All I Wanted Was a Card: Mixed Messages in Support and Grieving

 After my second miscarriage, I told my mom that I really wanted her to send a card. My mom sends cards to everyone for every occasion, it is kind of her thing. Every insignificant holiday. Birthday cards. Anniversary cards. Get well cards. And if someone had a loved one die, even if it was someone she wasn't close to, you better believe she sent a card. If your beloved pet died, you'd be getting a card from my mom. But two of my babies had died and she hadn't sent me - her own daughter! - a card. And that hurt. It felt like she didn't acknowledge my losses as real losses.

I'm sure that was not what she was thinking at all and that I was being more irrational than anything else, but the pain caused by it was very real. So I told her. And still a card never came. I waited for weeks, months. I mentioned several times on the phone with her over the months after that loss that I still wanted her to send me a card. She never did. I don't know why. I guess she just thought it was too late and that I was telling her I wanted a card so that she knew what to do if (when) I had another miscarriage, but I thought that I was very clearly stating to her that I needed her to send me a card now.

At some point several months down the road, I blew up with her on the phone and told her how extremely hurt I was. She told me that instead of sending a card, she had done other things, like visiting with my dad at Easter and taking David, Lucia, and I on a vacation to the beach. And about a week later, a card came.

And after my fourth miscarriage (we didn't tell people about our third because it was so early), I received a card from my parents too. That time, it was very prompt.

I feel like this story is a perfect example of how messages somehow get mixed during periods of grief and how the support someone offers often doesn't reach their loved one, at least not in the form of support they actually want or need.

I never felt like I had the support I needed after my losses. Yet, I have several very kind, loving friends and family members and I know that they were attempting to offer me support. I imagine the mixed signals often happen because our society is so closed when it comes to issues of death and grieving. How can we help our loved ones during such a difficult time if we are expected to spend our entire lives acting as if such topics don't even exist?

I know that the majority of hurt and disappointment I felt at the lack of support was due to miscommunication, not due to actual lack of support. It wasn't the support I needed, but it was there. I truly believe even those who remained completely silent did it with the best intentions, thinking that bringing it up might be painful to me.

I've come to really appreciate the efforts of those I love even if they missed the mark. But that perspective has taken time. Years. Right after my miscarriages, when I needed that support and wasn't getting what I needed, it just hurt. It felt like they didn't care. Or that I was abandoned completely. I know that was an unfair assessment, but I've come to realize that grief is a very selfish time. It's a time when what I want and what I need and what I feel trumps all. And that's not to say that it's a bad thing, or that those experiencing grief are selfish. But to expect someone in the midst of grief to step outside of themselves and see the broader picture is just not realistic. And to beat yourself up (as I sometimes do) for thinking selfishly during that time is nothing less than expecting yourself to be superhuman.

If you do have someone in your life grieving a loss, I encourage you to ask her what she needs you to do to help. She may not know, but she just might. And keep asking! Unlike the common belief that grief is short and thee grieving will return to normal after a set time of a week or a month, it's a LONG process. Often when the shock of the loss wears off and they grieving need the most support, those around them wrongly assume they've already "moved on". Over two years after my last loss there are still times that are tough and when I'd love the support of a friend!

photo by Freddy Castro via Unsplash

Remembrance is a little different for us this year (+ a giveaway)

Today is Infant and Pregnancy Loss Remembrance Day. I spent the day with my husband at the last day of foster parent training. And you know what? That feels like the absolute best way we can love and honor the children we've lost.

Becoming a foster parent feels like an essential piece in my healing process. For three years now, I've forced myself to keep a space open in my life, a void that reminded me of of our loss. I didn't let anything fill that space because I felt like I needed to have this painful opening in order to feel the raw wound of the absence of our children. I thought that the only way to appropriately honor them was to be in constant pain, to stay in that place, and to always have a hole that reminded me what could have been and everything that was lost. Doing something that we wouldn't have done had our child(ren) lived seemed to be a form of treason, like leaving them behind or pretending they never existed.

It's only now, three years after my first loss, almost two years after my last, and just weeks away from the first birthday of my healthy (living!) baby boy, that I'm realizing the best way I can honor the children I've lost is to fill that void with something good.

No, we can't fill that open space in our lives with another child, that's not what foster parenting is about for us. Other women who have lost a child may fill that space with something else completely non-child related - volunteer work, prayer, art, etc. This is not about replacing our children, but forging ahead and creating a full, meaningful life with what we have been given.

David and I have talked about being foster parents since before we married. We've moved around frequently and struggled financially so that it was never a viable option until now. After buying our home earlier this year, we finally have the space and stability to be able to care for foster children. It was time.

And yet in the back of my mind, there was that thought, that reminder that if one of the children we lost had lived, we probably would not feel capable of being foster parents right now. We'd most likely have three children then, closer together in age, and I imagine we'd feel like there wasn't the extra time or energy or space right now for foster children.

The truth, however, is that our children did die. Francis died. Julian died. Adrienne died. Christian died. And I have a choice. Either I can continue to dwell on their deaths and make my life some kind of morbid mausoleum to them, or I can choose to turn their deaths into something positive. Because they died, my family has the resources to care for foster children. I think maybe I've not wanted to admit that there are good things we can do because they died for fear that in some way that could be twisted to mean that it was good that they died.

It was not good that they died. But their death can still bring about something good. I'm finally at the place where I'm ready for that. Where I no longer have to torture myself with thoughts of "what would have been". Where I no longer feel the need to punish myself with continual reminders of their deaths for fear that if we move on we are somehow betraying them, that we are in some way saying "it is better this way". No, it is not better. My four babies, four unique beautiful souls are missing from this world, but in their absence we can still go on living. It is not better, but it can still be good. It is good.

I don't know how I missed it in the past, but it seems fitting that Infant and Pregnancy Loss Remembrance Day is also St. Teresa of Avila's feast day. My favorite quote of hers seems so fitting today:

Let nothing disturb you,
Let nothing frighten you,
All things are passing away:
God never changes.
Patience obtains all things
Whoever has God lacks nothing;
God alone suffices.
-- St. Teresa of Avila

In honor of Infant and Pregnancy Loss Remembrance Day, I would like to give away a beautiful printable of this quote from the etsy shop brickhouseinthecity. (Giveaway sponsored and purchased by me.) Also, Usborne Books consultant Kayla Fellows has very sweetly offered a giveaway item as well:

I am a stay at home wife and mother. I have felt the heartache of infertility, miscarriage and the anxiety of pregnancy after miscarriage. I am very blessed to have given birth to my rainbow baby almost a year ago. In honor of the baby I lost, Bernard Marie, I'd like to donate $15 worth of product from my Usborne Book Store.

