I’ve always been a daddy’s girl.

Imagine one end of a string tied securely around your heart and the other end tied to your loved one miles away. You’re connected. Now imagine what happens when your loved one’s spirit suddenly, without warning, leaves their body. That’s what happened in the first morning hour of Oct. 16, when I was jolted awake simultaneously by the sound of my parent’s address coming through the emergency pager my volunteer firefighter husband keeps in our bedroom, and a parent’s sudden death.

As I sprang awake, I gripped at my chest. My heart was gone. Following that trail to where my loved one’s soul flew, far in the heavens above. But they let go, sending my broken, bloody heart back to earth, where I waited with held breath for it to return. THUMP! It …

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Her Name was Elinor

The first, and last, time we heard her heart beat.

A little more than two weeks ago, our baby’s tiny body was removed from mine, four weeks after the tiny soul had already flown. While I’ve recovered well physically, the emotional impact will last much longer. If you ran into me at the grocery store, I would tell you I’m fine. And I am. Some days are better than others. Some minutes are better than others. But overall, I’m faring well. I’m focusing on my earthly children, full of life and love and sparkle, and leaning in to my strong, steady husband. Friends and family have given amazing support, and I am blessed.

There are moments, though, that unexpectedly sting. Like yesterday. I was sifting through my closet, in search of something to wear, …

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Grieving Like a Native

Even when I jump on that long, dark train, and take it for a night ride, I know there’s hope in the morning.

More than once this past week, I’ve run into people I either didn’t know, or didn’t know well, who told me they follow my blog. With my recent posts about losing our baby and the aftermath, I’ve drawn quite a bit of attention. And overall, I think it’s a great thing. Why? Because it’s helped other women open up and share their stories. Links have been passed between husband and wife, niece and aunt, mother and daughter, almost always with the encouragement to “Read this. Her story is so inspiring.” Inspiring. Is that what I’m trying to be? Well, it’s better than the alternative, I suppose. It …

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When. She used the word when, not if. “When you deliver your third child, we’ll need to be prepared for a possible transfusion. You lost a lot of blood with that surgery, and we need to be ready if that’s going to be an ongoing issue.” My mind stuck on the “when,” rather than on the large blood loss and possible future complications. I appreciated her optimism. My OB, reassuringly cheerful but professionally somber when appropriate, has always advocated for me to have more children. We enjoy each other’s company, and she knows that when everything gets off to a good start, my body handles pregnancy and childbearing beautifully.

Except this time. This time, I lost my baby at 8.5 weeks, and continued carrying completely unaware, hormones still in full …

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When the sun goes down, the loneliness rises.

I kept wondering when I would cry. From emotional pain, not from physical. The surgery went perfectly. I’m surrounded by family and friends who’ve brought meals, desserts, flowers, cards, and even offers to clean my home. My husband has been my rock and comforter, tending to me with such a gentle nature. I am blessed. And for a long time, from yesterday morning before the surgery, until just half an hour ago, not one tear fell. I felt at peace, and I knew God’s grace was allowing me to focus on physical healing, before licking my raw emotional wounds.

I was not expecting my body to feel this rough. A D&C and laproscopic cystectomy aren’t fun to recover from separately, but together they …

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