Release

There is a new and painful awareness of time once you have a miscarriage. There are a lot of “this would have been the day that” that occurs in my mind and heart.

The past few weeks there have been a handful of those days. The year anniversary of our first doctor’s appointment where my husband got to see our baby’s heart beat, a few days later when I miscarried, and then a week later, our second known pregnancy’s due date.

The year anniversary of my miscarriage landed on a Sunday. My husband and I were in Manhattan running a few errands. My husband and I have always been on the same wavelength, usually having a pretty good idea of what the other is thinking. Ever since our infertility journey has begun, I feel there’s so much we know already without even having to say it. That day was no different.

“Where to next?”
“Can we get a balloon?”

We picked out a balloon in the shape of and with the pattern of a snowflake. We took it to an overlook that’s right on Top of The World Dr.

We didn’t say much. Everything we could have said we’ve already said a million times over. We miss you. We love you. We wanted you here with us.

It was not all that cold that day (mid to high 40s), unless the wind was blowing. At the top of Top of the World Dr., the wind was bone chilling. I untied the balloon from it’s clip and released it. It was quickly swept away, dancing over the hills.

It’s a lot easier to release a balloon than to lose a pregnancy. Watching it get smaller and smaller, being carried away farther and farther, I could not help from thinking how heartbreakingly metaphorical the moment was. I would never hold the balloon again. I would never have my baby back.

I looked back to see where we had parked, trying to determine if I could watch the balloon travel from the warmth of the car. When I looked back, I could not find the balloon in the sky again. Steven tried to help point it out to me, but no luck. It was gone.

I do not know why I wanted to do a balloon release, really. It was a testament to what we once had, a loving memory, and the strength that we had to get through it. It did not make me feel better, not in the way that maybe I thought it would have. It did not make me feel worse, though, and maybe that’s why it’s a “release” after all. I will never get over our losses. I’m not going to ever shrug it off and say “oh well, we can just have another.” I wanted those pregnancies, I wanted those babies. I do not believe in the afterlife, heaven, or any God, but that moment in time, I felt connected to those pregnancies again.

For a brief period of time the “this would have been the day that” did not sting as much.

What I meant to say was…

Over the past weekend Steven and I attended a “marriage retreat.” It’s a paid weekend off post, in our case Kansas City, where you attend a few seminars on having strong bonds and have time to do fun activities the rest of the time. Going into the weekend, I figured it was going to be somewhat preachy, some gobbledy-gook “here’s what would happen in a perfect world” kind of thing. For a two night stay and five meals paid, I did not think it would be a horrible trade off though. I was excited to spend time away with Steven as well as be back in Kansas City!

I never sleep well in hotels, especially if the beds are not as soft as I would like. The first night (and the second, for that matter) I woke up with the slightest sound and did not get the rest that I might have needed. I drank three cups of coffee the next morning with breakfast, and that was two cups too many. We split into groups, the service members on one side of the room, and their spouses on the other. We were going through questions having to do with deployments, how we spoke to one another about them and what happened during them, both while they’re happening and now that they’re all home. The day before when we took the introvert/extrovert quiz, my test results were 7 introvert answers and 7 extrovert answers. I’ve never been one to really speak up in classroom set ups, it’s the introvert in me. However, since we were all a group of wives with similar life experiences, I was trying my best to be an active participant.

How do you feel your relationship has grown (since their return home)?

The other wives talked about how their relationships are always growing, how they learn with their spouses and about their spouses every single day. I believe that to be true about my husband and myself. This question hit a tender spot in my heart, though. This year, instead of having a new years resolution, I had a word of the year for myself to focus on: GROW. The first ten days of this year I was pregnant; my belly was going to grow, our family was going to grow, myself as a mother was going to grow. Instead, after now two miscarriages, I’ve had to grow as a human being and fight for my positive attitude in times of utter defeat.

There I was, apart of the two couples without kids out of the 18 total couples, over caffeinated with very little quality rest. When I spoke up I got unexpectedly emotional. I said my husband and I have grown since his return from deployment because we have had to go through some hard battles here at home too. I cried a few tears with a very shaky voice. I think what I said was quick but thinking back on it, it felt like I went on longer than I needed to – without even addressing the question. I was so embarrassed after that. I will probably cringe about it for a long time, really.

