Lionhearts and Love

I've had this week circled on my mental calendar for months now. This week will be one of emotional highs and lows for me, with many activities planned to keep me from withdrawing into my own thoughts too much. In happy news, Silas is enjoying his last week of kindergarten! I can hardly believe that my boy is moving on in the fall to full-day first grade, but I know he's ready. This week he gets to experience his first Super Kids Day, and Thursday is his final day of school. We had such a wonderful experience with his first year of school, having fallen in love with his teachers and his school community. I look forward to the role that this school will play in our family's lives in the years to come. Continuing on with our happy events, our family leaves on Friday for a long-awaited trip to Oregon.

Following his end-of-the-year kinder program

 My struggle with the week is Thursday the 26th, which should have been the day that we welcomed little Hjarta into our lives. It feels like we lost Hjarta so long ago. It's hard to believe that I still would have been pregnant at this point, that I still would not have met this baby. After all this time, I feel I have come to know him well. One of the neat things about never having met him is that our friends and family can speculate and believe what they want about what Hjarta may have been like, and any one of us could be right. Silas firmly believes that Hjarta was a girl, and he refers to Hjarta as "she." I, on the other hand, pretty strongly believe that Hjarta would have been a nature-loving boy--a Christopher Robin, so to speak, that would have spent hours in the woods and thrived on solitude in a way I could never understand. I imagine his spirit still infiltrating the beautiful, quiet places of this Earth, as though each time I see a beautiful mountain or come across a waterfall, Hjarta was there waiting for me to see it too. The thought brings me immense comfort.

Emotionally I am continuing to do well, for the most part. It helps so much to have Jude thriving within me. We are 18 weeks along with him now, and my anxiety about his survival is mostly gone. It all feels so complicated as I still sometimes mourn Hjarta, because I know that if I had Hjarta I would not have Jude. I think Jude is going to be a pretty awesome little guy, and the more that I can allow myself to get excited about him, the easier it gets. Until just a few weeks ago, however, I refused to allow myself quiet moments when I might imagine his soft skin or his scent, as though I feared an attachment might grow to a baby that I might still lose. With each successful doctor appointment that passes, though, there is reassurance that this outcome is destined to be more like those of Silas, George, and Van than of Hjarta. The moments when I struggle the most are undoubtedly moments when I am alone. If it gets too quiet, I get too much into my own head and then I can't stop the tears.

BJ is traveling for work this week, but he arranged to be home by late Wednesday night so that he is not out of town on the 26th. This is also good since we are leaving for Oregon on the 27th, and I definitely don't want to completely prepare the packing for that trip alone. Silas' teacher has graciously offered to let George, Van, and me attend school the morning of the 26th and "help," which will add the perfect chaos to keep my mind off sad memories. BJ will take the afternoon off of work, and Silas has a baseball game that night; the day will be busy! Even though BJ will be gone the first part of this week and I will have more alone time in the evenings than I would prefer, I realize that my outlook on this week is very much my own choice. I can choose to think and dwell and cry for hours on end, or I can keep busy, focus on the goodness, enjoy our happy activities, and let Thursday be a day that I celebrate Silas in his last day of school while also remembering my lost baby with extra kindness toward others. If I don't want the week completely ruined, I have to make the choice to not let myself ruin it. I can do that.

If you think of it on Thursday, spend an extra moment of your day being kind to someone. You don't have to do it for Hjarta or me. Do it for someone else you love, or someone you lost, or a mother you know who has lost a child. Do it because the world is beautiful and people are good, and you have an opportunity to contribute to the beauty of humankind. If you do something kind for someone, you could even let me know what it is. It would be nice to do some extra smiling on that day, feeling the positive vibes that my friends are sending around this lovely earth. Thank you to all of my family and friends for supporting me in what has been the most difficult time of my life. Thank you mostly to BJ, who has kept me afloat when I was physically down and couldn't do it for myself. I think of BJ when I hear the Of Monsters and Men song "Love Love Love." The lyrics say, "You love, love, love when you know I can't love," and they remind me very much of my physical and emotional recovery in the fall. My grief took 80% of me, and my kids took the other 20%, and there was a period of a few weeks there when I had absolutely nothing left for BJ, and that was when he loved me the most. I will always appreciate his willingness, love, and understanding.

The Woods

Is it a universal instinct of cautiousness that pregnant women feel during their first trimesters? Although there are certainly women who never give a thought to having a miscarriage, it seems the majority of women are quite careful about getting too excited during those first 12 weeks. Many of them don't even share their news with family and friends because they fear a miscarriage, and wouldn't want to have to retrace their steps and tell everyone that they lost the baby after all. With my oldest son Silas, I worried a lot about having a miscarriage, but I didn't have one. With the next two, George and Van, I worried very little about miscarriage, and--again--didn't lose the babies. With my fourth, Hjarta, I worried about miscarriage almost constantly. I experienced a lot of cramping throughout the pregnancy, and I breathed a sigh of relief every time I didn't see blood in my underwear--and with every week that passed. Three days before we learned we had lost Hjarta, I commented to my sister, "I'm starting to feel good about this pregnancy. I'm starting to feel like we're out of the woods." Those were the very words I spoke, and she was shocked to hear them because it had never occurred to her that I might miscarry, and I had not fully shared my worries with anyone. Three days later I saw the blood, and I knew. My body had been preparing my mind all along.

With the loss of Hjarta, BJ began introducing more upbeat, energetic albums into our family music playlist. We often listen to music as we're messing around the house, and impromptu family dance parties are not out of place. The four boys tend to enjoy the music more than I do, but I'll admit that sometimes you just can't beat a tune to dance to. The influx of happier music in our house has most notably consisted of Taylor Swift's "1989" and Alabama Shakes' "Sound and Color," though Weeknd's "Can't Feel My Face" is a favorite, and we also delight in Whip/Nae Nae on occasion. Undoubtedly, the boys adore Taylor Swift and request her music daily. Coincidentally, their favorite song on the album is number four, entitled "Out of the Woods."

The first time I ever heard "Out of the Woods," the loss of Hjarta was fresh and it stung me to listen to the lyrics. To repeatedly hear the question "Are we out of the woods yet?" vocalized was painful, as it was the exact line that had reverberated through my mind for all the weeks of my recent pregnancy before it ended in the death of a baby and a dream. In particular, the second verse speaks to me and makes me think of Hjarta:

"Looking at it now, last December
We were built to fall apart, then fall back together
Your necklace hanging from my neck,
The night we couldn't quite forget
When we decided
To move the furniture so we could dance
Baby, like we stood a chance
Two paper airplanes flying, flying, flying
And I remember thinking,

Are we out of the woods yet?
Are we out of the woods yet?
Are we out of the woods?
Are we in the clear yet?
Are we in the clear yet?
In the clear yet?"

Sculpture: "Memorial for Unborn Children" by artist Martin Hudáček

Taylor Swift said the song is written to reflect a fragile relationship of which she was once a part, a relationship that ended but which she considered special. It felt like something similar to me--parts of it echoed my fear during my own time with the child I never met. It felt like I was hearing my own voice asking BJ, "Are we out of the woods yet? Are we out of the woods? Are we in the clear yet?" At the point that I first heard the song, I wasn't even out of the emotional woods of the miscarriage. At that time I could see the light between the trees but my footpath was still unsure and winding. I have since cleared those woods, but find myself back in a whole different set of woods again. This time I am pregnant with a fifth child, once again immersed in the woods of the worrisome first trimester.

