True Grit : What Doesn't Kill Me Better Run

Part 2: A Series of Unfortunate Events

(Probably need to read Part 1 if you want to have any idea what's going on...)

I have struggled my whole life with accepting how others see me, and how I come across to other people. For the most part I'm okay with the loud, talkative impression that I give off, because that I cannot change. There is a different side of me that I wish I was better at controlling. I started this blog hoping that by sharing my faith in God, that I could help others who were maybe having a crisis in their faith, or maybe feeling empty, or somehow lost. But then this other part of my personality comes out and I'm afraid it takes away from what I'm trying to do. The side that has a temper, gets fired up about children's clothes (ahem...) maybe uses questionable language sometimes(never around the kids of course!), probably doesn't have the patience of a saint, and maybe doesn't exemplify the good Christian woman that I so badly want to be. Its a battle within myself, to be honest. Its who I am. But the Lord knows me, and He knows I'm not perfect, and He knows He made me this way. In the hardest of times, the darkest of places in life, my place of refuge, where I know I need to be, no matter how unbelievably bad things get, has been church. The worse each situation got, the more I craved being in mass. "Give it to God." Well, I would go and I would pray, and I would say "God, I have a lot to give you, I can feel the weight of it all making my knees buckle." But I wouldn't feel like God responded. Then I realized that I was doing all the talking. And I try so hard to stop talking and just listen. But that talkative side, well, its hard to shut her up sometimes.

"The church is a hospital for sinners, not a museum for saints."

WARNING: If you don't want to read details about a pregnancy loss, bleeding, etc., I suggest you either skip this post or skip ahead about 4 paragraphs. Seriously.

We found out on Monday that we lost the baby. I wish I could have stayed in bed with the blankets over my head. But, life can't stop because something awful is happening. The girls still needed to go to school, Adeline still needed to be cared for. As hard as it was, I had to go through the motions of every day life. At night when it was quiet, I wanted to sit down and have a glass of wine so bad. But there was still a baby inside me. It felt so disrespectful to drink as if the baby wasn't there any more. I wanted to be rip-roaring drunk. Black out drunk. Go away from the world drunk. But instead, I sat, stone cold sober. As drunk as I wanted to be, I knew the pain wouldn't go away. It wouldn't help anything. It wouldn't change my reality.

Every moment after was full of anxiety, fear, and confusion- When would this "labor" begin? Am I still "pregnant" even though the baby had died? I was still exhausted, and hungry, and nauseated- the feelings that just a few weeks ago gave me comfort are now constant reminders of what was happening. My first miscarriage, a "chemical pregnancy", was over almost as soon as it began. I found out I was pregnant and then within a week it was over. It was still heart wrenching, but the longer you are pregnant, the more excrutiating this becomes. The recovery from the first miscarriage was relatively simple, as it was much more of a heavy period, because it was so so early on. This? This was different. My body carried a baby for 11 weeks. I had already started putting on baby weight. I was preparing my mind and my body for what was to come. And I was terrified. By Wednesday of that week, I still had no signs of the "big event". I was spotting, and that was all. I prayed for it to begin. Well, I begged my body. I had conflicting emotions: I wanted so desperately to stay pregnant, but knowing that the soul of that baby was already gone, I wanted even more for it to be over, for my body to just have some mercy on me. Put me out of my misery, for crying out loud. I wanted to be able to grieve, I wanted to be able to start to move on. How do you move on from something that's not over? And I was mad, I felt cheated, and I felt like my body had failed. I stared at myself in the mirror, the slightest bump had already grown. It was tiny, but I could feel it. I ran my hand over it and felt so much sadness. Then I began to feel guilt. Overwhelming guilt. WHO THE HELL AM I? I HAVE three beautiful, healthy daughters. HOW GREEDY to ask for more. There are so many women who suffer so very much with infertility. How dare I? There are women who lose full term babies, this should be easier! Then why did it feel so agonizing? Why was my mind so full of guilt?

Yes, the cruel voice in my head was laying down guilt. Inner voices are mean sometimes.

