Tender Topics

For the month of November, our community is covering the following topics: Postpartum Experiences/Postpartum Depression, Teamwork & Communication in Parenting, & National Adoption Awareness Month/World Adoption Day (Nov. 9th).

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I didn’t think it would happen to me. These kinds of things happen to someone else. Not me. Never me. Most of my problems throughout my life have been self-inflicted. I believed if I managed things right, I could avoid things like postpartum depression. When it crept up on me, ever so slowly and subtly, I tried to deny it. I think it was difficult to recognize because, for me, it looked more like anxiety than depression.

PPD tiptoed into my life disguised ever so covertly as an ever-growing sense of anxiety. It lured me into a never-ending spin cycle of anxiety, but it felt normal to me because the anxiety circled around normal new-motherhood things.

Should I quit my job? Was my son was getting enough breast milk? Was he sleeping enough?

What I didn’t know was my anxiety wasn’t normal at all.

When my son was four months old, I attended a parenting class and learned that PPD manifests as anxiety in some women. But at the same time, I was weaning my son early due to some health issues. And as my milk dried up, so did my anxiety. Whew! Dodged that bullet.

That is, until I was staring down the barrel of a second pregnancy. I knew I needed to watch for postpartum depression, but I still thought I had a handle on this motherhood thing. I adopted a “whatever works” mantra for when baby came, crossed my fingers, and prayed.

I also called my therapist. We discussed symptoms to watch for and developed a plan to wean the baby if worse came to worst. Armed with a plan, I waited to see how things unfolded, fingers crossed.

But from the moment I brought the baby home, it was crystal clear everything was NOT okay. As the garage door swung closed behind me, I immediately collapsed into a ball of tears, completely overwhelmed by the task ahead.

How can I care for a newborn and a high energy, self-willed three-year-old all by myself all day every day?

I feel like I will drown if I’m left alone. Please don’t leave me alone.

Inevitably, my mother went home and my husband went back to work. Depression aroused anger, and eventually rage towards my supportive husband as I envied his ability to go to work and escape it all. I felt awful for feeling this way and tried to shove it down. But the feelings would not stay down. Eventually they came barreling out at him, and my children, in fits of rage.

The night that broke the camel’s back went like this. I impatiently paced the house, baby in arm, TV blaring in the background for the sole purpose of keeping my son out of my hair. I listened intently for the garage door creaking, signaling the return of my husband from work. I greeted my husband at the threshold with the plop of the baby into his arms. I turned away, without a word, and crawled under a blanket on the couch, hoping to disappear. Footsteps followed behind me. “Are you okay? How was your day?” he called after me.

I was mute. Tears blinding my eyes. The blare of the TV playing on my nerves.

I laid there, silent, a tense, awkward space growing between us. Finally, I mustered, “I can’t take this anymore.” In shame, I turned away and pulled the blanket back over my eyes. I heard distant pleas from my husband as he tried to talk to me, but I was too weary. His voice and the TV faded into the background as I entered a trance like state. In a near out-of-body experience, I watched as I argued with myself. Part of me pleaded to get up and talk to my husband, but I could not muster the strength to move or speak. 20 minutes, an hour passed? I’m not sure.

When I finally pulled myself off the couch, we decided it was time to try medication.

The night I took my first dose of medication, I had an anxiety attack. I begged my husband to let me stop taking it, insisting the meds only made things worse. He remained strong and persuaded me to commit to the meds for two weeks. We agreed if I wasn’t feeling better in two weeks I could stop taking them. I kept a journal of how I felt on the medicine.

How I felt on meds:

8/8/14 – Sad, depressed

8/9/14 – “Not quite here,” can’t get my bearings, I’m slow to respond

8/10/14 – Afraid to be myself

8/12/14 – Life feels overwhelming; I can’t enjoy things I expect to enjoy; I have a UTI

8/13/14 – low energy, even after a good night’s sleep

8/18/14 – I feel like a new person! I can actually respond calmly in a way I want to respond. 

8/19/14 – The anger that was always just beneath the surface seems to be gone!

I was staggered at how much better I felt. I didn’t just feel like my old self, I felt like a new me. A better me. The mother I always wanted to be, but felt I could never quite become. And it felt so effortless.

Before my experience on medication, I thought that those who needed medication were weak. I had fallen for the stigma surrounding mental health, depression, anxiety, and especially medication. Unfortunately, certain faith communities perpetuate the stigma, claiming that if you just believe more, pray harder, and trust in Jesus, then you can overcome these things.

