Today is a hard day for me. It's the day that marks the birth of my 5th child, a daughter, who I miscarried and who we named Ezra Faith.
I felt unsure where to start writing on this anniversary. I'd been starting and stopping, but not really being able to wrangle in any thoughts.
So, I decided to go to Kate Motaung's website to see what the theme was for this weeks "Five Minute Friday" and let myself write for a few minutes without any pressure or expectations.
The prompt for this week was "purpose", and so I set my timer for 5 minutes, and wrote:
Purpose takes on so many forms….and changes so often, it’s hard to know if you are living with your full purpose.
Today I stop to think about my baby Ezra, who I miscarried and delivered in hospital at 20 weeks gestation. Back then, 4 years ago, I thought I was on a path to become the Mom to a young baby again, but things changed. And suddenly, so did my purpose.
I had to wade through grief and sorrow, while still managing to care for my family. My purpose felt hazy and uncertain, and I wasn’t sure if I really ever knew what my purpose was.
But, I’ve had time on my side now. Four years have passed since this very day when I was in the hospital, holding my tiny, beautiful baby girl. Kissing her and telling her I loved her.
And this time has shown me that purpose comes from passion, passion is the fruit of soul searching, and soul searching comes through adversity.
I hardly wrote anything. When the timer went off I felt like the 5 minutes had been sucked into a vacuum. I sat back and re-read what I'd written, and my last paragraph jumped out at me like I hadn't just written it minutes earlier.
"Purpose comes from passion, passion is the fruit of soul searching, and soul searching comes through adversity"
She was my second miscarriage, the first miscarriage occurring just 8 months earlier. I was half way through this pregnancy at 20 weeks, and so I felt "safe". I was sure we would soon be welcoming a new baby into our family. When I close my eyes and remember the deep, dark sadness in my heart while my husband and I sat together in my hospital bed, holding our tiny baby girl, I cry. Ezra Faith was perfect.
My adversity brought me to look deep into my life and heart, and that soul searching gave me a passion, and that passion brought me to purpose. I feel my purpose in my family, as a wife and Mom. I can love, and teach, and guide, and be real and open and learn and grow with my husband and 3 beautiful, crazy and wonderful children. That fills me up everyday!
I can't say for sure who I'd be today if I hadn't lost Ezra. And that's not my story anyway. My story has her knit into my womb, and gone before I ever got to know her. But the mark she's left changed me forever, and for the better. Part of my life and purpose is her, and who I became because of her.
To read more about my experiences with the miscarriage of Ezra, you can read the stories at "Ezra Faith", "Ezra Faith: Two Years Gone", and Ezra Faith: Three Years Gone
You can also read about the son we lost, at "Abraham", and also at "Remembering & Forgetting: Abraham". and Moving Forward: Abraham
There is also a story about coping at "Feeling Blue"
This is my first post being back from our whirlwind summer! And I needed to talk about something very important.
Today is the 4 year anniversary of the birth of my 4th child, my son, Abraham.
On August 30th, 2012 I went into labour and delivered at home a little boy, tiny and perfect.
In the last few years I've written about the experience. First writing about it in a post called "Abraham", and last year in a post called "Remembering & Forgetting: Abraham"
At the end of the post I wrote last year, I talked about a little boy at church who was born on Abraham's due date, and who I basically avoided at all costs because it was too painful to see him. I mentioned that I "took a step" and actually talked to his Mom while she was with him, and how this was huge for me. To actually be close to this little boy, this boy who every time I looked at I imagined what my Abraham would have looked like. It was a big deal for me.
But here's the thing....God was planning something. Something that would take this one giant step further. I felt as though God was just near me, providing quiet comfort all these years, and suddenly he shouted, "MOVE FORWARD!!!".
He did it out of love, but it still hurt.
He wasn't saying "move on & forget", he was just saying "move forward".
After much thought, I decided to take a job this summer as a camp cook at the beautiful Pleasant Bay Camp. I knew the job of being a camp cook would be difficult, that it would require early mornings, late nights, sweaty and stressful days, planning to a T, and managing staff.
What I didn't plan on was that the woman leading the Leader In Training (LIT) programme would be living in the cottage next to me. This woman was none other than the woman from church who's son was born on Abrahams due date. The very child and family I had been avoiding was suddenly living next to me, walking around camp where I would see them, and eating in my dining hall every meal. I was suddenly and without warning, face to face with a little boy who had no clue what I've been through, or why I find him upsetting.
What happened during the three week LIT programme weeks though was something I couldn't have planned. I wouldn't have planned it, honestly. I became friends with this little boys wonderful mother and father, and I stopped avoiding their son. He has special dietary needs, and he'd often have a different frozen treat as dessert, and I was able to give him his dessert, and wait for him to say "thank-you", and look into his beautiful eyes and know that just because he was here and Abraham wasn't didn't mean that I had to shut this little guy out.
At one point this woman joked about how we'd been going to church with each other for 5 years and hadn't really talked much or become friends, but how now that we were at camp we were becoming friends.
At the end of the 3 weeks, just before this Mum was set to leave because the LIT programme was finishing, we had a random heart to heart.
She said to me that, even though we weren't friends at the time, she remembers my struggle during the time I had my second mis-carriage. She said that she felt badly that she hadn't said anything to me then, but just wanted me to know that she remembers my loss.
I shared with her then that I appreciated her saying that, and also shared with her how I'd had a miscarriage before that, and how my due date was on her son's birthday, and how us not being friends at church was my fault, my design. I told her I was avoiding her and her son.
I walked away from this encounter feeling God say to me, "you did it!!! You took one giant, giant, GIANT step forward!!!"
I still feel sadness deep in my heart about the loss of Abraham, but the hurt is softer now, somehow.
I feel like letting this little boy from church into my life let the hurt of losing Abraham fade a little. And that hurt needed to fade. There are so many feelings involved in a miscarriage, and most of those feelings are grey, not black or white. So letting go of these mysterious and un-namable feelings is extremely difficult.
Tonight, the kids and I stood by the garden we buried Abraham in, and Abby, my middle child, starts singing "happy birthday" to him, and I burst into tears. She stopped singing and apologized, but I said, "No, I'm not upset at you. I think it's beautiful that you wanted to sing to your brother. I'm crying because it hurts that we'll never have a birthday party for him here with us". Then Keziah, the youngest, pipes up and says, "maybe God is having a birthday party for him?". Then I really cried.
