(A little pregame shopping)
It's not that I hope to add anything to all that's out there about this kind of loss because there's already a lot of good stuff I've found that articulated my emotions well and comforted me when I wasn't yet ready to talk about it. What I do hope to offer is the account of someone you might know personally (me...I assume if you're reading this you found it through my Facebook link and so we know each other in some context) and who could be a better friend to you right now or in the future if you experience it. It's taken me a while to share because I didn't always feel ready to comfort someone else. And then a friend told me this week she just miscarried and I felt an overwhelming desire to comfort, and so figured it might be the time to share it more publicly.
The following is something I wrote right before this past Christmas in an attempt to summarize 2015.
It's been a crazy year. A really good year filled with beautiful ocean and rugged coastline and brilliant sunsets and thick clean fog. A year marked by Normandie milestones and precious time with her. New jobs, a new church, new friends. Reconnecting with old friends and living near family. Living in a cozy apartment with windows full of ocean and sunrises, walks to the park and aquarium and library and farmer's market and beach. It's been richer than I could have imagined.
Yet it's been a year of sadness and loss-one that I look forward to leaving behind.
Back in April I found out I was pregnant with our second child.
(Excited to show off her big news)
While the news came a little sooner than I had expected and I was a bit nervous as to how to notify my new job (I had only been there about a month), I was overjoyed! I couldn't wait for Normandie to have a sibling. My babies would be 23 months apart-the same distance between me and my older sister. I got to tell my mom I was pregnant on Mother's Day, the same day I told her I was pregnant with Normandie, 2 years prior. The morning sickness started earlier than I remembered it starting with Normandie and likewise I started showing much earlier. I wasn't sure how I was going to hide it until the 2nd trimester.
(Mother's Day 2015, around 7 wks pregnant. A mother whale with her baby had just breached right off of Lover's Point where we happened to be on a walk)
Oh, the memories I have of that day...
We kind of got a run around at the hospital so by the time we made it to the right waiting room, Normandie had had enough. Ben took her out into the hallway to play. An older gentleman shared the waiting room with me. He wanted to talk about how fast kids grow up. I begged him in my mind to be quiet. Then he asked me the question that broke my heart then and has stung a little every time I've been asked it since: "Is she your only one?" I wasn't sure if I still had another child at that point but I didn't feel like sharing my pain and uncertainty with him. He started talking about his wife and mentioned a port (suggesting cancer) and I realized she was who he was waiting for-and it reminded me we all have stuff going on. I just didn't feel like I had the energy to have compassion on him, and that made me feel worse. Thankfully my name was called soon after.
I quickly glanced out into the hall looking for Ben but they had drifted too far away so I went in by myself. I lay on the exam table and she squirted cold gel on my belly. Ben eventually found us. Normandie needed her diaper changed and the tech said Ben could use the counter next to the sink. And I remember thinking how odd it was that this ordinary-every-day view of my husband changing my baby's diaper was how I would find out my other baby had died.
I began to silently pray, "Lord into Your hands I release this baby." And it felt like the wrong prayer to pray because I had never felt like it was mine to begin with. Up until that point I really thought of this baby as a pregnancy. In fact, I feel weird even admitting this, but there were times I felt so sick or tired that I almost resented the pregnancy or at least felt defensive of Normandie because it took away so much of my energy that I otherwise could have given to her. I figured I was saving the bonding for later. And yet there I lay, praying this prayer. I pictured cradling the baby in my hands, the size of a kumquat even though I never figured out what that was or how big it was, and gently placing it in His hands.
The tech explained what she should have seen and then outlined my womb on the screen and pointed out the empty space next to my little blob of a baby where the beating heart should have been. The moment it finally clicked that this was my second child who had been growing inside me was the moment I realized it was dead. And the searing pain of loss filled the room. The tech kept jabbering on about Mother Nature's way but it became fuzzy background noise. I held it together as I got dressed. And I held it together as I joined Ben and Normandie again and as we walked out the entrance into the parking lot.
And then I lost it. The reality came crashing down and I buried my head in Ben's shoulder and sobbed. And the best thing that happened that day, the thing I want to remember most...Ben was holding Normandie in his other arm and up until that point in her life she was a generous kisser but hadn't started giving many hugs or snuggles yet. But she leaned across Ben and bent over and lay her head on my shoulder as I wept. And I felt her loss of a sibling too.
We had the 20's group over that night because it was Thursday and we didn't cancel it for some reason. The first game of the NBA finals was on and the game was neck and neck the whole time. I think both Ben and I watched it more intensely than usual. Both as a distraction and out of this weird desire for some small redemption for the day. Which is so silly. A basketball win for a baby. But the Warriors won anyway in OT.
The actual miscarrying was awful. At some points that Saturday I felt like I was in labor, with timed contractions and all. My back was hurting so I got in the shower and there started passing huge clots. Even though it's not nearly as bad as real labor, it's just an awful feeling to birth a baby like that, alone and afraid and knowing from the beginning it's already ended in loss. I was terrified my kumquat baby would get caught in the drain-or perhaps even worse that it would pass unnoticed down the drain without ever having been held. I never distinguished which clot was the baby.
