Well, I think baby’s definitely growing! Today we heard the heartbeat for the second time. And oh my, what a wonderful sound. I thought I felt some baby flutters last night and I felt a similar feeling again today. So, we’ve been a bit giddy today. Everything feels pretty surreal to me right now!
He’s gone. They inserted the needle and he faded away. I held him like a baby, rocked him and kissed his forehead.
I was able to hold my baby today. I cradled him, rocked him, told him how grateful I am for the time we had together. I let go of his warm, limp body and Justin laid him on the table.
Even in his death, he served his purpose and helped me heal. Spencer, Our Healing Helper. He helped mama heal from the death of her brother, and he helped me heal from the death of my baby.
After we made it into the exam room. He made his rounds, from mom to me to dad to Justin to me to mom to dad to Justin to me to mom to me to mom. He looked me in the eyes, laid his head in my hands, and rested there as I kissed his temple and told him how much I loved him and how amazing he had been all his life. I told him how much I would miss him. And I told him to give my baby a kiss for me. He looked me in the eyes, with the light spirit he had used to comfort me with for years. He looked me in the eyes and he told me he was okay, he was ready, he loved the life he had lived, he loved us, farewell love. He was okay. He was content with our decision. He was ready, he didn’t fight it. He welcomed it. He rested on the table, looked us in the eyes, and drifted away.
Everything came full circle. We passed the building where we found and adopted Spencer on our way home. The movie Blended came on – it’s the movie I watched for the first time the day we found out we lost our Peanut. I saw the scene where she sang the little girl to sleep. And my heart did not crack open to spill blood. I was okay. We’ll be okay.
Spencer was loved by so many people, and it’s sad he’ll no longer greet everyone that enters our home. But man, what a life he lived.
Spencer’s death came at just the right time. I was ready for closure, and his death was just that.
Grieving an unborn child is mysterious. There was no body to grieve over, no ceremony, no sense of closure. Grieving Spencer gave me a body to grieve over. As I grieved him, I felt as though my baby was there too. I felt my baby go from life to lifeless, right before my eyes. He was there, and then he was gone. And he was gone. Closure.
Ever since this day of healing closure, I have been much more stable. I no longer lose myself to grief. I feel stronger. I feel healthier. I feel grateful.
He thanked me for making him a daddy. Even if it was only for a little while. He reminded me that just because he doesn’t cry as much as me doesn’t mean he doesn’t care or he isn’t hurting. He is hurting. He is grieving. He’s just sitting with it right now.
Like me, I often let it sit in the background, untouched. Somedays something sparks me to write about it. Most days I write about it because I need to. I need to write to process it. I don’t know how else to sift and filter through all the thoughts and feelings that have come and gone.
I told him how I never used to be able to picture myself as a mom. Not until last month, at least. But when I saw that pink line, everything changed. Suddenly nothing mattered as much. All of life was brighter. I had the most life fulfilling purpose I could possibly carry. I’d give up just about anything to protect and nurture that child. And all so suddenly, I was a mother. I was a mom. And I had no control over the miracle of life inside of me. I was simply a witness. Delighted and yearning.
Just as suddenly as I became a mom, I became a mother who had lost her child. A mother, without a child. My higher calling, crumbled and fell from beneath my feet.
And JD. He was desperate to be by my side for every little stepping stone. The morning sickness, the exhaustion, my lack of housekeeping… He was torn between working and studying for our futures and fearing he might miss the special little moments that build the future. I didn’t realize he was worried about it. I felt he was doing such an amazing job at it. I think it’s remarkable that we could be apart more often yet feel closer than ever. ‘Cause it was always about us experiencing every step of the way together.
We were in it together from the moment I showed him those pink lines. No. No, we were in it together from the moment at lunch that same day, when he told me all his fears. When he wasn’t just strong for the best of us. He told me his fears, his initial feelings of regret and panic and responsibility. That’s the moment I felt we were truly in it together. We were real with each other in a way that we hadn’t been in quite a while.
It could have shaken our marriage – freaking out separately and not sharing it. But it sealed our bond right, and built a foundation for the grieving that was to come. Now, we grieve. But we grieve together. We feel the waves of pain, together. We grieve what could have been, in each other’s arms. We take turns holding each other. And we allow the other to see us and sit with us in our brokenness. And that’s a kind of bond that is absolutely beautiful in the midst of the awful.
Thoughts written on October 16th, 2014
My husband and I had plans to visit NYC with a friend the day after my first prenatal appointment. Even with the heartbreaking news, we decided to keep our plans for the weekend. So, we spent the day grieving with one another.