I wish I could see Abraham now, but I am happy with my family and my life. I have 3 amazing, beautiful, talented, smart, fairly whiney kids here on earth with me. I have a super handsome husband who loves me, no matter what crazy crap I'm going through. I have a dog who adores me, a cat who adore me even more, and 2 horses who adore me even more!!!
I realized this summer that moving forward, and moving on are very different things. One involves embracing the loss and the hurt, seeing the beautify that remains, and choosing to live in that new beauty. The other involves bottling up any feelings, pretending the loss never happened, and living with the hurt deep inside, unexpressed.
The Mom of the little boy who I became friends with talked a few times about becoming who you are, in spite of, and because of the hurt and hardships one goes through. You can't forever live in that loss, and let it be a thing in your life that stops you from living. It needs to be the thing that drives you to live. But this happens willingly, not just by chance. You need to take what you've been given, and turn it into a beautiful thing.
One night in early August, one of the kitchen staff and I went out at 1 am to watch a meteor shower. As I lay outside on my quilt, hearing the waves crashing near me on the beach, and seeing stars shoot across the sky above me, I thought about how small I really am, in light of how large the world is. And still, in all of this, I mattered to God. My feelings mattered to him. But more importantly, my heart mattered to him. I came to camp at the beginning of summer expecting to be stretched and to grow, but I ended up stretching and growing in ways I never imagined. God took what was a heart "content" with hiding and hurt, and opened it up, and filled it with a healing balm. I never thought that being close to, and getting to know, the sweet little guy who reminded me of my loss and pain would be the very same child to heal parts of my heart I was "happy" to leave broken and scarred.
I am happy today. Not because of my loss, obviously, but because I can say with joy and healing in my heart, that I am moving forward. I am moving forward with love and gladness in my heart.
If you're reading this, and your pain from a mis-carriage is still so new, and raw and real, I understand you and feel your hurt. But I want to encourage you, and bring some light into your darkness; the pain you feel, the loss you carry with you can be a thing that becomes something beautiful in your life. This can become a step for you to become more of who you were meant to be, to become someone who can love more deeply. It might not happen today or tomorrow, but let it be a part of your heart, and it will happen eventually.
You can understand the loss others suffer more clearly, and can be a light for them. Our darkness can become light for others. Doesn't that sound amazing?! I want to be that, I want to use my hurt for healing, and use my darkness for light.
The pictures on today's post are from the camp that I worked at. Each beautiful sunset, each sunny, beautiful day at the beach reminded me how small I am, but how amazing and wonderful my God is. How he is the one who paints the sky, and creates each life, and he knows me, my family and my sweet little babies waiting for me in heaven.
When I do meet Abraham in heaven, it will be a wonderful day. A beautiful day.
I eagerly await that day!
Last Sunday while grocery shopping, my husband looked over at me and said, "what's wrong? You look pissed".
3 years has passed since we our daughter Ezra passed away in a late-term miscarriage. 3 years has passed since we didn't hear the heartbeat at my mid-wife appointment. 3 years has passed since we went to the ultrasound clinic and encountered a technician so cruel and heartless, and who treated me and my situation as though it were less important than the lunch break he was late for.
And suddenly, in the produce section of my grocery store, there stood this ultrasound technician. Right near the celery.
And, despite my vow to not swear during lent, I suddenly found myself answering my husbands' question of "what's wrong? You look pissed" with something like, "I am pissed! This is the douche-bag technician who made one of the shittiest days of my life even shittier! I want to punch him in the face!". I wasn't exactly whispering either.
I was surprised that seeing that man's face made me so angry, so quickly. So much time has gone by! 3 years! And still, a face can rip a scab off a wound I've been carefully tending to.
About a month ago I was cleaning out our office, and came across a binder I had gotten from my mid-wife when I went to my first appointment for my pregnancy with Ezra. The pages were mostly blank. They were meant to have notes about the pregnancy, labour and delivery, and the 6 week post-partum check-up on the baby.
Instead, it had 3 notes from the 3 appointments I had gone to at weeks 8, 12, and 16. There was nothing else in it. My mid-wife didn't need it anymore.
3 years later.....I still had it.
I looked in it, I cried in it, I closed it, then I walked it out to our outdoor wood stove and threw it in, and watched it burn.
As I was sitting there looking at this mostly empty binder, I knew that I kept it for this long because I wanted to cherish those few mid-wife appointments I'd had, and I felt like keeping that binder kept Ezra real somehow.
Instead of an empty binder though, I want to keep the little box of things we collected in memory of Ezra and her short life. These things touched her body, have her name on them, have love written out in cards to our family. I want to close my eyes and feel the weight of her, all wrapped up in her hospital blanket that is tucked away in her memory box, and remember how heart breaking it was to sit there crying with my husband over our daughters' death. That is a moment, a real moment. I want to look at the garden we made her, and imagine she would have been just as beautiful as it is when it's in full bloom and greenery.
I want to think about, and surround my thoughts of Ezra with those things, not emptiness, which is what the binder offered.
I want something real, something I can take hold of. Something I can cherish, and give away in equal parts. I want joy, and joy won't be found in a binder, but it can be found in my heart.
In the last 3 years, 3 years of serious ups and downs, I have decided that for joy to be present in my life, I needed to chose to have a spirit of gratitude.
Having gratitude and healing the heart doesn't equal forgetting, "moving on", or "getting over it". Choosing gratitude means believing that good is available if we look for it.
Choosing gratitude does not mean saying "I am grateful I lost my loved one", nor does gratitude mean to live in a state of constant denial of your pain and the situation you are in.
Gratitude is defined as "the quality of being thankful; readiness to show appreciation for, and to return, kindness".
If I said to you, "stop being thankful, do not show any appreciation for any kindness shown to you, and do not show kindness to others!" what would you say? You would think I was a terrible human being, most likely.
And yet many of us who are hurting are doing just that. We are not thankful for anything, we do not show appreciation for kindness, and we certainly aren't showing any kindness.
To choose to have a heart, or a spirit, of gratitude means that you are choosing, day by day, to be thankful for whoever it is you have in your life. Whether that is a loving spouse or partner, loving parents, an amazing best friend, the best neighbours, or an awesome pet--whatever! Gratitude, returning kindnesses shown to you, and showing appreciation for kindness shown to you; these are, first and foremost, things of the heart, and we can choose these regardless of our external situations.