Not like any of the wives will read this, but I needed to put this out there for myself. What I meant to say was, my husband and I have grown immensely in the last year. During deployment, he was over there dealing with a ton of stress and danger, all while being in a place that was so completely different than what he was used to. I was back home, in a place we had just barely moved to, miles and miles away from friends and family back home, and learning and dealing with some weird medical conditions of my own. During a deployment, you do not communicate as well with your spouse like you normally would. You protect them from any burden happening on your end of the world, you keep it to yourself, you learn to become strong in a way that civilian relationships don’t. When they get back, that’s when you get filled in, and it can be a lot to take in at times. You are forced to grow, and reconnect, learn each others schedules and lives all over again – it can be fun, but it can be stressful. Steven came home from deployment earlier than the majority of the other spouses at our retreat. Shortly after he got home, we were pregnant, and it was something we had been wanting for over two years at the time. Two months after that, I had a miscarriage. When we were starting to get positive again, we suffered another. With deployment and with miscarriage, they are not something that ends and you just get over. It takes time to get back to who you were.

With infertility issues there can be a lot of miscommunication, or lack of communication at all. Trying to fight infertility can take away from intimacy in a big way. When it comes to military situations, I think there’s a pretty good community of people and support to take care of yourself and get what you need. When it comes to infertility situations, there’s not that community and support, and we’ve had to lean on one another above everything. We have been put in two not-so-normal situations that force you to get thicker skin, get in there and fight those battles, and you can only hope to come out on top, but there’s so much not knowing at the same time.

We’ve grown as a couple because we have learned how to be strong on our own, but at the same time, to be strong for the other person. We have fought our way through times apart and learned how to be so thankful and appreciative during those times that we are together. No matter what the situation, we will always experience them differently, but it is up to us to communicate and to understand one another and offer support when it is needed. Excuse the corny Army related lingo statement, but Steven has been the best battle buddy I could have ever asked for. We’ve made it through some pretty hard battles, and I could not have done it without his continuous love and support.

I guess the biggest lesson I took away from the marriage retreat focused around (my year of the word:) Grow. It’s important that you grow and that you develop, not just as a person but as a couple. It’s also important that you, as a spouse, support the growth of your husband or wife as you both learn and do new things. You two are the foundation of the relationship, where it began, and where it grows, and that is just as crucial as what you have grown to be. A mediocre metaphor, my apologies.

If you are a military spouse, a highly recommend attending a marriage retreat if and when you can. It was not life changing, but it was helpful. There’s nothing wrong with getting a new perspective on something you know well.

My First Tattoo

Last month I got my first tattoo. I feel like many people my age (28) have AT LEAST one. I had not got one YET because I did not know of anything I would want on myself forever. I knew before I ever got a tattoo, it would have to really mean something to me.


The first photo taken of my tattoo, a good 30 minutes after it was done!

When I was starting to emotionally recover from my first known miscarriage, I started to like the idea of getting a tattoo to remember our lost baby. In March I came across the semi colon tattoo, which is more often used for self harm and depression awareness and recovery. However, I liked the message and since I have a degree in English, I found it fitting. When we suffered a second miscarriage in May, I started playing with the ideas of what I wanted to get.

I started drawing what I thought I might like on my wrist. I would mess with the size, colors, and variations. I knew I wanted it simple, not just because that’s all I could practice with, but because there was no need to complicate the meaning.

I decided on a semi colon because it means that you have the ability to stop, but you make the choice to keep going. Alongside it, the infertility & pregnancy loss awareness ribbon to symbolize that we will not forget what we have been through and we will never forget our babies that we never got to hold. Steven also pointed out that if you look at it just right, it makes a happy face. It will remind me to always look for the happy in every situation!

I got my tattoo a few days after the due date of our first pregnancy. I figured if the tattoo was going to hurt, it would have hurt a lot less than labor and delivery would, and it would hurt less than what we have been through physically and emotionally because of the loss. It only took a few short minutes and it will be with me forever.

I wish I never had to experience what inspired the tattoo and had my child with me instead, but this is a tattoo I will never regret.

What to say when You Don’t Know what to Say

Something bad has happened. Not to you but to a friend, family member, co-worker, or whomever. You want to reach out, but what do you say? What do you do? What can you do to let the person know you are there for them? It’s such a unnecessarily touchy subject. I think the best way to answer any and all of those questions is actually pretty easy: BE GENUINE.

Especially in this day and age, we make light of sad times unintentionally. When a friend’s loved one dies or whatever the situation may be, it’s so easy to reach to phrases such as “everything happens for a reason” or “they are in a better place.” It’s like a way of censoring yourself, those phrases have become “politically correct” because everyone has said them for a very long time. Please stop with those phrases. Those phrases help YOU think you are saying the right thing, but they do not necessarily helping the person you are saying them to.