I knew I would write this post tonight, and completely by coincidence Silas asked BJ at dinner this evening, "Are you afraid of the woods?" BJ responded by saying, "The woods can be scary at night, but there's not really anything to be scared of." He was right, for the most part. Usually the scary part of the woods is the darkness when the sun goes down, the amplification of unseen noises, and the confusion of one's own worries. I'm in the woods in a first trimester, but I have mostly kept my eyes closed to keep out my fears, putting one step in front of the other, one day after another day, until this baby makes it or doesn't. A friend who has been in these shoes before shared her mantra: "I'm pregnant today, and that's all I can do." I have my doctor appointments lined up, and I am taking care of my health. There is hope and there is dread. We don't know what happened to make us lose Hjarta, and we don't know that it won't happen again. We do know it is worth the risk to try though.

Nowadays, the song only hurts a little. The version I linked to below is a pretty one, but it's not the upbeat version from her album. I'm grateful to be journeying through these woods again. I realize that many women have their metaphorical hiking boots laced up, ready for the journey, and haven't yet received--or won't receive--the signal to begin the expedition. The journey of pregnancy starts with the woods. Maybe this time, with this baby, I get to add in the last word of Taylor Swift's song because the pregnancy ends in a baby and not a loss: "Are we in the clear yet, in the clear yet? GOOD."

Becoming Okay

Since losing Hjarta, a strange thing has happened to me: I've stopped writing. Writing first became both a discipline and a joy to me in my third-grade year. My teacher, Mrs. Sturch, luckily took a shine to me, and it was through her profound influence that my writing craft was fostered. I owe her a debt of gratitude. Throughout my years, writing has kept me sane; it has served as a form of self-expression that has kept my mental tubes unclogged for nearly thirty years. I have worked hard to hone this craft, and I have always been meticulous when writing drafts, be they blog posts or my doctoral dissertation. Imagine my surprise, then, as I have suddenly found myself floundering when it comes to writing. I could have stayed active on my blog, but the thought of doing so gave me mental shudders.

If you grasp one sentence from this post, please let it be this:

Miscarriage is absurdly difficult.

There are no two ways about it. It has been the most challenging emotional and physical experience of my life. Granted, my physical experience was an atypical nightmare that could have cost me my life. Even had it not been so physically complicated though, I was bound to be thrown off my axis by the loss of my unborn baby. Miscarriage is drastically under-discussed in our world, but I have learned through my experience that it is astoundingly common. When I scroll through my "Galentines" phone file, which consists of the 15 women I text most frequently, I realize that nine of them had at least one miscarriage and two have lost a child. Clearly, I'm in good company. As I publicly shared my grief through my blog and Facebook, increasing numbers of friends whom I never realized had a miscarriage told me the stories of their loss; I found their support to be invaluable, and I feel strong bonds of sisterhood with them now. I think, "She gets it. Others don't really get it, but she gets it." Friends, if a woman is brave enough to tell you that she has had a miscarriage, please take her and her loss very seriously. The death of her baby may seem abstract, and it may seem trivial to you when compared with xyz, but I promise you that it was earth-shattering for her. I consider myself an empathic person who mourned when friends of mine had miscarriages, but I had absolutely no clue how awful it really is until it happened to me.


How awful is it? Well, for the first two weeks I was only halfway emotionally functional. I didn't cook a single meal besides breakfast for two solid weeks, and that is not an exaggeration. I depended heavily on restaurants, family and friends bringing food, and my mom cooking for me. My kids' screen time increased exponentially and I found myself letting them play Minecraft while I huddled on the kitchen floor, crying silently and texting friends who knew my exact hurt and could comfort me. BJ was on a business trip that second week, and the boys and I were well taken care of by my parents and my mother-in-law. I considered it success just to get Silas to school, homework done, meals doled to my children, and the kitchen kept clean. The most healing thing I did for me in those first two weeks was name my baby.

After those first two weeks, I turned a corner. I began looking forward to things again. Imagining the upcoming holidays no longer nauseated me. My crying spells went from 50 per day to just a few per day. The attention that I gave my children was more complete, and I was heartened by their kind play gestures toward Hjarta, gestures like finding beautiful leaves for their angel sibling, and bringing my phone to me and announcing that I had an email from Hjarta. Physical repercussions of the miscarriage began to occur, most notably an unpleasant case of anemia. I lost a significant amount of my hair and struggled with other symptoms like fatigue, sores in my mouth, restless legs, and finally pica. It was during a Thanksgiving ice storm when I began acting like a crazy woman, running outside to ravenously eat icicles in my pajamas, that I realized I was iron-deficient! After about a month on an iron supplement, however, each of these symptoms vanished and now I physically feel perfect (I'm still taking the supplement). I am running again and signing up for a 5K soon. Running is different for me now though; I am letting myself run as I would like, letting myself control my pace, distance, walking breaks, sprints, etc. exactly as I want, with no pressure to perform any particular way. It's been refreshing to let my jogging be a means of getting some exercise simply so that I can eat chocolate and read more books!

Oddly for me, I have found myself in a place of emotional quiet in recent weeks. My thirst for books has never been so great; I read eight books in the month of January. I am taking great satisfaction in reading, exploring through other people's words, and soaking in experiences that are not my own. Perhaps as I continue to spend time in reflection, my own writing will begin to feel like a natural form of expression for me again. I think it will because I have never truly known life without creative writing. My soul has needed time to absorb, reflect, and protect itself though, and I don't think anything worthy or genuine could have come from my typing hands these past two months anyway. As writer William Zinsser stated, "Clear thinking becomes clear writing; one can't exist without the other. It's impossible for a muddy thinker to write good English. He may get away with it for a paragraph or two, but soon the reader will be lost, and there's no sin so grave, for the reader will not easily be lured back."

Rest assured, I am doing well now, even though I haven't been active on the blog. BJ and the boys are also doing well, and we sure are hoping to add a fifth baby to our home. In the meantime, the boys, BJ and I have dance parties, swim lessons, dinners with family and friends, bread-baking extravaganzas, and three of the five of us have had fun birthdays in the season since we lost Hjarta. On Friday I get to attend school with Silas and volunteer in his classroom, which tickles both of us! I'm still relying heavily on Of Monsters and Men and their lovely music to help me appreciate my days. Their proclivity to celebrate nature encourages me to breathe more fresh air, and I hope fervently for a trip to their native Iceland someday. Is there any other band out there who sings of a relationship by comparing it to two sea creatures fighting to the death, "red in tooth and red in claw?" I mean, come on! (I'm referring to the song "Slow Life.") I read voraciously about Iceland and feel very much in love with this little island that I have never glimpsed. It was at an Of Monsters and Men concert in Tulsa in December that I felt the sudden realization that I am okay again. After the miscarriage, I told people that I wasn't okay, but that I would be okay again someday. At the concert I was having a blast, jumping up and down and clearly unable to contain my enthusiasm. Poor BJ was huddled in his seat next to me, sick to his stomach. Apparently my antics captured the notice of a security guard, and he gave me a free pit pass a few songs into the OMAM performance. So with BJ's blessing and Nanna and Raggi singing "Hunger," I began the process of making my way through the crowd. It didn't take long before I was on the front row, probably six feet from the bassist and ten feet from Nanna, who was more center-stage.

I was still on the third row when I took this photo.

What a cathartic experience it was for me to be so close to the performers of this band that has changed my life for the better, that has given words and a melody to my experience of losing my child! I could see freckles on their faces, the orange nail polish on Nanna's fingers, and the nonverbal glances through which the band members communicated to one another. It was truly the thrill of a lifetime for me! I later sent a card to Nanna Bryndís Hilmarsdóttir's P.O. Box in Reykjavík, with profound thank-you's for having written "King and Lionheart," and having given my grief both a name and a release. I hope she isn't inundated with fan mail and actually receives it.

