Monday, March 31, 2014
Monday, December 3, 2012
What Might Have Been.
The end of November, 2012. Eight years and 1 week before I gave birth to my firstborn. The week that my new niece or nephew was due. A new date to remember. The week that we were anticipating a new life.
Gone. In a whisper. A few excerpts from a recent blog I discovered, found here.
"Today all I can think about is what might have been...for me...the specifics of the miscarriage changed me from one kind of mother to another... It’s a broad sisterhood of women who don’t have easy conceptions and pregnancies, but to be honest, I liked being in the other group. It was so deeply moving to me that my body nurtured and nourished [my son], delivering him safely into the world, whole and healthy, and this miscarriage and its aftermath have forced me to ask some questions: Did my body fail me? Did I somehow fail it? We’ve had such a tenuous relationship in the past, my body and I; was this a breach of trust?...
If you’ve been marked by what might have been, you don’t forget. You know the day, the years. You know when the baby would have been born...You know exactly how old she’d be right now, if she were still alive. You’ll never forget the last time you saw your child, or the last time cancer was a word about someone else’s life, or the day that changed absolutely everything. It makes the calendar feel like a minefield, like you’re constantly tiptoeing over explosions of grief until one day you hit one, shattered by what might have been.
On most days, for me, it’s all right. We’ll have another baby someday. I hope we do. But for today, for a minute, it’s not all right. I understand that God is sovereign, that bodies are fragile and fallible. I understand that grief mellows over time, and that guarantees aren’t part of human life, as much as we’d like them to be. But on this day, looking out at the harsh white sky of a Chicago winter, I’m crying just a little for what might have been. . . . No one might ever notice January 31, and what it means for me. But I’ll always know."
I have never spoken outloud the name of the child that wasn't to be.
Isaac.
When I think about our loss, I see Isaac. In the Bible you read about Abraham and Sarah who were never able to have children. Then, miraculously, this elderly couple discovered that they were going to be parents! When The Lord told Sarah that would she would conceive in her old age, she laughed! As a kid it was suggested to me on more than one occasion that Sarah laughed because she lacked faith, that she laughed in God's face, saying, "Yeah, right!". She doubted and mocked.
But, after my surprise pregnancy, the one that shouldn't have happened, considering Mike's chemo treatments and vasectomy, I, too, laughed! It was a laughter mixed with joy and shock. It was the irony of it all. But never, ever was it a laughter filled with mockery towards our Great God. I believe Sarah's laughter was the same. She was in awe that something so incredible, so desired, could still happen to her. And she laughed at the wonder and marvel of it! A child! Finally!
And so, the child became Isaac. Isaac simply means, "Laughter".
As soon as Mike discovered the news of our surprise baby-to-be, immediately we looked at each other and said, "You know it's going to be a boy." We knew. Each of us knew in our spirits. God was sending us a son.
And then the tragedy. The weekend that changed everything. I won't go into the painful details now. It is still raw and I'm not ready to write it out. But when I knew that this baby would not be a child I would hold in my arms, God said, "His name is Isaac."
Like Abraham, I had to sacrifice my son Isaac on God's alter. Not by choice. It was, in a sense, a different test of faith for me. Fortunately, for Isaac, God provided a way out for him. He had passed God's ultimate test of faith and love.
More about that later...
Gone. In a whisper. A few excerpts from a recent blog I discovered, found here.
"Today all I can think about is what might have been...for me...the specifics of the miscarriage changed me from one kind of mother to another... It’s a broad sisterhood of women who don’t have easy conceptions and pregnancies, but to be honest, I liked being in the other group. It was so deeply moving to me that my body nurtured and nourished [my son], delivering him safely into the world, whole and healthy, and this miscarriage and its aftermath have forced me to ask some questions: Did my body fail me? Did I somehow fail it? We’ve had such a tenuous relationship in the past, my body and I; was this a breach of trust?...