I'll also throw in a Lilla Rose hair accessory, as always, since that's my little side biz. I'd like to keep the entries to parents who have lost a child to miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant death. To enter, simply comment telling me something you do to remember your baby/babies. 

On Loss and Marriage

A couple weekends ago, my husband and I headed up to the mountains for our fifth anniversary. It was our first getaway as a couple since our honeymoon. It was perfect. We stayed at a darling bed and breakfast, ate way too much good food, and did not much else. Throughout the weekend, I constantly came back to the thought that this was really, really good for us. It's important for all married couples to have times of relaxation and enjoyment together, but it struck me as especially needed for a couple who has undergone difficult emotional trauma.

Couples who have gone through the loss of a child (pregnancy loss included) have a much higher divorce rate for a reason. After our second loss, I found myself utterly surprised by how altered our marriage had become. I found myself avoiding my husband because he had become a reminder of the pain of our losses. I couldn't even look at him without the sharp reminder of the babies we lost. There was a part of me to felt that it would be easier if we were no longer together, if I no longer had him around as a constant reminder. If we went our separate ways, it would would be so much easier to pretend our losses never existed, and without that constant reminder, then maybe the pain would be a little less.

These were all fleeting thoughts, of course, nothing I ever dwelt on. And they were most certainly lies. The pain of separating from my husband, the only person who knew and loved the children we lost as intimately as I did, would have only brought more pain to our losses. (Not to mention the pain it would bring to our living child, to our families, and to every other aspect of our lives.) No matter how much I tried, no matter what lengths I would have gone through, it would have been futile to try to ignore the pain of our losses anyway; it's much healthier to confront and heal that pain and we could only truly do that together.

When I think of the short lives of four miscarried children, I want them to have meaning. I want them to, despite the pain of loss, bring good into the world and that starts right here with their family. What good would come from their short lives and deaths if they put a wedge between their parents?

Looking back at the most difficult points of our marriage after loss, it's so very clear how Satan uses our times of pain and weakness. Christian marriages are reflection of the beauty and goodness of God. The procreative aspect of those marriages is a very visible sign to the world of power of love. When something goes wrong with the life-giving element of marriage (be it infertility or loss), doubts creep in as to the validity of the marriage, or if not the validity at least the value.

And then there is the guilt. One member of the couple usually feels all the weight and blame of loss and fertility issues. Even when there is no no firm diagnosis, the woman usually pulls the guilt upon herself. It's hard to bridge that gap, to feel like infertility/loss is happening go both of you together instead of one of you pushing it upon the other. It's easy to believe that you are at fault, preventing your partner from having the children they deserve, wondering if he isn't better off with someone else who can give him living children. Humans are bodies and souls and as much as we'd like to separate our spiritual life, the brokenness of the body can often lead to brokenness in the soul.

Four losses in less than a year and a half. Surgery. Another pregnancy. I wish I could say that this pregnancy has helped to heal our wounds, and I'm still hopeful that after the birth of our child the healing will come, but so far it's only seemed to deepen them. Or at least call attention to them in a way that is no longer possible to ignore. The wounds are still there, but our approach is different. We're no longer pulling away from each other, but turning toward one another in our sorrow. We grieve differently, my husband more stoic and silent, my tears and pain more visible and vocal, but instead of letting those differences pull us apart, we're learning to care for each other's individual needs. I feel guilty that my body failed to nurture our children, David feels helpless as he watches me continue to go through trauma he would do anything to relieve. Together we're working on finding other fruits and creative outlets for our marriage, so that it's value doesn't hinge solely on our fertility.

As we sat up in our room the mountains, we talked about our favorite moments and the blessings of our first five years of marriage. The conversation was more somber than we would have ever expected it to be. Between mentioning milestones and cherished memories, there were long pauses where we silently thought about the sorrows and struggles which, at least numerically, outnumber the hallmark moments. But reflecting on those difficult times gave us the ability to rejoice in the strength and durability of our marriage, the flexibility we'd found and the lessons we've learned. We understood the importance of leaving room in for God (and for heartache and tragedy and time to rebuild) in our future goals, of setting priorities instead of milestones, and thinking eternally,

It's ok to know what you need (and what you need to avoid).

This past weekend was the second Edel Gathering. It looked fun and lovely and inspiring. This year was the second year I didn't go. Both years I could have gone. We could have made it work financially. My husband was very supportive of me having a weekend away. I wanted to go. There were so many ladies I wanted to see (and meet) that would be there. I'm sure I would have had a great time. But for two years in a row, the timing would have made it too painful.

Last year, I knew several women who were going and bringing along their couple month old babies. Our Francis would have been a few months old. I also knew several ladies who would be seven months pregnant. I would have been seven months pregnant with Julian. The miscarriages were still so raw then and it seemed like the reminders would have been too plentiful for me to have enjoyed myself.

I had planned to go to Edel this year, up until a week before the tickets were released. I got a positive pregnancy test and with the due date being next week, it was quite impossible to attend the conference ten days before a baby was set to arrive. And then I miscarried and I could go, but once again, it seemed like going would be too painful knowing that the only reason I was there was because my baby died. Due dates are pretty dark times for me and having two less than a month apart has cast a long shadow over this June and July. It's possible that going to Edel could have been exactly what I needed to lift me out of this funk, but it's just as possible that I would have been emotionally miserable the whole time. It wasn't worth it to spend so much money and make arrangements for childcare without knowing which way it would pan out.

I'm 100% sure I made the right decision. I used to try to force myself to events or else feel guilty for letting my losses "get the best of me" and dictate what I do. But now I'm pretty confident in my decisions. While I can force myself to go to events, I can't force myself to enjoy them and there is no triumph in going to an event only to be miserable the whole time. And staying home does not mean that I've let my losses rule my life, it means that I'm wise enough to know what I need (or what I need to avoid) in the healing process and that I've given myself the permission and grace to heal.

Now, when it comes to the events of others - a baby shower, meeting a new friend's baby, a get together where I suspect a pregnancy announcement will be made (and I'm right 99% of the time), the birthday party of a child who would be about the age of one of my lost littles, etc. - I do force myself to go. I completely support others who decide to stay home from similar events, but I know my weaknesses and the truth is that I can all too easily get tied up in my own pain and self pity if I let myself focus only on me. It's important to me that I force myself to take part in the joy of others and that I do not allow myself excuses to let my personal sorrow overshadow others' celebrations. I will not let the death of my children prevent me from celebrating the gifts of life around me, even if my celebration isn't always heartfelt.

I've found that the only way it gets easier is to go through these events anyway, kind of the whole "fake it 'til you make it" thing. Eventually they get easier, after so many times of going to celebrations for a particular child (and crying at home afterwards), it's no longer painful to be around her - she'll still remind me of the child I lost with a similar due date, but the feelings of intense grief don't show up every time I see her little face.

