Loved and Lost

Our first pregnancy ended in miscarriage on August 29, a mere three weeks after we had discovered the exciting news that we were going to be parents. I know that Steve and I are members of a fellowship of many other couples who have experienced this type of loss. I feel the need to share what this pregnancy loss is teaching me, both as a way for me to process what has happened, as well as a way to celebrate the significance of the tiny life I held in my womb for a few short weeks.

In the past, I wondered what it was that made early miscarriage so profoundly painful. From a distance, I watched friends and acquaintances grieve over lost pregnancies, not comprehending what it feels like to have an actual death occur within your body. Now that I have lived through this experience, I am learning to walk through a new kind of grief that I know will change me profoundly.

I am doing some reading about the grief experience during miscarriage, and I find it extremely encouraging to read about the experiences of other women. It helps me to know that I am not abnormal in the rapid development of deep love I had for my unborn child, or in the feelings (both physical and emotional) that I am experiencing. Perhaps by me sharing this story, another woman will be able to process what has occurred to her. Normalizing the experience doesn’t take the hurt away, but it makes the journey a little less frightening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We had been hoping for a pregnancy for several months, but secretly I was worried that pregnancy was not going to come easily for us. My doctor had assured me that a small hormonal imbalance I live with was an easily corrected issue, but I was still skeptical. After several months passed without conception, I was beginning to get a little more concerned. I found myself working to remember that ultimately God is responsible for blessing people with children, and that I am not the master of my own fertility.

When we discovered that we were expecting, on the day before my 32^nd birthday, we were elated. My parents and youngest sister were visiting that weekend, and we couldn’t wait to tell them the news. I was surprised and amazed when my mom revealed that she had already guessed that I was pregnant earlier in the week (before I even was suspicious of the fact!). She said she had “heard it in my voice” when we spoke on the phone, and she had even bought me several maternity shirts and a baby outfit as a birthday present! Over the next several days, we shared the exciting news with other immediate family members, and looked forward to the day when we would reveal our secret to our friends and extended family.

The few weeks I was pregnant were very joyful and exciting, in spite of the rapid changes my body was experiencing. We traveled to Hawaii for a much-anticipated vacation and were able to tell my sister and brother-in-law about the baby in person. We were able to take our baby snorkeling, hiking, and swimming in some of the most beautiful places on earth. We laughed that this child would probably be mad when they realized that they got to experience Hawaii, but had no memories of being there. Some nausea during our trip was a small price to pay for the joy that the discomfort constantly reminded me of.

I loved being pregnant – I felt healthy, blessed, and oh so joyful! I reveled in the things I could do to care for our baby – whether it was taking a daily vitamin or switching my beloved morning coffee for ginger-lemon tea. I was extra motivated to increase my fitness level and was excited to try out some new prenatal workout videos. Throughout the weeks of my pregnancy, I loved to place my hands over my slightly bloated abdomen and wonder about the little life growing inside of me. I enjoyed vivid dreams of holding and feeding a newborn. Steve was also extremely excited about the prospect of being a father and developed a “pregnancy glow” himself. It was so fun to see how quickly he jumped into serving and protecting me even more than usual. We even had fun beginning to look at all the baby gear we anticipated buying in the near future.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Feeling of impending doom.”

I remember reading about this phenomenon in nursing school. Sometimes, people who are close to the end of their life will just know it, and have a deep sense of impending doom. Thinking back to the days leading up to our miscarriage, this phrase describes pretty much how I felt.

It started with a tiny bit of blood on Thursday evening. We were at our first church community group gathering of the fall, enjoying being surrounded by friends who are our Simpsonville family. I was anticipating the joy that these friends would share with us in a couple of weeks when we let them in on our exciting secret. As soon as I saw that small streak of red, I wanted to burst into tears and throw up all at once. I told myself not to freak out, but every nerve in my body was signaling ALARM! I tried not to hurry Steve, but I just wanted to get home as soon as possible. That evening, we looked up my symptoms online (yes, doing exactly what I tell patients NOT to do…) and were reassured by several articles that said that some bleeding during the first trimester is incredibly normal. I was still worried, but put that aside and planned to call my doctor’s office in the morning to get reassurance from them as well.

Over the next few days, there was still small, intermittent cause for worry. I made a few calls to the triage nurse line at my doctor’s office, being told all the time not to worry – if I was having a miscarriage I’d “know it”. However, by Sunday morning the bleeding had worsened and that “feeling of impending doom” was growing ever stronger. So, when Steve met me in the sanctuary of church and we sat in our regular seats, I told him that I was very worried – he didn’t hesitate and decided that we would leave for the emergency department then.