The mourning began. We were pretty private about it. I didn't want to be seen as a "mum-in-waiting" as I read on one British woman's blog about miscarriage that I resonated with. I also felt guilty for feeling so sad (an emotion found in almost every personal account I've read on miscarriage). I know people who have lost children to cancer, violence, tragic accidents...babies, toddlers, teenagers they've held...or people who've never been able to get pregnant despite years of invasive treatments. Furthermore, I already had a precious daughter to hold, it wasn't like this miscarriage left me childless. I would never try to compare my loss to any of those. And yet I wasn't sure how deep to let the sorrow fill me. But one thing I couldn't escape-even though this life was so short and I didn't know if it was a boy or a girl-for me it was still a life and so the loss of it was certainly like mourning a death.
If a grandparent had died I could have told people. They would have understood the grieving or the need to take time away. But keeping it private meant a lot of swallowed tears and suppressed sobs. It meant falling into an unexplained silence, becoming terrible at writing or calling people back. It meant being a part of a lot of conversations where someone would be telling me about something and all I could think behind my listening eyes was, "my baby just died."
It became odd to me that I had placed so much importance on keeping the pregnancy private until the 2nd trimester in case I miscarried, only to miscarry and then realize that so few knew I had been pregnant and so could most of the people around me could not understand the hidden grief.
The summer passed and I continued to grieve. Both times I had gotten pregnant in the past were so effortless. But the summer did not give way to another pregnancy. I became frantic about getting pregnant again, thinking that a new pregnancy would displace the loss and the sadness. It was weird since we hadn't been trying to get pregnant in the first place, but then it became all I could think about.
In my stages of grief I certainly experienced some bitterness. Facebook posts of pregnancy announcements became sickening to me-I hate to admit it! I had no problem with seeing pictures of babies but pregnancy pictures produced reactions I'm ashamed of.
Ben had the privilege of doing 2 weddings in the fall. I found out I was pregnant again right before I started getting ready for the 1st wedding. I was cautiously overjoyed. And for a few precious weeks I lived with the knowledge that I was carrying our 3rd baby.
The bleeding started the morning of the 2nd wedding. I had gone on a light jog that morning and felt great. It came out of nowhere, but I immediately knew what was happening. I reluctantly went to the wedding and am so glad I did. It was a beautiful wedding of a wonderful couple and Ben did a great job and I got to connect with a good friend I hadn't seen in a while.
But back I went to the empty conversations, the bitterness, the guilt. And oh the sadness. This time we decided to be more public. I know the first miscarriage was hard on Ben. But the 2nd one did him in. To lose my babies was devastating. But to see those losses mirrored in my husband, my best friend, my partner in all things-was crushing. We couldn't carry it alone anymore.
It turned out sharing was helpful. More people could understand the grieving. More could love and support us which they did and for which we are so thankful. And so many mothers could share their experiences of loss with me. I am still sad but do not feel as lonely in my sadness.
After the 1st miscarriage I tried to find meaning in it, probably as a coping mechanism. I grappled for ways to explain why it was better this way. I still had the energy for thoughts like that. With the 2nd I felt a bit of emotional collapse, like I just stopped caring about any sort of meaning. I was just sad. It was a good place from which to practice believing that God works all things together for our good. And that God holds me close when I don't have the energy to draw near to Him. Can't say I did it well or with a mature amount of grace but I hope in some way it made me more like Jesus.
If you had told me in 2014 that 2015 would bring a new, wonderful job and amazing sunsets and hilarious moments with Normandie and new and old friendships and a new church I would love-I would have jumped in wholeheartedly. If you had told me I'd experience 2 deaths of babies I'd never hold and never know and then feel guilty and isolated and bitter and just so darn sad I would be frozen by fear. I'm glad I didn't know either way what 2015 would hold.
As I find myself waiting with anticipation this Advent season for the celebration of the birth of my King, my Savior, my Friend, I find in myself a mirrored hope and expectation (though very cautious and full of trepidation) for the life that grows in me now, one I hope will grow long enough to be held this time.
And now back to the present...
I meant to write this down before becoming pregnant again, to be present in all that pain before the next part was written. To have learned things and to have been able to have expressed God's goodness and love before He replaced my sadness with joy. It was in my heart but for some reason it just didn't feel right to share until now.
Now I am 32 weeks into my 3rd pregnancy of 2015. And although we've made it well into 2016 and to a place where I should feel more secure and at ease about this one, I still find myself wanting to wait until he's actually in my arms to believe he's going to make it. I know that might sound horribly morbid. But it's how I feel. Absent from this pregnancy are the weekly bump pictures or the Facebook announcement or the innocent bliss that nothing could go wrong. Not because I love him any less or am any less excited about this pregnancy or have any less hope. It's just different after loss.
One result I can claim from miscarriage is a deeper trust in God's plan for my children. Though I may try with all my strength and knowledge and love to protect them, He alone knows the number of their days on earth and the outcome of their lives. If all my mother's love could not save them in my womb, what power do I have to really protect them in the world? I'll obviously do my best, but now my best is built on the foundation of His love for them, not mine. Or at least I'm trying to operate that way.
I still carry those two in my heart. From time to time I find myself picturing how old they would be now and what it would be like to hold each of them. I wonder how long that will last. Now that it's been a year, those thoughts are more out of curiosity and peace rather than sorrow. I hope that can offer you some hope if you are in the middle of it right now.One final note...in the last days of 2015, the time when I thought we'd be welcoming a new baby into our family, a friend of mine tragically lost her newborn baby due to complications that occurred during labor. Her story and the grace with which she's shared her journey of incomprehensible loss has touched me deeply and brought comfort and perspective to many. I highly recommend reading this post she wrote recently: http://www.designmom.com/2016/03/living-with-kids-robin-dowdle/
