Exactly six months ago, on the fifth of July, I went to what was supposed to be a standard prenatal check up. I was sixteen weeks and five days pregnant with what would have been – what will always be – my fourth child.

I had shared with my doctor that I was concerned about not really feeling much movement from the baby and she reassured me that fetal quickening is not easily detectable before twenty weeks gestation. But this was my fourth pregnancy and I always feel my babies move early. In fact, I was pretty certain I had felt this baby move before. It had just been several days since I felt anything like flutters or bubbles, but I had felt some sharp pains and my hands and feet were swollen. My hands and feet never swell with pregnancy, and especially not in the second trimester.

“Tell you what,” she said, “why don’t I get the ultrasound machine instead of the Doppler and I can show you how much your baby is moving.”

She wheeled the machine into the room, put some gel on my abdomen, and stared at the screen which was facing her and away from my view. She quietly excused herself to get another doctor but I knew what she was going to tell me, what they would tell me. I had already known it deep down, but never wanted it to be true.

For the better part of the previous week, anytime I tried to meditate on my growing baby, or tried to communicate with my baby’s angel in any way, all I could sense was vacancy. I tried my best to convince myself, even my therapist tried to convince me, that this was part of the lingering PTSD with which I was still grappling in association with the devastating delivery of my third baby. But still I felt uneasy.

When the doctor looked at me that morning, holding my hand tightly in her own, trying her best not to cry as she broke the news that there was in fact no heartbeat, the numbness I felt inside was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before or since.

Nothing. I felt nothing.

Later I would feel everything, but in that moment I was a hollow shell of a woman with a dead baby floating inside her womb.

The days that followed were impossibly complicated, sad, surreal. The months that have followed since have been much the same, full of sorrow and confusion and so much pain. And yet, I have come so far from the darkness. But not quite far enough.

I haven’t mentioned this experience publicly anywhere. Only my family and closest friends are aware of the depths of agony associated with this loss, the devastating surgery which left me in the ICU, the personal complications which have arisen in the wake of such an unfortunate calamity. I have not honored this baby or this journey properly. I attempted to write my way through the healing process, but became consumed with the other obstacles I was facing and stopped chronicling my recovery. I never shared a single piece of the story, even my husband has only seen one small segment. I haven’t felt strong enough to open up about what has been the most difficult and delicate experience of my life.

I’m still not sure I feel strong enough, but I do know that keeping quiet isn’t helping me to gain strength.

We were all looking forward to welcoming another member of our family. This loss doesn’t belong to me alone. I can’t speak for anyone else in the telling of this tale, it is only from my own perspective that I can begin to articulate what it has felt like, what it continues to feel like, to love something that will never come into being.

I have decided to open up in this space, to share the disjointed story I wrote in the moment, day by day, as it was unfolding. It was written piece by piece and that is precisely how it will be shared, each entry will be published exactly six months after it was originally authored. Beginning next Tuesday, January 10, I will post the first in a series of brutally honest and awkwardly transparent fragments. They aren’t profound, but they are deeply personal, and an important part of who I have become I the aftermath of such tremendous tragedy.

Six months ago, I may have lost a baby, but I was born again.

Huckleberry and I are spending the night in LA, a quick trip to visit some of my dearest friends whom I hardly get to see. Miraculously, the traffic was in our favor, and we made it to our destination in record time.

Oh, the Valley. My truest home sweet home, the place where I spent all my formative years and even my first few years of motherhood. So many memories live in these streets which always feel totally different and exactly the same simultaneously. This visit is particularly ripe with nostalgia as we’re staying with one of my very best and longest friends who has recently moved back into the home in which she grew up, which means tonight I’m sleeping in her childhood bedroom.

She and her husband have redone most of the house, the kitchen has been completely remodeled, nearly everything has changed in some form or another. I hadn’t been to the house in over a decade yet I knew exactly how to get here, no navigation needed, sense memory leading the way.

Friendships that have endured over decades (plural!) are the most special, and I’m lucky to have several. Getting to spend time with a few of these cherished souls is such a treat. And special thanks to that cherubic toddler of mine for falling asleep away from home without hardly any fuss, allowing me to stay up super late with my friends and have way too much fun playing Settlers of Catan!

I’m supposed to be writing something substantial and important which is due next Monday, so instead I’m going to write a blog post about mostly nothing. Sounds about right.

