Miscarriage. Where I am Three Years Later.

It’s been three years now and the wounds still haven’t healed. For some people, I tell them that, and they think it’s kind of strange. Some people think “things happen for a reason.” And well… I just don’t. I believe that there’s sin in this world, and tragic things happen because of the sin that entered the world long ago. I believe that beauty can come from our wounds, though. Maybe not immediately. Maybe not even in the near future. But it can.

It was Mother’s Day weekend 2016. May 7th (you can read my miscarriage story here and the following Mother’s Day story here). I remember telling Kevin something didn’t feel right the night before and if it still felt off in the morning after our run, we were going to the ER. So that’s where we landed . Three hours later, we were told by the sweetest doctor that our baby had passed . He tried to give us some hope and say maybe it was too early, but I had tracked everything, and this sweet one couldn’t be a day younger than 12 weeks. And the next day…Mother’s Day…May 8th, we were supposed to be telling both of our families we were expecting our second baby. But instead of holding my womb that was supposed to be full of life, daydreams, and excitement, I was cradling my baby in my belly for the last time. Instead of celebrating becoming a mom of two, I walked into a new church , dying on the inside, because no one really knew that this Mother’s Day was just one I wanted to sleep through . No one knew I had a baby without a heartbeat inside my belly.  And I didn’t want to have to face strangers with tears rolling down my cheeks. I didn’t want to see anyone or be around anyone. I really just wanted to stay in my bed so I could feel everything and nothing. The dark hole I’d soon be in was quickly creeping in on me. But, I begrudgingly went to church like we had planned on, and wept through all of the worship, clinging to what was left of this pregnancy. Trying not to think about all the special dates in my head that I had already seen this baby in; trying not to hear those first giggles that were supposed to happen; trying not to imagine Hallen meeting her first sibling; trying not to think about what this labor should have been like. All of the “should haves,” “could haves,” and “supposed tos” were abruptly jerked out from underneath me, and I truly felt like I was sinking in someone else’s nightmare. 

One song that has stuck with both Kevin and myself at that Mother’s Day church service says, “I’ve seen you move. You move the mountains. And I believe I’ll see you do it again.” As I was standing there, breaking in two, warm tears pouring out faster than ever before, around strangers who I didn’t even want to be near, I felt God’s presence like never before. I felt Him go before me into my dark hole of hopelessness and emptiness. It may have been for just a moment, but I know that song wasn’t played on accident…on Mother’s Day. The tears didn’t stop the entire service. After it was over, I ran to the bathroom to clean my makeup off my face, and then I went back out to just try and act normal on the way out to the car. I didn’t want people to ask me what the matter was. I didn’t want to be the sad one on a holiday. I didn’t want this to be happening to me at all. I just wanted my baby back.

But the one friend we knew introduced us to another family that day and we happened to all take our photo together. And you know what…the people in that photo have become some of our closest friends. It wasn’t an accident. It was part of our loss that I can tangibly look back on and see God in the details. God knew those two families would help us in our healing, and we’d make connections we needed in our new city of Charlotte. But I also look back on this photo (below), and I see so much pain written all across my face. No one else can tell. I’m smiling like any other mom holding their child, because it’s a day to celebrate me as a mom! I’m smiling, because I’m more scared to start crying again. I’m smiling, because that’s all I know to do. I was caught between these two realities of complete brokenness and trying to be cheerful.

Our tragedy didn’t just happen for a reason. And even just typing this out, tears are falling softly on my cheeks, because I still yearn to cuddle that sweet babe of ours. Yes, I know the practical side… we would never have had the next two precious babies of ours, but it doesn’t make me long for that one any less. That’s the last photo I have of that precious soul, who we sweetly call Novi, nestled inside of my body…that should have been a safe place for six more months. It should have felt her first kicks and stretched until I was uncomfortable. I felt like a failure. And I can still read that all over my face. I felt like I shouldn’t be feeling sad, because little Novi had only been with us for such a short time. She was tiny. I shouldn’t feel sad over something that came and went so quickly. I felt like I should feel happy. I had Hallen. So many parents are struggling with years of infertility. At least I had gotten pregnant twice.

