What miscarriage teaches you

One year ago today, on November 6th, our miscarriage was final. At eleven weeks, and o-dark-thirty in the morning, we headed to the hospital for our D&C. Our missed miscarriage meant surgery was a must. And just before lunchtime, we were done, headed to the store for my prescription and ice cream (both necessary medications!). It all seemed so simple and final.
Except, it wasn't either of those things. 

So as I sit here the day before this anniversary, writing this blog, and reflecting on my lunch hour, there's so much I can say now. You see it's like that, that right there -- writing this on my lunch hour -- miscarriage just lives with you in the little spaces of life while simultaneously  creating chasms in our normal.
One year out, here's what miscarriage, especially after infertility, teaches you:  

1. Empathy
Before you barf from the banality of this, walk with me on this one. We all know empathy is a critical skill, especially if you work and live among other human beings on Earth.

After our first miscarriage post, I have heard from so many women who've experienced infertility, loss, or both. Each time, I could almost feel my heart physically grow a bit more and my expression and stance towards them soften. Now when I interact with them there's a depth to that relationship that wasn't there before. And, while you'll still be annoyed when someone with one or two (or more) children is complaining, about not being able to have one more, you'll now know that feeling of yearning and your heart will go to them. Or when someone who is just barely married gets pregnant on their honeymoon but loses that sweet babe, you won't minimize the loss just because they got pregnant easily. Because everyone has a hard; the hard is just different. 
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Keep in mind, empathy isn't one note. It is just shared understanding of feelings, whether they be sad, frustrating, or joyous, albeit we often associate it with the sad or tragic. In general, instead of hardening your heart and rooting in bitterness, you'll likely find yourself more often being willing to try to relate to someone or a situation more instead of just judging or condemning. 

You won't be empathetic about everything. You won't feel personal connections with everyone. Sometimes sympathy is enough, and there's nothing wrong with sympathy. But empathy-  it's what binds us closer. And when there's a hole in your heart, empathy is a salve.

2. Patience
Patience ins't my virtue. Except now, I think I am working on sainthood status with this quality. Must be all this practice I've gotten. 
If you detect /s (that's sarcasm in internet speak), you're not wrong. We're a year older and a year removed, and still have empty arms. We still don't have an explanation for our infertility. And, we still don't have a definite plan for how we'll proceed other than being stubborn and waiting.
I struggle, but I do genuinely believe this journey provides you a lesson in patience. It allows you the opportunity to practice waiting and not rushing. And, in reality, you have no choice but to try and do so.
The waiting can provide time to prepare more (financially, emotionally, physically). Although, I hear you're never truly prepared. 
The waiting can provide time to do more (travel, start a side hustle, binge-watch trash tv, do house projects). And do them with no shame or guilt. 
The waiting can provide time to talk more about what you want to be as a parent. Earnestly, not just the "we'll never's" that we'll totally do at some point.
The waiting can provide time to dream bigger dreams for you, your marriage, and that future babe. Be bold and ask. 

We're told all the time "the best things take time." And boy, if you're putting in your time, I know this feels like an eternity. But, this adage isn't wrong. So give the grace you give everyone else to yourself and just be. The plan, the answer, the rainbow...it's coming. I have to believe, when the conditions are right, patience will pay off.

Credit: Morgan Harper Nichols

3. Grief
Grief comes in waves. It doesn't disappear. It just changes. And it will surprise you. 
This weekend, someone asked me how many miscarriages we had had. I responded "just one."
Just one. WHAT? Why did I say that? Excuse me, one is enough. One is too many. One is still devastating. One is still heartbreaking. One is still worthy of grief. I felt immediately guilty and ruminated on it for minimizing our one experience. The other person didn't think much about that answer probably, but maybe she did; I am not sure. I am still working through that minimization. But this is part of grief. The moving forward process is messy. 

I have been sad at inopportune times. I've been mad at insignificant instances. I have been gutted by baby coupons in our mailbox. But, overall I've been determined to exercise bravery and positivity. Some might think these posts are me dwelling on our misfortune or that I'm just a complete downer. Some might think if I'd just stop talking about them, my heart would heal and I'd move on. But, guess what, writing these blog posts are part of what is healing my heart. It's providing an outlet to process feelings but also giving me a way to connect with others. (See point 4). Writing has always been a safe space for me. Plus, I am advocate for transparency, even in the hard stuff. And speaking into the hard stuff removes its power and allows us to use it as fuel for better. If these posts make you uncomfortable or sad, then by all means, don't read them. 

Your grief journey will be different than mine. You might need to eat the whole sleeve of Oreos. You might need to train for a half-marathon. You might need to not leave the bed for a week (or longer). You might need to go to work the next day and pretend nothing happened. You might need to quit your job. You might need to cry at every baby announcement and diaper commercial. You might need to give up social media. And you might need to do all of these things at some point. Or you might do none of these. But, let it be known, and understood, your grief is yours to process. And, you must let it happen. But, also let it be know, you don't have to grieve alone (Again, see point 4). 

4. Community
1 in 4. 1 in 8. These aren't just statistics. These are people. REAL PEOPLE. They are YOU and ME. And, good golly, these people are amazing. I wasn't looking to join this tribe. I wasn't looking for a new label. I wasn't looking for any of this. But, this loss and this struggle can be isolating, yet they don't have to be because there are a freaking ton of people who know this path. I was astounded by the sheer number of people who reached out to support and still so many more that shared their version of this struggle or this loss, or both. 

