Letter for Baby - January 19, 2011

So hopefully now you get why I was so silent for the past three months. I'm really a terrible liar, and I didn't feel I could talk about the pregnancy openly, so I just shut up altogether.

I had wanted to journal for the baby, but I just couldn't do it. Until one day in January when I had to do it. I've really struggled with whether or not I should post this here. But a) it is, ultimately, just a really good story and b) in the spirit of being honest about miscarriage, I should probably also be honest about pregnancy after miscarriage and, at least for me, how very difficult it can be somedays. Life didn't just magically get better after that positive pregnancy test in December. If anything, it just got more difficult. So just in case there's anyone reading going through a similiar situation, I wanted to share and say you are not alone.

January 19, 2011


Dear Sweet Baby,

You’ve been with me for almost 9 ½ weeks, and I haven’t put any words down for you. The truth is I’m scared. One day, I put pen to paper for your sister, and the next day she was gone. My life was never the same again. I was so worried that if I wrote to you, you would leave. But now you give me reminders everyday that you are growing bigger and stronger. I should write down your story for you. You seem to like a good story.

Your story starts in November. We lost your brother November 10. We were sad, defeated, and tired. We promised all the doctors we wouldn’t try again. And we didn’t – not really. The odds were against your life coming into existence. But one morning, as I worked on my dissertation, I started counting back days to November 10th. I knew then in theory you could be there, and, then, I was pretty sure you would be there. I can’t remember many of my early symptoms. I was in a lovely place called denial. There was one day in the dog food aisle when I became overwhelmed by the smell and almost puked all over the nice attendant’s shoes. And then I was late…and late…and late…And I wouldn’t test. And I wouldn’t tell your dad. Finally one night, we lied there in bed and I said, “I’m late.” “Oh. How late?” “A week and a half.” “Are you going to test?” “I don’t want to test.” “You probably should, shouldn’t you?” Then it was quiet for a few minutes. Finally, something dawned on your dad, “You are scared to test, aren’t you?” Always quick on the uptake, that one.

The next day I was out of my prescription, and I knew I shouldn’t renew it if I was pregnant. I still called in the order, but when Mindy and I swung by the pharmacy, the order hadn’t gone through. I said I would come back later; I haven’t been back since. Then we went to Target. I bought a test, leaning on Mindy’s calm presence the whole time. I said I might not test until next week. I tested that afternoon. Your dad was home for all of fifteen minutes, so I tested. I just kept staring at the pregnant on the stick. I showed it to your dad. He was distracted and kept writing an email. I buried my head in my hands. I felt like now I was just waiting until I lost you too.

I was numb for two days. Neither of your dad nor I wanted to talk about you. Your dad even offered me a glass of wine at Laura’s graduation party. Denial really is a lovely place. It wasn’t that we didn’t want you desperately; it was that we were afraid to want you desperately. I oscillated between not believing I could ever carry a healthy baby to term and begging – begging God, begging the universe, begging my stillborn baby brother – anyone who would listen, “Please, please don’t take this baby away too.” Then on December 19, two days after I tested and your Uncle Steven’s birthday, I broke down. I was trying to get ready for church, and I just kept crying. I was so worried, so sure I would lose you too, so sure I could not endure losing one more baby. I didn’t want to go to church, but I went. I got there just as service was starting, and I had to slip in the seat with the easiest entry – one right in front. Smack dab in front of me was one of the Christmas trees. They had decorated it with ornaments with inspirational words – Joy, Noel, Hope. But whoever had put those ornaments up hadn’t done a very good of mixing them up. Right in front of me in a silver, glittery, loopy hand was Hope, Hope, Hope. Three in a row. One for each you.
And then it was as if Pastor Tim had written that whole damn service for me. It was the week before Christmas, so of course there’s lots of things to say about babies. Lots of metaphorical things to say about new life, but the things he said were absolutely true for me.

The gospel reading that Sunday was about Joseph’s plan to divorce Mary quietly until the angel intervened and told him to take responsibility for the baby. Pastor Tim questioned whether or not Joseph’s original plan would have ever worked, but he noted that it is often in our human nature to shy away from the tasks of love and justice that just seem too difficult or burdensome. He said:

God's growing love cannot be stopped - no matter how sly the world is in trying to divorce itself from faith. Just like the expanding uterus of the virgin, God's full and pregnant love in Christ will be born upon the earth! Like most births, it will not be painless and pretty. It will take struggle and sacrifice. It will come with cries and the gasping for breath... but in the fullness of time, God's love will be born... with our without our help... and will dwell among us as Emmanuel.

We can do one of two things. We can follow Joseph's first impulse and try to divorce ourselves quietly from God's love... making it a secondary commitment in our lives. […] Or we can listen to the message of the angels... putting away our fear and hesitation... our uncertainty and unwillingness to risk, and thus become midwives to the birth of God's love! When Joseph awoke from his dream, he risked everything that would have protected him, and publicly made a commitment to Mary and to the Christ child growing within her. When we arise from our worship, might we be ready to be used by God in a similar way... perhaps feeling a little unready or uncertain... reluctant or downright scared. But people ready nonetheless to be partners in the birthing of God's love!