So I do always go to others' events in order to force me outside of myself, but when it comes to events for me like Edel, or going to moms' groups or play dates or girl's night out, etc., I no longer worry about what I "should" be doing. I listen to what I need and then a unapologetically allow myself to do just that. My miscarriages are a part of my life, now and forever. I can pretend they never happened and force myself to live as if they hadn't, but it's much more beneficial to acknowledge them and find a way to incorporate them into my life. Sometimes that means staying home, missing out, saying "no". And that's ok.

This is what I imagine Edel was like. 

My Grief Checklist

We all made it to Colorado safely! Since we're still busy unpacking and with a wedding this weekend (I'm matron of honor and Lucia is flower girl), I thought I'd resurrect another miscarriage post from my old blog. This post originally appeared on December 13, 2013, a couple months after my first miscarriage on Messy Wife, Blessed Life. I've updated it a bit to reflect my additional losses. This also got me thinking about what I need right now, a sort of "Pregnancy After Loss Checklist", so I might just have to write a post about that soon.
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A contributor of one of the pregnancy loss ebooks I read (Sunshine After the Storm) wrote this about a "grief checklist":

This is a tool to help you build a list to help others help you. Friends and family may not have any idea of what would be helpful to you.  It is wonderful when people just DO things, but often they may ask you what you need...

I've been thinking quite a bit about what would have been helpful right after my losses (and what would be helpful still).  The first few days, I had no idea how I felt, and therefore didn't know what exactly I needed.  I received some kind offers for help from friends, but I didn't take them up on them.  In hindsight, I should have.  After about a week, I could tell people exactly what I needed, but at that point, most had stopped asking if they could help and I didn't feel comfortable asking.  

I'm totally in agreement with the quote above - it was much more helpful for someone to just DO than to ASK.  Just call and say you are bringing over dinner.  Just call and say, "I'm coming over so you don't have to be alone." or "I'm picking up Lucia so you and David can spend time together."  If I really didn't want you to, I would say so.  But if you ask if you can do those things, I will most likely say no because as much as I know I should accept help, I hate to inconvenience others. 

I'm not writing this as a guideline of what you should do if you have a friend who has experienced pregnancy loss or what you yourself will need if you go through this.  This is a list of my own personal needs, though I suspect that many women have similar needs (many of these ideas I got through reading about others experiences and realizing Yes, that would help me too.)  Grief is different for everyone; some women will find comfort in certain things that would only further the pain for other, but you can use this as a jumping off point for writing your own list or coming up with ideas to help those you love.

I should also mention that I don't expect any one person to do all the things on this list - one person sending flowers after a loss and another person asking how I'm doing and a third person sending a card on a special date - that's all I need. Don't feel like you need to be everything to your friend or family member who has had a loss. Do what you can - hopefully she has a strong support system that together will fill all her needs.

• Say "I'm sorry". I know it's hard to say the perfect thing (is there a perfect thing to say anyway?) but it's unfortunately easy to say something unintentionally hurtful, especially if you haven't experienced a loss yourself.  You can't go wrong with a simple, "I'm sorry for your loss".  
• Tell me you are praying for me. And then pray.  A lot.
• Acknowledge that I lost a CHILD.  A baby. A person. A unique human being.  Do not use a euphemism like "tissue" or "pregnancy" or "possibility of a child" or "opportunity".  A good rule of thumb for what to say after a loss is to only say things you would say to a parent that lost a 10 year old.  Would you tell them, "You can always get pregnant again"? For me, that meant that the speaker didn't recognize my child was unique and could never be replaced.  I don't just mourn the fact that I won't have a baby to hold come May, but I miss that specific, irreplaceable child with his/her own personality, preferences and quirks.  
• Don't call my baby an "angel".  This is something that's very specific to me, I'm sure many other mothers don't mind or actually prefer "angel baby".  I'm not sure if there are any Christian faiths that believe that people in heaven become angels, but as a Catholic, I believe that angels are beings created separately from humans.  I believe my children most likely in heaven.  But wings?  No.  I want my child to be celebrated for what he/she really is - a child of God who is in heaven with Him.  I understand the good intentions behind this, but similar to how I imagine atheists feel when you try to comfort them by telling them their loved one is in heaven, it's not comforting to me to be told that my child is something I don't believe he/she can be. 
• Ask me about it.  I want to talk about it, but it's a hard topic for me to bring up, especially if I don't know how you might react.  Ask me how I am doing.  Ask me if I want to talk about it.  Ask me to tell you about how the actual miscarriage happened.  Ask me about my feelings and my fears.  If I really am not feeling like talking about it, I will just tell you.  But I don't know if I've ever felt that way - I'm still dying to talk about it to anyone who asks.  And if you worry about what to say in return, you don't have to say much.  Just listen.  You can ask questions if you have them.  It does not open a wound for you to bring it up - believe me, two months later it is still the foremost thought on my mind.
• Ask me my baby's name.  Seriously, it was the most touching thing when someone asked me if we named our child, if I minded sharing the name, and then when they used the name in conversation.  I haven't shared the name publicly yet, I just haven't felt comfortable doing so, but I have been happy to share the name with friends and family one-on-one.  
• Don't ignore it.  Whatever you do, don't act like it never happened.  It did happen.  One of my greatest fears is that no one else will remember this child of mine existed.  Remind me that you still remember.
• Ask me how I'm doing. One of my biggest struggles is feeling like people expect me to already be over it.  I felt that way within a week of the miscarriage because after the initial round of "I'm sorries", very few mentioned it or asked me how I was doing.  Just having a few people checking in on me periodically made me feel like I had the "approval" to still be mourning and struggling.  I don't know why but I really needed (and still need) friends and family to acknowledge that it's normal and expected that I'm not "over it" and haven't "moved on" yet.
• Spend time with me.  Just come over and sit with me.  It's hard to be alone with my thoughts during the day when David is gone.
• Send me flowers. People send flowers when a baby is born.  When a person dies.  I so badly wanted flowers because I felt like they signified that my baby was real, that the loss was real. Just ask my husband - in the few days following the miscarriage, I told him many times, "I wish someone would just send us flowers." Thankfully, David's coworkers sent us a beautiful bouquet and I felt a burden lifted off my shoulders when it arrived at the front door.
• Send a card. I received only one card after my miscarriage and it meant so, so much to me.  I will keep that card forever. When someone loses a loved one, people send cards and just like the flowers, it was significant to me because it told me that the sender acknowledged that I actually lost a a child.  It is also something physical that I can hold and look at to remember my baby's short life - with a miscarriage, especially an early one, there aren't many physical mementos for the parents to keep.
• Give me something to remember my baby by. Again, something physical that I can hold and touch when it gets hard and all I want to do is hold and touch my baby.  Something concrete that reminds me that other people knew my baby existed, that my baby was real and not just a creation of my mind.  Some ideas: a rosary or prayer card, a baby item (hat, booties, etc.), something with the baby's name on it, a Christmas ornament that I can hang for our baby every year. 
• Offer specific help with the day-to-day tasks.  For me, it's so hard to keep the household running smoothly when I can't focus on anything but the overwhelming sadness.  The first few weeks were even more difficult because I was also physically weak.  Everything is difficult - laundry, grocery shopping, making dinner.  Even playing with Lucia is hard.  I am doing better now, but especially those first few weeks were riddled with guilt on top of grief - guilt that I was not able to focus on Lucia, I lost patience with her, often just needed to lay in bed all day, and I was overall not able to care for her like I should have because I was so wrapped up in my own sadness.  If you could take her somewhere fun or just come play with her while I rest, that would be wonderful.  Bring me dinner (or gift cards for take out).  Drop off groceries and household staples like toilet paper. 
• Remember these dates with me: October 10 and May 8 (Francis Michael), February 21 and September 17 (Julian Gabriel), June 25 (Adrienne Rafael), December 19 and July 21 (Christian Michael).  The first is the day I lost my baby.  The second is my expected due date.  (Adrienne was an early loss and I don't know exactly what day I lost her, so I only remember the due date.) I've gone through quite a due dates and even the one year anniversary of Francis Michael's due date (when he would be turning one) and they continue to be hard. If you sent me a card on those days, or called me, or plan to spend time with me on those days, I would feel a little less alone.  Also, holidays, like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Mother's Day will be hard.  Let me know you're specifically thinking and praying for me on those days.  And not just this first year, every year on those dates and holidays has been difficult.
• Use delicacy when announcing/discussing your pregnancies. I don't want you to hide your joy or to feel like I'm not happy for you.  Because I am, I am so, so happy for you!  Having lost my child does not diminish the miracle of yours.  I'm not jealous - I don't wish you wouldn't have a baby and I don't wish that your baby was mine.  It's just a reminder of my own loss.  And sometimes that reminder is too much.  Too raw.  Especially if you have a due date close to mine - it's like the ghost of my pregnancy haunting me.  All I ask is that you initially tell me in private, especially if you plan to later announce in public where I might not have the chance to privately deal with my emotions.  By all means, share with me the big news - the healthy ultrasounds and the sex if you find out - but I could probably skip the minute details of your pregnancy, especially the complaining.  You have every right to complain - pregnancy is HARD - but just not to me, please?  Not now.  If I ask, complain away!  Sometimes I feel perfectly fine talking about it.  But sometimes, it's just like a knife to the heart. I'm usually fine being around babies, but sometimes it's hard - around due dates or just for seemingly no reason at all. If I choose not to hold your baby or wait a while before coming to visit after the birth, be patient with me.
• Don't forget my husband. I didn't mention when I originally wrote this post, but after a few more losses, I've realized how much support fathers need as well and how often they are left out. Ask HIM how he's doing. Pray for him and let him know that you are specifically including him in your prayers as well. Let him know that he doesn't need to handle his grief and take care of me all on his own. Include his name in cards. Offer to watch our living children so we can spend time together, or offer to help me so he can go do something by himself. 

