Welp, I've had a thoroughly cathartic past few weeks.  I did a lot of "coming clean," and not just with the blog.  I also decided it was time to open up about my miscarriage.  To me, that felt a whole lot like strapping myself into a rickety zipline and hurling myself through the jungle whilst praying the thing doesn't snap just to spite me:

Personally, I know of at least five other women my age who have suffered miscarriage.  Two of them do not speak of the miscarriage at all, one has a supportive husband who enables her to vent in short bursts, and the other two haven't even felt comfortable sharing their miscarriages with their significant others - the fathers of those little saints.  

I've tried to encourage through personal contact, but I have done a terrible job of leading by example.  How can I suggest opening up to others when I find the task so incredibly difficult?

Thus, I embarked on the task of opening up about Myla to my two SILs.  

To this point, I had only ever told my MIL what had happened.  I didn't know if she'd mentioned it to anyone else.  I asked, and she said she'd only told Danielle.  

Thus, first up on the docket was Danielle, the pretty blonde you see to the right.  She's my age and has a little girl, herself (the gorgeous and ever lovable niece you've seen me post about before).  Since she already had some idea of my miscarriage, I messaged her through Facebook (since we were having an ongoing discussion there anyway).  I apologized for not coming to her - in person - to tell her, myself, sooner.  I then asked if she'd told Nikki (the pretty redhead to the left) so I could do so if she hadn't.

The entire time I was writing my message to Dani, I was shaking.  I couldn't word anything correctly and finally gave up trying.  I clicked "send" and just said a prayer asking the Holy Spirit to get my point across for me since I was too emotionally incoherent.  That worked out well because she responded with support.  She had not told Nikki (which surprised the crackers outta me).  

Thus, I knew I'd have to bite the bullet and do it myself.  That's how poor Nicole became the first person I explained things to face-to-face.

That's right, folks.  I'd somehow managed to go more than a year without having this conversation with anyone without the aid of a computer.  Sure, I mentioned the miscarriage briefly to my MIL and a very tiny number of friends, but I'd never had the full conversation with anyone - BY DESIGN.

I never wanted to have this conversation with anyone.  To be honest, I didn't think it was possible.  How was I supposed to have a conversation when I could barely breathe, let alone speak, when it comes to Myla?

I stumbled over myself as I made last minute plans to talk to Nikki before I changed my mind. Fear is crippling, and though I wasn't afraid of her treating me poorly, I was terribly afraid of showing such vulnerability.  Tears?  Incoherent strings of babble?  A very plausible moment of pushing things onto the floor in outright frustration?  None of those options are particularly appealing to me, but if I wanted to help other women, I'd have to start by helping myself.  

So, shaking like a rusty old washer chewing through your favorite comforter, I walked into her office and promptly realized I had no idea how to actually begin the conversation.  Heck, she wasn't even sure why I'd asked to meet her, so I can only imagine what she must've thought when I started choking on sounds that refused to form words.  

I'm still frustrated with myself for that.  

Annoyed at myself, I just came out with it.  To her credit, she didn't bat an eye.  She steadied herself on both feet and crossed her arms as if bracing for impact.  I think she knew I needed to get through this, so she patiently waited until I'd gotten it out.  When I had, she walked around the desk and hugged me.  She is her mother, that one.  She didn't have two seconds to process things, herself, but she made the move towards me just the same.  

Again, it's moments like this that I know I married up.  You don't just marry a man - you marry his family.  It's one of the reasons I knew John was for me... I fell in love with them right alongside him.  

Anyway, after trying to make sure I'd given her all the pertinent info, I realized that I'd done it - I'd come clean!  That was a liberating thing, because I knew I could then take that back to those friends of mine struggling to find their voice.  

And I was finally honest with the people I care about.  There's only one person left who should know if he doesn't already - my FIL.  

In all honesty, I don't know that I'm able to say anything to him.  Of all the people I feel I'm disappointing most by not having more children, he and my mom top the list.  Telling him that he'd had another chance at a grandchild seems cruel, especially with all the loss the poor guy has experienced this past year.  

But one step at a time.  For now, I've inched forward Neil Armstrong style.  

And it feels pretty darn good.  

I encourage those of you who struggle with miscarriage to voice your feelings.  It's a terrible burden to carry alone, and there are people out there who love you enough to WANT to carry it alongside you.  

I speak from experience now.  :)  

Plus, don't our children deserve to be made known?  

I must've written and rewritten this entry a dozen times.  I've come to the realization that there's simply no neat and tidy way of being fully honest, especially given the circumstances. Thus, I apologize for the mess you're all about to find yourselves in.

A lovely woman named Anne is a Catholic woman who is dating an Agnostic man.  She believes they are a perfect match in all things but religion.  He was born and raised Catholic but now views Catholicism as something akin to a fairytale while she obviously has deep reverence for her Catholic heritage.

She asked us for our advice on what to do given she's looking to marry this man.

I've been wrestling around a lot with this one.  She commented her plight at the end of August to my "I Married an Agnostic" post from 2011, and I'm half afraid she thinks I've forgotten all about her!

Anne, I promise that I haven't.  I just didn't know how to write this without upsetting you.  My advice, I fear, is not what you're hoping for.  

My advice, in fact, is to get out now.  

I realize you might be surprised to hear that from me, but I've walked in your shoes.  For miles. I'm STILL walking in them which is precisely why I'm telling you that unless you know for certain you are being called to convert this man through a lifetime of marriage (which, itself, carries the reality of conversion not happening and your struggle having an adverse effect on future children), cut your losses, give your heart a healthy time to heal, and ask God to put the right man in your midst.  

You might be wondering how I could say such a thing when my own marriage hasn't fallen apart and my son is a (mostly) willing participant in the Faith.  

This was not without toil, tears, a very real threat of divorce, and an intense overhaul of my entire relationship with John.  That's not even counting the amount of prayers and work that still go into it.

Am I saying I wish I hadn't married John?  Of course not.  I got two children out of the deal and undoubtedly grew closer to Christ.  However, I was significantly less spiritually mature than you currently are when I answered the call to marriage.  

