And Then There Was You

Bradley and Chapman  

Six weeks ahead of Chapman's due date, he was trying his best to be born, regardless of our plans. That's some gumption.

Bradley sped back to the hospital after dropping Mac and Mary Brooks with a friend, placing a call en route to finalize the purchase of a suddenly-very-necessary SUV. The pieces of the puzzle we'd hoped to put together by Valentine's Day were sliding into place shortly after New Year's; it was miraculous and terrifying. 

The doctor on call checked me before B made it up to my room, and it became abundantly clear that my hope of stopping Chapman was a fantasy.

My husband, in his infinitely calm and even-keeled wisdom, suggested we let go and enjoy the day. Now that we knew this was our son's birthday, we needed to make the most of it; there was no use fighting what was already happening.

It was a bit too sudden for me, though. At dawn I'd woken up in pain; by 8:30 I was at the doctor's office. Two short hours later I was gowned up, epiduraled (this is not a word, but can I get a hallelujah for medicine!) and wondering what on Earth had happened to my Monday.

I'd been pregnant for 12 of the last 13 months; it bent the boundaries of time for me. Only zoo animals carry babies that long, right? The entire year of 2013, save one very sad five weeks, I'd been growing someone. I was determined to meet this child, and not one minute before mid-February.

It raised the stakes physically and emotionally having lost our baby only nine months before, just when I "should" have been out of the woods. With Chapman we never quite settled into the confidence of previous pregnancies, the giddy sureness that a big bow would be on our front door at 40 weeks.

There had been panicked phone calls, urgent ultrasounds, hospital rooms and steroid shots. Thank God no real problem could be pinpointed, but the symptoms were constant reminders, and fear nagged me. Chapman was the boy we promised ourselves we wouldn't lose.

I remember standing in our pitch-black sunroom at twelve weeks pregnant, begging Bradley to promise, despite the bleeding and the worry and the trip we were taking to the ER, that this was still our "take-home baby." This was the baby we wouldn't have to bid farewell to without ever meeting.

All eight months of Chapman's pregnancy I'd pictured that glorious moment just after delivery when I'd snuggle him on my chest, resplendent with hormones and happiness and the joy of taking part in a miracle.

He was coming, praise God, but I wouldn't get that moment. It's a lot to process in a few contraction-filled hours.

My parents flew up the interstate from Columbia, as they always do, and my in-laws retrieved Mac and Mary Brooks and treated them to a Chick-fil-A lunch at the hospital. By the time Mom and Dad made it into my room to say hello, I had to rush them right back out after the briefest of hugs; it was go time.

Everything led up to this. Despite my OB's objections, believing strongly that all was well with our boy, the NICU team began hurling facts and potentialities my way. They stayed in the corner - my doctor made sure of that - but I had to try my hardest not to focus on what they signified.

After one last statement of the obvious ("I'm not quite ready to meet him; I really wasn't planning to do this today!"), Chapman was here in a blink.

Chapman Collins Smith, our take-home baby.

He was pink, perfect, tiny and crying softly. He was here.

Our OB kept the NICU team at bay for a moment so I could see the son I'd carried so many (but not quite enough) weeks. I looked at him and my heart dropped. "Hello, my love!" I remember hearing the words leave my mouth as though I was a bystander; so much was happening at once.

Chapman was weighed quickly, and I was relieved to know he tipped the scales at 5 pounds and 7 ounces. Five pounds was some odd fixation of mine, as if somehow he'd be healthier, be safer if he crossed that arbitrary, invisible line.

As they wheeled him out, I whispered after him that I loved him, that I was sorry. Bradley and a small team of experts left with the newest, most scrumptious piece of my racing heart.

Little is as shockingly quiet as an empty delivery room. Our doctor kept me company until my parents returned, not 45 minutes after they'd first arrived.

Mac and Mary Brooks came in later with my in-laws, wide-eyed and laughing. It was such a happy occasion for them - waffle fries, grandparents and big sibling stickers!

Mac's discomfort with hospitals goes back to his earliest memories, so I'd prepared him thoroughly for a typical birth. I'd stay in the hospital a day or two, and his brother would be a in a "clear box on wheels" beside my bed.

Mary Brooks was giddy, but Mac wasn't buying it.