Making the choice can be very difficult at first because we feel our hearts have been ripped out. But the thing is, having gratitude heals the heart. It really does.
3 years ago I couldn't have said such a thing.
3 years ago I was a broken person. I was broken physically, emotionally and spiritually. I felt like an empty shell of the person I had been, whoever that was. Who I had been seemed like some far away memory, and maybe the person I thought had been me wasn't me at all? I just felt hurt, angry, lost, lonely, and crushed by life.
Friends, dealing with grief is a long journey, a journey that never actually ends, I believe.
This journey starts out so rough, uphill, the weather too hot and too cold. There is a wind that blows directly into you, making walking even more difficult. No one is with you, you have no food or water, no shelter, you have no comfort.
You will stop and sit down, and cry and scream out that the hill is never ending, that it's too steep, that you're aching in every way. You're sure that you can't recall a time without this pain, without this loneliness, without this deep aching.
And then, one day you realize, without seeing it happen, that the wind had died down, and that the cold isn't so cold, and the hot isn't too hot. Then you see someone is on the hill, and they offer you a drink and something to eat.
You soon see that the sun is coming up to the top of the hill, and you realize you are nearly at the top too.....and that there are more people now, giving you food, drink and comfort.
Before you even realize, and without any one particular moment in time, you see that instead of being on a hill, you are just on a path. It's narrow, and has small hills, a few pot holes & some muddy spots, but it's steady, and you aren't alone on it at all.
You look around, and with you are all sorts of people who have lost someone they love. They smile at you, understand you, weep and laugh with you.
They too went on the same hard journey, but in their hearts they chose gratitude, and so they are here with you now, on a steady trail.
I see myself there....I can see that this path stretches out before me with no end in sight, but, it seems ok. I am looking at a trail that reminds me of what I've come through, and that I will always carry the loss and memory of my babies gone. The endlessness of it has it's comfort in that I know I've not "moved on" or forgotten, but that I've lived, and will continue to. I can look ahead of me on this path and feel peace.
There's an old saying that if you've forgotten the language of gratitude, you'll never be on speaking terms with happiness. And I wanted happiness. In the midst of all the pain, my heart wanted happiness. Wanting some happiness is a universal feeling, and having it requires gratitude.
I still miss Ezra, I still cry when I think of the loss. I still wonder about what life would have been like with her in the house, living with our family. But now, I read my own story and cry because I remember how tormented I felt by grief, but am now filled with gratitude that I made it to the other side.
If you are at the beginning of your uphill climb and you are thinking, "this woman is crazy and heartless, and my pain is killing me!", I am deeply sorry.
It is not my intention to hurt anyone in their grief. My intention is to share my heart, my experience, and to give you hope and let you know you are not alone.
Your grief is real, the journey is long and hard and different for everyone. But I promise, you are not alone in this.
I still feel pangs of jealousy when other women are pregnant. I still haven't gotten too close to a newborn because it still just seems like too much, and apparently I still need to forgive the ultrasound technician from all those years ago......but in all this, in all the things I'm still trying to deal with, I can, and you can (you CAN!) start to let your heart have gratitude in it. Gratitude will be a healing oil that seeps into your life and can fill you with love and hope again. I promise.
To read more about my experiences with the miscarriage of Ezra, you can read the stories at "Ezra Faith", and "Ezra Faith: Two Years Gone".
You can also read about the son we lost, at "Abraham", and also at "Remembering & Forgetting: Abraham".
There is also a story about coping at "Feeling Blue"
Last year, I shared the story of my miscarriage of what would have been my fourth child, Abraham. You can read about that experience here.
We lost our little boy on August 30th, 2012. I wanted to write about this and post it on the anniversary (this past Sunday), but opted out. Why? I'm not exactly sure.....
I feel such a mix of hurt from remembering the loss, and an urge to forget so that I won't feel any hurt. It made me reluctant to write about it again, to bring up any feelings I had. Any feelings at all. Happy or sad, sometimes just feeling about the miscarriage is too much.
Here's the thing...I haven't slept a solid night since Sunday. I've had 3 nights of terrible sleeps; waking often, being restless, and thinking about Abraham.
One of my favourite musicals "Into The Woods" has a song called "No More" and it makes me cry to listen to it. It's a sad song within the context of the show, but I can't help but hear it with my life written into it. Here are some of the lyrics from that song:
No more feelings.
Time to shut the door.
Running away- let's do it,
Free from the ties that bind.
No more despair
Or burdens to bear
Out there in the yonder...
Running away- go to it.
Where did you have in mind?
Have to take care:
Unless there's a "where"
You'll only be wandering blind.
Just more questions.....
Where are we to go?
Where are we ever to go?
Running away- we'll do it.
Why sit around, resigned?
Trouble is, son,
The farther you run,
The more you feel undefined
For what you've left undone.....
And, more, what you've left behind.
The part that hits me the most from this song is:
Running away- go to it.
Where did you have in mind?
Have to take care:
Unless there's a "where"
You'll only be wandering blind.
Just more questions.....
If I run away, where am I going? Part of me wanted to (and still wants to) run away from this experience; to pretend it never happened. To not feel any sadness from it, to not let my mind remember it. But where does that leave me?
My feelings about the death of my son Abraham (and my daughter, Ezra) get so tangled up with real life that keeps moving on, regardless of what I'm going through.
But, if I move on.....have I left my mis-carried children behind? Is living a happy life without them a betrayal of them? Which is worse: moving on, getting stuck, running away...? I'm not sure....there are no answers. No black and white ones, at least.
I go in and out of each day, having times when I remember, and times when I forget, and maybe that is normal, and probably the most healthy option? A little of each thing, melded into one.
There is a little boy in my church who was born on Abrahams actual due date, and when I see him my heart aches. I said something to 'him' (really his Mom) in passing before his birthday, "someone is having a birthday soon...?", and his Mom said something like, "wow, you have a good memory!". That couldn't be farther from the truth (...I don't even know all my siblings birthdays!), but I do know when my fourth child should have had his birthday. It's the first time I've even really acknowledged this little boy. I've mostly just avoided really looking at him and openly noticing him. So, talking to him about his birthday is a really big step. Maybe not an obvious step to anyone, but for me, it was a leap.
I am choosing to not run away, I also choose to not dwell and be stuck. God willing, I will get a good nights sleep tonight; hopefully remembering Abraham openly will put my mind at rest.
