Friday, May 8, 2015

This Should Have Been a Pregnancy Annoucement (But It's Not)


One morning in March, I found myself staring at two pink lines on a pregnancy test. Andrew and I hugged and danced around the kitchen, Owen followed us and laughed at our joy. We tried to explain that he would be a big brother and that a tiny baby was on its way to live with us. We dreamed of what this baby would look like, we planned the nursery, picked out names. We calculated our due date: November 15.

A few weeks later, I started bleeding. Just a little at first, but by the next day I knew something was very, very wrong. A trip to the emergency room confirmed my worst fears. A nurse handed me paperwork with my diagnosis at the top: spontaneous abortion. She took out my IV and told me I was free to go. And just like that it was over.

I felt numb and achingly empty. Just days before I had been literally full of life, carrying our child, the promise of our future. And suddenly that baby had slipped away, never to be held in my arms. For a few days, I could barely breathe. I curled up on the couch under a blanket, neglected the dirty dishes and the laundry, let Owen eat goldfish crackers and peanut butter M&Ms for breakfast. I bled for an agonizing week, each day a cruel reminder of what we had lost.

We had already told a handful of people that we were expecting, and in turn we had to tell them about our miscarriage. I'm so thankful we did. Our sweet friends and family poured out love and support, brought flowers and chocolate, sent cards, care packages, and messages of encouragement. Their kindness was the balm that lessened the sting of our pain. As the days and weeks went by, I adjusted to no longer being pregnant, accepted that November would come and go just like any other month in our lives, and focused on the many, many things we have to be thankful for. I chose to trust that God had already anticipated this loss and had plans to use it for His good.

We have healed and we are moving forward, but one thing that I continue to struggle with is the silence that surrounds miscarriages. In our society they are so often kept private, a guarded secret, almost as if they are something to be ashamed of. The grieving is all behind closed doors and the life and loss of the baby are barely even acknowledged.

What makes such a loss even worse is having to do without the support that is so desperately needed during such a difficult time. And so I'm choosing to stand up for all of the women who have suffered in silence and to have the life of my baby known. For the few weeks that I carried it, this baby brought us immense joy. And in the days when we knew we had lost it, immense pain.

To the mamas who have babies in heaven: you created and carried a life, no matter how briefly; that is something to celebrate. You lost a baby that you dreamed of and cared deeply for; that is something to be acknowledged. Know that you are not alone, and know that the life of your baby matters.

And to my darling baby: I will dream of you every day that I live. The promise of heaven is all the sweeter knowing you are there. All my love.

Sincerely,
Sarah