Confession.

I am afraid to get excited about this baby.

Given our past history and our miscarriage, I am terrified to plan anything long-term related to this pregnancy.

We've picked out names and that's as far as baby planning has gone.

I'm dying to look at nurseries and get some ideas and start making a mood board for the vision I have for Baby Gaddie's room, boy or girl.  Every time I start to look, there's a little voice in the back of my head that says "Should you be thinking this far in advance?"

At this point in my pregnancy with Avery, I had already bought a few things.  Cute blankets, some bibs, gender neutral things.  I've found several things that could pass for either a baby boy or a girl this time, but something always holds me back from actually buying it.

We've been talking to Avery about this baby.  Her potential baby brother or sister.  And every time we do, I think "Should we be talking this much about the baby with her? What if something happens?"

And there it is.  I'm living in a constant state of anxiety and what if.  What if the same thing happens?  What if we lose this baby?  What if, since it's been over a month since our last appointment and I haven't been able to see the baby or hear the heartbeat, something has happened?  What if I get attached, only to be heartbroken?

I even find myself feeling guilty when I say or write things like "we'll be having a baby this summer." Or "I'm due in June."  I almost always feel like I need to follow that statement up with something like "we'll be having a baby this summer, God willing."  I can't say this time without a doubt that we WILL be having a baby this summer.  What if, what if, what if.  

I know this isn't a healthy way of thinking.  I know that no matter what happens, I will be forever tied to this baby and will love it just like I love Avery and I loved my last pregnancy, however brief it was.  I know that if the worst happens, I will be heartbroken--whether I convinced myself that I was attached to the baby or not.

I don't know if this is normal.  I would like to think that it is.  Given how terrible I've been feeling with all the pregnancy symptoms, I want to still be in that euphoria-induced haze I was in when I first found out we were expecting.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm still beyond thrilled about this baby.  He or she is very much loved and was prayed for unwaveringly, unceasingly during many a tear-filled nighttime conversation between God and I.  I'm so thankful that He has given us this chance to give Avery a sibling.  But with the excitement is the ever-present fear.  I would love to replace it with hope.  I just don't know that my brain is letting me get to that point yet.  Right now, it's a daily struggle not to give in to the fear.  I'm sad that I don't feel more celebratory and excited.

I've actually joined an online forum full of moms either trying for or expecting their rainbow babies.  Although I haven't interacted with any of them yet, I hope they get it too. I hope they understand how I feel.  Articles like this one are helpful too.  It makes me feel a little more normal in my fear.

Until baby gets here, I'm doing my best to stay excited.  Talking to Avery is the best remedy for that.  She's such a good big sister already.  I can only hope that she'll get to put those good sibling tendencies to use.  Until then, I'm going to continue to look at things like these and these and just pray we get to bring our rainbow baby home in them soon.

Miscarriage: a year later.

I've been absent from the blogging world.  I apologize.  Life is moving at blazing speed and I'm over here just trying to keep up.  It's not that I've had a lack of things to talk about, because Lord knows I could go on and on about our trips to Disney World, Avery's sassy attitude that's rearing its ugly head, sleep issues, my home decor journey, or even random junk that pops in my brain.  It's just that have had no time to even think about blogging.

I thought it might be appropriate to come back to blogging on a very important date in my life.  The date that changed me.

A year ago today, I was sitting in my gynecologist's office, staring at an ultrasound screen, praying that the tech would find something.  I looked through the grey, black and white fuzziness, willing a heartbeat to show up.  Instead, I looked at an empty sac.  The same empty sac that sat beside another empty sac a week before, that Marty and I were told could be our twins.  The same empty sacs that we were told could be a myriad of things.  We were told those two yoke sacs could be twins.  One yoke sac was perfectly round, and the other being irregular and misshapen.  I was told to prepare myself for a variety of options.  Twins, one being healthy, the other one could miscarry.  Twins, one being healthy, one having possible birth defects when it was born.  One baby and one mass of tissue.  Or, the final option that I didn't even want to consider, no babies.  Since I was very early in my pregnancy, we still weren't able to see any heartbeats.  I left that appointment, head spinning.  Twins.  One baby.  No babies.  Birth defects.  Miscarrying.  I didn't even know where to begin my prayers.  Over the course of a week, from one appointment to the next, I found myself just repeating the words "Please let me see heartbeats."

