All I can say is, “Fourteen years and counting.”

One of the hard things about losing a baby that no one else felt, or saw, or touched is that everyone wants you to get over it quickly. They don’t have the same emotional investment. Pregnancy, with its sleepiness and dream-like quality, encourages the visions of the baby to come, the moments ahead. It’s how you get through the hard stuff—throwing up, bone-tiredness, caution and fear. So we’re wired to already see and experience this baby well beyond the sensations in our belly.

In her book Virgin Blue (which has lots of miscarriage and pregnancy trauma within it), author Tracy Chavalier’s characters, both midwives, talk about how the pregnant mother is always ”listening” inside her. She’s distracted, taken out of the outside world, and focused on what is happening within.

It really doesn’t matter when the conversation stops, the day after the positive pregnancy test or during the birth, when some tragedy takes the baby during its final journey to the outside. It’s still a cutting off, a silencing of a relationship that had become the focus of your life.

Fourteen years ago today, I didn’t realize my connection had been cut. I suspected—but then every pregnant mother seems to always have some fear—but until the Doppler was silent, until the doctor was rushed in and the sonogram machine powered up, until he moved and moved and moved the paddle, trying to find an elusive heartbeat for a 20-week baby who should have filled the screen with movement and sound, but didn’t. Until I had proof; I hadn’t known.

April 28 taught me how to listen, how to hear, how to know when the conversation ceased. My next two losses were no surprise. I had learned the difference between the hum that reverberates between a mother and an unborn child and the silence that means the child is gone.

And this year, at 42, I am getting married again and, next month, taking that journey one more time. I don’t even know if the conversation will start. I may not be able to get pregnant at all. The chromosomes in my eggs may be too sticky to divide properly and get the baby on its journey. But I will listen, and I will hear. And whatever conversation I might get, however many days or weeks or months I may get to feel that hum, I will take them.

One thing I’ve learned in 14 years—I am not afraid. I hope, for all of you, who may be finding this page for the first time or the fourth, that you find that courage too.

Head on over to the site of Baby Dust, my novel on pregnancy loss that will be released Oct. 1, and comment on any of the titles that you might find helpful. We’ll give away the books on October 1 to kick off Pregnancy Loss Remembrance Month.

We’re also taking this special day to celebrate the completion of the Baby Dust Book Trailer. Women from Ireland, London, Australia, Mexico, and the US talk about their babies, and the women of Illuminate, a photography class for grieving mothers, took the images that are used. (Double click to view it full size.)

Both our parents, anxiously awaiting the phone call. First grandbaby on both sides. I don’t think anyone could have been happier driving up to a building, parking, and laughing as we walked in.

The bluebonnets had been covering the hills and I, jealous of all the moms taking pictures of their babies in the blooms, had taped a sonogram image to a flower and taken a picture. I was clutching the print to give to my doctor.

The nurse took me into a room and tried to find the baby’s heartbeat with the Doppler. And failed.

We smiled about it, not quite reaching a laugh. She hadn’t been able to find it at the last two visits either, and both times sonograms confirmed the baby was fine, growing right on schedule.

But when the doctor came in only seconds later, skipping the half-hour wait we were used to, I knew. He rolled up the machine and searched, measured, frowned. My baby, at 20 weeks gestation, had died.

I’m remembering now how quickly I was expected to get over the loss. To try again and forget. I didn’t get the comfort of saying his name aloud. I was pushy, insistent on bringing him up, but he wasn’t real to anyone else. And a few weeks later, my job ended, leaving me without anyone who even knew the history.

So today, on Facebook, I’ve started a new page just for our babies. For our sonograms, our pictures. Even if all you have is a pregnancy test. Or a teddy bear you bought. Or a tree you planted. I want to see it. Other moms will want to see it. We care. We want to know.

So GO! Upload those images. Make videos. Write text. And while you’re there, comment on a few other angel babies, coo and admire the things put up there. Know that for a moment someone else is thinking of your baby.

And to keep Casey company, I’ve asked my book designer (yes, my novel is coming out in October!) if we could fit the names and dates of some of the angels I will get to know in the next few days and weeks into my book. I wanted to list them, make their names permanent somewhere. She tells me she can fit about 500 names and dates into the closing pages. So GO! Add your baby’s name to the roster. They’ll be there together–yours and mine. Not forgotten at all. But celebrated. Known. Permanent. We’re thrilled to hear their names. I’m thrilled to know their names.

