A loss, a diagnosis & a gift.

A loss 

Several months ago I had a patient who prematurely went into labor and delivered a peanut of a baby who never even got to take her first breath. All ten fingers and all ten toes were perfectly formed yet so fragile. Her eyes fused shut, hidden behind eyelashes just beginning to sprout. Every part was in its place, in miniature form. 

A few weeks earlier, I too experienced my own loss. My experience was much different, but I believe overall the emotions were very similar. Which is why I sat embracing this woman as we cried together. At the loss of our babies. The loss of life. The loss of possibilities. The loss of hopes and dreams and the unknown that would never be known. The whys and the what ifs. The if only's and could haves, should haves, would haves. They can destroy you if you let them. 

She didn't want to see or hold her sweet girl. She said it was just too much for her to bare. So instead I sent her home with a stack of photos in a sealed envelope of her perfect little girl, hands folded gently across her chest, so peaceful as if she was just resting for a moment and could awaken at any time. 

Before she left I shared with her my own journey of loss and reminded her that she was never alone. Hugs and tears were exchanged before she left with empty arms and an empty womb. 

I sent her several cards over the last few months letting her know I was thinking of her  (thanks to a wonderful program another nurse I work with has taken the time to coordinate), and received a Christmas card from her in my mailbox at work this past week. Tears streamed down my face as I read her kind words. 

"Whenever I feel alone I think of you. I think of the tears you shared with me in a moment that words just didn't seem adequate. Your silence meant so much to me. Your cards always seemed to arrive at the perfect moments. When sadness and darkness all but swallowed me, your words of encouragement gave me hope and joy. You'll never know what you've done for me. Thank you. Merry Christmas." 

Hope. Joy. Love. 

A diagnosis 

I was called into work one afternoon and upon arriving on the unit noticed a co-worker embracing another who had tears running down her cheeks. I later found out the patient she was caring for had received the news that their baby had Down syndrome, which had been unknown prior to the baby's birth. 

I had the privilege of caring for the patient and her family on the day of discharge. Prior to entering the room I wondered what to say or do, feeling like I had a responsibility to offer them some kind of advice or words of comfort. What I didn't expect was for their words to comfort me. 

When I entered the room the pediatrician was assessing the baby. When he was done he reassured the parents that there were a ton of resources and support services available to them to help them through this. I was expecting his words to cause them to break into tears or release an audible sigh of heartache, but they didn't. Instead, without hesitation the mom looked at her husband, they exchanged smiles and then said, "We're just so excited to go on this adventure with him." She was beaming. Literally, beaming. Glowing. Radiating joy. Like I'd never seen it before. The dad hovered over the bassinet, staring at his sweet baby boy in awe. He too beamed. He bent down towards him and whispered "I love you so much buddy" before kissing him over and over again. 

My heart stopped. Tears began to fill my eyes and for a moment I felt like I was a fly on the wall witnessing this beautiful, surreal moment. I felt like I wasn't even worthy to be in the presence of such hope. Such love. Unconditional, genuine love. Here I was mourning the loss of what I selfishly (and wrongly) believed was the less than "perfect" situation and birth of a baby who was given a life changing and devastating diagnosis. I felt so ashamed. These parents weren't mourning at all. They were celebrating. They were excited. They were joyful. 

As I watched them leave our unit as a family, beaming from ear to ear, something deep down within me whispered "remember this moment. Remember it forever. This is what life is about."

Hope. Joy. Love. What great love. 

A gift

The thought of carrying my babies for 10 whole months, feeling them kick and hiccup and move, watching my belly grow, and hearing their heartbeat inside me, only to give them away is really unfathomable to me. 

But the gift of adoption is truly one of the most heart wrenching and beautiful things I've been able to witness as a nurse. 

One mama's heartbreak is another mama's answered prayer. And the exchange from one mom to another is just truly like nothing you've ever seen before. 

Recently, for the first time in my career as a labor & delivery nurse I got to witness part of what those in the adoption world call an entrustment ceremony. A ritual, symbolic, and emotional exchange where the birth mom hands over, and entrusts her baby to the adoptive parents. The moment she makes the brave decision to give her child what she believes is a better life. Hope for the future. A forever home. 