If you’ve read my blog, you know that I have struggled to cope with my miscarriages. I knew I had two, and recently realized before I was ever treated for my pituitary tumor, I most likely had my first. In December, we announced we were finally pregnant and got so much support. When we announced we had lost the pregnancy in January, everyone fell off the map. I think, in our situation, although preparing to be a first time parent can be nerve wracking and all help can be good help, we could have used the support MORE when we found out we lost the pregnancy. It has been an extremely lonely time. For me, I felt rejected by friends and family (see my post: This was Written in Anger). I felt like they did not care about me. I felt like they dismissed my pain (both physical and emotional) like both my baby and I never mattered. Often, I still feel like this, even though in most cases, it’s not true. Something came to life and then died inside of me, both physically and emotionally. I’m led to believe that It would be better if I did not talk about it, just in case I might offend someone. If I do talk about it, it should probably just be to support groups of STRANGERS online who have been through the same thing, not to actual people I LOVE and know me personally. Twisted, isn’t it?

I’ve been on the other side many times. Miscarriage happens to 1 in 4 women, it would be pretty unusual to not know at least one person who has experienced it. A beautiful cousin of mine, who has since had some of the most polite, smart, and well-mannered children to ever be brought to the Earth, was the first person I knew to have a miscarriage. I was thirteen I think, or somewhere around there. It was a very happy family event and everyone was having a great time. I went to take a bathroom break, and inside the bathroom was my cousin and a few surrounding her, consoling her. She was in tears and I remember stopping cold, shocked not just because she is usually such a happy and positive person, but I also did not know what to say when they told me why she was so upset. I don’t know if I said anything at all. For that, I’m sorry.

If you do not know what to say, and do not want to say anything wrong, I hope these few suggestions help. This isn’t an exact science, this is not at all correct for all people or all situations. This is what I wish people had done for me.

A few quick and easy DON’Ts:

Everything happens for a reason – what reason do you think my baby had to die? Yes, the majority of miscarriages occur because of natural selection (your body knows something is wrong with the fetus and spontaneously aborts it). However, sometimes (like in my case) it’s something wrong with my body and the way it processes hormone imbalances that causes the miscarriage to occur. Either way, it’s not as comforting of a thing to hear as you may think.
God needed another Angel – an easy thing to say when God didn’t ask you for yours
Anything starting with “At least you didn’t-“ – lose it later in the pregnancy? Know the sex of the baby? Go the entire pregnancy to have a stillbirth? Yes, at least those things did not happen. Don’t bring them up. Even if those things had happened, I would probably still feel the same.
It is all in God’s plan – maybe this works for someone really religious, but I think it’s safe to say you should steer clear of it regardless. It’s like saying God wanted you to be in pain, learn some horrible life lesson, etc.
ANYTHING about how much you consider changing diapers/sleepless nights/etc a pain. We would gladly do it if given the chance, and you now look like an ungrateful asshole.
Here’s a great infertility/miscarriage article – I’m aware of my battle. I do a lot of my own research as well as see TRAINED PROFESSIONALS about my specific case regularly. I live it everyday. Please realize that you offering me an article like that would be the same as me sending you an article on how to be a better parent. It’s kind of insulting.
“If it makes you feel any better, I had to go through this bad thing” – 1. You are diminishing my situation & 2. Anyone who says, “Yes that does make me feel better that you had a horrible time” is a complete jerk. 3. Life is not a competition and certainly not a competition to see who can do worse.
“So & So suffered with infertility/miscarriage and now they have three healthy children” – Good for them, but just because So & So beat the battle, it does not mean that I will. Not everyone is so lucky.
You will have a baby one day – No, I might not. There is no guarantee my situation will be solved. Yes, “At least” I can get pregnant, but that does not mean that I can have a healthy baby.
There’s always IVF/Adoption/etc. Yes, there is and for a large price tag that you are probably unaware of. The average cost of IVF (In Vitro Fertilization) is $12,400 whether it works or not. The average cost of a domestic adoption in the United States ranges anywhere from $30,000 to $50,000.

AND now for the GENUINE responses that I wish we had gotten; The please Do’s:

“I’m so sorry for your loss” – It’s simple and to the point. It lets me know you were thinking of us and our situation, and that means a lot.