What, you’re still here? Click to go to the new page!

Once again I have designed labels for the candles I give to the families who come to the lighting I host here in Austin, Texas (which is Friday, Oct. 15 from 6:45 to 8 p.m. at the pond in Butler Park, which is behind the Long Center on Riverside Drive. Find us by our candles.) 

If you are hosting a candle lighting (or just lighting on your own) and would like to use this label for votives, feel free to right-click the single label below and “Save picture as.” It is designed for standard address labels, Avery 8160. It does not have to be printed in color. It looks good in black and white too.

I have also uploaded a Microsoft Word document that is a whole page of these labels, ready to print on Avery 8160 or compatible address labels. Download that HERE.

Here are the final votives and how they turned out. You can get little candles like these for about $5 a dozen.

Blessings to all of you who will mark this day for your lost babies.

Many of you know my younger daughter Elizabeth was once part of a set of twins. I lost one of the babies when my water broke on that sac at 10 weeks. It was a harrowing experience as I was on an airplane, only two hours into a 12-hour flight between Switzerland and the US.

After a tense week, we finally saw Elizabeth’s heart beat, and the other sac collapsed and got out of the way. I had no further complications to her pregnancy, other than the usual stuck position and required c-section.

A few days ago, after taking Elizabeth’s hair out of braids, she said, “I have angel hair!” So we took her picture holding a baby doll, which I later replaced with an image of herself as a baby.

There isn’t a sweeter guardian angel than Emma Hope, Elizabeth’s twin, and no better way to portray them than with a sister who once shared her womb.

This image is available at RedBubble for a keepsake card or a little poster for baby’s room, if you also have a guardian angel who will watch over you or your other children. It includes the very common phrase you will see repeatedly on grief sites, miscarriage tickers, and signatures, “Some people dream of angels…I held one in my arms.”

I was 20 weeks pregnant. I’d just taken a half day off at the high school where I taught. As I walked away, my newspaper staff was making a big chart on the board, and all my students were placing bets on whether I was having a boy or a girl. I was instructed to call the room after my sonogram, and they’d be there to answer and announce the winners. Many a Dr. Pepper was riding on the outcome.

My husband John came out of the coffee shop with bottled water just as they called us back. I commented as I stepped on the scale that lately I had felt skinnier, which I thought odd. I had been so concerned about it that a few days ago I’d gone to the nurse’s office at my school to be weighed.

“Nope, you’re growing plenty!” the nurse said, jotting down the number. I felt relieved and sat on the exam table. She pulled out a Doppler to get the baby’s heart rate and I automatically tensed. She had struggled with this at both my previous visits, so when she kept moving it around and around and found nothing, I didn’t worry as much as I might have.

“No worries,” she said. “We’ll see it during the sonogram.”

But when my doctor arrived seconds later, rather than after what was normally a lengthy wait, I knew something was wrong.

And when his first words were, “Try not to worry,” this set my pulse flying.

He immediately flipped on the machine beside us and laid the sonogram paddle to my exposed belly. He grimaced as he worked, and John held my hand tightly. I was already crying, but not really noticing as the moment was so intense, so long, so agonizingly slow.

Finally the doctor said, “There’s no heartbeat.”

The rest of the words sort of slurred in my mind. The baby was measuring out at 16 weeks, so had died shortly after the last visit. I remembered that sonogram so well, his heartbeat and the shifting of his shoulders making us realize he was alive, so alive, and going to be with us soon. Here is Casey at 16 weeks, the last time we saw him alive:

The rest of my story is well documented on the site. You can read it here.

So much has happened since then. My life has gone in many new directions. I quit teaching. I had surgery to fix my uterus. I had two lovely girls among complicated pregnancies where I lost other babies. John and I eventually separated.

But today is about little Casey, the reason this web site exists. It has been a long labor of love, at times causing me great anguish, but mostly being a source of strength and pride and comfort for both myself and the wonderful mothers who come here–this site takes 25,000 hits every day.

I am doing a number of special things to commemorate this day.

Early this morning, I created a Facts about Miscarriage Facebook Group that women may join so that we can create a community of women united in our losses, to tell our stories, leave our pictures, and find each other. If you belong to Facebook, join the group and invite others. If you don’t belong to Facebook, take a look at it. It’s sort of a “myspace” for grownups, with fewer glitter graphics and pounding music, but all the utilities for sharing as much, or as little, of your life as you like. Feel free to friend me there.