He entered exuberantly, rushing to my bedside before welling up. "Where's my baby?!?" Bradley had told them Chapman was arriving early, but the NICU hadn't crossed our minds. Mac dropped his head to the mattress and wept, splitting my heart even more.

I'm more than thankful I was able to hold it together that afternoon. The children were on my lap an hour after Chapman arrived, and I knew if I started crying I'd never stop. So I smiled. I took Bradley's advice and soaked up the gift of our growing family; I shoved aside the ache from an empty spot on my chest where a newborn should've been.

God gave us a beautiful, eager-to-be-here baby. His time in the NICU is another story, but I'm grateful for the perfect timing of Chapman's birth, even if it didn't seem that way to me at the time.

Seven-plus months later, it still twists my stomach to think about sending my sweet newborn away. A half-effective (but better than nothing!) epidural left one side of me numb for hours, which delayed our first NICU catch-up and snuggle session.

Gussied up in my best robe for my first date with Chappers.

It wasn't the dream sequence I'd played in my head for eight anxious months, but Chapman was our take-home baby, just as I'd fervently prayed. 

An Early Bird

On January 6 I woke up, as many pregnant women do, before dawn. Padding back and forth from the bathroom to my bed, it occurred to me that something baby-related was happening; I couldn't have guzzled enough La Croix the night before to require five ladies' room visits in a half-hour.

At 34 weeks along, I chalked it up to our boy finally turning head-down. He'd struck a nerve, I told myself, and surely the discomfort would die down soon. This was a good thing, in the long run - a sign that his debut would be an easy one when the time came.

Unfortunately, the pains didn't die down; they intensified. I pictured his head nuzzling into my lower back, convincing myself that whatever yoga poses he was doing in there would settle down shortly.

Soon it felt like Chapman was burrowing down every few minutes, with a whole lot of purpose behind his movement. This was my third rodeo, but it was weeks too early for labor, and I clung to each shred of denial I could find.

By 6:30 I knew I'd need to go into my OB's office as soon as it opened so they could make the pain stop. I showered, took deep breaths and rocked side to side to "calm" my little guy; I crawled in bed beside a just-stirring Mary Brooks to distract myself. Mac, attuned to anything out of the ordinary, gave me the side-eye immediately.

"Why are you breathing like that, Mama? Are you feeling ok?"

Welp. How do you answer that, exactly?

I shimmied into my comfiest outfit, putting aside my feelings about leggings and long cardigans, and prayed for business hours to arrive quickly.

Bradley packed up milk in sippy cups, baggies full of Cheerios and tiny boxes of raisins for a picnic in the car. I tried to quiet my huffing and puffing from the front seat so Mac and MB could enjoy their early morning drive en famille in peace.

I waddled into the OB's office, asking the receptionist to work me in and, after a moment or two, returning with tears in my eyes. It was okay if they were too busy to see me so early, I said; just say the word and I'll head to the hospital instead. Someone had to make this baby stop hurting me - and stop trying to be born - but I didn't want to terrify every mother-to-be in that waiting room in the meantime. I was early enough that no doctors had arrived yet; every second felt longer.

The OB nurse immediately came out, took my BP during a contraction and had a near conniption fit. Obviously my body was telling me something, so she scurried me into an exam room as I texted a friend, "Owowowowow." Watching videos of Mac and MB kept me distracted for a moment, and then I saw a white coat.

The sweet doctor who delivered MB came to check on me; knowing my history, he told me to hurry to L&D and we'd develop a game plan there. I offered him, between contractions with a lovely nurse's fist pushing into my back for support, several options: I'd go on six weeks of bed rest, I'd sleep right until his due date, I'd stay at the hospital even. I just didn't want to have a baby today.

He smiled knowingly, gave me a hug and reminded me that he'd be on duty Thursday.  (It was Monday.) If I could wait until then, I joked, I'd wait until next month!

Bradley whisked me to the hospital, kiddos in the back seat, and I gave them kisses before sidling up to the OB floor all by my lonesome. B was back in a flash, but not before the nurses helped me realize our son was coming today. Eep.