I was a puddle. I tend to cry in church on good days, but I was on the verge of losing it completely that Sunday. (A fact which seemed obviously to Tim when he stopped me after church, held my hand, and said, “We’ll be in prayer for you?”) After service, I ran to get my coat, because I just wanted to GET. OUT. But Roger cornered me. Roger and his wife Glenda adopted two of their children. I mentioned off-hand in the Fall that I’d like to talk to them sometime about their experience. Roger told me about a friend’s daughter, who was pregnant, and they might be looking for adoptive parents. Would we be interested in a private adoption? I stammered a lot, and then I just blurted out, “I’m pregnant.” I explained that we had two miscarriages, so we didn’t know how this one would go. So we might be interested. He gave me a hug and assured me they would be praying for us. I then hurried to the car, shut the door, and started yelling. “God! What was that??? What are you thinking???? What are you trying to tell me???” And then I cried, and cried, and cried, but I eventually calmed down because I knew it wasn’t good for you.

For Christmas, your dad gave me the beautiful necklace that says, “Faith.” I tried all kinds of medals and good luck tokens with the other babies, but I knew immediately this would be yours. We went home and managed to keep our mouths shut, even though all the smells of the holiday food were making me sick to my stomach. I stayed in Omaha for a week, and at night I would sleep under the quilt that your great-grandmother, great-great grandmother, and great-great aunts had made and beg. I would try to summon all those women to intercede for you. “Please let this baby be okay, Please let this baby be okay, please, please let this baby be okay.” I knew that at least your great-grandmother had lost a baby, and I hoped that she would understand.

I seemed to be doing fine emotionally, until all our friends left our house after a New Year’s Eve Party. We had an ultrasound in 3 days, and I was panicking. All my ultrasounds had been traumatic. I had never seen anything but my empty womb. We arrived early on a Tuesday morning and had the ultrasound tech who reminds me so much of your Aunt Katie (your dad confirmed this). She explained everything we might see. And before I had a chance to worry too much, she said, “And there’s everything we need to see, including the beating heart.” Your beautiful, lovely, flickering heart. At 159 bpm, she pronounced it “perfect,” and I couldn’t agree more. Your dad and I stared at your pictures for a long time. True, we couldn’t actually make out which part of you was your head, but you were our lovely, lovely blob with a perfect, beating heart. We loved you so much.

I headed out for California the next day. I was supposed to be going to the MLA conference, but I had no job interviews. Instead, I went and stayed with my friends Megan and Jim and did fun things with my friends Jason and Billy as well. It was a lovely way to escape the icy sidewalks and frigid temps of Iowa. My symptoms (and the fact I couldn’t drink coffee or wine or do certain activities) meant that you were getting harder to hide. Megan and Jim were so thrilled and protective of you. Megan even gave you your first gift – your crocheted dinosaur hat. There was one moment from that trip that was very special to me. We went gray whale watching, and the only whale we saw was extremely timid. Our guide soon figured out that it was because she had a baby with her. The whales were migrating down to Mexico – Baja. Most mothers made it down to Baja before they had their babies, but this little one had come too early. Now the mother had to struggle to keep her baby healthy in these colder waters, trying to get to Baja were the baby’s chances of survival were higher. I contained my desire to weep for her, because I knew how much she must be struggling. I also knew, in that moment, that I would do ANYTHING to get you to Baja. And I promised you as much right there.

Side note: We also went to Disneyland on that trip! Wasn’t that fun? Now we can check that off your life list…right?

Since I’ve been home, we got a great progress report at my first OB appointment and morning sickness has kicked into high gear. I’m also a basket case about my employment situation. I know we will figure it all out, but some days it’s hard to have faith. There are also days where grief for your siblings overwhelms me. It’s an odd experience to be mourning miscarried babies while curled in a ball from the nausea your current baby is causing you. In the past couple days, partly because I’ve been so sick, I’ve started to relax a bit more about you. Your dad and I are able to bring up “the baby” in casual conversation. I bought a book about baby sign language. I peaked at baby hats on Etsy and bought a few swatches of fabric for the sleep sack I want to make you. But then, out of nowhere I started weeping. It’s almost like every time I relax about you a bit more, that cautious part of my brain slaps me silly. I’m just so afraid of losing you. I will keep working at it, and I’m slowly letting go of the pain of last fall. And you are the reason I can do that, baby. I’m so happy you are here.

I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry our early days are not ones of exceeding joy and giddiness. We love you so, so much. Keep growing big and strong. Even if it means I’m exhausted all the time and spend most of my mornings in the bathroom, that’s fine. We’ll make it through. We’ll make it to Baja, baby.

Love Always,

Mama