Falling and Rising

Despite my intentions to make this year my blogging comeback, I'm still not very consistent. But I haven't lost hope.

I've found that holding on to hope against the odds is one of my gifts. 

An almost obsessive concern with authenticity is another gift, but also a curse.

In the last couple of months, I've found it hard to blog because the one thing that's been on my mind the most is the one thing I wasn't ready to share just yet. And blogging about anything else seemed somehow false and trivial. But I think I'm ready now. 

Right around the end of September, I had been planning to share some wonderful news that I had been keeping to myself until I was more certain. I alluded to this pending announcement a couple of times, but I had to get through one final hurdle before the big reveal. 

I was pregnant, for the very first time EVER at age 39, after a 10-year struggle with infertility.

 

7 week ultrasound

My due date was April 2, which was perfect in so many ways, especially as news trickled in that others we care deeply about were expecting too. All the stars had finally aligned for me. I was exhausted and hormonal, but otherwise perfectly healthy. No morning sickness at all. My blood tests looked wonderful, and my ultrasounds with my fertility doctor at 7 weeks and 9 weeks looked perfect. I heard my baby's strong, steady heartbeat twice. And once I saw her wiggling around like crazy, even though I couldn't feel her yet.

At my 9-week appointment, when I was about to graduate to my regular OB, my fertility doctor calmed my anxiety and disbelief that this was really happening after a decade of hoping and praying. She told me that when things look this good at this point, and considering the particular IVF protocols we had followed, my chances of miscarriage were less than 5%. And I reminded myself of that fact often.

I had told just a few people, and of course my family all knew and were absolutely ecstatic for me, but I was waiting until after my first official OB appointment before making the big announcement on Facebook or here on my poor, neglected blog.

My doctor's earliest available appointment was when I was just shy of 13 weeks along, on the cusp of my second trimester. When that day finally arrived, Travis and I headed in to the office, list of questions in hand, excited to finally get the self-imposed stamp of approval I felt we needed before going public.

 

9-week ultrasound

As we sat in my new doctor's office, going over our list of questions and feeling thrilled that A) he assumed I was in my early 30s, and B) he never once uttered the words "advanced maternal age," he was paged for an imminent delivery. He apologized and said, "Let's do a quick ultrasound before I head down there, and then we can continue our conversation after I return. I'm sorry for the interruption." I didn't mind. The high prioritization of baby delivery is precisely what I'm looking for in an OB/GYN. 

I lay on the table, and he pressed the wand into my abdomen and paused. He readjusted, pressed harder, and paused again. And again.

He said some very direct but very kind words that I couldn't hear or accept in the moment.

On the monitor, I saw a perfectly still baby in profile, but that didn't sink in either. I just waited calmly for the second opinion with the more advanced ultrasound equipment. 

"I'm not going to panic yet," I said to Trav when we were alone in the room.

When the second ultrasound confirmed the first, and we heard the silent sonogram, I still didn't panic.

Instead, the truth sank into my chest like a terrible, dark weight. 

My first instinct was to run. I wanted to escape the grief, to leap over it and land in that place of acceptance and understanding that I hoped would be on the other side of this chasm. I ached for it all to make sense, right away. 

But there were things to get through first.

In the last weeks, which have now turned into months, there have been countless tears and countless prayers—some painful and pleading, some peaceful and grateful (much to my own surprise). There have been a lot of questions and a few answers. 

We did genetic testing on our baby, who was somewhere between the size of a Brussels sprout and a lemon, and everything came back normal. They can't test for everything, of course, but all of the most common things were ruled out. We were having a baby girl, just like Keira and I both thought. 

My fertility doctor also ordered an array of tests on me, because this is just so uncommon considering the particular facts of my situation. Everything came back normal. I don't have a blood clotting disorder. I don't have a "hostile uterus," whatever that means. I don't appear to have an incompetent cervix; even a couple of weeks after my baby died, my body was not ready to let go of this pregnancy.

The answers are: we just don't know. It may only happen 5% of the time after a picture-perfect 9-week ultrasound, but it still happens. To me, so far, it happens 100% of the time.

 ***

The day we got the news about our baby, I felt restless and impatient, on top of all of the other, weightier emotions. 

Trav would have done anything to ease my pain, and in hindsight I should have requested a red-eye to Hawaii. But instead I asked him to drive me up Little Cottonwood canyon to see the beautiful fall leaves and fill my lungs with fresh mountain air. 

The heaviness in my chest pressed harder the higher we climbed on the winding canyon road. I looked out my window at the dormant, barren trees, and the scattered remnants of glorious reds, oranges and yellows littering the ground. We had just missed Utah's very short window of brilliant canyon color, probably by no more than a few days. 

Of course, I thought bitterly. Of course.

We wondered if we should just turn around. We made it this far, I said, so we might as well complete the journey. We drove to the top, and then took the sharp left toward Guardsman's Pass, leaving the bleak, faded landscape behind us--all the more depressing considering how fiery and alive it must have been just days before.

We drove higher as the sun sank lower. And there, at the crest of the pass, were dozens of cars and dozens of cameras on tripods. They were trained east, toward the scenery in front of us, instead of west, the landscape we had just left. 

