Category: Miscarriage

#StartAsking About Little Lives Gone Too Soon

Three. You might have been three years old today. We planned and wished and prayed and worked hard for you, but you couldn’t stay.  You were gone before we ever had a chance to know you.  We miss you every day. You’re inked in our skin, and written on our hearts. You have a sister

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October 15th

Today is a day of remembrance for so many in the infertility community, including myself.

Share, support, grieve, and celebrate with those parents who hold a child in their hearts instead of their arms.

Please join me in lighting a candle tonight at 7pm as we remember our little ones gone too soon.  ❤




Here With Me Still

My Dear Little One,

It’s been a year since you left, and I think of you every single day, but today especially.

You are a part of who I am now, as you have been since the moment I discovered your tiny existence… Since before that, really.  You color my vision both of the past and of the present, and you will forever alter my outlook for the future.

Sometimes the thoughts of you come back unexpectedly, like when I’m digging for some trinket in my cedar chest, and your first photo catches my eye.  There are times I think you have some control over my thoughts of you; it can’t just be coincidence that a feather will find me when I’m upset.

Other times though, I conjure images of what you might look like today, what your laugh might sound like.  I know you’d be a funny little thing – that’s just genetics.  I’d be so proud to introduce you to everyone I know, and many people I don’t know in person who hoped and prayed along with your dad and me.  You’d be my absolute pride and joy today.

Still though, I am proud.  Proud that I have the honor of being your mother, if maybe not in the traditional sense today.  I’m proud that I carried you for however long I was able, and I’m proud that having loved you then exposed a whole side of me that I never knew existed.

I’m proud too that your loss broke my heart, but not my spirit.  When you left, it forced me to rebuild, forced me to be strong in the face of so much grief and what felt like injustice at the time.  Losing you taught me things about myself, and about your dad and me, that I could never have learned otherwise.

And I’m proud and grateful that you helped pave the way for those discoveries.  A helpful child, just the kind any mother would be proud to have.

I hope that you’re proud of me, too.  I know that things weren’t pretty at first; it took me a long time to really grieve you in a way that created any peaceful resolution.  In fact, I am still working through that today.  For the longest time, I put on a brave smile and went about my life all fierce and full of defiance in the face of tragedy, when in reality, what I needed was to truly feel, accept, and let go.

Once I wore myself out with all that bravado, I became fixated on getting answers as to why we lost you.  To say that I was obsessed might be a bit of an understatement, and probably not my proudest moment.  It took me some time to realize that answers wouldn’t bring you back, and that maybe you were part of a greater plan that I would never understand fully.

I’m living in that acceptance now.  I understand that it wasn’t my body that rejected you, and it wasn’t you that failed either.  You just weren’t meant to be my child on this Earth.

And that’s sad, but it’s okay.

You were meant to be my feather on the wind, my accountability, my hope.  My angel.

You were meant to come and go from my life in a way that would teach me what it truly means to be a parent.

You were meant to be the inspiration for many changes that I would make, and some that I am still making in life.

You were meant to be my child – my daughter, I think – who will forever carry around a piece of my heart, while mine is still trying to mend itself.

I think that’s part of the amazing trajectory this journey has taken: a piece of my heart went missing, and you have it; yet somehow, I’m regenerating that loss.  This only proves that becoming a mother, no matter in what way, causes your heart paradoxically to grow and become impervious to lasting damage, while also being more sensitive than ever.

Losing you broke my heart, but having you still has somehow mended it.

I’ll never forget you, dear one, for you’re imprinted in my heart, my soul, and my very skin.  I only hope to make you proud by proving every day that I am worthy to be called someone’s mother, and to use what you’ve given me to be a better person in every way.

I love you every day.

Thank you for being mine.

Yours.  Always…



I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always.

As long as I’m living,

My baby you’ll be.




Empty Arms

It’s only fitting that National Infertility Awareness Week should coincide with what would have been my due date.

Nothing makes you more aware of your infertility than a baby you loved, but never got to meet.


Last August, the most amazing thing happened.

The pregnancy test strips I was using to test out the trigger from my first Femara/Menopur cycle started getting darker, instead of lighter.

