My Marathon Miscarriage

I thought I was in the clear after having two healthy baby girls. I was in the best shape of my life after remaining active during my second pregnancy. Our second baby was much easier so we decided to let nature decide when we would have a third. One evening in early April 2018 I got that faint double line in the middle of chugging back my pre-workout, set the glass down, and did my workout with a big ole grin on my face.

After several more tests (yes, I am a serially tester with those dip sticks from Amazon) and a 6 week ultrasound, I couldn’t wait to tell the world! A few close friends and family knew already. I made my fun “we’re expecting” announcement on social media. I knew it was early but always said if something ever happened to one of my pregnancies I wouldn’t want it to be in solitude. You don’t really know what that means until it happens.

“We’re pros at this by now”, so I thought. I went confidently into my 8 week follow up ultrasound solo with both of my girls (18 months + 3 years) in tow. Totally expecting a run of the mill appointment, my obgyn’s usual happy disposition came to a screeching halt. I knew it right then – something was wrong. Thankfully we don’t have ultrasound techs who then have to grab a doctor before they talk to you – we were able to address what was going on right then. The doctor whom I trusted with my prenatal care for 4 years thus far uttered “I’m not seeing anything.” Confused, I squinted at the screen and could see the big black sac but there was nothing inside of it. My little girls sat oblivious, staring at some tablet device in the chairs next to me. “What now?” I wasn’t prepared for this. Not today. Not….ever. He hugged me which clearly meant every tear I had held back thus far came pouring out.

I was immediately sent to the hospital next door for lab work (hcg levels). I dash out of the obgyn office a crying mess, one girl on my hip one by the hand. Wrestle them into car seats and call my husband. I manage to blubber out that I thought we had lost the baby. That I couldn’t really talk about it. Then I texted my mom the same and asked her not to call. I knew I couldn’t handle SAYING the words out loud again.

I get to the lab where the waiting area is decorated in flashy Easter decor. My 3 year old is standing at the door, playing with some of the streamers and I ask her to come sit with me. Okay, I asked her a few times while stifling tears and not wanting to take whatever these emotions were out on her. When she didn’t come sit with me, the receptionist asked, “does she always do that?” “Do what?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Not listen to you.”

Y’all. I usually run a million MPH away from confrontation but I clapped back with “this is her second appointment with me this morning, she’s 3 and you have shiny bunny decorations on the door. She’s doing what I expect a 3 year old would do right now.” Two days later I returned to the lab for the follow up blood work (no kids this time – I knew better). My numbers did not increase enough to indicate a viable pregnancy.  I started spotting later that day.

Once I had shared the news with my close friends and family, I had this strange desire to share the news with my social media community. I had shared our celebration of a new baby and wanted to address this to avoid as many awkward “congrats!” in person as I could. After discussing it with my husband we decided to give it a little time. I found a way to graciously navigate the “what’s the due date?” “Will you find out the gender?” questions.

I spotted, passed small clots, stopped spotting, re-started spotting for almost 4 weeks. I wanted to miscarry naturally. I didn’t want a procedure. I was prepared for it to happen – had a plan in place. Looked up all the Pinterest tips (yep – Pinterest has tons of natural miscarriage info)! For four weeks I wore a pad in the heat of that early summer in the south. I attended pool parties on the sidelines, hauled my oldest to/from swimming lessons, missed out on the waterpark and beach plans. It was a miserable four weeks. Imagine the symptoms of early pregnancy combined with the symptoms of PMS. I was reaching the end of my “allowable wait time” that my doctor was comfortable with. My body just wasn’t getting the hint that while there was a gestational sac, there was no baby and it needed to go ahead and clean house.

The day before the scheduled D&C, I took my girls to the daytime $1 movie. My cramping became very intense to the point we had to leave. I was bleeding through my pads faster than I had available. Once home I had high hopes I had passed the sac. The next mornings ultrasound only showed that the sac had finally begun to break down but it was still very much there. I had just passed a clot. One of the nurses prayed over me before I was wheeled back when she saw what I was in there for.

The procedure went off without a hitch.

I felt better within 24 hours of the procedure. The cramping, the never ending pads, the bloat, the nausea were all gone. Just like that. We were also ready to share our loss now that the journey was over.

It’s important for women (and men) to know that it is okay to:

Announce an early pregnancy if its their first child.

Announce an early pregnancy if its not their child.

Share their loss even if it was early.

Share their loss when it was late.

Share their announcement and loss whenever they want to despite what others might think.

