A Remembrance: Matthew John

I haven't written about our miscarriage yet.  Not publicly, anyway.  I've journaled my heart out, and shared brief tidbits.  I'm not sure what has kept me from writing.  I guess maybe because I wouldn't think it would be very entertaining.  Or it would bring more sadness to people who read it. But today marks one year since I heard the words, "I'm so sorry, there is no heartbeat."  And so I write today, more for me, to process through again. But I also know that I have read through several blogs about miscarriage, in those times where I just needed to grieve those moments of loss again, so I pray that someone might be blessed in reading this.  To that person I say, "You are not alone, your loss is real, and I am so very sorry."

There have been times when I felt that losing my baby before he was born allowed for an easier grieving process.  I have no memories with him.  There are no scents or sounds that bring back a memory of him. I don't even know what he would look like.  So there are times when that seems easier.  Until the reality crashes in.  I have no memories of him.  I have no idea what he looked like. Smelled like.  Sounded like.  I have only loss, and a dream of what could have been.  The world of miscarriage is confusing.  I had a due date in May, but that date holds no significance now.  Even the day we lost him is confusing.  On December 11, 2014 we found out there was no heartbeat.  By measurements, the best guess is that he died possibly two weeks earlier. December 12 was when he was born and the date we keep as the day he died, even though we know he had passed earlier.  There are days like today it seems unfair to not have specifics. I want to know what happened, and when, and why, and I have to carry on knowing I will not know.

Last September, we got the surprise of our life. After having five children, we opted for surgery to make sure we stayed at "just five kids."  Five years AFTER that procedure, I found out I was pregnant.  Surprise - vasectomies can fail!  It was crazy. We couldn't believe it.  I mean, 'seven positive at-home tests, positive blood work, confirming ultrasound' couldn't believe it.  We were so excited.  We thought we were done with five, but finding out we would have six children was a miracle, and made us realize we really DID want more kids.  We told the kids, they were excited. We told our family, they were excited.  There was so much joy in the thought of this new baby. This total surprise, work of God, miracle baby.  We found out through a new blood test that we were having a boy.  We did a gender reveal at Thanksgiving with my whole family.  We would have talks with the kids about what to name him.  I wanted Andrew. Jerry wanted Titus. The kids joked we should name him something Biblical, like Mephibosheth. The kids would come with us to all of the OB visits, and we would go out to eat at Bob Evans after, because nothing is more exciting than Bob Evans! They were all in the room when we heard the heartbeat at 13 weeks. I remember laying there, watching their faces as we listened to the whooshing.  They were all old enough to understand there was a baby inside, which was a new experience for us. They older ones were 5, 3, and 1 when I was pregnant with the twins.  It was very cool to have them all there for the appointments.

On December 11, we had our typical late afternoon appointment.  They called me back, and I explained to the nurse that we like to have our kids hear the heartbeat.  I told her, "We want our kids to hear the heartbeat. Can you please make sure there is a heartbeat first before they come back?"  She didn't listen.  She called them all in right away.  I lay on the table, praying she would find a heartbeat.  In hindsight, I think my body knew. I was so concerned she wouldn't find a heartbeat - moreso than usual.  So there I was, laying on the table, with my husband and 5 excited faces waiting to hear the heartbeat. And she couldn't find it.  She tried and tried.  The longer she tried, the harder I had to force the smile at my children, assuring them everything was ok.  She still couldn't find a heartbeat.  She called in the doctor, because she is better at finding it, she always finds it.  The doctor came in. She couldn't find a heartbeat.  The doctor said I would go in for an ultrasound.  My whole family sat in the waiting area in the hallway, waiting for an opening in the ultrasound room.  I remember trying not to cry as an expectant dad came out and sat down next to us with his row of ultrasound pictures, making a phone call to family to tell them everything looked good. 

They finally called me into the room, alone.  Jerry stayed in the hallway with the kids.  She put the ultrasound wand on me, and said, "Oh....  I'm so sorry.  There is no heartbeat." I saw my baby, laying still on the screen.  I kept thinking, oh my baby... my baby.  I started crying, trying not to, but not being able to help it.  She said, "I'm so sorry to ask, can you hold your breath while I record for the heartbeat."  I remember feeling bad for her. In my total sadness, I thought, how many times has she had to ask a newly grieving mother to be still so she could record the silence.  They called Jerry in, and I realized he didn't know yet.  I think he knew.  But he had to see it all for the first time, too.  There was our baby, laying still.  The nurses took our children to the staff lounge while we finished the ultrasound. 

