How many children do you have?

Earlier today, on Facebook and Twitter, I asked the question, "When people ask you how many children you have, do you include the children you've lost?" The answers were interesting and varied, and I thought I would share my own personal response here.

First of all, I know my husband and I have conceived at least six children. I say "at least" because I suspect that I've had a few other unconfirmed "chemical pregnancies" (very early miscarriages) based on my charts from the past few years, but also because most women have most likely had early miscarriages of which they are completely unaware. There are some statistics out there that put the percentage of miscarriages of unconfirmed pregnancies at 50%. So it's quite possible that half of all pregnancies end before a woman even has the chance to know she's pregnant and then another 20-30% of confirmed pregnancies end in miscarriage. So, it's fairly impossible (this side of heaven) for any woman to know for sure how many children she's truly conceived. In some ways, attempting to answer the questions "How many children to do have?" with 100% certainty is a bit unrealistic. But my husband and I know we've conceived six and we acknowledge all of those souls as our children. Those who have passed are not any less real or significant than those here on earth with us. We don't distinguish.

But, if we're talking semantics, I don't have six children. I currently have two children - one who is currently playing downstairs and the other currently playing in my womb. God has the other four (or more, as I suspect). So, when asked how many children I have, I don't feel one bit guilty if I say I only have one or two (depending on whether I'm counting the baby in the womb or not - I am still not yet used to counting him/her and until just recently, it wasn't obvious I was pregnant and I prefer not to talk about it if I can avoid it) because that's all I have here on earth with me. I don't feel like I'm forgetting about the babies who have died or that I'm somehow failing to honor them. It's just the plain truth. I always assume that the person who asks wants to know how many children I am raising, not how many children my husband and I conceived, and I find it best to answer a question by addressing its intention.

When it comes down to it though, I try to avoid answering the question directly. When asked, "How many children do you have?" I usually say, "I have a three year old." Now that I'm a bit more obviously pregnant, I've been asked quite a bit (when Lucia's not around, of course), "Is this your first?" And I answer the same way, "No, I have a three year old," instead of having to decide whether to say, "No, it's my second," or "No, it's my sixth." It's a simple way to avoid having to directly answer with a number and gets across the information that was requested. (Again, deferring to the intention of the question.)

When someone directly asks if this is my second child, however, I do share that it's my sixth. I'm not sure why the distinction. Maybe it's semantics. I only have two children on earth, but this baby is not my second child. Second living child, yes. Second child, no. I know that doesn't make much sense. What can I say, the minds of women after loss are complicated places. There are very few things that all women who have experienced loss have in common, but I do believe one thing that's pretty constant is that each of us will find ourselves inordinately stuck on something while other things just don't bother us. We each have our own triggers, but I think each of us have them, whatever they are. Calling my baby my second child is just one of those. It's just not something I'm comfortable with, and I probably just notice it so much because it does bother me, but it seems like our society is pretty stuck on saying things like, "Congrats on baby #2", which is akin to nails on a chalkboard to me (especially from people who know about our losses).

So, if you've had a loss, how do you answer these questions? Are you comfortable with your response? Do you have certain comments or phrases that bother you more than others (like calling our current pregnancy "baby #2" bothers me)?

Fool me once...

We all know how the saying goes: "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." I feel like there is a similar unspoken saying for miscarriage: "Miscarry once, what a shame! Miscarry twice, what bad luck! Miscarry three or more times, it's all your fault!"

In my own experience and from what I've heard from other women, it seems that at some magic number, others stop caring about your losses. The sympathy ends and is instead replaced by blame.

Well, you've miscarried X times before, you knew this might happen again.

Don't expect sympathy from me. If you didn't want to go through a miscarriage again, you shouldn't have gotten pregnant.

Maybe God's trying to tell you something. 

I think, in part, some of this is due to misconceptions about miscarriage. A recent study found that a large majority of Americans believe myths about miscarriage, myths that often put the blame on the women who go through this instead of understanding the medical truths behind loss. Though there weren't any questions asked about this, I suspect that most Americans would also overestimate the risks of  miscarriage in subsequent pregnancies. The truth is that even for women who have had four or more consecutive miscarriages, they have a 50-70% chance (depending on the study) of carrying the next pregnancy to term without medical intervention. For someone who has had medical treatment, the chances of having the next pregnancy result in a healthy, full term pregnancy is even higher. Unless you know you have one of a few specific conditions, doctors would advise you to keep trying.

But even if you know you have a high chance of miscarrying again and purposely conceive, a miscarriage is still not your fault. It's still the loss of a child and a tragedy. And a woman deserves just as much support and compassion at losing her fourth or her ninth or her fifteenth child as she does for her first. The value of human life does not decrease as the likelihood for loss increases.