Sending Love to the NICU

Chappers working on his tan

Since Chapman came home from the NICU, I haven't given our time there much thought; there just hasn't been an opportunity. Real life takes over, other crises pop up, months fly by and you forget he was even early. Well, maybe not forget, but you gloss over the details a bit.

So, so very tired.

Recently, though, I've gotten questions from thoughtful people wanting to help NICU families in their lives. Remembering each round of our babies' hospitalizations and reliving those anxious days makes me want to throw my arms around every parent who's there; I'm more than happy to offer any ideas I can.

Putting that new robe to good use.

It can be difficult to know what to do in a time of crisis, but I know firsthand how much those gestures mean. Here are a few things that may cheer up and provide help to families dealing with hospitalized babies:

• Unscented hand sanitizer: After I'd "scrub up" to see Chapman in the NICU, I'd have to touch a telephone (to identify myself and get access) and several other surfaces between the door and his bassinet. I never felt clean or germ-free enough, especially in the dead of winter!
• Unscented lotion: After all that washing and cold weather, my hands were a mess; I applied lotion on my way out of the hospital from time to time. Many preemies can't tolerate scents, so I tried not to use strong-smelling products of any kind as a courtesy for Chapman's little neighbors.
• Jewelry pouch: We had to take off all jewelry below the elbow when we scrubbed up, and all cell phones (hello, germ-carriers!) had to be put away as well. Something pretty to hold the essentials would be practical and easy to reuse later.
• A robe: If mom is staying in the hospital, which I was only able to do for 48 hours, she'll be padding back and forth from her room to the NICU floor, pumping in between and giving little thought to her appearance. A cute robe she can toss over herself on the way would come in very handy! Ask if she needs slippers or if you can grab her favorite flats from home, too.
• Preemie-sized clothes: The NICU has basics babies can use, but there's a sense of home in allowing your newborn to wear his own things when he is big/strong enough to do so. Chapman was born during the "polar vortex," and he required several layers beneath his swaddle; hats and simple onesies or sleepers give parents an opportunity to dress baby (if that's possible) and have some sense of normalcy in that sterile environment.
• Anything personalized: These babies are entirely isolated; they haven't met many of their friends or family members yet. In the cocoon of the NICU, personalized things (blankets, caps, signs) are a powerful reminder that people in the "real" world know and love you already.
• Books: Reading to even the newest baby benefits everyone, and books are something that can be used at home after discharge. A thoughtful friend sent us this NICU scrapbook, The Littlest Peanut; I love the specific memories it captures for preemies staying in the hospital for a while.
• Photo books: Babies attend to faces more than anything else, and showing them pictures of the ones who love them is a great idea! Mac had something like this as a baby, and it would be wonderful for families who are separated. 
• Snacks: Pre-packaged snacks and drinks are a lifesaver! Granola bars and water bottles kept me going as I shuttled back and forth between Chapman and home. For moms who are rooming in, Kashi frozen meals or something similar might be helpful. Just ask!
• Gift cards: For parents who are spending a lot of time away from home, gift cards for Starbucks, restaurants, hospital food courts and gas could be a lifesaver. Take a look and see what's near their hospital.
• Your presence, but no pressure: My friends did a tremendous job each time we were in the hospital of letting me know I was in their thoughts. One text that stands out in my mind read, "I'm praying for y'all and I want you to know this won't last forever. Please don't respond." It's nice to know you're loved, but a flurry of communication can overwhelm you in a time where sleep, emotional stability and brain cells are hard to come by. Reach out, but don't expect reciprocation right away.
• Errands: If you live nearby, roll their trash cans in and out on the appropriate day. Mow the grass. Drop off groceries or stamps and stationery. Leave a note under their door. Take an older child to the park. Offer to bring in mail, walk the dog, handle email updates to friends. Anything that takes tasks off their plate gives parents more time to care for their preemie.

Memories of Chapman's time in the NICU seem like one long day: pump, feed, drive, sleep, repeat. It's stressful and all-consuming, but thoughtful friends are always a bright spot.

Seeing this still gives me a lump in my throat.

I'm thinking of NICU and Children's Hospital moms today, as always. I'll never take for granted my messy house filled with my laughing, loud, healthy children. Our motto is, "The worst day at home beats the best day in the hospital," and it's the absolute truth.