But the next week, a year ago today, we came back.  Only to be greeted with one, little white circle on the ultrasound screen, not two, and still no heartbeat.  I sat in confusion, not knowing what I was looking at.  Did this mean that the second, abnormal circle was a fluke?  Was it just the mass of tissue they talked about and we were looking at one baby?  But at this point, surely by this point, we should be seeing something in the ways of a heartbeat.  The ultrasound tech didn't say much, just told us that she was going to get my gynecologist to get his opinion.  He looked quickly at the screen and told us that he was going to take it to the other doctors in the practice and see what they thought and we could wait for him in a regular room.  By this point, my mind is racing.  I knew, deep down, something was wrong.  In fact, before any of this had happened--before the doctor visits, before the ultrasounds, before we knew anything, other than the fact that I had taken a test and the words "Pregnant" had shown up--I had the feeling that something was wrong.  I had absolutely no evidence to support that, it was just a gut feeling I had that something wasn't right with this pregnancy.  So, here I was, sitting in a sterile room, waiting for confirmation of that gut feeling.  And it came.

A blighted ovum.  The technical definition: "when a fertilized egg attaches itself to the uterine wall, but the embryo does not develop."  In layman's terms, I got pregnant, but nothing ever developed.  No baby.  I eventually miscarried almost a month later, which was a messy story involving the E.R. and tons of blood loss.

So, here I am.  A year later.  It's been a difficult year.  Every day, I struggle with my place in grieving and feeling a sense of loss.  Yes, I was pregnant and yes, I miscarried.  Yes, I am pro-life and believe that life begins at conception.  In my case though, I never had a baby.  It's not like I had a fetus develop and the baby's heart stopped beating.  It's not like I even had a fetus develop who never had a heart.  I had no fetus.  No baby.  Most days, I feel guilty for grieving a baby.  Heartbreakingly, I had so many of you reach out to me when I told you all about my situation.  So many of you that told me your stories of miscarriage and loss.  As someone who technically didn't have a baby to lose, I feel guilty.  These ladies have a true sense of losing their child.  I can't say that.  I feel like a fraud in my grief.  Should I be grieving a fertilized egg?  The pregnancy itself?  The potential for what my life could have been if things had gone the "right way?" Who am I to say that I can count myself one of them in my grief, when I truly feel like I can't?

It's a daily struggle.  Some days are great.  I think about what may have been, with a sense of peace and knowing that I am on the path I'm supposed to be on.  Some days, I cry for no reason.  Pregnancy announcements still get to me.  I can't help but feel jealous.  I've stopped talking about a second child as if it's a guaranteed thing.  I used to say "when we have another child."  Now, I catch myself saying "if we have another."  Don't get me wrong, I desperately want another child.  Avery is incredible.  She is my number one priority in life and loving her is unlike any feeling I've ever experienced.  I am fulfilled being Avery's mom.  But it was never the plan to make her an only child.  The past year has just hardened my optimism a little.  I have stopped planning what a year may look like because I did that in the past and look where I am now.  I never dreamt a miscarriage would be part of my story, but there it is.

