Magic

from here

I saw a magic show the other day. I was at a wedding expo with my engaged sister-in-law, and the theme of the fashion parade was “The Magic of Love,” mainly (it seemed) so that the one magician there had an excuse to show off his tricks and try to dazzle all of the future brides (for there weren’t many future grooms around, I noticed) into booking him for their weddings. Magic shows usually just make me feel embarrassed for the magician; I don’t like the cringe-worthy music and the moves between each trick, plus I can’t help but think of Gob from Arrested Development which makes it even harder to take the act seriously.

My sister-in-law and I whispered to each other throughout a lot of the show, discussing how we thought the magician had just made the candle disappear or pulled three boxes from his empty paper bag. It was clear from the little huddles of women in the audience making collapsing gestures and pointing out pieces supposed to be hidden in the magician’s hand that most of them were doing exactly the same thing. For most of the tricks it wasn’t hard to figure out the secret; they were the regular, ‘seen-it-before’ type obviously bought from Magic “R” Us or wherever those guys go for their supplies. A couple, though, had me genuinely wowed and made me stop analysing the tricks and start analysing my response to the show.

I wondered, as I sat there, how much we’re constrained by our desire to have an explanation for everything; how much we miss simply enjoying, or fully experiencing, because we haven’t yet figured out how something works. I’m going to bring Christianity into this thought process, though I’m in no way suggesting that following God requires a suppression of logic or intelligence or that faith is all heart and no head. I’ve been thinking that perhaps we’re sometimes too proud to admit that we actually can’t work out why or how or what God’s up to. We forget that God’s God, and that we’re frustratingly human. Isaiah 55:8-9 comes to mind:

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
    neither are your ways my ways,”
declares the Lord.
 “As the heavens are higher than the earth,
    so are my ways higher than your ways
    and my thoughts than your thoughts...”

I forget this. Often. I like knowing and understanding, it helps me to feel like things are under control and predictable and safe; it disappoints and scares me to think that I may never be able to know or understand some of the things God’s doing in the world, or in my life. The audience at the magic show assured me that I’m not the only one who feels like this, and I included others when speaking about pride earlier because of some of the unhelpful ways people responded to news of the miscarriage. “I’m so sorry for your loss” feels as though it ends with an ellipsis, and we seem to prefer more sturdy punctuation in tough times. To regain a sense of control we have to push on with something like, “But I’m sure you’ll have lots more babies!” or “But it’ll all work out in the end!” Comments like these reinforce the myth that there are no questions we can’t find answers for, that we know everything will turn out okay, that we’re not completely out of control, that God is an amateur magician whose tricks we’ll always be able to spot the secret to. They sound most strange coming from fellow Christians.

I’ve complacently lived by the “Everything happens for a reason” line for a long time now, never actually stopping to ponder whether I believed I’d been given a reason for anything else that’d happened in my life so far, or what the Bible might have to say about my motto. The last few shaky weeks have left me with more questions than answers: What was the point of me enduring (over the last two pregnancies) a couple of months’ worth of can’t-do-anything-productive, want-to-die morning sickness with absolutely nothing to show for it? How will these miscarriages make me more like Jesus when Jesus was never wiped out with hormone-related illness for weeks or surprised by the news of his baby’s death? Does the pain he suffered make him able to empathise with all kinds of pain, or just the kind of pain he faced himself? Is Jesus’ pain the same as God’s? Does - or can - anyone understand the Trinity?!

Is it enough to believe that the reason some things happen is just so that we’re able to comfort others in the same situation in future, and what if we get to death’s door and realise those opportunities never arose? The God I’ve been taught about is only ever represented as male, although I know, I know, I know that God is genderless; I’m not sure how to think of God as anything but Father, yet I can’t relate to that metaphor at this time of grieving as a mum. How do I get around that? Does God care? Why? Is there a reason for everything? And, perhaps the biggest question of all, who am I to expect any answers from God?

When I consider your heavens,
    the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
    which you have set in place,
what is mankind that you are mindful of them,
    human beings that you care for them? (Psalm 8:3-4)

I want to finish this post by saying, “I’ll work it out eventually.” Instead, I can only end with an annoying ellipsis: I am a mere human asking God-sized questions (dot), I am not in control (dot), I don’t have all the answers (dot). I’ll keep trying to figure it all out, for sure; I have a date with the chapter on God’s providence from Grudem’s Systematic Theology later this week, to begin with. But I don’t want to miss any “Wow!” moments by searching too intently when I should just be trusting and enjoying, humbly accepting my teeny tinyness next to my very big God. Remembering that I’ll probably never get my head around the science behind the lights in the night sky, but that shouldn’t stop me from staring at the stars in awe and proclaiming anew, “O LORD, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!” (Psalm 8:1).