Each of my six children is a unique human being. Unique genes, unique soul. Each one has his or her own preferences, personality, and appearance. I mourn the four we lost not as lost potentials, but as unique individuals. Though I bonded most with our second baby, the first child we lost, each child leaves her own hole in my heart that cannot be filled by anyone else. This baby we are currently expecting is a wonderful blessing but not a replacement for the children we've lost.

We're coming up on two due dates - one next week and one next month - and even being pregnant with another child, I still keenly feel the loss of those two babies that would have been born around this time. It still hurts to look down at my stomach and see a small 20 week bump instead of a 39 week monstrosity or a still-very-large-and-daunting 35 week one. I still cry often because I miss those little ones. The world didn't grieve them with me. In fact, many people think it would have been better off if they had never even been conceived. What did their short lives do but break my heart? And yet, I'm so grateful that my husband and I had the courage to conceive them. I am so glad that they exist. With each one of my six children, I cooperated with God in His plan of creation and I have to believe that all of their souls, not just those of my living children, are needed, necessary.

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.
__________

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?

Comfort for the Grieving Mother from Another Place and Time

I am deeply saddened by the sorrow which has just come to you; it is indeed a real trial for you...May Our Lord grant you resignation to His holy Will!  Your dear little child is with God; he is looking down on you and loving you; and one day, you will possess him again.  This is a great consolation that I have experienced myself, and which I still feel. 

When I had to close the eyes of my dear children and bury them, I felt deep sorrow, but I was always resigned to it.  I did not regret the pains and the sorrows which I had endured for them.  Many persons said to me: "It would have been better for you if you had never had them."  I could not bear that kind of talk.  I do not think that the sorrows and the troubles endured could possibly be compared with the eternal happiness of my children with God.  Besides, they are not lost to me forever; life is short and filled with crosses, and we shall find them again in Heaven.

France, 1870.  From a letter written by Bl. Zelie Martin, mother of St. Therese of Lisieux, to comfort her sister-in-law after she experienced the loss of a child at birth.  Bl. Zelie Martin, and her husband Bl. Louis Martin, lost three children in the first year of life and another at age five.   

I've been working on slowly moving some of my miscarriage posts from my old blog, Messy Wife, Blessed Wife, and this is one of my favorites. This quote was found in (affiliate link) The Mother of the Little Flower: Zelie Martin (1831-1877), a book I can't recommend enough for any mother. With the upcoming canonization of Bl. Zelie Martin, I'm hoping that more resources about the life of this amazing mother will become available. As well as being a natural advocate for mothers who have lost children, she ran her own business, was unable to breastfeed her babies, and had a few very difficult children (St. Therese among them) so she seems like the perfect patron for working mothers, breastfeeding issues, and parents of strong-willed children. Bl. Zelie Martin, pray for us!

Naming a Miscarried Baby

It's a fairly common practice for parents to name the children they've lost to miscarriage. It's certainly a matter of personal preference (please do not feel that you aren't properly honoring your child or grieving appropriately if you decide not to name your child) but for many parents, it helps them connect with and find closure after the loss of their child. In many families, especially the Catholic families I'm familiar with, miscarried children are talked about often, prayed for (and to, since we have reason to believe that they are in heaven and therefore can watch out and pray for us), and it's easier to do these things if the children have names. I previously wrote about how we chose a name for our daughter and for the first two children we lost and I've decided to share an update of that post with the names of the last two children I miscarried.

I've always been a bit of a name junky (I'm currently addicted to the Catholic naming blog Sancta Nomina) so the process of choosing our children's names is one that is done with a lot of thought, prayer, and love. It meant so much to me that even though we lost four of our children so very young and will never get to experience the typical parenting moments with them as we will with our living child, I was still able to give them their names. It is one of the only ways that I've been able to truly mother those babies.

Lucia Rose, born December 2011

Since we didn't find out whether Lucia was a boy or girl, we had to have two names at the ready.  The boy's name was picked out before we were even pregnant (and in some ways before I even met my husband).  The girl's name was much harder to nail down since it seemed David and I had opposite taste in names.  (We have since resolved our differences and have 3-4 girls names already picked out, in order, for future daughters.) My main choice for name inspiration was a book of women Saints that I owned.  I would thumb through the pages looking for names that I liked and only read the corresponding story if I felt the name was "in the running".  There were several names that were clearly not going to happen, like Hedwig and Hildegarde, but anything I half liked I ran by David and 99% he turned down on the spot.  Very early on, two front runners emerged: Alena and Lucia.  Alena was actually the favorite for quite some time and I can't remember why we decided on Lucia instead, but we did so somewhere between 20 and 30 weeks.  Lucia's name is equally in honor of St. Lucy and Sr. Lucia of Fatima as my husband has a great devotion to Our Lady of Fatima.  Her middle name, Rose, was decided from the very beginning.  It is my middle name and a dear aunt's middle name in honor of my great grandmother, Rosa. 

