This time of year, I am reminded of a painful season in my life. Nine years ago, on Thanksgiving Day, I learned that I was pregnant with our first child. We were in Louisiana with Greg's family. I woke up that morning and took a test before anyone else woke up. Then, as soon as I found a quiet moment, I pulled Greg outside and told him the news. We were both happily amazed and delighted...immediately scheduled a doctor's appointment for the following week, and decided to keep it quiet until all had been confirmed. I immediately stopped drinking coffee that weekend, which resulted in a major caffeine headache, but I didn't mind - I was going to have a baby, and it was worth the discomfort!
The appointment to confirm the pregnancy didn't go as planned. The doctor said my hormone levels were lower than they would expect for a pregnant woman, but it could be that the dating was wrong. They did an early ultrasound, and yes, I was pregnant. They had me wait a week and come back for bloodwork. Those results came back with low hormone levels, too, which prompted a second ultrasound. This time, the doctor confirmed that the baby hadn't grown and the pregnancy had terminated. I was advised to schedule a D&C. All of this news came on the same day we were hosting a Christmas party at our house. We didn't tell our friends, but quietly grieved as we pretended to be joyful hosts.
Mom came up to be with me on that cold, rainy December 16. I cried as they scraped out what was left of the life that had been in me. I was glad it hurt a little physically, since I was hurting so much emotionally.
Mom prayed with me that I would be able to say with
confidence, "The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away - Blessed be the
name of the Lord" (loose paraphrase from the book of Job). I wept in
agreement. We also prayed that God would use this sorrow for His
purposes.
That afternoon, we came home to a voice mail announcing that one of my closest friends had had her first baby. Oh, the grief of that moment. I took her a meal soon after, without her knowing what I had experienced. I couldn't talk about it then. I didn't want to steal her joy.
Oh, the pain of calling my sisters and closest friends to tell them that, instead of having a baby on the way, I had had a miscarriage. It was over before it began. Miscarriage. It was such a heavy word in a season when all around me was light and beautiful and focused on the birth of the baby Jesus. I felt dark and mournful, not bright and joyful. I was angry about my loss. MY loss. It seemed to define me, to limit me, to keep me from identifying with other young women around me who seemed to be conceiving and giving birth left and right. I poured out my heart to God, asking him to mend my broken places and hold me together. I wrestled with the (I thought) ugly truth that He had knit a baby together in my womb only to allow it to stay a few days and then die. How could that be a good plan? Why in the world did He want me to cry and lose and not receive what I wanted?
Was it something I had done? Too much coffee? I had been drinking a lot of espresso drinks that season to get me through a busy time at work. A really hot bath that fried the baby living in me? I remembered taking one that was warmer than it should have been. I regretted that. I wanted an answer, but I knew there wasn't one.
I couldn't believe this had happened. I didn't really know anyone else who had experienced this kind of unexpected loss. I never imagined this circumstance for myself. And I slipped into a depression that winter that was isolating and consuming. I couldn't think of much else other than this loss and how scared I was that it would happen again. I took a lot of walks around the neighborhood, listening to songs about how much Jesus loves me and how He understands all our sorrows...but I wondered, how could He relate to me losing a baby? He could never have conceived a child and suffered the pain of losing it before it was even born. I felt like I had been robbed of future joy, of hope, of the good that should have been mine.
I decided in my heart that the baby I had lost was my daughter. I might have named her Naomi, after a relative on my mother's side. I never officially gave her that name, but I certainly think about it even now. I remember taking a long bath one night, and crying my way through it as I said goodbye to the baby I never met while the water drained.
As the years have passed, God has done a healing work in me. He used His Word and many friends to comfort me. He gave me two more children, for whom I am very grateful. I have walked through early pregnancy losses with many friends, and each time I've been reminded of God's faithful love, His power to heal my hurt, and His providence. He has given me the ability to comfort them with the same comfort I received.
This year, as I am in the anniversary season of my loss, I feel compelled to lay down my burden once again. I am practicing these words: "
It is okay. What God has given is good. One day I will know that child. I can live with the ache of loss, knowing that it has a purpose in my life. Nothing can ever completely remove that hurt - but I can experience joy and peace in it by choosing to praise God."