Love you Abraham xo
Last year I shared my thoughts and feelings about loosing a child to a miscarriage. I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, Ezra Faith, on Sunday March 3rd, 2013 at the Belleville General Hospital.
I wasn't ready last year to give the details about the story. But I will share them today, on the 2 year anniversary of her birth. The facts are clinical, true, and sometimes alarming (I just want you to be warned and prepared). But I feel comfortable enough to put these facts out there, and I want to be able to be a life line to any woman going through a miscarriage and searching the internet for stories about what the experience could be like (like a full-term, live birth, each miscarriage is different) and to find help here, and to know they are not alone.
To read about my first miscarriage of my little boy Abraham, look here. Or to read about my version of coping, read this post called Feeling Blue.
The pregnancy was not planned (at all). I had suffered a miscarriage a few months earlier, and we weren't thinking we would try again, but knowing I was pregnant again did have a healing effect. Like my body could be trusted a little again.
The pregnancy went along really normal, with no sign for concern at all. But deep down, I was really struggling to be hopeful. I can read now through some of my journal entries during those early weeks that I was excited, but still feeling nervous about going full-term. We decided to wait (as most people do) until the 12 week mark to tell people, but as the date approached, I changed my mind. We had told people at 12 weeks with the last pregnancy, only to call them/tell them all a few days later the baby had passed away.
With each passing week beyond the "magic 12 week mark" we were feeling better about telling people. So, after my mid-wife appointment at 16weeks 5days where we heard the heartbeat still, we slowly started making our announcement. At 20 weeks, we made the announcement at church (which was a big deal to us). We thought, we're halfway through the pregnancy, I'm starting to show a little (I don't show much until I'm nearer to the 30 week mark), so let's do it. There were a few other women pregnant with due dates around mine, so I could talk freely with some of them now about the pregnancy.
The 10 days or so leading up to the end are a strange mix of blur, and extreme clarity. On the Wednesday after we had told our church we were pregnant, I had my first dance rehearsal for a production I was working on with our local theatre. But that Wednesday night as I got dressed for the rehearsal, I went back and forth in my mind about if I would tell some of the cast I was expecting. I knew some of them well, but decided to wait until it was really obvious. That moment feels clear to me, and I think it was because the Lord knew I would need a corner of the world where I was still "me"-not pregnant, not grieving, just neutral. This show turned out to be a refuge for me. It gave me dances to work on and choreograph during the week, a goal to have, a task. Going to rehearsals was a God-send; it was the only place people didn't know what was really going on, so I felt free to go to rehearsals and smile, have fun, talk about things besides loss, like in another life I was suffering so much inside, but in that life things were chugging along as usual.
The next day, on Thursday February 21st, I had a mid-wife appointment and ultrasound booked. I remember my secondary mid-wife was doing my appointment, and I had never met her before. We made our introductions, and then she started asking the usually questions about how I felt, etc. I cut her off and said, "I don't want to be rude, but could we chat after you listen for the babies heart beat?" I told her I was really nervous, and didn't want to chat about a baby I was still feeling un-sure was even there......
She couldn't find the heart beat......she tried to give me (really sweet) excuses, "maybe the baby is farther back, etc", but I knew. I asked her to go and get my primary mid-wife (who I knew well, and trusted). She came in, with a grim look on her face. I love her. She is strait forward, but still really kind and caring. She checked for a heart beat too, and said something like, "This doesn't look good".
Because I was already booked for the 20 week ultrasound after my appointment, she told me to go there, and to call her after.
The ultrasound tech is someone I still would punch in the face if I ever saw him again. I went into the room, feeling sick to my stomach, and sat down on the bed. He was looking over my information, and said, "o.k., so this is a scan just to check that the baby is developing normally", and I said, "well, it was supposed to be, but I just came from my mid-wife, and we could find the heart beat, so, this scan is really to check if the baby is still alive". He looked a little annoyed at me for even saying it, but I knew they had rules. The patient is not to know the results of a scan, they are supposed to wait until their healthcare provider calls them with the results. But I wanted to know. I needed to know. He quietly did the scan, making little grunts under his breath, looking disapproving. Then, he suddenly turns the machine away, and tells me we're finished. I've been to ultrasounds before, and they always end with the tech letting you hear the heart beat, looking at the baby, and printing off photos from the scan for you.
So, I sat up, and said, "can you tell me?". "Oh no", he replies, "I will pass the info onto your mid-wife, probably in the next day or so, and she'll get in touch with you". I was too mad/shocked/heartbroken at that point to know how to react to his coldness. I walked out of the room, and looked to my left where the waiting room was. My husband turned to look at me, and shrugged, as if to say, "do you know?", and I burst into tears, and ran to the right, and locked myself in the bathroom.
When I finally told my husband about the scan, but more about how the tech said he wasn't going to tell me, or pass the into on for a day or two, he pleaded with the receptionist, who did have a heart, and promised to send the results to the mid-wife the minute they were ready. So, we called the mid-wife about an hour after the appointment, and she told us that the scan showed the baby had stopped growing (therefore he heart had stopped beating) around a week earlier.
Fast forward to Saturday, March 2nd. The day booked for me to go to the hospital to have my labour induced. The time between finding out the baby had passed away and this date was a blur. I wrote this same Psalm in my journal over and over....
Psalms 6: 1(b)-3, 6 "Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am faint; oh Lord, heal me, for my bones are in agony. My soul is in anguish! How long, oh Lord, how long?". v. 6 "I am worn out from groaning; all night long I flood my bed with tears. My eyes grow weak with sorrow...."
That is the most honest way I can describe the time I spent trying to mentally prepare for what was ahead. I wasn't allowed to try to "wait it out" at home as I had with our last miscarriage because I was farther along, and the baby would be bigger, and there was a bigger chance of complications.
I arrived at the hospital at noon, and I was brought into the labour and delivery ward. I was told what "the plan" was, and then we settled in for what we thought would be a few terrible hours.
They gave me the meds for induction (misoprostol) at 2pm, and again at 6pm, and again at 10pm......my body was not ready for this. My mid-wife was very apologetic and alarmed that I hadn't gone into labour yet. She thought (because I had previous pregnancies and deliveries) I would go into labour with the first dose, but it wasn't happening.
This day that I was dreading was stretching out before me, with nothing good at the end of it. The mental capacity it took me to stay there and not run like a lunatic through the halls, out the doors, and never stop, was just barely in my reach. A really nice nurse gave us the WiFi password for the hospital so we could watch shows online on the iPad we had brought along. It helped to pass the hours, and gave us a mental rest. There are saints working in the Belleville General Hospital.