You fully understand the importance of your faith and the necessity of a father to be a spiritual leader for his family.  I didn't understand that; worse, I didn't even think such a thing was necessary! As a result of my ignorance, my family started out with a distinct disadvantage.  We were not a cohesive unit in what would become a very large and important part of our lives. That friction reached its tentacles into everything, especially as I matured in my faith and realized the depth of my ignorance.  

John's refusal to accept my religious beliefs as valid directly - DIRECTLY - correlates to his refusal to be open to more children.  

So Anne, if you plan to have children, be prepared for a similar fate.  It is an excruciating, 
at-times-unbearable, cross to shoulder.

Readers who have been following me for a while might be incredibly unsettled by this.  

When I first learned that this was the driving reason behind my husband's reluctance to have more children, words couldn't possibly express the emotions that coursed through me.  In fact, it's been over a year since I learned that this was my reality and this is the first time I've voiced it beyond my two closest friends.  

It's also the prime reason why responding to you, Anne, has been so challenging.  I couldn't be honest with you without being honest about the depth of my own struggle.  This is a tragic, brutal and incredibly bigoted reality, and it's a reality I want so much to protect you from.  I wouldn't wish this sort of sacrifice on anyone.

It's a sacrifice that I willingly make, yes, but it's a willing sacrifice only because I've already made my vows.  You have not.  Please understand that this is what you'd be saying "I do" to... not just for yourself, but for your future children.

And before you think to yourself that your boyfriend would never do such a thing, again, I've walked in your shoes.  My husband said he accepted my Catholicism.  

Seeing Vincent's participation alongside me must've shifted that for him, because Catholicism was no longer some harmless fairy tale.  To John, it became a bitter irritant.  Prayers at bedtime are nails on chalkboard.  Sunday Mass can solicit anything from an eye-roll to not-so-secret vindication when Vince cries that he doesn't want to go.  

Catholicism has become such a hated thing to my husband that he does not want to see it replicated in his children.  Because he cannot love that part of me, he cannot love that part of our children.  Thus, the only way to stave off such irritation is to stop having children.  To poison one is enough... to poison more than one is unthinkable to him.  

And that is his mindset.  Through tears, I demanded to know how he could hold such a bigoted notion in his head.  He is not what I'd consider a bigot.  He's otherwise incredibly tolerant and accepting.  In fact, should any of his friends read this, they'd probably think I was somehow mistaken - that I'd misunderstood his motivation.

I assure you I have not.  I had him spell it out for me.  That was one of the most painful and damaging conversations I've ever had with anyone in my entire life.  It still stings when I think of it.  

I couldn't understand.  I still don't to a certain degree.  I asked him what part of Catholicism bothered him so much that he couldn't stand to see it played out in me... in Vincent.  He couldn't answer me.  He noted prayers at bedtime or his little sayings of "Jesus loves me" irritated him, but our son is wonderful.  Him being baptized Catholic has not somehow made him less wonderful, but for John, it was enough to make him resent and yes, even hate, Catholicism. Hate it to the point where he willingly allows me to suffer an enforced infertility so as not to bring forth any other children who would suffer the fate of *gasp* Baptism and a Catholic education.

It is not fear of finance... fear of time constraints... fear of love or capability that has condemned me to this cross of infertility.  It is my husband's hatred of Catholicism.  

He shared this in a moment of deep and unfiltered honesty just over one year ago.  I appreciated his honesty, because it showed a level of trust that we'd never come close to understanding.  However, I've lived with this knowledge, completely unsure how to proceed. When I thought his decision was based on finances and such, the cross was easier to bear.  At least his rationale made sense. This, however, was almost insurmountable.  It is still a daily struggle.  

It is a struggle I want to preserve you from, Anne.  It's a struggle I want to preserve your future children from.  

My husband and I have since discussed things.  We both agree that had we known then what we know now about the importance of faith to one another, we likely would not have gotten married. I had, after all, broken off the engagement at one point when he tried to get me to agree not to baptize our future children.  We should've known then that faith was more important than we were giving it credit for.  

But we didn't, and we publicly vowed to love one another every day for the rest of our lives. Love doesn't begin and end with tummy butterflies.  It is an active choice to respect, honor, protect, nurture and support your spouse - every day.  

So that is how I find myself in this situation.  I love my husband, Anne.  I love him, respect him, support him, and do my best to nurture him in ways that will ultimately make him a better person.  He obviously tries his best to do the same for me.  However, I'd be remiss if I didn't warn you of the heartache that comes with this sort of union.

Take my story to heart.  For as much as you love your boyfriend (and I have no doubt you do), you will also love those children you create, and you need to be thinking of them.  The best decision you can ever make for them is who their father will be.  

In all things, you have my prayers.  Other readers, please feel free to chime in with your advice for Anne.  

<3

My mother-in-law threw me a lifeline this weekend.  

We were sitting around the dinner table with our neighbor and friend, Daisy.  She's got two little girls, and she was joking about how she'd never be able to mother boys.  

My MIL joined in to say that boys and girls are both blessings. She pointed out how lucky she'd been having two girls in addition to her son (and my husband), John.  

The conversation then turned towards the difficulty of having multiple children due to rising costs of childcare.  Daisy voiced her appreciation for her 2nd daughter, a surprise conception, while my MIL voiced appreciation for her grandkids.  She was glad to have had one of each (my neice, Alliya, and my son, Vince).  

I knew Daisy was itching to ask me if I ever want a little girl to "balance things out."  It's a question that's been posed to me on numerous occasions.  "Are you gonna try for a girl?"  "When are you gonna make Vincent a big brother?"

I was bracing for it.  Daisy's eyes locked onto mine and I tried to steady myself by focusing all my energy into spinning one of Vincent's plastic toys over and over again in my hand.  

Luckily, my MIL realized where the conversation was going and threw a lifeline my way once she realized precisely how precarious my position was.  She said, "Children are a blessing no matter what.  Boy, girl, three, two or one, they're all blessings, right?"

Daisy promptly turned her attention to my MIL to agree.  

My MIL then deftly offered Daisy some wine as I ran to "check on the kids."

