I want to remind all of you that October is Pregnancy Loss Awareness Month. Robyn Bear, founder of the organization that got the designation of this month in all 50 states, has a listing of all the public walks and candle lightings that will be going on. You can see those on her walk page. If you don’t have one near you, start one!

If you are looking for items for your babies, she has lots of lovely jewelry, stepping stones, boxes, and many other memorial pieces. You can see those at her store. She has beautiful pink and blue awareness ribbon car magnets for just $4 to help you spread the word.

And my own memorial book is safely at the printer! In the Company of Angels is done and many of you proud mamas are already preordering your copies. They should be here in a few weeks. I can’t WAIT to fill one out for Casey Shay! You can find out about ordering it at the publishing company web site.

It’s been an amazing month! The video I made (see it in the upper right corner of this screen) has gotten thousands of views. People are starting to understand how important our babies are. They are not to be forgotten, but real people who made a huge impact on our lives.

Sometimes it seems as though life gives you the skills and experiences to do the one thing you were meant to do. And I think the path that lead me to this book was that:

• to decide against journalism as a career
• to teach journalism instead and to sponsor the school yearbook
• to learn darkroom and photography in order to teach it
• to embark on a photography career when I left teaching after the loss of my first baby

It all comes back around to having the ability to make the images for this book, and to have the lovely little clients to pose for it. And to know a community I can share it with.

I am blessed.

See more images at the Facebook page for the publisher.

You can also watch the video trailer for the book.

I’ve had a four-fold increase in direct emails since the new year began. Heartbreaking stories, difficult moments. Many of you feel so very alone.

I’ve heard women say things that make me so sad that in the ten years since this site began, so little has changed in how we feel about revealing the extent of our grief:

• On Facebook, a woman wrote me thanking me for the private support, but she couldn’t join the Facts about Miscarriage support group because she didn’t want any of her Facebook friends to know she’d lost a baby. (Note that you have to be a member of Facebook–which is free–to see our Facebook group.)
• Via email, another woman felt uncomfortable sharing the name of her baby, as she thought others would think it silly to name her lost child.
• And everywhere, friends tell me how they keep their pregnancies to themselves for months, “just in case.” They don’t want others to know about the baby should they have a miscarriage.

I understand all this. I’ve been in these places, felt these things. But I want, really really want, a world where life CAN be celebrated from the moment it is known to exist. That we CAN tell our friends and family about this devastating loss, and feel loved and supported as we would in any death in the family. That we would NEVER feel guilty or as though we did something wrong, that the miscarriage was our fault.

This year I’m going to work even harder to make this happen. I’m applying for fellowships, trying to find time (and grant money to support me) to finish Baby Dust. I want to get this so visible, so public, so open, that we can change this feeling that we should hide what has happened.

We can’t change the miscarriage rate. This year, like most years, 6 million women (in the US) will get pregnant and almost 1 million of them will lose her baby. We are probably one of the single largest groups that suffers so silently.

I know from your emails, your notes, and your blog posts that you are having a hard time. 2009 isn’t starting off anything like you hoped. But this is a year we will get stronger. We’ll make something out of what has happened to us. And we’ll change things, because our babies, those beautiful little life-lights, live through us.

I didn’t find any similar articles in US papers, but it’s easy to see why the new home pregnancy tests could cause a flurry of concern.

Old-style tests, manufactured prior to 2004, typically looked for a pregnancy hormone level of 50-100 mIU/ml and were not effective until the day a woman missed her period, on average, about 14 days post fertilization. This is when the baby is well implanted and the miscarriage rate is expected to be between 8 and 20 percent.

The new tests, however, detect the hormone at 20 mIU/ml. This is within a day or two of implantation, more like 9-10 days after fertilization.

Since the advent of early sonography, we’ve known that a huge number of fertilized eggs either never implant at all, or attempt implantation and fail. This number varies depending on who you ask, but is always frighteningly high — between 50 and 75 percent.

For many moms, working so hard to achieve pregnancy and the family of their dreams, this is a terrible and sad loss. The emotional pain in getting their period after seeing a positive pregnancy test is often strong and frightening.