If you’ve been marked by what might have been, you don’t forget. You know the day, the years. You know when the baby would have been born...You know exactly how old she’d be right now, if she were still alive. You’ll never forget the last time you saw your child, or the last time cancer was a word about someone else’s life, or the day that changed absolutely everything. It makes the calendar feel like a minefield, like you’re constantly tiptoeing over explosions of grief until one day you hit one, shattered by what might have been.
On most days, for me, it’s all right. We’ll have another baby someday. I hope we do. But for today, for a minute, it’s not all right. I understand that God is sovereign, that bodies are fragile and fallible. I understand that grief mellows over time, and that guarantees aren’t part of human life, as much as we’d like them to be. But on this day, looking out at the harsh white sky of a Chicago winter, I’m crying just a little for what might have been. . . . No one might ever notice January 31, and what it means for me. But I’ll always know."
I have never spoken outloud the name of the child that wasn't to be.
Isaac.
When I think about our loss, I see Isaac. In the Bible you read about Abraham and Sarah who were never able to have children. Then, miraculously, this elderly couple discovered that they were going to be parents! When The Lord told Sarah that would she would conceive in her old age, she laughed! As a kid it was suggested to me on more than one occasion that Sarah laughed because she lacked faith, that she laughed in God's face, saying, "Yeah, right!". She doubted and mocked.
But, after my surprise pregnancy, the one that shouldn't have happened, considering Mike's chemo treatments and vasectomy, I, too, laughed! It was a laughter mixed with joy and shock. It was the irony of it all. But never, ever was it a laughter filled with mockery towards our Great God. I believe Sarah's laughter was the same. She was in awe that something so incredible, so desired, could still happen to her. And she laughed at the wonder and marvel of it! A child! Finally!
And so, the child became Isaac. Isaac simply means, "Laughter".
As soon as Mike discovered the news of our surprise baby-to-be, immediately we looked at each other and said, "You know it's going to be a boy." We knew. Each of us knew in our spirits. God was sending us a son.
And then the tragedy. The weekend that changed everything. I won't go into the painful details now. It is still raw and I'm not ready to write it out. But when I knew that this baby would not be a child I would hold in my arms, God said, "His name is Isaac."
Like Abraham, I had to sacrifice my son Isaac on God's alter. Not by choice. It was, in a sense, a different test of faith for me. Fortunately, for Isaac, God provided a way out for him. He had passed God's ultimate test of faith and love.
More about that later...
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Being Un-dragoned
Excerpt from "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader" by C.S. Lewis (Chapter 7):
“I won’t tell you how I became a - a dragon till I
can tell the others and get it all over,” said Eustace. “By the way, I
didn’t even know it was a dragon till I heard you all using the word
when I turned up here the other morning. I want to tell you how I
stopped being one.”
“Fire ahead,” said Edmund.
“Well, last night I was more miserable than ever. And that beastly arm-ring was hurting like anything-“
“Is that all right now?”
Eustace laughed - a different laugh from any Edmund
had heard him give before - and slipped the bracelet easily off his arm.
“There it is,” he said, “and anyone who likes can have it as far as I’m
concerned. Well, as I say, I was lying awake and wondering what on
earth would become of me. And then - but, mind you, it may have been all
a dream. I don’t know.”
“Go on,” said Edmund, with considerable patience.
“Well, anyway, I looked up and saw the very last
thing I expected: a huge lion coming slowly towards me. And one queer
thing was that there was no moon last night, but there was moonlight
where the lion was. So it came nearer and nearer. I was terribly afraid
of it. You may think that, being a dragon, I could have knocked any lion
out easily enough. But it wasn’t that kind of fear. I wasn’t afraid of
it eating me, I was just afraid of it - if you can understand. Well, it
came close up to me and looked straight into my eyes. And I shut my eyes
tight. But that wasn’t any good because it told me to follow it.”
“You mean it spoke?”
