Today, I went to the midwife and birth center for an appointment with a doctor. Not a midwife — a doctor. Because unfortunately, I wasn’t going for a regular checkup or an ultrasound. I was going to talk to someone about why my body hasn’t been able to keep my baby the last three times I’ve been pregnant.
I know what it’s like to sit in that waiting room. Pregnant ladies with round bellies keep walking by, and you can’t take your eyes off of the ‘welcome’ bulletin board with all of the little newborn faces pinned to it along with thank you notes and cheery birth announcements. My baby could have been up there this month, I thought. I know the feeling of pretending to look through your phone, all the while tilting your head back a little to help stop the tears escaping from the corners of your eyes.
Yep, I’ve been there.
I know the feeling of literally whispering, pull it together, Erin! under my breath because I can just sense the doctor is going to call my name soon. Stop complaining. Don’t be sad. You have two kids at home, you should be grateful.
I know. I know.
You know something the doctor said to me while I cried this morning? She said, life sucks. I really appreciated that. I said, Yea. It does. I kept trying to compose myself — and sometimes, I was composed. But other times, like when she kept saying, It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT. I just cried like a baby.
I know the feeling of suddenly questioning EVERYTHING you did during the weeks when there was still a baby, alive and growing. Was it my second cup of coffee? Dang, why did I drink that second cup of coffee?!? Or maybe it was that tough workout I did that one weekend. I started bleeding a few days later… gosh, maybe that was it. I forgot to take my prenatal pills a few times. I should never have been so careless!
No, no, no. It’s not your fault.
Sometimes I wonder if I wish it was my fault. Because that means I could fix something. I wouldn’t have to pray so hard, to trust God, to remain calm in the face of the unknown. I could just have this ‘eureka!’ moment, change whatever I was doing wrong, and continue living life without any hiccups.
I really pray that five, maybe ten years from now, I’ll be able to comfort someone, to say ‘it’s not your fault’, to let them cry with me. I don’t want to waste my sorrows. I want to use them to grow stronger, to feel God’s supernatural peace, to love my children more deeply.
I’m a work in progress, for sure. I have a long way to go. Yes, some days I feel weary. But I’ve got some fight in me. I’m not done praying for my future children, for hoping for them, for longing to see their faces and kiss their tiny cheeks. I also know in the midst of these desires, I need to pray for a heart that is grateful and content. I don’t want to miss what’s right in front of me: a daughter, a son, a husband who I love so much. It’s when I say prayers of thanks that I realize how truly rich I am.
As I type this, I have a sink full of dishes, a three year old who needs my attention, and a baby napping upstairs. Time to stop rambling. Time to live my life.
I am rich, indeed.