We met with the doctor in her office. It is a lot to take in, all at once.  Nobody truly expects to hear this news.  We had a late appointment, and now we had to make decisions.  It was a Thursday, almost 5pm by the time we talked with the doctor.  She told us our options.  I could be induced and deliver.  I could have a procedure called a D & E where they put me under and take out the baby. And no rush, but if we wanted it before the weekend, they would have to know in 15 minutes to schedule with the hospital. Without even talking about it, we both chose the D&E.  I couldn't bear the thought of laboring, knowing I would give birth to a baby that had already died.  In fact, the thought that my baby was inside me already dead for two weeks was more than I could emotionally handle.  I felt like my body had betrayed me.  Why wouldn't it know?  How did I not know? Did I know and I was just ignoring it? We told the doctor we wanted the procedure, and she had the front desk contact the hospital.  She handed us the ultrasound picture of our baby.  Our last picture.  And after giving her condolences again, she said the most important words I have heard regarding this.  She stopped, reached across the desk, and said "There is nothing you did to cause this.  There is nothing you could have done to stop this."

"There is nothing you did to cause this. There is nothing you could have done to stop this."

I know there is someone out there who needs to hear that as much as I did.  Mom guilt is a terrible beast.  And when the entire health of a pregnancy is in the mother's hands, it is SO HARD to let go and realize these things happen OUT OF OUR CONTROL.  It isn't your fault.  It wasn't my fault.  Even still I will think, maybe it was that benadryl I took.... maybe I shouldn't have moved the couch.... I wonder if I slept on my right side instead of my left one night.  Nothing I did caused this.  Nothing I could have done would have stopped this.

After talking with the doctor, we then had to walk into the staff lounge and tell our kids.  What a hard thing.  There was a lot of crying.  Jerry did the talking.  Our baby is already with Jesus.  We are sad, and it's ok to be sad. We walked out and got in the van to leave.  It was dinner time and we had to feed our kids. We couldn't even think, yet life kept going.  There was more disappointment as we said we were not going to Bob Evans... we needed to get home.

I texted my sister on the way home.  She was the first person I told.  How do you tell people? I told her. In a text.  We still didn't know the plans from the hospital, but knew it would be the next day.  My brother-in-law happened to have the next day off.  She was available to watch my kids when we went to the hospital. We got home, ordered pizza, and started making phone calls.  My parents, his parents.  Once enough people knew, I posted it on Facebook.  The whole world knew I was pregnant, and I needed to say I wasn't.  It was therapeutic as I sat on my bed, crying. Waves of condolences came in. I would read through all of them, and cry.  The prayers and sympathies got us through that first day.

I couldn't sleep that night.  We still had no plan from the hospital, but we would get a call in the morning.  I was told not to eat or drink after midnight, so of course I was up at midnight.  We never settled on a name.  Jerry had fallen asleep on the couch, so I lay in bed looking up baby names.  I needed to name the baby I wouldn't get to have.  After reading through lists and lists of names and their meanings, I messaged Jerry (it seems ridiculous now - I just didn't want to wake him) Matthew John.  Matthew means "gift of God (YAHWEH)" and John mean "YAHWEH is gracious".  I truly believe that Matthew was a gift from the Lord.  And our Lord is very gracious. What a perfect name.  Matthew John. 

We got the call very early in the morning to be at the hospital in an hour.  I called my sister. She came over, and we left.  It was the worst feeling, driving to the hospital.  We had made this drive so many times before. I gave birth to five babies at Genesys. This time it would end in death. It was a dark and heavy drive in.

