Miscarriage: Life after loss.

It's been said that a father doesn't become a father until the moment he holds his child. But a mother, well she becomes a mother the moment she knows a child is growing within her.

Two pink lines.

They change you.

Forever.

After a thyroid cancer diagnosis during my second pregnancy and a total thyroidectomy just 5 weeks postpartum I was told it could be very difficult to get pregnant again. I remember the day my endocrinologist told me it was a possiblity this could be it. That this could be my last pregnancy. I cried and cried and despite knowing deep down in my heart that this man was not God, those words cut deep. And they ate at me. The thought of never being pregnant again hurt my mama soul so badly. I knew how lucky I was to have two beautiful, healthy children but I didn't feel done. I didn't want to be done.

Month after month, negative after negative I started to believe that I may never be able to have another baby.

And then, there they were.

Two pink lines.

One of the happiest days of my life. Because what I had started to believe was impossible, God made possible. When I was losing faith and hope and patience, God restored all of those things.

I was going to be a mama again. 3 sweet babes. Three. I was estatic.

I gave Ryan an early Father's Day card and I included a picture of me & the kids holding a positive pregnancy test. He cried. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen my husband cry--2 of which included the day our kids were born. We were both so overwhelmed. Relieved. Excited.

We started imaging our life with 3. We would need a new car.  And we'd have to move around the bedrooms. And I would pick up as much over time as I could so we could pay off my college loans faster. Would it be another little lady with sass? Or another little man with charm? We couldn't wait to find out. Callie insisted she was having another little brother. No doubt in hopes to uphold her standing as the big sister and more importantly, the boss.

It took everything in me not to tell the world that I was going to be a mama again. I couldn't stop smiling. I couldn't stop touching my belly and thanking God, what felt like, every other second.

Then one morning I went into work and felt a gush. I tried so hard not to panic. I told myself not to panic. But this wasn't normal. This hadn't happened with my other pregnancies. I went to talk with one of the midwives and immediately broke down into tears. She reassured me that sometimes bleeding happens in pregnancy. She encouraged me to keep an eye on it. But I knew. I don't know how I knew, but I just knew.

After the initial gush came more bleeding. Then cramping. Horrible, knife-like, gut-wrenching cramping. I tried to hold myself together. After all, I was at work and I had a job to do.

I will never forget the patient I had that day. I will never forget her face. Or her words. Or the sound of her baby's heartbeat. Because while I hooked her up to a machine that monitored her baby's heartbeat, and listened to her complain about how awful her pregnancy was and how she couldn't wait for it to be over, I sat on the edge of her bed knowing I would never get to hear my baby's heartbeat. Knowing that in that moment, my baby's life was literally over.

I ran out of the room several times to vomit. And cry. And pray. And pled.

 I couldn't believe this was happening. I knew it happened. I knew that sometimes in the first trimester pregnancies ended, for no apparent reason. But not to me. I didn't know it could happen to me.

When I realized I could no longer be at work I stumbed to my car in the pouring rain and closed the door. Then the floodgates opened. Uncontroable sobs erupted from deep within my soul. I called my husband. He said he couldn't understand me. "We lost the baby" I kept saying over and over again. "What? How?" he replied. "How do you know? Are you sure?" a series of questions ensued, none of which I could answer.

I sat in the parking lot for an hour. I couldn't move. It hurt to breathe. I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe this is happening to me.

I drove home and crawled into bed. I cried myself to sleep. That's the only time it didn't hurt. When I was sleeping. Anytime I woke up it felt like I was living a nightmare. Someone elses nightmare. But it wasn't. It was my own. This was actually happening. To me. I felt like I was drowning. The sadness quickly turned to rage. And then quickly back to sadness. The knife-like stabbing pain in my abdomen was a constant reminder that this was really happening. I wanted it to end. I just wanted it all to end.

The cramping eventually stopped, but the bleeding didn't. Another daily constant reminder that I would never know this little person. That I would never get to smell the top of his or her head or kiss their smooth soft cheeks. Or hear them say mama. Or watch them grow. What would they have become? Who were they going to be? What if they were destined to be a writer or an artist or a senator? Now I'd never know.

The days and weeks to follow were so hard. So so hard. I had amazing support. I truly, truly, truly thank God for the friends that kept my head above the water. That let me know I wasn't alone. That let me be sad. And angry. And say things. Lots of things. And didn't judge me one bit for saying them. Friends who had known loss, greater loss than I had. But still supported me. And forgave me. And loved me. And comforted me. And suffered with me.

There were others who weren't so forgiving. Others who wrote off the loss of my sweet babe because it was so early. Who thought because I never heard a heartbeat that must have meant there wasn't one to begin with. Others who thought that because I had two beautiful, healthy children that meant I shouldn't grieve the loss of a child I no longer had.  Others who made me feel that being upset about a child I lost was selfish because the children I had needed me. Shortly after my loss someone said to me, "You don't seem like yourself. I don't like this new you."  There were a lot of things I wanted to say, but couldn't at the time. I was angry. Bitter. Sad. And so many many things. But to them I say this-- I wasn't myself. I wasn't myself because I lost a part of me. A part I will never ever get back. You don't just get over that. You don't just move on from something like that overnight. It takes time. Rediscovering who you are takes time. Healing takes time. Life after loss takes time.

Months later and there are times I still feel plagued by sadness and anger. But God is good. God is gracious. He works for the good of those that love Him. He has healed parts of me I didn't think could be healed. Parts I wasn't ever sure I wanted healed because I was afraid I would forget. Forget that I loved a little person I will never know.

I think of that sweet babe every day. I think about how I'd be feeling him or her kicking. Hiccuping. Growing. Excited to add to our family. To watch my kids become siblings. To love one another. Discover one another. Grow with each other. I still wonder who they would have become. What they would have been like.

Instead I know my sweet babe rests in the arms of my Heavenly Father. The One who promises to give me hope and a future. The One who gives, and takes away. And some day, when I'm called Home, we'll be reunited once again. But until then I'll keep on loving you. Because to me, you weren't just two pink lines. You changed me. Forever.






Dedicated to those who have experienced loss. To those who have been too afraid to speak out in fear you'd be rejected or judged. To those who have suffered in silence because society has made us believe that a loss of an early life is not worthy of grieving over. That we can't talk about it. That we shouldn't talk about it. That it doesn't matter. But it does. It matters. Life matters. In honor of  pregnancy & infant loss we will be joining with thousands and thousands of people across the nation on October 15th and lighting a candle in rememberance of our sweet babe, and for yours. Whoever you are, where ever you may be. Because you & your baby matter.


Special special thanks to Sarah R, Cheryl C, Molly M, Myka J, Nicole R, and Bethany S for your love & support.