Still Standing

I've been watching the Japanese maple in my front yard for five years.

Armed with a shovel and a tiny little tree, two-year-old Nathan helped me and Jonathan plunk those roots into the dark soil. It was such a sad-looking tree. It was the same height as the green support we planted next to it, and it drooped for days while we watered it back to health. Over a few months, the limbs began to thicken, and the branches pointed toward the sky. Years have come and gone since then. The leaves fall every autumn, but brilliant red buds pop open each spring. The tree is now self-sufficient. It's doubled in size, and it's absolutely gorgeous. Something deep inside me, however, knows I can never remove the support.

You may know that each time Owen's birthday rolls around, a little feeling creeps into my heart and tugs until it has my attention. I am so proud to celebrate my little boy, but I try to balance it with the anniversary of loss that falls on the same calendar square. Four years ago on March 10, my middle son was born. Five years ago on March 10, I was told my second pregnancy ended in miscarriage. Since I wrote a belated birthday letter to Owen yesterday, I felt compelled to keep the tradition alive today. In the most literal sense, I cannot have one without the other.

Through the years I've come to this space to pour my heart out and make a voice for my child who never had one. On both the anniversary of the miscarriage and the anniversary of my October due date, I've shouted from the rooftop that these babies should be remembered for what they are - children, not losses. Sure, the memories are sad, but miscarriage is not a medical condition. It's a death in the family. And in death, we should celebrate life. Lately, I've been struggling with these memories.

Believe me when I say I am not forgetting. I am simply having trouble sharing. Five years later, and instead of shouting from the rooftops, I want to fold up my memories and my pain and my love and place it all gently in my pocket. The loss is mine, and the memories are, too.

We planted that little tree a couple weeks after my doctor told us we had lost our child. We did it because we wanted something we could see grow. Something we could touch. Something we could watch change with the seasons. What I didn't expect is that my grief would change, too. Obviously I have pulled this memory out of my pocket today, but I just wanted to acknowledge the fact that even though grief is constant, it changes. The ebbs and flows are hard to follow, but it never goes away. Grief is the price of love.

I'm thankful for the memories, I'm thankful for learning about the beauty and the swiftness in life, and I'm thankful for the big, strong Japanese maple in my front yard. Nothing will knock it over. Nothing will alter its beauty. It will always change and shift and move, but it's solid as a rock.

When Parents Grieve

I was due to deliver my second child four years ago today.

For about six weeks, October 10 was a wonderful date. My future was laid before me and all thoughts revolved around our new life. We found out in March 2010, however, that the date would mean something different. That pregnancy ended in miscarriage and though I've delivered two babies since then, my heart still aches for the one I never held.

Over the years I've learned that I'm not alone. I sat in a memorial service as my friends mourned their son, I listened when another reached out after her third miscarriage, and I wept when another had to deliver her baby the day after he died. It's tough to know how to react to death, but it can get even more complicated when it's a baby. That's why today I'm offering a few {unsolicited} suggestions. If you've said any of these to a grieving friend, don't feel bad. I'm guilty, too. I know your heart is in the right place, but here are a few easy ways to protect feelings and provide solace:

Don't say: "There was probably something wrong with the baby." Even if a medical anomaly is diagnosed, do not say this to a grieving parent. They wanted that child more than anything and no medical issue could change that.

INSTEAD: "She was perfect/beautiful/insert any other encouraging word." Whether you got to see pictures of the baby or she was gone before her features began to form, she was known and loved. She was knit together in utter perfection and she was wonderfully made.

Don't say: "At least you can have more." Honestly, any sentence that starts with the words at least are best avoided. There's no silver lining when it comes to the death of a child. The same goes for "at least you weren't that far along" and "at least you're still young" and "at least you already have children."

INSTEAD: "This is awful, and I'm so sorry." It doesn't sound like it's enough, but it is. As much as you may want to fix your friends' broken hearts, you can't. Do not underestimate the power of simply loving them.