We are the ones who will be navigating life with this experience and we are the ones who know how we will best heal. I knew I would need the support from my people if something happened. I loved squealing and celebrating our news and I also was so grateful those closest to me knew we were expecting so I could run right back to them for love and prayers.

It’s okay to talk about it. If that’s what you want to do. It’s not okay to judge another mom on how she handles her new pregnancy announcement or pregnancy loss. Cheer for them, celebrate with them, be excited for them, pray for them, grieve with them, talk with them, empathize with them. Love them through it.

And mama…you’re the farthest thing from alone in your grief than you’ll ever know.

8 week ultrasound

Cheese Grits

Folks are often surprised to learn I was raised by a single mom. Perhaps it’s the All-American girl thing I had going on growing up, the college degree from my #1 choice of universities or the perception that I have my ish together.

A bit of history – hang with me. My father had three marriages producing six children. There was a history of addiction and substance abuse in each of the first two marriages. In swoops my mother who, after marrying my father, steps right into role of stepmother of two pre-teen girls and weekends wih a younger step-son. The oldest of the six children, I learned as a young adult, was actually raised as my cousin and I didn’t even know he was my half-brother. Y’all following all this?!

Enter myself and my younger brother during marriage number three for my dad. Mercy. On top of ALL OF THAT my father was still an alcoholic who liked to smoke pot. Can you imagine being in my moms position at this point? Married, two older kids full time, one on the weekends. My “momxiety” would be through. the. dang. roof.

Let’s jump to the separation and divorce at age 7. We moved to another state – visits and communication with my father after that were scarce. Forget about child support. We had to stop visiting him for our safety – if he couldn’t control his substance abuse while my mom was around how could she trust him in her absence?

Now that you have some context – I want you to know what I remember growing up as the daughter of a single mother.

I remember my mother working – always – and simultaneously having us involved in every activity she could get us to on time. She was scrappy – she wasn’t afraid to ask for assistance so we wouldn’t miss out. I took gymnastics and cheerleading. My brother took karate and piano lessons. She also always, ALWAYS had us in church. Not just any church. Church that had age-appropriate programming for kids. That had youth groups. She made sure we showed up for those events, too, even when we didn’t want to because we didn’t know anyone. She made sure my brother and I both had reliable cars when we started driving.

My single mom then started her own plastic recycling business, managing a warehouse of men, most needing a second chance. I’d drive to her office and find her on the phone, on a forklift, knee deep in a giant box of shredded plastic car parts or talking in broken spanish to one of her many Hispanic employees that adored her. Looking back, it’s pretty remarkable what she was willing to do to make a life for us.

In high school the pushing for greatness didn’t stop. She strong-armed me into testing for AIG classes and participating in pageants I didn’t want to do (due to lack of confidence – which I am certain now is why she pushed me to do those things). I was on stage for our Miss Graham High School pageant and the judges asked me, “what is your favorite food?” and without skipping a beat I answered, “cheese grits!” There was a low chuckle from the crowd. Many, many years later my mother shared with me that it was ironic that I said that to the judges. She told me that we had cheese grits all the time growing up because they were cheap to make and we were poor. She thought I would’ve had a different answer. ANY answer. To me, it was just “normal.”

I never considered the sacrifices and hardships she endured. Looking back I can see them now: using a hair-dryer to thaw pipes because our washing machine was on the back porch, a trip to McDonalds was a treat, back to school shopping when everything was on clearance and with someone’s extra discount, free and reduced school lunches, prom dress shopping at the consignment store (before it was trendy), being the last kid picked up because she was killing herself to be everywhere at the same time. You know what I also see now? A mom who risked everything to keep her kids safe. An entrepreneur in a male-dominated industry. A giver of second chances. An ex-wife that refused to trash talk the father of her children. A mom that held her adult children when they buried their absent father. A grandma whose words mean so much they get tattooed on a step-granddaughters forearm. A woman of God who lived her life believing that there would be beauty for her ashes. And what a beautiful life it is.

My mother with my brother and I at our home in Georgia.

Making Room

Even when our plates are full, if we REALLY want something we make room for it. We slide something over, put something back, leave something out or just pile it right on top. Welcome to my new site aka my pile on top!

It’s been a joy to share life with my online community through social media and now I’m being obedient to the nudge to stretch further and reach even more people in a way that creates connection, empathy and encouragement.

I’ll be branching out in this space. It feels safe – a little more protected than social media – to open up about the stuff that’s happened, is happening or may happen. Yes, I realize this is just as public as the ole’ Facebook but if you’ve committed to the extra internet steps to land here my prayer is you are able to glean something for good from my words & care about the soul of a mama who is making room for something new.

He gives beauty for ashes. — Isaiah 61:3