Love and Loss

Everyone knows that there are two things you should never discuss in polite conversation: religion and politics. I would like to take this opportunity to add a third thing to the list, and that is death. Broaching the topic of death (or loss) is a surefire way to turn an otherwise friendly, casual conversation into a silent, awkward situation. There’s nothing like a tragic story to dampen the mood. That is why, with the exception of a privileged few, most of you have never heard me talk about this subject. As a rule, I avoid inserting it into my daily dialogue. I even waited until a Saturday to post this on my blog because most people have better things to do on a Saturday afternoon than read my sad story. Never the less, I decided to post this because there may be other women out there who are struggling with the same type of loss that I once did, who can find comfort in knowing that they are not alone.

(One year old Josie and me at 10 wks pregnant and blissfully unaware of what lay ahead)

In 2007 I suffered two consecutive miscarriages. I have relived the experiences in my head so many times that I can remember them like they were yesterday. On a typical Friday morning in July I was 10 weeks pregnant and I started having some light vaginal spotting. I went to an OB appointment that same morning so I casually mentioned the problem to my nurse, who assured me that some spotting is perfectly normal during pregnancy. But by Sunday the bleeding had intensified and by Monday morning it had become heavy. Out of concern, I called the nurse and she asked me to come in for an emergency ultrasound, just to be sure that everything was alright. The technician jellied up my belly and rolled the ultrasound stick around for awhile until she stopped and froze, left the room without a word, and returned with a doctor. The doctor sat down in the chair beside my bed and turned the monitor toward me. The image that I saw on the screen is permanently etched into the back of my mind- a tiny , peanut-like silhouette, and no heartbeat.

We would have celebrated that baby’s 3^rd birthday this month.

I dealt with my grief in various ways over the months that followed and then James and I conceived again. Two months later, I miscarried again.

A few of my family members and closest friends have asked me since then if I have “gotten over it” and “moved on.”  You know, now that I have three healthy children. People who have never had a miscarriage may not understand and people who have never been pregnant may think it’s bizarre, but my answer is: absolutely not. I doubt that anyone, even James, knows how much my miscarriages continue to affect my day-to-day life. As much as I love Josephine, Jamison, and Jonathan, I also loved those babies. I loved them from the very minute I knew I was pregnant and I bonded with them for the two short months I carried them inside of me. That’s not something you easily forget. I think about them at least once every day. I miss them terribly even though I never met them. I pray daily that God will watch over and care for my precious little ones until I can meet them in heaven one day.

The following is a little something I wrote in August 2007, a month after my first miscarriage, as part of my struggle with grief.

One week I was pregnant.  The next week I was not.

One week I was buying a little newborn sleeper.  The next week I was hiding it so that it didn’t make me cry.

One week I was avoiding sodas and candy bars because they weren’t good for the baby.  The next week I was stuffing myself with caffeine and chocolate, pretending that they made me feel better.

One week I felt confident talking about motherhood.  The next week I felt unworthy to talk about motherhood.

One week I was celebrating my daughter’s first birthday and thinking that this time next year she would be a big sister.  The next week I was wondering if she would end up an only child.

One week I was reading “My Pregnancy: Week 10.”  The next week I was reading “Understanding Miscarriage.”

One week I was so happy for my friend and I was celebrating the birth of her new baby.  The next week I was jealous and I envied her happiness.

One week the question “How are you feeling?” meant “Are you having any morning sickness yet?”  The next week the question “How are you feeling?” meant “Can you talk about it without crying yet?”

One week I was telling my Mother-in-law when we would know if the baby was a boy or a girl.  The next week I was realizing that we would never know.

One week I was filling my closet with maternity clothes.  The next week I was throwing them in a box in the corner.

One week I had a great relationship with all my family and friends.  The next week they felt distant because there were things I wanted to say but didn‘t know how to say them.

One week I was joyful.  The next week I was sorrowful.

One week I anticipated meeting my new child.  The next week I was struggling to say good-bye.

One week, life was routine. The next week, life was precious.

Life is precious, people, and I pray that you don't have to suffer the way I did in order to see it.