As I cared for both the biological mom and adoptive parents my heart was torn. My heart ached for the mom whose arms and womb were now empty. Yet it rejoiced for the mom whose arms were now full, and whose womb could not carry life. 

John 15:13 reads, "Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends." I should think that handing over life to a complete stranger is looked at no differently. What joy. What hope. What love! What great great love! 

 Love that exists because on one fateful night, in the cold confines of a stable, one brave, strong woman gave birth to a son. Life was given unto us. 

His mothers eventual loss, our gain. His 'diagnosis', to live righteously and blamelessly in the face of struggle and sin. His life and resurrection, a gift to all. 

A loss. A diagnosis. A gift. 

Hope. Joy. Love. What great love. 

Merry Christmas.

Miscarriage: Life after loss.

It's been said that a father doesn't become a father until the moment he holds his child. But a mother, well she becomes a mother the moment she knows a child is growing within her.

Two pink lines.

They change you.

Forever.

After a thyroid cancer diagnosis during my second pregnancy and a total thyroidectomy just 5 weeks postpartum I was told it could be very difficult to get pregnant again. I remember the day my endocrinologist told me it was a possiblity this could be it. That this could be my last pregnancy. I cried and cried and despite knowing deep down in my heart that this man was not God, those words cut deep. And they ate at me. The thought of never being pregnant again hurt my mama soul so badly. I knew how lucky I was to have two beautiful, healthy children but I didn't feel done. I didn't want to be done.

Month after month, negative after negative I started to believe that I may never be able to have another baby.

And then, there they were.

Two pink lines.

One of the happiest days of my life. Because what I had started to believe was impossible, God made possible. When I was losing faith and hope and patience, God restored all of those things.

I was going to be a mama again. 3 sweet babes. Three. I was estatic.

I gave Ryan an early Father's Day card and I included a picture of me & the kids holding a positive pregnancy test. He cried. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen my husband cry--2 of which included the day our kids were born. We were both so overwhelmed. Relieved. Excited.

We started imaging our life with 3. We would need a new car.  And we'd have to move around the bedrooms. And I would pick up as much over time as I could so we could pay off my college loans faster. Would it be another little lady with sass? Or another little man with charm? We couldn't wait to find out. Callie insisted she was having another little brother. No doubt in hopes to uphold her standing as the big sister and more importantly, the boss.

It took everything in me not to tell the world that I was going to be a mama again. I couldn't stop smiling. I couldn't stop touching my belly and thanking God, what felt like, every other second.

Then one morning I went into work and felt a gush. I tried so hard not to panic. I told myself not to panic. But this wasn't normal. This hadn't happened with my other pregnancies. I went to talk with one of the midwives and immediately broke down into tears. She reassured me that sometimes bleeding happens in pregnancy. She encouraged me to keep an eye on it. But I knew. I don't know how I knew, but I just knew.

After the initial gush came more bleeding. Then cramping. Horrible, knife-like, gut-wrenching cramping. I tried to hold myself together. After all, I was at work and I had a job to do.

I will never forget the patient I had that day. I will never forget her face. Or her words. Or the sound of her baby's heartbeat. Because while I hooked her up to a machine that monitored her baby's heartbeat, and listened to her complain about how awful her pregnancy was and how she couldn't wait for it to be over, I sat on the edge of her bed knowing I would never get to hear my baby's heartbeat. Knowing that in that moment, my baby's life was literally over.

I ran out of the room several times to vomit. And cry. And pray. And pled.

 I couldn't believe this was happening. I knew it happened. I knew that sometimes in the first trimester pregnancies ended, for no apparent reason. But not to me. I didn't know it could happen to me.

When I realized I could no longer be at work I stumbed to my car in the pouring rain and closed the door. Then the floodgates opened. Uncontroable sobs erupted from deep within my soul. I called my husband. He said he couldn't understand me. "We lost the baby" I kept saying over and over again. "What? How?" he replied. "How do you know? Are you sure?" a series of questions ensued, none of which I could answer.