Don't say: "I'm praying that you're blessed with a healthy child soon." Even though you're being honest, you can't assume the couple plans to have more children. When the wounds are fresh, many parents don't want to think about a different baby. They just want the one who passed away.

INSTEAD: "You are amazing parents." Acknowledge that this couple had a baby instead of dismissing the life that ended. One big fear is that people forget. The memories may bring tears, but the memories are all these parents have. Help them not to fade.

Don't say: "God needed her more than you did." Even if the parents know this to be true, it can be tough to hear. These parents are so desperate to have their child that they can't fathom anyone else needing her more.

INSTEAD: "I know {Baby} is being cradled by Jesus now, and he's watching over his mama and daddy." Obviously keep the parents' faith in mind, but this thought is much more comforting than focusing on the baby being taken away. It's horrible to know he's gone, but it's uplifting to know he's safe.

Every situation is different, but every grieving parent needs support. Don't assume they're getting it elsewhere, but figure out what they need and give. Remember their child and cover them in prayer. My heart goes out to anyone who can relate, either as a parent who's been shattered by a missing heartbeat or as a supportive friend. This is a devastating situation, and there's no easy fix. I hope this helps you approach the path to finding or providing a soft place to land.

Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
-Matthew 11:28

Life After Loss

Jonathan said something to me the other day, as Bauer Boys tend to do, that resonated deeply.

Even with all the excitement of party planning and teaching Owen to hold up another finger when asked his age, his birthday is an odd time for me. Don't get me wrong, I love celebrating the fact that this beautiful baby boy is here next to me. His very being was an answer to countless prayers, and one we weren't sure we would see. He is the calm after a storm in my parenting journey, but you can't help but think of the rain when you see a rainbow, right?

If you've been here a while, you know there was another baby between the Bauer Boys. I suffered a miscarriage before becoming pregnant with Owen and was told my child had passed away on the exact date he would be born a year later. As thrilled as I am that my three children are here, safe and sound and well, the ache is still there, too. It's a bittersweet time for us. I try to make Owen's birthday a fun day for everyone, but a piece of my heart is still grieving. When I finally let those emotions show through a few days ago, Jonathan asked me to remember.

He reminded me of what I said four years ago. He told me I stated that the most important thing anyone can do is not feel sorry for me and tiptoe around the situation, but remember. Remember that there was a life lost, and that life was my baby. As tiny and undeveloped as she was, she was knit together inside of my body. {note: we don't know, but my gut says girl.} She was my child when she was alive inside, she was my child when she wasn't, and she's my child in heaven watching over the five of us who aren't quite as lucky yet. It tears my heart to pieces to think about losing her, but I owe that to her. I owe it to my baby to remember that she was here, if only for a few weeks. That, my friends, is why I'm talking about her once again here on my little corner of the Internet.

If there's one thing I do not want as a mother, it's for the memory of my child to fade. Sure, I grieve the fact that she's gone, but I celebrate the life that was here, and the lives that came after.

It was not a coincidence that Owen was born on March 10. He was five days overdue, I was absolutely miserable, and I spent the morning of his birthday sobbing as I remembered where I was a year before. I believe with every ounce of my heart that this connection was meant to be. I was meant to have proof of what was in the form of what will be. After the storm of her loss, she sent me a rainbow I could hold. I am blessed beyond words.

A few months after we lost our baby, Jonathan and I planted a Japanese Maple tree in our front flower bed. We thought it an easy reminder of the memory of our child, and we loved the idea of having something we could actually watch grow year after year. Four years later it stretches far beyond the green metal pole that used to match its height. The trunk is strong and thick and the naked branches stretch upward. As I was reflecting this week, I sat on the front porch and looked at it. Tiny little buds were starting to form all over it. Life was beginning where a precious one ended.