We're busting you out soon, little buddy!

I'd love to hear your suggestions if you've been in the same boat. What helped you?

The Laundry List

Recently I caught up with a friend I haven't spoken to in a while. It's been a busy year or two for each of us, and I felt a catch in my throat at her simple, "What's been going on?" question.

What hasn't gone on? Ardent list-maker that I am, the inventory is easy enough to trot out:

1. Had Mary Brooks.
2. Almost lost Mary Brooks.
3. Almost lost my mind.
4. Finally came back to life nine months later.
5. Ran the Walt Disney World half marathon for charity and, decidedly un-pregnant, rode every rollercoaster on the property. Thanked God hourly for the chance to start fresh. 
6. Found out I was expecting. (Surprise! And sorry for those loop-de-loops, baby.)
7. Lost our baby at 15 weeks. Had surgery. Stayed in bed for approximately a century.
7. Got, as we gallows humor-types like to say, re-pregnant.
8. Thought I was losing that baby.
9. Hospitalized more than once. On sporadic bed rest. Alternately terrified and in denial.
10. Unexpectedly delivered our son six weeks early.
11. Endured a one-week NICU stay.
12. Survived a sinus infection/ear infection/mastitis combo.
13. Thought that was the worst we'd handle this year.
14. Back at the Children's Hospital with a preemie and his fractured skull.*
15. Earned ourselves a three-day vacation right where we fought for MB two years before.
16. Nearly re-lost my mind.
17. Ran out of the hospital and swore we'd burn it down before we set foot there again.
18. Came back with a baby who wasn't gaining weight. 
19. Fielded daily questions as to why our newborn was "insanely small." (Y'all, please don't do that to a girl. No one's baby is insanely anything, besides cute.)
20. Brought in a team of experts: a pediatrician, lactation consultants, occupational therapists, a hospital-grade scale and one manic mama.
21. Took a deep breath. Began to enjoy what is, in truth, a beautiful, blessed life. And a sweet peanut who may just be getting the hang of this weight gain thing.

Amidst all that, we felt called to have Bradley leave his job* of nine years; it was slowly sucking the life out of our family and our marriage - the last thing we needed after MB's ordeal. Bradley's quitting was a tremendously brave act of obedience, one that both humbled and scared the pants off a planner like me. At every point, despite the stresses we encountered, our family saw absolute confirmation it was the right decision.

One side business and eighteen months(!) of a job search later, Bradley began a new full-time position just before Chapman was hospitalized. The pressure, waiting, healing, constant change - it was heavy and unrelenting. We were refined by fire once again, and no matter how I tried to look at it through a lens of faith and God's will, there were many nights I just wanted to opt out, to be passed over, to fast forward to the easy part.

When you write it all out, that laundry list looks like a lot. (Maybe I've outlined a fabulous memoir in these bulletpoints?) I wonder, as people have often asked, how we did it. In each moment, though, you don't philosophize or quit - you can't. The only option is to push on through.

You laugh with your husband the morning of your D&C, you shuttle yourself (and your milk supply) from home to NICU and back again, you remind yourself in the Children's Hospital that "this isn't that" and your son isn't fighting for his life - even if you're fighting for your sanity. You thank God for good sleep, sweet babies and a family who drops everything for you.

You feel the promise of the Gospel and know without a doubt that the Holy Spirit's presence in you is why you're still vertical, still putting one foot in front of the other.

You wonder if you've gone through this particular whirlwind to carry other people who are fielding harder, even more painful fights. You wish you never knew about any of this and desperately want your white-picket-fence, never-had-a-panic-attack, "perfect" life back.

You want your "what's new?" laundry list to be first movies, snow days, pigtails, park trips, holding hands, post-bath snuggles and birthdays. Your story is partly that, but the heart of the matter is a whole lot more.

And when someone asks what you've been up to these last two years, you don't know how to tell her you're not the girl you were before.

"Two babies, six dozen new gray hairs and an extra-large SUV. That's what we've been up to."

(What else can you say?)

When you hang up, you ask God to use this laundry list of chaos, this hard-fought battle, this big, ugly scar on an otherwise-smooth history for His purpose. And you know, more deeply than you've ever known anything, that He's in this with you.