So here I will continue to be, plodding through life, exulting in the roses at times and also deeply feeling the thorns at times, because that's what life is. I cry about once a day, but mostly reflect on Hjarta with a smile. I think about that baby at least 100 times daily, as mothers are wont to do. And now, now that I have been through this terrible thing we call miscarriage, I have the opportunity to optimistically anticipate the day that I will reunite with my Hjarta, my little Lionheart, who is waiting on the other side for me. Not every mother gets to anticipate that--the angel waiting for her that she dreamed about and feels she knows, but never really knew.

(Pictorial proof that we're okay):

The Story of Our Miscarriage (There Is Blood)

Trigger warning: This post discusses blood and miscarriage. 

Hello, readers. As discussed in my previous post, BJ and I learned on the evening of Sunday, October 25 that we had lost our beautiful unborn baby at 9-1/2 weeks. This was ascertained at the emergency room, where we learned that my HCG hormone levels were unexpectedly low and an ultrasound confirmed that baby Hjarta was measuring 3-1/2 weeks too small and did not have a heartbeat. The reasons why I'm sharing the details of my miscarriage are three-fold. The first is that it helps me feel better. I've never been one to suffer in silence! The second, and most important reason, is that it might help someone who is going through a miscarriage. After I learned that Hjarta had died, but before my body began actively miscarrying, I had no idea what to expect in the coming days. Two friends of mine who had previously miscarried volunteered to share their details with me so that I might have some idea of what to expect. Reading carefully through their stories was very helpful for me, and I believe it kept me from panicking when the genuine gushing began. Then, when my experience began to significantly deviate from both of theirs, I knew it was time to seek medical help. The third reason is that my miscarriage went terribly wrong and made for a semi-interesting story. So, if you enjoy ER drama, this post is for YOU! I can promise you some action!

I had not had any indications that anything had been wrong with the pregnancy until I started spotting blood about an hour before we trekked to the emergency room for the first of four times. As I was discharged on Sunday night with the terrible news, the ER physician told me to contact my OBGYN (Dr. Brown) the next morning and schedule a visit with him by Tuesday, at which time a D&C might be necessary. My bleeding was minimal, and my body had not yet given any indication that it would pass the baby naturally. For some reason, I was hoping against hope that I wouldn't need a D&C. Any unnecessary interventions just seemed too much to handle at the time. How was I to know that it would later save my life? I woke up on Monday and scheduled my appointment with Dr. Brown for early Tuesday morning. Throughout the day my bleeding became heavier and I more frequently needed to change maxi pads. I also started passing some tissue, all of which I took to be a good sign. It seemed that my body was doing its job of flushing the pregnancy out, and a D&C might not be necessary after all.

In the shower late Monday night the bleeding began to intensify. BJ and I got ready for bed, and I asked him to get me a towel to sleep on just in case I bled through my pad. I anticipated a night of up-and-down, to the bathroom and back, because of the increased bleeding. Then all of a sudden at 11:45pm, I felt an absolute gush. I bolted out of bed and shouted BJ's name as I ran for the toilet. The blood was coming quickly, much more quickly than before, at what I counted to be 3-4 drops per second. BJ sat with me for a few minutes, but I began to realize that this wasn't going to slow down anytime soon, so I sent him to bed. He agreed to go, reluctantly, but told me to shout if I needed him. I knew there was a possibility that I would need him later, and he would need to be rested for that, so I decided to go it alone in the bathroom.

Three magazines later, the bleeding wasn't slowing down at all. I moved over to the shower and sat on the shower floor until the water ran cold, about 45 minutes later. Then I went back to the toilet. At times the bleeding would seem to slow down, and then I would pass a large clot. I reckoned that the bleeding wasn't actually slowing down because as soon as the clot would pass, the bleeding would resume. Somewhere in the middle of it I passed Hjarta into my hand. I knew it was Hjarta because it didn't look or feel like anything else I had passed, although it also didn't look much like a baby. The tissue was about the size of a walnut.

A friend of mine who miscarried naturally told me that she bled intensely for a couple of hours; after three hours of bleeding alone in the bathroom, I decided I had had enough. I called the women's floor of Baptist Hospital, and the nurse thought I should probably come to the ER. I woke BJ up and we agreed that the best thing was for me to drive there alone. I knew I was clear-headed enough to do it, and I didn't want to wake up our three small boys to take them to the ER for the night. So BJ stayed on the phone with me as I drove across the city. I arrived at the hospital at about 3:15AM.

This was by far the least helpful ER visit I think I've ever had. The physician confirmed with ultrasound that I had passed nearly everything, including baby, and only had a tiny bit of tissue left. The nurse gave me a bag of fluids and some oxygen, but didn't seem too concerned when I told her that I felt nauseated and lightheaded. She gave me IV Zofran, and they prescribed Methergine to contract the uterus and help the bleeding to stop. The nurse acted like I was an idiot because I refused to take pain medication with the Methergine. I told her I had a high pain tolerance, had birthed naturally, and didn't want to be under the influence of pain medications at this time. She told me I would "regret it." (I didn't. The contractions from Methergine were nothing like childbirth and were only mildly painful.) The physician told me that he spoke with Dr. Brown, who was not on call that night, and that it was okay for me to be discharged. (Dr. Brown later was extremely angry about this; he said that he told the physician that I should be discharged only if my bleeding stopped. The trouble is, the physician never checked on me again to make sure that my bleeding stopped, and it didn't.) So, the ER sent me home with BJ, who had arrived to pick me up, and they assured me that the bleeding would stop soon. They were wrong.

We stopped at CVS Pharmacy on the way home to fill my prescription and get some Depends so that I could go to sleep. It was now about 7:00AM, and I was desperate to go to bed. I knew that maxi pads wouldn't cut it though, as I was still bleeding just as heavily as I had all night. BJ left me in the car with the sleeping boys while he ran into the store. As he was in there, I suddenly began dry-heaving. The nausea was quickly overwhelming, and I was extremely hot and dizzy. I had been on the phone with my mom (who was out of town), but I hung up because I wasn't able to talk anymore. I rolled down the window and thought, "Maybe I can scream for help." But there was no one to scream to, and I didn't have the energy. I looked at the phone in my hand and realized I needed to call BJ and tell him to hurry, but I couldn't figure out how to work my phone. I suddenly couldn't move, and I wasn't capable of simple cognition. I finally pushed the "BJ" button on my phone; however, I couldn't lift the phone to my ear, so I clumsily moved my thumb to the speaker button. I lost my vision and could only see stars. Just before I passed out, I told BJ as he answered that something was very wrong and I needed to go to the hospital.

BJ came out quickly, and I regained consciousness. I was sweating profusely, so he took off my hoodie, and I passed out again. BJ was calm, but I think he was terrified. He quickly drove to the Moore Medical Center about a mile away, holding my head up as he drove and feeling for my pulse at stoplights. He said he couldn't find it, but he didn't think I had died. At the ER, I came to as I was being wheeled back to my room. The ER staff said that I collapsed from low blood pressure, with my reading at 91/67. The Moore ER got me stabilized for a couple of hours, giving me fluids and gathering the records from the previous ER (which, incidentally, took hours to send even though I had just left there. Seriously.) The physician at Moore decided to send me through a non-emergency transfer back to Baptist, and he told me they might monitor me there or they might just do the D&C. Bear in mind, the bleeding had not slowed down in the least.
"D&C!" I begged. "Please! I'm afraid I'm going to die if my blood pressure gets that low again." I was truly terrified and had never felt so awful in my life. Things got worse as I passed out once again, this time in the bathroom with the nurse. Blood pressure reading: 88/64. Honestly! Just before I passed out the second time, I had the same symptoms as I did in the car: nausea and dry heaves, light-headedness, loss of vision, and complete inability to do anything.