I get sick from anesthesia, so I made sure I told everyone I could.  The nurse who brought me back, I happened to know.  She was able to get my IV on the first try, and immediately gave me meds.  I'm not sure what. They were "the good stuff".  They brought Jerry back and we waited.  And waited.  Between the anti-nausea meds and the relaxers, I would doze off for an hour at a time.  I would wake up, almost on the hour. There was Jerry, sitting beside me.  Then I'd get another dose of something and I would drift off again.  I felt so bad that Jerry had to sit there, essentially alone, while I slept in a drug-induced stupor.  The doctor who would perform the procedure came in to talk to us.  We go to a group practice, so this doctor was different from the one the day before.  He talked us through everything.  I asked, if at all possible, if they could get a footprint or hand print, knowing it might not happen.  He said they would try their best to get us something.  We waited and waited.  Finally they rolled me back. 

After the procedure, the doctor met with Jerry in the waiting room.  The procedure went well.  He handed him a sheet of paper with tiny footprints. Our one tangible memory from our baby we would never meet. 

Tiny footprints that left a huge impression

I am so grateful that my sister could watch my kids.  It was a very long time.  I have no idea on exacts, but I remember being in the hospital, finding out it was 3pm, and thinking, I have to get home... my sister... They told me what I had to do to be released, and somehow I did them.  I remember falling asleep in the bathroom. But I woke up when the nurse asked if I was ok.  It was such a medicated blur for me.  I don't remember getting to the car. I do remember waking up in the Rite Aid parking lot as Jerry went to fill my prescriptions.  I remember stumbling into my house, saying thank you to my sister, and miraculously making it down the stairs to my bed before falling asleep. 

The next few days were physical and emotional healing.  The procedure was on a Friday.  There were certain things that would throw me into a cycle of grieving I couldn't break out of.  There was just so much sadness.  I have never been so sad.  On Sunday, we went to church.  I wanted to be able to see my friends while the pain was still raw.  I couldn't imagine healing, even for a week, then seeing people for the first time.  It was incredibly difficult, but I am glad we went.  One friend gave me a prayer journal.  That was instrumental in my healing.  I am not a journaler, yet I wrote and cried and wrote.  One day Naomi said, "Mommy, are you going to cry and write your feelings in your book again today?"  Yeah, baby, I am.  Another friend said she had something for us.  She made a prayer shawl out of the yarn she had gotten for his baby blanket.  It was perfect and amazing and so heavy with meaning. 

We received many cards and prayers.  Gifts and memories. We are grateful for them all.  We bought a memory chest for Matthew.  It sits in our living room, holding all of our memories of him.  It was huge for us to have a place for him and all of our memories. 

 

 

 

Our Matthew box

Friends of ours gave money toward a memorial for him.  We didn't bury him, so we weren't sure what to get as a memorial.  I spent many hours browsing through various sites, sobbing at the different things available.  I came across a place in Colorado that makes memorial stepping stones.  I loved that it was something portable (in case we ever move) and just how beautiful and perfect it was.  I ordered it, it arrived, and it was just perfect.  This stepping stone now sits in one of our gardens.  I can see it from my kitchen windows, and it makes my heart happy.

Right after we lost Matthew, I saw an ornament that was an angel holding the 2014 banner.  It spoke right to my heart, and I had to have it.  It was on our tree, stayed out all year on a shelf, and is back on our tree. Well, since we ordered it through Lenox, they send us catalogs every month, of course.  I was flipping through the catalog when my heart stopped a bit.  There was the most perfect figurine.  An angel holding a newborn.  I closed the catalog and sat and cried.  Then I would open it, and cry more.  I finally ordered it.  It arrived, and is as perfect as I had hoped.  During my hardest times last year, this prayer repeated in my head and heart: "Jesus, please hold my baby, because I never got to."  It would run on repeat.  Even today, it brings instant tears.  Please hold my baby.  So here it is.  An angel, holding my baby.  It brought so much healing to see it.  And now to have it in my house.  It is perfect. 

Jesus, please hold my baby because I never got to...

This definitely was therapeutic to write about.  I cried living through the memories.  I now finish with dried salt streaks down my cheeks.  I am willing to talk to any woman or family who has suffered through this loss.  It hurts more than I can explain.  When I hear of another friend losing a baby, I cry fresh tears for their loss.  If you are going through this right now, I am so sorry.  Nothing you did caused this, and nothing you could have done would have stopped this.  Your loss is real.  And I weep with you.

I thank you for all of the prayers and support in all of this.  Thank you for the support to my husband and family.  Husbands, kids, siblings, aunts, uncles, and grandparents all grieve and need support, too. 

