On December 5th, 2015, I woke up around 7:30 a.m. and my water broke shortly after. I was 37 weeks and 5 days pregnant. We headed to the hospital and over 24 hours later we welcomed our sweet, healthy baby girl into the world. But exactly a year earlier, on December 5th, 2014, a very different story was unfolding. The timing of it all is uncanny to reflect on in hindsight, but on that day we could only see what was right in front of us. And everything was not okay. I was 11 weeks pregnant, and we were at a doctor appointment meeting our OB/GYN for the first time. After struggling to find baby's heartbeat with the Doppler, they wheeled in an ancient-looking ultrasound machine and still struggled to find an image of our little one that would give us the relief we were hoping for. They sent us to the main radiology department for a more thorough ultrasound, and then sent us home to wait for results (not a good sign). Turns out, our little one had stopped growing very early on in the pregnancy. It was devastating. I wrote these words a couple months after we lost that little babe, and am hoping and praying this kind of honest reflection can encourage someone else who finds themselves in the thick of pregnancy loss of any kind.
My miscarriage really began taking place the day before New Year's Eve while we were on vacation with our family (exactly at the end of the two weeks my doctor had allowed me to wait it out to see if my body would miscarry on its own before needing medical intervention). For me it was a long, slow, physically brutal, off-and-on process that lasted about three weeks. I was exhausted. But, in a sense, it was good closure and I was thankful that my body knew what to do.
I felt betrayed by my body. Betrayed that my body convinced ME and itself for 14 weeks that it was pregnant. I felt like it had betrayed me by a) not growing a baby and b) not figuring it out SOONER that this little one wasn't growing, leading me to believe that I had a healthy pregnancy. Overall it was a LONG process. At the most carnal level, it felt like the longest, cruelest joke. Like my body played a prank on me. I know that sounds crass but that's how I felt. Looking back, every time I looked at any one of my THREE pregnancy apps on my phone, baby was never the size of a sweet pea, a raspberry, a blueberry, a lime, or any of those other produce items used to tell you how big your baby is. It's painful to look back on the moment that I sat on my couch alone in my house and read my baby a story book out loud, knowing now that sweet baby probably couldn't even hear me at all then and I'll never get to read him that story again.
But from October-December, I was a mama. I didn't know at the time that my little one had stopped growing, but God began something in my heart that I know is truly just the beginning. I know that for someone with lots of kids or a newborn, being a mom to a tiny, barely visible life might seem trite and maybe even offensive to those who have carried babies in growing bodies through second and third trimesters, through labor and delivery. But for me, in my small little world, I was a mama to a sweet little baby nicknamed "Scout," and even though my body couldn't do what I hoped it would for him, God did something in my heart through baby Scout that only He could do for me.
I will never hear a miscarriage story the same. Or a story of infant loss. As I've talked with friends and heard stories like never before about all the people in my life who have walked through this. I'm realizing that miscarriage (at many stages and for many reasons) is painfully common. When the doctor tells you, "this is very common," it is NOT helpful. But when a friend sends a text and says, "I'm so sorry, I know what you're going through," it IS helpful. And the thing that has given me such comfort in all of this is hearing about other mamas who've walked this road, reading stories of mamas who have gone through this. It is an incredibly personal and private journey, but I won't not talk about it. It would be too lonely to feel like no one else has been through it before. At my follow up appointment with my doctor, she told me that one in three pregnancies end this way. One. In. Three. That's a painful statistic. And sadly we don't get to choose whether we'll be the one who walks through it or the other two who walk alongside and comfort and encourage.
When you hear miscarriage stories pre-miscarriage you think, "Oh that's so sad," but secretly hope you will be spared from involuntary initiation into that "club" of women. But we don't get to choose, unfortunately. A couple of sweet friends who also miscarried this year said to me (at separate times), "I'm sad we can relate to each other but thankful to have each other at the same time." Those friendships have felt like the tangible, pure grace of Jesus to me in this season. They have given me the gift of empathy and compassion when it would have been easy to just focus on what I have lost. They remind me that I am not alone, and they also remind me that God is a generous and gracious Father who connects His daughters to each other when they need a very specific sisterhood. There is a sisterhood of women with loss in their story. It is a sad sisterhood but one where empathy and compassion grow like crazy.