I kept getting doses of meds, hoping it "would take". The OBGYN who was "technically" in charge of my labour and delivery told me to rest, and she would be back at 2am to give me another dose of the meds if I needed it.
Lying in our semi-dark maternity ward room, I could hear newborn babies crying down the hall. They had put us as far away as they could, but I could still hear them, and I couldn't stop crying.
The contractions finally came in waves about midnight. Looking at the clock, I could see they were getting to be 2 minutes apart. I was in a lot of pain. As much pain as any of my other full term labours, and at this point, this ordeal had been almost as long as my longest labour. I went to the bathroom, but after peeing, I felt pressure. I felt down there, and could feel something coming out. So, I pulled the emergency cord, and when the nurse came in, she helped me back to my bed. The OBGYN came back in, and quickly checked my cervix. She said, "I can't feel anything coming down at all?". I told her for sure I not only felt the pressure, but I felt with my own hand something. Because I was being given vaginal misoprostol, when I would go to the bathroom, the pill would often fall out (it is only placed right inside the vagina, to be at the cervix opening to soften the cervix). So, when I felt that pressure and felt something coming out, the meds also fell out. I saw the pill, and I told the OBGYN, but she felt that if the last contractions were so strong, they would continue on their own. So, we waited 30 minutes (until 2am), and nothing happened, so, she gave me another dose, and we waited some more.
Another hour.....and nothing was happening. She told me to rest again, and left the room. At about 5 am, I felt the contractions again, but they were suddenly intense, horribly painful, and extremely close together. The OBGYN, some nurses, and my mid-wife all came in, I wasn't going to let this stop this time. I was tired of waiting, tired of wondering, tired of being the in hospital for what was supposed to be a quick induction and labour. 15 hours had gone by, I wanted to be finished.
Very suddenly I said I needed to push, and in one push I was finished.
My baby was still in the sack, so they broke it open, and told me she was a girl. They wrapped her in the same white/blue/pink blanket they wrap all newborns in, and gave her to me to hold. She was tiny, but perfect. She weighed so little (5.7 oz) but I could feel the weight of her in my arms. I still can.....
My husband and I sat crying for a long time. Eventually, we cleaned her up, and wrapped her back up, and placed her into her coffin. We packed up our things and headed home with our daughter.
It is a dark and hollow feeling going home from a labour and delivery, and bringing home a beautiful white casket, and no baby to care for. My husband and I went to sleep for a few hours, and then I just needed to get up. I wanted photos of my daughter. I had a foot print from our son we had lost, but was unsure about pictures. But, leading up to going into the hospital with this miscarriage, I had read every blog and forum about miscarriage, and a lot of women regretted not having some photo or another (and I felt that regret from our last baby lost). So, I got up, and took some foot and hand prints, as well as photos of her feet and hands. I decided against a photo of her face because (the morbid & natural) truth was that she was in ‘poor condition’. Because she had passed away at least 10 days previous, she had begun to deteriorate. So, I got what I felt I would want (whether I looked at it in a day, a week, or if I wasn’t ready again in 10 years to see the photos), I now knew I had them.
We held a service for her at our house on March 15th, and it was terrible, and wonderful. The support from those who came was enormous, but the event was one I dreaded. I didn’t hardly sleep leading up to it. We planned on burying her before everyone got to the service as we felt it would be too emotional for us to do in front of others, and also possibly awkward for those coming as this whole situation was different than a usual "funeral". Our pastor was there and he said a few words, and I said a few words too.
We choose the gerbera daisy as Ezra's flower, and handed one out to each person who came to the service as a remembrance.
All of the post-partum stuff came to me, as it would have if I had delivered a full term baby. My milk came in 3 days after having her, and that was heart breaking. Then, to add more complication to it, after my regular post-partum bleeding was finished, (after about 3 weeks), suddenly a week later I started bleeding again, but violently, and unstoppably. I had to go in for 2 more inter-vaginal ultrasounds, one to confirm that I had pieces of placenta attached to my uterus, which was causing the bleeding, and the second a week later to confirm it was all out. I opted out of a scraping of the uterus and promised to let my mid-wife know if I felt too ill, and told her I would ride it out. This bleeding stopped on April 7th. I got the news I miscarried on February 21st. 46 long, terrible, unbearable days later, and it was finally all over.
The following Sunday I went back to church for the first time since we had made the announcement we were pregnant back in February. I felt so overwhelmed with emotions of being there, seeing those same pregnant ladies who were still pregnant. Most of them who told people they were pregnant when they were 4, 5, 6 weeks pregnant. I waited until I was 19 weeks pregnant….half way through the pregnancy! I felt so much anger, sadness, hatred. But, I also felt a love, knowing a lot of people in this “family” had made me meals, given us money for groceries (which my friends would buy, and bring out to me), given us flowers and cards, but mostly their prayers.
I purchased a beautiful photo box from the craft store Michael's, and put the things into it that I wanted as a remembrance of Ezra. My positive pregnancy test, then cards and notes from friends and family after the loss. The hospital bracelets, little knitted cap, and blanket they had wrapped her in. Her hand and foot prints are in this box, as well as a "Mary's Bear" we purchased for her, because all of my other kids have one.
Here I am, 2 years later, and I still struggle with knowing the balance between remembering and forgetting. Is there even a balance?
I don't "ooh & ahh" over new babies, but I have at least gotten close to them. This is mostly because I have 5 and 6 year old girls who want to see every baby they encounter! If that's the method God is going to use to get me to stand within a 10 foot radius of a new baby, then o.k. I don't feel excited over a new pregnancy announcement; I mostly feel nervousness mixed with irritation that someone else is pregnant. But I feel this less now than I did 2 years ago, so I can be hopeful that one day I may have genuine happiness for other pregnant woman and woman with newborns.
I miss the little girl who I never really knew, but I had her worked into my life already. I was already planning my sons summer birthday around her (actual) due date. I wondered how we could re-arrange the kids in their rooms based on if we had a baby girl or baby boy. I was happy and prepared to have her at home with me when all three of my kids went off to school this year. But I am alone at home.
I think about Ezra literally every day. I sometimes imagine her here with us and what she might have been like. I sometimes imagine her in heaven, looking sweet and beautiful and happy.
