Peter (trigger warning-infant loss)

 

This is my story.

It was Thursday, January 6, about 4:30PM. I went to the bathroom, and found bright, fresh blood. I was on the phone with my mother-in-law, so I quickly made an excuse to hang up. Yes, I talk on the phone while I use the bathroom. I quickly called Trevor in and showed him. I put on a pad, waited 10 minutes, and went back to the bathroom. The blood was still coming. I came out and simply said, “I’m going.”

On my way to the hospital, I talked to my mom, and she graciously talked about other things so I could stay calm and not get too upset. I checked in to ER, and waited probably 3 hrs to be taken into a room. I had some cold symptoms, so I was stuck outside in the COVID tent.

When I got to a room, a very kind nurse drew my blood, administered a COVID test, and asked several questions. We joked about the show “Battle Bots” that was on the TV in my room. I met briefly with the ER doctor, and waited about 3 more hrs to receive an ultrasound. It took so long, I was convinced that this had to be nothing. I would laugh about this later, and had nothing to worry about. The ultrasound tech was silent throughout her procedure. A little while later, the ER doctor came in and gave me the horrible and completely surprising news.

No heartbeat. Baby measured 13 weeks. I was supposed to be 15 weeks the next day. A gynecologist came in to explain my options, and what to do now. Amidst my sobbing and running nose, my nose began pouring out blood as well. I was exhausted and starving. It was now about 1am, and I hadn’t eaten since lunch. I decided to go home.

Trevor came and picked me up, with the help of a good friend, since I had driven myself to the hospital. I cried so much that night and the following day that my eyes burned. Over the next several days, I came to learn that having a deceased infant in your womb is not an emergency. I could have a procedure on Wednesday the next week, if I didn’t have spontaneous miscarriage before then.

Trevor’s mother flew in Saturday, and I sighed deep relief, knowing that someone was here to take care of the kids if anything else happened. Six days after I found out my baby had passed away, I was finally taken in for outpatient surgery, and my baby’s body was removed.

If I ended the story here, this would be a horrifying tragedy. But I have another story to tell you.

 

This is God’s story.

Rewind to Thursday at 4:30 PM. As I left for the hospital, I said a quick prayer. “Lord, whatever happens today. I promise to glorify and honor you. No matter what.”

As I laid my head on my pillow after coming home from the ER Thursday night, eyes swollen with tears, these verses came to mind. “The Lord gives and takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” “We know that all things work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose.”

Over the next few days, the weight of those truths began to settle in. God has taken tragedy and struggle in my life before, and molded it and used it for His glory and my good. I walked through years of deep depression and anxiety early in our marriage, all the while asking God, “Why are you allowing this?” Since then, I have been able to counsel many going through mental illness, and show them that you can be a Christian, and go to counseling and take psychiatric medications. God also taught me a great deal about relying on Him, instead of my own strength.

So when I found out my baby was gone, I knew very quickly that this was for a purpose, and was not a waste. Did it suck realizing I had gone through an entire first trimester of horrible sickness to no avail? Yes. A thousand times yes. But again, I know even that had a purpose.

At one point, I even said to Trevor, “This is why good theology matters!” Knowing that God is sovereign over all, and that His glory is what matters above all puts everything in perspective. Teaching and learning these truths of God isn’t so we can say we’re so smart, it is so we can face miscarriage and still proclaim, “God is enough. God is good. He will get us through this.”

The morning before Trevor and I left to go to the hospital for my surgery, I talked to the kids about what was happening. I said, “I’m going to the hospital, so the doctor can take the baby’s body out of Mama’s tummy. It’s just the baby’s body though. Do you know where the baby’s heart and mind are?” Scarlett said, “Heaven!” I know Scripture is not 100% clear about the final destination of infants, but I believe in a good God who has made a good decision regarding them. I also wanted to teach my kids the sanctity of life, that it was a real life child in me, that it has a soul (heart & mind), and that it was not going to be hurt by the doctor.

We have had many blessings during this time. The fact that Trevor’s mother was able to come for a week was a huge burden off my shoulders, as she was able to watch the kids, cook, and clean for me. I am also quite grateful that this miscarriage was not with my first pregnancy. I was able to come home, and look at my sweet kiddos sleeping, and take comfort in them. Another sweet blessing was my ultrasound tech right before my surgery. He was very kind, and opened up about his own wife that lost their third baby. He asked if we knew the gender. I shared that we hadn’t learned it yet. He asked, “Would you like to know?” “Yes, please!” “It looks like a little boy to me,” he said. Elliot has been saying for about a month that he wanted to name the baby “Peter” if it was a boy. So Peter it is.

