October 5, 2020, I took a pregnancy test.  I can’t even remember what prompted me to do so.  Maybe my boobs hurt, or I felt more bloated than usual.  I couldn’t honestly tell you my initial feelings when I saw the word “Pregnant” come across the screen.  Maybe it was excitement coupled with fear?  That seems like it should be accurate.  Excitement for Liam to have a brother or sister.  Excitement to add to our family.  Excitement to have another mini-us to snuggle.  Fear because our first pregnancy ended in miscarriage.  Fear because it could happen again.  No matter what the emotions were, it was real.  
 
I told Pat that same night.  I remember handing Liam the positive test and whispering for him to go give it to his daddy.  Pat was confused initially, then hesitant, and then happy.  We hugged and tried to envision Liam as a big brother.  We joked that it would be good for him to have to share the spotlight a little…he needed a little humbling.
 
A tiny little bump, and the telltale increase in cup size, soon appeared.  It was my third pregnancy after all.  We did family pictures in mid-October and I proudly took a few pictures holding my small but growing, bump.  October 24, we told my family.  Liam wore a “Big Brother” shirt with a dinosaur on it.  He had no idea why everyone cheered when he came out wearing it, but he lapped up every drop of attention as a true only child does.  
 
November 2, at what was supposed to be 8 weeks, all of the joy and hesitant optimism came screeching to a halt.  Our 8-week ultrasound did not turn out how we expected.  Instead of measuring right on track, our little nugget was measuring 6w3d with a lower than average heart rate.  The doctor assured me that we probably guessed my ovulation wrong, or my period start day was different than I remembered.  I knew she was wrong.  I track my period obsessively, wanting to ensure I am never caught unaware and unprepared.  She told us that at our next appointment, the baby would most likely be growing appropriately.  I didn’t feel as optimistic.
 
I scheduled a second ultrasound at a boutique here in Memphis.  I wanted to see if they saw what my doctor saw.  Sure enough, the baby was still measuring 6w3d, even though it had been two days.  Even worse?  The heart rate had slowed down even more.  I knew the signs.  I knew what was now inevitable.  I called my OBGYN and told her I needed her to do another ultrasound. I needed reassurance.  She scheduled me for November 9.  
 
The ultrasound confirmed my fears.  There had been no more growth and the baby’s heart rate had slowed below 100.  It was not good news.  The nurse practitioner came in and went through the options with me.  I could continue to wait and see if my body had recognized the miscarriage, but she said it could take up to a month.  By this point, I had gone nearly 3 weeks without my body realizing what was happening.  Option two was a D&C to remove “the fetus” and allow for a quick recovery…as if losing a baby was something from which you could easily recover.  The third option was Cytotec, also known as the abortion pill.  She said it would be painful and involve a lot of cramping, but it did not involve the risks found with choosing a D&C.
 
I chose the Cytotec but found myself unable to take the pills once I arrived at home.  What if the baby was growing again?  What if he or she had experienced a miracle and taking the pills would be murder?  I called the office again and asked for one final ultrasound to confirm.  Friday the 13^th, the loss was confirmed.  I decided to take the pills the following morning.
 
Initially, I thought the cramping I’d heard and read so much about was nothing.  Maybe I had a really high pain tolerance.  I had a few big gushes of bleeding and then nothing.  No more blood, no more cramping.  But then it hit me.  I have never felt pain as excruciating as this.  I spent the better part of an hour curled in the fetal position sobbing and squeezing Pat’s hand as hard as I could.  I wanted to pass out, to get through the worst of it unconscious and pain-free.  No such luck.  The agonizing pain subsided for half an hour before coming back for more.  I cried and shivered (uncontrollable body shaking is a side effect of Cytotec…fun, right?) until it passed again.  By night time, the pain had subsided to a slightly sharp, yet dull, ache.  I thought surely it had to be over.
Tuesday, November 17 I went in to confirm it had all passed.  The ultrasound tech attempted an apologetic smile as she told me the large majority of the “fetal tissue” was still inside of me.  Again, the nurse practitioner presented me with options.   I could take the Cytotec again and hope for a better outcome, or I could proceed with a D&C.  I elected to have a D&C.  I wanted it to be over and I didn’t think I could handle that much pain again.  The procedure was scheduled for the next day.
 
