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...