When I came to again I was in a thick sweat and was being carried back into the bed. The nurses were all around me and two of them asked me to help get myself back in the bed. As if. I was completely incapable of moving, and I couldn't see anything except darkness and stars. For the next six or so hours, I remained essentially paralyzed. I couldn't move at all for about two hours, and then regained enough to move just a little. I did regain my vision. I didn't have the strength to lift my own head, sign consent forms, speak above a whisper, or offer my arms when the nurses need to check my bracelet, IV needles (yes, one in each arm!), etc. My transfer was quickly moved up in priority, and the ambulance arrived in what seemed like mere moments after my second collapse. The medic who stayed in the back of the ambulance with me was named Mel, and I loved her. I couldn't move, but she stayed close with me. She told me she had also lost two babies, and to hang in there, and that I wasn't going to die because I kept asking her if I might. Believe me--it's easy to start feeling that way when you go from normal to paralyzed in a matter of hours.

Dr. Brown was waiting for us in the ER as we arrived by ambulance at maybe 12:30ish. BJ had never been so happy to see him, although I think I had (remember when he arrived late to deliver Van, my 9-1/2 pound child that I delivered naturally??). He explained that the little bit of tissue left was probably part of the placenta, and that my body had become fooled and would not stop putting out blood unless we did a D&C. He told me that he and I had "a date" in the operating room at 5:15pm (they actually operated at 6:30 because the OR was running behind), and he promised that they would closely monitor my blood pressure and keep me full of fluids so that I wouldn't crash again. Later that afternoon he decided that my hemoglobin, which was below 7.0, was low enough to warrant two bags of blood. I never imagined I would need a transfusion, and I now give heartfelt thanks to blood donors! I spent the rest of the afternoon miserable up in the MDU, gushing blood, unable to move, nauseated, and constantly fearful of my blood pressure. Each time my cuff tightened for a reading, I sent a hawk-eye to BJ, who religiously read me the numbers and told me to relax, that I would be fine. He was amazing. (A big shout out to Christa, my amazing sister, and Susan who kept the kids safely for us at home while we handled the big excitement all day!)

The D&C was a simple, painless procedure. When it was all over with, Dr. Brown said it took only two minutes of me under general anesthesia to stop the bleeding nearly altogether. Upon awakening, I was given the transfusions, but I still thought I might die. I felt that awful. My post-op nurse was awesome and gave me a lot of one-on-one attention, and after awhile I was the only patient down there. She raised the head of my bed slowly--it probably took a solid hour to get me to a sitting position--because I kept protesting that if I sat up I would pass out. She didn't push me too hard. I got nauseated again so I was given Phenergan, Zofran, and a patch behind my ear, and with that I was able to hold down a cracker and some water. Slowly, slowly, I eventually made it to the bathroom and I laughed in relief when I sat down on the toilet: there were no clots barreling out of me, and the blood spot in my maxi pad was only the size of a quarter!
"Kelsey!" I feebly whispered in excitement to my nurse! "Look!"
"I know," she smiled. She knew how much blood I had lost and how far I had come that day.

When Kelsey and I were confident that I could make it with just BJ's help, we were discharged. It was 11:00pm. It felt like an eternity since I had left home at 2:55AM the night before, and I had been in three emergency room visits during that time (one of them twice). I'd also had my first ambulance ride, my first transfusions, and my first fainting episodes. That's a lot of firsts! We drove home and I was hardly even sad about Hjarta at the time; I think I was just so exhausted and so happy to be alive. We got home and relieved my sister, who went home to her own family after generously entertaining my children all evening and getting them to bed. She did all this while getting updates from my brother, who stayed with us while we were in Baptist the second time. I slept hard until 10:30 the next morning, when BJ woke me up with breakfast in bed.

The sadness would settle in again that afternoon, after some of the commotion died down. For several days I felt hopelessly in despair, looking forward to nothing, and I cried at least 50 times a day (no exaggeration) in grief for my lost baby. I also bled lightly for six days after the D&C. Although the physical part of my miscarriage was difficult, I would call the emotional part of it the much more difficult piece. It's a nightmare to lose a child, even an unborn child late in the first trimester. I think that some people dismiss the loss as trivial, given that the loss is kind of abstract, and much of what a mom grieves is the hopes and expectations that she had for the life within her. The joy of being pregnant is suddenly robbed and replaced with the death of a baby and a dream. The grief is real, and I don't think it can be understood unless it has been experienced.

I hope this has been helpful for moms who regrettably might use the information (or, at least I hope it's been entertaining, depending on your needs!). Friends, I will always be willing to share my experience or offer help if you need help and are going through a miscarriage. Please know that you can always contact me through phone, text, or Facebook, should you find yourself in the awful position of a miscarriage. Without the help and support of my own little group of friends who have also miscarried, I would have been isolated and alone during my experience. Let me help support you if you need it.

A happy shot of my four kids and me, exactly one week before we lost Hjarta

Hjarta

On our tenth wedding anniversary, BJ and I took a weekend trip to New York City without our boys. On our third and final night away from them, I missed them like crazy. We called BJ's mom, who was keeping them, and she let us speak with both Silas and George (Van was still in utero). Both boys were wailing because they missed us, and after our conversation I hung up the phone in tears. Suddenly I didn't want one last night on the town sans children. What I really wanted was to be stepping off the plane into Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City and hugging my children tightly. In that hour, I was absolutely miserable.

The same helpless emotion that I felt in New York City that night is the same miserable emptiness that I have been feeling since I learned one week ago tonight that my unborn child has died. BJ and I studied the ultrasound monitor and could clearly see that our baby did not have a heartbeat. I have now gone seven days feeling like part of my heart has died too. I wouldn't wish this on anyone, yet I'm learning from my experience that a huge percentage of women know exactly how I feel because they, too, have lost little ones "extinguished before their time," as my friend Julie so eloquently stated. I had no idea that miscarriage was so common.

Let me not dwell on the loss, on the absence of my sweet child. Let me instead tell you that my child was real and was here. Let me tell you how excited I was to be sharing a body with this baby! I was nine and a half weeks pregnant with a beautiful being that was to be the fourth beloved child of our family. This child is deserving of all good things, and cannot be forgotten. Therefore, when my generous mother-in-law Susan drove to my house this past rainy Friday afternoon to corral my three kids and kick me out of the house, I knew where I needed to go. I drove to one of my favorite restaurants, ordered an iced coffee and a giant piece of chocolate cake, and sat down with my computer to name my baby. BJ told me the choice was entirely mine, and I took him up on it.

I am so pleased to announce that my baby's name is Hjarta. Pronounced Hyarta (the 'j' sounds like a 'y'), 'Hjarta' is the Icelandic word for 'heart.' I love that it denotes strength, compassion, and a deep-seated emotion--characteristics which I firmly believe that my child already embraces on the other side of eternity. I also love that it resonates so nicely with the song that I have chosen to dedicate to Hjarta, which is "King and Lionheart" by Of Monsters and Men. The song was written by lead singer Nanna Bryndís Hilmarsdóttir to symbolize her separation from her brother, which is one of the great emotional pains of her life. Choosing a beautiful, meaningful Icelandic word for my baby's name seemed perfect, given my interest in Iceland and the way in which the Icelandic band 'Of Monsters and Men' seems to have stirred my soul in recent months. Hjarta's entire existence was surrounded by this impactful music and the passion of a mother who loves nothing more than her children and husband. My friend Jennifer spoke the perfect words to me when I told her my baby's name. She replied that Hjarta is "a perfect name for a perfect life." Sweeter words could not have been spoken to this grieving mother.