Ahead there was beauty.

Small patches of trees that seemed to be lit from within were still belting out the song of fall, still fighting off the encroaching grays and browns of winter.

I stood and stared, pulling deep breaths of solace into my soul. 

It was enough, in that moment, to carry me on for a few more hours. 

 ***

I wanted to wait and tell this story when I had a happy ending to share.

That's kind of how I approached it when Keira was born. I didn't share much publicly about my infertility journey until we were pretty darn close to having a successful adoption. I know how I crave a nice lovely bow wrapped around the end of a story. 

But I'm realizing it's important to tell our sad stories too, and to speak up when we're in the middle of the struggle. That small piece of wisdom came from Brene Brown's new book, Rising Strong, which could not have been released at a more perfect time. Next to my faith in my Savior, my caring family and my friends, and several addresses from the October LDS General Conference—which have brought me waves of peace and perspective that are still ebbing and flowing—this book has been a lifeline.

No one likes to talk about the messy middle of a story, even though that's where all the strength and growth happens that eventually carries you to the finish line. We only hear about the initial falling down and the eventual rising up, and we sweep that painful, scary, uncertain stuff under the rug. 

This is my messy middle. I'm glad I could keep it to myself for a little while, shared only with a small circle of family, friends and neighbors—many of whom were first tipped off by a very excited 5-year-old. But now that I've lived with it for a while, I'm okay to talk about it, even though I'm still waffling between grief and anger and denial and hope. 

Maybe seeing me be brave, fall flat on my face, and then pick myself back up, maybe that will give someone else courage too. 

It has taken incredible courage for me to grind away at this dream of growing my family, after so many years—to continue to put my heart and my hope on the line. I had to decide what kind of person I wanted to be. Did I want to resign myself to disappointment, take the safe path, and maybe always wonder "What if..."? Or did I want to risk big, throw that Hail Mary pass, and know that whatever happens, I gave it my all?

In the lives we imagine for ourselves, we all pick the second option. In reality, it's not so easy. I'm now finding out how much it hurts when the risk doesn't pay off.

But you know what? I'm still glad I tried. 

I liked being pregnant. 

I liked finding out that I can get pregnant. 

I liked the camaraderie I felt with other pregnant women.

I loved seeing the nurturing side of my husband, as he sheltered and cradled me in my despair.

I loved recognizing tender mercies from Heaven and sacred, undeniable answers to my prayers.

I loved the outpouring of kindness and compassion from those who knew of my loss. 

I loved liked didn't mind finding out that I'm stronger than I thought I was.

***

I desperately wish things had turned out differently. In that parallel timeline where I'm still pregnant, we would have just announced our baby's gender, a few weeks before my brother and his wife did (they're having a boy). I would be showing now, like my neighbor is (they're having a girl). I would be posting pictures of baby clothes to Facebook, like Keira's birthmom is (they're having a girl). 

Instead, I'm trying to figure out what "rising strong" looks like for me. Trying to choose courage over comfort. Trying to feel grateful for the opportunity I have to choose and chase my dreams at all.

Trying, still, to hope.

Comments

[TracieClaiborne]

Angie, I know you don't know me personally but I have always loved you and your work and I have always hoped you could experience having your own child one day. I have tears streaming down my face reading your post and I am so inspired by your courage. You are such an incredible writer: you really should be a best selling author. Love and peace to you. Thank you for sharing this today. I know the pain of finding out you are stronger than you realized and then not knowing how to deal with that revelation.

[BopelS]

Oh, Angie. Tears of compassion for you all. Amazed at your faith and bravery and humanness. xoxo Beth Opel

[Shemaine Smith]

It takes an enormous amount of courage to open up about something so personal and I am sure you will touch many women in a way you did not think was possible. Continue on your journey to be strong and do not give up hope. I really wanted another baby with my husband after Lily but God has decided she is enough for us and I have grown to accept that. It wasn't easy and there were a lot of tears but I am truly thankful for what I have.

[CIndy deRosier]

You are amazing. Thank you for sharing your story. I pray that the messy middle has a wonderful ending after all.

[Colleen]

This post is the most beautiful thing I've read in a long time. My heart has ached for you and I'm sorry I haven't expressed that, but I have prayed for you often. We are thinking of you and will continue to pray for another miracle. Love you guys.

[Jori]

You are my hero. 😘😘😘

[Jori]

Also, I wish I could buy you some El Azteca, and take you to the Provo River.

[Julia]

I'm so sorry to hear about what you've been through. Having gone through a miscarriage many years ago (at exactly the same stage of pregnancy) I can only tell you you are not alone. Thank you for sharing your story. My thoughts are with you and your family; may you continue to be strong and hopeful.

[Aly Dosdall]

Wow Angie. So many emotions. My heart breaks for your loss. I'm inspired by your courage and faith. I pray for comfort and peace for you and your family. Thanks for sharing, and lots of hugs!

[Elizabeth]

Crying with you, again. Love you.