But this is myth. My journey through postpartum depression and medication-assisted recovery taught me that while circumstances and mindsets can contribute to depression and anxiety, they are not the only factors. PPD plays no favorites. Hormones and biochemical processes are completely out of our control. We cannot try harder, snap out of it, pray out of it. It is both a mental and medical condition. It’s like having an infection and willing our bodies to heal itself if we just get our act together.

I stayed on the medication for two years and ultimately, I felt I was given the precious gift of enjoying my children instead of resenting them, and the gift of ease and balance in my emotional state instead of having to work so dang hard to keep it together. I was given the gift of mercy when I realized postpartum depression was not my fault. I was given the gift of humility to take the help I needed.

If you are struggling emotionally to get through most days; if there are days where you feel that you cannot control your emotional responses; if you feel like motherhood is a type of hell on earth; perhaps, it’s time for you to reach out. Talk to a friend, a doctor, or a therapist. I know it’s scary. I know it feels humiliating. But you are not alone. There are many of us, about 20% of new mothers struggle with postpartum depression, according to the CDC. Get the help you need. You’ll be so glad you did.

Kate Laymon is a kindred mom finding her soul in the mess of motherhood. When she’s not caught in the spin cycle of motherhood, you can find her writing on her blog (www.katelaymon.com), working towards her certificate in Spiritual Direction and Soul Care, or out on adventures with her family in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. Connect with her on Facebook and Instagram.

For the month of November, our community is covering the following topics: Postpartum Experiences/Postpartum Depression, Teamwork & Communication in Parenting, & National Adoption Awareness Month/World Adoption Day (Nov. 9th).

If you haven’t downloaded your copy of the resource we created to offer practical tips and helps for  overwhelmed, exhausted, and lonely moms, Manage the Mayhem of Motherhood: 52 Ideas to Help You Flourish is waiting for you! 

(This essay is Part 2 of Facing Postpartum Depression. Read Part 1 here.)

A few weeks after my third baby, Ruthie, was born, her 1-year old brother fell off the changing table. It happened exactly like they always say: “It only takes a second.” Ruthie was crying in the crib behind me, so I turned to pop her pacifier back in her mouth. I looked back as little Leo was flipping. I can still hear myself yelling his name.

It was a scary moment, but thank God, he was ok. Later that night, my husband and I found ourselves in a sadly familiar place: laying in bed, me crying. This time, I said, “I feel like I’ve been failing at being Leo’s mom since the moment he was born.”

Until I said that word aloud—failure—I hadn’t realized that I pinned the label to myself. I experienced postpartum depression and anxiety for the first year of Leo’s life, finally seeking help just a few weeks before Ruthie’s birth. Since beginning medication, I didn’t feel depressed anymore, but I still didn’t feel much joy. “Failure” worked its tendrils around my heart and was choking the life out of my motherhood.

Some moments in life function like hinges on a door: everything is holding on right there, and it will all swing one way or another. Leo falling off the changing table was one such moment for me. I could either look at it as confirmation that I was, indeed, a failure, or I could accept the grace Jesus offered me. My identity was not “good mom,” “happy mom,” or “perfect mom,” but simply, “beloved child of God.” If God’s grace was big enough to cover my pride and selfishness, my dishonesty and anger, my addictions and fears, then it was certainly big enough to cover my motherhood.

Evan looked at me through the dark of our bedroom and reminded me of the truth: Leo was resilient, and he was doing just fine, and I was a good mom, and I was not at all a failure.

Somehow, for the first time since Leo’s birth, I began to believe it.

Healing from postpartum depression involves some grief. I mourn and lament the year I feel like I lost, the mistakes I made in the midst of it, and the uncomfortable reality that I was unwell.

Almost a full year before Leo’s fall, Evan had asked me if I had postpartum depression. I wish I understood more about the condition at that time, because a better understanding of what I was experiencing might have allowed me to start the healing process much earlier. Still, sometimes pain is what makes room for healing.

Confession is powerful. While the medication was healing the imbalance in my mind, my heart had not begun to heal until the moment I acknowledged these struggles out loud. This grace is helping me challenge the lies about my capability as a mother, lies about the wellbeing of my children, and the lie that my value lies in keeping it all together.

Leo’s fall did not make a me a failure, and neither did postpartum depression. To “succeed” as a parent (if we can even measure parenting in terms of successes and failures, which I’m not sure about) means to live, work, and care for our children with courage in the midst of shortcomings and difficulties. I loved and parented my kids as best I could while battling depression and anxiety. I asked for help the moment I was able to.

In motherhood–as in the rest of life–the space between “struggle” and “failure” is vast.