Around Thanksgiving, a colleague of mine got me completely hooked on these delightful little treats – Trader Joe’s Honey Mints – and usually I eat one a day except today I ate four and I just might have another. I think that is what stress eating looks like. But they only have three ingredients! They’re practically health food! Also, I did not know they could be purchased through Amazon until fifteen seconds ago, so even if you don’t live near Trader Joe’s, you too can enjoy the most delicious peppermint patty you’ve ever tasted.

I have been singing my kids to sleep since forever, each of them has their own favorite lullaby. Recently, my toddler has gotten into the practice of demanding multiple lullabies and it’s equal parts annoying and adorable. If I start to sing the wrong one, he’ll stop me and say something like, “No! Sing the Twinkle!” (Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, in case you weren’t clear.) His favorites at the moment are Moon River, which he pronounces “rifferd”, or this strange version of the traditional Lullaby, the words of which I made up years ago when my firstborn was still a baby and for some reason those lyrics have endured. He also absolutely loves Rise and Shine, a funny song about Noah and his ark, which is the opposite of a lullaby but there are several verses and I sing them slowly and quietly so it sort of works. I never want to forget these moments when he’s cuddled into the crook of my arm, half asleep, dictating his nightly playlist.

It’s been three days without coffee and let me just say that tea is not nearly as much fun as coffee. Caffeine is no friend of mine, sadly, so I’m trying my best to embrace the ritual of herbal tea. Love at first sip, it is not. I welcome any suggestions from you tea lovers out there, I understand there are quite a few of you. But I bet none of you live within walking distance to James Coffee Co., I’m just saying.

Alright, I’ve prattled on quite enough for one night, methinks. Time to avoid my writing assignment by watching more Drunk History.

Thank you, and goodnight!

Legend has it eating black eyed peas on New Year’s Day will bring you good fortune the whole year through. The past few years, I’ve made an interpretation of the traditional Hoppin’ Johns, but seeing as how last year wasn’t all that fortunate, I thought I’d try something a little different. This version is quick, easy, vegan and gluten-free, and super delicious. As it’s less like a bean salad and more like a salsa, I served it as an appetizer with some corn chips and a little guacamole. I’m fairly certain it will make another appearance at this time next year, if not sooner.

1 15-oz can black eyed peas, drained and rinsed
1 seeded jalapeno, minced
2-3 small sweet orange peppers, seeded and minced
1/2 large red onion, small diced
2 cloves garlic, pressed
juice of 1/2 lime
salt and pepper to taste

In a small bowl combine all ingredients and let sit for at least an hour to allow flavors to mingle.

I must say, this year started off just about as well as I could have possibly hoped for. And thank goodness, because last year pretty much kicked my ass from start to finish. Actually, it ended on a rather high note, with a rousing game of Scattergories played with my most favorite people minus one snoozing toddler. So, all’s well that ends well, I suppose. Still, I’m more than happy to move on.

Quite a lot of time has passed since last I self-published a piece of writing to the world wide web, and not a single public post in all of 2016. I say public because I’ve actually written a handful of entries, all of which are filed away on my Google Drive. Perhaps one day they’ll find their way to this space, perhaps not. For now, I’m choosing to focus on the present and the future, letting the past rest and remain behind me. For a deeply nostalgic and sentimental person such as I am, this is an entirely new approach.

Change is afoot, personally, professionally, politically, practically everything is in a state of transition. I can either resist and recoil, or accept and take action. Not only is resistance futile, it’s frustrating and downright exhausting. Acceptance, on the other hand, creates space for growth. And while growing isn’t always easy and quite often painful, it’s sort of the purpose of life.

Regardless of what 2017 may bring, I plan to find myself on the other side better, stronger, happier, wiser. I intend to listen more, learn more, love more, practicing gratitude every step of the way. Also, I ate an extra serving of black eyed peas for lunch, so I’m pretty sure luck is on my side.

Happy New Year!

I saw all three of the doctors who treated me over the course of my pregnancy and miscarriage today when I went in for my follow-up appointment. The return of my cycle was most pleasing to them, a sign of things getting back to normal. My blood pressure was unusually high, but I’m told not to worry, that I’ve been through a lot recently, that I should just try to take it easy.

Back to normal? Take it easy? Come again?

