If you follow me on Instagram, you’ve seen photos of my sweet little girl. My heart bursts with joy every time I look at her. And although it’s difficult to encapsulate an experience like this in a blog post {it feels as though these words won’t do my experience justice}, because social media paints an unbalanced portrait of life, I thought I’d share the story of my first baby. The one whose life was too short to make it to social media but was long enough to make an everlasting impact on me.
It all started on October 31, 2013 when I took a pregnancy test after work and confirmed what my gut already knew…I was pregnant! After several months of disappointment, we’d gotten the news we wanted. A doctor’s appointment later reinforced the news…we were having a baby! Finding out I was pregnant was like getting on a rollercoaster. There were ups and downs, feelings of fear and exhilaration. Your life takes on this whole new forward momentum. I started being included in group mommy texts among our friends. People took on an entirely new interest in my well-being {How are you feeling? How far along are you?} All the exciting parent-to-be questions filled my conversations with Eddie {Will it be a boy or a girl? What will we name them? Who will they look like?}.
The signs of something gone wrong were there from the beginning, but I was either too naive or in denial. I’m still not sure which. The first ultrasound indicated the baby was measuring behind what it should. I remember the ultrasound tech emphatically saying, “Only tell people you absolutely have to tell. It’s still really early on.” Although I’ve always known it’s best to wait until after at least 12 weeks to share the news, it struck me as odd that she would so adamantly give those instructions. But after hearing our little one’s heartbeat, I ignored any inclinations and all worries went out the window. In that moment, there was no room in me for anything but happiness.
A few days before Thanksgiving, I started spotting. It wasn’t bright red blood but rather a few dark spots, which I’d heard were “old blood” and nothing to be alarmed over. So I ignored it. Thanksgiving seemed extra special, imagining our little one joining us at the table the following year. The next day we opted out of the Black Friday mall madness and spent the day visiting family and friends. It was that night that it happened. I was bleeding. This time it was bright red. I told Eddie and proceeded to call the after hours line at my doctor’s office. They told me to come in the next day. I think deep down I knew. But it’s the sort of thing that makes you feel so sad you think it can’t possibly be true. As we lay in bed, we kept saying, “It’s probably nothing. I’m sure everything’s okay.” Though I’m not sure how much either of us believed it. I managed to fall asleep, and we woke up early the next day and headed to the doctor.
The office was empty and unbearably cold when we arrived. We sat in silence waiting for them to see us. My heart raced as they called us in. I said a quick prayer as I climbed onto the examination table, and they began the ultrasound. I stared at the screen. I searched the technician’s face. Then the screen. I got a silent, deadpan stare from both. I’d half expected her to smile and say “Ah, here’s the heartbeat. See, nothing to worry about.” But instead she stood, with a solemn look on her face, and said she needed to speak to the doctor. Eddie and I sat in silence until she returned and checked again. Still, nothing. The steady “thump thump thump thump” we’d heard just the week before was replaced with an excruciatingly loud silence. I felt my face get hot. I was scared to look at Eddie. Scared the pain in his face would confirm what I knew. I looked at him wide-eyed. We said nothing. We were then escorted to another room to speak to the doctor. I felt my face scrunch up into the ugly cry before she could even open her mouth. I just stared at the floor, tears pouring over my cheeks as she spoke. As my face grew hotter, the buzzing in my ears grew louder, but I still managed to pick up a few things she said. “You’re over 8 weeks, but the baby is only measuring 6 weeks 4 days.”…. “You’ll go to the hospital on Monday for a D & C to remove it.” It was really all a blur. I don’t remember the walk down the hall or the elevator ride. I just remember standing at the passenger door of Eddie’s red mustang and crying. And just as I was climbing into the car, I felt it. God’s voice saying, “it’s going to be okay.” And though the ache still burned in my chest, deep down inside I believed it.
For months I tortured myself, replaying the video of our baby’s heartbeat over and over. The mommy group texts stopped. No one asked how I was anymore. No one ever wanted to talk about it. If I brought it up, people were quick to change the subject. I assume it’s because they felt uncomfortable or were worried I’d get sad, but nothing felt more sad than not talking about it. It broke my heart to treat it as if it’d never happened, as if my baby had never existed. It’s as if I’d been kicked off the roller coaster. The excitement came to a sudden, painful stop and life seemed to stand still.
In the months that followed, I attended 6 baby showers. The first just 5 days after the surgery to remove the baby. Part of me wanted to run the other way. It hurt to attend. To see people celebrating babies, when I’d just lost mine. But rather than hide, I jumped in. I offered my help. I did mom-to-be’s hair, brainstormed ideas, helped set up, prepared favors. Because carrying my baby – even that short time – opened up a previously untapped source of love in me, that now needed to be redirected. I pictured my teeny tiny baby in heaven looking down on me, and I wanted to be a person, a mom, that they could be proud of. Not someone who hid away but rather someone who charged forward.
Please know that I’m not trying to paint myself as a Mother Theresa. I threw myself countless pity parties and sobbed every time I found out someone was pregnant {which at the time, it felt like everyone was} because while I would NEVER wish my experience on anyone, it pained me that everyone seemed to be getting their baby except me {the main theme in my pity parties}.
While it was one of the hardest times of my life, I thank God every day for that baby. I learned so much about myself, about love. It pushed me to be a better person. It brought Eddie and I closer than we’d ever been. And it taught me about God’s peace, and what it means. In that moment when I felt God telling me it was going to be okay, I felt the peace that passes all understanding. Something I’d heard all my life but never fully understood until then. I learned it’s not that peace cancels out the pain. It’s that peace exists in spite of it. It reigns you back in when the sadness feels like it will take over. It’s the firm bed of rock over which the tumultuous river of emotions rushes. Who would’ve thought that little life, no matter how brief, could teach its momma all of that?
Although I’m typically against baby bump photos, I secretly took this one, excited to compare it to future months’ photos, not knowing our baby’s heart had already stopped.
Oh hey, beck 