I feel pain so deep knowing that she is being forgotten by everyone except myself. I know others think of her, though not every day, and not with the pain I feel. I am the only one who knew her, who felt her. I don't blame anyone for forgetting; each person has their own life. I don't remember/know the birthdays of some of my own siblings, or the exact day one dear friend of mine passed away. I know he passed away in the month of June, but the exact day? I'm not sure I've ever remembered it. So thinking someone should remember the passing of a baby they never knew or met is unreasonable. This is important to remember because if I decided to be angry with anyone who didn't pay tribute to Ezra's honour I would be forever unhappy and would push others away from me. This attitude is not one that will bring healing, but more loneliness and grief.
I pray that my feelings, my thoughts, the story I share can be an encouragement and help to others. I hurt deeply thinking about this loss, but I can say that time does heal. But, you have to let it. Time spent lying in bed, grieving endlessly, thinking of nothing else but the loss is not time spent healing. We heal by equal parts grief, sharing, giving of ourselves, and working towards goals. Don't be afraid to feel happy, it doesn't mean you have stopped loving the baby you lost, it just means you can still love life without that baby. And that is allowed. You can cry, look at ultrasound scans, and remember the feeling of a baby growing inside of you. But you also need to laugh, look at real life happening around you, and feel what you still have inside of you to give to others.
Today I remember Ezra Faith and the loss, but I remember most what she's done for me. She taught me to feel deeply, she reminded me to be real, to be present. To know that God has each day planned for us, from birth until death, and we can't stop it. The grief and fear that get tangled together in the middle of the storm can seem overwhelming, but it will settle.....eventually. I remember the love of friends and family who reached out to us and cared for us during the storm, and how they were a beacon of light.
I remember the weight of her in my arms, the tears I cried from deep inside of me while I held her in that hospital room.
I am thankful for Ezra Faith and every moment I got to spend with her. And I look forward to holding her again someday.
On Thursday August 3oth, 2012 I gave birth to my forth child, a little boy named Abraham.
I have never written a post on a Saturday, but I wanted to today to honour this little boy that no-one ever got to see or meet, except for me.
This story may float between clinical, personal, and over-share. I feel like I have come a long way since the summer I had him, and that the harshness of the memory has subsided. I miss him, I love him, I still feel pain to think of not being able to hold and kiss him. But I am at peace.
Back in March I told the story of my fifth child, Ezra Faith, but didn't share the details of that miscarriage. I am going to share the details of this first miscarriage though because, as I said already, I feel enough time has passed and I am able to.
The pregnancy was a surprise, a very big surprise, and I honestly had mixed feelings about it. At the time our youngest was 2, which isn't old as far as children go, but we had sort of moved on from babies, and thought we had the family we were going to raise. I don't particularly enjoy being pregnant, so I wasn't really looking forward to that, and because my mind was thinking we were done with babies, my heart felt done with babies. But, as time went on, my heart changed, and I was planning and imagining life with a new little person in the house.
On August 9th I had gone to my 12 week mid-wife appointment, only to have them not be able to hear the babies heart beat. I felt such a knot in my stomach, and couldn't put words to my feelings. They told me that everything could actually be fine, and perhaps the baby was sitting farther back which can make it difficult to hear the heartbeat. We booked an ultrasound for the next day, and I told my husband not to take work off because everything should be o.k.
I didn't sleep much that night though, and I went through the next morning in auto-pilot. Trying not to worry, but also trying not to be too confident.
The ultrasound technician was one I had seen just 2 weeks earlier at the ultrasound to date the age of the baby. So, I could see the worried look in her face when she walked into the office to do the exam.
She was working away at the exam, and I asked her, "is there anyone in there?", and she said, "yes". Though her answer was not terribly re-assuring.
A minute or two later I asked, "is there a heart beat?...". She turned to me and said, "I'm not supposed to tell you this, but I need to tell you that your baby has no heart beat".
I felt numb, but I had the sense to ask for a photo from the ultra sound. I know it seems morbid, but 2 weeks earlier at the dating ultrasound, the new printer hadn't come in yet, so I didn't get to take a photo home that day. I needed a photo.
I don't remember leaving the room, or walking down the hall. All I remember is getting into the stairwell, and suddenly starting to cry so deeply, and with so much pain, I couldn't stop.
I ran down the stairs, through the parking lot, and into my van. I sat and stared at the photo of this baby, this tiny life that I was still carrying, but was not alive. I felt betrayed by my body, I felt angry at my body. I felt sick that I had a human being in me who was not alive. I wanted to scream, and punch something.
I was told that because I felt fine physically, my mid-wife said I could carry the miscarriage out at home without having to go to the hospital. But only to a point. I begged with her to not send me to the hospital. I was taking my temperature 2-3 times a day to make sure I wasn't getting an infection, and to be sure that my health was fine, but with nothing happening on it's own, I did seem likely I would have to go to the hospital to be induced, but I was determined not to. I researched online about how to induce labour for (what is called a) missed-miscarriage. Basically, a missed-miscarriage is when the body has not caught onto the fact that the baby had passed away.
So, I needed to convince my uterus to start contracting. I decided on taking evening primrose oil, raspberry leaf tea, high doses of vitamin c, and parsley tea as my exhaustive method for inducing labour naturally. Two days after I started to use these things, I started to bleed. It was 14 days after I had found out the baby had passed away.
It was another full week of bleeding and spotting on and off before I started having pain in my abdomen, something similar to period cramps.
I had these cramps on and off all day on the 30th, but then around 6:15 it suddenly felt sharp and different. My husband was still at work, and I knew if something happened I would have no help.
I had (luckily) just finished making the kids dinner, and called to them "get your food!" as I ran up the stairs to the bathroom.
I had so much time to "feel prepared" and to read the stories of other woman and their miscarriages online. One woman had talk about a "miscarriage basket" to have ready. I thought the idea was a good one, so I had my own ready for me in the bathroom. It had 2 large red towels, feminine wipes, a bottle of water, a pretty bowl, and an extra thermometer. Each item had a specific purpose, and I knew I would be grateful to have them, I just didn't realize how grateful.
The red towels were to hide the blood. For myself, and for anyone else (especially the kids) who might have seen me/been helping me through this it can seem less traumatic to not see blood everywhere. The wipes and water bottle seem obvious, but they were really important to have handy. The pretty bowl was for the baby. This part was very much up in the air, as generally, the longer it takes your body to finish the mis-carriage, the more deteriorated the baby has become, so, in many cases when the miscarriage takes a long time to complete, the baby may not be found among everything else your body passes. And the thermometer was to make sure that I was still staying at a good temperature, and that I was not getting an infection.