Above all, my husband has been an incredible blessing. He was able to find replacements for him at church, and just focused on caring for me and the kids throughout the week. He let me sleep and be lazy. He drove me to all the appointments, and listened to all my thoughts, concerns, and prayers. I praise God for my godly and loving husband!

This is just my story. I don’t pretend to know your story, or what infant loss has been like for you. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to have a stillbirth, or an older child die. But I do know a good God that has a plan, and you can trust in Him. He has satisfied me and strengthened me. He can do the same for you.

Skin Picking Is...

Skin Picking is getting your first pimple at age 12, and your mother tells you that you must pop it and shows you how to use her concealer.

Skin picking takes that one instruction and twists it into an obsessive, controlling, destructive habit.

Skin picking is popping every pimple since that first one. Every single one.

Skin picking is dreading a middle school sleepover, because you have to wash your face at the end of the night. You stay up later than everyone else to wash your face, then wake up early to apply concealer before they wake up.

Skin picking is using 7 different creams and washes every night, and your best friend with perfect skin doesn’t even wash her face at all. She tells you maybe you should try that.

Skin picking is not wearing sleeveless shirts throughout middle school and high school.

Skin picking is planning weeks or months in advance for occasions that your shoulders or back will show – swimming parties, beach vacations, prom, your wedding. It’s working hard for weeks to get your skin clear, only to relapse as soon as the event is over.

Skin picking is not swimming AT ALL for three summers in a row in high school.

Skin picking is intentionally getting a bad sunburn the first day of every beach vacation, so that the pimples will blend in.

Skin picking is spending 30 min to an hour every night squeezing every pore on your face, shoulders, back and chest until you are a red puffy mess.

Skin picking is obsessing over a tiny white spot that you think is in there that must come out. You use every means possible to remove it – squeeze, pop, scratch, poke, tweeze.

Skin picking is your mother taking you to dermatologists and aestheticians; paying for treatments, pills, and creams, all the while you know it won’t work as long as you’re still picking, and feeling horribly guilty.

Skin picking is going to summer camp and having your skin clear up in one week’s time because the bathrooms are communal and there is no opportunity to pick. Your father marvels at your skin and decides it must be the clear spring water at the camp. He purchases and installs a purifying water faucet on your shower head. More guilt.

Skin picking is staring at your reflection and telling yourself that you are disgusting and hideous.

Skin picking is telling yourself that you will never be able to quit.

Skin picking is thinking of ways to quit picking, while picking.

Skin picking is saying, “Just this one,” and not stopping for an hour or longer.

Skin picking is Googling “excessive skin-picking” your sophomore year of college and realizing for the first time that you’re not alone and that this is a real thing.

Skin picking is going to your college Psych professor and sharing that you may have a mental illness.

Skin picking is going to your college counselor for the first time and finding out more about yourself than you could ever imagine. She guides you through many struggles and helps come up with several ideas to help you quick picking. They work for a while.

Skin picking is covering every mirror in your college dorm room with paper, towels, anything to prevent you from staring endlessly at your skin.

Skin picking is wearing makeup every day from the age of 15. You become a professional at covering up. You spend a fortune on makeup and feel like you single-handedly keep the makeup industry afloat.

Skin picking is not going anywhere without makeup. Not to check the mail. Not the park. Not the gym. Not WalMart. Nowhere.

Skin picking is not feeling human without makeup. You tell yourself you look like a crack head without it.

Skin picking is promising yourself that you will never become a wife, and still be picking.

Skin picking is picking the day you get back from your honeymoon.

Skin picking is sneaking to bed from the bathroom late at night, so your husband won’t see your red puffy face you’ve just destroyed.

Skin picking is only wanting to be intimate in the dark because of the shame of your skin.

Skin picking is promising yourself that you will never become a mother, and still be picking.

Skin picking is picking in the hospital bathroom after giving birth.

Skin picking is picking in the bathroom mirror while your baby is in the bathtub watching you. You reason with yourself that he doesn’t understand yet. You’ll quit before he’s big enough to realize.

Skin picking is picking when he’s bigger. While he’s watching.

