out my personal favorite, "Surprise Announcement Party," from September 23rd. 

It goes without saying that there's a special place in my heart for my friends who are struggling on their journeys to parenthood. I'm rooting for you with everything I have.

I'd also like to take this opportunity to thank anybody who's cheered Danny and me on, prayed for us, or reached out to us in any way, shape, or form over the last year or so--the few people who weren't afraid to acknowledge our lost babies. You know who you are. Your thoughtfulness will never, ever be forgotten. You were with us through the worst; now, join us for the best.

Here we go! This is gonna be amazing.

Because I love bloopers. 

12 Weeks = Plum

I'm 12 weeks, 2 days pregnant, and our baby is the sized of a plum. In case you weren't aware, plums are gigantic.

This was the best looking plum I could find. Dammit, Giant Eagle.

This week, Plum is developing reflexes, and if s/he were poked, he or she would move. S/he's also opening and closing his/her fingers, and curling his/her toes. (It'll be a lot easier to write about this baby when I know if s/he's a boy or a girl.) Cute! I hope we get to see some of this finger and toe business at our ultrasound appointment tomorrow.

Remember when I had eyes? Yep, I'm just as tired as I look. 

Supposedly, my hormones should be calming down a bit, so my nonexistent morning sickness should disappear--and will probably be replaced by headaches and dizziness. I actually did have the headache from hell on Sunday, and I'd be cool with that being my only one.

Oh, and another symptom. Admittedly, I've always thought food cravings and aversions were stupid and kind of made up, but Danny made a seafood thing for dinner last week, and I had to pick out all the shrimp. I usually love shrimp, but just the thought of eating it made me gag. And it still does. Ewwww, shrimp. I'd love to develop an aversion to cookies and Pop-Tarts--and carbs, in general.

Stay tuned for an ultrasound picture of Plum tomorrow. I'm really happy; this is the first appointment I haven't been poop-my-pants nervous about. I'm sure I'll get butterflies on the way to the doctor's office--and I did have a horrific miscarriage dream last night--but with all of my other appointments, I was a wreck days in advance. Baby steps.

Everyone Needs a Hero (By Danny)

Amanda has been after me to write another blog, but I haven't been able to put my thoughts into words about how wonderful it is to finally be hopeful again.

It's been such a long rollercoaster of ups and downs.  So many sad memories, so many lost opportunities...

A few months ago before Amanda was pregnant, we were doing some grocery shopping at Giant Eagle.  For some reason we found ourselves in the greeting card aisle and saw this:

I started to cry.  I couldn't help but think of our lost babies and what could have been.  I wanted to be their hero.

Now, being farther along in this pregnancy than we've ever been, I still find myself overly emotional; but it's a good thing.  No longer am I sobbing because of what we lost.  Tears of joy start to flow when I think about what we have and for all the possibilities that lay before us.  I can't wait to meet our little Guido.  I can't wait for the chaos of children running amok, for family camping trips and vacations, for birthdays and sleepovers, movies and ice cream and Sunday dinners, for family traditions...

S/he'll be here before we know it, and s/he will be spoiled beyond belief.

199 Days Left

There's a personalized pregnancy countdown on the homepage of one of the websites I visit daily. The night I found out I was pregnant, it said, "258 days left," and I remember wishing I could just wake up the next day and have it say, "199 days left." I wanted to skip right over all the 200s--right over the majority of my first trimester--and just start at 199.

It obviously didn't happen overnight like that. In fact, these 59 days have draaaaagggged on and on, just like I knew they would. These have been the longest 2 months of my life... but today's the day. I have 199 days left of this pregnancy.

And I'm sure you expected me to say this, but I'm glad. I'm grateful I had to trudge through those 59 long, long days. Was I scared? You bet your ass I was. I'm still scared every day.

But every day has been amazing, too. I haven't taken one second of this pregnancy for granted, and I know that I've made memories that will last forever. I'll never forget the way Danny kissed my belly when I first told him I was pregnant. I'll never forget how absolutely blown away I was when the ER doctor told me I still had a viable pregnancy. I'll never forget Danny's sobs when we saw our tiny baby on the ultrasound screen and heard his/her perfect heartbeat for the first time. I'll never forget watching our baby dance at our 10-week ultrasound appointment, or listening to his/her heartbeat on my home doppler, and playing it over the phone for Danny. I'll remember everything.

A lot of things have been stolen from Danny and me, and I'm bitter about it. I hate that my miscarriages happened to us. Every day of this pregnancy is more precious, though--more celebrated, more memorable--than it would have been had we not suffered.

199 days left. And every single one will be glorious.

9 Weeks, 5 Days: A Milestone

Today's a big deal. I'm officially more pregnant than I've ever been--or ever thought I was. I've been looking forward to this milestone since the beginning of this pregnancy. With my first pregnancy, I thought I'd reached 9w4d, but the poor baby had actually stopped growing at 6 weeks. My second pregnancy was over at 8 weeks.

Today, I'm 9 weeks, 5 days pregnant. Hallelujah.   

We celebrated this happy day by going to Target to pick out a little gift for Olive. This was Danny's first trip to the baby section since my first pregnancy, though--and he got too sad to linger for long. We saw lots of things we'd planned on buying for our first baby, and it hurt me, too. That section used to be so much fun. I remember holding a tiny pair of socks in my hand and imagining our entire perfect future.

Now, the baby section represents a joy--a naivete--that we've been robbed of--feelings that we'll never again get to experience during a pregnancy, and like so many other things in our lives now, it's bittersweet.

I ended up grabbing a pack of bibs--one of which says "worth the wait."

It feels like we've been waiting for a thousand years, but someday, I'll get to watch Danny rock our sweet little baby to sleep--and yep, it'll have been worth it.  

My Support Group

After my first loss, I started participating in an online miscarriage support group. Just knowing I wasn't alone--that other healthy, normal women have lost babies, too--saved me. I didn't want to talk to anybody besides Danny during that time because I felt like I was on a completely different plane of existence than everybody else in my life. I couldn't listen to other people's "problems" without wanting to slap the shit out of them. (To a certain extent, I still can't.) Meeting these other miscarriage survivors, ladies who "got it" dragged me out from under my sad, lonely rock.

Over these last 9 months or so, I've become very close to several of these ladies, and a group of us from Ohio have our own private Facebook group, where we talk nearly every day--and we've even met in person a few times. (If you'd have told me a year ago that I'd be driving to Columbus to meet some strangers from the Internet, I would have laughed.)

Anyway, I got a package in the mail today from my Ohio girls, and it melted my heart. They just wanted me to know they're thinking of me and remembering my baby's lost twin. I'm so, so lucky to have met these ladies.


Edgar loves my gift as much as I do.

First Baby Purchase

Our first baby item arrived in the mail yesterday. I'm not even 8 weeks pregnant yet.

Most people are fortunate enough not to really comprehend the significance of those two sentences, but many of my fellow loss mamas wouldn't dream of buying cute baby stuff so early in their pregnancies. There are few things more heartbreaking than having to fill a box with cute stuffed animals and itty-bitty shoes--and stash it somewhere safe, where you can't accidentally see it.

I'm doing my best to treat this pregnancy differently than my last one--which I tried not to even think about because I didn't want to get too attached. (Like that's even possible.) I'm going to live like an expectant mother who hasn't had the stars ripped from her sky. Whether this baby's with me for just 100 more heartbeats (God forbid) or 100 years (Please, God), I will celebrate every single second of his or her life.

I'm gonna buy so much cute shit (for 100 years).




First Purchase for Blueberry:  Decoylab Hedgehog Clock