“I don’t know. Now that you mention it, I don’t
think it did. But it told me all the same. And I knew I’d have to do
what it told me, so I got up and followed it. And it led me a long way
into the mountains. And there was always this moonlight over and round
the lion wherever we went. So at last we came to the top of a mountain
I’d never seen before and on the top of this mountain there was a garden
- trees and fruit and everything. In the middle of it there was a well.
“I knew it was a well because you could see the
water bubbling up from the bottom of it: but it was a lot bigger than
most wells - like a very big, round bath with marble steps going down
into it. The water was as clear as anything and I thought if I could get
in there and bathe it would ease the pain in my leg. But the lion told
me I must undress first. Mind you, I don’t know if he said any words out
loud or not.
“I was just going to say that I couldn’t undress
because I hadn’t any clothes on when I suddenly thought that dragons are
snaky sort of things and snakes can cast their skins. Oh, of course,
thought I, that’s what the lion means. So I started scratching myself
and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then I scratched a
little deeper and, instead of just scales coming off here and there, my
whole skin started peeling off beautifully, like it does after an
illness, or as if I was a banana. In a minute or two I just stepped out
of it. I could see it lying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It
was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my
bathe.
“But just as I was going to put my feet into the
water I looked down and saw that they were all hard and rough and
wrinkled and scaly just as they had been before. Oh, that’s all right,
said I, it only means I had another smaller suit on underneath the first
one, and I’ll have to get out of it too. So 1 scratched and tore again
and this underskin peeled off beautifully and out I stepped and left it
lying beside the other one and went down to the well for my bathe.
“Well, exactly the same thing happened again. And I
thought to myself, oh dear, how ever many skins have I got to take off?
For I was longing to bathe my leg. So I scratched away for the third
time and got off a third skin, just like the two others, and stepped out
of it. But as soon as I looked at myself in the water I knew it had
been no good.
“Then the lion said - but I don’t know if it spoke -
“You will have to let me undress you.” I was afraid of his claws, I can
tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat
down on my back to let him do it.
“The very first tear he made was so deep that I
thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the
skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing
that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff
peel off. You know - if you’ve ever picked the scab off a sore place. It
hurts like billy-oh but it is such fun to see it coming away.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Edmund.
“Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off - just
as I thought I’d done it myself the other three times, only they hadn’t
hurt - and there it was lying on the grass: only ever so much thicker,
and darker, and more knobbly-looking than the others had been. And there
was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had
been. Then he caught hold of me - I didn’t like that much for I was very
tender underneath now that I’d no skin on - and threw me into the
water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it
became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and
splashing I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw
why. I’d turned into a boy again. You’d think me simply phoney if I
told you how I felt about my own arms. I know they’ve no muscle and are
pretty mouldy compared with Caspian’s, but I was so glad to see them.
“After a bit the lion took me out and dressed me -“
“Dressed you. With his paws?”
“Well, I don’t exactly remember that bit. But he did
somehow or other: in new clothes - the same I’ve got on now, as a
matter of fact. And then suddenly I was back here. Which is what makes
me think it must have been a dream.”
“No. It wasn’t a dream,” said Edmund.
“Why not?”
“Well, there are the clothes, for one thing. And you have been - well, un-dragoned, for another.”
“What do you think it was, then?” asked Eustace.
“I think you’ve seen Aslan,” said Edmund.
This passage was prophesied over me many, many years ago. I have thought of it often. And, as many other times in my life, again this un-dragoning is happening. The way Aslan the lion tore off the crusty, hard outer skin from Eustace is what I've been experiencing. That is part of the severing I've been feeling. And, like Eustace, I can say that the tears have been so deep that I thought it would go right to my heart. But, also like Eustace, the "only thing
that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff
peel off", the "stuff" in my case being the captivity of activity, bondage, expectations, busy-ness, and everything that hinders me from fulfilling the will of Jesus. And, after He he has "undressed" me from the ugliness, it feels perfectly delicious!
Friday, April 6, 2012
Poem For My Unborn Child
A dear friend sent me this poem. It has helped her through many tears as she has mourned her miscarriage.
