I'm not sure how to start this post. I usually don't have much trouble finding the right words to express how I feel, but this one is challenging. This one is different. Chris and I found out earlier this month that we lost baby Files #2. We miscarried. That word: miscarried. It sounds so much smaller than what it stands for. You hear that word, but not often. And what I've discovered in the almost two weeks since is that so many wonderful people have been affected by this word. However, it's rarely discussed one-on-one or even amongst friends. I'm writing this because I hope that maybe someone--anyone--who has gone through this heartache will read this and not feel alone. Someone very close to me miscarried just two months prior to us, and it was absolutely devastating. I thought about them constantly.
I remember I would be standing in the shower and suddenly start crying and praying to God for this couple. I couldn't imagine the pain they must be going through. The questions they must have. The moments they must think about that they now will never get to experience here on this earth with that child. But, I knew that no matter what, I had no clue what they truly must be feeling because I had never gone through that tragic loss. I now know how they felt. "Was my child a boy or a girl? Did my child know how much I love them? He or she's due date was June 29th. Oh the pain we'll feel that day. Was my child sick? Is my child looking down on us from heaven? God, please take care of my child up there. Why did this have to happen? I trust you, Lord, but right now I just don't understand and want to understand. Will we ever conceive again? I will think of you every day for the rest of my life, sweet angel. Mommy and Daddy love you so much. We miss you..." The questions and thoughts have no end. They continue to roll through my mind, casting enormous grief in an instant. The grief never goes away, at least it hasn't yet. The battle between trusting the Lord's plan and yearning to understand is real. I fight it every single day. The worship song, Thy Will, comes to mind in these moments. I know you see me. I know you hear me, Lord. Your plans are for me. Goodness you have in store. Thy Will be done. We are not meant to understand, but it hurts. It hurts every morning when I wake up and see that my stomach has deflated just a little bit more. It hurts every afternoon as I'm sitting in silence, trying to work, and the sadness takes over. It hurts every evening, as I take my nightly prenatal vitamin, even though I know I no longer need to. We found out that we lost our baby on a Thursday, and the procedure wasn't until the following Tuesday. For those days in between, I held my stomach in my hands and spoke to our baby, because I wanted he or she to know that although they are gone, Mommy is still here. I took my vitamin every night, because even though he or she was gone, I wanted to do everything in my power to still take care of him or her. Walking back into the surgery room for the procedure was the most painful steps I've ever taken. The room was sterile. Bright white with bright lights. The staff was quiet. They laid me down on the table and all I could do was stare straight ahead, into the ceiling, and try my hardest not to cry. It was impossible. The weight I felt was a weight I've never felt before. I couldn't stop the tears from rolling down the sides of my face. The nurse leaned over me and said, "It's ok to cry." And that was it. I drifted off to sleep in an instant. This was not the room I envisioned I would be in when my baby would be delivered. This was not a room where my husband could be at my side. This was a room where the staff are quiet and, truthfully, somber. Our doctor was emotional with us. This time in our lives, and this procedure, was not lost on him. His heart was heavy, too. This loss and sense of loneliness is arresting. I know I have the support of my husband, family, and friends, but the loneliness is real and it is deep. It's like I've built a cocoon around me and can't seem to emerge from it. At times, I'm not sure that I want to. I've channeled all of my energy into this Christmas. Decorating our house, making sure the tree looks perfect, buying plenty of gifts and wrapping them with bright, glittery bows, playing christmas music around the clock and baking, even though we already have an unnecessary mound of Christmas cookies just sitting on our counter. I wanted this Christmas to be perfect. I eventually realized that I wanted it to be perfect because I wanted to have a day where we could forget about all of the pain these past few weeks have caused; have one day as a family where we could smile and enjoy the day fully. I just needed something--anything--to focus on. Something that didn't take much brain power. The truth is, this Christmas isn't going to be perfect because of any decoration or present, it's going to be perfect because I have my husband, my son, and my faith. While our hearts continue to break, even when we think the pieces can't get any smaller, I remind myself that we're good. We have each other, we have our faith, and now, we have an angel in heaven watching over us and looking forward to the day when we can all celebrate Christmas together in heaven. Until then, Merry Christmas, my sweet angel.
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