As I sit down to write this, I don't really know where to begin. This is the most personal blog I have ever written. I'm sitting here, staring at the screen, listening to Ed Sheeran playing in the background. My little boy is upstairs sleeping. It's a sunny day.
Where do I begin?
I lost my baby yesterday.
When I woke up yesterday morning I was pregnant with our third child.
When I woke up this morning I wasn't pregnant anymore.
This will come as surprise to most of you. We hadn't told many people we were expecting again.
This baby came as a surprise. We had talked about having a third, but it wasn't really something we were trying for. I found out in October, in the middle of our Disney vacation, that I was pregnant. I'd been feeling symptoms for a few days, and took a test right there in the hotel. We were surprised, but elated. Overjoyed.
With it being my third, I started showing right away. We wanted to wait to tell Abby our news until after I'd had my first ultrasound. But the doctor was booked solid until December, and it became impossible to hide. Without us ever saying a word to her, she started remarking on how big my belly was getting. "There's a baby in there! I know it!" she would say to me. She even started kissing my belly and saying, "Hello baby! I know you are in there!"
We broke down and told her yes, there was a baby growing in there. Even at that time, I had thoughts of "What if I lose this baby? What will I tell her then?" I have never miscarried before, but the fear was nagging me.
My pregnancy continued uneventfully. I had the usual morning sickness, fatigue, and an ever growing abdomen. No signs that anything was amiss. Abby and I did "baby yoga" together in the afternoons. She kissed my belly goodnight with a "Goodnight baby, I love you" every night.
Yesterday I went in for an ultrasound. It was going to be the first time we would see a picture of our baby. The night before, I'd had an overwhelming fear that I can't really explain. I even told my friend on the phone, "I am so afraid there might not be a heartbeat." She thought I was crazy. I can understand why... there was no reason to believe the worst. And yet I couldn't shake it.
I was driving to the doctor yesterday morning, and for the first time in months, I started to pray. I've questioned so much about God and faith lately. And yet yesterday, I found myself truly praying. I said, "God, I have no idea what is ahead. I have a bad feeling. I don't even feel like I can pray to ask that things will be ok. I don't know what to pray for."
And in that moment, I heard God, almost audibly. The loudest I have ever heard Him before. And He said one word. "Emmanuel."
Emmanuel. God is with us. He said, "No matter what happens today, I am with you."
And in that moment I started crying. Before I even reached the doctor's office. I told myself this was silly. Things would be fine. Things are always fine. What was I so worked up about? This is a happy day, my first ultrasound.
I met Ben at the doctor's office. We went in, met the doctor, talked about my health history, cracked some jokes, talked about my plan for this pregnancy.
And then the doctor had me lay back, and she placed the ultrasound probe inside of me. I looked at the screen. I saw the small shape of a baby, but it wasn't moving. With my last two babies, when I saw them on ultrasound, they were always moving.
In that instant, I knew. The baby on that screen, my baby, was not alive anymore.
I turned and looked at the doctor's face. She was trying so hard not to give anything away. She kept moving the probe, trying to get a better look. But her face said it all.
It was at that moment that I almost felt like I left my own body. I floated up above the room, and watched the rest take place, like a foggy dream that couldn't really be my life.
She pointed to the screen and said, "This is normally where I would see a heartbeat, but I don't see one. The baby is only measuring about 8 weeks."
I was 11 weeks along. Somewhere around week 8, things went wrong.
I turned to look at Ben. I will never forget the look on his face. The sadness. The pain. My heart broke into a billion pieces just looking at him. It was his baby too.
The doctor pulled out the probe, and turned on the lights. What happened next is a blur. She explained a lot of things, about chromosomal abnormalities and how none of this was my fault. And how now we would have to talk about the next steps, because my body hadn't recognized for a number of weeks that the baby was not alive anymore.
I stared at her, willing myself to be strong. Willing myself not to cry. Trying so hard to focus on what she was saying so I wouldn't hear the voice inside of me saying, "Your baby is gone."
Even now I can hardly type this through the tears. It's literally the worst moment you can imagine. All the sudden you have to not only grapple with the fact that your baby has died, but you have to decide how you're going to get it out of you. No matter what you decide, it is horrific.
I was faced with two choices. I could either schedule a procedure to have the baby removed, or I could take some medication so that I could pass all of the tissue at home. That's a euphemistic way of saying take some pills so you can go home and bleed more than you ever thought was possible.
I chose the latter. I didn't want to wait for an opening in the schedule for a procedure, and the pills were the least invasive.
The doctor was wonderful and compassionate. She has been through this herself. She answered the questions that I asked her 5 times in a row because my brain wasn't working. She was patient and kind.
I walked numbly out of the office. I don't even know how I drove home. But I did.
My biggest concern was for Abby. She is an exceptionally perceptive and sensitive 4 (almost 5) year old. When our dog died in February, she mourned more deeply that I could have ever imagined. I wanted more than anything to protect her from experiencing that kind of grief again.
Ben and I agreed we would not use the language of death in explaining this to Abby. As much as this was a baby to Ben and I, we needed this not to be the death of a baby for our precious daughter. So, when I got home, I told her this:
"Abby, mommy has some hard news. We found out at the doctor today that the baby we thought was inside mommy was not a baby. It was a broken seed that was trying to grow into a baby, but because it was broken, it couldn't grow. The broken seed made mommy's body think there was a baby in there, and that's why my belly grew so much. As long as this broken seed is inside of mommy, we can't grow a baby in there. So the doctor's have given me some medicine so the broken seed will leave my body, and so that one day we can get a new seed that can grow into a real baby."