What comes after this laundry list, Lord? (And, not to prove I haven't really learned my lesson, but can this season be finished? Please? I'd hate to see Bradley arrested for arson, and I'm pretty sure he's serious about burning that building down.)

*These are stories for another day. Promise.

Party of Five

First things first: meet our baby boy! 

Our son, Chapman Collins Smith, was born nearly six weeks early on January 6, 2014. He was a healthy 5 lbs, 7 oz and transitioned home beautifully after a one-week stay in NICU.

 
Mac and Mary Brooks are utterly smitten, as are we all. His early arrival may have been unexpected, but we were grateful all the same; the months leading up to Chapman's birth were stressful and occasionally scary. Having him home and healthy now is such a gift!

It's been a minute since I've popped in, and in all my busyness, I find the everyday details slipping away from me. The quirks and anecdotes and memories I just "know" I'll treasure when I'm 80 are trickling out of my brain and off to...wherever the rest of my brain cells have gone. 

So I'm back to update and record, and hopefully to encourage. It's been a tumultuous ride, these last two years, and you've all been on it with me; I want to fill you in on how we got through (and are still walking through) the unexpected. There's so very much to tell!

I promise to share details in the coming days, but most especially I promise to record the tiny, easily forgotten moments this blog has helped me preserve over the years.

There are a million blessings and a few miracles mixed in there, too. I hope you'll forgive me if I shout them from the virtual rooftops here in our little corner of the internet.

I look forward to catching up! xox

On the Other Side

"Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall."
-The Great Gatsby
(source)

There have been so many balls in the air chez Smith - family, work, pregnancy, staying semi-sane, attempting to keep my children clothed despite their desires to the contrary - that I've neglected this little online scrapbook in an effort to keep juggling.

I've been touched and taken aback by the response to our experiences in the last year and a half, though. People pull me aside at tailgates, after church services, by email or Facebook message and talk to me about transparency in the face of struggle. It's inspired me, loudmouth that I am, to keep talking. And to thank each of you who've shared your story with me.

If you've landed here because you love us or you're curious about how we are, I'm happy to give you a peek into our lives besides, "We're great; how are y'all?" If you're reading because you've walked a similar path and want a window into how we're dealing with it, well, here it is.

Last Friday, September 27th, was our due date for the baby we lost in April. As it approached and friends who had been expecting alongside us began to deliver, the reality of what was missing felt weightier.

When I stay in motion, I can glide through life without processing it; sometimes that's a valuable skill. There are times, though, when you've got to face facts, and last week was one of those times.

Leading up to the due date that wasn't, I felt oddly empty - as if my arms should be holding something, someone. I don't know if it's biology, hormones or the fact that I've never carried a baby past 39 weeks, but my body knew it was time. I was waiting on a baby that wouldn't arrive; that made my heart ache.

Thankfully, as with many things in life, anticipation was worst than reality. The days before I had flashes of what would have been, of a happy ending; on the due date itself I felt peace. I'd certainly never have chosen to lose our baby, but we see the Lord's hand in the way our lives are coming together in the wake of our loss.

Happy Tiger fans

Bradley and I spent the remainder of the weekend celebrating Clemson's Homecoming and eating far too much of his mom's fabulous cooking. I tried to focus on all I'm thankful for - our little family, the incredible support we've gotten, the opportunity to help others who are hurting.

I can't ignore the fact that, unlike many friends of mine who've lost babies, I am expecting another. It made the day bittersweet, realizing our future valentine wouldn't be on the way if we hadn't lost our third child.

Knowing I can't control the timing of any of this, the fact that it happened, the way it did - it could be paralyzing, but it's actually quite freeing. I have no hand in this; I'm along for the ride. I didn't create these lives, I can't control them and I believe the One who did has a plan far better than my own. (Even if there are spots that feel like nothing could be worse, in all honesty.)

I'm praying the Lord uses all of this for His glory, that He lets our family be a testament to His faithfulness, to the power of hope. I don't take for granted the promise of a new life, the fact that we can dare again to love a little person we haven't met yet.

I'm thankful we'll meet our third baby one day, that someone who is a part of us is already in heaven; it brings me great joy to imagine meeting the child we didn't get to hold here.