My Unborn Child
I never got
to see your face
Or even give
you a name
But in my
heart, you hold a special place
And for that,
I would never be the same
I'll never
hear you laugh or cry
Or hold you
in my arms tenderly
I'll never
know the color of your eyes
But I will
still love you endlessly
I never got
to hold your hand
I never got
to sing you a lullaby
I will never
come to understand
Why murderers
run free & innocent souls die
I'll always
have my suspicions
Why God took
you from me
All these
unanswered questions
That would
burn inside of me
You are my
shining light in heaven
For one of
God's angels to love
Until I get
my wings to descend
She'll take
care of you, for me, in Heaven above
You'll be my
guiding light to Heaven's gate
Where I'll
get to see your angelic smile
And even if I
never got to see your face
I'll know in an instant that you are my unborn child!
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Just when you thought it couldn't get worse...
Bungee jumping. Never tried it. Never will. But this week it feels like I've been doing just that, metaphorically speaking. Standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump. Only in my case I feel like I was pushed, not ready for the ride that's to come. Free-falling, waiting for the crash that will certainly lead to the end of you. Then suddenly, an unseen force yanks you up, and you think, "Oh, this isn't so bad. I could kind of get used to this." And you reach the height of acceptance, then, quite unexpectedly, you are overtaken by gravity and you plummet again, sure that this time you won't make it. And so it goes, up and down, highs and lows. Not sure when this ride will end.
A bit extreme, I realize. "Roller coaster" didn't seem to even touch the range of emotions going on. Bungee jumping was more like it.
Where to start? On Thursday, March 29 (my mother-in-laws birthday), I discovered that I was pregnant. Hmmmmm. Good news, to most. Here's the thing: my wonderful husband had a vasectomy. In December. 2011. Back up the truck.
Our children are ages 7 and 4. We love them dearly and have felt complete in our family of 4 since J was born. It took many years of loving encouragement (by me) to convince Mike to get the procedure. I was tired of being on "the pill" and all that goes with it. I thought, hey, isn't it time he take some initiative in this contraceptive process?
So, he finally mustered up the courage, swallowed his manly pride and went ahead. Great. We were anticipating the future, ready to move on to the next stage of our children's lives. Preparing for our youngest to enter kindergarten in the fall, planning what my fall would look like and discerning God's purpose for me next.
Wow. Did we get thrown for a loop. A few weeks ago, I felt some tenderness in my breasts, and what appeared to be a lump, or unusual hardness. I freaked out momentarily, thinking cancer. I know first-hand that cancer is a very real possibility. After mentioning it to my level-headed husband, he reassured me it was probably nothing, and even joked about being pregnant. Ha ha. We laughed, knowing that was not possible.
Think again. A few days later, I realized that I was "late". I thought, just a few days. No big deal. Finally Mike said, "Let's get out the calendar and figure out how late you are." 1...2...3....4....5...Oh...More like 12 days late. Okay. Well. What now? After work, Mike rushed (yes, rushed!) to town to pick up a test. And, the results? Drum roll, please! Positive.
Again, I ask: what now? I can't remember if I cried or not, but the news was less than gratifying. All I could say was: "Crazy."
Mike took it even less well than I did. He was mad. Downright made. At the doc. And God. And ourselves (for not being more careful!). And the cat. You name it! Me? I went through the stages of denial and shock a little quicker than he did.
Friday morning I took a trip to the clinic to have a confirmation test. Yup. Positive. 6 weeks, from what I could determine. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. By the time I got home, I had already started to come to terms with what was happening. I stopped taking my antidepressants immediately (to which my loving husband replied, "I have to deal with THAT now too?") (Funny to me now.) I filled my plate with more veggies, increased my water, resisted the temptation to drink that Cherry Pepsi in my fridge, limited the heavy lifting, started getting excited about telling people, and coming up with cool ideas to surprise them with the news.