I often wonder why we went through this.  We stopped our family at five kids.  God worked a miracle and gave us our sixth.  It was very clearly God's plan that this pregnancy happened.  I don't know why we lost Matthew.  I pray that God would use this for good.  If I can be of any use through this, please let it be known.  The month before we lost Matthew, I heard the song "Oceans" by Hillsong United after an OB appointment, leaving dinner at Bob Evans. I had such a heaviness in my heart when I heard it.  After we lost him, I realized sometimes we are called to walk a path that we would  never choose for ourselves.  It's in those walks that our faith is strengthened beyond what we could ever imagine.  Two parts of the song resonate in my soul every time I hear it now, and I think I'll end with those two parts.  My faith has definitely grown by walking out into paths I didn't think I could handle. 

"You call me out upon the waters
The great unknown where feet may fail
And there I find you in the mystery
In oceans deep
My faith will stand."

"Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger
In the presence of my Savior"

Cookie Ministry; The Rice Way

Last summer was a very busy, overwhelming summer.  I never got around to writing this when it happened, but I've been meaning to.  I will do my best to relate the experience as it happened instead of in hind-sight. 

The background:  My husband wanted to start a new ministry at our church.  Short version - we bake cookies as a church, then we deliver plates of cookies to all area businesses.  We thank them for working in our community, and tell them that God loves them.  No obligations, just cookies and God's love.  Cool stuff.  Who doesn't love cookies?

Now, I'll save you the drama of how my summer was so crazy busy before the creation of this ministry, and how my brain was so full that I could not even bear to hear the words "Cookie Ministry" in my house without getting an eye twitch. And how the ONLY open day on my calendar now had "Cookie Ministry" written on it, in red.  It was a great ministry. For my husband to run.  Anyway, I'll save you the drama... 

The actual organizing of the ministry and the making of the cookies went off absolutely perfectly (of course - my husband planned it, he's really good. :) )  The Sunday that we were going to distribute the cookies happened to be a Sunday that we had to be at both services. If you've ever noticed that we are never at both services, you would be correct.  It's not a "plan to win" for the Rices.  But this particular Sunday Jerry and I both had things to do at both services - he was running the cookie table, I was singing in a women's choir.  During the second service while I was singing, I was watching in the back as my one child slid through an entire row of chairs on his back, while two other children were dancing around, and two other children sulked.  I watched with flared nostrils, wide eyes, and clenched teeth. Luckily, right after I sang, I could remove all five and happily head home.

But first... the cookies.  My oldest child was very much looking forward to delivering a plate of cookies and telling them that God loves them.  He is our natural evangelist.  I knew I wasn't getting out of that church without a plate of cookies to deliver.  We chose the Meijer Gas Station as the business we would bless.  If our kids behave for church, we bribe them with slushees.  (Don't judge. There's a reason bribery has been around so long - it's effective.) Normally one of us runs in and gets all of the slushees and distributes them in the van to the *deserving* children.  So, if I take cookies to the Meijer gas station, I can get the slushees WHILE doing ministry.  Two birds, one stone.  Let's overlook the fact that my kids most definitely did not deserve slushees on this particular day. That was a parenting fail I was willing to accept at the time.  

So we pile into my 15-passenger van with a plate of cookies.  I use the 3 minute drive to the gas station to lay out the plan to my children.  We will walk in, deliver the cookies, thank them for working, tell them God loves them, pick out ONE treat, and we are done for the day.  Jerry had to stay late after service, so I was flying solo.  I could do this.  I could do this....

Before we head in, I go over the plan just one more time, so we are all clear of the expectations.  Man, I've got this.  We can do this!

Deep breath. Exhale.

We walk into the gas station.  Ethan won the job of handing the plate of cookies to the cashiers since he was the oldest (and most enthusiastic).  He hands over the plate of cookies.  I hear, "Thank you for working here. God loves you. Here are some homemade cookies."  We did it!!!!!!!!!!!

Then I hear an ear-piercing screech coming from my youngest.

"Faith Elizabeth!!!!  What is the matter?!?!?"

She replies, "I WANTED TO TELL THEM THAT GOD LOVES THEM!!!!!"