Then, I continued noticing. Tiny shoots of green were forming on the pear trees at Nora's baby sitters' house, branches of oaks that were bare last week were dotted with hopeful leaves, dark purple blooms were peeking from their hiding places on the tulip tree beside my home. The sun is brighter, the air is fresher, and the sky is bluer. And I know why. I feel her presence in everything this time of year and I know it's because she wants to be remembered. Life after loss isn't always easy, but it's life. She helps me know that I am alive.

As much as I grieve the baby that only knew me from the inside, I am thankful for the ways she has taught me to love. And I'm thankful for the brother and sister she has sent along the way.

Pregnancy Loss

Three years ago on today's date, my second child was due to be born. If you do your math and you've been paying attention, you know little Owen is only halfway through his terrible twos.

The second baby I'm referring to is one I never got to meet in person. One who only felt my love from within, not from my touch or my words or my kiss. One who was only around for a couple of months before I suffered a miscarriage and my family was changed forever.

Each year about this time {and again in March, which marks the month that sweet baby left us}, I bring her up. I don't do this to make you sad or to force myself and my family and friends back into that emotional roller coaster. I don't want to be a statistic. I don't want to have to tell doctors that I've had four pregnancies, but only three children. I don't want to look at Owen and Nora and think about how different things would be if it hadn't happened. It's a weird pull on my heart and it hurts to think about the missing piece.

But it's there. It happened. There was a real baby - my baby - who left too soon. Because of that fact, I will do everything I can to honor her memory and the love created the second we knew she was formed. October is nationally recognized as Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month and chances are, you can relate. Maybe you experienced it firsthand. Or maybe it was your best friend or cousin or coworker or parents. No matter how you're connected, you know the devastation and confusion it brings. Unlike the many months designated to raise awareness about certain illnesses or issues that plague our fellow man, we're not looking for a cure. Miscarriage is something no woman can prevent. This is a hard pill to swallow, but there is usually no rhyme or reason associated with pregnancy loss. Although we can't fix it, what we can do is remember.

I don't know your story, but if you can relate to this post, I can't imagine the heartbreak you've felt. The only feelings I know are my own and my biggest reason for writing about this tough topic is to remind my readers that it's real. It's a thing that happens and it should not be a taboo subject. We should honor these babies and their mothers for the strength they've built to pick themselves up and deal. To carry on through life with a missing piece and try to focus on the love more than the loss.

This post goes out to all of my readers who have children who left this planet too soon. I am here for you. So are your friends and your family and the people in this life who love you. The tiny angel your heart aches for is real and his or her loss is real and that's okay. Whether it's been a few years, a few decades, or the shock is very fresh, there's pain. However, I ask that you try not to let that push back the memory of your child. In his or her memory, stand up. Be the one in four. Hurt and grieve and share and lean and let people know it's okay to do the same.

Be proud of your angel and the love in which he or she was created. It is my personal belief that we will see them all again one day and it's also my personal belief that they're all having a pretty sweet play date right now. :)

Don't be afraid to speak out about your babies. You are not alone.

My Dog

Susie Bauer
June 3, 2006 - June 28, 2013


It's been a sad couple of days, y'all.

Yesterday the first member of our growing family went to the place all dogs inevitably go. She joined us as a sweet brown-eyed puppy about a month after we were married and she's grown with us ever since. It's hard to say good-bye to someone you've known so long, but Nathan reassures me she's having a blast in heaven.

He said Jesus knows how to play fetch really well.

Thank you for your thoughts, prayers, and kind words. We miss you Susie, but we know you're in good company up there. We'll see you again someday. Love you, girl.

Two Letters {Part Two}

{In honor of Owen's second birthday this weekend (sob!), I decided to slow down from busy party planning and take time to write letters to the two babies my family celebrates each March. Part one here.}


If I weren't pregnant right now, this would be confusing. This was taken on February 3, 2010. The tangible proof of my baby in heaven.