How foolish I feel for not having announced my pregnancy with Hjarta on this blog! I have known for weeks of this beautiful being within me, and I chose not to share because I feared that I might miscarry and lose this child. And then what? Then I would have to tell everyone! Oh, but I feel foolish because I had no idea how desperately I would want everyone to know about the baby that once was. My beloved readers, I had a baby--a baby named Hjarta--a baby that was real and beautiful and lovely and loved. May everyone know far and wide, because the more people that know, the stronger my baby's voice is, and the more distinct Hjarta's identity is to others besides just me! I have a piece of my heart waiting for me on the other side of eternity, and my grief is as real as my child once was. I have a child named Hjarta that I will be with someday. My friend Sam, who has her own angel and who has been instrumental in this last week for me, pointed me to this poignant line from The Velveteen Rabbit: "Once you are real, you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

Not every single moment has been miserable since last Sunday. Monday night and Tuesday were spent just trying to survive a miscarriage gone wrong, as you may read about in the next post I will write. My kids still make me laugh, and my husband makes me feel more loved than ever, and my family members and friends have lavished me with hugs, kisses, cards, food, flowers, childcare, and listening ears. Acquaintances have suddenly become friends for life, as we have bonded in grief over our lost babies, some of whom passed away years ago and some only just this year. It hasn't all been horrible. The most peaceful moments I have had have been when I'm surrounded by my boys listening to this song and watching this video. Hjarta will forever be my Lionheart, and the figure of a lion will now always bring me comfort. When I hear this song, it's the closest thing to having Hjarta in my arms. "Though far away/ We're still the same."

A week has passed since the bleeding began, and it's easy to realize that the emotional wounds will last for a very long time. I'm better than I was a week ago, though. I'm not okay yet, but I'm making my way toward okay. I will be okay. But I will always be missing Hjarta and wondering what might have been.

Thank you for your support, my dearest friends and family. You make me feel special, and you make me feel what I already know to be true--that Hjarta is special, too.

the root of the root and the bud of the bud

Everyone has days and weeks in their life that they reflect upon with misery. For me, none stands out more than the week of Sunday, October 13, 2013, with Wednesday, October 16, 2013 being the worst day of my life. It was a week beyond misery, a week when I wept and wailed with a deeper grief than I have ever known. It was the kind of week that I would never wish on anyone. It was October 16, 2013, when Owen died.

My favorite photo of Sommer and Owen

 The previous week, Owen had stopped eating, and Hospice had told Sommer and Pete that unless he reversed that trend the end was coming soon. Owen's two-year-old body was shutting down due to his progressive brain disease. As has been our usual for many years, I was in touch with Sommer on a daily basis, and she was keeping me apprised of his decline in detail. The timing was tricky to figure out when I should go to Massachusetts to be with her and her family. Was it better for me to be there for them in Owen's final days, when I could be of help? Or would it be better for me to wait until he passed and then be there for the funeral and the quiet, awful days that would follow as they settled into life without Owen? On Friday, October 11th, Sommer, BJ, and I spoke at great length and decided that I should fly out on Sunday morning, the 13th. I would be there by lunchtime. We all figured, based on what Hospice was guessing, that Owen would have passed away by the time I got there. Strangely enough and on top of it all, the Marshall family was planning to close on their current home on Thursday the 17th, and then move into their new home on Friday the 18th. The timing was uncanny. It seemed that the best thing was for me to be with Sommer, Pete, and Ellie in the quiet days after he passed, helping them to bear the last few days in their 'house of despair,' as they sometimes referred to it, and help them pack. I would plan to come back on Wednesday, October 16. As an aside, I should mention that I was 33 weeks pregnant with Van, and likely not to be of any actual physical help at all.

I won't walk you through most of the details of the week. It was a melancholy place to be, and yet it was the only place I wanted to be. Where do you go when your best friend is losing her son to an awful disease? You go to your best friend's side, that's where. You do her bidding. You stay up until 4AM for night-time shifts with her beautiful son when you don't trust the nurse. You memorize his med schedule, you go for walks with her when she needs to get out of the house, you take on the role as the Dunkin' Donuts coffee-run girl, you try to not get in the way, and you spend your time loving everyone there as much as you can, even as your own chest is heaving with grief. You do it because, even though you're hurting more than you have ever hurt because you love this little boy, you know that they love him even more than you do, and their grief is a million times your own. After all, she is your best friend, and she deserves the best you can give.

Owen and me, March 2012

 Despite what we thought was going to happen, Owen was still living when I arrived on Sunday. Despite our pleadings to him to go to Heaven when he was ready, he was still there on Monday as well. On Tuesday morning, the hospice nurse Amanda visited and told us she thought it would be "today or tomorrow," based on his ragged, noisy breathing. As the week had worn on I had become increasingly uncomfortable with my scheduled return date of October 16. We really thought that Owen would have long been in Heaven by then. But, as Amanda spoke those words around noon on Tuesday the 15th, I knew I was going to have to call Delta Airlines and see what they could do for me. I just didn't know what to do or when to fly home, and I can't begin to tell you how overwhelming this decision was for me to make. It seems like when you're grieving your hardest, you don't want to have to decide anything. Even the most mundane decisions, like what you should have for dinner, can become excruciating. (This is why if you're friends with someone who is grieving, it's best to not ask how you can help them. Just a pick a way you can help them and do it for them.)

And so it happened that I picked up the Marshalls' land line and found myself connected with Barbara of Delta Airlines, a kind stranger whom I will never forget. Barbara came on the phone politely and asked how she could help. As best I could, I briefly described the situation: my best friend's son was dying and I was there to be with the family. He was thought to have gone by now but he hadn't, and I didn't want to come home yet and had no idea when to reschedule for, and I was overwhelmed and had no idea what to do. She was exceedingly kind and apologized for our situation. She then began gathering my information:
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Jennifer Potter."
"What's your birth date, dear?"
"January 8th, 1981."
She paused. "Oh my. You're the same age as my daughter." She paused again. "I'm guessing that your best friend's son is quite young."

The lump in my throat that had been there the entire conversation suddenly became so massive that I could no longer speak. I was silent for probably ten seconds trying to get it under control before I finally sobbed out, "He's two."
"Oh dear." She was quiet and let me cry for a minute. "I'm so sorry. You sound so sweet. I can only imagine if this was my daughter." She sounded forlorn for our situation.
I asked her in despair, "What do you think I should do? I don't know when to reschedule because I don't know when he is going to die. I just know I can't leave when I'm supposed to tomorrow."
Suddenly, Barbara broke in with a take-charge attitude. "Tell you what..." she began.
Barbara came up with a plan that changed everything for me that day. She treated our situation as though it was a family bereavement case. "After all," she said, "A best friend is really a sister, right?"
"Right," I laughed through tears.
She cancelled my flight for the following day, agreeing with me that I certainly couldn't go home yet. Then, she gave me a confirmation number and told me that I only needed to call Delta and reschedule after he passed, when I was actually ready to leave. "No need to worry about re-booking anything now since you don't have any idea how long you'll need to stay," she said. She told me that when I was ready, a Delta agent should easily be able to find a return flight that would not cost any more than my original return flight did, and they would not charge me any fees for having to re-book. If my new return flight cost more than my original return flight, I would be responsible for that difference only. However, she did not think that it was likely that there would be a price hike. (In the end, there wasn't. The price for the ticket I eventually booked in return was the exact same price as the one I originally purchased, and I owed no additional money.) Barbara even gave me a pep talk in the end, telling me that I was strong, and that I was a good friend, and that she wished all the best for Owen and his family. Finally, she asked to speak to the Hospice nurse that was there, and she gathered some of Owen's information that she needed from the nurse that verified my story. In the end, I hung up having spent 15 minutes talking with Barbara, and having felt as though 15 pounds had been lifted off my chest. Right when I needed some help, help had come.