These early losses, however, almost never indicate a problem that needs treatment. The fusing of the egg and sperm’s genetic material is tricky and often goes awry, either misaligning or dividing improperly in early cell growth. When the egg with chromosomal errors bumps against the uterus, the body will start the implantation process. This sets off the manufacture of pregnancy hormone, but often, the lining rejects the egg. In this case, the woman’s body will register a fleeting rise in pregnancy hormone even though the baby could not implant and grow. The new tests are so sensitive as to catch the temporary rise.

This early chromosomal rejection has no bearing on the health of the mother or her ability to carry children to term. The rush of hospital visits by distressed moms causes extra upset and frustration. They often find they are simply turned away. Others might be subjected to invasive and unnecessary tests. The problem amplifies — moms want their babies to be recognized from conception, and health care providers want to maintain a simplicity in diagnosis and treatment of clinically recognized pregnancy and miscarriage.

As I write what I hope to be the newest book about miscarriage and how to get through it, I will address the issue of the new definition of miscarriage. Do we adjust our statistics and scare women with the real figure — that over half of their pregnancies will be lost before week 5? And how do we decide when a woman actually needs intervention for recurring miscarriages? Do early losses simply “not count” anymore? I do wish sites like this one that advocate super-early testing also include a reminder of how common an early loss can be.

Perhaps we will rewrite the rules based on our early detection of pregnancies, creating a hierarchy of risk based on gestational age. But the rules will be for treatment and clinical relevance only. Our babies are our babies, whether at 16 cells or fully formed in our waiting arms.

As the members of my writing critique groups know, I am one tough cookie when it comes to judging books. They go through the ringer when I put their manuscript under the microscope, and even when I go to Barnes and Noble, I’m usually done with a book by page 3. For my friends and critique buddies, I hope it helps them make a better book. Most of them are grateful for someone to help them shore up weaknesses rather than just repeat a trite “It’s great!” As a writer myself, I appreciate so much when someone takes the time to really analyze the book and give an honest constructive reaction.

I set aside my miscarriage book for six months to let it “rest” so I could judge it with an open mind. Many people had loved it, others had given some criticism, but I didn’t feel I was getting a critical enough response to know if it were worth pursuing yet. Sure enough, I wasn’t two chapters in when I set it down and thought, “That book isn’t ready. It’s just not good enough.”

So I have a major rewrite to do if I want to pursue it. Baby Dust is still around, and I still think of it, but for now, it waits, and simmers in my mind, and I’m in no hurry. I’d rather put out a good book than a rushed one.

If you’ve never read chapter one, you can here.

Conceiving an idea is such great fun. There is so much joy in it, such hope. You can believe in something when the concept is broad and bright and entirely in the future. The execution of it is all together different. There are potholes, gaps, chasms, gorges between your dream and its fruition. You wonder if you fail, how many people will watch you go down.

Baby Dust is with six readers right now from various demographics. Women who’ve lost babies, women who haven’t. Doctors and editors and just writer friends who have no idea what darkness I’ve laid in their hands. I will listen to what they have to say about it, make my adjustments where need be.

For the people who read it who’ve never been through a miscarriage, I find they don’t believe some of it. “Of course you have to go to the hospital!” they say, and refuse to accept that this might not be the best course.

“No one would say that!” they exclaim when they see what comments are made to women fresh from their losses. They can’t imagine they might be told “It wasn’t really a baby anyway,” or “Just try again and you’ll be fine.” Or our favorite, “It was all in God’s plan.”

Initially I think–exactly, and that’s why you need to read this book. And learn. Then I think, what if they still don’t believe it? What if these scenarios do more harm than good? What if people think it’s gratuitous? Or disingenuous? Or manipulative? Or just bad?

Today I grapple with both anxiety and hope, much like we do when we learn we are pregnant again after a loss. Yes, it could turn terrible, and we might face awful devastation. But it could also be wonderful.

I take solace in Winston Churchill.

You will make all kinds of mistakes; but as long as you are generous and true and also fierce you cannot hurt the world or even seriously distress her.

I sure do hope he’s right.

On top was a pile of medical things, because I’ve been monitored for cervical cancer since last January. (Next biopsy–Feb. 12. Ick.)

I figured with everything going on, I’d better start a new folder for medical records, so I went to the file cabinet to see what already existed. Under medical, I found a packet rather unusually titled “old stuff.” So I pulled out this folder to see what might be inside.

A medical bill. Several, in fact. I scanned the list to see what they were for.