A year later, I'm scarred, more sad and empty and a little less hopeful, but I'm here.  I survived that chapter and I've turned a page.  I still have an amazing husband.  Our miscarriage wasn't easy on our marriage.  Extreme amounts of stress on both our ends and my depression and emotional state didn't make for many sunny days, but we're better.  The miscarriage is part of our marital story too.  We're still together and stronger because of it.  It would have been easy in those days for Marty to leave me.  To tell me that he'd had enough and to not be able to understand why I didn't want to get out of bed some days or why our house was a disaster because I couldn't summon the energy to even wipe a counter down.  But he didn't.  He may have been frustrated and unable to understand what I was going through, but at the end of the day, he was still there.  If we can make it through losing his mom and a miscarriage in the span of less than a year, I truly believe Marty and I can make it through anything we face together.

I still have Avery.  I'm still blessed every day to wake up as Avery's mom.  To be able to go to her room, smooth down her sweat-soaked, sleep-tossed hair and know that I have a child that needs me. Avery brings joy and laughter to any situation.  She's constantly asking me for a brother or a sister (primarily, I think, because she reasons that she can ride in one of the double seat carts at Target because there will be two kids in the family).  How do you explain to a toddler that you don't know if you'll ever be able to do that for her?  You don't.  You accept that she's still little and innocent, so you kiss her head and tell her "Someday, I hope!"

I don't tell you all this so you can feel sorry for me.  I've had enough of that.  I tell you this in case one of you is going through the same thing.  Everything you're feeling is normal...but not, all at the same time.  Fighting with your husband, wanting to hide under your blanket and never come out, feeling guilty for grieving?  I've been there.  I'm no expert, but if you need to talk to someone, I'm here.  I know how helpful it was to reach out to other women who knew how I was feeling.  I don't know why, but miscarriage in our society is still such a taboo subject.  Why?  When it's estimated that 10-25% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage?  I'm not saying that to scare you either.  That's still a very low percentage when you consider all the pregnancies worldwide.  But why do we act like a woman that has miscarried is an anomaly?  That we should be avoided because you can "catch" what happened to us?  That it's okay to talk about it when it happens to you, but then you need to just "get over it?"  That you shouldn't really be grieving because it wasn't a "real" baby yet.  All rubbish.

If you are or have experienced a miscarriage or stillbirth, I'm talking to you right now, sweet sister.  You didn't do this.  You couldn't help that your body decided to do this to you, not taking into account how you felt about the baby you were carrying.  This isn't your fault.  If I were there, I would hug you, because Lord knows, you'd need one right about now.  Don't push your husband away.  I know you're feeling like you're alone, but over there?  That's your husband--a father that just lost his baby too.  This process won't be easy on the two of you.  I think that's normal.  Hold onto each other and love each other through the stormy days.  Grieve.  However you feel necessary.  If that's talking about your baby nonstop, do it.  Yes, people will shy away from you because death is uncomfortable and messy, but please don't hold it against them.  They don't know what this feels like.  Nor do we ever want them to.  They just don't know what its like to look at an ultrasound screen and see anything less than a perfect baby.  They don't know what it's like to sit around and wait for your body to miscarry your baby.  Don't fault them.  They just haven't been in our shoes.  I know what you feel like.  It's like we're in a secret club that none of us ever wanted to join in the first place....but here we are.  We carry a badge of loss and we have that embedded deep in our hearts, but we're stronger because of it.  One day, you'll meet your baby again and be able to give him or her the kisses you couldn't here on Earth.  And the angels will rejoice.  Grieve and miss them, and take as much time as you need, but don't let it keep you from missing out on the life that's happening around you.  I know you want to hide and pretend like it isn't happening, but that doesn't stop the world from spinning around.  There's still so much joy to find.  Carry your grief, but don't forget to live too.

A year later and my miscarriage has changed the way I view things.  It's changed me.  But it hasn't changed everything about me.  I'm still here, I'm still a wife and a mother, and I'm still blessed.

Getting Personal.

