Remembering Mothers

Photos from our last day of ballet class in Seattle
and those early weeks of pregnancy, when everything seems so hopeful.

It's Mother's Day and I can't help but write down a few of the many emotions I have been feeling over the past two weeks.

I was quietly getting ready in my room Saturday morning when Audette came in and knelt down beside me. She gave me a hug and said, "Mom, how are you feeling? Are you done bleeding? I want to make sure you are getting better."

Two weeks ago, my family relocated to a new state. Less than 24 hours later, I realized I was losing my unborn child.

This is not the first time I have lost a pregnancy, and it may not be the last. But it still hit me like a ton of bricks. And even two weeks later, those bricks are still crushing me. Sometimes the weight of my emotions makes it hard for me to breath.

My first miscarriage came early in my marriage. It was our first child. In my innocence and naivety, I decided to hide all signs of pregnancy in order to surprise our families at Christmas. Then, the day before our big reveal, I started cramping and bleeding in Costco. I didn't know what was happening, I didn't want to give away the surprise. I was hundreds of miles away from my doctor and, because it was the holidays, only a few on-call nurses would answer the phones and tell me a little spotting is normal and to go to the ER, if I thought I needed it. I remember clearly where I was hiding in Costco to make phone calls, crying, confused and feeling very alone.

The next day, when my pain and confusion was too much for me to handle alone, I revealed our "possible pregnancy" to my family in a flurry of tears and personalized t-shirts. It was a mess. I was a mess.

It was more than four days later, a plane ride home, a sad Christmas Day and pushing through a couple of holiday work schedules, before my doctor could see me. It was a miracle that my ectopic pregnancy didn't burst my Fallopian tube.

But that wasn't the hardest part. It was the months and years that followed those difficult moments that Christmas. My body suffered, my mind, my heart. To grow a baby, then to stop growing a baby, is no small feat for a woman. It isn't just the loss of the child that haunts you, but the change in your hormones, the postpartum, the lingering reminder of your loss as you bleed, the newly gained weight without the prize to show for it. And then there is the mental preparation you had been doing for weeks, months, years, as you dreamed of the child in your arms, the house you would buy to raise them in, the way they would fit into your family. Life just stops. Life literally stops for that baby and for that woman who was growing the child inside her.

At least that is how it felt then, and how it feels for me now. Life has stopped inside me. Yes, I am still aggressively searching for a place for my family to call home. Yes, I am still waking up every morning with an energy to go strawberry picking, museum exploring and park hopping for my girls. Yes, I am breathing in and out and taking step after step to move forward, but it is not without great pain.

I don't write this to wallow in my loss or to diminish the even greater pain and loss that so many of my friends and family have been feeling these past couple months, but I write this instead to allow myself to grieve. And hopefully help others recognize that it is okay to feel pain and loss and let it hurt.

I have been inspired by so many friends recently who have lost children, pregnancies, mothers, siblings, and have created a way to share their loss in such a beautiful way. I am in awe of the powerful way their words have made me feel; heartbroken at my core, then lifted up with renewed hope for them and for myself.

"Mom, how are you feeling? Are you done bleeding? I want to make sure you are getting better."

Those sweet, simple questions from my four-year-old lifted me up today. And are the questions I hope every mother hears when she loses an unborn child. I hope every woman suffering or who has suffered the same loss finds empathy in the people around her. It isn't easy for others to understand. It is hard to understand something you can't see. But for some reason, it isn't so hard for children.

When I told Audette I thought I was almost done bleeding, her sweet face lit up and she hugged me so tight.

"I am so glad you are getting better, Mom. I know Heavenly Father is watching you and watching the baby. And now you are going to be able to have another baby come."

She is my hope. My girls are my hope.

Exactly five years ago today, in the exact same place, I found out I was pregnant again. It was the night before Mother's Day and we had just attended a friend's wedding in the Bay Area. A simple pregnancy test at a hotel revealed that my sweet Audette was on her way.

Remembering her hopeful and perfectly timed start to life, gives me renewed hope this Mother's Day. First, hope that God is good, merciful and loving. He finds a way to bring light into your life during your darkest moments. Second, that Christ will comfort you. In the way you feel His arms seem to hold you as you sob yourself to sleep, or in the way the disheveled man covered in tattoos smiles at you as you cross the street, then stops to point out his tattoo of Jesus' face and shouts, "Jesus loves you!" Third, hope that we can find comfort in the good people around us who have suffered and lost and been blessed, because their love is what propels us through this life.

To the all women who have loved, lost and are still waiting, Happy Mother's Day. You are not alone. In the sweet words of Audette, "Heavenly Father is watching you and watching your babies."