“I’m coming over. I’m bringing food. I will sit with you if you want me to, if not I understand” – There were a lot of times that I did not want to talk, but having a friend or family member there to just sit with, would have been nice. When I lost my “first” pregnancy, the initial day was the worst day of my life, going through labor at only 11 weeks pregnant is not at all pleasant – both physically and emotionally. It took me a little over a week to recover physically from it. Emotionally, I may never recover completely. Depression is no different than being sick, you do not have the strength or energy to do anything. A little help would’ve been amazing, and definitely never forgotten.

“Talk to me about it” & MEAN IT. & then, most importantly, LISTEN.
There were few that actually cared to listen to me when I needed to talk about our miscarriages. I get it, it makes people uncomfortable. BUT at the same time, I’m unconformable. I’m depressed. I’m broken. My child and my hopes and dreams for them DIED. I talked a lot and then it was met with a “oh, that’s terrible” and then the subject was changed. Or I talked and and my situation was compared to something else not the same. I need to talk about what happened to me and my baby to help me heal, to help me find peace. Belittling the situation is not helpful and it really hinders the process.

“I was going to do this today, would you like to come along?” We might talk about it, we might not. But letting me know you want to be around me even though I am having a hard time, or even that I might decline, still means so much.

Still don’t know what to say? They hire people to make cards that do.

When we felt it was time to announce our loss, we did so on Facebook (minus our parents) instead of calling everyone individually (hopefully, for obvious reasons). That’s how the majority of people found out, I’m sure. We got a few responses here and there, and those meant a lot to us. A lot of people sent their condolences to my parents, not to me directly. I was not even made aware of this either, until telling my parents I felt like I was alone and no one cared MONTHS later. I do not know who said what, how they felt, etc, I wish they had told me. It didn’t happen to my parents. It happened to us.

In February, maybe a whole month after our first known miscarriage, we ran into one of Steven’s friends and co-workers. I had met the guy once before and only briefly. Although it was kind of awkward, not going to lie, he gave me the “I’m so sorry” look and gave my shoulder a squeeze. It meant a lot to me.

We received one card after our first known miscarriage. It was from the head of Steven’s company’s FRG, she was new, and we had never met her in person. The card said a lot of touching and prevalent things that were extremely comforting and thoughtful. It’s the only card we have received throughout the entire time about the matter.

I was told I was a bad friend for not wanting to know about friends’ pregnancies. However, those friends were not bad friends because they did not want to know what I was going through because of my miscarriage? (See my post, Words Begging with G) First, that’s completely unfair. It’s not that I did not want to know, it’s that knowing was a reminder of what was taken from me. There are milestones they got to have and will continue to have, that I never will with my baby. I did not know if any of my babies were going to be a boy or a girl, no baby shower for them, no celebration of my baby’s upcoming arrival and certainly not of their BIRTH. They were too busy being happy to be bothered with my sadness, and vice versa, I was too depressed to have the reminder of a happy, healthy pregnancy. Neither is wrong necessarily. I do beg to anyone who is pregnant, and your friend loses their pregnancy, DO NOT say “If your baby had lived, what were you going to name it because I don’t want to take your name.” I was asked that. In all honesty, I’m jealous of my pregnant friends and those who just gave birth to healthy babies. I think my reasoning is totally understandable. So pregnant ladies, please just be mindful of how you say or ask things. You’re experiencing something I was denied.

I really hope this does not come off as me trying to being cruel. I’m just being truthful. I’ve been on both sides of not knowing what to say and also wishing someone would say SOMETHING at all. I realize there can be a lot of miscommunication and bad interpretations of what people say and what they mean. I get it. I’m just trying to say that tough times can be painfully lonely.

I’m trying to bring awareness.

I’m trying to support SYMPATHY & EMPATHY alike.

Loss is never easy, no matter how long or short the person was known.

It’s not always easy knowing what to say, but as much as the thought counts, it’s important that you tell or show the person there is a thought there at all. Don’t just pray for somebody, tell them you are praying for them. Don’t discuss your sadness with people outside of the situation, discuss it TO the person it happened to. Where words fail, touch can speak for you. When all else fails, there are many locations to buy cards.

If you are a loved one who has spoken to me about our situation, I appreciate it more than you will ever know, and I am so thankful for your support. I think it’s also important for me to say that if you are a loved one of mine who didn’t say anything to me, I understand why, I just wish you would. In times of happiness, support is nice. In times of sadness, support is what gets us through it.