Dear Angel,
I can't believe it's been three years since we walked out of my wonderful doctor's office, leaving tears in his eyes and holes in our hearts. You came in the form of a positive pregnancy test in early February and left quickly in the form of an empty gestational sac in March.

I always tell people that the tiniest souls, the smallest people can leave the biggest impacts on our lives. (You know that good and well now that you have a little buddy up there to play with).

My heart will not completely heal from your loss, but you sure taught me to let it grow. It may sound cheesy, but the day you died, my soul awoke. I could hurt worse than ever before, but, baby, I can love harder because of you.

The day you left I took your big brother into my arms and squeezed him tight, praying for much more time than I had with you. I opened my heart to new life and gave birth to your baby brother exactly one year to the day you left. Anybody can call it a coincidence, but I'm pretty sure you are the one who made that connection happen.

Don't worry, I didn't mind the five days overdue thing at all. Promise!

And now, sweet angel, you are going to have a baby sister. Aren't you excited? You probably know her better than I do. Before God sent her down to me, I can picture the two of you laughing and dancing. I'm sad you aren't here to spend a life on Earth with her, but the life we'll all spend together one day will be incredible. And it will be for all of eternity.

It's hard for me to bring up these thoughts and these feelings and to share these words with the friends and family who love me and love you, but I want so badly to remember. I want to remember the heartbreak I experienced three whole years ago because I want to remember just how hard I loved you and just how much I wanted you.

Since you're gone, my life has taken a path that would not have been possible with you here. There is no way to prove this path is better or worse than what could have been, but I love it. It's my life and it's full of the people I love.

Knowing you're watching over us daily makes it that much sweeter.

I miss you, sweet baby, and I will always love you, but I thank you for showing me what true love means. You're where you are supposed to be and one day, I pray I'll be there, too.

"In these bodies we will live,
in these bodies we will die.
Where you invest your love,
you invest your life.

Awake my soul...
Awake my soul...
Awake my soul...
For you were made to meet your maker."

- Mumford and Sons "Awake My Soul"

Footprints

"I love you and would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you only see one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you." --Footprints in the Sand

I've been thinking a lot about footprints lately. And the impressions they can make. Not just on the sand or onto a birth certificate, but in lives.

Over the past couple of weeks I have seen firsthand how even the tiniest of footprints and shortest of lives can rock so many people so hard. A few weeks ago a friend of ours gave birth to a baby and shortly thereafter, watched him return to the One who silently knit him in her womb.

"It was then that I carried you."

After attending the memorial service for heaven's newest angel, this poem has stuck with me. Sitting in the pew with family and friends mourning the loss of a life, I studied closely the program handed to me. It featured a set of his footprints. Tiny, tiny little footprints. Just a little bigger than the ones I've yet to feel rubbing across the inside of my belly.

I closed my eyes and I pictured him. Perfectly formed. Alive. I imagined this precious person spending his entire life in his parents' arms.

I refuse to say that was enough. There must be nothing worse in this world than a parent burying a child.

I am, however, thankful for the time they had. This particular service was not just about a death, but also a birth. A celebration of life. Before they all fell into the arms of the Lord, they rocked their miracle.

"It was then that I carried you."

I have seen my friends grieve, suffer, start to laugh again, and smile as they cling tight to the memories. I have seen giant steps made by tiny feet.

Life is not fair and to be frank, it sucks sometimes. But it is so unbelievably short. Our time here is precious. We really should take advantage of every opportunity, hug our babies at every turn, and shout our praises louder in the darkness than in the light.

"But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints. I don't understand why when I needed you most you would leave me..."

"It was then that I carried you."


(If you know this sweet family, please continue to pray for their peace and relief. If you do not know them, I do want to keep their identities anonymous; however, God can still hear your prayers. Thank you.)

Remember

I opened an email yesterday from the Arkansas Women Bloggers, urging me to write about my fall traditions as part of an autumn blogging challenge (see link below).