Francis Michael, miscarried October 2013

After my miscarriage in October 2013, several people urged us to name the baby.  It took a week or so before we felt comfortable with doing so.  Naming a miscarried child seemed so different than naming a living one.  We had names picked out for our next child before this one was even conceived, but it didn't feel right to use either one of them.  I know many parents feel comfortable giving the child a gender specific name based on their gut instincts, but I didn't have any feelings about the baby's gender and was wrong with my gut instinct that Lucia was a boy, so we decided to choose a gender neutral name.  Searching "gender neutral Saint names" doesn't come up with many results, but I immediately found one that I loved: Francis.  Although more commonly associated with boys, Frances is a common enough girl's name and St. Frances Cabrini is one of my favorite Saints.  The biggest decision we had to make was which spelling to use.  While researching the name, I found a source that said that until the last few centuries, both spellings were used interchangeably for boys and girls, so we simply went with the one that was most aesthetically appealing to me.  We chose the middle name Michael after the Archangel.  When I think of this baby, I think of the baby being either "my Frank or Frannie" and joyfully look forward to the day when I find out which nickname fits.

Julian Gabriel, miscarried February 2014

This may sound a bit strange, but I already chosen a name for our second miscarried child before I was even pregnant with him/her.  It was a gender neutral name that would only be used for another lost baby.  Not that I necessarily expected to miscarry again (and I truly did not think I would miscarry twice in a row) but it was a name that I came across when I was looking for a name for Francis and tucked away as another favorite.  It feels a bit odd to give a child a specific name because he/she passed before birth while we would have given that same child a different name had he/she been born.  But at the same time, we feel blessed to be able to do the only thing we can do to parent this child other than conception: name him/her.  We chose the name Julian Gabriel.  Julian, while usually considered masculine, is the name of many Catholic Saints, and the female Julian of Norwich (who though not canonized is often revered as a Saint).  Gabriel, like the middle name we chose for Francis, is in honor of the Archangel.

Adrienne Rafael, miscarried October 2014
Like with Julian, I also had some ideas in mind of names to use if I miscarried again before I even knew this little one existed. I suppose after two miscarriages and one live birth, it starts to feel like a loss is more likely (statistically, it's not). Our third miscarriage was a very early "chemical pregnancy" so we weren't sure I was even pregnant until I no longer was. We debated a little bit about whether we would name the baby or whether we would even count it as a pregnancy/loss but ultimately decided that our belief that life starts at conception meant we wouldn't treat this child any different than we did the babies we lost later on. I started to feel like we were running out of blatantly Catholic, gender neutral names, but I had a short list left and Adrian was on it. Since Francis and Julian are more masculine in appearance, we decided on the feminine spelling Adrienne. Again, Rafael is for the Archangel and we chose that spelling because I love the Spanish language and prefer the pronunciation (rah-fiy-EHL) that is similar to the Spanish.

Christian Michael, miscarried December 2014
After we lost our last baby, I had a hard time coming up with any name ideas. There are some more available that fit the Saint/biblical and gender neutral categories (see below) but I couldn't seem to find one that fit for our baby. I don't know why I initially thought of Christian, but once I did, it just seemed right. Although usually a boy's name, I worked with a girl named Christian in college so it has a very gender neutral feel to me. We were short-sighted (or maybe it was just wishful thinking) when we decided to use the names of the Archangels as middle names for our miscarried babies since there are only three named Archangels. It didn't feel right to break with the tradition, so we decided to cycle back through and used Michael again.




A few of the ideas that we didn't use (yet) but might be helpful for couples searching for gender neutral Catholic names: 

Jean - in English, it's a girl's name; in French, it's the male name John
Jordan - for the Jordan River
Valentine
Alex - for Alexander or Alexandra, or you could maybe even the full name Alexis - I'm familiar with it as a girl's name, but apparently it's a boy's name too
Hilary - for the male St. Hilary, though it's more often a female name now
Karol/Carol - for St. John Paul II whose name was Karol Wojtyla
Aaron/Erin/Aeron
Andy - for Andrew or Andrea - or even the full Andrea since it is a boy's name in other cultures, like singer Andrea Bocelli
Remy
Quinn - for Ven. Edel Quinn
Noel - means "Christmas" in French
Jude
Ariel - one of names for Jerusalem, probably most well known as The Little Mermaid, it can also be a boy's name like Israeli prime minister Ariel Sharon

For more ideas, see Kate's post at Sancta Nomina. If none of these names work for you, (affiliate link) The Catholic Baby Name Book may be another helpful resource. If you have any other ideas, please leave them in the comments and I'd be happy to add them to the list!

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.
__________

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.
__________

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.

__________

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.

I'm happy to be pregnant, but I don't want to talk about it.