I was quietly grateful.  I knew my MIL realized - with nary a second to spare - that I was about to be exposed in a very uncomfortable, hurtful way.  Daisy would never intend to hurt me, mind you; I don't think anyone is really that malicious.  These questions just have a tendency to spring forth naturally in conversations between women.  I don't take offense to them.  I know some folks get upset at others asking such "personal" questions, but I don't think they're personal.  I don't think they stem from a person's desire to snoop.  I think people who ask those questions are just excited about the prospect of children being brought forth; I can't fault them for that! 

I felt such gratitude in that moment, though, because my MIL recognized an unspoken need and immediately moved in to diffuse the situation - to protect me from unnecessary awkwardness.  She didn't have to be so thoughtful, but she was.  

That never would have happened had I not finally broken down and told her about Myla.  

Just an interesting turn of events that again made me appreciative of the family I married into. 

:)

Vincent and I spent the weekend down the shore with family and friends.  Usually we hang out as a group on the beach, but due to the rain, our neighbors ended up coming over to our house and my in-laws hosted an impromptu barbecue.  

It was a blast.  Our neighbors, Pete and Daisy, have two little girls named Jasmine and Lily. Jasmine is Alliya's age, so the two of them are best buddies.  Lily is only two, so she and Vincent are a little pair.  The four of them play well together, too, but they definitely tend to break up into two distinct groups.  

Anyhow, when my FIL brought Jasmine over in the morning to give Pete and Daisy a break, Vincent was angry that Lily hadn't come, too.  He didn't understand why she needed to nap when she should've been having fun with him.  Later, when Pete showed up (also without Lily), Vincent didn't even bother greeting him.  He demanded to know why he dared to come over without bringing his "best friend in the whole wide world."  

Finally, Lily woke up from her nap and Daisy brought her over to join the rest of us.  Vincent was in his glories.  He jumped off the couch, rushed over to her and gave her a giant hug.  "LILY!" he cried.  "We gotta play!"

This is what the two of them look like for the rest of the time they're together:

Vincent leading her by the hand everywhere, checking to make sure she's got everything she needs (or does everything she's supposed to do before she gets a snack - ha).  They also both tend to scramble if you try to sneak a picture of them being cute together. Rascals.  

Later on in the day, Lily settled into my FIL's lap.  She calls him "Uncle John" and she knows she's got him wrapped around her adorable little finger!  Anyway, it was so sweet to see how they were interacting together.  I snapped this picture of her giving me a toothy grin:

Vince is right behind her with his back turned, but Lord, that kid won't let Lily out of his sight for very long.  It's so cute!  

I admit, however, that I got a bit wallow-y when I wondered what it'd be like for Myla to be sitting in his lap.  Vince is such a good big brother to Lily (and his other little cousins), I feel sad that he didn't get the chance to interact with Myla the same way.  

I pushed those thoughts out of my mind until later that evening when we took the kids out for ice cream.  Again Lily was sitting on my FIL's lap while I had Jasmine, Alliya and Vince huddled up in front of me.  Lily was successfully convincing my FIL to hand over all of his ice cream to her, and he was happily obliging, looking like the proudest, happiest person in the universe.

It made me sad to think that we'd never provide him with the grandchildren he takes such delight in.  I felt guilty... like I'd failed something on an intrinsic level.  He wasn't doing anything to accuse me or even make me feel badly.  He likely didn't even notice I was there watching him enjoy Lily's manipulations for ice cream.  It was my own brokenness projected and magnified by my intense longing for not only Myla, but all the children I've envisioned and subsequently been denied.  I understood that, but it didn't lessen my feelings of inadequacy, failure and sadness.

I didn't want to further my upset, so I turned away and imagined myself making a fist and physically punching back the knot in my throat until I could breathe without crying.  

*Sigh*

Sorry if I sound miserable or depressed.  I'm not.  I'm certainly sad now and again when this sort of situation arises, but I'm trying to be honest with how this sort of thing affects my daily life.  Myla is always in my thoughts, so my imagination sometimes puts her into situations like this.  Is it logical?  Probably not.  Then again, I think it's human to always wonder "What if?"  

In this situation, it's obviously a moot point, but I guess we're so used to exercising our God-given gift of creativity that we can't help ourselves sometimes.  

Losing a child (or even the opportunity for children) is a terrible cross.  It's hard for folks who haven't been in this situation to understand how all-encompassing it is.  I don't write these things to remind people of my struggle, but I do write to remind folks that this struggle is real and it's daily (not just for me, but for the many, MANY other men and women who struggle with this sort of cross).  

Tread softly and with much, much compassion, because even when we're trying our best to look past our sorrow to count our blessings, we can't help but hear echos of our indignant humanity insisting "What if?"

While I was at the park with Vince today, he walked up behind a toddler on a swing and tried to push her so she could go higher.  The toddler's grandmother said, "Aren't you a nice little boy!  You must be a big brother, huh?  Do you have a little sister that you push on swings?"

It's doubtful Vince actually processed her question, but he answered, "Yes" just the same. My heart didn't break so much as sigh at the sight of him trying to be brotherly to this little girl.  

The truth is, I don't speak to Vincent about Myla.  I'm not sure he'd understand anyway. He still confuses familial terms like "brother" and "sister" for "son" or "daughter."  That's okay, though.  One day he'll know he's got a little sister in Heaven waiting for him.  

A reader who has experienced miscarriage asked me if I spoke about Myla to anyone outside my circle of close friends.  The truth is, I don't actually speak about Myla to anyone - not even on the blog so much anymore.

It's not that I don't think about her every day; I do.  It's not that I don't still feel intense emotions about her short life; I do.  Just the other day, I saw that show Say Yes to the Dress and when one of the brides-to-be said "Yes" and her mom, all teary-eyed from seeing her daughter dressed up in her bridal attire, hugged and kissed her,k I felt the pang of loss in realizing I'd never have that moment with Myla.  I allowed my heart to clench into itself as it braced for the tsunami of anger, grief and frustration that would slowly fade to resignation, acceptance and even appreciation. 