I heart xkcd

from here

"Managing" a miscarriage: The D & C

A warning: As the heading suggests, the following post is about miscarriage, which is never a comfortable topic. If you’re pregnant or trying to fall pregnant or if you simply don’t really want to know, please skip this post.

from here

After seeing the pictures from yesterday’s album, it may surprise you to hear that this time around I immediately assumed I’d just make the same “expectant management” decision again. I’m someone who generally likes to let nature do its thing while I try not to get in the way. The word “natural” is so much nicer than the words “dilation and curettage” (yes, this is part of how I make decisions. Shut up). But that was before it was explained to me by a kind and sympathetic doctor that miscarrying twins involves more pain and more tissue (therefore MORE BLOOD) and that both embryos wouldn’t necessarily come out at the same time. Both of these facts shook me. On top of that, I still hadn’t even started spotting; I knew that the actual bleeding starting could be weeks away, and I could then have to wait until August or possibly later to declare this next miscarriage over. Considering I was still battling “morning” sickness, the thought of sipping ginger drinks and spending my afternoons and evenings feeling unnecessarily disgusting for even one more week was unbearable.

I realised after a little while that I’d already subconsciously made my decision, which wasn’t so much “I’m going to have a D & C!” as “I cannot survive waiting for and then going through a miscarriage at home this year,” so I booked an earlier appointment with the hospital (where they did another ultrasound to confirm the results of the previous one) and then trekked from one department to another, handing in forms and signing papers to book myself in for the operation the following day. Here are a few shots of me at the hospital on D & C day:

This one’s of me listening as a nurse explains that being on the emergency list means that I’ll be slotted in between patients who’ve had their surgeries booked for up to a year, so I could be waiting until 5pm (it’s 8:30am, and I’ve already been there for 2 hours), in which case I’ll have to stay overnight. I immediately burst into tears and miss my opportunity to suggest that PERHAPS THEY SHOULD CHANGE THE NAME OF THE LIST BECAUSE “EMERGENCY” GENERALLY MAKES PEOPLE THINK OF WORDS LIKE “URGENCY” AND “SPEEDINESS.” I hadn’t eaten since 10pm the previous night; I was hungry and nauseous and stressed.

This is me 5 hours later, being wheeled towards the operating theatre wearing nothing but a gown and a surgical cap and feeling vulnerable and utterly exhausted. I spend about 10 minutes in a hospital corridor staring up at a green exit sign that depicts a person running out of an open door, and feel very much like I’d do exactly that if only I wasn’t so weak and didn’t want so desperately to get the whole operation over and done with. If the anaesthetist hadn’t arrived when she did I’d have bawled, but she turned up, noticed my tears without mentioning them, and then proceeded to try to make me smile as much as possible. 

This picture is of the obstetrician, also female, who’s chirpy too. I decide to let her tell me about the healthy babies she’s just delivered by caesarean rather than noting that it’s maybe a little insensitive given I’m lying there thanks to a very recent miscarriage. I figure that seeing as she’s about to poke around inside of me with sharp surgical instruments I should do nothing to irritate her.

It’s 3pm by the time I wake up enough to ask for the time, and 5:40pm when I first leave the hospital (I discover, as I wait for my husband to grab the car, that the cotton ball that had been taped over the catheter hole in my hand is saturated with blood - which is now running down my fingers - and that I’ve left a trail of fresh drips down the ramp outside the surgery department entrance [apologies to anyone entering soon after who was already feeling queasy about the thought of being chopped open...]). This is a shot of me leaving the hospital for the second and last time. It’s about 5:47, and besides a light head from the anaesthetic and a bruised and painful hand from the catheter, I’m feeling surprisingly well and thankful to be heading home for tacos with the boys I love.

This is me the following day (Saturday), sleeping.

This is me on Sunday, feeling normal (though emotionally fragile) and wondering if I should be concerned at how little blood I’ve seen this time around. It's been under two weeks since we were told there were no heartbeats, and it’s almost over. Physically, at least. It may still be some time before I can notice my son gently cradling his doll without tearing up (he'd make such a good big brother!) or talk about a doctrine of God’s sovereignty with any kind of confidence (was He involved in the conception but not the miscarriage, or both? Or neither? I have absolutely no idea) or cope with the sympathetic looks I’m given as soon as I walk into church (if you look at me like you're afraid I'm going to cry, I’ll probably cry. Just act normal, and I’ll be fine). But winter’s a good season for grieving, and I’m liking that spring comes next.

