I can't sleep in the dark anymore. It's deafeningly loud and overcome
with what ifs and questions that can never be answered. Which pain is
worse, the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will? I'm
not sure. We were so excited. Excited isn't even a good enough
description, but I've found the English language lacking a lot lately.
I
started spotting two weeks ago, but it didn't seem a big deal. Then clots
appeared that Thursday while I was at work. I had to call & inform my
boss that I needed to leave immediately. I'm incredibly thankful that
God has placed amazing & understanding people in my life. She didn't
hesitate in telling me to close the store & do whatever was
necessary.
The drive to the hospital was a blur of panic &
prayer. We were ushered to a private room & taken into have a
sonogram. Almost immediately we saw that tiny circle with a white spot,
our BABY! And our hearts soared & we gasped for breath we didn't
know we were holding in. Everything looked as it should for this early!
And they even detected a heartbeat! Not strong enough to measure, but it
was there! Elated we headed home.
Friday, the cramping started. It
was the most intense pain & quickly had me on the phone with the
nurses. They told me everything I already knew. There's nothing you can
do but wait. Wait, and hope, and pray. So we did. And I took it easy,
even though that's not proven to do anything at this point. But it
helped me feel like I was doing *something*. Over the weekend the pain
would increase & decrease never really leaving. I knew I just had to
make it to Monday so I could call & move my appointment up.
Monday
came, the earliest appointment I could get was Tuesday at 3:30pm, I
sighed with relief, I can do that. But Monday night the cramps got
worse. I laid in bed twisting and turning through the pain.
With
every pulse, every cramp it became painfully aware these weren't normal
cramps but contractions. Contractions that we're draining the tiny life
from my body.
And I cried. And I prayed sobbing prayers. Convinced
if I prayed hard enough, this would be nothing more than a horrid
nightmare. As I writhed in pain, I bargained, I begged to feel pain my
whole life if it meant our baby would survive. I don't remember falling
asleep, but I drifted off at some point after three.
•••
Brue woke
up at six, far earlier than her norm, I groaned, exhausted from my long
night. Begrudgingly, I sat up feeling the intense need to pee I'd grown
accustomed to. I shuffled to the bathroom, calling out to Brue I was on
my way. It was a dreadful moment. I felt something drop from my body.
In that instant I knew it was my baby, I just knew. I leapt up in shock
and fear, but there was so much blood, everywhere, that I couldn't
confirm my worst nightmare. I convinced myself that it was just a clot
& the cramps from the night before were just to pass that clot &
that my baby was fine. I had to. I couldn't face myself. I had to
believe that I hadn't just flushed my baby down the damned toilet. What
kind of mother does that?! And how do you come back from that? How do you forgive yourself? How do you mourn?
I
busied myself for the rest of the day. Trying to forget I was no longer
feeling those perpetual cramps, I wasn't feeling anything at all.
•••
As
we sat in the waiting room with four hundred other couples waiting to
see the precious life they had growing in their bellies we busied
ourselves with denial, watching the beginning of the World Cup match of
Brazil & Germany until they called our name. As we made ourselves as
comfortable as you can be covered in a paper sheet, the most precious
of sono techs made small talk, remembering the joyous moments of seeing
our last baby in her room, sharing in our joy & pride. But as images
appeared on the screen I knew immediately it was wrong, terribly wrong.
It didn't look at all as it had last week. That instant, the world
crashed into my ears shooting straight to my soul, shattering it. It
crumbled and broke as sobs escaped our bodies filling the room with
wretched sounds of grief. You could tell from her face she was
struggling, she didn't, couldn't, deliver the news, but she was fighting
for what words she could offer to us, the broken.
The rest is a
fragmented memory of tears and agony while we waited in a private room
of grief. Reassurance from the kind, empathetic eyes of my beloved
doctor as she assured me this wasn't my fault. The explanation of what
had happened to our baby. More tears. More consolation. A stunned walk
to the car. The darkened sky which felt all too appropriate as the rain
& tears mixed on our cheeks and the sobs continued to make ragged
sounds as they escaped our mouths.
•••
The friend that can be
silent with you in a moment of despair, stay with you in the hours of
grief, not knowing, not trying to heal, not trying to fix. Those are my
friends, true friends, I will forever be grateful for the hours of
tears, silence, & pointless rambling they allowed me.
•••
We cried together all day. Leaning in and into each other, desperate for a consolation that may never come.
Brue
was nothing but smiles as we walked in the door, squealing, "Mommy!
Daddy!" while rushing us with hugs. As if she had some intuition as to
how much we needed her love at that very moment. She gave us constant
hugs for the next ten minutes filled with giggles and "luh you". At one
point even asked me to sit in her lap. As I laid my upper body across
her tiny legs, she wrapped me tightly in a hug and patted my back. I
nearly broke right there. How in the world?! It was that moment I knew
God was hugging us, offering a consolation He knew we needed at the most
perfect time.
•••
I don't know why we have been chosen for this
journey & I'd be lying if I told you I'm okay. We're not okay. We're struggling.
Hard. There are moments we're fine & then moments we're struck by
such grief we can't even catch our breath. But we're pressing on &
we're learning to breath through the pain. And one day, maybe, we'll
understand where this journey is supposed to lead us. In the mean time
we ask for your prayers. We covet them. Not sympathy or looks of
sadness, but prayers for strength and peace and understanding.