This week, I got together with several women from church for a tea party for our preschooler girls. I was asked many times about my pregnancy and how I'm feeling. Which was very thoughtful. But I'm sure I came off as so rude in return. I'm uncomfortable talking about my pregnancy and I imagine the other women thought I was being terse and cold. I just can't small talk about pregnancy anymore. But for most moms, that's probably a hard concept to grasp. After all, I am currently pregnant and everything seems to be going well. What's the harm in talking about it?

For other women chatting about where they're going to give birth might be a casual conversation, but it requires me to assume that I will indeed be giving birth to a child at the end of this pregnancy and I can't go there quite yet. At times, it's a stretch to even think of myself as still pregnant come next week, never mind six months from now. It's also those kinds of conversations that haunt me after a loss. The conversations about whether we're going to find out the sex come flooding back when we reach 20 weeks and imagine us going in for our anatomy scan, urgently telling the ultrasound tech, "We don't want to know! Please don't give it away!" And when we're facing down the due date that will never be, I can't help but remember the conversations about the birth center or midwife we've chosen, the carefully crafted plans we made to bring our baby into this world in a gentle and natural way.

As a mom who has experienced many more losses than live births, I find it easier to take everything one day at a time, to live in the present and not plan ahead more than is absolutely necessary. Acting as if only the present exists makes it possible for me to find a bit of excitement and joy in my pregnancy. I think this is because I need to treat the pregnancy as an end of its own. When pregnancy is treated as only the means to a end (a living child), then the vast majority of my pregnancies lose all purpose. And if I need anything right now, I need this pregnancy to mean something, to have value today even if it might end tomorrow.

Plenty of Time

I often hear, "You're young, you still have plenty of time to have another child."

It's true.  While I certainly don't take it for granted, I know that there is a good chance that we will eventually have another living child, maybe several. I doubt we'll have the large family we always wanted, but Lucia will probably not be an only child.

So, since it's true, why is it so hurtful?  Because, in essence, it's a non sequitur.  People who say it aren't addressing the root of my sadness.  I'm not mourning my future fertility.  I'm not upset because I'm never going to have another child.  (Though I certainly will worry about that until we do.)  I'm grieving what might have been and will never be.

I'm grieving the four souls that I will never meet in this world.  No future child will replace them.  They are each unique individuals, with unique DNA, unique souls.  They would have had their own mannerisms, their own unique appearance, their own dreams, and talents, and preferences.  They are irreplaceable.  I am not mourning that I don't have another child, I'm mourning those specific children.  My children, who my husband and I conceived in love and who we love deeply.

I'm grieving that my daughter will not have a sibling close in age.  Yes, she may still have sibling(s).  Yes, she may still be very close to them even if they are far in age.  Yes, even if she had siblings close in age, she may have had dysfunctional relationships with them.  But there is still something lost there.  Something we desired so greatly, to have children close in age.  Something she desires so greatly when she pines for a sibling and asks why all her friends have little siblings.  That is something lost that cannot be recovered.

I'm grieving the dreams I had for my life and my family.  Even though I know that we can have an equally beautiful life with the cards we've been handed, it still hurts to have to close the door on what I desire so deeply.

I'm grieving the loss of joy that comes with pregnancy.  Four out of five times, those two pink lines have meant, "I'm going to have a miscarriage," instead of, "I'm going to have a baby."  And now the thought of pregnancy brings nothing but despair and grief.  The thought of holding another child in my arms continues to give us the hope to move forward but the pregnancy itself is greatly dreaded.  I mourn the fact that I will never again burst with joy upon seeing a positive pregnancy test. I'm much more likely to break down in tears. 

I'm grieving my lack of healthy fertility and the natural process of conception and pregnancy that we've had to leave behind.  Having to give myself shots and have surgery and chart cervical mucus and time intercourse and give blood so often that I feel like a pincushion makes me feel more like a science experiment than a young wife trying to create new life through the love of her husband. I am so grateful that modern medicine is available to help us figure out why our babies are dying and give the next baby a chance at life. But this is not how God intended it to be. And I'm mourning the natural, beautiful process that has been stolen from me and replaced with a sterile, medicalized path to parenthood.  We will never have the opportunity to say, "This month, let's try for a baby!" and then just...try.  We won't ever be able to just "let God decide" and have a pregnancy happen when it happens.  No, we'll always have to carefully chart and get medications and meet with the doctor before we try to conceive.

I'm grieving my loss of innocence.  Oh, how sweet it all was when pregnancy and sex and trying to conceive and our future family only held such happy things!  When pain and sadness didn't seep into every aspect of my life.  When I could see a pregnant belly and not feel a twinge of jealousy along with joy.  I'm so much wiser now and I think a bit more compassionate, but the expense of that was so great. So, so great.