 Lindsey is a writer, reader, and mom who is slowly learning to trade perfectionism for freedom. A Florida-to-Michigan transplant, her faith and sense of purpose are shifting as she experiences seasons in the world and in her own life. Lindsey is also the co-founder of The Drafting Desk, a newsletter for anyone trying to pursue grace instead of perfection. You can find her on Instagram @lindseycornett. 

For the month of November, our community is covering the following topics: Postpartum Experiences/Postpartum Depression, Teamwork & Communication in Parenting, & National Adoption Awareness Month/World Adoption Day (Nov. 9th).

If you haven’t downloaded your copy of the resource we created to offer practical tips and helps for  overwhelmed, exhausted, and lonely moms, Manage the Mayhem of Motherhood: 52 Ideas to Help You Flourish is waiting for you! 

Our second son was two months old. My husband and I laid in bed long after we should have been sleeping. In the depths of February, the blue flannel sheets and heavy duvet stretched over us were not enough to keep me from shivering. Evan wrapped his arm across me, while I faced the wall. I was counting on the darkness to hide my red eyes and splotchy cheeks, but I couldn’t conceal my heaving shoulders and wracking sobs.

This was a common scene after Leo’s birth. Nearly every night, I laid in bed feeling completely defeated and overwhelmed. Everything about my posture said, “I don’t want to talk about it,” but what I wanted to say was, “I don’t know how to talk about it.”

Somehow, even then, Evan knew. “Do you think you have postpartum depression?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied, my back toward him. Wasn’t I managing to care for the boys every day? I didn’t want to hurt them, and I didn’t have any suicidal thoughts. 

“I’m just having a hard time.”

We went on like this for months. I was full of excuses for how I was feeling. We had moved across the country, 1,200 miles away from our family and friends. Evan worked long hours, and we didn’t have much support. Our oldest son, Ian, presented a slew of behavioral challenges. We struggled under the weight of student loan payments. Always a perfectionist, I blamed myself for any less-than-ideal day (which was basically all of them, with two children under three years old). My hormones still hadn’t returned to normal after Leo’s birth. What I labeled “excuses” were actually risk factors.

As summer approached and the days lengthened, I walked into our room one night and showed Evan the stick that confirmed our suspicion: I was unexpectedly pregnant with our third baby. We laid in bed next to each other, holding hands and staring at the ceiling in a bit of shock. I was excited–after all, we had always said we wanted a big family–but that excitement was swiftly overrun by fear. I didn’t fear labor or delivery, nor did I fear the coming reality of having two babies only 14 months apart.

I was afraid of my own emotions, my own mind, and my own capability or lack thereof.

I didn’t know if I could survive parenting a third child–another internal reality I couldn’t manage to say out loud.

It was a podcast episode that changed the conversation.

One afternoon during naptime, my house was quiet except for the conversation streaming through my earbuds. Suddenly, I froze, motionless in the middle of my kitchen, the half-unloaded dishwasher open next to me. I had stopped short with a deep sense of recognition. In this podcast episode about anxiety, it felt like the hosts were describing my life–the looping thoughts, the irrational fears, the racing heartbeat. That night, Evan and I found ourselves in that familiar place: late at night, way past bed time, my pillowcase soaked through. But this time, I had the words to articulate what was happening in my head.

I turned towards Evan instead of the wall, and I told him. “I think I have anxiety. Like, real anxiety.”

I ask myself, now, if I would have ever sought help for my PPD had my new pregnancy not necessitated a fresh batch of prenatal appointments, if I hadn’t been so alarmed by my fear, and if that podcast episode hadn’t given me language to articulate my confusing mental state.

My nurse and doctor went through the typical rigamarole–arm cuff and blood pressure, scale and weight, blue goop and baby’s heartbeat, syringe and bloodwork. Everything was good, everything was normal.

“Congratulations,” the doctor offered. “Any questions for me?”

“Well, there is one thing I need to ask you about.”

And yet, when she offered to write a prescription, I declined.

“I think it’s getting better. I think I have it under control,” I said.

I did not have it under control. As winter descended again, now 7 months pregnant, I found myself unable to leave the house. I couldn’t stop crying. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I kept my oldest home from preschool and cancelled appointments.

On Leo’s first birthday, I drove to pick up my husband at work. My mother-in-law was at our house with the boys, waiting to celebrate. A smash cake and tiny balloon sat in the backseat. While I waited for Evan to come out of his building, I sobbed into the steering wheel. “I don’t want to feel this way anymore,” I thought.

