Like many Arkansans, we needed the help of a fertility specialist to get pregnant. When I got my first positive pregnancy test, I was so excited!

But my hopes were dashed a short while later when I learned through bloodwork that the pregnancy was not viable. There was nothing we could do but wait for my body to start to miscarry naturally. 

Those weeks of waiting were difficult.

My pastor came over, and we sat in our living room and prayed together.

We cried and asked God to be near to us in our pain.

I was swimming in grief, desperate to try again. I eventually started bleeding.

Later, after several attempts, I finally had a viable pregnancy that ended in the birth of my now 7 year-old son. 

When it was time to add another child to our family, I went into the process with a much more guarded heart. I knew another loss was possible, but I was not prepared for what came next.

Not once, but twice, I got pregnant. Not once, but twice, I went in for my first ultrasound, only to see an empty sack on the screen. Not once but twice, I heard nothing but silence as the tech scanned over and over again for a heartbeat. Not once but twice, I was experiencing a non-viable pregnancy.

Each time, my doctor explained the options: wait for my body to miscarry naturally, take a medication to cause my body to expel the non-pregnancy, or have a surgical procedure called a d&c.

I knew how the waiting felt, and it was awful. I was also afraid of the medication causing a painful miscarriage that I would have to manage at home alone.

So, after talking things over with my doctor, my spouse, and my pastor, I elected to have the d&c procedure both times.

Not once but twice, I woke up in the recovery room and cried onto the shoulder of a loving nurse who soothed my battered and broken heart. When I finally held my daughter in my arms 18 months later, I cried tears of joy. 

Today in Arkansas, doctors have to jump through many hoops to offer women in my shoes the medical care I received. Right now, our state has a near-total abortion ban. There are no exceptions for rape, incest, or fatal fetal abnormalities.

Abortion-related and abortion-adjacent procedures are under extreme scrutiny. While the procedure I had was not an abortion, the medical code contains the word “abortion.” As a result, doctors are spending precious time–time they could be treating other patients–meticulously defending their plan of care for women like me, and asking multiple physicians to sign off on their actions. 

These extra steps are not because the care I received is dangerous, controversial or unethical. These extra steps are to keep medical providers from going to prison or losing their medical licenses and being unable to treat patients at all. As a result, what used to be a non-controversial procedure for women experiencing pregnancy loss has become complicated and high-stakes. 

I want my doctor to be free to focus fully on my healthcare needs and the needs of other women like me facing pregnancy loss. I don’t want their judgment impaired with worry about how a judge or team of lawyers with no medical training will interpret their actions. But since doctors’ primary objective is to treat patients, not fight legal battles, their options are limited.

It pains me to know that in a time of immense pain, a provider can’t be wholly focused on their grieving patient, and must also worry about defending their treatment plan to outside parties. 

I am glad I had the option to surgically end my non-viable pregnancies without unnecessary red tape. The procedure allowed me the space to recover and heal, without worrying for weeks about when my miscarriages would start.

The compassionate healthcare I received helped me recover faster, and enabled me to hold my baby girl in my arms more quickly. I want other grieving women to have easy access to that closure, too. 

The current total abortion ban puts politicians between patients and their doctors. When I got devastating news in the ultrasound room–twice–our state’s legislators were not the ones holding my hand and handing me tissues. My healthcare providers and my pastor were. Healthcare providers need the freedom to offer patients expedient options in a tough situation like mine. They need the freedom to rely on their years of medical training and expertise, without worrying about a distant third party calling their care plan into question. They need the freedom to support their patients as they build families in life-giving ways. 

Every pregnancy deserves to be welcomed with tears of joy. Unfortunately, some pregnancies are met with tears of pain and sorrow instead. In those heart-breaking situations, Arkansas women and their doctors deserve access to a range of medical treatment options. We need to trust our doctors and their pregnant patients to make compassionate, loving, and wise choices in difficult times. By taking healthcare decisions out of the courtroom and putting them back where they belong–in the exam room and in the living room–patients and their doctors can work together to assess their particular circumstances, weigh the risks, and make the best of a bad situation. 

