The EDD...

Today is the day that I was "due". I have been dreading today with sudden tears for 6 months, and somehow it still snuck up on me. Wednesday & Thursday of this past week were the hardest... I really wrestled with what I thought I wanted to achieve or experience today- what stress, relief, pain, joy I hoped or dreaded it would bring. I was entirely undecided, and moved to tears almost hourly.

I guess I can't really, fully explain how I have been feeling without letting you in on a little secret... I am pregnant again. 9 weeks today. We got to see the baby's heart beat last Friday, and the little bean is actually measuring bigger than her [then 8 week] dates would have indicated. I can't tell you what a huge amount of stress and anxiety was lifted when I saw the flicker on the screen.

Are we thrilled? Definitely. No, we weren't trying to get pregnant, but we really weren't doing anything to prevent it either (including paying attention to what day it was, apparently). Much like with Tank, we knew the baby season was approaching, but I wasn't quite ready to be pregnant. In both cases, an extra 2 1/2 months would have made a huge [positive] difference on what I was trying to get accomplished.

I just started a new job, teaching part time at a great little school in San Luis. I love it. I only have to be gone 10-ish hours a week, and I get to use my degree. It was a match made in heaven. Until I got pregnant... I am going to have to tell them soon that their new hire will be requiring a long term substitute, her very first year. I'm due in Apri, so I'll need to check out for the last 1.5-2 months of the school year.

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The emotional scar from our miscarriage is still so raw. I am able to live out basic day to day routines without falling apart; I have gone days in a row without consciously thinking about the missing baby in our lives. I have even been able to tell my story without crying (one, and a half times). But then, something happens... a fleeting memory in which for a split second, I forget that I'm not pregnant, where I believe that I have so much to do to prepare for the imminent arrival of our second born. And then it's gone. And the pain hits me in the face, brand new all over again, like a boxing glove. The love that I grew for that little lost baby is still more than I understand.

Reb has only recently started to verbally express any emotional reaction. I mean, sure, when it happened he was there, crying with me. But mostly he was silent and still. I would beg him to talk about it with me (because hearing that he felt pain, too, made me feel a little less crazy) but all I usually got was "Yeah, babe. I am sad about it." He did almost immediately get a tattoo in memoriam (to which our councilor remarked that he must like to 'wear his emotions').  (The ink is of an old, worn out set of boxing gloves. When we nick named the baby "Roo", he started fashioning the post-birth tattoo he would get for the baby and was decided on a boxing Kangaroo. When we lost the baby, he insisted on getting the gloves to signify the beating we took.) But lately, I keep overhearing him talk about it with other people- the pain and hurt; the defeat; the questioning of God. He wrote a (really really beautiful) song that I can't listen too without falling apart (part of which is written out below, or you can listen to it here). Though watching him grapple with his grief has done nothing to ease my own, it has eased my questioning mind.

I spend my money at the Company Store,

putting dollars back in pockets that don't need more.

I lift a 9 pound hammer with a 10 pound heart,

thats the way it's going to be 'till my eyes go dark.

I used to pray that I could rest in my Savior's arms,

hold his hands, kiss his face, and touch his scars.

But now I know, 

I ain't got the dough,

or the heart.

Or the Soul.

People keep saying God's on my side,

but I ain't belived that since my baby girl died.

But still I try hard to be a family man,

not a slave to the bottle or the cocaine can. 

I used to pray that I could rest in my Savior's arms,

hold his hands, kiss his face, and touch his scars.

But now I know, 

I ain't got the dough,

or the heart.

Or the Soul.

A big chunk of the time I feel like I must be over reacting. It can't really hurt that bad; I don't see all the other moms I know who have had miscarriages falling apart in the grocery store 5 months after the fact. But all I can tell myself is that everyone deals with grief differently, and maybe miscarriage just isn't that big of a deal to other people. (Something tells me that this is not true, but maybe that other people are just better at keeping to themselves.) The end result is that I feel guilt for feeling grief. And then I feel like shit.

The one question I have dreaded since is "When/Are you guys going to try for another?" or some close relative of it. I want to shout back "WE'VE BEEN WORKING ON IT FOR THE BETTER PART OF A YEAR, OK? Thanks for reminding me that we are categorically failing." but instead I usually just smile and say, "sometime soon, hopefully". It still feels weird to me that I'm not supposed to say "well, we just had a miscarriage, but are thinking that this fall we will start trying again." Sometimes I do say it, and then I very awkwardly try to pretend that I'm not crying behind my sunglasses. It feels raw, but real; and better than fake.

Getting back to this week, I have been lost in a place of sheer joy and terror; not sure how to simultaneously rejoice in the new life, and yet still mourn the lost. I have been wanting to do a follow up post for quite some time, but as soon as I found out I was pregnant (in early August), I had no idea how or what to think or feel or write. I couldn't accept the idea of being pregnant until we had confirmation. I needed to see a heartbeat to believe it was true. (Since it appeared as if either the baby died very early on, or even that there may never have been one at all, I knew seeing a live heartbeat would calm my fears.) I spent a month+ saying "well, if I am actually pregnant" or "if there is even a baby"... I fell too hard last time; I couldn't feel that pain again. I couldn't believe I was pregnant because if there was no baby, I needed to keep living life. I lost 3 months of my sanity and Tank's childhood last time to copious amounts of coffee and cartoons, I just couldn't do that to him again. So I guarded my heart. I ignored the baby growing inside of me. I despised the morning sickness and my bulging waist.

Then, the irony of time. The week I should finally get relief knowing that the little babe is healthy and strong, is the week I should have held our new baby in my arms. The week I had been dreaming of and planning for for two years that crashed and burned at my feet. I am as happy and excited as I am grief stricken and broken. I have hoped that the passing of my due date would allow me to move another step forward, towards welcoming new life. I have no idea if will or not. But I still hope.

My soul is deprived of peace, I have forgotten what happiness is; I tell myself my future is lost, all that I hoped for from the Lord... But I will call this to mind, as my reason to have hope: the favors of the Lord are not exhausted, his mercies are not spent; they are renewed each morning, so great is his faithfulness. My portion is the Lord, says my soul; therefore I will hope in him. (Lamentations 3:17-18, 21-24)

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(I promise that I will have another happy, yeah, we're pregnant post in the near future with ultrasound photos. I am just not there today.)