Sleeping during a blizzard, 2013

 Sommer and I agreed at the time that I should blog about Barbara, but I never have until now. The week, of course, got harder for everyone, least of all me. It was my privilege to have the overnight shift with Owen on his final night on Earth, and it was not an easy one. Owen was occasionally uncomfortable and always struggling to breathe, and we were at odds with an overnight nurse whom we didn't feel really understood our comfort goals for Owen. He finally seemed to be in a place of peace at about 5:30 in the morning of the 16th, and his breathing quietened for the first time since I had arrived on Sunday. He passed away early in the morning as we all stepped out of the room briefly to grab coffee in the kitchen. When I returned to kiss him three minutes later and tell him that I was going to go grab a nap and that I would be back down in a little bit to check on him again, I could see that he had passed into Heaven while we were all out of the room. That turkey! I think I felt two seconds of relief before a whole different feeling of grief set in, and I knew that I could never be the same after having met sweet little Owen. The next two hours were the worst hours of my life. The woe that I experienced and witnessed were beyond human language.

Despite the heaviness, I look back on that intense week and can easily see the highs of the week. As I wrote in my blog the week after Owen passed away, "I got to meet new people that I never would have encountered, and as we all shared a common goal of serving Owen and making him comfortable, I believe we forged some emotional bonds that may never be broken. I will never forget nurses like Robin, Bronwyn, and Amanda, and I will always be glad for my strengthened friendships with Sommer, Pete, and Sommer's parents Marylou and Tony." Certainly, one of the brightest spots of the week for me was the above-and-beyond service from Barbara at Delta Airlines. I can't even deign to call it "customer service," because she never seemed to view it that way either. Almost from the get-go, Barbara treated me like I was more than a customer. She treated me as a valued human being, lost and in despair, and she relieved me of having to make complicated, expensive decisions at a time when I was too overwhelmed to figure out what to do for myself. She identified with me as though I was her daughter, and her kindness stood out to everyone in the home that day. She still stands out to me.

I'm sorry that I haven't written about this before. Mentally revisiting this week is hard work for me, but it is so necessary, because it has made me a better person who can more fully appreciate the peaks and valleys that life has to offer. Only having walked through the valleys can we truly appreciate the peaks, after all. I should have written about Barbara before though. Kindness from people deserves to be shared and spoken aloud, and I have hopes that sharing this kindness will in turn spur my reader-friends to share their own kindnesses to others, both friends and strangers. You don't have to know someone to make a huge difference in her life. You need only be there at the right moment with the right deed or the right words, and the impact can last a lifetime. A million thanks to Barbara, from a human being that desperately needed a hand and a verbal hug. You, Barbara, gave both and a lot more.

I will close this post with the poem that hung on Owen's nursery wall. Below is a photo of the frame and art, which Pete designed for Sommer. The poem, “i carry your heart” by e.e. cummings, is beautiful—but for me it is very bitter. Nothing, in fact, brings a more bitter wave of grief than recalling the words of this poem and imagining standing in his bedroom on the second floor of their Amesbury home. It was a lovely, warm, brown room with windows on two sides, and I always picture it with windows open on a warm, sunny day and cars driving by on Clinton Street out front (much to Sommer's chagrin, but that's a whole different story!). I am working on myself to mentally redefine this poem and image from 'bitter' to 'sweet.' May the poem always remind me of what is important in life, namely, that our loved ones are the root of the root and the bud of the bud. There is nothing more important than each other, so may we be kind.

i carry your heart
e.e. cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Owen's beach

Mind Over Matter

I think I'm in need of help from my athletic friends.

Nothing about running is easy for me. Some runners can put down three miles in their sleep, but I just can't. I'm not a natural runner, and I have to work hard for every mile that I put behind me. I need some help with this.

My goal is important to me. I want to run the Chill Your Cheeks 5K on November 22nd, and I want to do it in 29:59 or less. I want to do it for Ben. I set this goal months ago, and though I am making progress toward it, I still feel a million miles away from it. It is important to me to accomplish this goal during this race the week before Thanksgiving, as I am so grateful for Ben's life, the impact he has had on me, and the ridiculously good fortune I have in the opportunity to raise my own three lovely boys. The memory of Ben is completely worth my effort.

Ben, on right, with twin brother Jack, last fall before being diagnosed with a fatal brain tumor

So here's where I am: I can run a mile at a 9:50 pace. I can run 2.25 miles at a 10:00 pace. Today I ran 2.5 miles at a 10:10 pace, but I had to pause for two walking breaks (one for one minute, one for two minutes)--so that wasn't so great. These times are respectable in my book, and they will render me an overall personal time record in a 5K if I can maintain this kind of pace (my previous record is 33:50). Obviously, however, they aren't the 9:40 pace that I need to maintain over 3.1 miles to clock in at my time goal. On the other hand, though, none of these times account for race-day adrenaline that I will undoubtedly feel on November 22nd.

I definitely need to step up my efforts in these next two and a half weeks before the race, an action which I am committed to doing. Several months ago I joined the Y and have been diligent about going and cardio training, mostly running. I have been watching what I eat, and I have trimmed up. I have lost 13 pounds since the end of August, and I have undoubtedly gotten faster and exercised longer. The thing is, I don't really think it's my body holding me back. I think it's my mind. I need to figure out this fight.

I know that mentally I can talk myself into doing some hard things. I kept myself strong during the natural labor of a 9-1/2-pound baby. I carried myself mentally through the last four miles of a 6.2-mile run in April, never slowing to walk throughout the entire thing. I ate a strict dairy-free, soy-free diet for nearly a year, with no slip-ups, because I wanted to help George with his allergies when he was a nursing baby. Mentally, I'm really not a total pushover.

But there's just something about running that seems so much harder. For instance, I can get on a treadmill and tell myself, "You're not stopping, no matter what, before two miles." And the truth is, I'm in the kind of shape that my body can certainly handle a two-mile challenge. Yet just two weeks ago I stopped short at 1.5 miles, gasping for air, feeling like a failure. I just couldn't will myself to go on.

I really need some help, athletic friends. Regardless of what your sport is, I want to know how you do it. How do you power through when the going gets tough? How do you tell yourself not to stop? To go faster? To push harder? To not quit just because you feel like you need to (when you know deep down that you don't really need to)? Did you read a book or a blog that inspired you? Did you see someone do something that made you think, "I want that"? Realistically, I know the odds are against achieving my goal in just two and a half short weeks, though I know I eventually will achieve it. I just keep telling myself, maybe--just maybe--though, and I find myself getting hopeful. Maybe, maybe, maybe I can do this. Any pointers, friends?

On a side note, I have never run on a treadmill prior to these last couple of months, but I find that I really like it after all. When the going gets tough, I can put my hands on the little bars in front of me, close my eyes for minutes at a time, and meditate on special people in my life. Many of my friends and family members are the focus of my concentration during my treadmill runs, and I am all the richer for it. I have so many wonderful reasons to run. Mind over matter.

Cardinals and Big Bird

Faith is a funny thing. One minute you can be feeling sturdy in the cruise-ship of life, and then an unforeseen trial in the form of an iceberg creates an upheaval in your life that you never wanted to anticipate, but here it is. You're left treading water, and the question becomes, 'Who can you call for help?' Sometimes it's the opposite scenario: you're barely keeping your head above water and are about to surrender, when suddenly a hand seems to come from nowhere and you suddenly find yourself dripping wet, but plucked aboard a vessel of safety. Through the years, I think I have found myself in both of these scenarios. All I can really conclude is that, as we develop and grow, our lives will take turns that we never anticipated, and our faith has no choice but to do the same. I can wrestle with it, discipline it, and let it wander, but ultimately my faith only belongs to me and it remains my accomplice each day.