The post Navigating Loss: My Journey Through Miscarriage and the Fight for Compassionate Care appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

That I’m a Mama’s Boy

No reticence about it

I declare it with pure joy

We started out together

I was born in Mama’s bed

I remember how she lived

More than the words she said

My Dad was a preacher 

And Mom a preacher’s wife

It was Dad who did the talking 

But it was Mom who lived the life

Mama always loved us 

No matter what we did

She would tear our backside up

But Mom still loved her kid

There seldom was enough

But she made it go around

She often slept still hungry 

When she laid her children down

Life was hard and desperate

Dad I could seldom please

I think what brought me through 

Was my Mama on her knees

I’ve seen some hard road 

Just like my Mama did

Mom’s life served me well

In the raising of my kid

What Mama couldn’t teach me 

Was how quickly the years would go

How soon her youth would leave

And how soon her step would slow

The Mom who heard my infant cry

Listened for my step at the door

So soon grew old and feeble

And can’t hear me any more

In my heart I tremble

When I think of the day

That God will send His angel 

To take my Mom away

But there will be a time

When I will hear with joy

St. Peter at the gate 

Say , ” Here comes Mama’s Boy ! “

 -Karl Hansen ( The Rustic Rhymer )   Oct. 21 , 2001

 ^{Mom passed at age ninety three in March of 2003 .}  

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Baby Kerry

After our daughter Lora turned two, we decided that it was time to try for a second baby. We were fortunate and it wasn’t too many months later when the pregnancy test came back positive and we began planning the bedroom for child number two. Lora was a book lover and we had these illustrated children’s books based on the books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Each one started with listing the members of the family—Pa, Ma, Mary, Laura, Baby Kerry and their good ol’ bulldog, Jack. As the pregnancy developed, Lora started referring to the baby growing in Mommy’s tummy as “Baby Kerry” and we often did the same.

Not quite midway through the pregnancy, my wife called me at work on a Thursday morning passing on a worrisome report from her doctor. Her maternal alpha fetal protein level was high—so high that the doctor wanted to repeat the test to check the accuracy of the results. I was in a pediatric oncology treatment team meeting where I filled the role of social worker. After the meeting, I contacted the medical library at the hospital where I worked to get some articles about what could happen with an elevated maternal alpha fetal protein level.

Us Among Them

The repeated level came back even higher and over the weekend we read the articles and were not comforted. The articles talked of neural tube defects, significant disabilities and even death of the baby. My wife and I were already challenged with living examples of what can go wrong in the development of a child in our jobs. Each month I met three or four new children diagnosed with cancer and my wife worked as a teacher in a preschool for children with a wide array of disabilities. Now we wondered if we would be joining the club of parents of children with disabilities or life-threatening illnesses. Would it now be “us” among the “them”?

Monday came and we moved to the next step of a level II ultrasound. I stared at the blurry screen looking for signs of anything. My wife could not see the screen but she could see tears in the eyes of the ultrasound technician who watched the screen and left the room to get the doctor. After looking himself, he assured us we had done nothing wrong but that our baby had anencephaly—our baby had and would have no brain and this condition was obviously not compatible with life. Our options were three—dilation and curettage, inducing labor and then delivery or continuing the pregnancy to term. We went home in shock, cried together and called our families and friends. The next day my wife began to have physical complications and we chose to induce labor and deliver.

I Know Why You’re Here

Wednesday night we packed and prepared to go to the hospital and we searched for words to explain to now three-year-old Lora about what was happening. We told her that the baby was sick and the doctor needed to get the baby out of Mommy’s tummy anticipating that the post-hospital conversation would be that the baby was too sick and the baby died.

Our pastor came to the house and we all sat on the floor with a few friends as she prayed with us and anointed our heads with oil and blessings for the experience to come. Arriving at the hospital on a cold winter night, I left my wife in our room and went down to complete admissions paperwork. In the elevator, a stranger saw me as a young man in a hospital where many babies are born and said to me, “I know why you’re here.” I tried to smile and nodded but thought, “You have no idea why I’m here.”

Song of Faith

Baby Kerry was born late the next morning. We didn’t know if it would be a boy or a girl but agreed that either way the name would fit (although the spelling would change). He was as big as my hand, burgundy colored with perfect hands and feet and missing a brain. As my wife took her well-earned sleep, I rocked and sang him songs that I had sung to our daughter—songs of faith that I had learned from my parents and grandmother.

His lungs were not developed enough for him to breathe but his tiny heart was beating and did so for about an hour and a half. Against my tendencies and history, the tears flowed freely as we shared our brief time together. I knew that there could be someone like me (in my professional life) in this hospital—someone who was called when bad things happened—but I did not want to share this experience and thankfully no one came.