[Myra]

I might just be a Facebook friend, but I've read about your struggles, your adoption and now this. My heart aches for you. Your story has given me hope in my own "messy middle." Different situation, but messy even so. Thank you for recommending Brene's book. Thinking about you from afar.

[Natalie]

Ang, I'm so very sorry and sad to hear this. You are one amazing lady and if there's any justice in the world this will happen for you someday. "But if not...He is still good." I will just hang on to that. Love you!

[Stacy Knecht]

Your words are so beautiful and soulful. Thank you for sharing such a personal and heart wrenching experience. Your faithfulness and strength are deeply inspiring.

[Ruth]

Dearest Angie,
I am sooo sorry that you had to bear this trial, and yet was excited to hear that you were pregnant. I want you to know you are an amazing young lady, the strength you have is priceless. As with anyone reading your amazing blog, my heart sank, my eyes are filled with tears for you. What name did you give to your daughter? Know she waits for you and your loving hubby, for you to raise her in the millennium, she is yours to raise, how lucky and blessed she is to have a special mom such as you. I know it's not what you want to hear right now, you would love to raise her now! She must be really special to the Lord to have given her to you only to be taken home in such a short time, only to be given to you again to raise her in the millennium. Know my heart is yours, know my door is always open, know we love you and I am always blown away with your determination, strength, kindnesses, power and beautiful spirit you carry, your Awesome!!!! Kia kaha forever
Love Ruth xox

[Sara]

From someone who has been through my own version of the loss you are going through, my heart is with you. All of the experiences you write about I can very much relate to. You once wrote that one of the most held up things to me, that adopting or having a child does not cure infertility. I think of it often. Thank you for sharing your story so bravely. I've found that being in a support group with other infertile women has been invaluable - it's where you learn you're not alone and your grief is shared by others walking a similar path.

[Lori Obray]

Angie - Im so sorry that you have to go thru this experience. It's so hard when life doesn't turn out like you had dreamed it would. Faith and positive attitude can be difficult when we have experiences that have 100% failed. My experiences are much different than yours but i can hear your same anguish in your words. I just keep telling myself to 'stay in the boat' of the gospel and ' just keep swimming' in the face of adversity. I hope that you and your cute family can feel some peace. I will be thinking of you. ...
Lori Obray

[Lisa]

I am so sorry for all that you're going through. I've been there. And I've said that before in commenting on your posts. But just in case you want to read my short take on this, here's a link to a blog post where I just spewed it all out. For everyone to see.

http://lisastein.com/blog-your-heart/

[susie]

My story is very similar to yours. I was 37 and pregnant for the first time. Everything was going well and then at 9 weeks it ended. We were devastated. Seventeen months later at age 38 we welcomed our daughter. I think I knew in my heart that my first pregnancy was not going to have a good ending. I just never felt pregnant. Hang in there. You have an angel in heaven pulling for you as well as all of your "fans".

[Angie]

Angie, this is Angie, I had the same thing but lost it at twenty weeks. My heart was broken and I ended up ill after. I spent six months crying. That was 11 years ago and I still miss her. My heart is sending you it's mending power and I want you to know I think you are a strong and wonderful woman and you will get past this. May god bless you and heal you.

[Debbie Hodge]

Oh, Angie, I am so very sorry. And grateful to you for sharing your messy middle so honestly and beautifully.

[Melanie]

I'm sorry, Angie. This was a beautiful post. It's wonderful that you found some things to love about this experience and I'm so happy you were able to experience pregnancy. I am, as others have said, crying with you and carrying an ache in my heart for you. Love you.

[Paulette Sarsfield]

messy middle hugs...

[Debra]

Oh, Angie, I am so very sorry.

[Kristi]

{HUGS}

[Katie Scott]

You should write a book.

I'm so sorry for your loss. I can't resist telling you that my best friend and I both got pregnant after miscarriages at the end of the first trimester - I know that probably isn't the right thing to say - but there is something about it being easier afterwards for whatever reason. So maybe that could happen to you.

You are amazing and inspiring and I'm glad you shared. Like another commenter said - this is the most beautiful thing I've read in a long time.

[Jennifer McGuire]

Oh, Angie. I don't know what to say other than I'm so sorry. Thank you for sharing your beautiful words with us. I'm so sorry you experienced this loss.I wish you peace,and I'm glad you still have hope.

[Laurieann]

Angie. I just read this. And. And. And. Two things: (this might make you want to never be friends with me again) but can you believe my reaction is to be capital J jealous of you for getting pregnant? I am really not a good person. Also. The middles? Are you kidding me? I wrote this post last week and minus the miscarriage and the fall beauty, it's Exactly the same. Of course it is because we are life-circumstance twins. Middles. Yes.

You. You! In your early-30's loveliness and your inexhaustible determination, you are everything. I adore you. So glad to be clinging to this life-raft of crazy with you.

[Angie]

Nothing could EVER make me not want to be friends with you, silly! And maybe your jealousy will wane when I tell you the price tag. ;) Why get your heart broken for free when you can pay through the nose for it? Ha.

[Audrey V]

Angie,
I just found your blog again, after being away for awhile. I'm so sorry for your loss.