If you've experiences a pregnancy loss, I'd love to hear about how your list differed from mine.  Is anything on my "to-do" list on your "don't-do" list?  What did/do you need that I didn't mention?  I think it's helpful to see the great differences in how people grieve and what they need in the wake of a loss.

6 Tips for Responding to Nosy Questions and Hurtful Words

A few weeks ago, the lovely Jenny Uebbing republished an old post of mine on her blog Mama Needs Coffee as part of Infertility Awareness Week. Can We All Just Agree That Fertility Is Not Small Talk? addresses the seemingly harmless questions that we hear all the time but aren't really appropriate because they're about fertility. And fertility is about sex and cervical mucus and life and death. You know, things that really aren't "small talk". If you're interested in reading it, head over to Jenny's.

But that's not what this post is about. This post is about the request of Brittany, who left this comment to the abovementioned post:

Yes! I completely agree! However, could I make a request? Generally the only thing I see regarding fertility–whether infertility, or miscarriage, or “accidental” pregnancies, or any number of other things– is how the “other” person should act and how they can avoid making insensitive comments. The problem I’ve found with this is #1 inevitably, not everyone is reading this article and insensitive comments get made and #2 sometimes there’s just no way of knowing how what you’re going to say will affect another person. (Although I think the rule in this article surrounding fertility and small talk should be a pretty basic standard).

The difficult fact remains that level of comfort we feel in any conversation is mostly up to us. I’d be really interested in an article that explains to people how they can graciously receive and respond to just about any remark in addition to articles that discuss the “other” person.

Of course, Brittany is absolutely right. I've seen my share of "what to say" or "what not to say" but not a whole lot of "how to respond to no matter what they say".  Which probably has to to with the fact that it's much easier to give a list of things to talk about/avoid in certain situations than it is to suggest possible responses. Because the responses are so personal and varied.  They depend on many aspects of the situation, including the exact comments/questions made, who you're talking to, the manner of your relationship, whether there are others around, and your own personal preferences whether to keep your fertility struggles private or be more public about it.

However, I do think there are some general guidelines you can follow to prepare yourself to gracefully and graciously receive and respond to just about any nosy, hurtful, or unforeseen comment. And I think these tips can apply to any comment and questions, whether it be about fertility, homeschooling, parenting decisions, or any number of things that just aren't anybody's business.

1) Always assume the best. While we all unfortunately seem to know the person who insists on continuing to ask hurtful questions or make rude comments after being repeatedly informed how and why they are inappropriate, the truth is that most people really do not mean to be offensive. Most questions and comments, no matter how misguided, are well intentioned. If I keep in mind that the speaker means well and is only trying to be kind, I'm much more likely to respond with the same intention.

2) Be charitable. No matter how rude a question, if the person who posed it meant to be kind, she doesn't deserve a rude response. And even if she meant to be rude, she probably doesn't deserve a rude response anyway. Turn the other cheek, be the bigger person, and all that. Honestly, I usually walk away from conversation feeling much worse because I said a rude response than because someone asked me a rude question. It's much easier to brush off what someone else says than to forgive myself for making knee-jerk comments or trying to put the other person in her place. We cannot control what other people say to us, but we can control how we respond and I want to be a witness to Christ in all situations. Sometimes that means biting my tongue and practicing a huge heaping of patience and self-control.