"Well, honey, you still can.  Just tell them. They are right there."

Through sobs, "God <sob sob> loves you!!! <sob sob>"

Ok. Some focused breathing, I can do this. That wasn't so bad.  She's little and cute... we're ok.  I give instruction one more time that we can pick out one treat.  And then my children scatter.  This might not be that big of a deal to most, it's a small gas station, relatively empty.  But I was raised on a solid diet of after school specials and am wildly aware of the risk of kidnapping from a public place.

The more you know, you can find out every way possible to be kidnapped!

I take a defensive stance in the center of the gas station, facing the doors.  Feet spread apart, each arm out as if my hands have sensors that can track my children when I can't see them.  I'm looking maniacally back and forth from the candy aisles where my three youngest have disbursed to the back corner where my two oldest are sizing up the slushee machines. 

I keep thinking, please hurry... just choose something... please hurry.... Instead, it's like my children have never seen candy before.  'Reeses?  What is this? Chocoloate? Peanut butter?  I don't get it...'  please hurry... please hurry....

I walked over to the candy aisle to try to speed up the decision process.  After looking at every single candy bar sold in that store, Naomi decides on CheezIts.  Faith grabs a pack of gum.  Josh chooses the biggest king-size candy bar I have ever seen.  Whatever. Good choices. Let me just get the boys their slushees and we'll be ready to ......

I turn around and see Ethan walking toward the checkout counter.  He is unsuccessfully trying to squeeze a lid onto a slushee that he has clearly over filled.  Red frozen sugar is pouring out onto the floor as he walks and squishes the lid more and more.  My eyes pop open, jaw drops. In my *calmest* mom-in-public-I-want-to-yell voice, I whisper yell, "Ethan. You are pouring slushee all over the floor.  Stop moving." 

He looks up and says, "What.  I didn't know."

Of course you didn't know, because you AREN'T ALLOWED TO POUR YOUR OWN SLUSHEE. Ever. Never have you ever been allowed to do that.  Ever.

I started looking for napkins to clean up the mess, while simultaneously capping the guilty slushee and setting it on the counter so it can't puke any more red dye onto the floor.  When I turn around, one of the cashiers is cleaning up the mess.  Mortified, I whispered to Ethan, "The lady that you just thanked for working here and blessed with cookies is cleaning up your mess."  I walked back to her, apologizing for the mess, apologizing for my kids, apologizing for this whole hot mess that I brought in, and finished cleaning up the spills.

Meanwhile, having been distracted by cleaning up Ethan's slushee mess, Josh has decided to pour himself a slushee.  My four year old. The one who already chose the gigantic candy bar.  Of course his slushee is pouring all over, but by now I already have napkins in hand and clean it up before causing another "Clean up in aisle 5."  I glance over and notice that Noah has also poured himself a slushee. I guess it's get your own slushee day - I wish I had known. Luckily he didn't spill his, so I tried to spare my annoyance, I needed to save my energy. Besides, this means we are finally ready to pay and leave while I still can maybe show my face in Meijer again.

I notice that Josh still has his life-size candy bar in his hand.  Knowing I am so close to the freedom of leaving, I kneel down and calmly say, "Josh, I need you to go put your candy bar back.  You chose a slushee and you know we are only getting one treat each."

Not surprisingly, he didn't take this news well.  He went face first into the floor, screaming and crying. I put his now unwanted slushee on the counter, took a deep cleansing breath, and was ready to check out.  This needed to end.  I needed to end this.  Please let me pay and leave....

The second cashier looks over the counter with a sad, concerned face and says, "Oh no! Is he ok?"

I smiled, somehow I managed to smile, and I said, "He wanted the candy bar, then poured himself a slushee. Sometimes we make poor choices... How much do I owe you?" 

I paid.  I picked up my screaming child from the floor.  I directed my remaining four children that they needed to get to the van, now.  I looked past the line forming behind us, focused on getting back to the safety of my van.  On my way out, carrying my now flailing and screaming child, a woman held the door open for me.  She smiled at me and nodded.  It wasn't a condescending smile.  It was an "I've been there" smile.  I nodded back and smiled.  High five, lady.  We've got this.