///

It’s probably clear that the D & C was a far less traumatic miscarriage experience for me, although I did wrestle with the decision for a week or so (after having initially told the doctor at the hospital I’d chosen to wait) before booking it in because of the potential risks and the whole not-the-natural-way thing. I also felt a little wimpy telling nature she was far too violent and slow-moving for my sensitive spirit, but realised I was never trying to win awards for bravery. I’ve given birth, dammit; I know I’m not a complete wuss. Plus, nature sometimes kills people.

So, that’s the end of my series on miscarriage. I’m praying this is also the end of my series of miscarriages. I’ll end with some lyrics from Michael Franti’s Sometimes, because that dude can make me dance even when the rest of life makes me want to stay in bed.

Peace to the people who be losin’ their head
Peace to the people who be needin’ a bed
Love to the people who be feelin’ alone
Spreadin’ love upon the microphone
Hope to the people who be feelin’ down
Smiles to the people who be wearin’ a frown
Faith to the people who be seekin’ the truth y’all.

"Managing" a miscarriage: The natural way

A warning: As the heading suggests, the following post is about miscarriage. I’m going to mention blood. Like, a lot. If you’re pregnant or trying to fall pregnant or squeamish or if you simply don’t really want to know, please skip this post (and the next one).

from here

The “expectant” option is a tough and especially lonely one, particularly in the case of a missed miscarriage. The waiting is the first challenge; it may be weeks after diagnosis that the actual miscarriage begins. By that stage the condolences and meals and flowers have stopped pouring in and friends and family have started to move on. Even the father of the baby is protected from the details. He may glimpse some bloodied clothes soaking in the laundry and do his best to understand, but he can only imagine. It’s the woman who must watch on in horror as her body, acting without her control or permission, does its thing, and repeatedly mop up the mess it makes.

Let me take you through 6 selfies from my first miscarriage...

1.

This first one is of me watching clots and fresh blood arriving with a horrified kind of fascination, wondering how much more there can possibly be and hoping it will all start settling down tomorrow. I have been bleeding for approximately 3 days at this point (after the initial spots over a week ago); there is obviously an optimist hiding in me somewhere.

2.

This next shot is me realising that the bleeding has started for real. As you can see, I’m standing in a shopping centre, frozen in panic. Moments earlier I’d sat drinking an iced chocolate, chatting to my mum on the phone and enjoying the rare opportunity for uninterrupted conversation and the consumption of a drink containing so many calories. Standing up, though, seems to have knocked over a precariously-balanced bucket inside of me, the contents of which have overpowered my inadequate Libra barrier and are now running down my legs. I decide to race for the travelator to get to my car, convinced that the back of my pants are blood-soaked and that everyone around me can see exactly what’s happening, and I speed home, propped up on a folded picnic blanket to protect the car seat from stains.

3.

This picture is of me lying on my bed, a couple of hours after arriving home from the shops. Breathing through labour pains, knowing you’ll give birth into the toilet rather than the expectant arms of a midwife, plumbs the deepest depths of the word sucky. My vocabulary runs out after that; I have no distressing-enough word to describe actually giving birth into the toilet, or, worse still, the moment you realise you then have to press the flush button, washing it all away as if disposing of nothing more than a dead goldfish. I don't have a picture of me sobbing over the sink after that, crying hard enough to burst blood vessels.

4.
This picture is of me, about a month later, responding (perhaps snappily) to a midwife at the hospital who’d just assured me that yes, it sounded like that amount of blood is normal for a miscarriage, and then repeated the usual spiel about watching out for signs of infection and coming straight in if I was concerned about the amount of blood I was losing, blah blah blah. “Obviously I’m not the best judge,” I’m saying, “Because I’m already concerned with the amount of blood I’ve lost. I did not realise I had so much of this stuff to spare. I. can’t. handle. this. much. blood.” She makes some sympathetic noises and sends me for my second ultrasound to check where the process is up to.

5.

This one’s taken an hour or so after that conversation, and is a shot of my face falling as I realise that the sonographer who’ll be conducting the internal ultrasound is male. He finds a female chaperone, and then, when I’m ready, he asks if I’m allergic to latex and rolls a condom down the ultrasound rod. He seems to be squirming just as much as I am, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from throwing my arm over my eyes and groaning loudly at the new lows this whole miscarriage thing keeps taking me to. I don’t know whether to burst into hysterical giggles or tears. After the scan, he tells me a little too cheerfully that there’s still some remaining “product,” and so he’s going to call it an “Almost complete miscarriage,” which translates into Pessimist Speak as, “Your horrible ordeal is not yet over. There will be more blood.” I get dressed and go hug a Max Brenner hot chocolate for a while before heading home.