3) Don't say more than you're comfortable saying. Being charitable does not mean you have to answer questions you don't want to answer or share private information. Smiling and saying, "I'm sorry, I don't want to talk about that," can be just as charitable a response as an actual answer to a question. A rude comment doesn't even have to be responded to - you can change the topic of conversation or excuse yourself. If someone keeps pushing, you're perfectly justified in defending your desire not to say any more and remove yourself from the situation. As long as it's done with a kind or neutral tone of voice, I think deflecting a question back to the questioner is perfectly acceptable as well: "Why do you ask?" or "My, that's a very personal question!"

4) On the other hand, feel free to tell the truth. I sometimes respond to questions about our family size by mentioning my miscarriages. It usually makes the other person uncomfortable. My intention is never to make the person uncomfortable, but sometimes I like the truth to be known. And I don't think that I should feel like I have to keep my miscarriages to myself because they tend to be taboo topics in our society. In fact, I think it can be helpful to talk about them so they are no longer a cause of secret pain and shame. You have no obligation to answer but if you feel comfortable doing so, you shouldn't feel like you need to keep the truth secret; after all, the other person did ask. But even if you do feel like you want the truth out there, know that you control the conversation and you don't have to answer follow up questions.

5) Pray for strength and the right words. Especially if you're headed to an event where you know you're going to be confronted with difficult question or comments (or people)! Also, feel free to pause for a second and ask for the help of the Holy Spirit when you feel yourself facing an awkward question or comment. Sometimes just giving yourself the time to collect yourself and bring prayer into the question makes the difference between a gracious and not-so-gracious response.
 
6) Be prepared. We can't be prepared for every question or comment we may receive. There are truly some, ahem, let me say interesting people out there who will say some very unique things and there is no way to see those coming. But I think most of us know the kind of questions or comments we're liable to get, whether it's the 30-something single woman who often gets questions about why she's not married, the mother of five who hears "You've got your hands full!" and "Are you done?" ad nauseam, or the couple with no child after years of marriage who is hounded to "start a family already!" Having a prepared answer to the most common awkward questions and comments I receive takes a bit of the fumbling out of answering. I don't always stick to my "pat answer" depending on the situation, but I can always lean back on it if I'm not up to thinking anything through.


Here are a couple of my prepared responses to common questions/comments:

When are you going to have another baby? I'm not sure. You can't always plan these things.

What are you waiting for? We're waiting for God to answer our prayers.

Do you want more children? Yes.

Is Lucia an only child? Yes, so far.

Oh, you only have one child. We're so blessed with Lucia.

You're waiting a long time to have your second. I know, it's definitely a lesson in patience.

Have you tried Creighton/NaPro/progesterone/this fertility treatment? Yes. or No.

As you can tell, I like brevity.


What questions/comments do you receive regularly (fertility related or otherwise) and how do you respond? Do you have a set of guidelines that help you in those situations?

To Bury the Dead

A couple weeks ago was the year anniversary of our baby Francis Michael's due date. I mentioned that our tradition for his due date and loss date is to go to the cemetery to visit his grave and then to the beach, and I shared a few pictures from the due date last year. We weren't able to do it that weekend due to poor weather, but last Saturday, we made the trip. 

Visiting the cemetery was really hard. I, very unexpectedly, burst into tears the moment David turned our car into the cemetery. Lucia had to go to the bathroom almost immediately and there are no facilities on the grounds open on the weekends, so we had to leave pretty quickly to find a gas station.  And then, of course, was the fact that this wasn't just a regular trip but also a goodbye. We move away next week and have no idea when or if we'll ever be able to visit our baby's grave again.

An afternoon at the beach provides a beautiful counterbalance to our morning at the cemetery. It's easy to get caught up in the sorrow of our lost babies at times like that, so doing something as our earthly family of three is a perfect reminder that while we'll always feel the absence of those four little souls, the life we've been given is pretty great too. We have so much to be thankful for and there is so much joy in our family just the way it is, it's hard to miss those truths during a sun-filled day at the beach.
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After our day, I was reflecting a bit on how much we're going to miss this little tradition and how blessed we've felt to have been able to bury our baby. Francis is our only child with a grave because he was the only one for whom we had an actual body; two of our others showed only empty sacs on their ultrasounds, meaning they never developed a body or their bodies were reabsorbed into the gestational sac very early; the other was a very early loss and I never noticed the baby passing. Some couples do bury whatever tissue and remains they have, even if it were just and empty sac, but after the stress we underwent trying to arrange a final resting place for Francis, we were at peace not burying those little ones.

Many Catholic diocese have programs in place that bury miscarried children for free. Usually, it's a large grave for all miscarried babies with some kind of statue or memorial, and there are group services several times a year. I've also heard of cemeteries that provide plots for free and funeral homes that will perform their services for free. There are no such programs or places in our area. After our first miscarriage, we had the remains of our baby in a little plastic container in our refrigerator for days as we tried to figure out how to bury him with dignity.

I contacted our diocese, pro-life organizations, and every possible group I thought could help and received the same response over and over again, "Sorry for your loss, but we can't help you." There was no one who could offer me any advice. I called every funeral home and cemetery in our area, but none could offer me even a tiny discount. We were told we had to pay full price for a child plot and full price for an infant casket, which would have been around $1,000 total. It was money we didn't have at the time, especially since we were facing medical bills for the miscarriage related costs. It was a stressful time for us. The only things we could do to care for our baby were name him and bury him and the longer our baby sat unburied, the heavier it weighted on our hearts.

Thankfully, we were able to get a hold of our wonderful pastor who took care of everything for us. He already had plans to take another father to the closest Catholic cemetery (about an hour away) to bury his miscarried child and invited David along with him. He was friends with the pastor of the cemetery parish and was able to arrange for our child to be buried for free. We only had to pay $50 for the grave marker. He drove David and the other father to the cemetery and had a little service while they buried the babies.

We were lucky. Our pastor does not have the ability to make arrangements like this for every family. Had he not been friends with that parish's pastor or had he not already had the outing arranged with another family, we would have most likely have ended up needing to just purchase a plot and coffin. (I had previously called that same cemetery and they said they would charge us full price - $450 - for a child plot and we had to have a several hundred dollar full-sized infant coffin.) Unfortunately, most families in our area have no resources to help them bury their babies. There are some organizations I'm aware of that help bury stillborn babies (lost after 20 weeks gestation) but none that I'm aware of that help miscarried babies. If you know of any, please let me know.

