On March 30, 2008, I discovered I was unexpectedly pregnant. Since I'd already suffered multiple miscarriages and had been through a lot of testing, I knew I needed to be on blood thinners as soon as I got pregnant. So I called my doctor and asked him to call in a prescription for Lovenox and made an appointment for two weeks later for a dating u/s. It took 2 days before the script finally got called in, so on April 2 I picked up the script and another home pregnancy test. I got home and took the test-negative. So I didn't take the Lovenox, thinking I'd had a missed implantation (early miscarriage). That night when I did my devotions, I got a strong 'nudge' to take the Lovenox despite the negative, so, I didn't ask why, I just did it. The next morning I took another test, got another negative, got another 'nudge', so I did the Lovenox again. Same pattern for the next two days. I finally stopped doing tests because it was getting expensive, I kept getting negatives, and God kept telling me to do the Lovenox anyway.

A week later, on April 11, I got sick while out, impulsively bought another test, took it in the middle of the day, and got a very immediate and dark positive. On April 14 I had my 1st u/s which showed two areas of implantation bleeding and dated me at about 3 to 3 1/2 weeks. (Apparently I'd gotten pg, m/c'd and then immediately gotten pg again, with multiples!) A later u/s showed I'd conceived spontaneous triplets! There were two gestational sacs, but one of them had two yolk sacs (the 'nourishment sac', one for each baby)

Then on May 31, at 10 wks 1 day, I had a sudden gush of bright red blood. Since I was on blood thinners, there was a significant danger of hemorrhage, so I went to L&D. After that one gush, the bleeding stopped. The u/s at the hospital showed one fully developed baby (head, arms, legs) but no heartbeat. The baby was in the sac which had had two yolk sacs, but at this point there was just this huge sac with the baby tucked in the corner and no yolk sacs, no debris, nothing but this huge sac and one little tiny baby with no heartbeat. The other sac was still perfectly round and still growing but completely empty (blighted ovum). They sent me home with a diagnosis of impending miscarriage.

The next night, Sunday, I suddenly started bleeding extremely heavily for about 3 hrs, then for the next week just some light spotting with no cramping. And, through it all, my morning sickness continued as well as all of my other pregnancy symptoms. So, hmmmm???

So now, here I am a week later, still 'sort of' pregnant at 11 1/2 weeks, no bleeding, still sick, haven't passed the 'products' of conception, and I am still, in spite of everything, praying for a miracle, actually THREE miracles. I don't have any medical reason to have hope. I saw the u/s myself. There were no signs of life. And yet I do hope. I hope that all of my babies are still alive. I hope that the baby I saw with no heartbeat was just in some 'odd' position that blocked the u/s from seeing it's little heart beating. I hope that my other two babies were just 'hiding' behind the other baby. I hope that God will bless me with the privilege of bringing these babies into the world and raising them in Christ. I hope. That's all I have.

Hebrews 11:1
Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.

Hebrews 11:3
By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God's command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible.

I'll have another u/s at 12 wks which was my original plan. I'll update then. For now I leave you with what I've learned through many, many losses including this possible (most would say definite) loss:

Every life is created by God. Every life has a purpose. Some accomplish their purpose in days, while others take decades. All are precious and loved by their Creator.

Faith is believing that God is right even when you don't agree with Him. Faith is believing God loves you even when you are hurting. Faith is believing God is with you even when you feel lost. Faith is believing God is good even when it doesn't look that way.

God bless.

'Sort of' pregnant means that, although I have to wear maternity clothes because triplets make your uterus pop out way early, I can't answer the question, 'When are you due?' with a simple answer.

'Sort of' pregnant means that, when I meet 'real' pregnant women, I quietly chat with them about their babies without ever mentioning that I am also pregnant, even though I am visibly expecting.

'Sort of' pregnant means that I walk past baby stores with the briefest of glances because I don't feel I have the right to go there.

'Sort of' pregnant means that, whether my babies are dead or alive, I cling to every moment they are still inside me, because it may be the only time I get with them here on earth.

'Sort of' pregnant makes heaven very real and very close, because that's where my babies may grow up.

God bless.

Why is it that doctors are so reluctant to 'get our hopes up'? They'll say, "I don't want to give you false hope" or "I'd rather prepare you for the worst case scenario." It's like the first requirement for getting into medical school is to have a 'glass is half-empty' personality!

So what's the problem with having hope? Isn't hope what we all live on? When I drive my car, I 'hope' no one hits me. When I use my credit card, I 'hope' it goes through (lol). When I get on a plane, I 'hope' its been inspected recently! Hope is a part of our daily life, isn't it? It's not a disease or mental illness or product of an over-active imagination or symptom of denial. It's what gets us out of bed each morning and through each day and back in bed each night to start over again the next day.

And, when we're faced with tragedy or loss, hope can help us 'float' a little more gently into the valley we have to walk through, instead of crashing headlong into the ground.