I'm going to go ahead and apologize for this post....it's kind of a downer.  The last four months have been a really......weird time of my life.  As most of you probably know, I had a miscarriage on October 13th.  Since then, it's been difficult to talk about.  Not because it hurts too much, but because miscarriages are such a taboo subject.  People don't want to talk about it.  Listen, I completely understand.  It's depressing, it's talking about a significant loss in someone's life.  How do you talk about it and make it not seem completely awkward?  And until you've been through it, you don't really understand. Not that anyone has said it to me, but I feel like society expects mothers that have miscarried to just move on.  You had a miscarriage four whole months ago?  Why are you still talking about it?  

It's been four months and it still hurts insanely bad.  I cry some nights, thinking about how different things should be.  I had to stop following one of my favorite blogs recently because she announced she was expecting.....and that's all her posts have been about.  It's not that I'm not happy for people.  I have a friend that recently told me she was expecting.....and I'm very genuinely thrilled for her.  It's just hard not to feel jealousy mixed in with the happiness when I see infants or hear people talk about their pregnancies.

I've read a lot of blogs that have dealt with miscarriage and how to handle it.  And most all of the writers talk about how they've found a way to deal with their loss.  For awhile, I thought that my "outlet" would be a painting.  But the more I thought about it, the more I was uncomfortable with the idea.  How awkward would that be if someone walked into my home, noticed the painting and asked about it??  "Well, I had this miscarriage and I felt like I needed to paint something for it."  Talk about a buzzkill.  So I wanted something a little more personal....a little less noticeable.  A little more "this is for me, not for the entire world to notice."  That's when I thought about a bracelet.

First, I knew I wanted the date to be remembered.  It may be an insignificant day to everyone else, but for me, it'll always be a day that I'll remember.  Just like April 28th, my expected due date, will never just be "another day" to me.  I know I'll forever look at the calendar on October 13th and April 28th and remember the significance.  A date bracelet made sense.  I didn't really love anything I was seeing on Etsy, until I found Brin and Bell.

Her bracelets are so dainty, so minimalist, SO perfect for what I was wanting.  I contacted her with what I was hoping for and she was so sweet and accommodating and made EXACTLY what I was wanting.  Thank you, so much Lindsey at Brin and Bell for being part of such a personal piece of jewelry.

 I'm in love with it.  It's exactly what I had imagined in my mind when I first decided on a bracelet.

Next, I want to add a bracelet with the verse, Jeremiah 29:11 on it.  "'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord. 'Plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'"  This verse, Marty and my momma were the only things that got me through those first few weeks.  As much as my miscarriage hurt me, scarred me and left me feeling broken, I know that God's not done with me.  A lot of days, it was helpful to put my name in.  "I know the plans I have for you, Devan. Plans to give YOU hope and a future."  He has a plan for me.  He has a future mapped out.  That future may not include another baby.  It may include another miscarriage.  Or it may include a healthy brother or sister for Avery.  It's not my job to know.

All I know is, for now, I have a bracelet that helps me to remember and gives me comfort.  It's kind of my own little way of "talking about it."  Of having my own secret way to honor that baby and what he or she meant to me.  And remembering that my story isn't over yet.  God's still writing away on my pages.

Just a little reminder.

Sometimes, life is crappy.

Accidents happen. Christmas gifts need to be bought and bills need to be paid.  Money is short.  You wonder if you'll ever get ahead.  You find out one of your favorite teachers from high school did something unthinkable and it has you wondering how you can trust anyone in the world.  You worry about what kind of world you've brought your child into.  Time is short and you watch your to-do list growing and your free time shrinking.

 It's December.  You struggle with what should have been right now.  You look in the mirror and feel sad that your stomach isn't a basketball size right now.  This should have been the month you would be finding out if you'd be having a boy or a girl.  You think how different your life should be right now.

You can't help but feel sorry for yourself. And alone.

And then, one day, you're in Walgreens.  You're shopping for a card.  And you come across this.

And you ugly cry.  In the middle of Walgreens.  Next to an elderly lady picking out a birthday card.

And you're reminded that you're not alone.  There's Someone with you all the time.  And that you'll get through this.