In all honesty, the last couple of days have been some of the hardest. I’m sure hormones have something to with this, but the fact remains that I find myself in a bit of a slump. I’m still moving, even if maybe a little bit slower, but as those pesky time-sensitive decisions are looming, I’m ever so slightly paralyzed by uncertainty. And fear.

One day at a time, some are better than others.

I woke up this morning with crimson between my legs, exactly one month after walking out of the hospital against medical advice.

It’s not that I’m not happy to see my moonblood, it’s just that I wasn’t expecting it quite so soon. A vivid reminder of how very un-pregnant I am – which is still rather sad – it is also a reminder of how I could become pregnant again, a most terrifying prospect.

Fifty percent of my pregnancies have had intense and severe complications. Once something in which I was most confident of my strength and ability, pregnancy and labor have become two of my biggest fears.

I am so confused by this body of mine.

Emet and Jade both had what I like to call a healthy fear of the water, a respect for it’s power mixed with an acceptance of their personal abilities.

Roux is not equipped with this at all.

He is pretty much convinced that he can swim, actually swim, and today, after more than a month away from our community pool, he showed us the depth of his conviction. He completely submerges himself and there is just no stopping him. He spent a good thirty minutes being passed back and forth between his father and me, kicking and kind of stroking his arms with his entire face and body beneath the surface. He’s never had a swim lesson, mind you. And he’s not yet two and a half!

I’ve never had an early swimmer before, and it makes me a little nervous. I want to encourage his confidence while also helping him to have an awareness of his limits, for him to understand that he’s almost swimming, but not quite. He’s always had a special relationship with water, he’d walk straight into the ocean if I’d let him, and I want to foster this fundamental aspect of his being. I will always empower him to reach, to strive, to grow, but I do want to keep him safe.

For now, I simply cannot take my eyes off him for a single split second.

To be fair, he was due under the sign of the fish and was born under the sign of the water bearer. It is part of his soul.

It’s been at least a week since I have risen well before anyone else in my house, there is just something about the stillness of everyone still sleeping that makes these early morning moments extra special.

Last night, my firstborn and I traveled to Temecula to attend the wedding of his former class teacher. A lovely ceremony overlooking a vineyard, a great group of guests, and a super fun dance party, it was a night we’ll remember for a long time.

He turned thirteen this summer, the day I came home from the hospital. I can no longer see the top of his head. I always knew he would be taller than me, I just never knew how proud I would feel to be shorter than my son! He’s grown into such a fine young man, and he’s so very good to his mama.

When we lost the baby, I was taken aback by the maturity he displayed in those first few confusing, frightening days. He assumed responsibility for his baby brother while I was having surgery, receiving startling text message updates as to my status. There’s been a complication, you’re mother is in intensive care, we’re going to be here longer than we expected. An unexpected rite of passage which he navigated with extreme grace and resilience.

I still owe him a birthday party. After last night, all I can think about is how to transform our house into a discotech. We’ll invite all his friends, turn up the music and turn down the lights, and celebrate belatedly another solar return for my very first baby.

The calendar tells me a whole month has gone by. July 5th to August 5th, just like that. I can’t tell if the time seems to have passed quickly or slowly, only that everything is entirely different than it was just 31 days ago.

So many walks, so many quiet early mornings alone with my thoughts while the rest of my home slumbers soundly, so much sorting and organizing and intensely deep cleaning, so very many tears. It’s continues to be a rather difficult thing to wrap my head around, being pregnant and then not pregnant. I will feel this loss for the rest of my life.

All this moving about has been good for me, flooding my brain with endorphins. Independently of one another, both of my older children have told me that I’m in a much better mood than I was when I was pregnant, better even than before I was pregnant, which is probably very true.

I’ve had a hard time these last couple of years, recovering from Roux’s traumatic delivery has not been easy. If I’m being honest, though, I didn’t really try. I foolishly thought I would just get better with time, but time kept right on ticking and better still I was not. It is only now, after facing the death of our unborn baby, that I am beginning to feel the levity that has been missing for far too long.

It seems a strange contradiction, moving through the greatest loss I’ve yet to experience only to find myself in a better place than I’ve been in quite some time. However, the truth of it is that I have been absolutely determined to not allow this tragedy to overtake me and in doing so have managed to pierce through whatever it is that has been shrouding my joy.

There is plenty of healing left yet, but I’m well on my way.

Thank goodness.