Thursday started out the same- light spotting, no cramping. Then by around 4pm, things began to change. I started having some light cramping. I was tired, but as the hours went on, it became apparent what was happening. My body had obliged. After about 3 hours of increasingly painful cramps, they stopped. And then the bleeding began. It started out light, and then, as if a faucet was turned on, I began to get concerned. Clot after clot, getting bigger and bigger, golf ball sized and only getting bigger more frequent. I started to worry. "This doesn't seem normal..." I thought to myself. This is a lot of blood. I finally decided after going through several pads in a 20 minute span, to go ahead and call the doctor. The on call doctor said "I can't tell you how much bleeding is too much." Uh, thank you? I decided it was time to head to the ER. As soon as I started walking around the house and getting the girls ready for an impromptu slumber party at our best friends house next door, I felt the bleeding get heavier. And heavier. With every step, I could feel it pouring out. I was getting more and more light headed. By the time we got to the hospital (about a 10 minute ride), I could feel blood all over my pants. I started to panic. I'm not one to lose my cool- I'm generally level headed in emergency situations. But this was different. I felt like I was going into shock. They brought me back to triage as soon as I told them what was happening. I sat down, the nurse began to check my vital signs, and then asked me how far along I was. It hit me. I felt like I was hyperventilating. I couldn't calm down. "Almost 12 weeks" I choked, tears pouring down my face. "Okay, its okay sweetie, calm down." I can't calm down. I can't. Something is horribly wrong.

After a series of ultrasounds, examinations and blood work, it was determined that I was in fact bleeding entirely too much, and I had much more to go. The bleeding I had experienced was only the beginning. My uterus was still "full". They said if they sent me home, I would be back within hours and likely in need of a blood transfusion. I needed to go in for a D and C. Like, now. Sad that the last time I had surgery was when I was 11 and had my tonsils removed. I kissed Chris, and within minutes was wheeled back into the OR. My mind was blank. I was stunned. They said I might feel a tingling going up my arm, and once I felt that I'd fall asleep. They were right.

I woke up in recovery, overcome, again, with conflicting emotions. Now that everything was over, I could move on, right? Yeah, but now I felt something new. I felt empty. And I never anticipated that. My belly was still just a little swollen, I was a little sore, but overall I felt okay. They said everything went fine and that they would be discharging me with a prescription for pain medicine. It was 2 am. We headed home, Chris helped me out of the car and into bed.

Within a few days I was up and basically back to "normal" whatever the heck that was. Physically I was fine. Emotionally I was an absolute wreck. I couldn't understand that we had been through so much. I couldn't stop. Trauma had a grip on me and this time it wasn't letting go. I was sucked into a world where all I could think of was what I was missing. My mind was filled with daydreams of the baby we would never have. I cried. A lot. I talked with one of my very best friends who had suffered several miscarriages. Talking with someone so close to me who had been through it before was instrumental in my mental recovery. It was normal to feel overwhelming sadness. It was normal to cry. Whatever I was feeling was normal. It was important to actually grieve. Even more surprising was that I could expect to be angry. And I was.

A week later we headed back to Louisiana for Thanksgiving. It was a wonderful vacation with the girls, my family, and I even got to see some friends and squeeze in a few photo shoots. I felt refreshed. I was able to spend time with my parents, Chris got to see his wonderful grandfather, and Chris and I even got to sneak away for an incredible date night. Going home for a few days was exactly what we needed. I felt so much better than before we left. I was healing. I wasn't crying every day anymore.

We got home Sunday night.

Tuesday morning around 4 am I woke up to an excrutiating stomach ache. I tossed and turned for a few hours. When I woke up around 6:20, my whole abdomen felt tender, but the pain was radiating from my lower right quadrant. I knew right away it was my appendix. It was textbook pain. After throwing up a few times I called Chris and for what seemed like the 100th time in the last two months, to tell him I needed him. He came home, we packed the kids up (it was before school even started) and headed to the ER. Again. I hobbled out of the car and down the hallway to the ER registration desk. Chris stayed in the car with the kids because really, who wants to take 3 kids into an ER during flu season? Yeah, no. I'm a big girl. I can take it! Ha!

A few minutes later, I had an IV and was resting after a dose of morphine. Still in pain, still uncomfortable, but I felt better than before. A CT and yet another ultrasound, it was confirmed- appendicitis, oh and a massive hemorrhagic cyst on my right ovary that I get to deal with later. Yay. I call Chris and tell him I'll be heading back to surgery to remove my appendix. He brings the girls to school, and heads back to the hospital in time to give me another pre-emergency-surgery goodbye kiss. Doesn't get easier that's for sure. A night spent in the hospital and the next day my parents arrived to help. Thank God for help. They stayed a few days until I was up on my feet more. We were so very grateful.