Then you buy the card.  So you'll always be reminded that there's always going to be bad moments and bad days and maybe even bad weeks.  But you don't have a bad life.

It was real.

On the 13th of October, one week ago today, I officially had a miscarriage. It's a very long and emotionally-taxing story, but it involved the emergency room, lots and lots of blood loss, passing out, staying overnight at the hospital, having low blood pressure, coming scarily close to needing a blood transfusion, getting a D&C and finally getting released and spending the entire week at home recooperating and trying to get my body back to normal (it's still not). I could finally say that the chapter of my miscarriage was being closed...or so I thought it was supposed to work. My heart hasn't exactly agreed. I thought I was at a place that I felt okay with finally having a miscarriage. A week and a half ago, when my body started showing the tell-tale signs that I was miscarrying, I thought that it was a step in the right direction after being diagnosed with a blighted ovum to be able to move on. Let's be honest though, as a mother, how can you just "move on?"  I can't.

I thought the most logical thing for me to do would be to make a painting to help me heal. So I started looking up ideas on Pinterest and Etsy. That's when I started to feel really guilty. Every painting or piece of remembrance jewelry I came across represented the hurt of a woman that lost an actual baby. Quotes about carrying a baby in their womb, but now in their heart. Or about how their baby was now with Jesus. How could I say the same? I technically never had a baby. I had a fertilized egg that never developed into a fetus. How could I say that my pain was the same as what these women were going through? They had experienced true miscarriages or still births. What right did I have to mourn the loss of my pregnancy--my baby that actually never was? 

I actually went on like this for several days. Feeling guilty for feeling so much pain and grief. Until I realized that my loss was just the same.  I saw this quote on Pinterest that changed my outlook: "There is no greater agony than carrying an untold story inside of you." As my sister, who is so wise beyond her years, very appropriately put--it was a baby to me.  I may not have carried an actual baby. Instead, I carried hope. I carried around the thought for an entire month that I was going to be a mother again. I carried the thought that I was making Avery a sibling. I carried the thought that this could be the grandson my dad had been waiting for. With my diagnosis and miscarriage, all of that was taken away from me--leaving me with an untold story. No, I didn't lose an actual baby. I lost a dream, the thought of another child, the idea that I would have an infant, or even twins, come April. It still hurts when someone announces that they're pregnant. It still hurts when a well-meaning stranger asks Marty and I when we're going to make Avery a big sister. It still hurts---so indescribably bad--to look down at my stomach and know that a month ago, I was pregnant. Now I'm not. Now I'm empty--literally, physically and most importantly, emotionally.  I don't think I'll ever be able to put into words how much this hurts. Or how much it's affected the way I look at everyday things--commercials, conversations about pregnancy or having other children.  I'm terrified to think about getting pregnant again. I'm terrified this might happen again. I honestly don't think that my heart can take it. I'm scared to even think about our "timeline" of having children now. I think (or at least I hope) its a natural feeling, for me to feel the need to get pregnant again soon...to "replace" this pain and this failed pregnancy. But Marty's on a different page. And I honestly feel like I need the time to heal before I even attempt to go through this again. So I've decided. This miscarriage--baby or not--has completely changed my life.  And I think have every right to feel that pain and loss. October 13, 2013 will not be a day I'll soon forget--and I won't feel guilty about it either. 

Update: I have decided that I'm going to paint something. I really think it'll help me come to terms with everything. Painting always makes me feel better, no matter what the problem may be. Help me decide on a sketch? I'm thinking this will end up being on a fairly small canvas that I can lean up on my bedside table or somewhere similar. 

This quote just tugs at my heart strings. It's from the book, "The Velveteen Rabbit" and it kind of perfectly describes how I feel. Despite medical terms, this pregnancy was very real to me. 

This is my most favorite Bible verse. I have to repeat it to myself often. I also like the symbolism of the balloon. I feel like a piece of my heart has left me. 