I have also created a second miscarriage sympathy card.

I enjoy making images that express how I feel about this baby I never got to see or hold. In this way, I get to enjoy my time with him, creating something new and lasting, and not just think of the past and what I lost.

I will return the site to its usual configuration in a day or so. If you would like to see the Common Questions list that usually fill this space on the site, here they are.

Deanna
Mother of
Casey Shay (Dec. 1997-April 1998 gestation)
Emily Faith (born April 1999)
Daniel (June-July 2001 gestation)
Elizabeth Grace (born May 2002)
and her twin Emma Hope (August-October 2001 gestation)

Tomorrow I’ll put the site back in its usual configuration, which is to place Frequently Asked Questions right here front and first-read, but for one more day we’ll think about what this candle lighting means and the day we got to stop and revisit our loss, spend time with our babies, and let the grief flow.

Today I got to tell Emily and Elizabeth about the babies who died in Mama’s tummy, and Emily started to understand. (Elizabeth still thought lighting the floating candles and setting them out in Town Lake was “great fun.”)

I’ll leave you with the image of us here in Austin, lighting our candles on this special day for our babies.

If I can’t make him a birthday cake, shop for that one awesome gift, take RSVPs for a laser tag party, or even…well, even kiss his big-boy head and embarrass him, at least I can do this.

This year marks really big changes in the look and feel of the site. I’ll be working very hard all day. I apologize if things get a little dusty and disorganized as you surf around!

If you want to see the old version of the site that you’ve been used to you can do so via this link.

Isn’t faith believing all powers can’t be seen?

Yesterday my almost-five-year-old (countdown to the big day–seven sleeps!) and I attended a baby shower for her preschool teacher.

One of the games involved each of the kids suggesting what Ms. Lindsay should name her baby boy.

The children mainly chose names of male classmates or dads or brothers. A few provided gigglers–Star, Sunshine, Happy Feet. One future class clown offered up “Poo.”

Elizabeth’s turn arrived. She seemed confused about this, and the teacher asked her if she needed more time. She shook her head, stood up, and said, “Matthew.”

My heart seized. She knew no Matthews. No cousins or classmates or friends. The only time she could have heard the name in her brief existence would be in Sunday School, where it would compete with the likes of Mark, Luke, and John.

But Matthew is a very important name to us. When we were told Emily was a boy at her sonogram, we chose Ryan Matthew as her name. Naturally she became Emily later when the high risk doctor told us–that’s an odd name for a girl!

When we got pregnant with Elizabeth, we decided we still liked Ryan Matthew but would prefer it flipped. So we called the baby Matthew early on when we referred to her in the womb, until her sonogram revealed she was also a girl.

But of course, Elizabeth was a twin. Her little sibling died and my water broke when I was only ten weeks pregnant. Elizabeth survived, although we had a week or two of uncertainty that the pregnancy would pull through.

We’ve named her twin Emma Hope, but after this baby shower, maybe we were wrong. Perhaps Elizabeth knows more than we do, and maybe, just maybe, some little presence whispered in her ear that morning, and for the first time, without even knowing it, she uttered a name she’d never before heard–her brother’s.

Many just want to share their story–to tell anyone and let it pour out. I always imagine it is like poison, or snake venom, and you simply have to purge it from your body in order to survive. I’ve heard most every situation that can be told after eight years, and I can handle anything laid in my inbox.

The beta readers who are going over Baby Dust right now also email me, mentioning moments in various characters that they feel reflect me. Stella, certainly, in her unabashed devotion to the group for a decade, often will say things I write in my emails to women–encouragement or concern or a reminder that the future will look very different that the landscape currently in view. I too once thought I would never have children, only loss after loss. I probably hit my lowest low when I was pregnant for the second time and my doctor called me to say my screenings with this new baby were abnormal.

“It will happen again,” I thought, my belly already fat enough that I had to lean forward to rest my head on the work desk. “It will happen over and over again until I can’t take it anymore.”

And that was when I formed a resolution I still repeat to women who feel their losses will recur and they can’t face it. “Can you make it through one more?” I ask them. “Not two more or five more or an endless stream of them. But just one more?”

When you say yes, you know you can make it through one more loss, you are ready to try again. Because your last loss may indeed have been your last loss.