As we had so many times before, we settled back into a routine. Within a few days of my parents leaving, I was up and out, taking the kids to school, even Christmas shopping. GET. BACK. TO. NORMAL.

9 days after my appendectomy, steri strips still on my incisions, still slowwwwlyyy getting up out of my chair, I decide that I need to get out of the house for a little bit, and that I want to go back to the store to return a few Christmas presents. Chris gets home early from work and I spot my opportunity. I tell him that I really want to go return these few things, and I should only be a little bit. He says "Okay, be careful!" Success! I'm freeee! I'm going to wander around Target for hours! I might even get coffee! Yay me! Its about 5:30 in the afternoon, but its winter, so its pretty much already dark. I live in a nice neighborhood. Its safe. People are always walking around, walking their dogs, kids are skateboarding. Its busy. The street is busy with people coming home from work. There's actually traffic! I get in my suburban, put it in reverse (the doors automatically lock, thank you Chevy!), and I wait for the cars to pass. Finally I'm clear to pull out of my driveway. I start to reverse, but then I see in my side view mirror, a man walking relatively quickly across the yard across the street. "What is this guy doing?" I thought... He comes across the street, and I assume he's going to turn onto the side walk and keep walking. He seems to be in a hurry. Hmm... But no, he crosses the street, crosses the side walk and heads straight in between my truck and Chris'. I'm startled and annoyed. I mean, hello, can you not tell that I am making an escape to Target?! I have things to do, chief! Whatever it is he wants, I'd like to tell him "No" and get on my way. I'm not interested in helping anyone by myself in the dark. I've seen "The First 48" and "I Survived" enough times to know that people are nuts and you don't get out of your car at night to help anyone when you're alone. I crack the window. "Yeah?" I'm clearly annoyed already. Then, the jackhole pulls his coat up over his face and screams "GET OUT OF THE CAR".

Surely, he did not just tell me to get out of my car.
"What?!"
"GET OUT OF THE F----- CAR!"
Oh, okay this is happening. Okay, here we go.

I tried in an instant to remember what it was that I always said I'd do in this situation. I always yell at the tv... "WHY DID YOU GET OUT OF YOUR CAR YOU CRAZY WOMAN?!" I LAY on the car horn, hoping to draw some attention. He starts banging on the window and trying to open the door. I realize relatively quickly that laying on the horn will take forever, and then it dawns on me.
I'm in a car. A SUBURBAN. I'm already in reverse. I don't care what this guy is screaming at me. I have to comply for him to be in control. And speaking of control, I haven't had any control over CRAP for the last 6 months. I am in control of this situation. I refuse to be this idiot's victim. My dad has drilled into my head since I was a child that you never ever get out of your car. And if you can RUN THEM OVER.

I slam my foot down onto the gas and reverse away from him. In an instant, he's in front of my car. In front. I assume he wanted to car jack me, but what if he wanted more? What if I got out and he tried to beat the crap out of me? What if I got out and he forced me back into the car and kidnapped me? WHAT IF ANYTHING. He intended to do harm to me in one way or another, I was in fear for my life.

Up until this point I suggest you do exactly what I did. DON'T EVER GET OUT OF THE CAR. HELLLLOOOO YOU ARE IN A CAR. You automatically win! DRIVE AWAY. Even if there is a gun in your face. You assume nice man with the gun pointed at you is just going to steal your car. Nice man might not be a nice man. He might intend to kill you the second you open your door. STAY IN YOUR CAR.

Don't judge me for what I did next. I was petrified, my mind frozen in "fight or flight". I have always had the tendency to focus on "fight." I was angry. I was scared. And I was not giving up control.

I put the car into drive and floored it towards him. He dodges the front end.
I reverse, spin the wheel to face him again, and floor it. He dodges again.
A third time, I gun it towards him, tires screeching. He finally takes off running back to where he came from. And I peel out of my driveway to make the block.