A few days later, I laid in bed crying (again) and confessed all this to Evan. “We’re going to talk to the doctor again,” he said.

This time, the conversation ended with a Zoloft prescription. It worked like a charm.

The symptoms of a perinatal mood disorder seem obvious in retrospect, but at the time, I only understood a very limited definition of postpartum depression. Because I didn’t have suicidal thoughts and was still managing to care for my kids, I assumed I was not experiencing PPD. Now I know an estimated one in seven women experience perinatal mood disorders, and there are a whole slew of symptoms and risk factors I had never considered.

The entire first year of Leo’s life was marked by intense anger and irritability. I didn’t want to get out of bed some mornings, and I cried hopelessly in the shower most nights. At some moments, I walked away from my tantruming toddler because I no longer felt in control of my own body. I stopped doing laundry, because an image of falling down the basement stairs played like a movie in my mind. I grew afraid my husband might be hurt or killed on his commute to and from work.

Worst of all, I felt so disconnected from Leo. What was a natural response with my other children—saying, “I love you,” giving kisses, feeling the desire to hold and be near them—was missing with Leo. I had to deliberately choose those actions, rather than experience them instinctively. Looking back, I remember very little from Leo’s first year of life. I look at photos, but the memories escape me. I loved that little boy, but I could not connect with him. I was terrified to say so out loud, believing it would be the thing that solidified my standing as a terrible mother.

In late December, a few weeks after beginning my medication and with a full-term baby girl growing in my womb, I snuck into Leo’s nursery while he slept. I stood over his crib, trying to keep my feet still, lest the creaky floor wake him. Suddenly, I saw him, as though for the first time. I ran to grab my camera because I wanted to remember this moment–the sweetness of face, the roundness of his cheeks, and the depth of my previously dormant devotion–forever.

The next day at breakfast, I sat down at the kitchen table. Ian ate Cheerios in his seat, and Leo clumsily tried to spoon oatmeal into his mouth. Just a few weeks before, I spent every breakfast hiding in the kitchen, wishing to go back to bed and looking at the day with dread. But today, I had sat down at the table without thinking about it. I laughed with my boys, sipped my tea, and felt Ruthie kicking in my belly. My fear was gone.

It turns out, my husband was right from the get-go: postpartum depression. I wish I had seen it all those many months before.

(Click here to read Part 2 of this essay.)

Lindsey is a writer, reader, and mom who is slowly learning to trade perfectionism for freedom. A Florida-to-Michigan transplant, her faith and sense of purpose are shifting as she experiences seasons in the world and in her own life. Lindsey is also the co-founder of The Drafting Desk, a newsletter for anyone trying to pursue grace instead of perfection. You can find her on Instagram @lindseycornett. 

For the month of October, our community is covering the following topics: Birth (New Mom Series), Navigating Transitions with Kids, Investing in Your Marriage with Kids in the Mix, and Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance (Awareness Month). 

Recent episodes of the Kindred Mom podcast include Stillbirth & Infant Loss and Gently + Quietly (Sharon McKeeman), The Intersection of Hope and Sorrow (Sarah Damaska & Pam Shrauger), Preparing for a Positive Birth Experience (Lexie Stratman), and Chasing Rest (Dorina Lazo Gilmore). Check them out!

We invite you to follow the Kindred Mom Write 31 Days series over on Instagram with daily reflections on #kindredmomconfessions.

The Peruvian Spanish I heard all around me was becoming more confusing as the contraction intensified. My husband was ushered out of the room to make a calm, yet desperate phone call to my father in the States requesting an immediate wire transfer of money for the emergency caesarean I was being prepped for. I especially didn’t want him to leave since my newest companion, the cardiologist, had decided this was the perfect time to practice his “eengl-eesh.” No, sir, being prepped for an emergency c-section in a foreign country while enduring the worst pain of my life is most definitely not the time to practice “eengl-eesh”! At least, that’s what I wanted to say. This certainly was not how I had pictured childbirth.

This being our first child, we were blessed with not having anything to compare the experience to. In hindsight, care at the clinic we chose was acquiescent to care that may have been common in the United States in the 1950’s. But, we were blissfully ignorant throughout our monthly appointments, lack of regular testing, and the occasional ultrasound. Our overall consensus was, women have babies here every day; what’s the worst that could happen?

We were 45 minutes, by car, from the nearest reliable clinic. A bumpy road that made us wonder if maybe my husband should’ve paid more attention to the chapter in the book about delivering in a car! Friends from the States visited and brought down totes of baby clothes, which saved us from having to buy very expensive onesies and supplies available in-country. We decorated the bedroom, put blankets into her dresser drawer which became her bassinet, and anticipated her arrival.