I searched my brain for ideas and came up with a few, but as I continued to peruse the rest of the email's suggestions, I stopped cold at "they are what make you you and what helps to bind your family together."

So this is going to be a little different than most.

Monday, October 15, too many parents across the globe lit a candle for their babies. Some held their babies only for a few months or a few days, some only saw them as blips on an ultrasound screen, and others only had two glorious lines on a pregnancy test.

This day is known as Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day and, as you may already know, I am one of those much-too-high statistics. I am the one in four. There's a good chance you may be, too.

Fall is a bittersweet time for me. I love watching my rural corner of the state transform into a cozy, idyllic little spot with fireplaces, falling leaves, and closer families. I also think about the time I was due to deliver my second child on October 10, 2010. Unfortunately I ended up suffering through a miscarriage the March before.

Time helps and I've lived, learned, and grown. Owen was born one year after my miscarriage and our family is stronger than ever. Because my heart has grown, though, does not mean the hole healed. It's just become part of me.

Each fall, I think about this little miracle who taught me so much about life. Whether we live to be 100 or never see beyond our mother's womb, we're all here for a just a blink.

Seeing it go just as quickly as it came gave me a sense of urgency. I am desperate to make every second count. I'm not living perfectly, and there are new struggles each day, but every time I wake up and see the sun, I am thankful. Every time I wake up and see my sons, I am thankful.

So my fall tradition is simple. Around this time of year, my husband and I are reminded to be thankful for the time we're given. We are blessed with the precious gift of life and we have the honor of raising two more.

We also have the honor of knowing a pretty fantastic guardian angel. I hope I get more time to figure out what I'm doing here, but the day I'm done, I pray I'll have an awesome welcoming committee.

Life is too precious and too rare to be wasted. Live yours.

Every day.


This post is part of an Arkansas Women Bloggers challenge called Blogtober Fest. Click to read other fall traditions.

Where We've Been

This morning, my brain is filled with memory.

On this day one year ago, I was enormous. My body was full and three days overdue with a stubborn, long-waited-for baby. I was ready to meet him, but he wasn't quite ready to meet me. It would be two days before his eviction, but I remember. I wanted him so badly and the minutes dragged. I would not know if he was whole or well until I saw his face and the word "overdue" wasn't helping those anxieties.

On this day two years ago, I was grief-stricken. It would be two days before my doctor confirmed what I knew, but I knew. I knew my second pregnancy had ended in loss and I knew the coming days, weeks, and months (eventually years) would be filled with spurts of sadness. I knew I would get pregnant again and I knew my sweet Owen would come to me, but I had to deal with this first.

In 2010, I wanted March 10 to stay away. Hope was lost and I knew what my doctor would tell me that day. It was hard and it still is. In 2011, March 10 couldn't arrive soon enough. I would be a few days closer to holding my sweet newborn (or perhaps holding him already!) Now, in 2012, March 10 is coming and it's welcomed. My baby boy will be a year old Saturday and although it's hard to see him grow up, I am excited to celebrate this anniversary of life. I'm also excited to remember why he's here.

This is a rehash of what I've discussed time and time again, but it helps to remember where we've been and where we're going. You can't move forward without looking back. And don't worry, it's my baby's birthday week. There will be *lots* of looking back around here. :) Thanks for reading.

The Rainbow Connection

someday we'll find it... the lovers, the dreamers, and me

Before the excitement of Owen's birth last Thursday, I was attempting to write a post marking the anniversary of a sad day. If you look at my little tickers over there, you will notice a new similarity. What was simply going to be a date to remember a loss is now a date to celebrate two beautiful lives.

Owen was born exactly one year after we walked out of the OB clinic knowing our second pregnancy ended in a loss. I can still remember what that felt like. I was depressed, desperate, and had lost all hope. I felt that way for a while. Even when Owen took residence last June, I knew I would always feel heartache for my angel baby. My love was growing with each kick felt and each heartbeat heard, but the sadness was still there.