I call Chris (I have no doubt he's getting a little tired of all of these emergencies I keep calling him with)and tell him we need to call 911. Like now.
The police arrive, I give my description and shortly after, they apprehend someone a few blocks away who fits my description. I'm able to identify him, and within a few minutes, the entire ordeal is over. I was shaking, I was screaming and I was FURIOUS. The next day we had our alarm installed.

Trauma.
You've tried so many times, but you'll never take me. I'm stronger than you. I know far too well how blessed I am, how lucky I am, and how much I have. There are days where you creep in. You remind me of the awful times we've had in the last few months. You put me in a terrible mood, and you make me feel sorry for myself. Sometimes I find myself in tears for no reason. Some days I see pregnancy announcements and its like a punch in the stomach. But those days are happening less and less. This is a process for me. A decision that I make every single day to move on. Its hard, I can't say its not hard. Sometimes, I feel the weight of stress pushing hard on my back. I feel anxiety pulling between my shoulders. I see the guy's face at my car window, yelling at me to get out. I see the fire outside my bedroom window. I feel the knot in the pit of my stomach when I found out we had lost the baby. And so, I pray. (I'm learning to listen more and talk a little less.) And before too long, I feel the warmth of happiness again. I remember that I am so lucky- I have a roof over my head, food on my table, three beautiful healthy girls and an incredible husband (who is also healing and recovering well from our ridiculous last few months) to share my life with. Maybe one day we'll see those two pink lines again. For every blessing in my life, I am so very thankful. Like it or not, life goes on. Everyone goes through hard times. Don't let them define you. When I think about this past year, I want to think about when we took our girls to Disney World, birthdays, vacations, summer time and all the smiles and cuddles and fun we had. The traumatic times will not win. There was too much beauty, and joy and happiness. And there was love. SO much love.

And lastly.

True Grit : Miscarriage, Trauma, Heartache and Surviving It All

Part One: You can't make this stuff up.

I'm no stranger to life's curve balls. Like everyone else, I have experienced my fair share of tragedy. I've been blindsided by the news of death, punched in the gut with the phone call of a family member with a medical emergency, and of course there have been lay offs, moves, illnesses and unexpected bumps in the road.

But nothing that I have gone through, and I mean nothing, can compare to the last 6 months of my life.

I have struggled with whether or not I want to share what has happened. But when I think about my own healing process, I know that reading about other people's experiences and feelings has been very therapeutic for me. I can see myself in them, and it makes me feel more, normal somehow. Maybe somehow this will help someone out there in their own healing. Maybe knowing you are not alone, its not just you, and maybe you don't have bad luck, will help you recover. I hope you find this post before you lose your faith. Even though you might not feel it, as hard as it is to wake up and get out of bed, He's there, wrapping His arms around you, and helping you up. Keep your faith.

"Sometimes the Lord calms the storm. Sometimes He lets the storm rage, and calms His child."


Shortly after my last post about Maggie's battle with Kawasaki Disease, we packed up and headed north to Chris' new territory, which changed a few times, but for the sake of privacy, we'll just say its north of Louisiana. Maggie was healing well, we didn't have any more issues with her health once we were discharged from the hospital. After a few weeks in a hotel with the three little ones (which was a real joy, let me tell you), we finally closed on our new house. It was done. Thankyoulord.

We hit the neighbor jackpot. A family, right across the street, with three kids the same age as ours. How could we get so lucky? The kids got along great, went to the same school, it was perfect. Life was moving right along. We walked the older kids to school in the morning and home in the afternoon. Our weekends were full of playing, dinners on the back porch (that I loved so very much), and we were happy. Our hearts were full.

With only one terrifying experience of finding out my two oldest daughters climbed out of their second story window and onto the pergola, which we chalked up to them being adventurous and us being naiive, we were settling in nicely, enjoying the last few weeks of summer. Well, the truth is, that is where the streak of insanity began. At 7:40 on a quiet Saturday morning, while laying in bed watching cartoons with our 2 year old, my husband and I half asleep, but enjoying the laziness of the morning, our doorbell rings. Weird. Early. Rude. I mean, sheesh, buddy, our older two kids are sound asleep!

Or so we thought.

