The Words I Never Hoped to Write

This past April, Hunter and I had our first miscarriage.

Getting pregnant was not an accident, but it certainly was exciting and still very surprising. We celebrated as we let our close circle know the good news- a baby would be joining our family in November of 2017. Through the fear of what if's and what could's, we were still ecstatic.

I was about 9.5 weeks when we saw the ultrasound that told us the pregnancy was non-viable. 

The process of that miscarriage was horrible. My body was not ending the pregnancy, so I had to take a medicine to help it along. I remember holding the pill in my hand and doing my best to talk myself out of the horrific thought that what if somehow it could still work if I didn't take this medicine. I took it. Four hours later, it began. I bled for weeks. We had just moved into our new house and of course had our room for the nursery all picked out. Instead, I avoided that room. I painted, cried, and bled. For weeks. The hours felt endless. The air was quiet. I was weak and pale, in my heart and body. I felt emotional at times, empty at others. I worked to create a home, which we loved, but I kept the door shut to the room that represented empty arms and an empty womb. 

I wanted so badly to be seen in my hurt, yet at the same time wanted to hide and never see anyone. I am so grateful for the days that my sweet husband would come home, look me in the eyes, and just hold me; truly seeing me as we sat in our pain and sadness together. We felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under us, like our trust and hope was made laughable. Even then, we did our best to turn towards each other and even towards God, though we weren't sure how to navigate this kind of loss. I'm grateful for the women in my life who have unfortunately known this pain themselves; the ones that were able to say, "I know," and they really did know. The ones that sent flowers. The ones that made and brought us meals. They saw me; they saw us. Somehow, that eased some of the pain. 

Fast forward to late summer. 

It was not too long after I had finally quit bleeding and I was newly able to dance and teach again. We were off exploring and adventuring as summers go. When we returned home, we found out. Pregnant again. Terrified, I said "Oh no." This of course is not the response I would like to have when finding out something wonderful, but this is what happens when a journey is scarred by fear and loss. 

This time though, our medical team was on it. They were checking my levels right away, and even doing very early ultrasounds. At 6 weeks, we saw our baby's heartbeat. It was the most wonderful and crazy feeling. We saw the little flicker and I cried a few silent tears of gratitude. Maybe this would be the one. With apprehension, we again told our close circle the exciting news. April 15. My dad's birthday. That was the due date of our precious baby. With the go ahead from our midwife, we went on vacation as planned to celebrate our anniversary. It was the most wonderful trip. I felt great. We didn't climb just to be safe, but we explored several national parks, we hiked, we rested, we enjoyed life and nature and beauty together. After the couple weeks, we didn't want to come home. In fact, on the way home, I had my first physical panic attack. I couldn't breathe and was weeping. Hunter pulled the van over, came around to my side, and again, just saw me. Calmed me. Gave me some water. I walked around and caught my breath, yet it was like I knew. I didn't want to come home to news that I couldn't bear.

A day or so after being home, at the beginning of September, we went in for our scheduled appointment. This office had become a very daunting place for me, but still, we were hopeful. We just knew, this time, it would be okay. We went back for our ultrasound and patiently and calmly waited to see our little tiny creation. As soon as we saw the screen, our hearts sank. There was no more heart beat. No flickering light. No more hope for this baby. I got off the table, got dressed, and walked over to the chair in the corner of that awful room and sat on Hunter's lap, and we wept. Right then and there. This time, I couldn't wait until we were in the parking lot. I wasn't shocked because I had a horrible suspicion this would be the case. I didn't care what the ultrasound tech or nurse or anyone else thought. So there, in that cold room of bad memories, we wept. 

This time the miscarriage happened naturally and went much faster, which was certainly easier physically. Still- I knew when it happened. When the fetus came out of me and fell into the toilet. No one should ever know what that is like. I still have nightmares of those moments. Sometimes it all flashes back and I can't help but think what could've been. Who our baby would be. So I continued to keep the door to the not-yet-nursery closed, and my heart struggled to stay open. 

I am so thankful for the people who have continued to write, call, or look at me and say, "I see you. I'm with you. I won't forget. I will hold onto hope for you when you can't. You can be sad. Even when you have babies someday, I will remember these sweet ones that you didn't get to have." And those words hold incredible weight. Thank you for your hugs, your notes, your love, your permission to not be alone or suffer in silence. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 

Unfortunately, many of the women in my family have struggled with losing babies. I wish they didn't know this pain, but I am thankful that they choose to talk about it and let each other in. I'm thankful to be in a family where I do not have to feel alone or that I must stay silent in my sadness. I'm thankful for a husband who wants a baby as badly as I do and responds to me with honesty and gentleness. I'm thankful for parents, on both sides, who have been perfectly loving and sad with us, yet hopeful that someday they will be grandparents of our children. 

So, I'm learning. I'm learning that grief isn't linear. Sadness can hit you at any time, even the worst timing, like at the beginning of a wedding when you can't bring yourself out of the bathroom stall and can't get your weeping under control and are then late for the wedding, eyes painful and puffy. I'm learning that it's hard for us as humans to see others in pain so we often either avoid or say something that's not helpful like "lot's of women have miscarriages" or "maybe God wanted another angel" or "I guess the timing just wasn't right." We like to tell each other things that give a reason or bring closure, but the truth is, there isn't always closure, and there's not always a great reason. I'm learning that the best words people have said to me are, "I'm sorry" and "I love you" and "I see you" and "I'm with you." This is teaching me how to be with others in their pain, even when it is a different kind of pain or grief.

I'm learning gentleness and sensitivity to others; knowing I may not know what they're going through. I'm learning to face self doubt in a new way. I'm learning to combat feelings like when I look down at my stomach and think "empty. broken. unable." I'm learning to face the ugly feelings of envy, and how to redirect them to understand that it is just because of my own pain of loss and I will someday too know that joy. And I'm learning to trust God even through heartache. 

This past Sunday at Jacobs Well, our pastor talked about making space in this advent season for awe and allowing ourselves to be in anticipation of newness and miracles. Soft tears formed in my eyes as I was filled with a new hope. Even though Hunter and I have not felt like it's urgent for us to have babies, it doesn't lessen the pain. Even though we haven't felt hopeless about the future, the grief still stays. However, I feel a sense of hope that hasn't been there for awhile. I feel that I am ready to make space in my heart to be prepared for awe; for a miracle. 

So, to you who are hurting, in whatever way: I see you. Your pain does not have a time limit. Yes we can (and should) choose our attitudes, our choices, and our responses; but that doesn't mean grief won't sneak up at the worst time, and that's okay. It's okay to tell others, seek counseling, and let people in. I will continue to try and learn and grow in love and compassion for you and for others. I will say good and true things about myself, and not let dark days consume me. I will hold hope for you when you cannot. I will make space in my own heart and encourage you to make space for awe, and newness. I will say I'm sorry, I love you, and I'm with you. And I will let Jesus use this to teach me grace, gentleness, and most importantly: love.

And someday, I know we'll have our miracle.