I was pregnant.

It was amazing and terrifying and brilliantly exciting.

It was surreal.

In that moment, alone in my bathroom and surrounded by peed-on paper strips, I experienced more joy than I had in my entire life.

Our Gummy Bear was on his or her way, and I suddenly had everything I had ever wanted.

I didn’t know then that seven weeks later, it would all come crashing down.

I miscarried.

The miscarriage was physically, emotionally, and psychologically the most difficult thing I have ever had to do.

The physicality of it only lasted a few days, but there are some aspects from which I may never fully recover.

I was a mother that night, and the next morning, I wasn’t any more.

I was empty.

Today is my would-be due date.

Today is the day that I was looking forward to, so intensely, and for such a short period of time; it’s also the day I have been dreading for so long.

Today is when I remember the tiny life that never got to be, and yet was loved so incredibly much.

I’ll never forget my first baby.

Gummy Bear gave me hope that I may one day hear that faint heartbeat, feel kicks and flips from the inside, and hold a wiggly, screaming new life in my arms.

Today, although my belly is flat, my heart is broken, and my arms are empty…

I am still standing.

I am a mother today,

and I will have hope, always.

Just as I will hold that baby in my heart.

I will remember.



Mourn and memorialize.

As long as I remember, my baby lives on.

Love lives on…






Halfway ‘Round the Sun…

Six months ago today, I finally saw that second line I’d been chasing for three years.

Six months ago today, I was scared and excited and had no idea how hard and far I could possibly fall.

I fell, though.

Into love.

Into hopefulness.

Into joy.

And then, nine weeks later, I fell into a hellish reality that included a life without my Gummy Bear.

A life of grief.

I fell again.

Into sadness.

Into hopelessness.

Into despair.

I’ve picked myself up since then, dusted myself off a bit and attempted to move on, but every day is still a struggle to remember, and a struggle to forget.

Six months ago I found my world, but it would be lost.

Six months ago I was a different person than I am today.

Where will I be in another six months?

Who will I be?

There’s no way to know for sure.

All I can do is crawl from one day to the next, trying to make my way to the other side of the sun.

Stars :: Grace Potter and the Nocturnals

I lit a fire with the love you left behind
And it burned wild and crept up the mountain side
I followed your ashes into outer space
I can’t look out the window, I can’t look at this place.

I can’t look at the stars
They make me wonder where you are
Stars, up on heaven’s boulevard
And if I know you at all, I know you’ve gone too far

So I, I can’t look at the stars.
All those times we looked up at the sky
Looking out so far, it felt like we could fly.

And now I’m all alone in the dark of night
And the moon is shining, but I can’t see the light.

And I can’t look at the stars
They make me wonder where you are
Stars, up on heaven’s boulevard
And if I know you at all, I know you’ve gone too far
So I, I can’t look at the stars.

Stars, they make me wonder where you are
Stars, up on heaven’s boulevard
And if I know you at all, I know you’ve gone too far
So I can’t look at the stars.



I really need to clean out my purse more often.

I was just digging through looking for expired coupons and receipts from my trip to Atlanta (I really need to turn in that expense report!), and ran across a couple of crumpled old receipts from Labor Day weekend.

Lunch with my girlfriends, their little girls, and the husband in Frankenmuth.  A day when the best friend and I talked about how fun it was going to be being pregnant together.

Dinner with a good friend at a barbecue joint that turned into me puking all over his house in my first, and only, morning sickness episode.

Just when you think you’re moving on, finally getting it together, crumpled paper ghosts come from the depths of your purse to haunt you.


There’s no running or hiding from the past, I guess.  It shows itself when you least expect it, bringing you low from your busy, hectic life, and reminding you of what you once had, and the person you were.

The person I may yet be again.





Oh hey, remember that one time when I was going to pick up meds to jumpstart my cycle so we could get back to trying to knock me up?

Well that was today, and I picked up those meds tonight.  I rushed home to take them, too.

I was more than a little surprised to find Aunt Flo waiting for me when I got there…

Really?  Really?! 