6.

This last one is of me at the end of November, realising that the bleeding has stopped for good and that the miscarriage is finally over. It’s been two months since we found out the baby’s heart had stopped, and I have been bleeding profusely (the kind of bleeding that has you constantly stressed that you’re a gush away from public humiliation [men, and women who have always had light periods, you have no idea]) for the better part of that time. You may notice that I look profoundly relieved.

///

I wanted to add a little note to explain that although it may be clear from these pictures that I didn’t particularly enjoy this process, in the same circumstances I’d make the same “expectant management” decision again. I didn’t even start trying to figure out the logistics of pumping (at least?) a couple of days’ worth of breast milk for my son, and the thought of having to wean him suddenly so that I could have a D & C added heartache at an already fragile time. As Robert McAllister says in an episode of Brothers and Sisters (I’m paraphrasing here), “Sometimes it's not a choice between a good and a bad situation, it’s a choice between a bad and a worse one.” You know what I mean? If not, it’s quite possible I’ve been brainwashed after watching that show obsessively every evening for the last week or so...

Miscarriage: The introduction

Many people respond to news of a miscarriage in the same way they would had they just been told their friend was forced to eat chicken feet while travelling in Mexico: “Oh. I can’t even imagine what that would be like, but it sounds awful” [insert sympathetic face]. The difference is that it wouldn’t be too strange to ask more about the chicken feet incident, but does feel strange to ask – it almost feels wrong to even talk! - about miscarriage. This is a post about my miscarriages. I’ve decided to talk about them because not many others seem to (outside of baby forums), which makes miscarriage seem far more rare than it actually is.

Miscarriage is a lonely process. For some women who haven’t yet shared the news of their pregnancy, the loss is mourned only by her and (hopefully) her partner. Even if others know, it’s not easy to put words to the pain and indignity and fear that come along with watching your body gush blood for so long that you’re not sure how you’re still able to walk, or instead choosing to be put to sleep so that doctors can prod at your privates and quickly complete the job that nature takes such a long and gory time on. The lack of non-medical-speak information also leaves those facing miscarriage with nothing but the vague hospital brochures or the heartbreaking forum posts of other frazzled and freaked out women to try to piece together an idea of how to decide on a “management” plan and what surviving the process might look like.

For those women, for their family and friends who want to understand and support them, for my husband, and for my own catharsis, here is my story. A warning, however: I’m going to mention blood, and talking about miscarriage is never comfortable. If you’re pregnant or trying to fall pregnant or squeamish or simply don’t really want to know, please skip this post (as well as the next two).

Also, I’m aware that miscarriages probably vary as much as pregnancies do and that this was only my experience. My goal is not to promote one way of doing things above another; I’m not medically trained at all, and wholeheartedly encourage you to discuss all options, risks, questions and fears with your doctor.

Hopefully they’re enough disclaimers...

from here

Both of my miscarriages have been “missed” miscarriages, which means that the hearts of the embryos stopped beating while my body, still thinking I was growing a baby or two, continued to assault me with morning sickness and tiredness and digestive... issues. I was alerted to the possibility of a problem the first time (September last year) because I started spotting at 11 weeks; an ultrasound the next day revealed that the pregnancy had ended a few weeks earlier. This time, it was during a scheduled scan at 8.5 weeks that we were gently informed that it looked like the two embryos had died within the last couple of days; they’d grown since our previous ultrasound but neither heart was beating now.

There is no pleasant way to “manage” a miscarriage. It’s like deciding whether to cremate or bury a loved one; whatever you choose, they’re still gone. Even the term “manage” is deceptive, sounding cold and business-like, rather than heart-wrenching and raw. Last time I went down the “expectant” route - the natural, at-home, do-it-yourself one. I was still breastfeeding Moses at the time, which made the decision easier; a general anaesthetic wasn’t an option for me then. This time, with Moses weaned, I took a week or so to mull and talk and pray it over, and decided to have a dilation and curettage (D & C), a short operation under general anaesthetic during which your uterus is cleaned out (there’s scraping and/or sucking involved, but “cleaning out” sounds so much nicer). 

There’s vulnerability in both options. If you choose to stay at home, you have to trust that your body knows what it’s doing and is not actually trying to kill you even though that’s exactly what appears to be happening. If you choose the hospital, you have to submit yourself to the system, as well as the care and expertise of the staff. You have to trust that they will not take advantage of your weak and worried state, that they will administer the correct drugs, perform the right procedure, and do what they can to get you home as soon as possible.