Before our friend arrived, we watched the movie Blended. And there was a scene where a woman put a child to bed, and softly sang to her. I felt my heart, fallen wide open. Insides gushing out, trying to escape my body in waves of aching sobs.
I would never have the sweet moment of singing this child to sleep. Of his clinging to me for comfort. Of me having the ability to comfort him and lead him to rest instead of fighting sleep. I would never cradle him in my arms, hear his voice, or see his eyes. I would never have the joy of knowing this beautiful person. I will never meet our first child.
The following is what I wrote as I fell asleep after our day in NYC.
Today felt weird. Life felt less exciting. The city was less exciting, more dull. I guess that’s because excitement comes from within me and not from external circumstances alone. The emotion is in how I process the circumstances, how I see the world that day. Today, the city was less exciting without our baby. The city really didn’t matter at all. That little bitty life inside of me was the excitement and overflowing joy that made other happenings have more color. That life opened inside me a bright light. But now it’s gone. Everything looks a little less lively. And I see grey. Dull. Lifeless.
Walking thru the city I kept hearing myself saying “I’m carrying a dead baby inside of me. An itty, bitty, dead baby.” As if saying it over and over would flip a switch in my head and heart to make me finally comprehend all that it is and was and will be. No such switch flipped. Knowing me, it may take me a few years to wrap my head around it. And even then I’m sure I’ll gain new insights about it for many years to come.
But right now, it hardly feels real. Sometimes it does, and then I just cry. I sob. I hurt and yearn. Oh how I yearn.
For a healthy baby to sing to sleep. To know the person he or she was going to be. For the family I thought we might be. I didn’t want a baby, not for years at least. But then I found out we had one. And then I was ready to give up everything, all my plans and what I thought I wanted.
And now I don’t have to give up those plans, but I wish I did. They feel so dull and selfish. Less worthy than bringing new life into the world. Partnering with the Creator in the most intimate way. I thought He was knitting together a miracle inside of me. But then He stopped. He stopped. And so did the little ones heart. I was praying over him, singing to him and talking to him. But he didn’t hear me. He wasn’t really there. Was he ever really there? If there was a heartbeat, was there a spirit?
I just keep picturing the little peanut floating in my womb. Stillness. Darkness. Lifeless. All alone. And yet loved and wanted desperately. Wanted. I don’t just want any baby. I wanted this one. I want this one.
When I first found out I was unexpectedly pregnant, I had one burning desire. I desired for the child to never feel or believe that he/she was a bad accident, unwanted, ill timed, a regret or resented. And I guess that prayer was fulfilled. Because hearing that awful news crushed us. And we wanted to give up everything for you. We already began preparing for you to be well taken care of. We wanted you, desperately. Desperately. And we’re devastated that we’ll never hold you near, sing you to sleep, rock you thru the night, comfort you and kiss your boo-boo’s.
I’ll never feel your skin on mine, hold you on my heart or nurture you with my breast. I’ll never see him try to make you laugh or feed you a bottle when I’m tired. I could hardly wait to love on you. And he wanted to surround you with security, a warm home, and a happy mommy. I’ve never seen your daddy cry the way he did over you. You were lavished in love before science would even call you a fetus. But you were our child. Our precious, beloved child. And you changed us. You have already changed us for the better. You made us into more of a team. And we’ve never felt closer. Thank you.
I wish I could kiss you goodbye and bury you next to a beautiful waterfall. But I don’t think it works that way. The doctor probably won’t let me take you, and you’re smaller than a blueberry. But I’ll take your one and only picture and I’ll lay you somewhere beautiful and magical. And I’ll always remember you. I’ll always carry you in my heart.
Written October 12, 2014
It’s called “early pregnancy loss.” And as much as people say it’s losing a pregnancy, I focused on the fact that I was losing a child. My first child. And I would never know him/her. But now, 3 months later, I’m realizing that I never grieved the loss of the pregnancy. The whole experience of the pregnancy. From conception to birth. From watching our little peanut grow from invisible to a bump, to laboriously bringing him into the world. I have recently felt devastated that I never had the experience of giving birth to our first child. I see birth as such a womanly journey. And my pregnancy ended abruptly, just as soon as it had began. I feel robbed of an enriching experience. Just when I thought I was truly coming to terms with our season of life, I painfully realized I’m not as accepting of it yet as I thought I was.
Written January 31, 2015
Last week I told you that I would begin sharing my personal writings from the last few months (Read last week’s post here). Today, I’m sharing the first two pieces I wrote after finding out that I was pregnant.
Written September 11, 2014
(the day we found out)
This was not the plan. The plan was, I’d spend my time working on finishing school, furthering my love for photography and once I graduated I’d get a job. JD would work through his ELDP program, classes and Masters program. We would keep saving to travel and visit family (but especially for travel!).