In all the articles and blog posts that I've read about how to help a couple after a miscarriage, I don't think I've ever seen the suggestion to help the couple bury their child but in some situations, this is a real need. Not every family is able to bury their miscarried babies for various reasons. Often, there are no remains or they are not given access to the remains after a D&C, etc. But some parents do have the remains and want to bury their babies but are unable to because they lack the funds or need help arranging it. It can be an extremely difficult time emotionally after a miscarriage which would only add to the stress and confusion of planning a burial.

As Christians, we are urged to "bury the dead" as one of the corporal work of mercy. If you know someone who has lost a baby and has the child's remains, you can offer to:

• Help them to arrange a burial (and service or funeral if wanted). Make phone calls. Sit with them as they make decisions.
• Give financial support if you can. Sometimes even if the family can pay for a plot or receives one for free, they may not be able to afford a grave marker, so the grave sits unmarked for years.
• Share any knowledge you have of the process. Even if you've never lost a baby, if you've lost another family member and had to arrange burial, your experiences could be very helpful.  
• Share contact information to local organizations that can help. If you are so called, perhaps you could start some kind of organization within your community or church that helps families with the arrangements.

If you've buried am unborn child, what were your experiences? Do you know if there are local organizations or resources in your area? Or any national ones? How did others help you with the process or how do you wish they would have helped?

Siblings & St. Therese

Last week, I shared a quote from St. Therese's mother, Bl. Zelie Martin, about baby loss, but she's not the only member of the Martin family that has wisdom to share with a mother whose lost a child.  Last year, while reading the autobiography of St. Therese of Lisieux, The Story of a Soul, I came across a particular passage that really touched me as a mother of a living child and several children lost in the womb.  She wrote:

After Marie entered the Carmel, and I no longer had her to listen to my scruples, I turned towards Heaven and confided them to the four little angels who had already gone before me, for I thought that these innocent souls, who had never known sorrow or fear, ought to have pity on their poor little suffering sister. I talked to them with childish simplicity, telling them that, as I was the youngest of the family, I had always been the most petted and loved by my parents and sisters; that if they had remained on earth they would no doubt have given me the same proofs of their affection.  The fact that they had gone to Heaven seemed no reason why they should forget me--on the contrary, as they were able to draw from the treasury of Heaven, they ought to obtain for me the grace of peace, and prove that they still knew how to love me. 

The answer was not long in coming; soon my soul was flooded with the sweetest peace. I knew that I was loved, not only on earth but also in Heaven.  From that time my devotion for these little brothers and sisters increased; I loved to talk to them and tell them of all the sorrows of this exile, and of my wish to join them soon in our Eternal Home.

St. Therese's siblings did not die during pregnancy, but they did die in infancy/early childhood.  Therese, being the youngest of the family, never knew these older siblings and yet she knew of them and was able to form a relationship with them.  From a young age, she loved them.  She felt their love for her.  They continued to be a part of her life. 

I struggled quite a bit with how to talk about our babies with Lucia after our first two losses.  We told her that I was pregnant as soon as I found out and we told her afterward that the babies had gone to heaven, but she was still so young at the time that she soon forgot about them.  She had no understanding of death or heaven or even of siblings.  It wasn't until after our last loss that we started to talk about our babies with her in a more regular way.  I try to always pray a litany of Saints at the end of our evening prayers and include the patron Saints of all our family members, including those babies we lost. When she gets upset because she doesn't have siblings, I remind her that she is a big sister to four babies in heaven.

Lucia talks about her siblings often, saying things like, "I'm a big sister. I have four babies in heaven. They are going to be so excited to hug their big sister when I get to heaven." It's endearing and I think so spiritually healthy for her to look forward to heaven with her siblings.  Now that I'm expecting again, she tells everyone, "My mommy has a baby in her tummy!" That's often closely followed by, "And we have four babies in heaven." This sometimes is the cause of a little discomfort to strangers or acquaintances that aren't familiar with our losses, but I don't ever want to discourage her from talking about her siblings. Sometimes there is a sad element that comes with the knowledge of her siblings. She often says that she wants the baby to stay in my tummy and not go to heaven like the other babies. So together, we pray for this baby.

I want Lucia to have a relationship with her siblings like St. Therese had with hers, based on love and faith, and though I don't always know the right words to guide that relationship, I trust the Holy Spirit to make up for my failings. And I think we're headed in the right direction.

You can download a free copy of The Story of a Soul for Kindle here.  (You do not need a Kindle to do so, you can download the free Kindle Reading App to your computer, phone, or tablet.)

Expectations

After my post yesterday, there are a few things I want to clarify. Most importantly, I do not blame my family and friends for not supporting me in the way I've needed during various points during and after my miscarriages and pregnancies. I'm not angry or bitter and I don't expect anyone to know exactly the right things to say or do in each situation. Even when people say hurtful and thoughtless comments, I'm not angry. At least, not at them. Sometimes I rage a little at our society which treats lives, especially unborn lives, as disposable and pregnancy loss as an issue to be handled quietly and quickly.

I didn't know many people who had miscarriages before I had mine. I married long before most of my friends (many who are still single) so it just didn't come up. But I know, without a doubt, that there is no way I would have said or done the right things after a loss. And I know that even now, regardless of all my personal experience, I probably rarely say or do the perfect thing after someone else experiences a loss. Each woman is going to approach pregnancy loss in a different way and going to have distinct needs so even if I know what support I needed and appreciated, that doesn't necessarily mean much for another woman.

I have wonderful family members and friends who have all tried to offer support in their own way. Sometimes they missed the mark, but I know that no one has ever meant to hurt me and I do believe that intentions matter. I can still feel the love behind a ill fated remark. At times, it's been difficult to not receive the support I've needed. Thinking back on the times I felt forgotten and alone leaves me sad. But there is no one to blame, least of all the people who love me and who have always tried to support me.

On those days I could have used a phone call and a How was your appointment? I didn't want or expect every person I knew to make that call or ask that question. I know that even those with the best intentions forget or get difficult news of their own or get caught up and can't find a moment to contact me. It wasn't that I wanted everyone to call, it was that I wanted anyone to call. So how could I be upset with any one person? How could I even expect that of any one person?

In the end, I know that I am blessed to have had the support I have had. Even if it hasn't always been exactly what I've needed or wanted, I have had support. Many women have mentioned to me that they've had no support at all. Now that is something to be angry about.

P.S. I've been thinking so much about doctor's appointments because I had one today. Everything is going well! We got to bring home a great picture of baby and we've made it out of the first trimester.

The Silence is Maddening

December 2014, David and I found ourselves driving home from yet another devastating doctor appointment. We had found out that my pregnancy was not viable - there was no baby, just an empty sac. We would be having a fourth miscarriage. It was heartbreaking looking at the ultrasound machine and just seeing a dark blob where a baby should have been, hearing my daughter ask, "Where's the baby?" and having to tell her right then, in front of medical staff, "There is no baby." During the car ride home, we tried to explain miscarriage to our little girl who had just turned three a few days before.