Our initial OBGYN was very kind, even when she chewed me out for the absurdity of gaining weight during pregnancy. However, when I came down with a severe case of shingles at 36 weeks pregnant, she was indifferent, prompting us to find a new OBGYN. This new OBGYN had a private practice, spoke some English, and had an ultrasound system in her office, giving us more peace about our baby’s health.

The shingles were miserable and covered me in ugly scars just days before baby girl was scheduled to arrive. Labor was slow-coming and an induction process was begun one week before my due date. However, baby was not ready and induction was not working. A medically-induced contraction kicked in and precious baby girl’s heart rate skyrocketed.

My husband managed to get ahold of my father via pay phone and have money transferred in order to satisfy the clinic policy of paying before the procedure. When he returned, I was being wheeled into surgery. We boarded the main elevator of the clinic, along with all the random people coming to the clinic that afternoon. When we reached the operating room doors, though, my husband was restrained by two nurses and the doors slammed in his face.

I was alone.

The anesthesiologist didn’t seem to know what he was doing, resulting in a highly uncomfortable epidural procedure and being cognizant of essentially the entire operation. Additionally, my hands were tied to the bed, so I felt like a fish being filleted. I had zero control of my modesty, felt every push and pull, and had no one there to comfort me.

I saw my healthy baby girl for thirty seconds. I couldn’t touch, hold, or kiss her. Four hours went by of me wondering where my husband and new daughter were before I was finally wheeled back into my room.

As soon as we were alone, we wept and talked. My husband thought I’d died and had been trying to figure out how to tell my parents while making plans about how to be a single dad. The afternoon had been more intense than we could have prepared for!

Elena was brought to us that evening, and that is all I remember until the next morning when I was forced out of bed and into the shower with the help of two nurses. Already feeling vulnerable, it was compounded when they began to comment on my scars. One reached out gingerly to touch my side and whispered, “I have never seen anyone so scarred before!” I looked down to see the lines from my healing shingles, deep stretch marks, and the bandage covering my incision.

I really was scarred.

It took months for me to heal – physically and emotionally. There are still repercussions, including never experiencing natural birth and wondering if my relationship conflicts with my daughter stem from her traumatic entry into the world and being separated from me for about the first four days of life.

However, I am finally able to share this story with no tears. I look back on this time with immense gratitude to God for even allowing me to experience all this. All control was forcibly taken from me and I literally had to lie there and plead with God to handle it all for me. In return, God handed me bravery; courage I didn’t even know existed within my bones; endurance, stamina, and the will to pick back up and keep going.

Now, I can comfort others in a way I never would have imagined. If I didn’t carry these scars, I wouldn’t understand the pain of giving birth far from home, no mom around, in a strange environment. I would not know what it’s like to have your birth plan tossed out the window and an emergency operation thrown into its stead. I am able to sit with moms who are scared of what’s to come and share my story. I tell them that God has not given us a spirit of fear over childbirth, but of power to get through it, love for the baby that’s on its way, and a sound mind to make wise decisions (2 Timothy 1:7).

Childbirth leaves us all scarred in one way or another. My scars remind me that God makes me brave; that when all control over this life has flown out of my hands, it’s flown right into God’s. And He makes those scars beautiful.

Lisa Biegert is a wife, mom of 3, full-time missionary and journalist with BCM International, and children’s ministry director. She finds her greatest delight in sharing Jesus with children. Lisa and her husband, Brian, live and serve fellow missionaries at a missionary housing facility outside of Scranton, Pennsylvania. You can follow their family ministry at www.brianlisabiegert.wordpress.com, read Lisa’s personal blog at www.thetaskathand.wordpress.com, and discover more about BCM’s global ministry in the BCM World magazine. Connect with her via Instagram and Facebook.

For the month of October, our community is covering the following topics: Birth (New Mom Series), Navigating Transitions with Kids, Investing in Your Marriage with Kids in the Mix, and Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance. 

Today, October 15th (Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day), we are thinking of those of you who are remembering your little ones.

Originally written on November 12, 2016, the anniversary of my first miscarriage.

Anniversaries are a funny thing. We send cards and throw parties when years pass since the days worth celebrating. Cakes are shared, glasses are raised. I just got a reminder in the mail that it’s been another year as a travel rewards member. I was thanked for my loyalty and promptly reminded of the annual fee that will be due soon. How many noteworthy days pass, never to be remembered or memorialized in the coming years? Today marks a year since we lost you, and there will be no party, no toasts (okay, maybe wine). It’s been a contemplative year—full of days that passed slowly and deliberately. As Annie Dillard says, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” Let me fill you in.