I sat in the parking lot for an hour. I couldn't move. It hurt to breathe. I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe this is happening to me.

I drove home and crawled into bed. I cried myself to sleep. That's the only time it didn't hurt. When I was sleeping. Anytime I woke up it felt like I was living a nightmare. Someone elses nightmare. But it wasn't. It was my own. This was actually happening. To me. I felt like I was drowning. The sadness quickly turned to rage. And then quickly back to sadness. The knife-like stabbing pain in my abdomen was a constant reminder that this was really happening. I wanted it to end. I just wanted it all to end.

The cramping eventually stopped, but the bleeding didn't. Another daily constant reminder that I would never know this little person. That I would never get to smell the top of his or her head or kiss their smooth soft cheeks. Or hear them say mama. Or watch them grow. What would they have become? Who were they going to be? What if they were destined to be a writer or an artist or a senator? Now I'd never know.

The days and weeks to follow were so hard. So so hard. I had amazing support. I truly, truly, truly thank God for the friends that kept my head above the water. That let me know I wasn't alone. That let me be sad. And angry. And say things. Lots of things. And didn't judge me one bit for saying them. Friends who had known loss, greater loss than I had. But still supported me. And forgave me. And loved me. And comforted me. And suffered with me.

There were others who weren't so forgiving. Others who wrote off the loss of my sweet babe because it was so early. Who thought because I never heard a heartbeat that must have meant there wasn't one to begin with. Others who thought that because I had two beautiful, healthy children that meant I shouldn't grieve the loss of a child I no longer had.  Others who made me feel that being upset about a child I lost was selfish because the children I had needed me. Shortly after my loss someone said to me, "You don't seem like yourself. I don't like this new you."  There were a lot of things I wanted to say, but couldn't at the time. I was angry. Bitter. Sad. And so many many things. But to them I say this-- I wasn't myself. I wasn't myself because I lost a part of me. A part I will never ever get back. You don't just get over that. You don't just move on from something like that overnight. It takes time. Rediscovering who you are takes time. Healing takes time. Life after loss takes time.

Months later and there are times I still feel plagued by sadness and anger. But God is good. God is gracious. He works for the good of those that love Him. He has healed parts of me I didn't think could be healed. Parts I wasn't ever sure I wanted healed because I was afraid I would forget. Forget that I loved a little person I will never know.

I think of that sweet babe every day. I think about how I'd be feeling him or her kicking. Hiccuping. Growing. Excited to add to our family. To watch my kids become siblings. To love one another. Discover one another. Grow with each other. I still wonder who they would have become. What they would have been like.

Instead I know my sweet babe rests in the arms of my Heavenly Father. The One who promises to give me hope and a future. The One who gives, and takes away. And some day, when I'm called Home, we'll be reunited once again. But until then I'll keep on loving you. Because to me, you weren't just two pink lines. You changed me. Forever.






Dedicated to those who have experienced loss. To those who have been too afraid to speak out in fear you'd be rejected or judged. To those who have suffered in silence because society has made us believe that a loss of an early life is not worthy of grieving over. That we can't talk about it. That we shouldn't talk about it. That it doesn't matter. But it does. It matters. Life matters. In honor of  pregnancy & infant loss we will be joining with thousands and thousands of people across the nation on October 15th and lighting a candle in rememberance of our sweet babe, and for yours. Whoever you are, where ever you may be. Because you & your baby matter.


Special special thanks to Sarah R, Cheryl C, Molly M, Myka J, Nicole R, and Bethany S for your love & support.

The face of Postpartum Depression

I am the mom of two. I am a wife. I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am a friend. I am a labor and delivery nurse. I am the face of postpartum depression.

I vividly remember the first night we brought our daughter Callie home from the hospital. She had been crying off and on all day and despite my best attempts to comfort her nothing seemed to be working. My nipples were cracked and bleeding. I was wearing an adult diaper and hurting in places I didn't even know I could hurt. I hadn't slept in what felt like days. I was exhausted and overwhelmed. The thoughts in my head surrounded me like hungry sharks circling their prey preparing for attack.

You're not good enough.
You can't do this.
You're too young.
You have no idea what you're doing.