Nope, not rude, but angelic. Amazing. Considerate. Concerned. Chris answers the door to see a man who says "I don't know if you know this, but there are two little girls climbing in and out of the second story window in the back of your house." Chris managed to spit out a "OH MY GOSH THANK YOU!" before running up the stairs 3 at a time to the girls room. Sure enough, they were just climbing back in onto Maggie's bed. WHAT? Wait, WHAT?! How? What? HOW WERE THEY NOT TERRIFIED?! I mean, just about every person that I talked to with a two story house and small kids didn't have any type of extra child proof lock on their windows. But even after hearing that, I felt like I had failed. Within hours we had debated whether we should get a lock they couldn't open or an alarm. We settled on putting a high pitched alarm on every window in the house, that functioned with magnets. If the magnets separated, an alarm so loud would sound you would feel like your ears were bleeding. We talked about locks but eventually decided against it, in the off chance we had a house fire. I mean, there is no way we would ever have a house fire. But the little nagging voice in the back of my head and common sense told us to do the alarms. I wallowed in the "what ifs" for a few days, and prayed so very much- prayers of thanks to God that my precious babies were okay. Prayers of thanks that an amazing neighbor, who we haven't seen since it happened, found it in his heart to tell us what he saw. We don't even know where he lives. He was a good Samaritan out for a morning walk. Thanks that their guardian angels held their tiny hands as they balanced on the boards of the pergola. My heart aches just thinking about it. But learn from my experience. The alarms were $8 for a pack of two. Took about 2 minutes to install. Save yourself the trauma that we dealt with.

We moved on. I eased myself to sleep every night for a month after repeating the words "nothing happened, they are okay" over and over in my mind.

About 2 weeks later, I found out something that made me giddy with joy.
I was pregnant.

We were overjoyed. We had actually planned this! How wonderful that we could get pregnant so easily! How amazing that we would grow to a family of 6! I was thrilled, and again, found myself full of so much thanks to God. This time for blessing us with another baby. I love being pregnant. I love everything that comes with it. I was beside myself with excitement. A month or so later, we went to our first doctor's appointment. I mentioned that my sister had twins when she was around my age. (I had secretly been hoping for twins!) My doctor suggested we do an early ultrasound to take a peek. I should have been around 6 weeks or so by that point.
I was so excited! We would get a sneak peek at our next baby! I couldn't wait! As if looking at the baby on the screen meant that he or she could look back at me, I felt like having ultrasound would be our first little bonding experience.
"Hmm...." the ultrasound tech was sweet, and personable. As she started the ultrasound, I could see just a smidge of concern on her face. My doctor was in the room right next to her, and I could see it on her face too. Not big concern just... "Hmmm...."
I looked at the screen. Having had three babies before, I knew roughly what I was looking for: A fat little jelly bean cuddled tightly to the sac. But there was no jelly bean. Just the sac, and a perfect circular yolk.
My heart sank.
"You are probably just earlier than we thought. The sac looks perfect, you are showing no signs of miscarriage. Sometimes it takes a while to implant, which can throw your dates off. My guess is next week we'll see a tiny little one and a heart beat. A lot can happen in a week. Let's do some blood work and I'll see you next week, so we can check again."
They were reassuring, but Chris and I were both concerned. I had my blood drawn and began the most anxiety filled week of my life. Every second of every day I spent terrified that I would start bleeding. But every day, there was nothing. And every day that went by I felt a little more confident that everything was fine. I got the first set of lab results back, and the nurse said they looked good, my progesterone was a little low, but aside from that I was fine. HCG was good at 66,000. "Go ahead and get your second set of labs drawn this afternoon so we can compare results." Okay.... I was a little nervous, but I went back to the lab. The next day I got a phone call from the nurse that, to put it plainly, broke my heart.

"Katy, your labs came back. It doesn't look good, honey. Your HCG didn't double- it only went to 77,000. There's a good chance you'll start bleeding this weekend. If it gets too heavy, head to the ER."

My stomach sank and I swallowed back the tears that were trying to choke me. I was at my fabulous neighbor's house when I got the call. Had I let one tear fall, I would have dissolved. I got the kids packed up and went home. The feeling of loss slapped me in the face as I opened the door. I called Chris and he came home within a few minutes. I held onto him so tight, like I did after our first miscarriage, as if clinging to him would make the pain go away. After I finally stopped crying, I started to do some research. And of course I saw signs everywhere that said everything would be just fine. I mean, I believe in signs. I do.