Did you know you are a miracle? 

Your daddy and I were so excited to start this journey of parenthood, and yet we couldn’t ignore the trepidation in our hearts. To decisively set foot on this path with such inadequate preparation…we knew it would be profoundly challenging. We certainly didn’t expect you to enter our world the way you did, and so quickly! Everything changed, and yet to the rest of the world, there was no observable shift in our day to day lives. It was extraordinary to carry such a secret—to be, aside from our Creator, the only one to know of a new life in this world. How could we be expected to contain that kind of revelation?

Every meal, every move, every extra moment of rest carried so much significance. It was thrilling. It was terrifying. I watched your daddy fall in love with you. I was so amused at his concern, his scheming, his wonder. I was no different, yet fear threatened all of it. I was, for the first time (so I thought), accountable and yet completely out of control. You can imagine the devastation when you left that day. I was complicit in the thing I feared most, and though my greatest desire was to save you any way I could, I was utterly helpless. We often hear about miscarriages in broad, clinical terms. They don’t tell you how cruel and malicious they feel—the way your body is hijacked until the miscarriage is done with you, leaving nothing in return. I watched your daddy’s joy turn to heartbreak, and I cried until I thought I would never be able to cry again. Your absence was so palpable—we feared the tiny, silent ghost living in our home. No amount of busyness, no distraction could erase the reminder of what we had lost.

They also don’t mention paranoia as a stage of grief. As a therapist, your daddy has so many stories of how the mind can be at once so convincing, and so deceptive. I used to listen to his stories in fascination and pity—wondering how one could be so led astray from within. Conspiratorial plots, alternate realities, distorted sense of self…. I understand now; I am no different. In my own grief-poisoned mind, it was obvious that everyone was out to harm me or simply didn’t care. I wanted to be hugged. I wanted to be ignored. I cringed at every human interaction, no matter how gentle or well-intended. The receptionist at the dental office teases me about when we’re going to have kids. The phlebotomist innocently calls me “Mommy” as she draws my blood at an appointment. A clueless friend makes a miscarriage joke at dinner. Another bursts into the room with a pregnancy announcement. How often have I unknowingly done the same? Sometimes I’m amazed we’re allowed to speak at all.

Isolation, I thought, is the answer, and so I did what humans instinctively do when we are confronted with pain and brokenness—I ran and hid. It really was an easy way to live—the solitude combined with my own depravity was convincingly pleasurable as it destroyed me from the inside out. I let myself be lured by bitterness and envy, thinking it would nourish my broken heart. Instead, the pieces were locked in a relentless grip, as I shielded them from those around me. My heart, preemptively guarded against the pain inflicted by others, was also impenetrable to healing and truth. And so, the days went on. I descended into winter (where did those months go?) and while spring brought a change of scenery, the promise of new life felt thin.

Slowly, the obsession shifted from suspicion to pure determination—willing myself to recreate what was lost. Though others assured me it wasn’t true, I felt like I had failed as a woman, as a wife, and as a mom. I failed you. I needed to prove to others that pregnancy was something I could accomplish, and so conceiving became my goal. Yes, I (now) know how ridiculous that sounds, but grief often gives way to heresy, among other things. I temped, I charted, I tracked…I pored over internet forums and used acronyms known only among other women as obsessive as me. I again thought these things would feed my soul and bring healing, so I did them over and over and over…. until I just couldn’t anymore. I was so tired. Life had been robbed of the joy and freedom I once knew. Truthfully, I longed for the person I had been before I ever knew you. She was so fun and careless. I wished you would have known her.

Eventually, I was faced with a choice: would I continue to live this way, or would I relinquish my control and trust the God that had been there through it all? It felt so risky, in my mind, to give up the only shot at making my will a reality. I was at a standoff with a God, who to my constant relief and frustration, would not yield to my own desires. Afraid of the consequences of my stubbornness, I took a chance. Isn’t that what repentance is, anyway? Shifting hope from one counterfeit savior to the unmistakably real one? I was terrified of the unknown and yet, at peace and finally at rest. The burden I was never meant to carry had been lifted off my shoulders with no contingencies. I could be free.