I felt like I was drowning and gasping for air. I didn't know how much longer I could tread water. I didn't know how much longer I wanted to. My soul deep sobs led my husband back to our bedroom where I laid curled up in a ball, trying desperately to contain the fear that had consumed me.

 "Did we make the right decision?" I asked him. "Are you sure we shouldn't have given her up for adoption?" I sobbed harder, thinking about all the moments that had led up to welcoming this perfect human being into the world.

Unwed, pregnant and a senior at a Christian college I endured harsh judgment, criticism and ridicule from close friends, peers and professors. I lost friendships I thought were rooted deep in the love of Jesus.

 . Many in my position would have chosen abortion (and did), but I chose life. 

"I think you just need some sleep" my husband reassured me. The next morning I woke up and thought, "I can't imagine my life without this girl". Looking back I now chuckle about my freak out moment, but at the time the emotions I felt were very real. 

Fear. Anxiety. Worry. Panic. Exhaustion. Fear. Panic. Fear. 

Fast forward 8 months. We found out we were expecting baby #2. Joy. Thankfulness. Excitement. Fear. 

The second pregnancy flew. Maybe it was because I was so busy chasing after a toddler that I didn't care to look at all 15 pregnancy apps I had downloaded during my first pregnancy to track each passing day, but before I knew it D day was just around the corner. 

Panic. Fear. Worry. Anxiety. 

How would I love another human being as much as I loved my daughter? It couldn't be possible. I felt like if I loved another human I would be betraying her. It wouldn't be fair to her. She needed me. And I needed her. She was MY baby. We knew each other. I loved her. I didn't have room for more in my heart. I wasn't sure I wanted to have room. 

Good friends assured me it would be ok. They said despite feeling like you couldn't love another child as much as your first that you would. In time, you'd learn them too and they'd have a special place in your heart. The love isn't divided, a good friend told me, it multiplies. 

I remained skeptical. 

Then he came. I cried tears of joy. Relief. Love. Instantaneous love. 

Nothing can quite compare to the moment my daughter met her little brother. I thought my heart was literally going to explode. The joy on her face. I will always always remember THAT moment. 

Then we went home. I ate my placenta (a story for another day), was overwhelmed and thankful for all the support from our friends and family and felt great. No better than great. I felt high. High on life. Sleep evaded me but it didn't matter. I hardly noticed. I was so in love with my new family of 4 I felt unstoppable. 

Then came the crash. During my second pregnancy I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer and needed to have it removed. I made the difficult decision to wait to have it removed until after I delivered. My sweet boy was 5 weeks old when I underwent a total thyroidectomy. The doctor had told me that I would need Radioactive Iodine (RAI) therapy after surgery to ensure all the cancer was gone. This meant being away from my kids for an entire week, as the radiation could be emitted off of me onto them and destroy their immature thyroids. 

Long story short, the cancer was smaller than anticipated and I opted out of RAI. I was thankful and hoped to resume life as normal. 

But it wasn't normal. My hormones plummeted. I didn't want to be around anyone. I didn't want to go anywhere. I cried off and on, day and night. I looked at my newborn baby and knew in my heart that I loved him but couldn't feel anything. That made me angry. Where love and patience should have been, anger and resentment grew. No, festered. 

My sweet babe would cry and I became so overwhelmed I couldn't even think. I'd place him upstairs in his crib and say "I'm sorry I'm such a terrible mom. You'll be safer up here". 

Let me take a moment before I go on to say that my babe was always taken care of. I never neglected his immediate needs. I never thought of hurting him. But the thought that I COULD get to a point that I could think about hurting him haunted me. 

I felt like a horrible mom. The worst mom. I remember one night going to my own moms house to get away and I sat at the kitchen table and sobbed. "It's not fair to him. He didn't choose me. He didn't get to choose his mom. And now he's stuck with me. He's stuck with me forever."

Raw emotion. Fear. Anxiety. Worry. Depression. 

The days turned into weeks and nothing got better. A friend of mine had delivered a week after me and shared with me that she was being treated for postpartum depression (PPD). It was the breakthrough I needed. 