Wonder in the Making

Kerry was cremated and we spread his ashes in the memorial garden at our church following a memorial service Sunday afternoon. Winter weather and icy roads almost kept family away but they made it to stand by and give witness. My wife and I read from a book of prayers in the service and asked that a baptismal song be sung. “See this wonder in the making, God’s ownself this child is taking…”

I heard this song again when I was back to work in the hospital. My family loved music and my parents knew many songs. Growing up it became habit to come up with a song to fit whatever was happening at the time. It was like continuously living in a musical. When I returned to the hospital, I was on call one night when a baby died. When the family expressed a desire for pictures to be taken of the baby, I walked down the hall and stairs to get the camera.

On my way back to their room, I became aware of the baptismal song playing in my head and I wondered how long it had been there. It reminded me of the dark humor of my unconscious when Kerry was born—then the song that came unbidden was from the Wizard of Oz as the scarecrow sings, “…if I only had a brain…”

Everything Reminds Us of Baby Kerry

In the spring, we planted a tree in the backyard in Kerry’s memory. While planting the tree I explained to Lora that the tree would remind us of Baby Kerry. Lora replied matter-of-factly, “Everything reminds us of Baby Kerry.”

Kerry was cremated and we spread his ashes in the memorial garden at our church following a memorial service Sunday afternoon. Winter weather and icy roads almost kept family away but they made it to stand by and give witness. My…
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It’s been twelve years since we said hello and goodbye in the same breath to Baby Kerry. Each year Lora and her four-year-younger brother, Noah, help put Snow Babies ornaments on the Christmas tree in Kerry’s memory. When someone asks how many children we have, I almost always answer “two” but in my mind, I’m thinking “two and a half.”

Not too long ago Lora asked if Kerry had lived would we have had Noah. Her memories of Kerry are few and fuzzy but her experience of Noah has been deep and affectionate. I replied that we had planned to have two children and so it was unlikely that we would have had more than two. She thought about this and replied that maybe it was a good thing, then, for otherwise we wouldn’t have Noah. Sometimes I wonder the same thing.

The post Everything Reminds Us of Baby Kerry (March for Life, Part II) appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

This is long and personal and about abortion—the termination of a pregnancy. Just so you know.

On a recent weekend in Arkansas and across the US, there were “Marches for Life” against abortion. It was also the 26th anniversary of one of the saddest and most painful times in the lives of Syd and me, as we held a memorial service for the baby we lost in mid-pregnancy. We lost the baby at that time because we chose to induce labor and birth before 20 weeks of pregnancy, before viability. We chose this because our baby’s life was not viable. He had anencephaly, which meant he developed without a brain. No brain, no viability, no survival, no life.

We were given the legal and medical options about how to respond to this situation, and for physical and mental health reasons, we chose the option to induce labor and birth. Legislators and the governor in Arkansas, seemingly a majority of the US Supreme Court, and those “marching for life” that weekend would all take away the choice that we made, the choice that was right for us and our family. These issues are personal for us.

I remember the first time I really confronted the issue of abortion. I was working as a medical social worker with a young couple whose baby was slowing dying from the consequences a fatal genetic condition. It was heartbreaking. In the midst of this experience over weeks and months, they discovered they were pregnant with a significant risk of this next baby having the same fatal genetic condition. I remember thinking that, if asked, there was no way that I or anyone else could tell them what the right thing to do was for them in their situation. This choice was appropriately theirs to make.

Over time, I’ve done much more thinking about the complexities of the choices surrounding abortion, and I could never join those “marching for life.” I do join them in wanting there to be fewer abortions, as I think most people from across the spectrum of opinions do. Most, if not all, abortions are human tragedies on some scale, and we should want to minimize human tragedies when we can. The question is how.

We actually know how to significantly reduce the number of abortions—provide more support for protected sex. This is where the most common anti-abortion stance breaks down for me. In it, all abortion or terminations of pregnancy are considered the killing of innocent life and the prevention of such killing should supersede all other considerations, often including the life and health of the one pregnant and whether or not the girl or woman was a victim of rape or incest. Strikingly, however, this concern for preventing the perceived killing of innocent life does not supersede the concern that more people will have protected sex. If protecting the killing of innocent life supersedes all concerns, then we should use every tool at our disposal to reduce abortions, which would mean more comprehensive sex education and accessible contraception, proven methods for avoiding pregnancy and reducing abortions. More sex education and accessible contraception are not, however, being advocated by most of those “marching for life,” and in fact, they are often vigorously resisted. As noted by many other observers, this stance suggests that opposition to abortion is twisted up in a sometimes greater opposition to people, especially women, having protected sex. Not an ethical approach that I can support.