That was Friday. You know the saying, "It's Friday, but Sunday's a-comin'"? (Referring to when Jesus died on Friday, but Sunday He would rise triumphantly). Well, in my case, it was the good news on Friday, but Sunday would not be the triumph we were hoping. After church, I began spotting. I had had cramps the night before, and all morning, but brushed it off as after-effects of yard work and raking I had done on Saturday.
But the blood did worry me a bit. Again, I had to shock my husband with the news. He was still in his "mad phase." Okay, fine, he needs time to get used to the idea. I get that. I'll deal with this on my own for now until he figures it out in his head. I called Healthlinks to see if there was any reason to be concerned. The nurse I spoke to reassured me that some spotting and cramping in early pregnancy is perfectly normal. Is this your first pregnancy? No. Have you had a history of spotting? No. What color is the blood? A strange question, I thought. (But now in hindsight, I understand the significance.) Have you had a history of ectopic pregnancy? Nooooo, but thanks for just adding a new worry to my list. She suggested that I go see a doctor just to be safe, but not to worry.
So, Sunday we headed to my folks, and broke the news to them. They were shocked, ecstatic, concerned, yet very positive. Going home, I felt more reassured and that this was going to be okay.
Then, in the evening the dams of hell let loose and our home was filled with dark emotions. I won't go into many details (to save my husband's dignity), but we talked (and cried) for hours. I was experiencing mother's intuition, suddenly very aware that this baby was not going to make it. And yet, hoping, against all odds. I begged and begged for God not to take this baby, and yet in the same breath I prayed for the health and safety of him/her. I listed every disease, abnormality, deformity and health issue that I could think of, praying against every one. I told God, this baby has already beat so many odds. Mike's chemo was supposed to cause him to be sterile, obviously the vasectomy was for this specific purpose, my age decreased the chance of getting pregnant, etc, etc., etc. Lord Jesus, don't give me a baby in the midst of all the odds and then take it away! I grieved in the shower, as I suddenly had this overwhelming sense of, "It's gone."
The next morning, as I prepared to go to the ER for testing, I felt numb, yet sad. I knew what the news would be. My good friend drove me to the hospital. After many hours of waiting (even though I was told I was a higher priority), I saw a great doctor. She also was extremely positive. After doing an internal, she said it looked fine and not to worry (famous last words). She assured me again that some spotting was normal, not to do anything different, go home and be pregnant. They did bloodwork, which confirmed that I was pregnant. I was told to come back Wednesday to make sure the the hormone levels were going up and for a possible ultrasound. That sounded like good news to me!
So, I ignored my maternal instinct, and went home feeling upbeat and hopeful.
Mike was still not in a great place of acceptance. I told him what I felt was good news. He couldn't relate yet. That's okay, I told myself. This was a shocker and it's still fresh.
However, Monday night is when the bottom gave way. I won't disgust you with details, but the bleeding increased, as did the cramps. I would describe them as mild labour pains. Let me just say that I was a little mad and a lot confused. God, why is this happening. You've given me little confirmations along the way that this is your plan, you've put so many positive people in my path to reassure me that everything will be okay? Why would you give me a miracle, just to snatch it away? What is going on?!?!
That evening I knew that the baby had passed. And Mike knew it too. That was the darkest night of my life. I felt like the deepest, darkest valley imaginable. We cried together, held each other, confessed feelings of regret, grief, remorse, guilt, anger, confusion, sadness, and loss. Not once did the word "relieved" enter our vocabulary. Even though this baby was unplanned by us, even though we were not ready for this baby stage again, even though I felt too old to be doing this again, even though we struggled with accepting the truth, we still very much wanted it.
Wednesday morning I returned to the ER as planned. And the doc confirmed what I already now. Gone.
