still here

Hello again … as I’ve said many times before, it’s been too long!  I keep saying I’m going to do something about the length of time that has passed in between posts lately; I keep telling myself, write!  It will make you feel better!  Buttt … what can I say … the heart is willing but the flesh is weak.  And I’ve been slacking.

 

I honestly feel like a broken record writing another post about the baby I lost, another part of my heart gone, another empty due date (that annoyingly, as much as I try, I can’t forget).  I mean, I literally wrote about this same topic two posts ago.  But to not say anything at all feels like glossing over the truth, and the truth is we had another miscarriage — maybe another reason I’ve been a little quiet lately.  To never write about it feels like I’m telling myself, it’s no big deal.  Get over it.  At least you weren’t showing and people would have never known.  But then there’s this voice somewhere deep in my heart that says — say something.  Write about it.  Maybe people will never understand — and that’s okay.  It doesn’t mean I can’t share my story.  It is a big deal.

 

People love reading birth stories.  But what about miscarriage stories?  Probably not as much fun.  Nevertheless, maybe reading a story or two about a baby lost can teach just as much, if not more, about one coming into this world.  Life usually moves on so quickly after a loss — while that empty ache, that empty due date still looms in my heart.

 

The morning we found out there was no heartbeat started early.  Our appointment was at 7:30 am, thirty minutes away, so we woke the kids early to get them ready and dropped off with a friend.  Even though I was only 9 1/2 weeks along, it felt like we had already jumped over so many hurdles to get to this point.  A six week scan that showed LIFE … a tiny heartbeat … everything looks perfect, said the nurse.  I’ve got a good feeling about this one.  Music to my ears considering my doctor had been worried about an ectopic pregnancy due to some abnormal test results.  And then, an eight week scan — the growth was right on the mark.  Niall and I went out for a celebratory breakfast downtown and everything felt so perfect.  I couldn’t stop looking at our ultrasound picture.  Just a tiny bean, but I saw a whole future.  I saw a glimmer of hope and answered prayers.  So many prayers.

 

But then there was that moment —  legs in the air, room dark … the silence was just too long.  I couldn’t see the screen so I just stared at the ceiling.  I looked over at Niall but his head was down.  I didn’t want to believe it — but I know what silence means.  Sixty seconds felt like an eternity.  Nothing had been said, but the tears were welling up anyway.  As we walked to his office, we were told by a nurse to take a seat out in the waiting room before our doctor talked to us.  Niall cried.  I was numb.  There were four other couples sitting in there — I hate this place, I thought.  Everyone here has problems.  We all want the same thing.  We’re all in this together, but nobody wants to be here.

 

My D&C was scheduled for a few days later and then we were done, walking out of the hospital building, getting into the car.  So much can change in just a few minutes.  No celebratory breakfast this time — but I told Niall I didn’t want to go home just yet.  We ended up at The Coffee Fox, a cute little corner coffee spot in downtown Savannah.  We sat side by side and chatted.  I let the tears out finally, while Niall was the strong one then.  We talked about our kids and how lucky we felt that we had two little ones to pick up and take home.  We sipped our cappuccinos and laughed — I can’t remember what we laughed about.  But I know we laughed.

 

I’m still here, and I’m totally okay.  My kids are here.  And, for today, they are healthy and strong.  Some women would kill for what I have — I know that.  Niall and I often remind each other of this when one of us is having ‘a moment’ (ok ok, usually it’s me having allll the moments).  It’s hard.  I still cry, a lot, usually by myself, or in church during worship.  Or when someone announces a pregnancy and already has such confidence that nine months from now there will be a baby in her arms.  Truthfully, I can’t tell you how jealous that makes me.  You can pretty much guarantee I’ll be having a little cry after every pregnancy announcement — don’t worry, though, I pick myself up every time.  I have found it’s actually quite exhausting trying to have a pity party 24/7.

 

This post isn’t meant to be a sob story; on the contrary, I love my life.  The last two years have included a LOT of sad moments, heartbreaking appointments, and more tears than any other two years of my life.  But there have also been so many amazing memories, laughter, and growth.  I really feel that this heartache has knit our little family closer together.  We go on adventures.  We have epic dance parties after dinner.  My daughter prays earnestly for a baby every night and now knows that only by God’s grace can our family grow.  I love that I have a daughter and a son, that they have each other.  I’m beyond thankful for a husband who reminds me that today is all we have — so why am I so worried about the future?

 

Two years ago I was pregnant with our third child.  I had a two year old and a six month old.  I pretty much thought my fertility game was on point — I mean, we got pregnant before I even had a period … crazy right?! I didn’t think that actually happened in real life.  What I’m trying to say is, I’ve been on the other side of this, and I’m sure I threw out a few flippant comments or complaints that quite possibly could have really hurt someone’s feelings.  I definitely don’t want to be a buzzkill for anyone who is pregnant or has never experienced issues with this — life should be celebrated and you should be happy!  And gosh darn it, I will try my best to be happy for you too.  Just give me, and whoever else out there who might be struggling with this, a little grace if some days it’s harder than others.  We’re trying.

 

Suddenly our fertility story isn’t all smooth sailing, and, as I’ve said before, that has taught my husband and myself a LOT  — some truths are so simple and yet sadly, so often, we forget.  Be gentle.  Be kind.  If you’ve never had a problem with pregnancy, or miscarriage, or anything fertility related … be thankful.  And be careful what you say out loud, or in a conversation with another mama if you don’t know her story.  Because everyone has a story, and not all are what they seem, or what you may perceive them to be.

 

I’ll end with a few written words to my eighth precious baby who I never got to meet — I love you.  And I will never, ever regret trying for you, even if it means experiencing this crazy ache in my heart over and over again.  You and the others are thought of EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.  Your Grandma told me I have six souls in heaven now.  That made me happy.  See you soon.