If I were to look in hind sight, I would have never taken my children into that gas station at that time.  I would have gotten them home, fed them, given them time to unwind, then head back at a time that would have been more successful for everyone.  But parenting doesn't happen in hindsight.  Parenting happens in a string of on-the-spot bad decisions.  Because sometimes we make poor choices....

One thing I know for certain, those women will never forget the day that the Rice family brought them cookies to show them that God loves them.  At least, I never will.

Actual cookies baked at our church for the Cookie Ministry

The More Dangerous Game

I realize the most dangerous game involves hunting humans.  This is a slightly less dangerous game we've been living - busyness to the point of burnout.

For three years now, our lives were in overdrive.  By nature, Jerry and I both tend to "over-volunteer."  You know, when you are in a meeting and the leader asks if someone would like to take the lead on a project, and you sit there with the crickets praying someone will volunteer?  We are the answered prayer.  I'll do it.  Not out of guilt (most of the time), not for fame, not for fortune.  Just because we both like to organize, and plan, and we are pretty good at it. 

But these past three years has taught us a very valuable lesson.  There is a such thing as too much. 

There is a such thing as too much.

About two and a half years into our over-committed, running on survival mode, when will this end experience, we knew it was way too much.  We were ready to be done.  D.O.N.E.  Oh, how I longed for the days when my only responsibility was housekeeping and homeschooling my five kids.  It was right about this time that a friend shared a blog about busyness.  In this blog, the author explained that she held her busyness like a badge of honor.  People would ask how she was, and she would answer "busy" - as though that was a pleasing answer, a status symbol, a show of importance.  And how she learned that the busyness was causing stress, and disappointment.  (Maybe I'll find that blog... and when I do, I'll insert that link right here.)

Reading that came at such the perfect time for me.  I was already ready to trade in being busy for just being mom.  But I still harbored a lot of self-inflicted guilt over it.  When you are wired to be overly-involved, stepping back feels unnatural and scary.  What am I going to do with myself if I actually have time to be?  But I read that blog, and it made me realize that being busy was NOT fun for us anymore.  Being busy in college, or as newlyweds, or as DINKS - totally rocked that.  Over-scheduled with five kids?  Not so much fun. It was affecting us as a family, and as a couple.  No bueno.

When you are overwhelmed, everything is overwhelming.  I have said this to others to help them through situations they were facing.  It's very true, albeit hard to recognize when you are in the midst of it yourself.  It took a while to not only identify it in myself, but also to own it.  Pride was sitting there with a big, fat smile, daring me to admit I couldn't do it anymore. 

Luckily, most of my commitments were wrapping up.  I was grateful to not have to step down, but to survive through the end. 

So that's where I am now.  My children have finished schooling for the year, a full month earlier than previous years.  I am on zero committees.  I am not a leader of any group.  I am nothing.  (Ok, ok - I'll stop the melodrama.)  And I'm going to be honest - it IS unnatural and scary.  I feel like I need some type of rehab to get acclimated to the free life.  Someone to guide me through how to function when you actually have brain capacity to plan a day, a week, heck maybe even a month ahead of time for your family. 

I wish I could say that everything is back on track, my house is clean, my projects are done, my kids are playing lovingly without conflict.... Sorry, I just blacked out there for a minute.  What was I saying? 

An artist rendition of what my brain looks like.  Just kidding - it's my basement

I have a friend that says "Later never happens."  Well, later does happen.  Later is now.  And that's what it looks like.  I found it! I found later, and it's ugly. My brain honestly feels like what is shown in this picture.  A few years of  "I can't deal with that now, I'll set it here.... for later."  I remind myself that it took a long time for my house to fall apart, it will take some time to get it back together.  But as I am cleaning and organizing (and purging!!!!!), it really is bringing a sense of peace.  My life of chaos is slowly melting away with each room I clean.

I am confident that just as I will somehow make my way through that overwhelming heap of insanity in my basement, I will somehow make my way through the overwhelming heap of insanity that took residence in my brain. 

And I hope that once I take a few loads of mental garbage out to the curb, I'll be able to write again.

I'm not going to wear busy as a badge of honor any more.  I am retiring that title. I am trusting that I will be able to change my response to "How are you?" to something more meaningful.  Like wonderful, blessed, at peace, joyful, happy, loving life.... but, you know, no pressure.