Upon arrival at the doctor, I popped the Xanax they instructed me to take.  Apparently, it would calm my nerves and help me through the procedure.  But no drug, nothing can stop the thoughts that flood through your brain when you are actively losing a baby.  Pat sat by my head and held my hand as they inserted the device into my uterus and “removed the products of conception”.  They were very careful to never call it a baby.  They sent me home with some antibiotics and instructions to take it easy for the next few days.  They cautioned I would have some bleeding for 1-2 weeks, but after that everything would return to normal.  Yeah…right. 
 
I bled for two months straight.  I went into the office twice with my concerns.  I was still bleeding.  It didn’t look right.  It didn’t smell right.  My hair was thinning, my body felt off, and my skin was dull.  Something was wrong.  Both times, they shrugged my concerns off, stating it was just a bacterial infection.  They sent me home with antibiotics and left it at that.  Saturday or Sunday, January 16 or 17, I started passing large clots.  I’m talking quarter to half dollar size.  I called the on-call line and was told it was normal.  The end.  
 
Later, I  began to bleed profusely.  I soaked through two pads in two hours.  I felt my limbs tingle, felt the blood draining from my face.  I knew this wasn’t normal.  I shouldn’t be bleeding so heavily that blood dripped onto the floor when I tried to go to the bathroom.  I called the on-call hotline and was told it was just a heavy period.  That kind of bleeding is normal for your first couple of periods after a miscarriage and D&C.  I wasn’t satisfied.  I pushed them and they called in medication to slow the bleeding and scheduled me for an appointment that Tuesday.  
 
Tuesday, January 19, they performed an ultrasound and found a mass.  They scheduled a second D&C for Wednesday, January 27 to remove it and see what it was.  Guess what…they’d missed some fetal tissue at the first D&C.  A part of my baby was inside of me, decaying.  If they had listened…if they had scheduled an ultrasound to check after the first D&C…if they had taken my concerns seriously, I could have avoided all of it.  I wouldn’t have bled for two months straight.  I would have avoided so much fear and anxiety.  I could have moved on. 
 
Instead, I miscarried for months.  My body had been desperately trying to rid itself of the foreign, dead tissue. The bleeding, the body changes…it all was my body trying to heal.  I knew something was not right.  I knew my body and I knew what normal periods looked like.  I knew.  Yet no one listened.  I had to fight, had to raise my voice and be forceful to get them to listen…to even conduct an ultrasound to put my mind at ease.  Aren’t doctors supposed to be for us, not against us?  
 
My doctor never even apologized. I vaguely remember her saying something along the lines of “it happens”.  She then proceeded to tell me she had scheduled me for an appointment with a prominent fertility doctor in the area.  Usually, patients aren’t referred over until three miscarriages, but she wanted to go ahead and send me over.  How magnanimous of her…
 
I guess I am writing this for a couple of reasons.  One, my therapist told me to.  Apparently (and I know she’s right), I shove my feelings down.  Conceal, don’t feel as Elsa says.  I seek to maintain an image of having it all together, of being put together and perfect.  Emotions don’t serve that purpose well, so why bother working through them?  Evidently, this sort of mindset can lead to all sorts of problems down the road.  Anger? Check.  Trouble maintaining relationships? Check.  Depression and anxiety?  Big old check.  Guess what? Shoving feelings down and ignoring your reality does more harm than good.  It’s a heck of a lot easier to deal with your pain initially, rather than later when it’s been compounded by more pain.
 
Second, I could feel this all banging on the metaphorical walls inside me, begging to be let out.  No more shoving it down because it may make others uncomfortable or may make me look weak.  Whether or not I let others see this, who knows.  But it had to get out.  I had to put pen to paper…or fingers to keyboard.  Writing, and even talking to someone, is cathartic.  It is helpful to tell your story and to get it all out.  We aren’t meant to live in isolation, hiding away the parts of ourselves that have shaped who we are.  We are meant to live in community, bearing one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2).  
 
Third, I am begging anyone who reads this to ADVOCATE FOR YOUR HEALTH.  You know your body better than anyone else…even your doctor.  If you think your doctor isn’t listening or maybe wrong, speak up!  If you want the extra test, ask for it!  No one else is going to fight for your health like you will.  You have to be willing to make others uncomfortable, maybe even angry, if you want to ensure your voice is heard.  What’s the worst thing that can happen?  You’re wrong and everything is 100% fine?  That’s good news!  At least you gave yourself peace of mind. 
 