I'd dreamed of late September for months, and dreaded it since I saw our still baby on an ultrasound screen. September 27th came and went, and we're still here. We're thankful, hopeful, moving on.

We'll never forget this baby; I'll never wish I wasn't holding her, never stop imagining her face.

The pain of the due date is behind me, though, even if the whole experience may never quite be. I'm on the other side, and it's not as scary as I imagined.

If you're not on the other side - if you're right dab smack in the middle of the not peaceful, not healing, not putting one foot in front of the other, flat out wretched and absolutely not okay part - my prayers are with you. These verses were shared by a wise friend who's been there, too:

"Though the fig tree does not bud,
and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
and no cattle in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord. 
I will be joyful in God my Savior."
^{-Habakkuk 3:17-18}

Goodbye Before Hello

Our little bean.

It’s been two weeks since we lost our third baby, fourteen of the fastest days in our marriage. (We wish we’d experienced this sensation of time hurtling past us when Mary Brooks was hospitalized. Where's the fast forward button when you need it?)

I spent that Tuesday, the morning I saw our baby without a heartbeat, alternating between fog and clarity. I held myself together at the doctor and called Bradley from the parking lot, losing myself at the sound of his voice and breaking the news between sobs. I kept telling him how sorry I was. 

He thought I believed I'd done something wrong; he wanted me to stop apologizing. That wasn't it - it really just broke my heart to break that news to him: Bradley, you lost your baby, too. I doubled over at the pain of hurting my husband that way; I didn't want him to feel what I was feeling.

I got home and went straight to bed in crisis mode, propping myself up to text, email and make all the necessary calls. I felt compelled to spread the news, respond to loved ones and rest in between as I could.

Then I needed to be up, to be busy and out of my usual space. I had no idea what to do with myself; I wasn't pregnant anymore.

I left the house to grab lunch, call clients and speak with a poise that escapes me even when I'm trying my hardest. Thank you, Lord, for moments when I'm outside myself.  And for their kind, caring, far-beyond-professional reactions at the news I'd be out of pocket - and why.

I called my OB to schedule the surgery and praised God that our favorite doctor was on call to do it. She's yet to deliver one of our children, but at this point an orderly could catch my newborn and I wouldn't care - it's such a happy time. This was something I was both heartbroken about and terrified to have done; I needed her in that OR, and I'm tremendously relieved she was able to take care of me that day.

That night I barely slept; I stared at the clock, continually swallowing a growing lump in my throat, fighting back fears of a surgery I never wanted to have.

I've never been under that kind of anesthesia, never been intubated, never been in a hospital gown except to welcome a perfect, crying baby into my arms.

The surgery itself was much easier than I anticipated, and the compassion and care we received was unparalleled. Our doctor teared up over us before she took me back; I knew she felt this, too. I'm not sure how Bradley managed to stare at the walls for the hour I was gone, but he did. I'd have crawled out of my skin.

I came home and slept all day Wednesday and most of Thursday, making up for lost time and avoiding the "what do I do with myself now?" thoughts that were all I could manage when I was awake.

The house was too quiet with Mac and Mary Brooks gone, which made my waking hours difficult, but I was glad for the time to focus on me. To sleep and be waited on hand and foot by a man who has been far too good to me since the day we met. We did little but talk and rest that day, skating by on the bare minimum of activities, save a mall walk (senior citizen style) to fend off cabin fever on Friday.

That Saturday we went to a gorgeous wedding out of town that reunited us with friends we hadn't seen in a while. It was a last-minute decision, putting on my gold wedges and choosing to dance (er, sip and chat) the night away. I'm so glad we did.

Sorority squat, anyone?

As for Bradley? Our loss is the same, but we're dealing with it differently - just as we did with Mary Brooks. This time around, I'm not letting that make me feel crazy or too emotional or hypersensitive. Bradley stays busy to process things, and I just process them. Full time.

 

We're both okay, though, and I wouldn't be standing if he wasn't right here with me. I wouldn't be standing without my faith, my family, and the knowledge that I've lived through something agonizing and survived to see the other side. I can do this.

The searing pain in Mary Brooks' situation (my euphemism for what we lived through last year) was watching her suffer and feeling I should do more, do something to help. It felt like dying, watching her hurt.