It turns out what the nurse said wasn't entirely accurate. By the end of the weekend I was convinced that the baby could very well be fine.
Tuesday finally arrived after the longest week in history. I was shaking with anticipation, fear, excitement. The doctor confirmed our research and said she also thought everything would be fine.
And then, the ultrasound.
There it was. The tiniest little jelly bean, with the faintest little flicker at its center.
Thank you, God. We were elated. The baby was healthy, and only a few days earlier than what my dates predicted. We left with the most incredible sense of relief. And gratitude. Again, I was overwhelmed by how thankful I was. I was thrilled to be pregnant before, but after this scare? This was my miracle. I vowed this pregnancy would be perfect. I would eat right, exercise, and do everything I could to keep this precious little soul safe.

Before too long, the shock of the whole experience wore off, and we were back into our daily routine, only with mine taking out the wine and adding the vitamins and water. I woke up on my back with my hand cradling my tummy which, by 9 weeks was starting to stick out just a tad. I loved it. I scoured the internet for maternity clothes, broke out all my old baby names books, and really settled into being pregnant. I told close friends and family, and just basked in the glow of pregnancy, in all of its nauseating, exhausting glory. I was thankful for those symptoms actually. They felt like reassurance to me that the baby was snuggling in and getting comfortable in my belly.

One Sunday evening, we decided to have steaks for dinner. I prepped the potatoes and asparagus, and Chris ran the grill outside. It was an amazing dinner of course, mainly because my husband can cook an incredible steak. We put the girls to bed and we weren't too far behind. Hey, I was an exhausted lady, pregnant with baby #4 and a belly full of steak. I was tired to say the very least.
We doze off, and what seems like minutes later we hear a noise. Like something hitting the ground. Chris gets up, walks around the house, checks on the girls, and then we decide it must have been something outside.
It was.
It must have only been a few hours later, around 3am, that we were jolted out of our sleep by a WOOSH sound. I felt like someone slapped me in the face, I jumped up so fast. I could hear a loud noise coming from outside. I look out my window and I am horrified.
Flames.
Huge, bright orange flames right outside my window, and I could see more coming from the porch.
"CHRIS THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!!"
"OH MY GOD KATY GET THE KIDS!"
I run up the stairs, yank the girls out of their beds, grab my comforter off my bed (it was about 28 degrees outside), Chris gets the baby and we head for the door. Just as I'm about to open it, someone BANGS on it. I open it to see a police officer, calm as can be. "Okay everyone, out of the house!"
Yeah, you don't have to tell me twice.
Just as Chris went to get Brody from the house, two officers went in ahead of him and carried out our darling pup.
We (the girls and I) were petrified, shaking, barefoot, curled up on the sidewalk across the street, watching as 3 fire trucks unloaded a hose of water onto our back porch. Our friends next door came over and brought us into their house. They lovingly opened the doors to their home in the middle of the night, put on movies for the kids, and made breakfast. Good people. Incredibly good people.

There aren't many words to describe what this whole situation feels like. Another good Samaritan throwing newspapers saw the flames and called 911. Had he not called, we surely would have lost the back half of our house. We are so grateful to him, because somehow we had no interior damage. We were just incredibly traumatized. It turns out the noise we heard was the BBQ pit falling over. Either an animal or the wind knocked it over. Which is bizarre in itself.

Trauma. What a slippery slope, full of what ifs, nightmares, and anxiety. We gave ourselves a day to deal with it. Chris could see that I was rapidly dissolving, and said "We can't let this define us. This was one event in our lives. We need to move on from it. No one was hurt, our house was fine, we have insurance, and we are moving on from this."
Wise man.

No trauma. You cannot have me.

Even with all the positive thinking, and the "decision" that we weren't going to be depressed from this, I found myself reliving that night nearly all day every day. It was on a constant loop. The noise, looking out the window, the look of horror on Chris' face, the look of terror and confusion on the girls faces. Every day, I worked at it, with help from my parents, talking about it with Chris. After a few days or so, yet again, we were settling back into a routine, determined to make the fire a blip on the radar of our memories. It still hurt, and I was still dealing with it, but it seemed to get better day by day. We talked to the girls about it after it first happened. They were scared, but so resilient. They drew pictures, told us how they felt, and slept in our bed for a few nights after until we made sure they knew that they were safe. I won't pretend they weren't traumatized too, but we knew that getting back into our normal routine would be the best thing for them. We were making it, all by the grace of God.