My hope is that reading this helps even just one person feel less alone.  I hope you recognize the power in telling your story—even the ugly, painful, uncomfortable parts.  There is freedom in it.

Miscarriage. My Story.

I want to start this post off by saying that GOD IS GOOD.  He can bring ruin from ashes and redemption from pain.  But following God does not mean we will live lives free from pain and anguish.  God allows us to go through those times in order to teach us, grow us, and restore us to Him.  He is good.  He is faithful...

Grief isn't an ocean. It's a wave. It keeps pummeling you every time you think you've broken free. Every time you finally are able to catch your breath. Every time you think "Finally I am past it. Finally I can keep my head above water and move forward from this place,"  It crashes over you again, pulling you under and shoving you back into the depths.

We had it all planned out from the moment we got our first positive pregnancy test. We planned how we would announce it, what the announcement picture would look like, how we would tell our families. Everything. I knew the plans I had for the next year as we prepared for our future child.  But God knew the plans He had for us.  He knew our child wouldn't make it. He knew it was time to call our precious baby home to Him. He knew my body and the baby were incompatible and it would be better for my child to come home to Him than for both of us to be at risk.

And while He knows the plans He has for us, He also knows our pain. He knows how I grieve and how I cry out for our loss. He knows that my heart screams out silently every day. He knows I want to crawl inside myself and hide away. He knows the guilt, shame, fear, and anger I feel. And He takes it all on. He bears my burdens with me. He doesn't force me to heal and "move on". He doesn't tell me "maybe you shouldn't talk about it if it makes you so sad". He listens, He comforts, He accepts my anger.

And I was, and sometimes still am, so so angry. I prayed over my child from the moment I had the positive pregnancy test. I prayed for protection for my baby. I promised God I would spend my life raising my child to love Him and serve Him. I promised to be a good steward of the gift God was giving me. I begged and pleaded for a safe pregnancy. And yet I lost our child.

On August 31, 2017 my world was shaken and I felt a loss unlike anything I have ever experienced before. In one day, the ultrasound went from showing something to nothing. That's how quickly my body rejected the pregnancy like it was nothing...like it wasn’t the most precious thing in my life. With each part of the miscarriage process my grief started anew, with a new wave crashing over me and crushing me down into the depths of despair.  Each time I found myself not thinking about our precious child, the grieving process started all over again. 

I often feel guilty for forgetting even for a second and feel ashamed for living my life happily again.  I feel the loss acutely. I feel anger that it happened to me. I feel confused as to how this could have happened. I feel terrified to try to conceive again. I feel loathing towards my body for betraying me and taking this from me. I feel numbness and shock as I try to wrap my mind around everything. I feel pain and a sort of anger with myself with every post I see of friends announcing a new pregnancy, or friends with happy, healthy pregnancies or with precious, whole, safe newborns. I feel frustrated that no one who hasn’t been through it understands my grief or cares to listen without saying "it'll be ok".

Miscarriage is not something that everyone can understand.  You do not truly understand the pain and emotional turmoil until it happens to you.  When my sister went through her miscarriage last year, I remember texting her and saying I was sorry and that God had a plan.  I did not know how much pain she was in and how much a heart can grieve over the loss of a human being that has never been held or touched.  I did not know the deep, jagged wounds miscarriage carves into a human heart.  I did not understand that no words can ease the pain.  There is no "right thing to say".

It won't be ok. It never will be. And that is ok.  God heals all wounds. Yes, wounds leave scars. And I will forever have deep, jagged, painful emotional scars that will be with me for the rest of my life. The waves of grief will become fewer and farther in between, yes, but they will still come.  But even so, God is good. 

God is good. His grace is abundant.  He is the giver of life.  He is the God of miracles.  He walks beside me and I know He will not not abandon me, no matter how rough the road of life may become.  Through this process, He is teaching me that He alone can fill this hole in my heart.  I need to be patient in the process and stop continually working towards "the next thing".  It is through seasons of pain and grief that He does the biggest and most impactful work.  

God alone can mend this hole in my heart.  Not Patrick.  Not my family.  Not work.  Nothing.  I must choose to let go and let God do His will in my life.  Letting go of my expectations, my timeline, and my hopes and dreams is the only way I can find peace, patience, and understanding.  Grief cannot overtake me so much that I miss out on the blessings God has in store for me and Patrick.  God brings beauty and life out of the ashes and dust of painful times.  We only have to trust.