I do wonder what that weekend’s marchers and speakers would say to Syd and me about our own human tragedy, the choices we made 26 years ago, and the choices they hope to take away for parents like us in the future. Part of me, frankly, feels indignation. How dare they take away our options for what would be best for our family. What good really would come from such restrictions for parents and families like us? For society? I don’t expect that people like us are much in the minds of the weekend’s marchers. Perhaps we just don’t fit the black and white, either/or thinking that will be proposed and cheered. Syd confronted an anti-abortion street protester with our story a few years ago. He wouldn’t believe that she was telling a true story. It didn’t fit his narrative. But our story was and is tragically true. And it was and is so sad. And it was right for us. If this right, at all levels, is taken away, it will be a huge preventable tragedy for so many families.

Part II to follow

The post March for Life appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

This the story of the birth of my firstborn child, who changed my life forever. I brought him into the world. But he, and his siblings after him, are the ones who give me life.

First was the pregnancy; the doctor told me that if I did not give birth to him by my due date, I would be induced. My life was rapidly changing, an I was not prepared for what was going to come next.

On August 29, 2014, with my due date 2 days away, I felt I was nowhere near labor. I went on a trip with my family: my stepmom, dad, and stepsister. I was very pregnant and very miserable. We went to a casino called Buffalo Run in Miami, Oklahoma.

My dad told me to go to the heated indoor pool to see if that would progress my labor. So, I went with my stepsister. I did not swim. I was too pregnant and huge to swim without being in pain. We were the only ones in the pool—we went back to the room a few hours later, and I got a shower after swimming (or shall I say walking around in the chlorine indoor heated pool). I took a long shower. I was in a lot of pain, but I didn’t know what was going on with my body. My parents were in the casino and returned very late.

We had two beds in our room, my stepsister and I in one and my dad and stepmom in another. I could not get comfortable. I tossed and turned all night, hurting. My dad watched me. He was worried about me. I was in labor but didn’t know it. We waited from 2 AM till we could call the doctor first thing in the morning. I was scared. I was not ready for my life to change so fast.

At 7 AM my dad called my doctor. He said he thought I was in labor and described to the doctor how far apart my contractions were. I was calm but scared. We hurried and got all packed, and in the car they helped me get all of my stuff because I was in active labor. We got on the road with a long drive ahead of us.

On the way leaving Miami, we stopped at McDonald’s. Mom said, “You better get some food. You won’t be able to eat.” I was having contractions between trying to talk to her from the third seat of our GMC Acadia.

An hour and a half later we arrived at the hospital. We went straight to Labor and Delivery. I had to fill out paperwork while in labor. I hurried and filled it out. When I finally got in a room, they hooked me up to monitors and checked me. I was already 4 centimeters dilated. I was having strong contractions. They gave me pain meds and got me prepped to have a natural birth.

I progressed in labor all the way. I was told I could have two people in the room, so I chose my dad and one of his grandmas. At ten centimeters it was time to push. I could not feel a thing. I pushed as hard as I could with my dad right by my side. It seemed like I pushed forever. Then things changed. I could not tell if there was an emergency or not; I was so numb and relaxed on pain medication. I was told it was time for a Caesarian section. I did not know why I was having one, and I was scared. I wanted my dad with me—that’s the last thing I remember before I was out. I woke up in a room after surgery and told my son was born: a 7-pound, 8-ounce boy, 18 and ½ inches long. It was 8:40 PM. I named him Phoenix.

Phoenix was the reason my life changed for good, from being only a person to a mom. I was not completely ready for the huge change. I was now a single mother of a newborn. But I was happy when I finally got to see my baby. I came to realize a lot in a short few days I was in the hospital. I was nervous, scared, and mostly worried I would not be the best mom.

The birth of my firstborn son is the biggest memory I have, and I will never forget it. It changed my life forever. This was the best moment of my life. I went from being alone to having my own baby.

Since then I have had 2 more babies, Emma and Jasper. I always wanted 4 considering I was the only child; I wanted a big family of my own. As a very busy mom I go to class, work second shift at Butterball, and take care of my kids. We have had our ups and downs, but that makes us who we are. We don’t have much family anymore. I prefer my children are not hurt more than they have to be; being a mother, I have to protect my kids at all costs. As long as my kids are happy I am happy.

I will never turn my back on my kids. I will break the cycle and be the mom they need.
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I love being a mom. I love my kids. I hope they will always come to me when they need something. I hope I can be the best mom and they grow older and come home a lot. I hope being the strong mom I have to be—even through my own battles—will mean that they will never turn away and will always love me, as much as I love them. Us women were meant to bear children and watch them grow. I love seeing my kids grow and learn new things each and every day, but I also hate that they are growing up so fast.