But I dunno.  I still feel awkward bringing her up.  I'm not embarrassed by her or my experience.  I'm not ashamed.  I am, however, unwilling to open myself up to public scrutiny, I guess.  I'm unsure of my ability to handle the emotions of others (sorrow, awkwardness, pity, frustration) while still juggling my own.  So rather than attempt, I remain silent.  I don't speak of her to John, to my mother, not even to my closest friends.

Mind you, I'm sure I could should the absolute need arise, but I haven't felt that driving necessity in a long time.  I am thankful for that. 

However, I'd like to single out two friends who've given me incredible gifts:  Theresa and Lien.

And yeah, I'm posting your pictures.  :) 

You guys have seen me talk about Theresa a few times.  She's the one who has the obsession with pink (and purses).  She's also the mother of that beautiful little munch above, Maddy.  She and I have been together since Freshman year of HS when I invited her to my lunch table because I was sick of eating by myself.  I even feigned interest in the Backstreet Boys (had NO idea who they were at the time) in an effort to drum up conversation.  

Anyway, Theresa had just had Maddy when I went through the miscarriage.  Like everyone else, she found out about it through the blog because, quite frankly, I couldn't physically have that conversation out loud.  I still feel like a coward that my good friends (and mother) had to find out in that manner, but truthfully it was the only mode of communication I had at the time.

Anyway, as soon as Theresa read the blog, she reached out to me.  She sent me a quick message via FB just to let me know she was there in support.  It wasn't this massive production - just a brief communication that let me know someone was out there grieving with me.  I wasn't alone in my sorrow.

That meant so much to me.  

And since then, Theresa's been the only friend who has openly mentioned her in passing. I'm always slightly taken aback by how easily she slips her into conversation.  She isn't afraid to use Myla's name.  She doesn't seem skittish to bring her up out of the blue.  That sort of acknowledgement of my precious little girl is actually bringing tears to my eyes as I type this.  

So thank you.  Each and every time you did it, I was blessed.  It may have seemed small or even insignificant, but to me, someone who has been starved of any sort of acknowledgement that she existed at all, it was the most comforting, gratifying gift.  

This is Lien.  I know Lien through her sister, Xuan.  I love both of them immensely, but through the years, Lien and I have grown closer simply due to our shared love of family and terrible jokes.  At least that's why I think she keeps me around.

Anyway, she only recently learned of Myla's existence.  She, too, read the blog and reached out.

I had originally shared my blog for very different reasons, but I knew she'd come across the entries about Myla.  I told her I trusted her with the information, because I wouldn't have given her the web address otherwise.  

She scheduled a time to meet (a rarity for us due to where we live and the hours we work). I knew she'd touch on my miscarriage, but I thought the crux of the conversation would center on why I'd sent her the blog in the first place.  While we did talk about that for a bit, she was insistent on discussing Myla (and her disdain for John's handling of things - ha ha). Good old Lien.  Fiesty as hell when she wants to be.

When she brought up Myla, as I knew she would, I tried to make it as painless as possible for her.  An awkward conversation knowing how upsetting the experience was for me, I didn't want her to feel bad or like she'd upset me, so I was very matter-of-fact about everything.  Lawyerly, if you will.  

What she did made me really stop in my tracks, though.  I was eating, trying to keep the conversation going so there weren't any awkward pauses, but she reached over and grabbed my greasy hand.  She looked me square in the eye and forced me to shut up for a hot second while she said, "No.  This is important.  It's a big deal what happened.  I'm really, really sorry.  I cried while reading everything.  I'm really sorry."

That was powerful.  I dunno if Lien realized it, but it was powerful.  She not only gave permission for me to publicly grieve, but demanded the right to experience it alongside me.  

She also reprimanded me - rightly - for disenfranchising her of that right by keeping my miscarriage a secret all this time.  

Well played, Lien.  Well played.  

I appreciated that more than you realize.

This grainy picture from my wedding is probably the last one I have of Theresa, Lien and I together.  They don't really know one another outside of me.  I wonder if they've even thought about each other in the years since they were my bridesmaids. It's funny to think of that.

Both of them have given me incredible gifts by extending themselves in such a generous, loving way.  I didn't think I needed (or could even cope with) such displays of charity.

I appreciate all my friends - I really do.  This particular entry isn't about guilting others or soliciting Myla conversations from anyone else.  I simply wanted to recognize and extend public appreciation for the unique and incredibly special gifts Theresa and Lien gave, completely unprovoked, to let me know they love me, grieve with me, and hope with me for the future.

I love you guys.  Thank you so much for being amazing friends to me.  I appreciate it more than words could ever express.

I've tried writing this out a few times.  I almost feel silly for admitting it, but each time I've tried, my fingers shook so badly that I just gave up.  

Tomorrow, March 28th, would have been Myla's due date.  

Instead of looking forward to this date with love, excitement and baby chatter, I've lived in a bubble of silence, grief and terror.  

I was absolutely terrified of tomorrow, but I haven't told that to anyone.  No one.  Even the thought of bringing it up caused me to shake with anxiety.  Too many emotions and not enough control is a recipe for tears, so I requested off from work a while back expecting to spend Friday hiding in my bed away from the world.  At least there I could cry in peace.  Under my covers I could give vent to the very real, very present grief that still exists in my heart for her, my sweet baby girl who flew off to Heaven before I got the chance to meet her.  

However, the last few weeks of mental preparation have led me down a different path altogether.  I decided that hiding away in my bed was a very selfish thing to do.  It was also, in my mind, very ungrateful.  After all, God granted me the blessing of another child. Not only did He grant me the grace of another child, He granted me the grace of a Saint. He took her to Heaven before she'd ever know pain, sadness or disappointment.  He gave to her everything a mother could ever hope for: love, immeasurable joy, and life eternal.  He even went out of His way to ensure John would come to know Myla.  To allow my grief to blind me to those gifts is an ungrateful thing indeed.

So what was I to do?  How could I sidestep my broken heart on the day that taunted me with the one whom I lost?

I e-mailed a local children's hospital.  I filled out paperwork to become a volunteer.  I purchased a whole bunch of children's joke books, coloring books, pop-up books and small toys and I put them aside for March 28th.

I decided that instead of mourning that she was taken from me, I'll celebrate that she was given to me at all.  