Skin picking is watching your toddler get a bug bite on his face and habitually scratch at it for a year, and feeling horrifying guilt that you have destroyed him.

Skin picking is constantly scanning with your fingers at the back of your neck, on your shoulders, to see if there’s anything that should be scratched, removed, or popped.

Skin picking is saying enough is enough and going to a therapist and psychiatrist.

Skin picking is determining that this is not the end.

Skin picking is a part of my story, but it is not who I am.

My name is Tarah.

Artist.

Teacher.

Home chef.

Gardener.

Stylist.

Missionary.

Traveler.

Daughter.

Sister.

Mother.

Wife.

Child of God.

Me.

I Had Post-Partum Depression

Confession: I had post-partum depression.

I'm a big fan of mental health awareness. I hate the idea of people suffering alone in their minds with no realization that there is help, or that it is ok to seek help. And so I write this post.

For the past 4-5 years, I have struggled on and off with tendencies toward anxiety and depression. I am your typical "high-functioning anxiety" sufferer. I'm a perfectionist who can never quite achieve enough to satisfy myself, and I attack myself with nervous habits, such as picking at my skin. For years, I determined to try to help myself with more Bible study, exercise, adequate sleep, and eating healthier. But my perfectionism killed this endeavor, because I could never achieve a perfect schedule or balance for all of these things.

I attended counseling for months. It helped a great deal, but I still experienced multiple tearful, angry breakdowns every week.

When I became pregnant, I was so excited. But I was also terrified because I was just sure I would be a horrible mother. Post-partum depression loomed ahead of me like an impending hurricane. And yet, I was able to put on a good face most of the time, and really was genuinely excited to have a baby on the way. So I got to work planning on how I would try to fight post-partum depression naturally. I had my essential oils ready, and even arranged to have my placenta encapsulated, so that I could ingest it post-partum. Eek!

The big day came and went, and Trevor and I were home with a precious baby boy! Trevor's first day back to work was only two days after being home from the hospital. I bawled as he walked out the door, unsure of how on earth I would care for this infant by myself. By the time two weeks had passed, it was very clear to both Trevor and I that I needed medical help. I had a list of all the possible symptoms of Post-partum depression, and I met 10 out of 11 of them. I have two family members that committed suicide in the last few years, and I was determined to learn from them. After much prayer and research, I called the doctor, spoke with a nurse, and picked up a prescription.

Three days later it was like a light had been flipped back on inside of me. The difference of my demeanor, mindset, attitude, and emotions were indescribable. I felt more alive and joyful than I had in YEARS. And I realized that I probably should have made the move to meds a long time before.

So fast forward to today. I am now ten months post-partum, and still feeling great. Because of my college psychology education, however, I know that these types of medications don't always have to be long term. Some people need them for life, and that's ok. But knowing the possible side effects of long-term use, and recognizing the effects on future pregnancies, I decided a few weeks ago to try to wean off my medication. (I did this of course under the direction of my doctor and a former counselor.)

I have been weaning VERY slowly, much more so than advised by the nurse I spoke with on the phone. So far, I've only experienced one strong emotional struggle, but was able to come out of it within a couple hours with the help of my oils, Jesus, and Trevor. When I was in the midst of my darkest days, none of these could penetrate the darkness. I was not thinking clearly, and honestly wanted to die. But now that the medication has brought me back to reality, my normal "uplifters" are able to stabilize me for smaller emotional/mental struggles.

I share my story to really say a few things:

1) Advocate for your own mental health. Your doctor will not do it for you, and your family often doesn't know how. Be informed. Be self-aware. Know your options, and don't be afraid to talk about it.

2) Try everything. The worst outcome of mental illness is suicide. Never give up trying. I always recommend starting with counseling and natural methods, but do not be afraid to try medication. I feel it should be the last option, but it IS an option! In fact, it might be a life or death option.

3) Your mental illness is a part of your story, but it is not YOU. My struggles shape who I am, but they do not define me. In the end, I discovered that my mental illness (in its worst state) completely overshadowed the real me. I am so thankful I took the plunge to begin meds, and I am so thankful that I've advocated for myself  to wean off of them.

Let me know your story! What has helped you on your journey toward mental health?




***Note: I am not a doctor. Any advice is simply advice, and should not be seen as professional direction. I do not claim that essential oils can heal or prevent any disease or illness. Again, advocate and research for yourself, and care for your body and mind.