Fast forward to last month. When I realized that Owen was going to skip February, I knew it was all his idea. He was waiting to share the special month of March with his older sibling. Not only did the kid hold off until March, he overstayed his welcome five days to make his point. On March 10, 2010, I left the doctor's office with empty arms and an empty heart, but on March 10, 2011, I delivered a perfect bundle of joy.

Babies born after a miscarriage are known as Rainbow Babies. Here's a passage I found a while back that I think explains this term best:

"Rainbow Babies" is the understanding that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it doesn't mean the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy and hope.

Baby Owen has provided a light in my life that I will never be able to describe. I am so thankful that I was given another chance at motherhood and that I have two beautiful sons to love. I'm also thankful for the little baby I have waiting for me in heaven. Experiencing a loss is hard, but it has shown me how precious life can be. March 10 is no longer just a day to remember a loss, but a day to remember a beginning and an amazing connection.

Bittersweet Due Date

As great as my life is going at this point in 2010, it's hard not to look back and remember the heartbreak we went through while dealing with the loss of a pregnancy in March. I'm doing quite a bit of remembering today as the magical date 10-10-10 was the due date I was given after a positive pregnancy test Feb. 3. However, on March 10 - seven months to the date - my doctor diagnosed a miscarriage when he could not find a growing baby on the ultrasound. Today I am sad that I don't have a newborn to love, to protect, to raise. She should be in my arms today, not on my mind. It still hurts when I think about the fact that I wasn't able to save the life of someone so innocent. Seven months ago, I learned the hard way that life is just not fair. However, when I remember the pain of what happened, I can't help but smile when I feel little kicks from the inside.

No, I am not 40 weeks pregnant today, but I did reach my 19-week mark yesterday. I reached 19 weeks with a little heirloom tomato-sized baby who reminds me of his or her life every day. Each time I start to worry, my baby reassures me that life is growing and blossoming inside me. This baby doesn't replace the angel we lost, but this pregnancy proves that I am still capable of producing beautiful life. On the same note, thinking about the baby who slipped away before we had a chance to meet proves how precious and fleeting life can be. Watching my due date come and go with nothing to show for it makes me sad, but it also makes me count my blessings more often, appreciate life stronger, and love harder. I thank the Lord that I do have the ability to have children and I pray for those who struggle with it. I miss that baby more than I can describe, but for someone I never met, she taught me more about life than anyone else ever could. I miss you, sweet baby, but I'm glad you're home and I'm glad you were in my life, even if it was only for a few weeks.

(Ahem) Now, get a tissue. :) And make sure you tell everyone you know whose lives have been rocked by miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant loss that you love them and are always there for them. October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month and on Oct. 15 (this Friday), people around the world are lighting candles in honor of all the little angels who have changed their families' lives forever. More information on this Wave of Light can be found HERE. I will light a candle not only in honor of my angel, but in honor of everyone who helped me find the strength to carry on. Thanks to all of you for being there for my family, for me, and for my sweet angel.

Remembering an Angel

As much as I wish every post I write could be about easy things like Nathan's latest antics or my awesome zucchini plants, some subjects don't come as easily. Although I refuse to forget about my angel, it still takes a while to come up with the right words. Pictured above is a necklace I received from the boys for Mother's Day. It features my baby's due date birth stone (October) and the birth stone for the month she died (March). I wear it proudly to remind myself and others that I am still a mother of two. However, as much happiness as this brings me, I am still grieving.

I'm sad that I'm not pregnant anymore, I'm sad that Nathan doesn't have a sibling, and I'm sad that I'm focused on conceiving after doing so just a few short months ago. Most of all, though, I'm sad that her memory is fading. I talk to her constantly when I'm alone and I can feel her presence everywhere. To me, she is the wind, the sky, the trees, the flowers. Everything. My biggest fear is that no one else sees her this way.