The news is still very raw. I feel like I've never felt before. It's called grief. It's interesting how quickly that motherly instinct kicks in as soon as you find out you're pregnant. I had to quickly remind myself of all the things to do to take care of my body and this life inside me. I only had three days to enjoy being pregnant. Then, poof, it's over. Crazy. That's all I can say. (although some other four-letter words have come to mind) Today, I am sad. Yesterday I laughed. I can't sleep well. Some moments I just want to cry. Other moments I hold my precious daughters close and tell them I love them. Some moments I feel as if the grief is going to swallow me. I don't know what it is like to lose a child whom you have held and nursed and taught and smelled. But this is my loss. I don't know what it's like to miscarry a baby that you have tried and tried for, waited for, longed for. But this is my loss.
Another day I'll write about what we will name the baby. Another day I'll write about how we plan to memorialize this child. Another day I'll write something funny and inspiring. But today I write about dreams crushed and hopes dashed. And I mourn.
A bit extreme, I realize. "Roller coaster" didn't seem to even touch the range of emotions going on. Bungee jumping was more like it.
Where to start? On Thursday, March 29 (my mother-in-laws birthday), I discovered that I was pregnant. Hmmmmm. Good news, to most. Here's the thing: my wonderful husband had a vasectomy. In December. 2011. Back up the truck.
Our children are ages 7 and 4. We love them dearly and have felt complete in our family of 4 since J was born. It took many years of loving encouragement (by me) to convince Mike to get the procedure. I was tired of being on "the pill" and all that goes with it. I thought, hey, isn't it time he take some initiative in this contraceptive process?
So, he finally mustered up the courage, swallowed his manly pride and went ahead. Great. We were anticipating the future, ready to move on to the next stage of our children's lives. Preparing for our youngest to enter kindergarten in the fall, planning what my fall would look like and discerning God's purpose for me next.
Wow. Did we get thrown for a loop. A few weeks ago, I felt some tenderness in my breasts, and what appeared to be a lump, or unusual hardness. I freaked out momentarily, thinking cancer. I know first-hand that cancer is a very real possibility. After mentioning it to my level-headed husband, he reassured me it was probably nothing, and even joked about being pregnant. Ha ha. We laughed, knowing that was not possible.
Think again. A few days later, I realized that I was "late". I thought, just a few days. No big deal. Finally Mike said, "Let's get out the calendar and figure out how late you are." 1...2...3....4....5...Oh...More like 12 days late. Okay. Well. What now? After work, Mike rushed (yes, rushed!) to town to pick up a test. And, the results? Drum roll, please! Positive.
Again, I ask: what now? I can't remember if I cried or not, but the news was less than gratifying. All I could say was: "Crazy."
Mike took it even less well than I did. He was mad. Downright made. At the doc. And God. And ourselves (for not being more careful!). And the cat. You name it! Me? I went through the stages of denial and shock a little quicker than he did.
Friday morning I took a trip to the clinic to have a confirmation test. Yup. Positive. 6 weeks, from what I could determine. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. By the time I got home, I had already started to come to terms with what was happening. I stopped taking my antidepressants immediately (to which my loving husband replied, "I have to deal with THAT now too?") (Funny to me now.) I filled my plate with more veggies, increased my water, resisted the temptation to drink that Cherry Pepsi in my fridge, limited the heavy lifting, started getting excited about telling people, and coming up with cool ideas to surprise them with the news.
That was Friday. You know the saying, "It's Friday, but Sunday's a-comin'"? (Referring to when Jesus died on Friday, but Sunday He would rise triumphantly). Well, in my case, it was the good news on Friday, but Sunday would not be the triumph we were hoping. After church, I began spotting. I had had cramps the night before, and all morning, but brushed it off as after-effects of yard work and raking I had done on Saturday.
But the blood did worry me a bit. Again, I had to shock my husband with the news. He was still in his "mad phase." Okay, fine, he needs time to get used to the idea. I get that. I'll deal with this on my own for now until he figures it out in his head. I called Healthlinks to see if there was any reason to be concerned. The nurse I spoke to reassured me that some spotting and cramping in early pregnancy is perfectly normal. Is this your first pregnancy? No. Have you had a history of spotting? No. What color is the blood? A strange question, I thought. (But now in hindsight, I understand the significance.) Have you had a history of ectopic pregnancy? Nooooo, but thanks for just adding a new worry to my list. She suggested that I go see a doctor just to be safe, but not to worry.