That I held her for even a few short weeks is a blessing.  That she'll remain a part of me forever... that I have her waiting in Heaven to greet me... that she's always looking on us with love and prayer... that she's happy to intercede for us always and in all things... these are all graces I should be grateful for.  I won't allow fear of the 28th blind me to those blessings.

Thus, the 28th has become something I've timidly begun looking forward to.  I'm still scared I'll react differently when tomorrow rolls around, but knowing I've got folks already looking forward to getting a dose of fun will likely make it easier for me to push past the fear and reach out with love.  I don't want to disappoint them.  

Plus, I feel it's only fair that I repay God's kindness in some small way.  Bringing joy to His other children is a pretty good way, in my mind, to do that.  I'm sure Myla approves.

Thanks for listening, guys.  I appreciate it.

Last night, John and I were watching the latest episode of HIMYM (again, if you don’t want spoilers, STOP READING THIS).  I’ve always loved the characters of Marshall and Lily.  For those of you who don’t know the show, Marshall and Lily are college sweethearts who consistently exemplify unconditional and sacrificial love.  They really are the perfect example of what marriage should look like, and I love that the writers have always been dedicated to the success of that relationship.  

I’ve always related to Lily’s character.  She is a strong woman with very maternal instincts. She loves her husband deeply, adores children, is brutally honest when necessary, and is fiercely loyal to her friends.  She's even a teacher!  Lily is me with red hair and a much hotter body.  
 
Anyway, in last night’s episode, we come to find out that Lily has been harboring a secret.  I immediately said to John, “She’s pregnant!”

Turns out I was right.  The way the writers allowed the story to unfold was beautiful. Marshall, upon learning he was going to be a Daddy again, rushed to Lily’s side and confronted her with the news.  However, he didn’t confront her angrily.  Instead, he was emotional – 120% caught up in anticipation, hope, joy, and above all, love.  Love for Lily, love for his son, and love for the new life he and Lily had created.

And when Lily said she “just felt like” the baby was a girl, I was instantly a wreck.  I chewed my lip to the point of bleeding trying to keep myself from openly sobbing in front of John, but he saw I was upset and came to sit next to me on the couch to hug me.  He probably thought I was crying over Myla.

In truth, I sorta was, but my tears were lamenting more than miscarriage.

Marshall said something that stabbed my heart.  The exchange came after a very emotional argument Marshall and Lily had regarding moving to Italy vs. staying in the States (pitting Lily’s dreams against Mashall’s dreams).  Marshall selfishly wanted to stay in the States and made the decision without ever asking Lily’s input.  Lily, rightly hurt by this, angrily demanded to know why her dreams weren’t considered as important as Marshall’s. The argument ends with Lily sacrificing her dream of Italy for the sake of the family she loves, and Marshall apologizing for allowing his selfishness to come before his love for her.

However, upon learning that Lily is carrying their 2nd child, Marshall exclaims:

“Lily, we have to [go to Italy]!  You’re gonna live in Rome, and you’re gonna get your dream because you’re giving me mine, again.”
 
Cue tear cascade.

Lily had already given up her dream of Italy to support her husband and their (now growing) family.  That was a very, VERY difficult thing for her and she knew she’d wrestle with that baggage for the rest of her life.  But she did it.  Why?  Because she loves Marshall and their family enough to sacrifice of herself.
 
And in that instance, Marshall realized his erroneous thinking.  The whole season, he was focused solely on how he could convince Lily to make the sacrifice because his dream was, selfishly, what he wanted. 

Until news of the baby.  News of the baby's existence caused Marshall to instantly realize his priorities were skewed.  A judgeship was not his dream.  It’d be a nice goal to reach, but Marshall’s dream was, and always has been, to have a big family, the same as he’d grown up surrounded by.  Family is Marshall’s true dream, and he recognized that Lily had known (and been working towards) this all along.  Lily had always sacrificed for their shared dream of family, while Marshall simply enjoyed the fruits of that sacrifice.  

Realizing this, he took responsibility for sacrificing.  He wanted Lily to have the same opportunity to grasp her dreams because it’s what she’d always done for him.  He loved her and their family to the point of sacrificing the biggest goal he’s ever set for himself: judgeship.  He pushed his fear of leaving New York aside and trusted that his love for his family would be sufficient to weather the journey.

They are like the married couple in O. Henry’s story The Gift of the Magi.  Lily willingly handed over her hair (Italy) and Marshall gave up his watch (the judgeship). Deep, personal sacrifices in both cases that were gift wrapped in love.

And Marshall only understood this lesson after rearranging his priorities into their proper order: Lily first, family second, self third.  What caused the paradigm shift? News of the baby and his overabundance of love and excitement.  

THAT is why my body rocked with sobs.  Marshall’s response was what I’ve always envisioned for myself as a child – my future husband being just as excited and joyous as Marshall at news of a pregnancy… my future husband seeing these children as dreams come true.  I had visions of him jumping up and down in the bathroom with me as two little pink lines surfaced from a plastic stick.

I cried because my husband was so diametrically opposed to Marshall in this.  

There was no moment of joy when he learned of Myla.  There was no realization that his priorities were misaligned.  There was no moment of clarity in which he appreciated the terrible sacrifice I make on a daily basis so his dreams can be sought after.  Instead, there was disgust, fear, annoyance and frustration.  

How that wounds my heart.  

My dream, from my very first memories, revolve solely around a family.  Myla was, in many ways, my final chance at that family.  So when I mourn for Myla, I fully understand that I’m mourning for her and all the other children I’ve been denied.  

And I was angry.  Frustrated.  Jealous.  Desperate.  All because of a television series that showcased the response I long for but will never have.  Not even with Vincent. On both counts, John’s first reaction was fear and annoyance.  Disbelief. 

Never love.  Never joy.

And that is what absolutely kills me.

I felt so unappreciated that I free-fell into an intense depression. My mind wondered if John even loved me at all.  How could someone who loves me simultaneously seem to hate me so much?

Do I think John hates me?  Of course not.  But in that moment, it felt that way. Maybe because I hated myself being in this situation.  I don't know. It's easier for me to turn the upset feelings inward rather than outward.  