I'm also open to suggestions. To quotes, to Bible verses, to designs. I want this to be not only symbolic, but to be a healing piece for me. I don't want to look at it and be depressed. I want to look at it and be reminded that I won't ever be the same, but I will eventually be okay. Help me?

I'm Here. I'm Okay.

People keep asking how I am.

I'm okay.  Just okay.  I'm just trying to take things one day at a time.

I can be perfectly fine.  Laughing, talking, not really even thinking about it.  And the smallest thing will hit me.  Then bring on the waterworks.  This weekend, of course, was rough.  I cried when I could button my regular pants all the way.  I cried when I asked Marty to take the car seat that we'd recently gotten back from my parents, along with some maternity clothes I'd pulled out, back downstairs to the basement so I wouldn't have to look at them.  I cried when four of my FB friends announced that they're pregnant this week (note:  if you're pregnant or just announced you're pregnant, please don't get offended.  I'm genuinely happy for you.  It's just hard for me to process right now.).  I cried when I looked in the fridge and saw a package of Lunchables, because I realized that I can eat deli meat again.

I never know when, or even if it's going to hit.  I can see a baby out in public and be perfectly fine.  Or I can see a Pampers commercial on TV and immediately start bawling.

Out of everything though, the hardest thing is still being pregnant.  Yes, I'm still pregnant.  With a fertilized egg and no baby, but pregnant nonetheless.  Pregnant, sporting a baby belly and having all the wonderful pregnancy symptoms like fatigue and nausea.  Pregnant...and just waiting to miscarry.  When I left my doctor's office last week, I got the impression that it would be happening within a few days.  After I got home, I started researching natural miscarriages.  I wanted to know if other women recommended any steps or things to know if this was going to be happening at home.  And that's where I learned that it could take WEEKS.  Can you imagine being pregnant and walking around for weeks knowing that there's no baby in there and not knowing exactly when it's going to happen?  It's like being told at the doctor's office that you're going to have a heart attack (note:  I realize that having a heart attack and a miscarriage are two totally different things.  It's just the best comparison I could think of).  They know it's coming soon, but they can't be sure if it'll happen in a few days or a few weeks.  So you walk around on eggshells.  Should you go into town?  What if it happens while you're there?  Should you stay at home all the time?  What if you go stir-crazy just sitting around at home just waiting for it to happen?  Should you be alone?  What if you're alone and it happens and something goes wrong? Maybe I'm being too anal and over-thinking it, but I'm scared to death.  The unknown right now is almost worse than the fact that I'm pregnant with no baby.  That, I've accepted for the moment.  Normally, I don't like to be a "woe-is-me" kind of person.  The purpose of this post isn't for you to feel sorry for me.  But for today, I'm going to admit that I'm scared and I need help.  I don't deal with the unknown very well.  I'm a planner and I like to know when and how things are going to happen, so this is very hard for me to get a grasp on.  Can you, for just a quick second, pray for me?  Pray that I'll chill out (no, seriously).  That I'll have the grace to deal with everything that happens when the time comes, whenever that may be.  Pray that I stop trying to control things and start relying on God's timeline.  I'm struggling.  And I'll be the first to admit it.

This is the hardest thing I've ever gone through.  So many emotions and facts and unpleasant things to have to be dealt with.  The most heartbreaking thing though, is knowing how many of you have been through the exact same thing.  I can't tell you the amount of comments and messages I got that said something along the lines of "I know exactly how you feel."  or "I had a miscarriage too."  So many of my friends, that I thought were leading normal lives, are carrying around a personal pain every single day and living with it.  Almost all of them told me that the pain never goes away.  That they still think of their baby on their miscarriage or their projected due date.  That they carry the pain with them, they just learn how to deal with it.  It breaks my heart.  So, reader.  While you're praying that God grants me grace and patience, say a prayer for all these women.  The ones that carry the pain of miscarrying or losing a child and still manage to go through their daily lives.  Say a prayer that they find peace and understanding, if they haven't already.

