Next week is Eva Catherine’s due date. I’m really struggling with the fact that I was pregnant last year and experienced the loss of another baby. I really would like to be holding a newborn, but instead, I got to sleep in this morning. Not because I’m nesting but from the side effects of metformin that I was recently prescribed that is trying to heal my body so that maybe we can conceive again in time.

I have random terrible stomach aches and nausea. Sometimes I throw up at 11 pm and then wake up at 4:30 am again, running to the toilet—vomiting from a drug, not from my wanted pregnancy. My arms feel empty, and sometimes my heart does too. Today, I am feeling very sorry for myself. I am feeling a bit of anger that this is another cross I have been asked to carry. It seems unfair. I’m trying to remain positive. Really, I am.

I shared our most recent loss in detail here. That blog was real and raw right after we miscarried. Below I will share my perspective 9 months later.

I went to the bathroom and saw that red spot—one dollop of blood. I was horrified and shocked. My brain tried to rationalize. I told myself, “You spotted while pregnant with Estelle.” I tried to grasp for hope. This could be normal. Don’t condemn your baby to die. I’d known for three days at this point that I was expecting after ten years of trying, and we were so giddy. I had just shared the news with our friend group because we needed prayers. Prayers for a healthy pregnancy at the age of 42.

I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. Ten whole years of trying to get pregnant. Ten whole years of prayers, sacrifices, offerings, thanksgiving, desperately trying to hold onto hope. So when that stick was positive, my heart was in love. It could have been a minute. Life was inside of my womb, co-created with God. My heart felt so intimate with our Lord. I prayed, God, you always send a rainbow after the storm. This baby is what my heart needs, healing.

 

So, when I visited the bathroom, I tried to ignore what I thought I already knew. 

How could this be any different? Healthy pregnancies are usually not part of our story. Embarrassed and ashamed for telling our friends so early because how and why would this be any different? Things would end badly for us because they always do.

Something didn’t feel the same, and I think my body knew it. It tried to warn me, but I just tuned out. I began to go numb again.

There was a little nagging voice at the back of my mind—prepare yourself. Hope started to fade, and I began to go down the rabbit hole. I began torturing myself with fear, anxiety, shame, and guilt. How could I think at 42 years old that I could have a healthy pregnancy, even though others have? My body ALWAYS fails me.

On the morning it happened, nagging voice or not, it came as a complete and utter shock. 

I got up in the wee hours of the night to pee. I walked into the bathroom and sat on the toilet, the pain was beginning to increase, and I knew what was to come. Then the floor seemed to disappear from beneath my feet. I began to shake and tremble. I couldn’t breathe. Why was there so much blood, and what should I do? I suddenly felt deaf, as if my senses no longer worked properly. And I sat there and stared. Death makes you so cold and numb.

No one prepares you for this.

No one tells you how much you will bleed or how bad it will hurt.

I was having another miscarriage, but this time it was different.

That word! I hate it! 

Miscarriage. 

No one tells you these things. Is it something nobody speaks about until after you have one? This was different than my last missed miscarriage when I had a DNC. That was so cold and sterile. This was painful. Intense and brought on so much trauma.

I was in unchartered territory and wouldn’t say I liked it. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me again. God, where are you?

I am losing my baby.

My unborn child whom I already loved. This little person who I’d wondered about for ten years. 

I would never meet her. 

I would never know her. 

I would never hold her hand or stroke her tiny face. 

This was not supposed to be happening to me. 

But it was.

I felt empty.

My baby was gone.

It is the strangest, loneliest, most exhausting feeling to experience.

I’d loved that child for three whole days but prayed for her for ten whole years. My heart had already begun to hold her. I’d envisioned the future with my baby, who I hadn’t met yet, and in my head, I’d seen our girls become sisters. Estelle would be the best big sister ever, and she would not have to grow up alone, that fear that had been haunting me.

And in the space of a morning, all that was snatched away. My dreams. My ambitions. My plans. It was gone forever.

It was a pain like no other.

I felt guilty.

I felt sad.

And I was told it was my fault. My body was not healthy enough to sustain a healthy pregnancy.

So many people didn’t even mention or acknowledge it, maybe they felt uncomfortable, but it sometimes felt like the elephant in the room when we were all together. And that hurt, too.

It was a very lonely feeling. 

Why do people not acknowledge life loss?

Our children matter. All of them. The ones I get to hold and the ones I don’t. And I disagree that it’s my fault that my body isn’t like most women's. It is not your fault! Don’t let anyone let you believe it is, even though your health is a reason why you miscarry.

You will get through this, no matter how long it takes. Surround yourself with your people and be kind to yourself. There are people who care in this community.

All babies matter. Losing them is hard. You have permission to grieve.

And whether we say goodbye to them at 7-weeks gestation, or 12, or 36, whether we get to see their face or not . . . they existed. 

Sometimes I hate that I am one of the people to whom this has happened.

I am 1 in 4.

For the most part, I am happy, and I do feel very blessed. Occasionally though, I allow my mind to wander, to think about what my other babies would have been like. And when that happens, it’s okay if I do get sad. My babies were the fruit of my husband and my love—a gift from God. And yes, sadly, they died, but I would rather know that love than never know they existed. As we approach our due date, I will try my hardest to stay positive, but I know there are emotions and thoughts that I sometimes can’t control. I will pray. I will offer up my suffering and stay close to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Besides, where else will I go? He has the words of eternal life; no matter how terrible my heart hurts, I want to see my children again.

Yes, in the health community, I am 1 in 4, but I am the only one in God’s eyes. When He looks at me, He only sees me. I’m trying to get His attention because I desperately need His grace right now.