As I was reading some entries in a support group I belong to, I came across this list of the Top 20 Things Parents of Angels Wish You Would Remember. If you want to read the entire list, click HERE. I also thought I would post a few of the ones that touched me. This is not directed toward anyone and not meant to say I don't feel loved, these are simply things I don't think people realize unless they've been in the same unfortunate situation.

• I wish that you could talk about my baby more than once. The truth is if you do, it reassures me that you haven't forgotten her and that you do care and understand.


• I wish you could tell me you are sorry my baby has died and that you are thinking of me. The truth is it tells me you care.


• I wish you wouldn't think what has happened is one big bad memory for me. The truth is the memory of my baby, the love I feel for my baby, the dreams I had and the memories I have created for my baby are all loving memories. Yes, there are bad memories too but please understand that it's not all like that.


• I wish you wouldn't think that you'll keep away because all my friends and family will be there for me. The truth is, everyone thinks the same thing and I am often left with no one.

Thank you for listening and thank you all for being there for me. I am working on feeling better every day and hopefully it won't be too much longer before there is another miracle in our lives. I know when that time comes, he or she is going to have one heck of a guardian angel. :) And remember, you do, too.

Wordless Wednesday

{grief is not the sign of weakness, it is the price of love}

My Grief

I have been sitting here for hours trying to write this. About two weeks ago, I felt that our baby's life wasn't going to be as full as I wanted it to be and a week after getting that feeling, a miscarriage was diagnosed. Now, another week later, I'm trying to put into words what I've been going through and what I have learned from this pain.

Without getting into the gruesome details, after three consecutive ultrasounds showing only an empty sac, our doctor gave us the bad news. He said the baby had probably only made it to about week 4 or 5. After several failed attempts with medicine to induce my body to miscarry, I was scheduled for a surgical procedure to take care of it. Then, the night before the surgery, my body decided it was time and the process occurred naturally.

Now that you know what happened, I want to answer what you're probably wondering - how I'm feeling about it all. Sure this is the worst pain I have ever felt in my life. A tiny life Jonathan and I created and wanted so badly was taken away before it was given a chance. I'll never know who my second child was or what he would have done if granted the gift of a longer life. With that being said, I do not blame myself. I do not blame my body. I do not blame my child. As hard as it is to accept, I know this was meant to happen. Knowing that does not take any pain away from me or make this loss easier to accept, but I am at peace with it. I can feel the love from this child washing over me constantly and that makes me proud. As much as I would have loved to meet this baby, he's where he belongs, and as I said, I am at peace with that.

That being said, Jonathan and I are ready to start trying to create a third life when it's time. This is not to replace the child we lost, but to conceive another, one who will hopefully be given a better chance at a successful, happy life. Nathan deserves a brother or sister and Jonathan and I deserve a baby we can hold in our arms. That in no way means we will ever forget this little life that graced us for such a short period of time. Instead, this experience has actually taught me a very important lesson about life - it is so precious. I am now even more grateful for my sweet Nathan and all the other children in my life (especially a sweet little girl who will greet the world this summer). I realize now how rare and beautiful it is to give birth to a healthy, happy child, and I thank God even more that we were able to do that. Hug your babies and appreciate the opportunity you were able to give them. Hopefully before too much longer, my family will be able to know this feeling once again.

Anyway, I am sorry this post probably took up the entire blog (and without the use of adorable Nathan pictures), but these words needed to be said. No, I may not be willing to say all of these words to your face, but maybe you needed to hear them and I definitely needed to write them. I also want to say never before have I felt such prayers, support, and love from family and friends. I feel so lifted up by not only my tiny angel in heaven, but by all of you. I thank you for that. I may not have returned all of your phone calls and emails, but know you made an impact on me. And that I am okay, both physically and emotionally. I love you all. Thank you.

Love,
Jessica