Another thing about hope. Isn't it strange how incredibly fragile and yet miraculously resilient hope is? Take my situation: every cramp, every twinge, every drop of blood, every decrease in symptoms can crush my hope completely. And then, a little later, hope seeps back in, easing my despair, lighting my way, calming my spirit, preparing me to face whatever comes next.

One last thing about hope. I think a mom's heart is made entirely of hope. We hope for that miraculous moment of conception to take place. We hope for a healthy, happy baby to be born. We hope our children will grow into good and successful adults. And, along the way, when problems arise, we hope for the best. It's not just what we do. It's who we are and what we were made for.

"Ask for whatever you want me to give you." That was God's charge to Solomon. Last night in my devotions, I suddenly felt that was God's charge to me. And I was terrified. What if I asked for the lives of my babies and God granted that but it would cost me my life and leave my children motherless? What if I asked for financial freedom and God granted that but it would come in the form of a life insurance check after the death of my husband? So many 'what ifs' ran through my mind. It wasn't that I thought God was trying trick me; it was that I was realizing that His will is based on perfect wisdom and knowledge and mine on...well, nothing but my own desires. And I was startled to find that I suddenly knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the ONLY safe, practical and wise answer to "Ask whatever you want me to give you" is "Father, give me Your will and not my own."

God bless.

My babies are gone.

I go on, but I'm not living. I function, but I don't feel. It's the only way I can get through each day, pay the bills, do the shopping, clean the house, and a thousand other things that engage my body, but not my heart and mind. It amazes me that no one can see death in my eyes, that they talk and interact with me like life hasn't changed, that they have stayed the same when I've been changed forever. And I can't help but wonder how many other people I see throughout the day feel dead like me. The clerk who messed up my change and then was rude about it, were her heart and mind turned off like mine just so she could get through the day? The fast food window guy who messed up my order and then wanted to argue about it, was he bleeding to death on the inside where no one could see it? How many other wounded souls are wandering around like the living dead, hiding their pain behind empty eyes and empty smiles, concealing their despair inside a body that functions but doesn't feel, and hoping that someone somehow will see and care.

This living death only lasts as long as there are needs to be met and activities to engage in, but then comes the night, the quiet, the stillness, and the pain. I am shattered. I can't breathe. The pain is suffocating. And I cry silently. Somehow I can't share this pain. It's too overwhelming, too powerful. It doesn't have a voice, just a deep and broken moaning of the spirit, a silent communion of the soul with the very God who willed this path for me.

I KNOW that God is good. I KNOW that God is wise. I KNOW that God is love. And I KNOW that God's will and purposes are formed in perfect goodness and perfect wisdom and perfect love. I know this, and I accept His purposes for my life. But that doesn't stop the pain. And that doesn't stop the questions. Why did He create life in me when I wasn't even trying to conceive and then wait just long enough for me to fall in love with my babies and then take them right out of my womb? Why?

Loss after loss I've asked the same questions. And loss after loss I've received the same answer--Trust Me. Love Me. I am here.

Yes, I trust You. Yes, I love You. Yes, I know that You are here. But...

Do you ever want to ask God to leave you alone? To let you live your life in peace? I do, or at least a part of me does. A part of me wants to beg God not to teach me His ways, not to mold me to His likeness, not to use me in His service. But then I think, what would life be like without Him? Would there be less pain? I don't think so, life is painful, with or without Him. I just wouldn't have Him to comfort, guide, and carry me. Would there be more peace? No, life is chaotic, with or without Him. I just wouldn't have Him to shelter me in the storms. Would there be more hope? Impossible, life is short and has a clearly marked dead-end without Him. He is hope. He is my only hope.

Every time I conceive a new life in my womb, my heart expands exponentially to create a home for that child and my mind stretches wide open to welcome a new life into my life. Every time I lose a baby from my womb, my heart and mind are left with a gaping emptiness I don't know how to fill. In the past I've taken those spaces and filled them with hope for 'the next time.' Now, after growing space in my heart and mind for three babies at once and losing them all, I'm left with such a huge emptiness that I feel lost inside of it. But my husband and I weren't planning on having any more children. God planned these babies, not us. So now what do I do? If there is no hope for 'the next time' to fill this hole, to focus those aimless thoughts in the night, to hold the pieces of my heart together, then what do I do with those thoughts and the frayed edges of my broken heart? I don't know. I really don't.

How can I feel so safe in God's arms, so sure of the rightness of His purposes, so certain of the wisdom of His will, and still feel so lost?

I don't know. I really don't.