• Prenatal 1-3
• Antepartum Care
• Mycoplasma Culture
• Prolactin
• TSH

Right about here I realized what I was looking at but read on, much as someone might rubber-neck a car accident.

• Lupus Anticoagulant
• Prothrombine time
• Thromboplastin

I knew the date I would see. May 1998. These were the tests they ran to try and figure out why my baby had died. They didn’t figure it out then; I’d be pregnant with Emily before we understood the reason. If there should ever be a reason for something like that.

Strange I would come across this bill the same day I set Baby Dust aside, the first draft done, a whole trove of stories just like mine contained within its pages. Maybe Casey needed me to remember that they were little people, not just graphic incidents, or maybe he wanted to remind me why I was qualified to write it at all. Or maybe he just wanted to drop in, to show me he knew it was a big day, and to sprinkle me with luck as I start to send it out to agents.

Doesn’t matter. I can make it anything I want to be. And I choose to get dusted with hope.

Baby Dust is done. I wrote the last sentence two minutes ago.

I’ll update you all more on what is going to happen next later, but I’m sitting here bawling my eyes out and the ending worked out better than I thought it could, as if someone or something else told me exactly what to say, and how to say it.

Now, I’m going to go to bed and sleep.

In this scene, we flash back to when Tina came home from the hospital and discovered Arnie had not just ditched her in the emergency room, but had left her life completely.

_______________________________________

 Tina bumped the door to her garage apartment open with her hip and flipped on the light. She was thankful her parents hadn’t pressed her lately to move back to the main house. She didn’t think she could manage being in such proximity to them again.

She dumped her bag on the ledge between the living and kitchen areas. The handle caught on her wrist, stripping the tape off one of her bandages.

“Owwwie! Crap!” she shouted, pressing the gauze back down against the fiery burn of her stitches. “Don’t ever slice yourself!” she called to the ceiling. “It hurts like a mother!”

She rounded the short wall and braced her arm over the sink as if blood might come pouring out any second. She peeled back her orange sleeve and examined the bandage. Half the adhesive had worked loose.

She tugged at the gauze and tape, revealing the pale swollen skin marred by three clean distinct lines, now crisscrossed with some bizarre mending tape. Steri strips, or something, they had called them. Better than Frankenstein arms, she thought. Black stitches on red welts on white flesh. Ick. Thank God for progress.

She walked down the hall to the bathroom, where the light was better. Leaning her arm against the chipped porcelain sink then spotting her haggard face in the mirror made her vision blur and every emotion she’d felt a week ago crashed back into her.

She lurched for the cabinet where she’d kept the box of razors. They were gone, of course, her parents had certainly scoured the apartment for anything sharp. She sat on the toilet lid, still holding her arm on the sink, and leaned her forehead into the crook of her elbow.

It had been so easy. She and Arnie had always kept razor blades around, as he sometimes painted on glass and needed them to scrape away mistakes.

She had come home from the hospital, clutching the Polaroids the hospital had given her of Peanut. Her parents wanted her back in her room at home, but she’d felt certain Arnie would be waiting for her, and she wanted to show him the pictures.

The baby had been so tiny, so feathery light. He’d actually been able to breathe for a while, each inhale a great movement of his entire body, a gulp of air, a shudder on the way out. They’d wrapped him in a white blanket with a blue stripe, just one small white disk with a wire attached to his chest, and laid him under a heat lamp. She’d touched his tiny cheek, but not stroked, as the doctors said his skin was very sensitive and to over stimulate him would cause pain.

They stayed this way for two hours, her leaning over the glass wall of the crib, hand warm under the light and resting lightly on his back, until the monitor beeped a warning.

A nurse stopped in and said something about apnea and called in a doctor. Peanut still took random breaths, now spaced very far apart. The baby doc came in and removed the disk and handed Peanut to her. “It won’t be long now,” he said. “You can hold him until then. It won’t hurt him.”

She let her mom and dad take a turn, but her mom got too distraught and fled the room. Her father followed her shortly and Tina ended up alone on the bed with Peanut. She pressed him into her neck, her hand on his back, often holding her own breath until she felt the shudder of his. She kissed his small forehead and after a while realized she had continued breathing when he had totally stopped.