Anyway, after the show finished, we watched a 30 minute comedy to lighten the mood.  It worked well enough for John to think things were okay.  I was sour, though.  The self-loathing, anger, jealousy and despair were percolating in my mind the whole time.  So instead of watching another show, I went to bed.  Not that I was going to sleep.  Lord knows I wouldn't be doing much sleeping.  But at least I could shut myself off in the dark.  

John came up after me. He grabbed me close in bed and snuggled there.  He's a snuggler.  I hate snuggling.  Loathe it.  It's okay for all of three seconds before I get annoyed and want my space back.  However, I allowed it because I knew that was his way of trying to make me feel better.  I knew he needed to feel like he was helping.  Maybe that's all he thought he could do.  After all, John responds to touch, so it makes sense why he'd think I would react the same.

Honestly, though, I wanted no parts of myself let alone any parts of him.  
I'm terrible, aren't I?

*Sigh*

Anyway (and really, Mom, if you're reading this, just go ahead and avert your eyes), I realized in that moment that I did need John.  I needed to feel loved, because there was a part of me (the logical side?) that understood he loved me, but my heart was so full of hurt and grief that I couldn't feel it.  I couldn't process that he could love me given the broken and hurting state I was in.

So I kissed John.  I wanted him to kiss me back, to give me some tangible sign that he loved me.  He dutifully kissed me, but laid back on his pillow.  I pulled his face back to mine and whispered, "No.  Make love to me."

I don't normally do that.  I'm not the romantic type who whispers sweet nothings into dusky skies as my hair whips gracefully in a gentle breeze.  But in that moment, I recognized the marital act of making love as the only balm to soothe the aching desolation in my heart.  I needed my husband to love me.  I needed him to physically, emotionally and spiritually LOVE me, and a few pecks on the cheek weren't going to cut it.  Not when I was feeling so incredibly unloved.  

That was the first time I've ever "needed" sex.  I've enjoyed sex, sure.  I've wanted sex, definitely.  But I can't remember a time in which I urgently needed to give the fullness of myself and receive the fullness of my husband in the way that only married love can do.  Sex isn't just some repetitive thrusting based solely on biology.  That we, as a people, have turned it into so base a commodity is a travesty.  Looking at sex as a means to better know and understand the love of my husband... it was eye-opening for me.  

When the pain of loss seems too great to bear, and when the grief comes coursing in to crush the very breath from your lungs, fix your eyes on the Blessed Mother as she gazes upon her Son, gasping away His Life for love of us.

Allow the tears to come.  Offer your tears together with hers... hers that shine like diamonds and are collected by the angels as tokens of mercy.  

Accept the emptiness as it threatens to swallow you.  Allow the weight of desolation to shatter your heart - your very soul - but do not despair.

For where God destroys, He creates.  These mournful remains can thus rejoice and offer themselves as ready sacrifice for the new Life that comes in their place.

"I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you." Ez. 36:26

Blessed Mother, be my strength.  I am having a really, really hard time accepting Myla's absence right now.  

That television show... it was as if I was being pinned to a surgical table to have my heart sliced open by a scalpel.

But I see, I see.  The tears wash away the clutter from my eyes, and the crushing grief just reminds me that I have something left to offer.  It is yours... the pain and tears that echo softly your own.  Tender Mother, hold her for me.  Hold her and tell her all the things that I never got the chance to say.  Allow her to be the delight of your Son since she could not be the delight of mine.  Bring her often to see her Father so that He can tell her about the Daddy she left behind.  Guide me daily with Vincent so that I can be worthy of meeting her one day.

Grief, folks.  It still exists.  Every day.  Sometimes you're granted respite.  Sometimes you're asked to experience it more keenly.  But it's always there.  

That is at it should be.  There can be no grief if there is not, first, love.  And love is forever.

And love, Myla Therese, is exactly what you were created by.

A friend of mine posted the above video to Facebook.  I knew what it was as soon as I saw it.  A reader had sent it my way and said maybe I should think about sharing Myla's story as a way to break the silence.  

I'm not there yet.  But I am really, really glad that there is a push to get stuff like this out in the open.  

When my friend posted this, he said something great:  "I didn't realize the prevalence of this event. I love how families are allowing the child to remain a part of their family and honoring her/him at special times - birthday, thanksgiving, christmas and/or other winter holidays. For those who are uncomfortable with sharing this, GET OVER YOURSELF!  The child was part of life however briefly, is loved and will always be remembered."

I immediately thought, Right on, we WILL always love and remember them!  And of course you didn't realize the prevalence.  NO ONE realizes the prevalence because no one talks about it.

I then wondered why.  I mean, on a personal level, I know why I don't talk about it.  But on a grander scale, there had to be a reason.  It hit me, and I commented the following:

I know this is a good chunk of the reason I keep silent.  I'm not ready to handle their emotions on top of my own.  I'm not ready to handle the questions or the judgement or even the sympathy that might result from Myla's story being out there amongst family and friends.

But the point of this video is spot on, and I do think the reason so many of us don't speak out more is because our culture - a culture steeped in death and selfishness - cannot accept the grief of parents who prove their misguided stance on life within the womb is not compatible with reality.  We are a thorn in their logic.  

Quick heads up...

The blog community CatholicSistas has a Remembrance Day linkup.  Check it out and participate there!

I attended the baby shower of a friend of mine today.  He became a dad several weeks early.  He and my sister were gunning for preemie bragging rights, I think, because his daughter was born in similar circumstances as Maria's son. Thankfully, both of them are fighters and are well on their way to fattening up enough to come home.  

God is good!

Today was my friend's shower.  He and his wife came with photos of their daughter in the NICU.  Of course she's beautiful!  :)  Please keep them in your prayers. We'll all be very relieved when they're ALL home safe and sound.

As for the shower, it was a surprising experience for me.

The entire way there, I was nervous.  I was afraid of facing a baby shower for a little girl.  I didn't know if I was "there" yet.  I was super happy for Jen and Leo, but I can admit that I am painfully aware that Myla never had a shower and will never have family and friends gathered to celebrate her.