So, Sunday we headed to my folks, and broke the news to them. They were shocked, ecstatic, concerned, yet very positive. Going home, I felt more reassured and that this was going to be okay.
Then, in the evening the dams of hell let loose and our home was filled with dark emotions. I won't go into many details (to save my husband's dignity), but we talked (and cried) for hours. I was experiencing mother's intuition, suddenly very aware that this baby was not going to make it. And yet, hoping, against all odds. I begged and begged for God not to take this baby, and yet in the same breath I prayed for the health and safety of him/her. I listed every disease, abnormality, deformity and health issue that I could think of, praying against every one. I told God, this baby has already beat so many odds. Mike's chemo was supposed to cause him to be sterile, obviously the vasectomy was for this specific purpose, my age decreased the chance of getting pregnant, etc, etc., etc. Lord Jesus, don't give me a baby in the midst of all the odds and then take it away! I grieved in the shower, as I suddenly had this overwhelming sense of, "It's gone."
The next morning, as I prepared to go to the ER for testing, I felt numb, yet sad. I knew what the news would be. My good friend drove me to the hospital. After many hours of waiting (even though I was told I was a higher priority), I saw a great doctor. She also was extremely positive. After doing an internal, she said it looked fine and not to worry (famous last words). She assured me again that some spotting was normal, not to do anything different, go home and be pregnant. They did bloodwork, which confirmed that I was pregnant. I was told to come back Wednesday to make sure the the hormone levels were going up and for a possible ultrasound. That sounded like good news to me!
So, I ignored my maternal instinct, and went home feeling upbeat and hopeful.
Mike was still not in a great place of acceptance. I told him what I felt was good news. He couldn't relate yet. That's okay, I told myself. This was a shocker and it's still fresh.
However, Monday night is when the bottom gave way. I won't disgust you with details, but the bleeding increased, as did the cramps. I would describe them as mild labour pains. Let me just say that I was a little mad and a lot confused. God, why is this happening. You've given me little confirmations along the way that this is your plan, you've put so many positive people in my path to reassure me that everything will be okay? Why would you give me a miracle, just to snatch it away? What is going on?!?!
That evening I knew that the baby had passed. And Mike knew it too. That was the darkest night of my life. I felt like the deepest, darkest valley imaginable. We cried together, held each other, confessed feelings of regret, grief, remorse, guilt, anger, confusion, sadness, and loss. Not once did the word "relieved" enter our vocabulary. Even though this baby was unplanned by us, even though we were not ready for this baby stage again, even though I felt too old to be doing this again, even though we struggled with accepting the truth, we still very much wanted it.
Wednesday morning I returned to the ER as planned. And the doc confirmed what I already now. Gone.
The news is still very raw. I feel like I've never felt before. It's called grief. It's interesting how quickly that motherly instinct kicks in as soon as you find out you're pregnant. I had to quickly remind myself of all the things to do to take care of my body and this life inside me. I only had three days to enjoy being pregnant. Then, poof, it's over. Crazy. That's all I can say. (although some other four-letter words have come to mind) Today, I am sad. Yesterday I laughed. I can't sleep well. Some moments I just want to cry. Other moments I hold my precious daughters close and tell them I love them. Some moments I feel as if the grief is going to swallow me. I don't know what it is like to lose a child whom you have held and nursed and taught and smelled. But this is my loss. I don't know what it's like to miscarry a baby that you have tried and tried for, waited for, longed for. But this is my loss.
Another day I'll write about what we will name the baby. Another day I'll write about how we plan to memorialize this child. Another day I'll write something funny and inspiring. But today I write about dreams crushed and hopes dashed. And I mourn.
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