Have you ever read the book of Job in the Bible? It's always been a book I struggled through and didn't really like. It's all about loss and stupid comments from family and unwanted advice from friends and the reality of God being God. But it's the story every woman who miscarries can relate to. You know what I'm talking about. We've all heard--"That's just nature's way of getting rid of something that didn't grow right." and "It's not like you lost an actual child." And, from the 'churchfolk'--"You shouldn't feel empty. God is all you need." and "God needed your babies more than you did." What I like about the book of Job is that God didn't get mad at him for asking questions and for wailing out his pain. But God did get mad at his friends who acted like they were speaking for God, like they knew why God did things and how God thought. When people make those comments and when they tell me how I 'should' feel, I just remember Job and those comments lose their sting completely.

Here are some suggestions for you friends and family members out there who need a little guidance on how to communicate with a mother who's just lost a baby.

"I'm sorry."
"What can I do to help?"
"I don't know what to say."
"I'm hurting so much for you."
"I'm praying for you."

And don't let a day go by for the first couple of weeks that you don't say one or more of those things. It's pretty much all she can think of at that point, and you not mentioning it keeps her silent in a world of pain she doesn't know how to share. Don't try to make her talk, just let her know it's okay if she wants to.

Updated to add 'what NOT to say':
"You can always adopt."
"You're young. You can always try again."(Would you go to a funeral and tell the grieving widow, "You can always just get married again"?)

God bless.

I debated about whether to include this part or not, but, in the interest of complete honesty, I had to. I know that anger is one of the stages of grief, but it is the hardest stage for me because I'm a peacemaker, and anger always seems wrong to me...especially when it's God I'm angry with.

Anyway, here goes...after another night of sorrow, I suddenly woke up ANGRY, not a little angry, but really, really MAD--at God. I tried to hide it, even from myself, but it kept seeping and oozing out and when I got a phone call from our realtor that the buyer had backed out of our contract, I lost it. I cried and ranted and raved at God. And once the anger started flowing, there was no stopping it. I spent the whole day in tears, asking God what He was thinking, where He was in all this, if He really thought I deserved to be tortured, why everything seemed intentionally designed to make my loss as painful as possible, and when He was going to finally decide I'd had enough and LEAVE ME ALONE! And, you know what, I discovered some things. First, I discovered that I didn't just suddenly get angry; I'd been simmering for days and just wouldn't admit it to myself or God. Second, I discovered anew that I truly am a sinful person capable of being about as unlovely and petty and spiteful as the next sinner. Third, I discovered that God loves me just as I am. He wasn't surprised by my anger because He knew what was in my heart all along. Fourth, I discovered that pouring out the anger in my heart was the ultimate act of trust. God said in His word that we couldn't escape from His love and that He loved us while we were yet sinners. Trusting Him with my anger was trusting Him to be who He said He was and trusting Him to do what He said He would. And fifth, I discovered that by being willing, finally, to trust God and walk through this part of the valley, the healing could begin. As I released the anger I'd been hiding in my heart, peace seeped in to take it's place. That is the gift of God, peace that passes understanding. And I could finally begin to receive that gift when I fully trusted God with all that I am, the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly.

I know I have a long, long way to go. But a subtle shift has taken place in my soul. I still cry at night and I still hurt all the time, but I am living again, feeling again, moving forward again. And that ever-resilient hope, so fragile, so easily crushed and broken, has risen again.

God bless.

After every loss, I run from the world and fling myself into God's arms, and, like Jacob at Peniel, I 'contend' with God. It's not about anger, or at least, not only about anger. It's the whole process, the hope, the loss, the pain, the despair, the anger, all of it, start to finish. I contend with Him to settle things between us, to bring peace and healing to our relationship. I contend with Him because I can't move on with my life until I do. And so I leave the world behind and isolate myself with my God -- alternately clinging to Him and wrestling with Him, resting in Him and struggling against Him, crying out to Him and lashing out at Him. And, through the darkness, I refuse to let go. I won't let go because, although losing my babies wounds me, losing my God would destroy me. I can't let go because He is life and breath and letting go would be the end of me. So I hold on until the light dawns, and then, at last, I surrender. I surrender to His will and to His incomprehensible love--a love that would sacrifice His own Son for me, but would still allow such awful pain and loss into my life. God's love makes no sense to me, that He would love me so deeply when I am so unworthy, and that He would hurt me so deeply when He loves me so much. But, in the light of a new dawn, my faith is renewed. My questions remain unanswered, but since "faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see (Heb. 11:1)" that's what I hold on to--I have to believe there is a purpose, a good and loving and perfect purpose, that I can't see. I have to believe that or I couldn't live through so much loss. And, by believing that, I can put my questions aside until I get to heaven, and I can heal, and I can finally move on.

I have now lost eleven babies. Eleven. I can't even begin to wrap my mind around that fact. It's soul-shattering. But I wanted to share my journey with those of you suffering and hurting, to in some way light the path of loss so you can find your way. I hope what I have written has helped. I pray you found hope and healing in my words. And I ask God, in His unfathomable wisdom, to place each and every one of you in the safest place on earth--the center of His will.

God bless.