And even in the midst of all this, I'm still SO thankful for the healthy babies growing in the bellies of several friends. Life, ALL LIFE, is an absolute miracle. The physical odds of a baby being conceived are so unique that any conception, and any baby growing, and any baby born will never be the same to me.
Michael and I resolved, even in the waiting, that we would still praise Jesus either way this panned out. And we meant it. The thing that is comforting and annoying all at the same time is that i KNOW that i know that I know that I know that God is using this in our lives, and will use this in our story and use this to minister to others in our future. It has not been and will not be wasted. That's just how God does things. We are confused and hurt and mad, in some ways, but in our heart of hearts, we know that the character of God has remained exactly the same, even though our world has been rocked.
One of those sweet friends who reached out and shared her story of her own miscarriage with me recently summed it up so well. She described so perfectly that, after miscarrying, "Your life will never be the same, and yet nothing has changed." Back to work as usual. Chores, as usual. Groceries, as usual. And yet I'm different, we're different. And that's okay.
To those of you who have seen me and asked a quick, "How are you?" of me recently and had no idea about our loss, please know that I wasn't trying to lie or be dishonest when I replied, "I'm doing well, I'm doing good." It's just that "not great, we just had a miscarriage" isn't exactly church lobby or grocery aisle chit-chat. So thank you for understanding that time and place have a lot of bearing on the way we chose to share this news.
Sharing our loss also makes me feel incredibly vulnerable. What I'm hoping comes from our sharing is this: I'm hoping someone else reads this who has either experienced miscarriage personally, or has a loved one walking through it, and will feel understood, seen, not alone.
What I'm hoping does not come from our sharing is this: people feeling awkward when they see us. You can ask us about it, but you don't have to. You can say, "I read your post, I'm so sorry," but you also don't have to say anything. We're still Michael and Kristin. We know that everyone is carrying burdens around with them; burdens of grief, tragedy, loss, and longing. We know we're not the only ones walking through something difficult or experiencing loss.
I need to be careful how I say this next part, but I'm also hoping that maybe well-meaning people will be more sensitive, toward us and other young couples, before asking, "When are you going to have babies?" or "Any little ones on the way yet?" I know most people mean so well, but that is, in fact an incredibly personal question. Like, you would never just ask someone, "So, when are you gonna stop taking birth control?" But for some reason, "When are you going to have babies?" is a casual question. Knowing friends who are facing infertility, friends who have been trying to get pregnant for a few months and are frustrated, friends who are living in the aftermath of miscarriage, and friends who are waiting to have kids until they're ready financially or have been married a little longer, I want to honor and even protect them from having to fake it and smile or make a joke like I do and say "not today" when people ask when we're going to have kids. If you are deep, personal friends with someone, then yes that may be an appropriate question to ask. But again, "When are you going to have kids?" should probably be disqualified from church lobby and grocery store chat. Just sayin'.
The baby journey is a messy one. Its an emotional one. We know that God has a plan. We know that God's timing for our family is perfect. And we also know that the power to give life is not in our control. So we trust Jesus. We are praying that we will someday have a healthy pregnancy, but we know that that's not a guarantee. God doesn't "owe us" a healthy pregnancy or a healthy baby. We pray for those things, but we know that His goodness is much bigger than that. The scope of His plan for our life and our family is bigger than that. We have hope for a baby in the future, but our ultimate hope is not in any particular set of circumstances. No no. Our hope is ultimately in a God who loves us and is doing things for our good that we simply cannot see at this moment.
Praying that whoever you are, wherever you are in your story, specifically if you are walking the baby journey in any form or fashion, that you will know that you are loved and seen by God, and that you are not alone.