I needed to know I wasn't the only one. I needed someone to tell me they were struggling too. I needed to know it was ok and that it wasn't my fault. 

No one chooses to look into their child's eyes and feel nothing. No one chooses to place their child in a crib feeling like their better off there than in their mothers arms. No one chooses to feel disconnected to a life they grew inside of their very being. 

She gave me the push I needed to seek help and I will forever be grateful. It wasn't easy. Admitting you're depressed isn't easy. Admitting you feel (or don't feel) certain things towards your child is torture. I felt like a monster. 

I went to the doctors and told them I was pretty sure I was struggling with PPD. The medical assistant that did my intake exam said, "well why don't you tell me a little bit about your life". So I did. I told her I had a wonderful supportive husband, a beautiful toddler and newborn, and a job I was passionate about that I looked forward to returning to after my leave. "Well it sounds like you have a wonderful life dear! It sounds Iike you have a lot to be thankful for!"

I did. I had a lot to be thankful for. But in that very moment I felt defeated. In that moment, I felt like her words negated my feelings. In that moment, I felt like every little bit of hope I had left, was lost. 

Here I was sitting in the doctors office with my newborn baby who I felt nothing towards but desperately wanted to feel just a fraction of the love I knew I had for him. I wanted to scream. Help me. Please help me. You're not listening to me. I need help. This is not normal. This can't be normal. 

I frantically texted friends for reassurance as I waited for the doctor. I wanted to take my baby and run. I couldn't do this. If the medical assistant hadn't taken me seriously neither would the doctor. No ones going to believe me. Why won't someone believe me? 

She knocked. Then entered. My heart was racing. "I can't believe I'm here. I'm embarrassed" I blurted out. But I didn't stop there. "This is how I feel and I don't want to feel this way anymore. It's killing me. It's literally killing me. My kids deserve better. I deserve better. I know I can be better" I said to her. She sat and listened patiently. I felt like I was talking to mother Teresa. Or Jesus. Not a hint of judgement or doubt passed across her face.  She just sat. And listened. 

When I was done she suggested a progesterone shot and a low dose of Zoloft. God, please let this work, I thought. 

Within days I felt like a new person. I felt like me again. The relief was overwhelming. 

The floodgates of depression were violently opened and a current of love began to flow. And flow. And flow. It hasn't stopped since. 

Praise God. Praise God. Praise God. 

Praise God from whom all blessings flow. 

PPD is real. It is real and it is scary. It is easy to become isolated and think you're alone. Friend, you're not alone. There is hope. Not only can you survive PPD, you can claim victory over it. 

If you or someone you know is dealing with PPD please encourage them to seek help. It does get better. It can get better. It WILL get better. 

I wouldn't wish PPD on anyone. Unfortunately PPD doesn't care who you are. Wife, daughter, sister, friend, or labor & delivery nurse. No one is immune to it. No one is above it. It can happen to anyone. 

And it's not your fault. 

Say it out loud. 

It's not my fault. 

Say it again. 

Now believe it. 

There is hope. Praise The Lord. 

"The nights of crying your eyes out give way to DAYS of LAUGHTER" 

[psalm 30:5] 

Addendum-- since sharing this blog post I have received an OVERWHELMING response. I am humbled. Truly. To those of you seeking help, I applaud you. My heart is so so happy. I want to support you anyway I can. Even if that just means praying for you. I also want to encourage you to persevere. If for some reason you feel as if your cries (or whispers) for help are not being heard or taken seriously PLEASEEEEE get a second opinion. Or third. Or fourth. You are worth it. Depression is a serious matter. Don't waste one more second feeling like you're stuck like this forever. You're not. There is hope! 

Callie & Jax, someday I hope you look back at this and know how much I love you. I have always loved you. I am not perfect. I never will be. But the One who is loves you with an  eternal love. One I will always strive for but will never obtain. In moments you feel unloved (Lord let them be few) remember I'm imperfect. But I'll always try my hardest. You both are my life. 

And they were right. Love doesn't divide. It multiplies. I'm so lucky to be your mama. And even though you didn't get to choose me, I chose you. And I will continue to chose you every single day for the rest of our lives. 