Her eyes welled up with tears. But she didn't break down. She was disappointed. She asked, "Why did this happen?" I told the truth. I have no idea why this happened. But when I told her we would try again one day for another seed to grow, she smiled.
She's come back and asked some questions since then. Mostly wondering why the seed was broken, and why we didn't know for so long. But overall she has done well with it. It's my biggest relief in all of this.
Ben took the rest of the day off of work while I waited for the medicine to begin working. It was an agonizing wait. I felt so many emotions. I wanted it to work as fast as possible. But I knew that once it worked, I really and truly would be empty inside.
If you've never been through a miscarriage, or aren't extremely close to someone who has, you may not know how horrific it is. It is horrific. You sit and wait, then the cramps come, you bleed more than any living human ever should, and then you lose your baby, and you know it. I want so badly to forget that part. So badly. But I never, ever, will forget it. I'm telling you this so that when you meet someone who has had a miscarriage, or someone close to you goes through one, you really know what they mean.
I spent the night with a fever and chills. It was this bizarre mix of grief and relief once the medicine worked. We spent the night in my bed, the four of us, watching Christmas movies and cuddling. Abby would rub my belly from time to time, kiss it, and say, "Are you feeling any better mommy?" Oh how I love her.
I woke up this morning, and I felt really empty. In the quiet of the morning, before the kids were up, I laid there and wondered if I would ever be able to get out of bed again. I placed my hand on my strangely flat stomach and thought about how my baby was gone. I closed my eyes and breathed. It took all my energy just to breathe.
Moments later, my door burst open, and Joshua ran into my room, pantless. He yelled "I pooped in my bed mommy!!!!"
God bless that child.
If it weren't for him, I don't think I would have gotten out of bed today.
Thankfully, it wasn't as bad as he claimed. He had just taken off his wet diaper, and there was no mess. Praise the Lord for that.
Miscarriage is a hard thing to talk about. It's even harder to experience first hand. Everyone has their opinions on when to share pregnancy news. I'm glad I shared when I did with the people that knew, our close family and friends. I'm glad because for those 11 weeks that I was pregnant, I got to celebrate the life of my baby. And now that I have lost my baby, those closest to me share the burden of my grief, which helps. This grief would be crushing if I were to bear it alone.
I've been overwhelmed with the love those closest to us have shown, in less than 24 hours. My best friend sent a huge order of my favorite hoagies to our house last night. And a giant tray of cookies. I had cookies for dinner. And breakfast. I might have them for lunch too. Cookies help.
Our family has sent us flowers. Friends have sent multiple texts, knowing that I do much better with writing than with talking. This all helps.
Our baby was real. From the moment I knew I was pregnant, it was real. And so this is a very real loss. The loss of a baby, a dream, an imagined future.
And yet, this is also not the end of the story. When the time is right, we will try again.
I am filled with so many emotions. I feel like someone has just thrown a deck of 100 cards at me, all with a different emotion on them, and I am trying to catch them all. Anger, grief, denial, fear, guilt, hope. All muddled up together.
I'm trying to be strong for my kids. They really do make it better. When I look at them, I can only think about how unbelievably blessed I am to be their mom. And then I step into the shower, and I am by myself, and I sob uncontrollably. Or today, I was making lunch for Abby, and she was prattling on about something, and I thought I was listening, until I heard her saying, "MOM! MOM! ARE YOU LISTENING?!!" and I realize I'm a million miles away, thinking about my baby that's gone.
I have experienced a lot of loss this year. My dog died. My grandfather died. My baby died. There are moments when I feel like I can't take anything else.
And then I hear it. "Emmanuel."
I am with you.
I don't know how that helps, but it does.
He is with me.
This is not the end of my story.
The next few days and weeks feel like a huge black tunnel to me. Dark inside, with obstacles laying everywhere that I can't see, waiting to trip me. There's light at the end, but I don't know how to get there.
If you know me well at all, you know that I hate to cry. At least, I hate to cry in front of people. I also hate to cry on the phone. So I'm not answering the phone for a while. I can't. I have to save every single ounce of my functioning self for my children. So here is my blog. This is what happened to me. Grieve with me. It helps. Think of me. It helps. Speak kindness to me. It helps. Save advice. It doesn't usually help. Just read this blog. That helps.
I'll end with a letter to my precious one, because that seems like the only appropriate ending to this whole thing.
Dear Baby,
Before I even knew you were inside of me, I loved you and wanted you. We have talked and dreamed about Baby #3 for a while now. You were such a surprise to us. Everyone told us it was Disney magic. I think it was too. A little pixie dust that gave us magic for 11 weeks.
I didn't get to hold you, or breathe in your sweet baby smell. I didn't even get to find out if you were a boy or girl. But it doesn't matter. I knew you.
You loved strawberry smoothies and Greek food. I made sure to spoil you with plenty of both. I'll think of you every time I eat either of those now.
You were so dearly loved by your big sister. She would kiss my belly every morning and say, "Good morning baby!" And she would kiss it every night and tell you how much she loved you. Today when she saw how small my stomach looked, she lifted my shirt, kissed my belly and whispered, "Goodbye baby."
Goodbye baby. I miss you already. Fly away my sweet angel, until we meet again one day.
Love,
Mommy