Two years ago I went through what I would consider a mildly-sizable crisis of faith. Though I never questioned the existence of God (I've been there in my college years, done that, and come out the other side) or his goodness, I found myself unable to come to terms with the injustice and sadness that life dishes out to many people. Read back, if you want, on my anger and despair over baby Aiden Smith's condition and his eventual passing, and you can easily spell out a girl flooded with grief and doubt about God's capability to change the world's circumstances. I began to believe at that point that prayer can be quite useful in changing us, but it cannot change our circumstances. I reasoned that God, who created love and is love, certainly loved this little boy more than I ever could, for how could he create me to be so without firstly having been so himself? And yet, if he loved Aiden at least as much as I did, why didn't he save him? I can't even pretend to know the answer to this question. I began thinking, I would rather believe in a God who created a world that he disallowed himself to intervene in, than to believe in a God who could save this baby and wouldn't. I wrestled with this new (to me) stance on faith, alternately finding comfort and despair in it. I sought the counsel of people wiser than myself, hoping for easy answers. The most spiritually-mature friend I have told me that I was only arguing with myself over semantics. "Jenny," she said, "This is not a hill to die on." She was right, because arguments about the nature of God are less important than what we do about our lives here on Earth. No easy answers came, and in the meantime, life got tougher.

Last October we lost Owen, and everyone who reads this blog knows that I don't even have to go deep into this pool to convey what his short, but big, life did to those of us who loved him. In my darkest moments I have found myself briefly questioning the idea of heaven and an afterlife. Seeing Owen pass into that place in the matter of a moment left me frantically wondering, 'What is he doing now? Where did he go?' Nearly always I imagine Owen in the autumn leaves, playing and tumbling with an exuberant smile on his face, totally at peace with his creator. Sometimes though, and I don't know why, I begin to wonder: what if the afterlife is something that we have made up to comfort ourselves? We as humans seem hard-wired to believe in something greater than ourselves, which one could argue is an evolutionary advantage that propels us forward as a species and provides us hope, except that it isn't true. I, on the other hand, believe that we're cross-culturally hard-wired to believe in something greater than ourselves because we were created by something greater than ourselves, and thus this sense of yearning was created within us. I will admit that acknowledging the idea of no afterlife--of nothingness--after this life, is a concept that is devastatingly empty and frightening to me. I scramble quickly from these thoughts because I find that no good can come from them.

Since two years ago, I have been praying about my questions, though not consistently. I may only now be finding answers, but perhaps what I am really finding is another curve in the road of progress. The wisdom comes from Mindy Sauer, Ben's mom, who is finding herself struggling with the kind of grief that many moms identify with and that all other moms cry to imagine--the grief that comes when a mother outlives her child. Mindy continues to write posts on her blog about how the family is doing without Ben, and she wrote a post earlier this month that challenged me deeply. Entitled "When God Winks," the post spells out a heartbreaking journey that the Sauer family made, perhaps prematurely, to their favorite vacation spot, but this time without Ben. She records that they could see and feel Ben in all things on their vacation, which brought a grief beyond what she and her husband thought they could endure. They would have gone back home if not for their kids, who were excited to be at the beach. But, Mindy writes, there was this cardinal that just wouldn't leave the family alone. Never in her many, many times at this vacation spot had Mindy ever seen a cardinal, but now, just when their grief was beyond enduring, came this beautiful red bird that accompanied them every day. The bird, which the family saw as a token from God, brought them great comfort and happy thoughts about Ben. Ben's identical twin Jack even called out, "Hello Ben!" and the family took delight in this 'coincidence' from God.

Mindy's quiet time on the beach, with a welcome interruption from daughter Megan, who contributed a neat shell in the heart over Ben's name

Mindy said that she did not think that the cardinal was a coincidence, but was rather a 'wink' from God, placed intentionally to provide comfort and small moments of happiness in her otherwise very sad life right now. Mindy cited a book called "When God Winks: How the Power of Coincidence Guides Your Life" by SQuire Rushnell, which she read at the recommendation of a friend right after Ben's passing. The book's push is that God works through 'winks' in your life to let you know that you're on the right path and provide comfort, and all you have to do is look for these winks.

I find this idea to be so charming and comforting. I so wanted to believe it, but I wasn't sure that I did. Like any true investigator, though, my purpose should be to challenge myself and not only read materials that align with my beliefs. So, I quickly reserved the book from the library and had it read within a few days. The book is divided into sections like "Coincidences in History," "Coincidences in the Arts," and "Coincidence's at Life's End." It is filled with stories of what seem to be amazing flukes or coincidences, both from everyday people as well as celebrities. Much as I detest the idea of testing God, I think I sort of walked into this book with the prayer of, "If this is true, then God please let me see it in this book, because I'm about to give up on this idea."

For the first half of the book, I wasn't terribly impressed. He seemed to be making lots of generalizations and wanted all kinds of participation exercises like journaling about one's past. No, thanks. But then I read a couple of sections that floored me and changed my gears--'coincidentally,' one of them was the section called "Coincidence's at Life's End." Without boring you with too many details, I will say that the book suddenly kept handing me stories and details that were simply uncanny in their relationship to my own life. For instance, SQuire (yes, the Q is also capitalized) Rushnell writes about the lifelong friendship between Jim Henson and Joe Raposo, who was the songwriter for Sesame Street. The author specifically mentions two songs only in that entire section of the book, one of them being the song "Sing;" incidentally, this is the exact song that emotionally brings me to my knees about Owen. See? I'm crying even as I type it. I cannot hear that song or even think about it without feeling literal pain and despair in my heart and welling up with tears. That song was played on loop during my first-ever visit with Owen, which was truly such a sad visit because we already knew his diagnosis and knew his life was to be cut short. Ellie was obsessed with that song at the time, and we must have heard it a hundred times. To read about that song right then and there seemed a powerful 'wink' to me. Within that text was the one song that hurts me the most about the one person I miss the most--and in the "Coincidence's at Life's End" section, no less. And he talked about the airing of the Sing! special and how it all incidentally occurred on the day of Jim Henson's death, which was May 16th, and I'm a little weird about death on the 16th's as it is (Owen, Aiden, and my grandmother all died on 16th's). Huh.


There were also two other coincidences that struck me as really odd. One was that he told this really long story about Jessica Savitch, who I know was famous but I didn't know anything about until a week before I read the book. I read an article that had mentioned Jessica Savitch and, since I wasn't sure who she was, I looked her up. The story of her career and her freak-accident death was interesting, and so I read about Jessica Savitch for like half an hour. Then, a week later I'm reading this "God Wink" book and there she is again! It's not like you read her name every day. Huh.

At present day, I can say that this post has been percolating in my mind for some time. I sat out back on the deck this morning working on reports, and was accompanied the entire time by a cardinal cheeping incessantly, and dare I say, wonderfully. After all, Van and I stepped out on the deck in the quiet morning at 6:15, and I asked God aloud, "One more time, please give me a sign by sending me a cardinal. I really need some help with this." And I began crying, because I was sad and I often feel sad when I'm short on sleep. And I was thinking of Aiden and Owen and Ben, and then I heard the cardinals before I saw them--the male and the female, both of them there, just as I asked God.

Enough is enough. I'm tired of asking God for signs and I'm tired of asking other people what they think about this. Like Heidi said, it isn't a hill to die on anyway. But right now I need the comfort, and for the first time in two years I don't feel like I'm deluding myself. I don't have to read too much into simple things, but I can let myself smile at the idea that God is occasionally intervening just to make me smile or let me know that he is taking care of the people that I need him to. What really seems to hit home is the idea that I need approval from no one in order to believe this, and so I can stop seeking it. Appropriately, Rushnell wrote, "Don't be afraid to be alone. You also need time to listen to your inner self instead of someone else suggesting how you should think."

One more ebb in the faith river. We'll see what's around the next bend.

Owen, March 2012 during the Sing visit

Picasso'ed

Tonight I made a move that I decided well over a year ago to make: I got Picasso'ed. Seven years ago when I got my first tattoo, the artist told me that he felt certain I would get another in my lifetime. I told him there was no way. One was enough. The wise man would have made money on me though, because after about five years I began longing for another, this one in symbolism of my children. Being a mother has been the most transformative experience that I could have ever imagined, and as if my body changes aren't evidence enough of that fact, I tattooed it on myself to remain with me through my days. BJ accompanied me and was, as ever, a great sport about my decision of body 'better-fication.'