We got home and a monumental task loomed in front of us: notifying the family and friends who knew we were pregnant. In the weeks before our our appointment, I made sure to tell them repeatedly when our appointment was. And yet, we waited for hours for someone, anyone to ask us how our appointment went. We just found out our baby died! And the world went on exactly as before. No one noticed. It seemed no one cared. We'd been waiting for this appointment for weeks, it seemed our future and maybe even our entire lives hinged on that doctor appointment and yet no one else even remembered it was happening, not even the family and friends who we had entrusted with the knowledge that we were expecting again. Not even after we'd gone through so many losses. Eventually, we realized no one was going to ask us, so I told my husband to just make the calls.
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January 2014, almost a year earlier, I found myself pregnant again just three months after our first miscarriage. We found a doctor who we thought would take my short luteal phases seriously and would monitor my progesterone levels, not knowing if that's what caused my previous miscarriage but thinking it might and knowing that was one of the only causes I could actually do something about. I called as soon as I got a positive test and got an early appointment two weeks later. We shyly told just a few friends and family that we were expecting again, knowing that we would need their prayers and support.

The chances of two miscarriages in a row is very small. Statistically, it almost seems like one miscarriage is a guarantee that your next pregnancy will be fine. But that pregnancy pretty closely mirrored the previous one and I had no symptoms and very little hope. Still, we headed into our first appointment with what optimism we could muster. When the ultrasound screen showed an empty sac, I knew. The doctor thought perhaps my dating was off and since we were just past the point where you could see a heartbeat, that maybe everything was still fine. So we scheduled an appointment a few weeks later and prayed to see a heartbeat, but I already knew we never would.

It was so lonely waiting for our next appointment. It seemed like an eternity. Days went by, a week, and still none of the friends or family who knew we were pregnant and who had asked several times when my first appointment was ever asked how it went. I just wanted one person to remember. One person to realize how important that appointment was. Over the course of two weeks, I was just waiting for one person to ask me, "How are you?" so I could tell them. No one did.

I suppose I was being unrealistic. Unless you've gone through pregnancy loss, prenatal appointments just aren't a big deal. But for me, they're a matter of life and death.
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When I was pregnant with Lucia, I saw doctor (well, midwife) appointments almost as inconveniences. Each time I went in, it took a few minutes for the midwife to check me, everything was fine, I never had any questions, and then I was on my way. I never did anything to prepare for my appointments, I never really thought about them until I saw them on the calendar for the next day.

Now, my doctor appointments take hours of mental preparation. I play out every possible scenario in my head: everything is fine; there is no heartbeat; there is a heartbeat, but it's slow and/or the baby's growth is behind; there seems to be some kind of birth defects or genetic anomaly; there is a problem with my lab tests, etc., etc., etc. I remember the dates of my appointments exactly and on any day I can tell you exactly how many days until my next appointment and how many days since my last appointment. In many ways, my life seems to revolve around these appointments and time seems to divided into eras by them - the time between my first and second appointment, the time between my second and third, etc.

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Family members and friends who have only had healthy pregnancies don't seem to understand why I always ask when their appointments are and always make sure to ask them about them hours afterward. They can never seem to remember when their next appointment is, but I always know. I put them on my calendar.

I just don't want someone to come home from a doctor appointment with bad news and have no one contact them with concern. Too many times, I've had another appointment gone wrong, another ultrasound without a heartbeat, another heartbreak, and even though I made sure to tell family and friends a hundred times the date of my appointment, no one asks how it went. I hate having to contact them specifically to tell them or having them ask a week later and reopen the wound. It's much easier for someone to ask, "How did it go?", to know that they care, and to simply be able to answer, "Not well. Not what we'd hoped for."

I don't presume to speak for everyone. I'm sure there are plenty of people who don't want to be asked about a devastating appointment and who would rather decide themselves how and when they'll share the news. But for me, when something goes wrong and no one asks, the silence is maddening. It seems as if no one cared enough to remember when my appointment was. When we have to be the ones to call and tell family, it feels kind of like, "Hey, I'm not sure if you actually want to know, but..." If we really didn't feel like talking about it, we could just avoid the phone call or text, but having to be the one to pick up the phone puts all the burden on us. And I really want someone to share our burdens.

It's very hard for most people to ask for the support they need. So when you get bad news, it's much more difficult to have to be the one to pick up the phone, share the news, and ask for support, than to simply answer someone who has already done the hard work of bridging the gap and reaching out to you. So if a friend or family member gets bad news at a prenatal appointment, I want them to receive that call or text from me and make it so that they just have to answer if they need someone. If they ignore me because they don't want to talk to me about it yet, I respect that. But I don't want anyone to ever feel like no one cared enough to remember when their appointment was or to ask how it went. Or to feel that they are alone or that they have to seek out support. I want to give them the option to answer and the acknowledgement that someone knows and cares.

That phone call is like extending a hand. Your friend may not decide to take it, but if she does need a hand and none is offered to her, she may fall.

It's not jealousy.

This post originally appeared on my now defunct blog on February 20, 2014, while I was waiting to for my second miscarriage to begin.  After two more miscarriages, I've been thinking a lot about my relationship with friends and family who are pregnant or have babies.  It's hard.  So hard.  I hate that I cry when I hear pregnancy announcements or simply a mention of pregnancy or babies.  I hate that I can't put my feelings aside and feel only joy for the expectant parents.  I struggle to hate only these feelings and not myself for having them, so this post was good for me to reread. The thoughts and feelings I put in this post are still as true after my fourth miscarriage as they were after my first.  

Before I got pregnant with Lucia, seeing pregnancy announcements or bump photos or babies was hard.  That was jealousy.  I wanted to have a baby and begrudged those who either were in the position to have a baby (married, out of school, stable job, whatever) when I wasn't or those who had babies even though their positions were less than desirable.  In fact, I can't say that I could even feel happy for those who were having babies while I was not.  All I could see was myself - my desires, my fears, my anger, my hurt, my jealousy.  I wanted what they had and if I couldn't have it, I didn't want them to have it either.  I don't feel good about admitting that.  Those feelings came from a less than charitable place.  That jealousy was sinful and soul-eating. 

After my miscarriages, it's often very, very hard to see pregnancy announcements or bump photos or babies.  But it's not jealousy.  In fact, my feelings have very little, if nothing, to do with the women who are making those announcements or in those pictures or holding those babies.  For them, I feel happiness.  I feel joy at the beauty of new life.  Having Lucia, I know the immense blessings of motherhood and I am so happy that other women get to experience it.  I truly wish motherhood was available to all who desired it; infertility breaks my heart and I cannot begin to imagine the pain carried by the women who suffer from it. 