I had thought to grab the phone on my way up the stairs to call my mid-wife, as she said she would come if I needed her, but I wanted to be alone. I needed to be alone.
The pain was intense on and off, and I started passing fairly large blood clots as well as parts of the placenta. I started to panic a little because I didn't want to not recognize the baby from all the rest. I know that sounds strange and disturbing, but at the moment, it's all I was thinking.
I prayed that God would help me find the baby if that was best for me, and suddenly I felt enormous pressure through my pelvic bones, the pressure I recognized from having 3 healthy, full-term babies as "that feeling" when you need to push. I didn't need to push, but I did quickly reach my hand under myself, and catch a beautiful, perfect, tiny human into my hand. It was around 7pm.
I gently set the baby into the lovely bowl I had, and tried to relax, realizing that my body wasn't finished. For an additional 3 hours my body worked through passing the placenta, which was in many pieces as it has begun to deteriorate.
My husband came home around 8:30, but because I had been on the toilet for the last few hours, the septic was blocked. If I wanted to flush the toilet anymore, or get into the shower to run the water on me to relax, he needed to fix the septic problem. I told him I needed the septic fixed, but that I also needed him to check in on me every now and then.
He got the problem fixed, and I remained in the bathroom, feeling numb from the pain, both physical and emotional, and also not knowing what to do next.
When I felt that my body was finished with the process, I decided I needed to really look at my baby. Maybe even see if I could tell the sex.
As I lifted the tiny body from the bowl, I could clearly see it was a he. He was so tiny, and just fit right into my hand. I looked at him, but I couldn't cry. I felt lost. But somehow, at the same time I felt peace knowing I had seen him. My wonderful sister had sent a necklace for me in the mail as soon as she found out I had miscarried. It arrived long before I had Abraham, but when I had him, I held that necklace up to his feet, and the size was just right. It was a perfect memory for me to carry around.
I put my little boy into the bowl I had bought for him.
On the Saturday we went out as a family and bought a red jade weeping flowering crabapple tree. We decided where we wanted to plant it; a spot we could see from the front porch, and a place that it looked like it belonged with us, with our family.
We placed our little son into the earth, and the tree on top, as if he were the tree. It was a beautiful, sad, and peaceful ceremony with just Adam and I and the kids.
We decided on the name Abraham because of of the promise God gives of hope, and a future. It just represents trusting in God and his will and plan for the lives of his children. And Abraham's faith in God was what I wanted, it's what I needed out of this situation. I needed to feel that if God spoke and said anything, I would hear Him, and do what he asked of me.
I felt haunted by our little Abraham. I felt like I could see him running down the halls and laughing. I imagined him playing outside with our toy tractors and cars. I missed this little man who no-one met, except me. My husband couldn't bring himself to see the baby, he didn't want to remember him in a sad way, more in just a memory of what might have been kind of way. It broke my heart, but I also understood completely.
A week later we went to see the mid-wives as a check-up and to talk about things. When began describing what Abraham looked like, my mid-wife seemed concerned. She said, "you're sure you saw genitals?". Awkward question, but she wanted to know. I insisted I had, so she took out a diagram of a baby developing in the womb. She asked me to point to the image that looked most like Abraham, and it was the one closer to 14 weeks, not 11 weeks, the age we thought he was. Ultrasound measurements are generally accurate, but not always, as my mid-wife informed me. Because I was able to see my child and look at him closely, as well as remember how big he was in my hand, she said my dating would be more accurate than the ultrasound.
The truth is, I've undergone a lot of healing since then. First I went even faith down than I thought possible, but now I'm looking up. I still think of Abraham often, I still haven't held any "Abraham babies" at church (the babies who would be his age, had he been full term), but I also don't cry when I see them.
I am feeling a trust in God, and letting the hurt fade. I take things away from my kids all the time, for their own good. In the Bible, in Job 1:21, Job says, "Naked I came out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return depart. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Do I like it? Not at all. Do I miss this little baby I got to carry for his entire life, and meet only to say goodbye? Of course I do. But my heart will choose to say, "blessed be the name of the Lord".
In sharing this story I hope to give direction to anyone gong through a similar situation. I hope to offer light at the end of what is a very long and dark tunnel. I wanted to say the name of my baby out loud, Abraham, and make him real, and alive. He died in the womb, but I don't need to keep him a secret. Him passing away was not my fault, and I won't act ashamed and quiet about the miscarriage because that's what we do as a society. He was a person who would have been a part of this family, but now he is only a part of our memories.
20 long days went by between getting the news I had miscarried and finally giving birth to the little boy I would never really know. I sat by his tree crying long into that Saturday night, mourning, mourning. I felt I would turn inside out with grief, like I would be choked by it. But time has passed, and a heart can heal, if it chooses to.
We will meet Abraham alive someday, when I get to meet my heavenly Father. I imagine Abraham and Ezra, our little family in heaven, ready to meet us. I look forward to that day so very much.
I know on Mondays I would usually post a recipe, but I couldn't today. What I need to do is talk a little, get some things out of my head, and honour a little girl who I will never really know, not until I meet her in heaven some day. My 5th baby, Ezra Faith.
I had written out the whole story, the pregnancy, the news of miscarrying, the labour and delivery, but as I finished writing it, I felt I wasn't ready to share it. I want to share a lot of it, for the sake of other women going through the same thing, but it's hard for me to just "put it out there"....I will share my thoughts and feelings though.
A year ago today, when I delivered my Ezra I thought I was 20 weeks pregnant, but she had passed away at roughly 18 weeks. And let me tell you something about her. She was the most perfect, tiny human being you've ever seen. Little hands and feet, a beautiful face, and very long legs (she would have been a tall, Dutch beauty).
They wrapped her in the same blanket all my other full term, living and healthy babies had been wrapped in at the hospital, and handed her to me to hold. My husband and I cried, and cried. A Psalm that I read, and wrote out, and thought about constantly during this whole ordeal was Psalm 6:1(b)-3, 6
"Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am faint; oh Lord, heal me, for my bones are in agony. My soul is in anguish. How long, oh lord, how long?" v6. "I am worn out from groaning; all night long I flood my bed with weeping and drench my couch with tears. My eyes grow weak with sorrow...."