Being a mother is rewarding. I could be having the worst day possible and a simple hug or smile lights up my day. Or a cuddle watching TV, or looks I get from the baby when he tries to laugh the laughter of the bigger kids playing, to the sick kids just wanting Mom. All of this makes me feel like I am a good mom to my kids, even when I do not feel like I am enough for these babies, and I wish I could do a lot more. I hope as a mother I don’t disappoint my kids, knowing we don’t have much money to go and do stuff, and I hope they are happy with the small gifts I can get them. I never got to have the childhood they do, and I am on a mission to raise them better than how I was raised. I will never turn my back on my kids. I will break the cycle and be the mom they need.

Being a mother is a huge responsibility. I have been through a lot as a mom. I have struggled with nothing, to even more bad stuff, but never once did my kids go without. Mothering the kids is a chore, but being the best mom I can be and loving them is the best thing, and only thing, I ever wanted to do in my life.

The post The Best Thing: Mothering my Kids appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

I’m a spiritual refugee too; I’m a Christian. To some this makes me an object of suspicion, for good reason I suppose. To some I’m a heretic because I inhabit the realm of uncertainty. Each side wants everything black or white but it’s not always that simple. To be a mom who follows Jesus means I can’t hoard peace and freedom, but try to treat others the way I want to be treated. What I want for my own children I want for all the little children of the world.

For that reason I’m an advocate for public schools. I want my kids to have access to a great education so I want that for all kids. Same goes for health care. Same goes for being able to find good jobs and raise their families at home in Arkansas. Wanting what’s good for all kids comes naturally in my job; I’m a teacher. I’ve practiced this mentality enough that there’s a rule I keep close to me when weighing hard decisions: there is no such thing as other people’s children. If I look at an issue using this lens, I nearly always find clarity.

I went to the legislature earlier this session to speak on behalf of rural public school kids. Other than that I’ve watched from afar as something like 600 bills have gone through the process. When all of the transgender bills were being discussed alongside March Madness, I combed twitter, trying to wrap my head around it all. This tweet caught my attention: “Arkansan with serious mixed emotions tonight. Wanting the Hogs to win so bad. But also feeling gutted that #arleg voted to impede my ability to make healthcare decisions for my child.”

The writer sounded so normal. So Razorback-ish. So mom-ish. 

And so hurt.

I contacted her and she was willing to meet with me. We agreed on a coffee shop between our two towns. When she walked in I immediately recognized her—I’d seen her picture—but more than that I recognized myself in her. A busy mom on her phone, dashing into a meeting she probably didn’t have time for but made anyway because it was important. She was blonde, definitely more hip than me, a little younger. Her oldest child is a tween while my oldest two are out of high school. But we have kids near the same age, as well. Mine is 9, hers 8-years-old.

I’m not going to tell her whole story here. Hopefully she will be able to do that herself soon. What I want to say is, as we visited it became more and more apparent that this woman could have been me. She grew up in Arkansas, sang on the praise team in her Southern Baptist church, went to the U of A, and taught Children’s Church with her husband who was a process engineer. From the time her child was a toddler she could tell there was something different about them—choices in toys, clothes, other interests, the way they carried themself in the world. It wasn’t until recently that her child could articulate—and she understand–her child is a girl trapped in a boy’s body.

I’ve listened to many conversations about transgender people. A professor at my university 30 years ago presented as a man one year and a woman the next. I didn’t know the professor at all and so it was easy to think they were strange, and maybe mentally ill, which were the two options most insinuated around campus. Besides her, I’ve known one person who transitioned, a friend who had been abused as a child. The nature of the abuse, and horrific resulting trauma, made it easy to comprehend why this person would want to transition away from a forced role and toward who she had always been inside. I could imagine this even if I still didn’t understand.

It was easy to remain ignorant. To not understand, until it wasn’t.

Staring into the unflinching eyes of this mother forced me to see myself in her situation. What if this was my own child, and I knew, like a good mother does, that she was suffering? Would I believe my child if she told me that her insides didn’t match her outside? Would I admit what I could see was true in my heart of hearts? What would I do if I was in this situation?

Considering these questions through her eyes gave me a new perspective. I can’t say I know for sure exactly what I would do. But looking at the anti-transgender laws being passed in Arkansas through this lens—that there is no such thing as other people’s children—I can say without a doubt I would not want the government to tell me what to do. I would want and need the freedom to pray, study science, talk to my family, talk to our doctor, and take whatever steps, one day at a time, that I felt were right for my child.

The truth is, any mother or father in the Arkansas Legislature would also want and need that freedom if they were being honest. And so would you.

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