12 Week Miscarriage
It's early June.
We're vacationing with Caleb's family -- Santa Cruz, California -- staying in a huge home built in the early 1900's with a Pacific Ocean view outside our bedroom window. The house is bustling with people, waking up, making breakfast, scheming plans for the day ahead. Our own three children run from room to room and person to person, soaking up all the love that only a house bursting full of relatives can give.
Elliot scampers into our room, in need of a diaper change. One day he'll be potty trained. A few minutes later he runs off, fresh bum and smiling face, but my eyes are welling with tears. For as I began folding up his little changing kit, I noticed an odd bulkiness. My search through zippers and folds led to the discovery of the sweetest little newborn jammies, white with little lambs dancing across the fabric, snaps up the front, folds over the hands. Jammies that all three of my children wore. Jammies that I will never use again. Jammies that could have held one more baby of mine. It feels so wrong that just when I am beginning to heal, I should be reminded of my loss all over again. I hug those tiny clothes to my chest as if they are full of a warm body, and I grieve anew.
But as I am grieving, God is working his miraculous plan within me. There is a reason I've been so tired on this trip, a reason I've not even begun to suspect. But weeks later when I miss my period and two pregnancy tests are positive, my hopes soar.
But I question: Could my hormones still be high from the miscarriage?
It's possible.
Can I truly be excited?
Not yet.
"Don't get excited, yet," I repeat to myself again and again.
"Don't get excited, yet."
Now it's mid-July.
I'm sitting in the exam room, telling the midwife everything. She confirms the likelihood of a previous miscarriage and that only an ultrasound will bring the truth of a current pregnancy to light. I'm stilling myself for whatever the outcome, as she slowly slides the transducer across my abdomen, searching. "There is definitely something in there," she exclaims. My heart races at her words and my eyes eagerly probe the monitor. She points to a small something that my untrained eye only identifies with her help. Then I listen as she finds a heartbeat, steady and speedy, visually zigzagging across the screen. "It sounds just perfect," she assures me. I relax and breathe easy for the first time in a long time as I realize that those jammies won't be left empty after all.
"Now, I can get excited," I think, and I smile to myself at the beauty of God's plan.
"For this child I prayed; and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him:"
1 Samuel 1:27
Fast forward to mid-August.
I'm running late, and as I rush into the midwife office they immediately call me back for my appointment. It's a new midwife today, so I update her on all the medical happenings in my life - - the suspected lupus diagnosis, which since my last appointment has been replaced by a possible antiphospholipid syndrome diagnosis. I'm sure she's aware that APS is a clotting autoimmune disease - one which can cause miscarriage. I inform her that I've been taking the low-dose aspirin my rheumatologist recommended and I've scheduled an appointment with a high-risk OBGYN, as recommended by the midwife office.
"Have you had any bleeding or cramping?" she asks.
"None," I assure her. I feel great, optimistic, excited.
So excited.
"An ultrasound isn't necessary at this appointment, but would you like one anyway?" she asks.
"Why yes, I would." Why wouldn't I?
I slide onto the table and pull up my shirt, revealing a little belly full of hope. But this time when she slowly slides the transducer across my abdomen, searching, searching, searching, it becomes obvious that something isn't right. "If this is the baby," she begins, as if she can't quite tell what she is looking at, "it is still measuring eight weeks." She continues, "There should be a little flicker indicating a heartbeat, but there is not. There's no heartbeat. I'm so sorry. It appears that you've miscarried." She keeps talking, but I'm in shock. No heartbeat. What does she mean, no heartbeat? I was sitting on this same table four weeks ago, recording a heartbeat on my phone. I showed it to my children, Sent it to my loved ones. I can pull it up and listen to it right now. It's right here, and yet it's gone. My miracle is gone. I'm stunned, and I feel so vulnerable, sitting there on the table, a woman I hardly know watching me hold back the sobs and screams desperate to escape.
Somehow I make it to the car. I call Caleb. He's riding his bike home from work and reception on his ear piece is terrible. I hang up, not sure if her heard the news or not, and tears begin cascading down my cheeks, a river of water that will soon become a river of blood. And then I'm at a stoplight. Free from the eyes and ears of anyone else, my overwhelming grief bursts from my lungs in the soul wrenching screams of a mother who let herself get excited.
So excited.
Miscarriage Looks Like:
Clear liquid soaks,
bleeding begins,
twenty-four hours in Depends.
Cramping,
plopping,
pregnancy tissue dropping.
My new best friends:
the maxi pad,
the heating pad.
Light-headed and dizzy,
exhausted and scared.
I feel so unprepared.
Am I going to be okay?
Pray.
Bleeding lightens,
but hormones drop,
causing other symptoms around the clock.
Days of
bloating,
headaches,
puffy eyes.
My new best friends:
the pain pill,
the ice pack.
Drained and depressed,
crying and sad.
Or maybe it's mad?
Am I going to be okay?
Pray.
A Conversation with Vivian:
I'm sitting in bed, holding Vivian in my lap.
"I thought we were going to have another baby," she says, trying to understand.
"I know. Me too. Do you feel sad?"
"Yeah." And she looks sad. I snuggle her close.
"I'm sad, too. But Heavenly Father will hold our baby for us."
And with utmost sincerity and hope, she looks into my eyes and asks, "Will He put the baby back in and try again?"
Oh, to dash the dreams of a four year old. But I must. "No, my Love. He won't."
Healing
I catch myself running my hand over my now flat stomach at random times and tears sting my eyes. I see babies and my arms literally ache to hold my own. I yearn to relax into my rocking chair, a hymn on my lips, a newborn asleep at my breast. Sometimes I want it so badly I can smell baby. I'm so empty. I try to find strength in the hope that one day the two babies I have lost will be mine. That one day, a loving God will place them in my arms. I distract myself with homeschool plans. I lean into loving my three beautiful babies even more. I count my blessings. And in the quiet moments of the night, before sleep takes me, I let myself cry. This is what healing looks like.
It is not exciting.