I feel I have so much more maturing to do, we have so much maturing to do. So much more I wanted to have established and experienced before we even considered bringing a child into the picture.
I was in between switching contraceptive methods so we were diligent to use protection the week around ovulation each month.
At this point, I hardly have any concept for what is to come. I don’t have a name for you. I’ve unknowingly been carrying you with me for almost 3 weeks now. I’m sorry for the way I neglected to care for my body, your home, these last few days. I want the best of everything for you. I hardly understand the concept of you being real and alive right now. But one day I’ll see you.
I want you to know that you are a beautiful creation. And I want you to know that you are the fruit of an act of love. I truly, truly mean that. I love your father and this last month with him has been very sweet and dear to me. Of all the times I have laid with him, this last while has been especially sweet and deeply loving. We have learned a new level of being real, honest and intimate with each other. I think that’s important to me, that you would be conceived in the midst of an act that I can look back on and wholeheartedly and honestly tell you that you were the fruit of an act of love and sweet intimacy.
I will want you to know you were divinely sewn together with delicate intention. That you are a miracle, and I am in awe of your being. I am watching as El Shaddai creates you piece by piece. He is a master at work, and you, my dear, are like the beautiful clay His whole mind is wrapped around. You are new life. And in you is sacred life. You’re so tiny and fragile, your ears haven’t even formed yet. But I’ll speak these words over you again and again until they’re intertwined in the fibers of your being.
Written September 12, 2014
He feels guilty…
For ruining our plans to travel,
For not taking charge and making sure we had secure contraceptive,
For letting something happen that he didn’t think would be best for me,
For complicating so many things, making my schooling more difficult and complicating our hopes for transferring to a different state in a year,
There are so many ways we could react, so many thoughts we could entertain, so many declarations we could speak over this fragile new life. But I don’t want any child to have the weight of feeling a burden, unwanted or the regret of his/her parents, to believe he is a mistake in his parents eyes.
So yes, I do realize, our lives are about to drastically changes in ways I could never imagine. Yes, I do realize I have no idea what’s ahead of us. But that does not mean that I have to choose fear, regret, anger, or guilt. I can choose to acknowledge that where we are today is where we are today, and that every bit of life deserves to have its sacredness realized and honored. So I want to honor and treasure this new person by choosing to speak words of love, blessing and gratitude over him/her.
I owe him/her the submission of my will to that of the Lord’s which will protect, nurture, and foster good health for this dear child. Hence the title of this post… I realized that I can choose to see this as either a curveball – an inconvenience and complication of my plans. Or I can choose to see this as unforeseen treasure that we stumbled upon. My plans are all to benefit me. I knew getting married was a huge step of putting myself in the position where I would need to learn to say, “Yes.” to a lot of maturing. And let’s be real, maturing isn’t comfortable. Real life change and maturing happens outside of the comfort zone. And let me tell ya – seeing a positive on those pregnancy tests was not comfortable. I had no idea what to think. Part of me wanted to scream and thrash around, but part of me wanted to jump up and down and dance around.Written September 12, 2014
There’s no easy way of beginning this conversation. So, let’s just dive in.
On September 11th, JD and I discovered that I was pregnant! I was utterly speechless (As was JD!). Terrified and excited, we began a long, beautiful, and painful journey. But it’s only just begun.
At our first prenatal appointment, we learned that our child no longer had a heartbeat. He was supposed to measure just over 9 weeks and he measured just under 7 weeks. I was absolutely devastated. As I have tried to process all that has happened and come to terms with reality, I resorted to writing. A lot. I write to learn what I’m thinking and to peel back the layers and see what’s really going on inside of me. I write to process the depths of life.
So, I have written on my feelings, my pain and confusion and even letters to the baby. Now, for the next few weeks I’ll be posting my writings from the day we found out I was pregnant until… well, now. I plan to post a piece about once or twice a week.
I’m going to do this, because I want people to be able to hear my thoughts and sit with me at each stage of the pregnancy, the loss and the beginnings of healing. I want people to be able to walk through the experience as if they were walking alongside me through the experience. To feel the excitement, the joy, the love, the devastation, the confusion – all of it.
No one wants to talk about a dead baby. But babies die. And women need to know they can talk about their experience, even if few understand.
While I was going through all of this and beginning to process it I was deeply comforted by hearing other women’s’ stories. To go to another woman, hear her story, tell my story and know that she understood not because she was so insightful but because she had been there herself – that was truly powerful for me. So, I want to open the opportunity for other women to be heard and in community through the process of grieving a miscarriage.
I hope these writings will meet other women wherever they are; that my writings will be a friend sitting beside them, sharing the great excitement and the great pain alike.