The sense of community is unimaginable. You're in the club now. So I'd like you to join me. Let's make the most of the membership you and I paid a high price for. And, even if you're generally a private person, you're probably going to find yourself sharing. So: SHARE. TALK ABOUT IT. AND TALK SO MORE. Do it for your sake. The memories will slip out. The dashed hopes will be verbalized. The loss is going to be magnified and realized. But, if you lean into this loss, you'll find the ladies and gents who are holding you up. And, to be honest, they might not even know they're contributing to your healing. But it's the kindest and strongest band of mommas and crew you couldn't even dream up. To give you a glimpse of who you'll likely find in this community:

• The store associate who warmly greets you and unknowingly diverts your attention from that cuddly newborn and frustrated momma fussing with that new carrier.
• The family members who still make plans and expect you to attend and you do, because... family.
• The friends who organize dinners or drinks or workout class because that's what y'all normally do.
• The stranger on Instagram who is in the trenches with you and becomes your BFF and loudest cheerleader. 
• The co-workers who pitch in and cover your deadlines while you're out for appointments and give you grace when your brain or work isn't quite the same. 
• The old friend who you don't regularly talk to messages to tell you that she just lost a babe and you know you can support her. 
• The blogger who finds all the right words to extract the feelings from your chest you didn't know how to acknowledge.
• The strangers in the store or in the lane next to you who smile kindly and it means everything because you're just trying to make it through the day with no tears.
• The person going through something equally bad, or worse, who is determined to make it and leads by example. 
• The network marketer who's hustle brings you the supplement, skin care, or concealer to help you survive and feel your best. 
• The acquaintance who says they're praying for you and your husband and you know they genuinely mean it. 
• The momma of many, with another on the way, who considers your heart and makes it a point to tell you their baby news individually.
• The doctor who recognizes you need a break and helps you give yourself the permission to press pause on your next procedure, test, or schedule.
• The survivor of this same story who just got their BFP and knows their rainbow is just months away... because... hope, y'all.
• Your partner. He or she is a champ. He or she knows just when to hug, when to give you space, and when to bust out the chips and guac or Chick-fil-A. MVP forever.

5. Gratitude
Being thankful for a miscarriage isn't what I'm talking about. No one is ever thankful for this experience, of that I am pretty certain. But I am grateful for the ability to weather this experience and for the person it's making me. Gratitude is personal so I can't begin to tell you that you'll be thankful for anything or that you have to be.
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But for me, I've got some stuff for which I am appreciative. This journey, it's fortifying my constitution and my faith. This has shown me a different side of humanity, one that is vulnerable. And frankly, flying in the face of logic, it's probably made me more positive then I was before. Dad's lessons of PMA (positive mental attitude) hit home thirty-two years later. I also think it gave me a good dose of perspective -- I take fewer things for granted than I did previously. And, I am grateful for the extra unexpected time it's given Nick and I as just husband and wife. I wouldn't want what we've gone through for more time, but we're, for all intents and purposes, better than we were a year ago. 

And, while we're on the subject of husbands... soap box moment ... I am blessed with the best. I think I always knew that but nothing reinforces that more than something like this. Nick has been at my side for everything. He made sure we could come home to our new home after the procedure last year because I wanted solitude in what would be our family home. (Reminder, he was building our house, with his own two hands last year during all of this.) He didn't hesitate to make a mad dash to IKEA to get a bedroom set and assemble it, or baulk about bringing our lives into a construction zone and living in it from then on. He's grieved in his own way (and similarly in some respects too). He's been eternally positive and an example of quiet resolve that I've consistently drawn from. Thank you, husband. xo
My hope, if this is your path too, is that you have this in your life. If you do, please take a moment to appreciate your spouse. 

6. Resilience
You have strength you didn't know you needed. You will soldier on. You will laugh again. You will cry at something small or arbitrary. You will be able to look at someone all too well meaning in the face and say, "yes, thank you, I know about ovulation trackers" or "no, adoption isn't part of our plan right now, but thanks for reminding me of the options." and not break down. You will be to see each day through because life moves fast and participation is required. And, if for nothing else, because you've got mom/dad strength now. And from what I hear, and see, parents just 👏 get 👏stuff👏done. 

Credit: Morgan Harper Nichols

7. Distractions
Blessed are the distractions for they get you through the days. 
This might look like: Laundry. Cleaning the toilet. Grocery runs. Niece and nephew school programs. Work. Pets. Instagram. Netflix. Vacation. You'll find yours (or the many) and let them happen. Make peace with the ordinary. Don't feel guilty for getting lost in something non-loss or baby-related. It might just be during this time, you find your heart taking a necessary breather and you begin to feel a bit more human again. 

8. Priorities 
If everything is important, nothing is. This is my most recent revelation. Earth-shattering, right? Oh, wait, I mean, basic. Right? Well, either way... I tend to have my fingers in everything. That candle of mine is always lit at every end. Dinner at 10 or 11 is normal, yeah? 
And, word to the masses, if you want to message me and tell me the all too helpful advice that stress can impede pregnancy or cause less than ideal circumstances for a babe, bless your heart and save it. You can't do it for me.

But in this last year, I kind of immersed myself in more. My constant going has almost worn me flat out. And I realize I don't want to do that any longer. So I am taking stock of where my heart wants to be, what I want to expend my energies on, and what I want to do to get me to where I want to go next. I want to live by WANT or GET TO not SHOULD. So, it's on. Here comes quality > quantity. That planner is going to look different in 2019.

My wish for you is that you grant yourself the permission to do the same. Say yes to what makes your heart leap and say no to the things that feel like obligations. Nothing weighs one down more than the should's. Plus, I hear that your priorities are totally rearranged once a babe lands in your lap, so a little practice now can't hurt. 

Undoubtedly, life teaches us lessons. For me, and for many others, miscarriage is just one of them. But intermixed are so many others. I guess this notion of being a lifelong learner thing is really a thing.

Until next time, may you keep holding on to hope and slaying stigma.
xo