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| Photo by Anna Merrell Photography and Design |
It has been the worst 36 hours of my life.
Wednesday morning we were taking a late 9-week picture. We
were pregnant.
By 4pm after leaving work panicked, receiving reassuring
blood work, and an early ultrasound a woman told us that our baby was not 10
weeks.
That there was no heart beat.
That there was no reason.
That it happens in 1 in 4 pregnancies.
That our baby had not grown since 7 weeks.
Thursday had been the day I eagerly awaited. The day baby
was a week older, bigger, and closer to my arms. But this Thursday, week 10,
our baby left me. The procedure took less than 5 minutes, and then my baby was
gone. The physical pain I can handle. I feel the rest is going to swallow me
whole.
Thursday I lay in our guest bedroom unable to adequately
move myself due to valium. We are not pregnant.
My heart can’t seem to reconcile that.
I was a mom. And now I am not.
Now, I don’t want to leave our guest room because anything
normal feels wrong. I want to cut my hair off because staying the same on the
outside when I am so very different on the inside feels wrong. I don’t want to
turn my phone on because all my flipping pregnancy apps will tell me I’m
pregnant…when I’m not… and reading loving, heart felt messages about the baby we
lost feels unspeakably wrong. Everything is just… wrong.
The prayer I said over and over and over again throughout
the past 10 weeks, whether at night before I went to bed or anytime I thought
of baby throughout the day or anytime I felt anxious was “Please God, keep baby
healthy and growing.”
When I would be anxious about baby I would work my head
around the gospel and come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter how much I
worry, it doesn’t matter if I have a sip of soda, or accidentally eat the wrong
cheese because this baby’s plan has been determined. It has been determined by
an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-loving God. Nothing I do or want is more
superior to His plan. At 7 weeks, he answered my prayer with a firm, “No.”
My flesh cries out in anger, confusion and pain to an
omnipotent God who had the power to give us our baby and chose not to. My flesh
sees a cruel God. My flesh questions Him.
But my heart longs for Him, longs for his comfort, for His
mercy. My heart finds comfort in His omnipotence, in His sovereignty. Not
everything He does is for my good, but for His glory. Outside of my flesh, in a
world I cannot understand, His glory is my glory.
Just before going back to the procedure room where baby was
taken from us, Michael read 2 Corinthians 4
4 Therefore,
having this ministry by the mercy of God,[a] we do not lose heart. 2 But we have renounced disgraceful, underhanded ways. We
refuse to practice [b] cunning or
to tamper with God's word, but by the open statement of the truth we would
commend ourselves to everyone's conscience in the sight of God. 3 And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who
are perishing. 4 In their case the god
of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers, to keep them from
seeing the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God.
5 For what we proclaim is not ourselves, but Jesus Christ as
Lord, with ourselves as your servants[c] for Jesus' sake. 6 For God, who said, “Let
light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of
the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.
Treasure in Jars of Clay
7 But we have this
treasure in jars of clay, to show that the
surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. 8 We are
afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; 9 persecuted,
but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; 10 always
carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be
manifested in our bodies. 11 For we who live are always being given over to death for
Jesus' sake, so that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal
flesh. 12 So death is
at work in us, but life in you.
13 Since we have the same
spirit of faith according to what has been written, “I believed, and so I
spoke,” we also believe, and so we also speak, 14 knowing
that he who raised the Lord Jesus will raise us also with Jesus and bring us
with you into his presence. 15 For it is all for your sake, so that as grace extends to more
and more people it may increase thanksgiving, to the glory of God.
16 So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self [d] is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.
17 For this
light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond
all comparison, 18 as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things
that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things
that are unseen are eternal.
This does not feel light. My chest has never been heavier,
my limbs have never felt more resistance to movement. In these hours, I can’t
see out of this pain, out of the darkness. It in no way feels momentary.
Because right now I want my baby more than I want God’s glory.
I know God is with me and He is letting me feel these
things. I know He hurts for my hurt. I know His ways are greater. But for now, I
do not like it. I mourn it.
Few things bring me comfort right now: my husband’s constant
presence; deep hugs from my parents, my brothers, Leah; my best friend’s words.
I am afraid to listen to the words of those who do not know
me best for fear they will be generic and not reflect the absolute devastation
I feel, regardless of how heart felt and well intended they are. Maybe
tomorrow, but not today.
Today, I will refuse God’s comfort. Today, I will lay in
despair. Today, I mourn the loss of our baby.
Maybe tomorrow will be a new day, but not today.
I lost a baby last year at this time, thought I was 10 weeks, but baby with heartbeat was measuring 7. This was a red flag for the doctor, but he let me be happy for a couple more weeks. Then it happened, then surgery, then loss. It hasn't gone away for me and I don't think it has for my husband either. I even cried at the 4th of July when my mother-in-law took a picture with all her grandchildren because our "peanut" should have been here and in that picture. My husband took me in the front yard and held me. It helped. Even now after a year of trying and what I believe to be almost 9 weeks... I still think about my first baby. My peanut. I can't get too excited this time. Even though the heartbreak would be the same. But remaining neutral has to be better than negative or giving my hopes up? Anyways - you will heal and life will move on without your sweet baby angel. You will laugh, smile and be happy again. The only difference is you are now and always will be a mom. I don't know you, but I love you and I know you pain. You will get through this.
ReplyDeleteAmanda, I am so sorry for your loss. I would have cried when that picture was taken. I cry at a lot of things, things I wouldn't expect to take my breath away do. It is a pain unlike anything I have ever experienced. One that I expect will stay with me. Congratulations on another precious life. I get anxious even thinking about the future, about how I will conquer the fear when another life grows inside me. I will be excited for you. I will pray for your sweet baby. Thank you so much for reaching out to me and sharing your pain and your words of wisdom and experience. I don't know you, but I am thankful for you, I am praying for you, and, from one mother to another, I love you.
ReplyDeleteI've been reading with you, grieving with you, eager to read your next post, yet dreading it as well.
ReplyDeleteWhat so many people don't understand, and what is so difficult, is that you're not mourning a 7 week old embryo. You're not "lucky" it didn't go further. It's not easier. Because you're mourning what should have been. The moment you know you're pregnant, you've lived your whole life in your mind all the way to your death. That tiny ball of flesh brings hope of tiny toes, pigtails (or ball caps), first days of school, 'the talk,' amusement parks, vacations, graduations, a wedding, grandchildren (and maybe great-grandchildren), and even your own mortality. It brings thoughts of a growing household, bathroom sharing, siblings, discipline, and love. When that tiny little heart failed to beat, you lost ALL those things, and it's ok to be devastated and broken.
I had a very very early loss, and was blessed to be pregnant with my son very soon after. He was the only comfort for my loss, knowing that without that loss, there would be no him. Nearly everyone who knew dismissed my grief because I was 'hardly even pregnant,' but to a mother that doesn't matter.
I wish you so much love and peace as you move through this difficult time. It will change you, and that's ok. You're a mother now, and don't let anyone tell you differently.
Pigtails. We always talk about "her".
DeleteThank you for reading and grieving with me. It is hard to explain how much that means to us. Your words are so very precise.
I am sorry for your loss and for all the people who did not recognize it. The pain is unlike any other, and yet for that pain to be dismissed, I cannot imagine the pain within that. Ignorance, they know not what they do. I suppose that is why so people many do not talk about it.
Thank you for sharing with me; for your words that affirm the beauty of our babies' lives and the extent of our grief. Your heart speaks directly to mine, and for that I am so thankful.