The story behind the tattoo: Four and a half years ago, BJ and I decided to do an owl nursery theme, and we both agreed that Pablo Picasso's most famous "Owl" sketch belonged on the wall of the nursery.

I can't tell you how many times in the middle of the night I have stood beside the crib rocking a baby in my arms and staring at that sketch. Sometimes I marveled at the simplicity, sometimes I longed for sleep, sometimes I cried in frustration or joy, all while looking at the sketch. So, there you have the symbolism for the image chosen. That owl will always remind me of my three beautiful boys in the early years of their lives--the years that revamped my soul.

I chose the five night-sky stars surrounding the bird for several reasons, but primarily to represent Silas, George, Van, Owen, and Aiden. These five very special boys have filled my heart to its brim and beyond. Two of them are in Heaven and three are here on Earth, and all have made me a better person. I also chose five stars because there are five of us in our family, and I grew up in a happy, busy family of five. Only recently has the number 'five' come to mean even more, thanks to little Ben Sauer. His story has made me a better mom, and, at relatively the last minute, I knew I had to find a way to have him represented in this tattoo. The number five worked perfectly to embrace Ben as well though, as Ben was five years old and was born on May 5th--5/5. With Ben, the image was complete, with all of the special little boys, plus BJ and my own wonderful family-of-origin, finding a place in the framework. The stars, much to my tattoo artist Renee's chagrin, were to be drawn imperfectly, sort of Charlie-Brown style if you will. It was very hard for her to not draw them perfectly! You could see the effort she made just to try to mess them up. I love my decision, though, because I feel that the whimsical nature of the imperfect, asymmetrical stars encapsulates my personality, my love for "A Charlie Brown Christmas," and perfectly accompanies my first tattoo, which is a very Dr. Seuss-ish pine tree.

Should I ever forget my fortunate lot in life and deliriously come up short on reasons to be thankful, I now need only look down as I put my best foot forward. Cheers, friends.

The Playlist: "We're On Each Other's Team"

I don't have the energy for more than one big project at a time, it seems. Disappointing, huh? Recently, all of my extra energy has gone into our house, the location formerly referred to as The Bermuda Triangle. As it stands now, the purge is complete and all of our extra stuff is out in our garage, waiting for me to make the call to Salvation Army. We intended to have a garage sale, but we decided that the time and energy required to organize and price it all, not to mention sitting in the heat with it for more than one day, just didn't seem worth it.

Now that the purge is complete, it's time for me to focus my energy on regaining a healthy weight following Van's birth. I'm still packing some pregnancy pounds, which honestly doesn't bother me too much, but I'd like to fit into more of my older clothes. Mostly, though, I want to be in better shape because I enjoy setting running goals. During the purge it was impossible for me to jog because I was up until the wee hours of the night working each night, which zapped all of my energy. Even prior to that though, I was really struggling because of lower back pain. I have found that I can usually keep this managed with ice packs, and I suspect that building some core strength through yoga would do me a world of good, except that I still need the nerve to find and join a class. We are strongly considering a family membership at the local Y. Childcare while I take a yoga class or go for a jog sounds pretty fabulous, and I think we would really like being able to take the kids swimming regularly.

Since I'm keen on getting my feet back into the old running shoes, I've been doing some short jogs this past week and setting a new running goal. This one is going to be a real doozy for me, but it's manageable: at the Yukon Chill Your Cheeks 5K, which is held annually the Saturday before Thanksgiving and coincides with the lighting of the park, I hope to run a 5K race in 29:59 or less. That would mean picking up my current pace quite a bit. In recent years I have found myself able to gut out distance when I really need to, but my pace is something like a disgraceful 12 minute-mile. At this point I'm not interested in adding distance accomplishments as much as I am speed ones. My fastest 5K time to date is 33:50, and that was when I was in good shape, so I will need to shave significant time off that. I have every intention of giving it my all though, and I'll be dedicating my efforts to the memory of Ben Sauer. (In case you missed my previous post about Ben and his influence on me in my role as a mother, read it and weep.)

Ben

My favorite picture of Ben, hugging his identical twin brother Jack

Jogging, for me, is an act of spiritual unification with other people. That sounds really weird, I know, but really and truly, I find myself connecting to humanity in strange ways when I am grunting out my efforts into a jog. It's suddenly like everyone everywhere is my friend, and my sense of being joined to others becomes rich and complicated. This is why I always dedicate races and running goals to other people; it instills within me a sense of thanksgiving for other people in this life. My music playlist reflects this sense of connection that I feel, as my songs are primarily chosen to remind me of good times with others, as well as positive associations that naturally come with good relationships. A few songs, like Lady Gaga's "Just Dance," are on there purely for the beat, but they are few and far between. I always start a race with Florence and the Machine's "Dog Days Are Over," using as the chorus my mantra of "Run fast for your mother and fast for your father, run for your children, for your sisters and brothers." I don't always run fast for them, but I always run for them! Here are some other examples from my jogging playlist and why they were selected:

• "Mountain Sound" by Of Monsters and Men, which always reminds me of a fun day in the sun at Andy Alligator's Water Park in the summer of 2012. George was a baby, Silas was a toddler, and BJ and I enjoyed the day with my sister and her awesome little family. I heard this song on the loudspeaker that day.
• "We Are Young" by Fun, which instantly transports me to the early months of 2012, as I rocked my newborn baby George on the right-hand seat of our bedroom couch and watched old reruns, falling in love with a new little boy.
• "Home" by Phillip Phillips, a song that brings to mind positive memories with Owen, as well as the Summer 2012 Olympic Games, for which it was a theme.
• "Empire State of Mind" by Jay-Z, which reminds me of fun times spent in one of my favorite cities in the world. I love New York. And Raine's Law Room with my best friends. The song also reminds me of the indelible Betty White, whose one-time hilarious hosting of the Mother's Day SNL episode in 2010 left me begging for more. Jay-Z performed "Empire State of Mind" that night and also dedicated his performance of "Forever Young" to Betty White.
• "Walking With A Ghost" by Tegan and Sara: Every time I hear this song, I'm suddenly 23 again, enjoying a walk on a fall evening in 2004 with BJ and Tex in Logan Park of northeast Minneapolis, smelling Cinnamon Toast Crunch as it bakes at the nearby General Mills plant.
• "Brave" by Sara Bareilles, a song which conjures within me a sense of unity with womankind in all of its bold little pieces
• "Slide" by GooGoo Dolls: I can practically smell the Lake Texoma air and the hot dogs sizzling on the boat grill. This song, listened to a million times with my parents as part of "the lake tape," will always transport me instantly to the sailboat days of college summers.
• "Machinehead" by Bush brings about a rush of adrenaline as I think about cheering on the Thunder in a close game from the friendliest section in The Peake, Loud City 303!
• "Team" by Lorde, during which I always imagine that Sommer is running alongside me. I feel particular regard for these lyrics: 

We live in cities you'll never see on the screen,

Not very pretty, but we sure know how to run things.

Living in ruins of a palace within my dreams,

and you know, we're on each other's team.

I'm a lucky girl. So many memories, so many good people that have guided me and are there for me even now when I ask for support. What a neat thing, this notion that this handful of songs that remind me of so many good people, can once again help me as I work toward my own personal goals--goals I want to meet to honor other people. It's like each memory that goes into these songs comes back to serve me yet again as I need it. And so I will run on, going faster and faster, fast as I can for Ben. Time to lace up the shoes, strap on the ice pack, and get busy. Ben is worth it, and so am I.

My first song during every race: "The Dog Days Are Over" by Florence and the Machine