It is always surreal for a nurse to be a patient. I felt the need to let the team caring for me in the ED to know my profession – perhaps that made me feel like I had a modicum of control in a situation that was quickly spiraling into chaos. Steve and I didn’t talk much – there was little to be said as we waited and waited to be seen and for tests to be run.

One thing that I am saddest about the whole experience is that Steve was not allowed to come with me when I had my ultrasound. I wish that he had been able be with me as the tech said “there’s the baby’s heartbeat”, and as she described that the baby was only measuring at 6 weeks instead of the expected 8, and as she measured that the tiny heartbeat was only plodding along at 80 BPM. I wish Steve was there to hold my hand as I was able to see the shadowy grey crescent that was the only picture of our baby, and saw the small flicker of movement that proved that another life was inside of me. As I listened to that bradycardic beat, I knew that our baby was dying. After 9 years as a neonatal nurse, I knew that the cadence of that tiny heart was much, much too slow. I will always be thankful that I had that moment with my baby while they were still alive, but I will always wish that I didn’t have to experience it alone.

We were sent home after five hours in the ED with instructions to arrange for “close follow-up” at my OB/GYN office the next day. I’m sure that the quirky but kind doc who treated me knew that our miscarriage was imminent – my lab results were ominous as well – but she didn’t have the heart to tell us the terrible news. That night, the severe cramps started, and I knew that our baby’s life was flowing out of me and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Steve and I held each other in the dark and pled with the God of the Universe both to intervene in the life of our baby, and to give us strength to accept His will no matter what it would be.

I went to work the next day, because I knew I couldn’t sit and worry at home, and because my doctor’s office is right around the corner from the hospital where Steve and I both work. I knew what the appointment I made that afternoon would confirm, but I wanted to keep hoping. When the ultrasound tech at the OB office said “I’m so sorry, there is no longer a gestational sac there,” the harsh finality came both as a blow and as an odd relief. No longer did I have to live in uncertain worry – now I could grieve what had been lost. I have never felt as completely empty as I did while walking out of that office. Where I had been filled with joy and life now there was a complete void.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We buried what I believe to be the remains of our baby under a rosebush in a corner of our yard. I couldn’t stand the thought of our baby’s remains being flushed down the toilet or thrown away with trash. I understand that this is a common thought for women who have experienced miscarriage. I also knew that I needed something tangible to do to commemorate our baby. I am sure that I was the only person who visited Michaels that day to purchase a tiny box to serve as a casket for my unborn child, and I know the cashier may have wondered why I had red puffy eyes and a catch in my throat as I made my purchase. I chose a rosebush both because I actually do ok with keeping roses alive (ha!) and because I will see the rose as a symbol of how something can be thorny and painful and also beautiful. After Steve placed the box in the hole he had dug (a father shouldn’t have to dig a grave for his baby!) we wept and prayed together.

It has been both wonderful and terrible to grieve with my husband. It is wonderful to have someone who is intimately experiencing the same hurt I am facing, but it is terrible to see the pain that my beloved is going through. He keeps reminding me that this is not my fault, but I can’t help but feel that I have let him down somehow. I did not succeed in keeping his baby safe and healthy. I know he doesn’t blame me, but I am still having a hard time not blaming myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In spite of the terrible lingering physical and emotional pain that this experience has left me with, there have been many reasons to be thankful and even joyful in these circumstances. I usually like to be a tough, self-sufficient girl who lends comfort and strength to others in their time of need, but this experience has humbled me in making me needy of the comfort and strength of others. Steve and I are so blessed to be surrounded with a whole community of people who know how to both love and grieve with us well and who point us to the Lord every day. Thank you to all of the friends and loved ones who are caring for us in so many ways.

We are experiencing the full reality of 1 Corinthians 1:3-5 as we lean on the “…God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as we share abundantly in Christ's sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too.”

I know that this grief is going to be a journey, and I know that it will change me – I hope for the better. When I discovered that I was pregnant, I prayed that I would never use our baby for my own purposes, but that I would be able to surrender them freely to the God who made them and loves them more than I ever could. I never dreamed that I would only steward that little life for a few weeks, but I know that what happened was for the best, even though it doesn’t feel that way. I will think of our baby in that way – their life and death was not meaningless, even though that life was brief and their death has brought immense pain. God allowed them to exist, and for me to know them, as a way to bring glory to Himself. I will wait with joy to see how God works beauty and glory out of this painful experience.

I will always remember my "rosebud baby."