Thoughts After Miscarriage

There is something terribly ugly about it. When what is meant to hold the vibrancy of life becomes instead a silent tomb, you walk around feeling like a grave.

Part of you can't wait for it to be all over. Waiting for the pain and the flood can be unbearable. You feel like you are walking on edge. Will it be today, or tomorrow? Will it hurt? Can I just shut this chapter of my life and go on?

The other part of you desperately wants to hold on and keep it, because once baby leaves, that is it. No more tangible evidence that they ever existed. Your time to hold them has ended.

Most people have forgotten now. All signs of pregnancy vanished months ago. They brought the meals, sent the cards, gave their hugs and sorries. We appreciated it so much, felt so very loved. But what was insignificant to everyone else means the turning upside down of the life my husband and I thought we'd be living.

Someone, a real little person, has died. Because other people didn't see their face or hold their hand, they don't realize the gravity of the situation. But we saw the thumping heart, the little head and limbs. Twice. We have the pictures to prove it. This little person had a name and a place in our family. We awaited them with eager anticipation, laid out lovingly constructed plans and dreams for them.

Every month I bleed again and remember. The box of maternity clothes is knocked over in my closet, and I remember. I try not to, quickly stuffing the clothes back in. I look at the calendar and see that February is coming. I remember what I thought was coming with it.

I see the heavily pregnant woman at the grocery store, and I tell her how beautiful she is because I know its hard to remember when you feel as big as a house. I try not to cry as I tell her. I try to stuff down the grief that wells up as I stroll through the store, stand in the check out line, and walk to my car. I feel so very empty.

If you asked me about it, I might tell you the horror story of the night it all ended. How I bled so much that I fainted, hit my head, and took an ambulance ride. I would try to focus on the physical trauma, steering away from the emotional. I probably wouldn't tell you about what happened at the hospital. It's just hard to talk about.

I don't like to tell people, but somehow it is easier when I'm hiding behind a screen. I don't write because I enjoy exposing the hidden places of my soul. I write because in my mind's eye I see other hurting souls hiding behind screens, and I want them to know that they are not alone. I feel it too. You are not forgotten in your pain.

In all this, there is cross comfort. The One who made me, who knit my baby together in my womb for a mere eight weeks, He knows. Even this was in His control, a part of His divine and sovereign will for the world. He has promised good and God-glory, even in this. If I didn't believe that He planned it, controlled it, and is working through it, the grief would be so much uglier.

This doesn't mean that I understand. It doesn't mean that I don't hurt deeply. But it is soothing balm to a chaffing soul to know that He knows, and He loves me. In and through this.

So I now I wait. I wait for the healing that I know will come, eventually.

And while many friends will be welcoming new babies in February, we will not be meeting ours.