our love story. part 3 / 3.

 

our miscarriage.

Very few people know
about our miscarriage
(even now)
and I wanted it that way.
Close friends and family
might be surprised
to even read this.

I share not because
I want to talk about it
but with hopes that
in sharing our story
it will give someone else hope
during a difficult time.

We miscarried,
and were able to have
three beautiful kids
of our own.

For me,
I wanted people to be excited
when we shared our news
of having a baby.
I wanted it to be a fun surprise for everyone,
not something to worry about.
I know a lot of worriers.
I’m one too.

Only my friend Nika knew.
Thinking back,
I feel bad for springing it on her
in the middle of dinner
at Il Fornello.
I didn’t plan to,
I just needed to tell
someone.

I didn’t tell my mom
until months later.
I didn’t want her to worry.
And then she told gram
who then told my aunt
and cousins.
So much for keeping things
to oneself.

I don’t think we truly understand
what it means
when we say or hear,
She lost the baby,
or she miscarried.
It seems so casual,
as though the baby just
disappeared.
And I’m glad
that we don’t know,
because it’s absolutely
devastating.

It’s knowing that you are growing
a human being inside of you.
Of being so excited to have something
you have wished for,
for so long.
To know that you and the person you love
are creating a family
of your own.
It’s pretty amazing.

It’s looking at baby clothes
in stores and buying little pieces
to tuck away for later
without anyone knowing.

It’s thinking of names
and planning their bedroom.
It’s the excitement of following their development
on three different apps.
They are the size of a grain of rice.
They are the size of a chick pea.
It’s writing to them in a notebook
that will never be read.

It’s going to your first doctor’s appointment
to hear his / her little heartbeat
and then to see the look on your doctor’s face
when they can’t hear it.

To have another doctor
brought into the room.
It’s early yet,
sometimes we can’t hear the heartbeat.
Then being sent for an ultrasound
down the street.
I think they were just trying
to be nice.

Laying on a hard ultrasound table
alone
in a dark room
watching the screen
as the technician slides the wand
across your goopy jell covered belly.
Trying to look for some sign
on the technician’s face
to say that everything
is okay.

Trying to decipher
what’s on the screen.
Watching for some evidence
of the baby growing
inside of you.

Wondering if your baby is okay.
Wishing desperately that they are.

It’s sitting in a waiting room
hoping that you don’t hear the words
that mean that your baby is gone.
You need to go back
to see your doctor for the results.

no. no. no.
You know what that means.

Trying to hold it together
as you pass by
complete strangers on the sidewalk
on the way back to the clinic.

Knowing
that you are carrying
a dead child
inside of your body.
What you thought was there
is no longer.
Get it out.
Get it out now.

The baby stopped developing at 8 weeks.
Information given feels like
distant murmurs
as you try
to comprehend
what has just happened.

You body will naturally pass the baby.
There will be bleeding
but nothing more
than a regular period.

After 3 days of contractions at home,
(actual contractions),
I was so thankful that the doctor called
to check in on me.
I didn’t know what was normal.

She gave me a prescription
to move things along.
She didn’t want me to suffer
any longer.

Eric was on his way
to catch a flight out West for work.
I was at home getting ready
for a day at the Quest conference.
I was working on a team
that helped behind the scenes
with video and production.

I miscarried our baby
at home in our bathroom,
alone.

I held our baby
in my hands.
I could see his / her eyes
and the beginnings
of arms.
I always thought
our baby
was a girl.

I felt empty.
I had never
experienced
that feeling before.
To feel like your body
is no longer.

Sitting on the bathroom floor,
sobbing.
Get it together, Lainie.
Get it together.

I got dressed for work
and shakily got my things ready.
Get it together.

I drove to the conference
wearing a pad,
still bleeding
from what had happened.

I went about my day
feeling really out of it.
Trying to distance myself
from what I knew was true.

A colleague said to me
in a team meeting,
Are you okay, Lainie?
Yeah, I’m just not feeling well.
I think I have the same thing as you.
Oh, really? That’s too bad.

Ummm, I don’t think so.
(I know it’s weird, but
his response was actually kind of funny to me).

Going to the bathroom between breaks
to change my pad.
I didn’t know what was normal.
Could something else happen?

Back to the conference room
to help coordinate a live Skype call
between a classroom
and our director.

Keep it together, Lainie.

A phone call from my doctor
to check in,
quickly leaving the building
to answer her call.
Crying outside
and wiping the tears
before heading back inside.
Keep it together, Lainie.

