When the Rainbow Fades

So we have a theory about our miscarriages.  Before, I thought that when we gave up on trying to have a baby, the Lord may still send a sweet little one then protect him or her when the time was right.  I've now come to the conclusion that no matter how a baby comes and when, my body will just not support a baby.  In fact, I'm fairly certain I have an unknown medical condition that is taking out the babies.  It may be another antibody.  It may be that my hormones don't kick in.  There's no way to say.  But I had a good two weeks of using the pills the doctor gave me to ward off baby loss--baby aspirin, progesterone, and prostaglandin--and it still did not help.  I still lost the baby at roughly the same time as the later ones of the others.  We can't know what's going on.

But at this point, we can know that my body will not support a baby.  There will be no rainbow baby for me, at least until the Second Coming and the Resurrection.  Then, I will have my army of angels where I can hold and love them.  Until then, I have to be grateful for what I have and continue in the hardest kind of faith, the "but if not" faith.  Elder Simmons of the LDS church described true faith, faith in the Lord that will not be shaken even when our prayers don't seem to be answered as we're hoping.  Lord, I want this.  But if not, I will still trust and believe.  And that is where I live, in the land of but if not faith.  I will not hold a rainbow baby, but I can be grateful for my angels and grateful for the children I can hold.  My peace and joy are both in gratitude.

Difficult questions

For a lot of people, little questions like the following are no big deal: "Where are you from?" "How are you?" "How many kids do you have?"  That first one is a question complicated by having a father who liked to move us a lot, so I'm not sure what we're talking about.  The concept of a "hometown" is foreign, and, therefore, slightly painful because it reminds me of the core identity I lack.  But I can handle that question.  The other two are a little more complicated by child loss.  

"How are you?" can be easy or difficult, depending on whether or not we're nearing an angelversary or difficult birthday.  Most of the time, I can answer by the wrote and expected answer, "Fine."  Anything else seems to confuse and frustrate people.  It's not a question but a greeting, and there's a script to it.  If you actually give a real answer as if it were a real question, people aren't sure what to do about it.  You have to be careful around whom you answer something like, "I'm dying inside," because some people will look at you funny or edge away.  They don't seem to understand this is a trying and painful question for those who want to answer it truthfully in a way that would explore the pain inside.  It's a performance question that is not intended to hurt but often does through its insincerity.

Then there's the hardest one that can't help but hurt.  "How many kids do you have?" Most people would expect me to mention the two they could see.  But that seems a betrayal.  What about the third?  What about my Alamanda, who I held for four short months?  She's with me.  They just can't see her.  And often, that conversation will lead to how she died and the hell that I went through after.  But even three doesn't seem quite right.  I fully expect to hold my miscarried babies again, too.  But most people don't want to hear a lengthy explanation of my Alamanda and my fourteen miscarriages.  I don't need to let just everyone into my world and trauma.  But how do I answer that question without touching on it at all?  By its very nature, that question that seems so simple to those who have not lost babies suddenly becomes a reminder of pain to those of us who have lost.  But it's not like I'd want to put a tattoo on my forehead that says, "Please don't ask me how many kids I have."  It's just one of many constant reminders. Why do simple questions have to seem so complicated?