Hope and Healing: Putting My Hand Up

Last Sunday night, I plummeted hard and fast into a deep, dark hole after weeks of trying to outrun the overwhelming anxiety and grief that's been building.

The shear force of the anxiety about my physical health coupled with the grieving of the three precious babies we lost during pregnancy during the last 18 months has had me running as fast as my mind could spin, feet could move.

Last weekend, I stumbled a few times and then Sunday night I fell hard.

A mess of tears, shaking on the couch, I surrendered the race because I had to.

I couldn't muscle my way out of that hole with sheer determination because fatigue has taken over and reality had been blurring from black and white to about a dozen shades of gray.

I made the move that seemed all along harder than trying to pull myself up and out: I raised my hand in surrender from the bottom of the hole; I asked people to help pull me out.

I welcomed my mom to come up and help without feeling guilt. I submitted to John's request to call my doctors. I explained repeatedly that I couldn't do this alone anymore. I told them I needed more help.

I met with a therapist we've been seeing and really love. I laid my fears and anxiety and grief out before me, and I gave to God what He's been asking for for a really long time: the control of my health I've been white-knuckle clenching since my dad died three years ago.

One week, lots of prayer, tangible help, art therapy and a few anti-anxiety pills later and I'm hearing clearly the truth in a good friend's words:

"We all fall in holes. But you have to put your hand up so we can pull you up."

So this week I've been practicing raising my hand

to grab others' hands

to give thanks

to surrender

all of that which I can't bear

and was never actually meant to.

Miscarriage: Waiting Rooms and Waiting Days

We are the only ones left in a waiting room long after all the well people normally leave the hospital.

This realization is what grounds the hope that's been swelled up like an inflated balloon in my lungs; I am holding my breathe and still somehow breathing.

But when she angled the computer monitor away from my face and stared grimly at the screen while pressing the wand against my belly, I knew something wasn't right.

I knew as I glanced inquisitively at my husband sitting across the room that when she was done snapping pictures, there'd be another waiting room waiting for us.

These past three months have been anchored in waiting.

We waited for the positive pregnancy test of our long-hoped for fifth pregnancy.

We waited for tests to come back confirming HCG levels were rising steadily.

We waited as each week rolled by to hear the heart beat of our baby as my stomach swelled and rounded.

All the while hoping the waiting would lead to our third child being born alive and well and beautiful in our arms.

But at the midwife's office there was no heartbeat found with the doppler. So we waited for an ultrasound later that evening.

And came full circle back to the waiting room.

Somewhere in the past week or so a feeling of peace had washed over my body -- peace I couldn't understand; I'm always thinking, sometimes anxious.

I prayed, though, in trust that God would take care of this baby and take care of me.

Peace, unexpected and abounding, in the surrender.

John and I hold hands, hopeful, but the balloon begins to deflate with every moment that passes, and I'm breathing deep breathes before she walks in and hands us the phone.

My midwife, she says she's sorry. The baby stopped growing. 10 weeks 5 days and I'm actually only 11 weeks 5 days and not the 13 we thought.

I don't hear anything else she says.

I birth heavy wet tears

in the midst of peace

I cannot explain.

I voice the injustice and I sob and I fall into my husband's arms with more questions than he could ever answer.

But underlying is this strange peace.

I don't sleep much that night

but I breath, and I tell my body

"it's ok. just let go. the baby is already in heaven. so let go."

I cry more through out the Day Two and notice cramping sneak into the lower parts of my abdomen,

heart still thick-coated in grief dancing closely with gratitude, each battling to take the lead

and un-understandable peace.

So we do what we know how to do:

We wait.

We pray.

Balloon of baby-hope deflated

deep breathing

as weeks of hopeful waiting

morph to

one night of waiting rooms and

bleed into waiting days.

"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." Philippians 4:4-6