For 365 days, this same God has fought to win my heart over. I am grateful for His relentless patience. My stubbornness had met its match in the mornings that persistently greeted me. Oh, that sunrise wasn’t beautiful enough for you? Here’s another. I started to recognize them for the gifts they were, and I thought of how many more I would have loved to share with you. I started to open up again to the people that faithfully awaited my return, risking more hurt that I might enjoy the fullness of life I remembered. Your daddy said my laugh was sounding more familiar, that I was smiling more. I started to see love all around, in spite of the pain. There is so much love and grace if we are only willing to see it.

Then, the most amazing thing happened. Did I tell you that you have a younger brother or sister? 

We were enjoying some blissful rest on a Sunday afternoon. Our home was finally feeling like a haven again, instead of a tomb. Your daddy had just preached on the sovereignty of God earlier that morning, and I was so proud of him. At one point during his message, I had taken a picture when the slide behind him said, “God is always in control.” Oh, if only I knew what was in store for us then. It was that same God, not I, who brought your sibling into existence. We couldn’t believe it as we stared at the positive test result that day…I was convinced it wouldn’t happen for a while, if ever. We cried with joy and amazement and the fear, always quick to arrive, started to creep in. Still, we knew this was a gift from the Lord. Of course, He would do something like this…after all, we hadn’t even started our infertility treatment yet! I could take no credit.

By the time the reality of this gift had sunk in, we discovered we were losing it once again, just a few days later.

I could feel that familiar bitterness and anger growing within me like a tsunami, threatening to crash down and wreak havoc all over again. It was as if, suspended in mid-air, it was waiting for my reaction. I just couldn’t find it within me, this time. I thought back to the many days that were lost after you, the joy I rejected because I thought it was irreverent. Against such things there is no law. I had thought choosing joy would mean I had lost you for good, but I now know it is the greatest way to celebrate your life.

And so, my grief looks different this time. We faced that same sorrow once again, but with a new resiliency, and I have you to thank for that. We’ve learned to let ourselves feel without losing our footing, and yet, I have so many questions. Some days, it is curiosity alone that propels me forward. Questions of heaven and metaphysics seem more practical than ever before. Where are you two? Are you in soul sleep? If I see you again, will you know who I am? Will it even matter then? Your daddy and I wake from dreams where we are with some version of you, another concoction of our limited minds. While it is sweet, we know it isn’t real. Oh, how I pray for the real opportunity.

Just as when you and your sibling first came into existence, there are so many that are unaware of who you are. Today could have passed without mention, and you would remain invisible. As I said earlier, there will be no party today, no cake—but it is a day that will always matter to us. It is a day worth remembering. It makes me so grateful for a God that sees and numbers each of our days, with none of them forgotten.

And so, we pass from this year into the next one with great hope and gratitude, because for whatever reason, today has been given to us.

Wherever you are, you are not lost. You are not forgotten.

I just wanted to let you know that I am not lost either.

I love you.

-Mom

Michelle Gee lives on the Central Coast of California, and is a soon-to-be mom of twin boys, Elliott and Asher (due October 16th!). She and her husband, Jon, share a background in psychology and theology, and are passionate about sharing and listening to stories, especially on the topics of infertility, pregnancy loss, and parenthood. When not writing, Michelle enjoys serving at her church, reading, singing and playing guitar, cooking, hiking, and great conversation over a glass of red wine. You can connect with her on Facebook and Instagram.

For the month of September, Kindred Mom is kicking off our New Mom Series with a focus on Pregnancy.  We are also covering the following topics: Routines & Habits for Success, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month as well as some of our Core Themes. 

The Kindred Mom podcast resumes this month after a break in August. Subscribe in your favorite podcast app to stay up to date with new episodes as they release.

Photo by Jan Kubita on Unsplash

The overhead lights shone with the migraine-inducing intensity required in the admissions department of the ambulatory surgery center where I was working as an energetic young nurse.  Like all the other work-day mornings, I woke up with just enough time to get myself ready and get to work. Not yet a mama, I had no kids to get ready for the day, so I was able to cruise into the hospital in my Volkswagen, rush into my scrubs and hit the ground running. Lots of patients needed to be checked in every day, and this day was no exception. I was buzzing from room to room, my IV kits in hand, bags of pre-op antibiotics ready to hang.

I saw one of our young, well-loved urology surgeons heading my way, lacking his usual lively demeanor. His face held an expression that was a mixture of hesitancy and dread. I could tell he needed to tell me something serious as he pointed me into a vacant patient room.

“I’ve reviewed your kidney ultrasound from last week,” he said, slowly.