If you were here…

If you were here I would be the happiest mother there ever was. I would hold you close and be sure to let you know that you were safe and protected. I would memorize all your tiny features, trying to remember them before they grew too fast. I would sing to soothe you when you were upset, or to make you laugh and dance. I would read to you all my favorite stories, hoping you would grow to love literature as much as your momma. I would have daddy play the guitar for you so you would be just as passionate about music as we are. Daddy would teach you so many things, even some things he probably shouldn’t. For your naps, daddy would be your big teddy bear to sleep beside you. We would tell you that we love you so much and so often that “love” just might have been your first word.

If you were here you would have an official name. If you were a boy, you would have been named after your daddy, and his dad before him. If you were a girl, well, we probably would still be debating it, but your middle name would have come from your great grandmother on your momma’s side. If you were here, we may have changed our mind entirely, and named you something completely different to suit your laugh and your smile. We named you Avery, a unisex name because we did not know what you would have been. We were so excited to find out, but you left us a few weeks short of us being sure. Avery means noble, which we are sure you are. It also means blonde ruler, which is showing just how much momma was hoping you would have taken after your daddy.

If you were here, maybe your grandparents would be too, and our friends who are now like family. Your grandpas would probably boast about how awesome and amazing you are, just like them, all while your grandmas cooed and smiled for you. Instead, family and friends are across the country at home in California. They do not talk with us about you much, not because they do not care, but because they think it will hurt your daddy and momma. I hope they think of you just the same though as if you were here: fondly and with love.

If you were here we may not have known quite what to do every time something was wrong. We might not know what to say right away to make the bad okay again. In daddy’s case, it may have taken several tries to get your diaper on just right. If you were here, I hope you know we would have tried our best each and every time.

If you were here, we would have never known the hurt and heartache it was to lose you. We would have been so thankful, but somehow, we may have taken for granted how lucky we were to have you in our arms.

Today we expected you to be here with us. It was your day to be due for entrance into the world. It was the day you were supposed to have been born.

But you are not here. You are there, wherever there is. I hope that there you are happy, healthy, and know how much you are loved. We wanted you so much. We want you still. We hope that one day we can meet you, and memorize all your features, hold you close and tell you all the stories we have been holding inside.

Daddy and Momma love you, Avery. Please watch over your sibling for us until we can all be together again. ♥

The Year of Life Lessons

A year ago today Steven, my husband, left for deployment. We expected him to be gone for 9 months. He’d only joined the Army not even a year before, and we had just moved to Kansas four months prior. It was nerve wracking on so many different levels.

The night before had been restless. The morning of I remember feeling numb; trying to be strong but being so broken. There is so much that I wanted to say, to express in some way, but could not find the words, enough words, or any one word that would mean as much as I wanted it to. My husband, the love of my life, my best friend wasn’t going to be in the bed next to me when I went to bed that night. He was not even going to be in the same time zone for much longer.

And so they went. He traveled for a week before he got where he needed to be. Every morning I woke up around the time he was getting off work, evening there. When I went to bed, he was waking up. It’s so bizarre being on opposite sides of the globe.

Shortly after he left I was diagnosed with a pituitary tumor (the main cause of my infertility struggles). I’m still, and for as long as we want to have children, I will have to take medication (that is more often used for women recovering from breast cancer) to keep it under control. It cannot be removed, it will just grow back.

He got to come home SIX months earlier than expected. He was safe, he was an arm’s length away, he was in the same time zone! There’s so much that forces you to be strong in the Army life, so much that will break you down to where all you can do is cry, and then there are moments of absolute magic. Military spouses are lucky in the sense that we have many first kisses.

I could not help but feel that we cheated deployment somehow. Many times I have thought that because of that, we lost the two pregnancies we had during the time he could have still been deployed. Maybe it was life’s way of working out the kinks, or balancing the scales, whatever it may be.

Being happy without guilt has been a complete struggle this year. There’s been a lot of self loathing, anger and depression this last year. We’ve been handed a lot of unlucky hands time and time again. Before this year I had a completely different mentality with many things. Before this year I did believe that everything happens for a reason. I love the romantacism behind the idea, but at the same time, why did our babies have to die? What reason was that? With that, the “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” part of me struggled. Sometimes choosing happiness is not as easy as it sounds. I understand depression in a whole new light. I understand heartache. I’ve been there, I’ve picked myself up, but every once in a while I trip and fall… hard.