Exactly one week later, the day before my monthly scheduled OB appointment, I laid in my bed, so comfy and warm, opened my eyes and stretched. The girls were getting dressed, the usual morning chaos swirling around me. I was excitedly planning how I would announce that we were having #4. A picture? A cute little rhyme? Eh, I need to get out of bed, but I'm so warm! I rubbed my little belly. 11 weeks! I was finally back to pregnancy bliss. I finally convinced myself to sit up. As soon as I stood up felt what I knew immediately was blood.

"Please no, please God, no. PLEASE GOD NO."
I went to the bathroom to see bright red blood.

I called Chris in hysterics. "I'm bleeding, honey, I'm bleeding!!"
"I'm on my way!"

I called my ob office and made an appointment for that morning. The ride to her office is a blur, I just remember praying the whole time. Desperately trying to convince myself that lots of people bleed during pregnancy. "It could be anything. The baby is probably fine! Yes, he or she is fine. Its probably a boy. We really need to decide on names." I was almost calm.
Chris stayed in the car with the girls because, unbelievably, all three had a stomach virus. I went in, shaking with fear, praying. If it seems like I say that I'm praying a lot, its because I am. I was praying pretty much non stop for about 3 months for one reason or another.
They call my name and walk me to the exam room. I climb up on the table and run my hand over my belly. "Its okay, sweetheart. Its okay." I began praying, of course. After what feels like an hour, but was probably only a few minutes, my doctor walks in. "Having some bleeding? Lets go take a look."
Another ultrasound. Only this time, when the screen showed in my belly, there were no reassuring smiles.

"Katy I'm so sorry. Although the sac continued to grow, it looks like the baby stopped growing just shy of 7 weeks. The sac the baby is in is starting to crumble. I'm so so sorry. Honey, there's no heartbeat."

Hot tears streamed down my face. I tried to stay calm. I tried to be mature. But inside, I was crumbling. Again, fighting every urge in me to break down, I listened to the doctor's instructions: "You'll probably start bleeding within the next two weeks. Your body knows what's happening because the sac is already collapsing. If your bleeding gets to be really heavy, you know more than two or three large pads in an hour, call our on call doctor. You might go through kind of a labor. Your cramps might get pretty bad, go ahead and take some Motrin. You might pass some grey tissue, and that's normal too. Oh Katy, I'm so so sorry..." Her voice trailed off.

My mind raced. We had already told the girls. How were we going to explain this to them? I felt so stupid. Why did we tell them so early?! What was I thinking?! How could we start telling people before the first trimester was over? When would I actually miscarry? How could I not have known when the baby's heart stopped beating? How could this have happened? My heart ached. The baby that I had spent the last 11 weeks daydreaming about snuggling, nursing, nuzzling, would never be in my arms. Too many questions. Too much pain. "Keep it together" I repeated to myself. I didn't want the girls to see me losing it. But why? This was real, this was excrutiating. As hard as I tried, the tears still made there way down my face. I got into the car, and shook my head to Chris. I didn't have to say a word. He knew. He wrapped his arms around me and told me he would take care of me. He's more than I could ever ask for, and in horrible awful times, there's no words for how incredible he can be. And while we quietly discussed how to tell the girls, Maggie started asking questions. "Mommy, what's wrong? Mommy? Why are you sad? Are you crying? MOMMY WHAT IS WRONG?!"

"Sweetheart, sometimes when a mommy has a baby in her tummy, the baby gets very, very sick. And sometimes when that happens, God takes the baby out of the mommy's tummy and back to heaven so they can play with the angels again."

Silence.

And then, "Oh. So our baby went back to heaven?"
"Yes, sweetie. Our baby is in heaven."
"So no more baby names? No more feeling your tummy, or talking to the baby?"
"No baby, I'm so sorry."
"Mommy that is so sad. That makes me so so sad."
"Me too, sweetheart. Me too."
"But the baby's not sick now that he's back in heaven?"
"Nope, he's healthy and playing with the angels and all of our family that has gone to heaven already."
She smiles.
And we cried.

And then, three days later, after literally begging my body to release this baby, it happened.