two

I had another dream. A baby girl with dark curls and big round, brown eyes. I thought that maybe it would be my sister-in-law's baby. It was Ariel. My lion of God.
After my first loss I got pregnant two weeks later. Not on purpose but it was a blessing. My Aiden was born the next June. I was pregnant for thirteen months it seemed as I had only a short but aweful break between the two. He was gorgeous with lots of dark hair and big brown eyes. He is still gorgeous.
After about six months (after Aiden was born), I had the want for more kids. I think I needed to store them up;) I was pregnant again easily as always and then nauseous. I started to feel better. No one was worried. At my twleve week prenatal check, when you are supposed to hear a little heartbeat, my doctor couldn't find one. It gets a little fuzzy for me here... I went for an emergency ultrasound the next day. I knew what to expect. No heartbeat, sorry. I was sent back to the clinic only to find that most of the doctors were away at a seminar. I saw the one general practitioner left behind. He sent me to the gynocoligist not realizing that he was away too. I ended up in emerg days later. They were going to send me for a D&C and make me wait with a dead body inside me for more torturous days, but I was bleeding, and maybe septic. The doctor that had to see me then was the one who first sent me home to miscarry alone. My husband, whom I am so grateful for was there. This doctor was going to send me home to do the same as I had before. I imagined sitting in my bathtub with my toddler banging at the door. It makes me sick even now. My husband fought for me and there was no arguement. I had the miscarriage at the hospital. It was better that time. Not as painful. The only shock was that my water broke. Disturbing. It lasted four and a half hours. Like my first. Like my son. Like my beautiful daughter Gemma whom I would conceive six months later. I didn't see my babe that time. At least not in person. But I know what she looks like in heaven. My Gemma is blonde with blue eyes. My Ariel has dark curls like her daddy and big brown eyes.

It's just that kind of night.

Someone should start a church for the melancholic. For the people who are walking through the valley of the shadow of death. The shadow of death is exhausting. I am sometimes ashamed of the church. I am never ashamed of God. In mission we go out and hang with the prostitutes, the jailed, the orphans, the poorest. We applaud the people who do...and we should. This is God' heart for the lost. But at home we stay far from the nightlife downtown, we fear the criminals, we pity the orphans, and we turn our eyes from the poor. We try to be set apart with our bodies instead of our souls. So we stay away from the hurting or barely surviving, from the coping and the oppressed. We wouldn't want to catch their demons.
I am suffering and therefore I have felt like I want to create an atmosphere where I deserve my pain....where it hasn't hit me but I have welcomed it instead. I want to be in control. This is where my whole self is at war. I want to be a wholesome person but I sometimes just want to cope and be wounded. People will know that I know God by my love. My compassion where it counts. I hope anyways.  

prayers of the heart kind

Suffering brings perseverance, perseverance character, and character hope.
I always take what I can learn and am glad that I can then understand someone elses plight. It's like when you get the flu before your child does. You can understand what they can't say in words. It was like that when I lost my babe...and immediately. I think I was trying to understand and rationalize what had happened. I was glad that I had a chance to see my baby and I hope that God can use that one day. I have always had a passion to help people understand the affects of abortion. I thought that maybe one day God would use my experience for that purpose. To know a baby in the time when it should be covered by it's mother's body. My baby was real and growing and had purpose.

harsh sorrow (to put it lightly)

My soul is sick. My story: I was twenty-four. I was engaged. I was four months pregnant. My planned first child that I had dreamed of since I was a child. I was buying a house with my man.....
I had a dream about my baby. He looked like my Grandpa and his daddy with big blue eyes and full dark hair (he looked exactly like my son Aiden who was born a year later, except for his blue eyes).
I went to the doctor for my 16 week prenatal check-up. My nausea had subsided a bit finally and I had told Garry that I didn't even really feel pregnant anymore. I wasn't. The doctor felt I wasn't big enough for four months so he sent me to get an emergency ultrasound. They said they couldn't find a heartbeat....what did that mean. Then back to the doctor. He said sorry, just like that. Then he gave me some pills to bring on a miscarriage that my body had not taken care of. I was in shock. Extreme shock. I called my dad but I couldn't speak. I just cried. "Dad my baby died." Then Garry came home and my dad sent my mom up on an airplane.
I took the pills and we walked over to our house inspection. After awhile I started to feel cramping so we went home. I took some T3's that the doctor had prescribed and went to the bathroom, thinking that this would be bloody but just like a heavy period. It wasn't. I went to the bathroom and felt something come out. I thought it was a clot. It was my baby. In it's sack. Hanging there. I panicked and put my hand down to cradle it. I sat like that for hours. Pushing. Hoping it would be over. When I couldn't take it anymore, I went to the tub and layed on a towel. Blood came and I labored quietly. Not intense labour but still pain. After four and a half hours (the same amount of time that I laboured later with two of my children), my placenta finally came out. I was free of the baby. I didn't want to touch my dead child, so fragile, but I stared good and hard at him. He was tiny with a little black eye and tiny arms. So amazing even in his underdeveloped state. I called my mom in and asked her if she would like to see the baby. I think I needed someone to know this was real. I didn't show Garry. I couldn't. I needed him to be okay. Next, what to do with my precious miracle gone. I put him in a shoe box, wrapped in a towel. I had to come to terms with the fact that he was gone. This would be his burial.
I thought I overdosed on tylenol that night, but I think now that I was maybe just having the worst anxiety attack that I had ever experienced. I tunneled into immediate depression and now know that I have Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I feel everything tens times worse than I should and feel like my children could die at any minute. It is hard to even say that. I am exhausted. I am now seeking help and am forced to push beyond what I want to. I need people to know. I need to not be trapped. I may regret saying this all. It needs to be said. I am not complaining. I am waiting until I can go home. I am too tired. That is a long way from now. I need to live and I need some peace.
His name is MacCrea....child of grace.

On a whim....

I am needing my bed...on a whim I created this...about the greatest creation....children.....about my internal war....sorrow of loss....anxiety that comes with the desire to mold your children to be the strongest, smartest, most beautiful....I am tired...I need an outlet.....and I need my bed.