This constant banter went on in my head for so long. It was tiring. It was lonely. I had no one else close to me that understood. All I wanted was to be swallowed up by my black hole. I wanted to drown with my sorrows. But I was trying so hard to still be present for my family. It was a constant pull of my reality versus my internal battle that I tried to not let anyone else in on. I had never been so low in my entire life, and I’m not sure I’ve ever actually admitted that to anyone. I’m sitting here typing this, crying over our baby, and crying for anyone who is experiencing that same darkness, because, friends, I don’t want anyone to ever be in that place of desolation I encountered.

Three years. Three. I’m no longer in a black hole that nearly swallowed me alive. I can go days without thinking of her. Weeks sometimes. But then, there’s all of a sudden a trigger. I read something or have a memory of when we first moved to Charlotte. And it all feels new again. Raw. I all of a sudden remember that I never got to feel her chest against mine. I remember that right now, she should be 2.5 years old. She should be making messes, having tantrums, and wanting books read to her.

Three years. I’ve learned and grown so much. Now, I said I don’t believe in “things happen for a reason,” but I do know my black hole of hopelessness and confusion can be and already has been used for something greater that He has planned for us. You couldn’t have comforted me with those words in 2016, though. In fact, it would have made me angry. So angry. I didn’t like people to try and pretend they understood. I didn’t want advice or condolences. I needed a safe place to cry. I needed a safe place to pretend nothing at all happened some days. I needed to go bury myself in my bed other days. But your two cents about how it all works out, and that it happened for a reason…that I didn’t need to hear. I still don’t need to hear that. But three years later, I’ve been a safe place for others to come and talk to…to ask how I made it through such a difficult time…to validate their pain…and if this is something you’re going through or have been through recently, please know that any loss is a loss. It doesn’t matter if you were one day pregnant or if you carried your sweet babe to term. You are allowed to feel that sharp pain that is loss…you are allowed to feel that immense love for a child you’ll never be able to do life with. It’s a hole in your heart that you’ll forever have. Some days, you may not feel that hole, but others, it’ll feel like you’re back to day one. My advice is to just let it happen. Every day is a day to heal, and I don’t think we’ll ever be completely healed until Heaven, because these things weren’t supposed to happen. Write your story out. Yes, you’ll cry. Every time I write just a sentence about Novi, my heart is suddenly ten thousand pounds, and my eyes are flooded with tears. But it’s okay. It’s beneficial. It’ll keep that child’s memory alive.

Often times, our tragedies aren’t to help us in the long run, but to help others. And when I hear that someone has lost their precious child, my heart literally breaks with them. I cry for them. I feel their pain. Not as heavy as they do or in the same way, but I carry that pain with me. If I could have been the very last one who lost a baby, and could have taken it away from anyone else in the future , I would have. I still would! It’s a pain so raw and bitter, and hurts me to know that someone else is having to deal with that ugliness. 

So, on this Mother’s Day, if you’re experiencing a loss or have experienced one, know that it’s okay to hurt because that child will never call you “mommy” on this side of Heaven. Know that it’s okay to be in this murky, place between joy and pain. But, do find someone, whether that be a friend or a counselor, who you can trust your pain with. Don’t do it alone. Don’t just push it all aside. Please. If you were hoping I’d tell you it gets better, I’m sorry this isn’t the cheerful Mother’s Day post you were hoping for. It’s not that it doesn’t ever get better. In ways, it definitely gets easier. You just learn to live with that grief and immense loss of love you won’t be able to express to that baby.

Happy Mother’s Day to all you lovely ladies out there…moms to babies in Heaven, on earth, adopted moms, moms to be, women who are trying to become moms…