Throughout everything, I've been blessed with a wonderful husband who has been right by my side through this entire thing--wiping my tears, asking if I need anything, bringing me medicine, sleeping on the couch so he doesn't disturb me.  If I didn't have Marty by my side right now, I don't know where I'd be.  Probably curled up in a ball in my bed, calling into work everyday.

And then there's Avery.  If I didn't have Avery, I wouldn't have a purpose to actually get dressed every day. I really would be crying nonstop, while my laundry and dishes and trash spiraled out of control (I think the laundry is getting close to being at that point anyway).  Avery is the sole reason I get out of bed every morning.  She's the sole reason I come home and attempt to get a few things accomplished, rather than going straight back to bed and eating my weight in McDonald's pumpkin pies.

So, to answer you.  I'm okay.  I'm here.  But that's as good as it's going to get for a little while.

"Be strong, because things will get better.  It might be stormy now, but it can't rain forever." 

The Hardest Post I've Ever Written.

You know when you're going through something insanely personal that hurts so bad that you feel like the entire world should stop around you, because that's how you feel? Instead, it keeps going. People's lives don't stop just because you're going through a difficult time.

*sigh* Let me start at the beginning. 

On August 15th, Marty and I found out that we were expecting. This was a total and complete surprise. Marty and I weren't exactly trying for a baby, but we'd been blessed with a pregnancy anyway. I was excited.  My sister and I are three years apart and I honestly feel like its the magic number. We get along so well as adults. My kids were going to be about 3 years apart...like 2 years and 9 months. Perfect. 

Everything was pretty routine. I was feeling pretty good--fatigue, sensitivity to smells and some shortness of breath, but nothing I couldn't handle after the extreme all-day sickness I experienced with Avery. I gained weight. I couldn't get into my normal pants around 4 weeks along without having to use a rubber band to keep them closed. I went for my first prenatal appointment. My doctor told me that I was too early for him to tell anything. No due date, no "you're X weeks along."  So he ordered an ultrasound to determine gestational age and pin down a due date. 

At our first ultrasound, we got the shock of our lives. Two "spots" on the ultrasound that they thought may be two yoke sacs. Basically, the possibility that I was carrying twins. But I was still too early for them to be sure of anything. Another ultrasound and blood test were ordered for the following week. 

Then we had our second ultrasound.  Yet another shock.  No baby. Forget twins. No baby at all. I have a blighted ovum. Which basically means that I got pregnant, but no fetus ever developed. I was told to go home and wait to miscarry. Do doctors realize how cold that sounds when they say it? "I know you've been thinking about this baby non-stop for weeks now, but that stops today. Go home and wait for your body to reject it."  So I wait. And try to deal with my emotions. I went from finding out I was unexpectedly pregnant, to thinking I was having twins, to finding out there's no baby at all. I'm a great big ball of emotions. I want to cry constantly. I ache for a baby that never was. How is it that I hurt for a baby that I knew about for a month? I'm scared. I worry about what kind of impact this may have on my ability to have future children. I'm empty. As a mother, you bond with your unborn baby the moment you find out you're pregnant. You imagine what they'll look like. You start looking at names. You wonder if they'll get along with your current child. And all at once, all that is gone. I went from thinking about where I need to buy maternity clothes for winter to....nothing. Like my life is supposed to go back to normal from here. Like I'm supposed to start right back where I was on August 14th, before I took the pregnancy test. And I think it'll take me a long time until I can get to that point. 

In the midst of it all, I know that this is God's plan. For whatever reason, it wasn't meant for us to bring a baby into our lives right now. It doesn't make it easier to accept, but I know that God's plan for my future are greater than anything I could have planned. And so I wait on Him and trust that maybe someday, He'll bless us with another baby. For now, I'll grieve my baby that never was and try to take things one day at a time. 

"If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, put me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever." --A.A. Milne