1/4 of women miscarry.
And it doesn’t mean
that you’ve done anything wrong.
It happens
and it really sucks.

I told myself,
it’s science.
It’s human biology
and it’s out of my control.

But you are strong.
And I hope that in reading our story
it gives you hope.
Because life
is pretty miraculous.

This is how I know…
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A Note from Lainie:

I was really hesitant about sharing this online and at the same time, I knew that I wanted to.  Such a weird combination of feelings to have at once. It’s scary to put something so personal out there for total strangers to read (or even worse, people I know).  And yet, I hit publish.

I’m doing it because of one person.

There was someone who once confided in me during a really difficult time for her.  She had just recently miscarried and shared her experience with me. Besides family members, I didn’t know anyone else who had miscarried before.  I’m so thankful that she did. If not, it would have felt like I was the only one when it happened to us. I just kept thinking, she had a miscarriage and now she has a little boy.  Maybe I’ll be okay too. Maybe we’ll be able to have children too.

Thank you to the person who was brave enough to share.  You gave me hope when I felt like there was none. I hope that writing and sharing this story might do the same for someone else.

If you know of someone who has recently miscarried or is having difficulties, please feel free to pass this along.  They need to know they’re not the only one.

 

Our Crazy Life

An Ode to Parenting

“Sleep ins” on the weekend
Having dinners out with friends
Napping just because
Freedom never seemed to end

Travels round the world
Mornings at the gym to run
Laundry we didn’t care about
Wasn’t life without kids so much fun?

A newspaper to read
A trip to the mall
Focused on our work
We thought we had it all

It felt like we could do it
Take on a kid or two
Yes, life would change a bit
Three kids later…what did we do?!

4:30 a.m. wake ups
and we’re thrown back in again
To fighting over toys,
let the battles yet begin

Feeding little creatures
a never-ending chore
Loving it one moment,
then tossing on the floor.

The tantrums are so crazy
The screaming drives us nuts
Irrational requests
Does this happen just to us?

6 a.m. park visits
to get them sane again
From crafts to games to play
Keeping them busy never ends

And yet I can’t imagine
Our life without this crew
Little arms around our necks
What else would we do?

Their giggles and belly laughs
Quickly turn things around
Their excitement over simple things
Keeps our feet on the ground

The excitement of the firsts,
the funny moments and what they say
We may go to bed exhausted
but enjoyed another day.

Our lives may be but crazy
But who else would I choose
To live this life together
With nobody but you.

Love you,
Lainie Beth

 

Poem written May 2017.

I wrote this poem for my husband this morning. He had just taken the boys to the park (it was 6:30 a.m.)  Our day started at 4:30 a.m.

And after the kids were going in and out of our bedroom closet, locking each other into different bedrooms, slamming doors, yelling, pulling books from our shelf…it was time to get them outside.

Once they stepped out the door, I sat on my bed and started to write.

the ultimate PDA.

A glance across the room,
those moments
when you see him
as him.

The hot looking guy
you met in university.
Seriously,
I married a handsome man.
The funny, silly guy
I fell in love with.

I often feel bad
for the wife that he gets
instead of the Lainie
he used to know.

The Lainie who was fun,
who wore a blue wig,
tutu,
tall striped athletic socks,
and eye black under her eyes
for Argo football games.

The Lainie who got up early
and went to the gym,
and was 50 lbs lighter
than she is now.

Now he has the wife
who complains about being tired
all. the. time.
Who starts rattling off
the frustrations
of the day
as soon as he gets in the door.
The one who doesn’t always see
how being a dad 24/7
isn’t easy for him either.

And I wish it was different for him.
My behaviour feels like a default
that needs resetting.

Children do change a relationship.

It changes the patience
that you usually have for one another.
It changes the energy that you have
towards things that used to seem important
(*cough* gym).

It changes the way that you see one another,
now Mama and Daddy
instead of Lainie and Eric.
But it doesn’t change how much you love them.

If anything,
it makes me want to work harder
to show him
how much he means to me.

Because despite my sad wardrobe,
the hair I haven’t blow dried in days (or maybe last week),
and the endless complaining you endure…
I love you, Eric Holmes.
You’re my person.

Let’s go to a game again soon.
I still have my wig and tutu 😉

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Note from Lainie:

I am not a public displays of affection (PDA) kind of person.  I don’t post my love for Eric on social media.  I’m a private person when it comes to that kind of stuff.  And yet, look at me go! 🙂 You probably won’t see this stuff again for awhile.  It’s like the Hailey’s comet or some special lunar eclipse, it might show up again online in a few decades 🙂