House on the Rock

When Joe and I began trying for children, the farthest thought from my mind was that we would lose the baby. I should’ve considered it — it’s a brutally common reality of our fallen world — but I thought it would never happen to me.

That Christmas-morning bloodstain was one of the more gut-wrenching sights I’ve encountered. So much blood. So much fear. And so many different possibilities as to what might be going on inside me. Every Google search told us a different story: “It’s normal!” “Just spotting.” “See a doctor.” “You lost it.”

The days to follow were a blur of bloodwork, ultrasounds, frantically refreshing MyChart, and begging God that the next time I went to the bathroom I wouldn’t find more blood. That December 29th appointment which would confirm our loss of pregnancy sucked the air from my lungs once again. And even though Joe was with me and Dad was waiting on the phone, I couldn’t help but feel so incredibly alone.

Sure, I had some friends who miscarried, and even dear sisters who were very open about the process. But there were so many grueling surprises along the way — I’d love to record them here, in case it could keep someone else from feeling that same sense of isolation and the same shock at surprise after dreadful surprise.

Now of course, everyone’s experience is different, and these reflections are solely based on our loss at ten weeks. But in our experience, the first thing they don’t tell you about miscarrying is the decisions you have to make almost immediately. Rather than being given space to grieve, you have urgent choices to consider: pass the baby naturally. Take a pill to speed up the process. Schedule a surgery to clean out your uterus. And yes, you have to decide today.

The second is the financial toll. Don’t get me wrong — God has blessed us beyond measure. We are abundantly grateful for the generosity of our church family, friends, relatives, and even strangers who graciously gifted us with bills paid and meals covered. But all of those decisions have a price tag, and for us, the medical bills started rolling in fast. Four-digit numbers behind dollar signs that felt like an even greater punch than the decisions.

The next thing they don’t tell you is the physical pain. I can’t overstate the agony my abdomen endured. Think period cramps mixed with being shot mixed with the stomach flu mixed with childbirth. That’s my best guess. I woke up one night with cramps so strong I shouted, bleeding so heavy I collapsed on the floor. Like I’ve written before, Tylenol couldn’t touch it. I really thought (and secretly hoped) I would just die. So decisions, dollar signs, and now death wishes due to such deep discomfort.

But what they don’t tell you most of all is the grief. Of course there’s the sadness of losing your precious baby and having all your hopes and dreams dashed to blood on the bathroom floor, but there are other parts I wasn’t prepared for: the fact that I’d still get emails reminding me to update our baby registry. The way the onesie Joe gave me on Christmas would seem like a mocking reminder of all that was lost. Most notably, the fact that you have to walk into a women’s clinic for the ultrasound that will confirm you are no longer pregnant. You will stand in the elevator with expecting women who moan as they feel their baby kick. You will sit in the waiting room next to newborns in strollers who got to see the light of day. You will not only be reminded that everything you dreamed of is not going to happen — but those dreams are coming true for every person around you.

And it seems awfully grim. So deeply negative that I hesitate to even publish this. But it’s a reality of our sin-cursed world, and perhaps it’s better to prepare for the worst than to go in blind like we did, every aftershock more jolting than the last.

Even still, there are bright sides — mini-mercies. Good gifts that you’ll learn to see as the dust settles. The grief, of course, will ebb and flow, but there are a few other things I’m thankful I now know. The list accidentally rhymes.

I’m thankful to be a part the sisterhood of grieving mothers who have experienced loss in this way. I’m thankful for the army of women with more pregnancies than babies, who showed up and said, “I’m here to stay.” I’m thankful for the books and the notes we were given, many of them reminders that our baby is in Heaven. I’m thankful for the heightened awareness that while children are a gift from above, flaunting a pregnancy announcement isn’t always the best way to love. I’m thankful to those who cried as we cried, and those who dropped everything to be by our side. Most of all, I’m thankful for a God who knows what it’s like to lose a child, and I’m thankful there’s a day when we’ll all be reconciled.

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; grief, crying, and pain will be no more, because the previous things have passed away.

Revelation 21:4

I pray this promise uplifts your soul!