This baby didn't suffer. She was a delight to us from the moment we knew she was coming, even in my sickest moments. I felt thankful all the way through, and I am filled to my brim with joy at that knowledge. This baby has brought me happiness, even though I won't see her sweet face in our nursery.

What we're working through is sadness for US, not our child. 

Our baby is healed, whole and healthy. God answered the prayers we all have for our babies: take care of them, keep them safe, make them healthy, let them know they're loved. He's answered each of those, just not in the way I wanted. His ways aren't mine, but they're perfect; I'm at peace with that right now.

People ask how I am, and I don't know if anyone believes I really am well. As well as a girl can be in this situation, truly. I haven't cried since the day of the surgery, which is a small miracle given my overactive tear ducts.

My heart is mending; it's focused on the many splendid parts of my life. Working in yoga pants, laughing with my husband, enjoying long overdue spring weather, kissing my newly-chubby daughter's cheeks, giggling as Mac tells me I'm the "sweetest sweetheart" he "ever had."

My heart is full. I am trying so hard to be in THIS moment, in THIS day. Not reliving the blank faces and sad eyes in an ultrasound room, not wondering when our baby stopped growing or if I should have noticed at the time.

My heart is with our two children here, soaking up the moments I might have glossed over or even been exhausted by a few weeks ago. It's with the baby I won't meet on this Earth;  I wonder what our family would have been like with that addition.

I cringe opening Mary Brooks' closet door, seeing the dresses I left without monograms, hoping they might be reused by a baby sister sometime next year. (Cue Bradley's logic: "Aren't they just as pretty without monograms? Do we have to put her initials on EVERYthing?" God bless that man.)

One of my sweetest blessings

I'm startled by pregnant bellies on Facebook and Instagram, by girls who were due when I was or even later. I scroll quickly past those pictures, wishing them well but knowing it's best for me not to linger on what others have right now. I have been given so much, and I need to count my own blessings.

The thing is - other people having babies has nothing to do with my loss. It's wonderful for each and every family, and we are excited for them. That spot is a bit raw for me, though, so I'm giving myself breathing room and avoiding things that cue unnecessary sadness.

The other

Happiness (and pregnancy, for that matter) is not a zero-sum game. Someone else having a beautiful experience does not take away my opportunity to do so - and boy, am I thankful for that. I am so giddy for others' happy news, but I'm in a spot where joy and gratitude mix with sadness - that earns me a bit of grace.

I lost a baby. That's so bizarre to say, even now. It feels foreign, surreal, impossible. Empty, sometimes. I was pregnant, and then I wasn't. How could a life change so much that quickly?

But I did lose a baby, and I've got to treat myself with kid gloves, if just for a moment. Not opening MB's closet or commenting on Instagram gender announcement doesn't hurt anyone - but it might spare me a wince or two in a delicate time.

I have received support and sympathy from our loved ones, and also from a variety of unexpected sources. The further I get into this, the more I realize I've joined a club no one wants to be a member of - but many are. 

My experience, though my own, isn't entirely unique. The emptiness isn't unfamiliar to people who've gone before us. I'm both comforted and saddened by that - I want to make everyone's time in this space easier.

I've learned to show grace to people who mean well but express it poorly, even using words that hurt or sting or confound. I've learned there's no sliding scale for grief.

If never becoming pregnant is the worse thing that's ever happened to you, your loss is the same as mine. If you lost a baby the very day you discovered you were carrying it, your hurt is no less deep than this. There's no degree of grief that doesn't hurt, and categorizing losses by how far along or how deeply felt does no one any good.

If you've ever been here, I'm so sorry. I hope you never have to return. I hope none of us ever has to return.

I thank you for your prayers, your advice, your encouragement - and I apologize for not having had the time to respond.

I've devoted myself to resting, recuperating and working my way through this. There's no time left to spare to denial or "powering through" sadness; I lost nine months of memories to that and I just can't do it again.

I'm feeling what comes my way, moment by moment. Mostly I'm feeling grateful, loved and ready to get back to "normal," whatever that is. But if I have sad spots, I feel those, too. (How New Age-y am I sounding right now?)

I sure wish this hadn't happened. Or that it had happened far, far sooner than it did. 