Before you chide me for my selfishness, I already get it.  I felt guilty enough for even allowing myself to go down that road.  I'm being honest, though.  I was nervous because I wasn't sure if seeing all the pink balloons, baby clothes and baby things would overload me. 

I was one of the very first people there.  The place was adorably decked out in pink and purple balloons.  "It's a Girl" posters were everywhere, and the tables had cute little bookmarks made with their daughter's birthday and stats.  Immediately I realized none of my friends had yet made their entrance.

I sent out a text.  Dear God, let them be two seconds away!  I can't do this by myself!

To my horror, none of my friends were actually attending.  They sent me messages back with varying degrees of "I have other plans."

GAH.  

My heart actually sank and I contemplated turning around and leaving right then and there. I couldn't face this all by myself - not without a friend or two to talk about anything and everything to keep me from the pity-party brewing in my heart.

But no.  I quietly took a seat at an empty table.  Especially knowing that our other friends weren't coming, I couldn't leave Leo to think that none of us was there to celebrate with him.  So I sucked it up as best I could and braced for impact.  I begged God to take away my selfish grief and replace it with a magnification of the true joy I had for Leo, Jen and their little Maggie.  

I stayed in my secluded little spot for about 10 minutes as other people trickled in.  God was kind, because He sent my cousin's girlfriend as one of the attendees.  She and I aren't close (mostly because we never see one another), so she was the perfect person to snap me into "Happy Gina" mode.  Since I'm not comfortable enough to share personal details, my "auto-wall" went up and I slid into my "Everything is great, how are you?" game.  She's an actress, so my guess is that happens frequently with her, too.  Regardless, it was exactly the situation I needed to survive that moment.

Pretty soon, most guests had arrived.  My originally silent table had grown to encompass all of Jen's friends.  My cousin's girlfriend knew many of them from theater, so by the time Jen and Leo finally arrived, the table was so full that I was able to quietly excuse myself and sit with Leo, his best friend, Adam, and Adam's girlfriend.  Adam is an old friend of mine through my husband, so again God afforded me a great person to focus on so I didn't have time to dwell on any vestige of a pity party.  I really enjoyed spending the next two hours catching up with Adam and getting to know his girlfriend a bit better.  

When it was time to leave, I was able to go with with a sense of gratefulness and pride. Grateful, of course, that I'd been able to stay to celebrate with Leo and Jen.  Grateful, also, that God had sent me two key people to help me cope with what could have been a really difficult experience.  Pride, finally, that I'd made the decision to stick it out.  I really am proud that I was somehow able to make it through that shower intact and truly happy.  I felt no bitterness or envy, no jealousy or anger regarding the gift of their child.  On the contrary, God gave me what I requested - a magnified joy and a deep appreciation since I knew that Maggie wasn't just a gift for them... she was a gift for the world.

<3

You guys must think I complain a lot.  I wonder if you think I am constantly venting to random people about my personal life given how candid I am on this blog.

Truth is, I don't.  Most people are completely unaware of my current struggles.  My mom knows... three friends know... one coworker knows... and possibly a sibling or two depending on who my mom might've said something to.   Besides that, I've been completely mum on the entire subject.  

As I said before, I'd rather remain silent than cry.  Talking about this, when I'm not in full control of the conversation, will inevitably make me cry.  So I don't say anything and I pretend everything is perfectly fine.

That being said, I'm NOT perfectly fine.  I understand that, and I accept that.  I'm not a heaping mess of tears in the corner, either, though.  Right now, I feel like an actor going through the motions of life.  

It's not that I don't trust my family, friends or coworkers with what's going on.  It's just... how do you bring something like this up?  What's the point even if I do?  Pity?  No thank you.

So far, reactions thus far to my situation have been a mixed bag.

Some folks (my husband included) think I deluded myself into believing I was pregnant.
Some folks sorta roll their eyes and think I'm being a hypochondriac because even if it was an early miscarriage, it's not like it's a big deal or anything.
Finally, some folks (you readers included) have been kind and understanding.

Truthfully, I think I keep my mouth shut because most people I'd tell would likely fall into the first two categories.  The first two reactions to my situation are very, very hurtful, so I don't bother opening myself up for that sort of emotional suicide.

I don't really speak much on this topic at all which is why the brunt of my venting happens through this blog.

The reason I bring this up is because one of the friends who knows made a comment that made me stop in my tracks.  She's known me since college.  While we were talking, she asked how this weekend went and I said, "It went better than I expected, honestly."  She then said (and I'm physically cringing while writing this) "Yeah, I figured you were over everything from all the photos you posted."

I actually didn't know what to say. 

It's true that I'd posted photos of a birthday party I'd attended.  I had actually been contemplating NOT going on account of what had been going on, but my friend, Jay, was really looking forward to it.  Plus, I knew that my other friends, Frank and Megan, would be there, too, and I didn't want to bail last minute on the birthday girl.  

So I went.  I'm glad I did because I was very proud of how I handled myself.  It was like a test-run for how I could survive my own family or in-laws gathered together for whatever holiday comes up next.  I was determined not to be a downer for Jay, and I was determined not to let on that I was anything but the happiest match-maker in the country.

Photos are a part of who I am.  If I wasn't taking photos, my friends would've known something was wrong.  So take pictures I did, and I made sure they were happy ones.  

And truth be told, I did feel happy in some of them.  I did enjoy my time at the party meeting new people and catching up with old friends.  However, just because I appeared to be the pristine model of happiness does not mean nothing was hidden behind the smile. 

Those pictures didn't capture the moment I walked from the dance floor because the image of a brother dancing with his little sister  was too much for me.  They didn't capture the temporary fumbling for composure I had when one of the friends who does know asked how I was fairing.  They also didn't capture the five minutes I spent in the bathroom after being asked by a guest when my husband and I would be having more children.

I actually laugh thinking back at that adorable woman asking in a Polish accent, "But just one?  You're young, you're young.  Have many!"

So yes.  Of course I looked happy in those pictures.  I wasn't gonna go parade myself around with running mascara and a Mopey Mary complex.  I was what I needed to be, and I actually took pride in my ability to compartmentalize my emotions.  It made me feel stronger... ready for whatever family function I'd have in the upcoming months that might be a little tough.  