We’ve hit the one year mark of a difficult year. We are together. We are safe. Not everything happened the way it was planned. Not everything happened the way we wanted it to. BUT We made it!


(taken last night: August 4th 2014 by yours truly, with help of my tripod)

I hope with every single ounce of my being that the next 365 days are much more kind to us. I hope that we can find happiness and not have to fight for it. This year I hope happiness finds us. Please.

The M Word, vol. 2

Let me say it: 2014 has been kind of a jerk (and yes, that is an edit of the original word I chose).

IN SHORT: Last year, after having no luck in the fertility department, I began to search for WHY. Turned out I had a benign pituitary tumor that was causing a whole lot of hormone imbalances. When my husband returned home from Afghanistan we found out we were pregnant! JUST like that! We rang in the new year with our eyes glossed over, happy as can be, things were starting to work out the way we wanted them to. But then I miscarried a little over a week into the new year. We’ve been going to counseling, we’ve been trying to look to happiness, we’ve been trying to not let it get us down.

When it came time to try again, I was not entirely confident I was ready. Although the truth is that we both want a family and we are not getting any younger. When we got a positive reading on an at home pregnancy test on Mother’s Day, I could not help but feel like it was a sign. We were going to have our rainbow baby! (Side note: Rainbow baby is a term used for a baby that is born after miscarriage. Like in the real world, a rainbow follows a storm: a symbol of hope.)

This time around we kept the news to ourselves. We wanted to know what was going on, what we needed to do, and what we were to expect before letting the outside world in on it. As soon as the OBGYN office was open that Monday morning, I was on the phone trying to get in to see someone. Turns out that whether you are high risk or not, the head of the clinic does not give a damn. After many calls, many tears, many reminders that it is their job to take care of my baby and to give it the best chance at life, and not to mention the previous doctor I had seen there (who has since left, go figure) said there were several steps that needed to be taken once I became pregnant again, they agreed to see me at what we thought might be my sixth week (the following week). They also put me on a progesterone supplement (the hormone that dropped significantly before my last miscarriage). We crossed our fingers and toes and tried to relax.

The next Tuesday I started noticing symptoms that had occurred towards the beginning of my last miscarriage. Five attempts at drawing my blood, two IVs of fluid, an inconclusive ultrasound and pelvic examine, and six hours later, we left the ER knowing just about as much as we did going in. The symptoms I had correlated with side effects of the hormone supplement, so we tried to think positive. The following Thursday, an hour before my OBGYN appointment, it became evident that I was having another miscarriage.

Turns out my replacement doctor is quite the compassionate guy. He did what he could, which wasn’t much, but he was able to make us laugh. He did raise the concern that my pregnancy could be ectopic (a pregnancy that forms outside the uterus that if it continued to grow – could cause a slew of other problems). I’m still not sure how we’re feeling about that matter, really, but my pregnancy hormones began to drop and have done so significantly since.

Here I am. Again.

I am a mother to two baby angels. My children were born with wings.

Que sera, sera. Maybe we’ll have rainbows one day, but the future’s not ours to see.

After the last miscarriage, I know who will be there for us and who won’t. I’m thankful for the internet because I’ve spoken with so many lovely people who know exactly what it’s like – and without them, this would have been so incredibly difficult.

It’s devastating. We’ve been here before. I’ve had all this happen to me, taken all the same pain killers, and had all the emotions that those pills cannot dull. Part of me says it was not as bad this time around, but I know that probably has a lot to do with the fact that I’m used to the lingering emotional pain.

Think what you will, but miscarriage is not something you get over. It’s not a pain that just goes away with time. It’s a scar left on me, two times over now, that will be with me forever. Those were our babies, and we will never get to hold them, kiss them, watch them grow and have families of their own. No, that’s not something you just get over. Miscarriage is a pain that you get used to.

I lazily posted on Facebook that we had two angels watching over us now. There’s so much happiness and things to celebrate back home in California that I hate to even attempt to distract away from it. Although, friends and family, if you’re reading this, we could use a little “thinking of you” our way. Kansas feels that much further from home these days.

I’m so jealous of the women who get to start sentences off with “When my baby is born-” because I will never have that comfort. If I ever have a baby. It will always be “If my baby is born.”

We will not be defeated, not yet. We will try again. We will be making our way out to Kansas City again to see the endocrine and fertility specialist soon.

Keep your fingers crossed for us please. We could use all the good juju, baby dust, hopes, wishes, prayers, all of that. ♥