The reason these things cause me pain is not because of jealousy.  No, I do not begrudge other women their babies.  And I don't want their babies for myself.  I want my babies.  The ones I lost.  The unique human beings that I carried in my womb.  They have their own souls, their own personalities.  Their own DNA.  They cannot be exchanged for another's child.  Those announcements and pictures and sweet little babies simply remind me of what I lost.  What I can never have.  Even if I get pregnant again and the child makes it to birth and I get to hold that baby in my arms and I get to hug and kiss and raise it, that baby will not replace the ones I've lost.  

And I imagine if the day does come when I get to birth another baby, that too will cause me pain.  That too will be a reminder of the moments that I'll never have with two of my children.  And it doesn't mean I'll love that child less or that that child herself will be the cause of my pain.  Again, the feeling will have little to do with her.  For her, I will feel joy and love and the million other complex emotions that come with motherhood.  But it will still be a reminder of what once was and what could have been.  

One of the most important things I've done for myself in this healing process has been to acknowledge that these feelings are not bad.  Unlike the jealousy I felt years ago, these feelings don't come from sin.  These feelings come from grief, loss, pain.  They are not cruel or angry or hurtful.  They simply are.  I know not all women who've had miscarriages struggle with pregnancy announcements or visiting new babies.  We all grieve in our own unique ways.  But I do struggle.  And that's ok.

Not all pregnancy announcements bother me, nor do all newborns.  I've had several friends announce pregnancies or have babies since my miscarriage in October and I was unaffected by the news.  The most difficult reminders have been the ones that are the most obvious reminders - those who have due dates similar to mine.  Watching their bellies grow throughout pregnancy is kind of like watching the ghost of my pregnancy.  What would have been.  What will never be.  I imagine as we near my due date and those babies are born, it will become even harder.  I often wonder if I'll see those children five, ten, fifteen years down the road and still feel sadness, still imagine what would have been, still try to imagine how my child would have been similar or different.  Only time will tell.

In addition to acknowledging that these feelings are ok, I've also allowed myself to block the reminders that have caused me pain, at least for a time.  I've unfollowed the blogs of women who are due within a month of my due date and hidden friends from my Facebook newsfeed for the same reason.  I've left groups where pregnancy talk was too difficult to bear.  At times, I've left Facebook and stopped reading blogs altogether for a period.  At first, I felt that I was allowing myself to be weak.  Or letting my weakness rule me.  Now I'm starting to realize that we need to honor our feelings and protect ourselves.  Maybe it is weak to not be able to see cute bump photos.  Weak or not, right now, that's what I need.  I know it won't be forever.  

I'm coming up on a difficult time - one of the pains of miscarrying so early in a pregnancy is that as a general rule, people don't announce pregnancies that early.  So in a few weeks, I'll start seeing announcements that correspond to my due date.  And not long after that, the due date of my first miscarriage will be here.  And if it ends up being too much, I'm not going to force myself to be strong.  I'm going to turn off my computer and let myself cry.



Right now, I'm facing my first close friend/family member with a due date close to mine and the feeling are even more raw and the pregnancy impossible to ignore (and I don't want to ignore it anyway). I can't just turn off my computer anymore. The pregnancy is right in front of me as will be the baby. I'm struggling to not let the sadness of our loss overwhelm the joy I feel for our new little family member. 

On top of that, with the number of losses mounting, it seems like there is a difficult date around every corner. February - first anniversary of our second miscarriage; May - first anniversary of our first miscarried child's due date (when our Francis would be turning one!); June - due date of our third miscarried child, Adrienne; July - due date of our fourth miscarried child, Christian; September - first anniversary of our second miscarried child's due date (when Julian would be turning one). There are other dates in there too - dates we conceived and when we got positive pregnancy tests and, for two of our babies, the days we found out they were no longer alive in an ultrasound. Those dates are imprinted in my mind, but for now, I'm trying to only remember miscarriage and due dates. It's too much of a burden when I'm trying so very, very hard to focus on the future in a positive way and stop longing for the What Might Have Beens.

Pregnancy Loss Resource: Angels in my Heart, a book for the grieving mother AND compassionate friends and family

This book review is an updated version of a post that originally appeared on my old blog, Messy Wife, Blessed Life, on January 9, 2014. This post contains an Amazon affiliate link.

Angels In My Heart: A Journey of Love and Loss by Kathleen Olowin

The second best miscarriage book I've read (the first being After Miscarriage), Angels in My Heart is divided into two distinct sections.  The first 130 pages are the author's personal story and the remaining 70 pages read like an informational resource.  The second section is divided into various topics, such as "The Journey of Grief", "Am I Going Crazy?", and "Hurtful Things Well-Meaning People Will Say".  The book is well worth reading just for this second section alone as I have found it to be the best single resource that brings together the vast array of needs a woman has after miscarriage: covering subjects including the stages of grief, answering common questions  like "How many children should I say I have?", ideas for memorializing your child, and relating to others after your loss.  As a mother who experienced miscarriage herself, Olowin is very compassionate and has a deep insight into the answers women need to hear.

Of all the books I read, this is the book I would suggest for people who would like to understand the emotions and needs of a friend or family member who has experienced a loss.  The second section of the book that I already lauded is a great place to start, but the author's memoir of her losses is also exceptional.  As I read the book, I found myself wanting to highlight and share many, many passages of the book because the author perfectly described my feelings about some aspect of my own loss.  And then she would do it again about another emotion or experience on the very next page.  If someone (who had not experienced loss herself) read this book, I have no doubt that she would come away with a much better understanding of what I have been going through these last three months.  Because Olowin experienced four miscarriages, each with distinct circumstances and at various points in pregnancy, I suspect any woman who has had a miscarriage can find many parallels with Olowin's story. 

I appreciated that the author is Catholic though it is not a central part of the book.  Throughout her personal account, she mentions the Masses she had said for her babies, conversations with priests, and her faith throughout her miscarriages, but there is no Catholic theology discussed and I imagine that all Christians, and potentially many non-Christians, would feel comfortable with this book. If you are looking for more of a Catholic guide to miscarriage or a book faithful to the Magisterium, look elsewhere because, in addition to not discussing Church teaching, the author also mentions that she used contraception (she does not discuss it in depth).  

Also of note, at one point in her memoir, Olowin writes that she had a 40% chance of miscarrying again after two miscarriages.  That might be what she was told at the time, but it's not accurate based on current research (the chance of miscarrying again after multiple miscarriages is much lower than that).  I only mention this because if a woman reads this shortly after a miscarriage without getting the proper facts, it may unnecessarily alarm her.