But no - just because I'm able to plaster a smile on my face at-will... just because I'm able to crack a joke or dance with a friend during a party... none of that means I'm "over everything."

What does that even mean, anyway???

Did she think I was no longer emotionally raw?  That maybe I'd finished grieving or that I'd finally convinced myself I wasn't pregnant to begin with?  Or maybe I had accepted my circumstances and she'd never have to wait for the next awkward time it came up in conversation?

I seriously had no idea.  So I asked.  I said, "What do you mean by 'over everything'?"

She said, "Oh, I didn't mean anything by it.  I meant that I figured you were okay with, ya know... what happened.  You looked happy."

Times like this, I wonder how Jesus remained sinless, because you just know He had similar experiences with Peter or the other apostles.

"I look happy, Peter?  That's what you've got?  I look happy?  You're supposed to be one of My best friends.  Did you really think I'd just "get over" losing My cousin, John?  Just because I'm enjoying a nice meal with you and these 5,000+ people doesn't mean I'm not still hurting for My cousin."


Oh sigh.  He not only remained sinless and didn't snark back at Peter, He went ahead and performed a miracle and fed a bunch of people - all while He mourned the passing of John the Baptist.  

I didn't snark back, but I was wounded.  I just pointed out that while I was happy for most of the party, there were moments of struggle that I'm sure will repeat in the coming weeks and months.  

So why am I share all of this?  Why am I posting about it?

Because I've come to realize the internet (and society in general) has woefully inadequate information on this particular situation.  No one knows how to talk about miscarriages - ESPECIALLY early ones.  No one knows what to say or how to handle their friends who might be going through such an emotional free-fall.  

So I'm going to document it as best I can.  I'm going to chronicle my journey in the hopes that it eventually helps someone, somewhere, struggling to either endure this situation, or looking to help a friend endure it.  

Plus, on a personal level, I just feel better typing. 

Me: “I’m just not feeling very well.”

John:  “Why do you think you’re sick?  Did you catch Vincent’s stomach bug?”

I stopped myself from angrily retorting, No, John, I did not catch a stomach bug.  This is not a cold, this is not the flu, and it’s NOT my imagination.  This is our CHILD, and she is being unceremoniously taken away from me… from US.

Instead, I just shot him a look that shouted, C’mon, you’re not this dense, John.  To hit home the point, I said, “It’s only been a couple days, John.  I’m still bleeding, and I just don’t feel well.”

Immediately he took his hand from mine and recoiled into himself.  Here he was trying to have a fun, cute time talking about our upcoming “honeymoon” to the Bahamas, and there I go bringing up things he’d rather pretend didn’t exist. 

This is going to be a long, long road.  I just don’t know how to handle things right now.  I don’t know what to say or do, so I mostly remain silent.  For the most part, I think I’m okay.  I’m certainly sad when I think on my child, but I’m also buoyed by my faith that this child is happy and praying for us. 

That being said, I want to talk about this.  Problem is, I don’t want to talk about it with just anyone.  I want to talk to John, but John absolutely bristles at the thought.  The last time we spoke about this was Sunday night, and he was itching to be done with it throughout the brief moments we discussed things. 

In his mind, I am just wrong.  I’ve been so desperate for a child that I tricked myself into believing I was pregnant and got my period early.  All the other signs were just coping mechanisms.  In a nutshell, he closed himself off to the possibility that I was pregnant.

I’m not sure if he fully believes that or if it’s his way of coping with the possibility of a miscarriage.  He said the idea of a miss is upsetting, but he also says that since there’s no way to prove a child existed, I was probably just wrong.

I admit… I almost want to believe that because the thought is comforting.  I’m now going back and forth on whether or not I want to believe it was all in my head.  But I don’t believe it.  In the deepest part of my soul, I know I held a child. 

I’ve been yearning for children for YEARS.  Why, all of the sudden, would I start developing symptoms now?  What would have changed in the last month that would have suddenly set my psyche off balance enough to delude myself (and the physiology of my body) into believing I was pregnant… only to then suffer the heartache of losing that pregnancy within the month?

I just… no.  I don’t accept it.  I want to.  I really, REALLY want to, but the more I try to rationalize that as my situation, the more my heart revolts and says, “No.  You shall NOT ignore this gift you’ve been given.  You shall NOT forget the life you briefly held that now beckons you, through prayer, to Heaven.  This child was made through love in the Image of God.  You shall not write her off as some mistaken illusion.”

Chided by love, I’m back to square one.  I’m struggling to handle these feelings but I don’t know what to do with them.  At times, I’m perfectly calm.  I’m able to move about my day as if nothing has happened.  Other times, I need a moment to recollect myself in private… a tiny moment to remember what it is to breathe.

Roller coaster implies highs.  I don’t feel as though I have any highs.  Plateaus of “okay” might be more appropriate.  Plateaus of “okay” interspersed with dips in the road.  I don’t believe I’ve spiked down into depression, but the hurt and the sadness and the utter hopelessness of my situation does drag me down some dark alleys sometimes. 

I just keep chugging along, though.  I keep telling myself it’s normal to feel this way.  It’s normal to have bouts with these emotions throughout the day, especially given I’m still at ground zero. 

But sigh.  I just don’t know what or how to say things right now.  So I keep silent because I’d rather stay silent than cry.  I’d rather stay silent then go off on an angry tangent that only masks the guilt and feelings of failure that I have. 

Really, that’s all the anger is there for.  I’m not really angry.  I’m hurt.  Dear God, I am so, so hurt.  Sometimes I hate my heart for its ability to keep beating.  At least my lungs forget to breathe sometimes, but my heart...  What a nasty little contraption to keep on beating – thump after painful thump – when everything else within me wants to crawl into a corner and die. 

No… maybe that’s a touch dramatic.  I don’t want to die so much as leave this world to see my child.  To tell her that I love her and to let her, for even a moment, feel my fingers on her cheek. 

Cruel, cruel heart with your rhythmic taunting.  I’m grudgingly grateful that you are deaf to my soul’s plea for solace.  Keep marching, for though you don’t march for me, you march for Vincent.  Maybe that’s enough right now.  

Our Lady of Sorrows, pray for us.