Why anyone can parent

A few weeks ago while I was at the gym I bumped into an old acquaintance. We exchanged small talk including the addition of my youngest, the long hours I'd been putting in at work and the struggle to find balance in it all.

 "Do you love being a Mom?" he asked, completely catching me off guard.

For a brief moment I thought about the morning I had with my kids. Baby babbles and toddler giggles woke me up before my alarm clock had the chance to. As soon as my eyes opened I smiled, knowing I would be greeted with smiles and hugs from my favorite little people. I rolled out of bed and headed to their bedrooms. "Mama!" my toddler exclaimed with excitement. A big gummy smile from my baby and cheeks with the most perfect dimples made my heart flutter. I squeezed them both tight, smelling the tops of their heads--which somehow always seem to be the perfect combination of innocence, warmth and love. I got them both dressed, fed, and off to daycare with minimal tantrums. It had been a good morning.

I smiled. "I love it", I said, as if without any hesitation or thought. 

 "It takes a really special person to do what you're doing" he responded.

We exchanged smiles once more before we parted ways.

While finishing up my workout I couldn't stop thinking about our conversation. Why had he specifically asked me if I loved being a Mom? If my morning had gone differently, would I have responded in the same way? What if my baby had been up all night, every hour on the hour, crying from teeth trying to push through his gums? Or my toddler woke up several times through the night coughing so hard she threw up and I had to change her bed sheets three times within three hours? And what if I had only been able to get a few hours of sleep before having to work a 16 hour day? All of it had happened earlier that week.

Over the last few weeks I've given a lot of thought to the conversation and why it's stuck with me so much.

At first I was offended by the fact that someone had asked me if I loved being a mom. I mean what kind of a question is that!? I'll tell you what kind of a question it is. It is a question only a man would ask.

A mom would never ask another mom if she loved being a mom. You know why? Because there's this unspeakable bond between mothers. A bond that is rooted in an understanding. An understanding that being a mom isn't always easy. An understanding that being a mom means putting everyone elses' needs before your own. An understanding that even if you wake up feeling like you don't want to be a mom, that you're still a mom. You will always be a mom and you will forever have people who are counting on you to be there for them. There is this understanding between moms that although every day is not a good day, we will forever strive to provide the best for our kids. We would go to any height, any depth and any length to ensure their utmost happiness. We would die for them. On their best days, and on their worst.

And what did he mean by "it takes a special kind of person?" I think what he really must have meant by special was crazy.

The truth is, it doesn't take a special person to parent. But it does take a special God.

A week ago I was home with my kids and they were both driving me crazy. They were itching to get outside and although it was cold and windy I decided to bundle them up in hats and coats and gloves and take a stroll--because I needed some fresh air just as much, if not more, than they did. I was angry because it felt like this streak of cold, wet, and miserable weather was never going to end. I'd been stuck inside all winter with the kids and I no longer had to pull my hair out because it was literally falling out in chunks on its own.

While fighting to push the double stroller against the wind I whispered, "God please help me be a better mom today. Help me have more patience. Help me love them like you love them. And God pleaseeeeee just give me some sunshine."

Within a few moments the clouds parted and the sun kissed my cheeks. I closed my eyes and smiled. I could feel the warmth encompass my soul. I let out a sigh of relief and with it I whispered, "thank you Jesus." As quickly as the sun broke through the grey haze it disappeared just the same. Suddenly I heard a little voice, who'd been screaming off and on all morning because I didn't let her have a popsicle for breakfast, whisper "thank you Jesus."

Tears came rolling down my cheeks and I told my little (big) girl how much I loved her. "Do you know Jesus loves you?" I asked. "ugh huh" she replied confidently as if the news wasn't any surprise to her whatsoever.

There are many many days I go to bed at night disappointed in myself. Disappointed in the way I lost my temper with one of my kids. Disappointed in the way I was quick to judge someone. Disappointed that I didn't have a better attitude about a certain situation. But I'm human. And that's far from special.

Special people don't exist, but thank God grace does.

Your grace is enough,

Your grace is enough,

Your grace is enough for me.