I had passed the one and only kidney stone of my life and one of the perks of working on a surgery floor–I had flagged down a urologist that morning and said “Hey look at this!” proudly presenting my little rock rolling around in a specimen collection cup.  He sent me for a kidney ultrasound to make sure there weren’t more hiding in there waiting to wreak havoc on my body that was in the 25th week of pregnancy.

“Your spleen. It’s covered in lesions.” I felt the air rush out of the room and my heart jumped into my throat.

“What does that even mean?” I asked.

His face darkened as he replied, “It’s almost always lymphoma.”

Cancer. Not exactly what I was expecting hear midway through my first pregnancy as a spry 25 year old nurse with the most benign health history ever seen.

Terror shot through my body and the tears of panic surged without a hint of stopping.  As I made my way out of our surgical department after getting clearance to go home for the day, I reassured my work girlfriends who were so very dear to me and so incredibly excited about my pregnancy, that everything was fine with the baby.

I can’t remember who I called first. I assume I probably called my husband. I don’t remember the 25 minute drive home.

Life as I knew it changed that day.  Pregnancy became less about preparing a cute nursery, and more about hedging my bets on whether or not I would live long after this baby was born. I was a mix of fear, anxiety, and denial. Since I was pregnant, there were no further tests that could be done safely, until after I’d delivered.  This set me up for an excruciating game of waiting for a diagnosis.

I had to find an internal medicine doctor in addition to my OB-GYN.  My internal med doc set me up to begin seeing an oncologist.  My oncologist was very sweet and walked me through the differences between Hodgkins vs. Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, treatment plans for both, survival rates, and since I was still clinging to the ideals of new motherhood…would I be able to breastfeed with either of these courses of treatment? Would I lose my hair? Would I be able to hold my baby if I was receiving cancer treatment, or would my very body that now encapsulated this little life, soon be too toxic to be within touching distance of him?

On the inside, the fact that I might die became a reality that I didn’t want to face, and I avoided thinking about it as much as possible, but occasionally I would be blindsided by fear of the unknown. One late summer day, the air was warm and the world looked beautiful with the green orchard stretching across the valley to pine tree speckled hills that reached up to a blue sky, and I was walking up the sidewalk to our house when it hit me. Maybe I wouldn’t be here to walk my baby boy up this sidewalk after his first day of kindergarten.  I looked out over the green grassy lawn and wondered how many years I would be here to see him play.  A flood of tears came and breath rushed out of my lungs.  As my husband came up to comfort me in the midst of my sobs, I wondered how a world so beautiful could hold such devastating realities.

The rest of my pregnancy was fraught with this bittersweet tension of trying to enjoy this active life growing inside of me, and wondering how much of that little life I’d live on to see.

I tried to carry on as though this wasn’t all happening.  I didn’t want this looming cancer diagnosis to suck the joy right out of this pregnancy. I cherished the baby showers hosted for me by friends and family, and I lived in an alternating pattern of denial and bursts of hope.

Meanwhile with every passing day I knew I was getting 24 hours closer to getting an answer about this mystery lurking beneath my ribs.

How could this be? How could I be staring a possible terminal illness in the face while in my mid-20s?  Would I orphan this baby boy? Would he sleep through the night?  Would I need chemotherapy? Would he take to breastfeeding?  How much would he weigh? Would I lose my hair? My mind bounced back and forth with angst between these two uncharted territories of raising babies and cancer treatments.

Finally, 4 days after my due date I gave birth. The experience left me feeling a wild combination of elation and fear and sheer overwhelm, but I had made it through pregnancy and delivered my son.

Whatever would lie ahead, I knew this: I was born to persevere. Fear would not win because I had been given this precious gift of new life and the intense desire to watch him grow.  This little boy deserved everything I had, and I was willing to do anything to stay with him.

Now on the cusp of his 9th birthday, I marvel at the God-woven story that has unfolded.  I am alive, healthy, and cancer isn’t even a word that’s used in this house. I don’t know why; I don’t know how; but there’s a part of me that believes I received something unexplainable, maybe even miraculous. That certain cancer? It was never found. I baffled the doctors and they couldn’t believe what they saw; nothing.  They removed my spleen to diagnose the problem and received quite a shock. Not lymphoma.  No cancer. Instead, I had an extremely rare disease called sarcoidosis that had only localized in my spleen, and I stand today without a hint of disease in my body.

Kristi Ahrens is a Jesus-girl, wife to a hardworking man, mom to 3 strong and zesty kids, and a friend and sister to many.  She likes to dream and imagine what the world will look like as God’s love continues to expand across our globe.  She is passionate about raising up courageous, loving kids, and finds solace in books, coffee, friends, writing, and quiet moments in the early mornings.

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