But it did, and I'm here. I'm swimming along, pushing my way through this and hoping I can be the shoulder or ear to someone who joins this unfortunate club one day, should she need me. So many of you have been there for me; it's remarkable the bond that forms between two people who've hurt the same way.

Turns out there are no free passes for crappy things, even if feel you just put one behind you. This world is broken and this life is not easy, but we aren't alone. You've been the Lord's arms and shoulders (and bread and wine and flowers and cookies) these last two weeks; I'll never be able to repay you for that.

I awoke the day after surgery believing all this was a bad dream. It isn't, but what I'm waking up to is still beautiful. God is good; I am carried and being made whole. 
 
This is what grief looks like when you stare it in the face; this is a do over in which I let the Lord in right where I am. I'm sad. I'm thankful.

I'm at peace. Truly, and in a way I can't explain.

It's bittersweet, but I'm not going to fight it this time. There's too much wonder here to waste.

My loves.

"I would have despaired unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage. Yes, wait for the Lord." 
-Psalm 27:13-14

A Big Surprise, A Bigger Loss

After last year, my prayer for 2013 was that it would be boring. Uneventful. Nothing to report.

That wasn't to be the case at all - in wonderful (and not so wonderful) ways.

As I rounded the corner in my post-race recovery and fended off the flu, Bradley and I got a pretty big surprise: two pink lines. A very unexpected, wholly undeserved blessing.

Mary Brooks was only 11 months old at the time; after running the numbers we realized our third (third!) baby would be born just eight months later. Whew.

The day before MB turned one, we heard a gorgeous, perfect, super fast heartbeat and confirmed we'd be meeting the third baby Smith in late September.

By then Mac would have been a week or two shy of four years old; for a brief moment we'd have three under four this coming fall. We were overwhelmed, overcome with gratitude and excited beyond words.

It felt like getting away with a bank heist, like winning the lottery. We got something wonderful for nothing! My heart had healed just in time, and we were wide open to the joy a new life would bring.

We celebrated Mary Brooksie's first birthday knowing she'd be a big sister this time next year. We giggled and dreamed and joked.

I went back a month ago, at just over 11 weeks, to hear that tiny heartbeat again and be reassured it was safe to tell the world. A veil of cautious optimism lifted, and it felt safe to set things in stone.

There were plans for an SUV, as our Altima couldn't squeeze in another car seat if it tried. There was talk of sharing rooms.

A date the week of Mother's Day was circled, and we hoped to confirm baby's gender by then. What an unforeseen gift.

This morning I got a peek at my tiniest baby, just about of four months along, and saw that she no longer had a heartbeat. Our little bean, our third child, was gone.

There will be no baby in September.

There will be no SUV for now, no moving Mary Brooks into her big brother's room as he has fervently requested for months.

Tomorrow morning I will go into the hospital for a procedure to do what my body has not yet done itself.

I'm sad. I feel guilty for being embarrassed at first about our tremendous blessing, at how close our babies would be in age. For putting off telling clients and the "world." For worrying about insurance and paperwork and the lack of sleep to come.

I'd do anything to give this baby a heartbeat back, to fill that empty third car seat in my mind.

The moment we found out two and a half months ago, we added a fifth member to our family. We planned names, we envisioned three Smiths growing up, we laughed at how we never saw this coming - the unanticipated joy of a new baby so soon.

I never saw this coming either, but I'm thankful all the same. Thankful for the time we had dreaming about this baby and the blessing she was to us. For a life that now turns our hearts heavenward; we know that's where this child is.

I know there's a plan here, that a God who works miracles (and we are living proof) didn't create this child - the one we didn't even think to pray for - for no reason.

We are sad and shocked, but we are held.

This morning, amidst the flood of emotions, I was terrified - my heart had just mended. I didn't want to spend another year as a zombie, muddling through a field of heartache to get to the other side.

The post I had written for today was about Joel 2:25, how the Lord had restored my wasted year. How He had healed me, brought beauty from ashes. I'll post it another day, and I'll add a new chapter.

I know the Lord will do that again, that He'll heal us and make something glorious out of what we're living. Out of what feels wretched and aching and awful this minute.

I'm asking for His peace in the meantime - and your prayers.

xoxo