I had to tell my mom first.
I couldn’t walk down the stairs to tell my husband, who was lounging on the couch, clueless to the mess going on upstairs. I don’t remember explaining to my mom what had happened, I think she just knew. I could feel her heart aching on the other side of the phone, unable to hold me while I sobbed and shook.
I couldn’t make the words form, but when Devin heard my cries and came to my rescue, I didn’t have to say anything. He fell to the floor beside me and held me while my mom tried to grasp me from afar.
I had to text my friends and coworkers that knew, trying to masque the pain through a vague message. People were supportive, but I didn’t care. I didn’t thank anyone. I pleaded with God to let me have one more day, one more moment. I didn’t have a picture. I never got to see this baby’s smile or hear this baby’s giggle.
Though it took my body only a few days to recover, my heart withered for months [maybe even years]. I didn’t have an answer or a reason. Instead I was left with immeasurable guilt and sadness. And fear. And anger. And shame.
Visiting the Doctor’s office was the hardest of it all. It was hard not to look at the mommies-to-be without screaming, but worst of all was the crusty, old Doctor who flatly said, “You had a miscarriage. It’s very common.” And as he tried to normalize the commonality, I couldn’t help but feel like he was minimizing a pain that was all-encompassing. Though he’d seen- probably- hundreds of women each year in my pain, he had no right to write off my heartache like a common cold.
Months later when a pregnancy test would reveal once again a new miracle, my heart didn’t overflow. I didn’t smile or scream or jump up and down. I stared at the two lines, praying for strength. The guilt trickled back in when I realized that I was simply incapable of being excited for this baby. This new beautiful blessing growing inside me felt like a trick that would only end the way it previously had, and I would once again turn into a puddle of despair.
As time went on and Baby Lucy grew big and strong, we bought the crib and diapers. We bought blankies and toys. We knew this little one was the light at the end of the darkness. We watched her heart beat on the monitors with tears in our eyes, calling out to her.
When Lucy came into the world on November 8, 2010, everyone was overjoyed at the tiny miracle that we created. We held and kissed her and I finally breathed a sigh of relief. But through all the cheer, my heart still ached to know the one before. I wanted both babies.
As the months and years passed, this baby was always in my dreams. Most notably, I dreamed this baby was being taken care of by the sweetest people- including my grandpas. Eventually my heart would partially mend, believing that I ABSOLUTELY WILL one day be reunited with my sweet little one in heaven.
If I would have had 10 minutes with you, what would I have chosen to say? Would I tell you not to be afraid? Would I tell you about the Father in heaven that you get to spend eternity with? Maybe I would have just held you close, silently.
I look for you in the stars. I kiss Lucy and Eleanor two times, one for them and one for you. I eagerly wait until we are a family of five for the first time. I love you.
“And to think, when their little eyes opened, the first thing they saw was Jesus.”
“There is a unique pain that comes from preparing a place in your heart for a child who never comes.”