Neither way is less emotionally painful than the other. For me, the main difference in the emotional experience between the two management types is that a D & C meant I just did more of my crying in public than I’d have needed to if I was going through it all at home. I also realised that many of my tears the first time around came from freaking out about the amount of blood I continued to see, and from the weariness that came with dealing with it for weeks on end. This time the mourning may go on for longer (my heart hurts more this time, for many reasons), but it can focus on the loss and related fears rather than the gore/relentlessness of the miscarriage process.

I didn’t want to turn this into a sad series, but this post is already long enough. Over the next couple of days I plan to take you through some not-so-happy snaps* from my two miscarriage mini-albums: the “natural way” album from last time, and the recent “D & C” album.

* Just to be clear, I mean word pictures. There will be no brain-scarring photos.

Things I don’t want to hear right now...

...and how I'd respond if I had a faster-thinking brain.

from here

“You’ll have lots more babies!”

Firstly, unless God woke you one night to tell you this especially, you can’t possibly know. Secondly, considering I hate being pregnant and we don’t want a large family, I very much hope you’re wrong. 

“I know a woman who had a D & C and was pregnant 3 weeks later!”

Good for her! I get that you’re telling me that you know of successful pregnancies after D & Cs, but the thought of falling pregnant again immediately is not at all appealing to me right now. I’d prefer to let my hormones resettle and recover emotionally from this round and enjoy some nausea-free catch-up sex for a little while before jumping in again, thanks.

“Were you stressed? Maybe you should have your spine checked.”

Really? Are you implying that the miscarriage was my fault? Because I feel crap enough already without also blaming myself for possibly worrying too much or neglecting to see a chiropractor.

“At least you know you can have healthy babies.”

Uh... no, actually. I know I can have one healthy baby. Considering the pregnancies-gone-wrong now outnumber the one pregnancy that went right, I don’t know that I can have another healthy baby. That’s exactly my fear.

Thank you for letting me vent. I'll cheer up and move on soon.

Diary from the last couple of months, in haiku

from here

Think I have a bug;

feeling dizzy and dogdy

Wait, what date is it?

Test is positive!

Excited: Another bub!

Scared: Last time... What if?

Ugh, I feel awful

Hate nausea, love sleeping

And fruit fruit fruit. Mmmm.

Discover Pringles:

crunch plus salt equals perfect

Stuff fruit, man. PRINGLES!

Morning sickness sucks

Especially when it lasts

all afternoon, too

I hate acting well

when I’d really rather die

Somebody kill me

Toddler seems concerned:

“What happened to my mummy?

She used to be fun”

The first ultrasound

Please, God, let all be okay

Please please please please please...

So the ultrasound

Went better than expected

Two times better: Twins

One, two. One, two, three

That’s an instant family!

No more kids for us!

Twins! How will this work?

Two babies to feed, to bathe

It was tough with one

Husband goes hunting,

finds the perfect twin stroller

Takes me back to look

It feels doable

More so now I’ve read a book

about septuplets...

Spewing is awful

Spewing in public is worse

Pregnancy hates me

Sick sick sick sick sick

Groan groan groan groan groan groan groan

Spew spew spew spew spew

Second ultrasound

8 and a half weeks along

Anxious. Wondering

I climb on the bed
Present my bare tummy, sigh
The nurse approaches

She squirts me with gel
Presses gently with her wand
Moves, presses again

I watch the small screen 
And I try to interpret
The grainy image:

Two little peanuts

lying next to each other;

neither heart beating.

We finish the day

Play, eat, put Moses to bed

Staying calm for him

Then Alan and I

curl up and cry together

Once again undone

One in Christ: A Week of Mutuality

At the risk of forcing you all to wonder whether I should just change the name of this blog to What She Said if all I’m going to do is link to Rachel Held Evans’ blog all the time, Rachel Held Evans is running a series this week called One in Christ: A Week of Mutuality, which is “dedicated to discussing an egalitarian view of gender—including relevant biblical texts and practical applications.” Her aim is to speak for egalitarianism rather than against complementarianism, which is something I’ve long wanted to do here but am now glad I didn’t.

Not all of her readers are egalitarian, and the conversation in the comments so far has been thought-provoking and respectful; if this is a topic you’re at all interested in or undecided on, I’d highly recommend checking out Evans’ (and others’) posts on her blog this week. And I promise I’ll be back soon with my own, non-Rachel thoughts.