So now I wait.  I’m not sure what this means… Will I start Femara in a couple days, or do I need to wait another month?

  Only time will tell, and I’ll call the doc on the morning.

In the meantime… Wow.  Periods suck. 

Like, a lot.  I think I’d sort of forgotten… Thankfully, I was able to scrounge up some Midol!

Now to attempt sleep… Wish me luck. 



Uhh… Okay!

Tuesday, October 30th, 2012.  38DPMc.

So yesterday I called into Dr. K’s office and spoke with Nurse Grumpypants, who I am learning is not actually grumpy, just in a hurry.  She’s actually very nice, and when I can speak with her longer than a minute, very helpful as well.

I called to ask when would be the appropriate time to ask for help in getting my next cycle started.  It’s been well over a month since the miscarriage, and I’d been bleeding and spotting for close to a week before that even took place.  All in all, it’s been probably 45 days, give or take, since the start of my last bleed.

The nurse said that was plenty of time to have waited, and she would get a prescription for Provera called in for me.

“But wait… have you taken a pregnancy test?”

Uhh.  Noo… But I also didn’t think I’d ovulated since the miscarriage either, so I haven’t felt the need to do so.

I told her that, and she asked me to take an HPT and call her back to let her know the results.


Do you wanna know what the test said?


LOL… Sorry.  I find inappropriate things to be funny, and I guess joking about being pregnant is as pregnant as it gets for me these days.

So anyway, the nurse called in a prescription for Provera for me this morning.  I’ll start taking it tonight for ten days, and when I stop, Aunt Flo should come a-callin’.

The nurse said for me to call when I start bleeding, and I was confused.

So I’m like “Do you mean when I start bleeding in ten-ish days, or when I start bleeding in a month and ten-ish days?”

She says, “No sweetie, when you start bleeding in ten-ish days, you will need to call us so we can start ordering your meds for the medicated cycle.”

Uhh… Sorry, what?  “I’m confused.  (obviously I thought I had to have a full bleed and complete cycle before I could start meds again?”

“Well usually, yes, but since you’re taking the Provera, we consider that a cycle reset.  You can start meds in mid-November or as soon as you start bleeding.”

And then I’m all like “WOO HOO!”

Nurse Grumpypants actually laughed.

I’m kind of excited.  And nervous.  And straight-up worried about the timing of things, considering I’m going to Atlanta for four days in mid-November.

But this is a start.  A reset.

Something to look forward too, rather than sitting here stagnant, wondering when I might feel normal again.

Bring it on.  🙂


A Month and a Day and a Memory

Wednesday, October 24th, 2012.  32DPMc.

Soooo… not a whole lot new here.

Still alive.

Still healthy.

Still no Aunt Flo.

What the French, toast?

I guess I’ll just… hang out?  Wait for her to arrive?  Assume that she’s going to come as soon as I have something fun or important planned?

Yeah.  Sounds like her.


In other news, yesterday was the one month-iversary of my miscarriage.  It was a sad day for me, but also an empowering one.  I am talking about this openly in my real life.

At work, at home, with family and friends… Even with people I’ve just met.  It doesn’t really make me the life of the party or anything, but people know I was pregnant.  People know that although my baby isn’t at home with me, I am still a mother.

It’s a little awkward sometimes, but then again, so am I… so it works.

Also, I have been thinking about a tattoo in memory of my Gummy Bear.  I called the artist who did my last tattoo a couple of weeks ago to discuss some ideas with her, and she said she would call me back to set up an appointment.

Well, she called last night.

And had an appointment cancellation, leaving a slot open for me… tonight.

Sooo… this is it.

On my wrist… out in the open. The feathers may fly away, but a piece of my heart will always go with them.

Gummy Bear doesn’t have a nursery or a baby book, a grave stone or ashes, but I will always have this reminder that my baby was real.

My baby lived.

My baby was loved.




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Summertime Sadness

A safe space where I discuss the racing thoughts in my head, personal struggles, and day-to-day activities while struggling with mental health and mood disorder issues. My personal goal is to reduce the stigma that comes with mental health and mood disorders, by talking more about it.