On March 15th, we held a service for her. A family owned funeral home in Belleville gave us a free coffin for her (a wonderful friend called and found out, and picked it up for us), and we decided where on our property we wanted to put her. I felt the need to have her closer than farther, as I wanted to feel as though I could "watch over" her. I also wanted her next to a tree we plated for another baby we lost. Some friends and family came for the service, and it did offer some closure.
I'm not sure where the idea came from, but we decided to make a garden for her, in her honour, as a memory. The most amazing thing about this garden though, is that we didn't pay for anything. The amazing people in our lives from our church, and from friends and our parents, we made the most beautiful garden (I never really thanked anyone from my church, but I would like to do so now). Also, a thanks to my church 'family' who made meals, gave us money for groceries (which my friend would buy, and bring out to us), sent cards and flowers, and especially kept praying. I wanted to fall apart, but no-one would let me....
A year has passed, and still I feel a pain deep inside me when I think of her, and who she might have been. There were many other women pregnant and due at the same time I should have had Ezra who now have healthy, beautiful babies, and when I see them, I imagine Ezra. I want to be happy for people who I learn are pregnant, but I also never want to hear about, or see another pregnant person again, let alone a new born baby. Feeling gladness for them, but also envy at the same time leaves me feeling like I have a split personality, and it hurts, like I am being fake, but not. A quote (not sure who's originally) says something like it's war between remembering and forgetting. Being happy for someone else feels like I am forgetting my baby, but remembering leaves me broken, and unable to function (especially around pregnant people and newborns).
I have a fear, and I think a lot of women who have miscarried might feel this too, but it is a fear that the baby that died will be forgotten. It is not as real to others as it is to me, so, forgetting is understandable. I honestly don't judge. But I have a desire to remember my babies I lost, and other women's babies too. If you know someone who lost a baby, don't be afraid to let them know that you remember! People think, "oh, I don't want to remind them of it...."--don't worry, we're thinking about it! At church yesterday a friend gave me a gift as a remembrance, and another friend just wanted to say "I remember", and another gave me a beautiful drawing of a gerbera daisy (the flower we choose as a symbol of Ezra) and a poem. Small gestures, but all really big to me.
I feel like a have a sense now, a sense of children missing, of being gone. I see them at church, I see them playing at the park, I see them at family functions. Not ghosts, but memories. People who loose babies carry them around with them, that's what I see.
Right now, as the ground is covered in a few feet of snow, and this winter seems to never want to end, and I mourn the loss of my daughter, I also (really, truly) ache and look forward to the spring. To seeing the garden come back to life, to knowing that I may not get to sing Ezra to sleep, or kiss her boo boos, or throw her birthday parties....but, I can tend to her in my garden.
I decided to put into her garden an empty bird cage, and a humming bird on a flower. To me, being here, trapped in this world where there is death & sadness is not a lot to miss. Ezra got lucky. She skipped it all, and went right to her forever home, where I hope to meet her someday. She is free, not trapped here.
If anyone reading this wants my whole story, just e-mail me and let me know, I will share it. If anyone has gone through this, know you aren't alone in your feelings, and share your feelings with me. For art and inspirational quotes, you can view my board on Pinterest about miscarriage.
I love Ezra, I know that may sound strange because I never knew her, but I love her. My throat feels a knot, my heart throbs, and I wish I could hold her. But, until I can, I will remember that the whole time she was alive, I was holding her.
Truth be told, this is an odd post.
I kept thinking about it, and wondering why I would want to do this post. I feel the answer came to me last night, and it was simply, because I need to process.
On June 7th, our lovely purebred lab gave birth to 8 puppies. One was a stillborn, and she also had another stillborn almost 24 hours later. So, 9 pups in total, but 7 for us to have for now. I was surprised at how well our lab was doing with everything. I know there is some instinct stuff that kicks in, but still, I was impressed.
So, where this story is a little odd is in how much I loved these puppies. I generally am not a big puppy lover, but I loved these pups.
A part of my life leading up to our dog having puppies was the fact that I had 2 late term miscarriages. I will speak about this more at a later time, but for now let me just say that I was in a very dark place, and was not coping well, and these puppies became my babies. These pups were born just a few weeks before what was to be my due-date for the second baby I lost. So, I sat and cried with our lab when she had the stillborns, and pet her, and was her telling her how good of a job she had done with the whole process. I was her mid-wife. I was using her and her puppies to make me feel better.
Herein lies the mystery to why we ended up keeping one dog named Blue. Blue is not the smartest, but he is so smart. He is not the cutest, but he is really cute. I fell in love with Blue, and as each puppy was sold, I would cry, and actually miss that one puppy who had left, but I was also feeling a little happy that no-one had chosen Blue. Out of all the puppies, Blue had become the one that I really loved, as my surrogate baby.
Fast forward a few months, and Blue is every bit a puppy, is so wonderful with the kids, and is so anxious to please. But I have been trying to deal with life, and suddenly see Blue for what he is, and not what I wanted him to be. He can make me so angry with the puppy things he does like ruining my slippers, and jumping onto our fake-leather couch and putting claw marks into it (aka-holes that my children will now pick away until the couch is ruined). But, he is just a puppy, after all.
He won't be my little son and daughter that I lost. He could be a part of the family, but not the way I needed him to be. It all sounds selfish now, and a lot more crazy, but I warned you this post was odd.
On Sunday a family is coming to take Blue, and make him part of their family, as a dog. I am honestly really happy for Blue, and for this family because he is really such a sweet puppy. But I am still struggling with the idea that I mothered, and loved on this puppy to fill a hole in me, and now I am sending him away. It genuinely feels like I am sending my child away.
As I write this, I can't quite pin-point how I am feeling. I feel like letting Blue go is like telling myself it is o.k. to let go, and move on. Will I forget my 2 children that I don't get to kiss, and hold? Definitely not. Will I ever forget Blue? Never. But can I think of them all being happy, and better off where they are? For sure. I am moving on. A new life for Blue, and for me.
Hi, I'm Amy-Lyn!
I am the lady behind this here blog! I live in the sticks with my animals, my super handsome husband, and my
3 amazing kids!
Here you'll find things from recipes (gluten-free, paleo, and strait up junk food!), DIY ideas, thoughts on raising a son with autism, and whatever else pops into my brain! : )
Read more about me by clicking here!
Want to Stay Connected?