She tucked him next to her on the bed and fell asleep then, the stressful hours now passed, labor, delivery, panic and fear, her overbearing parents and Arnie dashing out–all behind her. Peanut was still warm against her cheek as she dozed off. Sometime later a nurse woke her and said she would have to take him away.

Maybe her parents should not have left her alone with the Poloroids, but she had insisted, even when it became clear Arnie had moved all his stuff out.

She’d stumbled to the bathroom and saw he’d left one drawing on the wall, his rendition of what he thought the baby might look like. This image was so different from his others–all Goth women and red streaks on black. He’d outlined the baby in pencil based on the sonograms, then colored in the delicate skins and features with soft chalk.

The one work of his he hadn’t taken with him was their baby.

The world had rushed at her too hard. She felt completely out of control, her future whizzing through her body–back to the old school, the mountain of problems, bad grades, attitude, teachers who didn’t like her, mean kids. She’d been so happy at the alternative school, accepted, unique. She and Arnie were artists and revered over there. Girls without supportive boyfriends were so jealous.

But on that day she came home from the hospital, all she knew was that her baby was dead, her boyfriend gone, and she’d soon be booted back to the horror of public school. She washed her face and hands and the gleam of water on her white wrists seemed too pristine, too pearl. The razors lay neatly in the chest of art supplies and she stopped thinking, stopped rationalizing anything at all. The act wasn’t about killing herself, not in that moment, or about escaping, it was about marring the perfection of her arms. She was tainted, her baby had died, she was unloved and unwanted. She felt she should be marked by this–that her physical body should bear the scars of the death of her happiness.

She leaned her pale arm against the sink and didn’t hesitate once. Three sharp lines straight down from mid arm to wrist. Before she could feel weak or frightened, she switched the blade to the left hand and made three more on the right.

The blood didn’t pour like she thought it would. The lines raised to the surface, first white, then pink, then a thin red etching lifted up. She hadn’t been consistent in the pressure, so some parts bled before others, creating beads that slid down the curve. Then one of the cuts opened wide and pulsed out blood with every heartbeat. It streamed out more like she’d imagined it would. She sat amazed by the color, red on white, so bright and harsh. She still did not feel woozy. Only the sting of the cut felt different than before she’d done it. She stood up and that movement made the blood really come forth, and now it flowed down her palm and off the tips of her fingers.

She realized then she might die. She sat on the toilet lid and tried to decide. Did she call an ambulance and save herself, or did she lie in warm water and let the blood flow sweetly out? She could wake up with Peanut. No one could take him away from her this time.

Her arms hurt something awful now and she did begin to see stars–pinpricks of light. The color was draining out of her vision–everything turning black and white. Some instinct took over and she stumbled into the living room and snatched her cell phone out of her bag, leaving streaks of red everywhere. She dialed 911 and managed to tell them what she’d done and where she lived. When the paramedics arrived, she was still lightly conscious and even smiled at a cute one. He would make a good dad, she vaguely remembered whispering before her memory ran out.

Tina exhaled in an elongated rush and fingered a steri strip. She wouldn’t do it again, no way. The ordeal had been entirely too much trouble–parent freak-outs, another visit to the same hospital, then the sophomoric case workers who insisted she go to therapy and the pregnancy loss group.

Actually, she was glad about that part. She stood and peered into the mirror, tugging on one of her spiked ponies. She felt real grown up there and Melinda was nice. She felt like someone who had been through something, and everyone acknowledged it. Nobody thought she was crazy or a loser. She could say anything she wanted.

The baby’s drawing still hung over the towel rack. Tina lifted it off its hook and hugged it close to her. Peanut had been a real person. He’d actually lived. She had pictures to prove it and he’d even had a dad for a while–a dad who’d been interested enough in him to draw him before he was born.

If only he’d stuck around a bit to actually see him. He’d regret it one day, if he didn’t already. Tina didn’t care so much that he’d ditched her. Boys in high school were a drag like that. But to miss your kid’s entire life. That’s the kind of thing you always end up wishing you’d done different.

I’ve added a new character, Constance, and I’ll see how she’ll work out. She’s married, has two kids, and works in a day care–a painful place after her miscarriage, especially when she feels some of the mothers mistreat their children. She comes home to find her husband fired from his job (again!) and insisting–no more babies. She can’t bear to end her reproductive years on a loss. So the conflict begins.

I hope to have a finished draft of the novel by Feb. 7.