Is it possible to find hope or even beauty in ashes?

As a courtesy, I want to give you a heads up that miscarriage is discussed in this post.  My hope in sharing the story of my loss is to provide hope to someone experiencing the same thing.  It's horrible. It's painful, but as one who has made it to the other side....there is hope. I'm no expert. I'm not a doctor or a counselor.  I haven't experienced multiple losses.  I'm just a mama to two - one in my arms and one in Heaven.  I'm just someone who faced the unspeakable and survived.

I've heard countless times about finding beauty in ashes.  The Bible says that weeping may endure for an evening, but joy comes in the morning...but the thing is...sometimes that evening endures much longer than one night.

I've experienced the joy of positive pregnancy tests twice in my life.  The first time was in January 2011.  It was 4:30 in the morning and I was staring at those two purple lines, bleary eyed and not believing what I saw.  I woke my husband with a joyful shout, and there we were, the two of us trying to decide if that faint second line REALLY was there or if we just wanted it to be....we resolved to go back to bed and I'd take another test the next day.  That test was much clearer.  I was pregnant.  Being that I'd never been pregnant before I did what any logical woman would do...I took another test the next day...and the next...ok. Five.  I took five tests.  On the last one the "you're pregnant" line showed up before the control line.  Later that year, I gave birth to a beautiful TINY five pound, eight ounce, 18 inch long baby girl.  If you're a frequent visitor to my little corner of the internet, you've read about her many many times, our sweet baby Bean.

But wait, you said twice? I've only read about Bean....

Yes, I did say twice.
The second time was Father's Day weekend, 2013.  This time there was no doubting those lines.  Or the very clear "PREGNANT" printed on the digital test.  My husband skipped off to work, grinning ear to ear, thrilled about the best father's day gift ever.  We were scheduled to go camping with our small group and decided we should still go, and we "broke the rule" and shared our news with our friends.  We were over the moon. We told Bean she would be a big sister.  We decided on a nickname for this baby, just as we had with Bean.  This one was dubbed "Sprout."  We taught Bean to point to my belly and say "Baby Sprout" and that she would be a big sister.  We thought all was fine.  I went to my first prenatal visit, got my due date and an order for an ultrasound to find out just how far along I was.
I began journalling the pregnancy as I had the first time.  We had an estimated due date, which would be confirmed by the ultrasound.  I went to that appointment expecting to come out with a picture of a tiny bean shaped baby to send to my family.
That's where the slow journey began.  They couldn't find the baby on the ultrasound.  The tech was very kind to me, saying maybe I just wasn't as far along as we thought.  Her supervisor, not so kind.  Rough and rude in her words "there's nothing in your uterus. There's nothing outside of it."
I sat in that little room, sobbing, wondering what had happened - I hadn't experienced any bleeding or cramping.  I had multiple positive pregnancy tests - even the blood tests from my doctor had confirmed there was life growing within me, so what was wrong?
My OB ran more blood tests and confirmed yes, there is a baby there, just could be a little further behind than we thought, we'd do another ultrasound in a couple of weeks, and how was I feeling.  I calmed down, reassured by the lab results.

But then a week or so later I felt a trickle that sent a cold chill up my spine and a trip to the bathroom confirmed some spotting.  I started to shake and cry as I called Bug.  He asked what I thought I should do. I told him I would call the doctor...which I did.
They asked  if there was any cramping and I sadly realized there was.   I was immediately sent to my closest ER.  The staff was kind and ran all the usual tests and sent me home saying that my hormones were the low end of normal but it was likely implantation bleeding and to just keep my next OB appointment.
We left, relieved and headed home.  Then I looked at my discharge paperwork. It said "incomplete miscarriage." I nearly threw up on the sidewalk.  I got home and paged my OB right away, who told me that he'd been called by the hospital, but that I'd been released when he called back and he was so glad I'd called. I had something called threatened miscarriage and he wanted to see me first thing the next day.  He said that there was still the chance it could turn to a miscarriage but that we didn't know anything for sure at this time.
I was comforted, but still scared. I reached out to my support system, begging for prayers.  My sweet cousin has suffered this loss four times.  She was so supportive and gentle in letting me know that I should rest as much as possible - if it did turn to the unspeakable, and she was not saying that was this, I could feel labor pains.

If you are squeamish, now's the time to turn away. If you are uncomfortable with talk of bleeding and medical things, turn away. Skip to the end, do a control + f search for ITSOKTO LOOK (all one word) to get to that part.




I woke up full of hope the next day.  Bug and I headed to the OB and as we waited for my name to be called I started to feel more and more uncomfortable. I used the bathroom and passed a large clot. Instant terror.

I was starting to recognize those pangs in my lower back.  The doctor came in and asked about the bleeding and pain and told me I needed to go straight to the hospital.  I asked if I was losing the baby. He said he didn't know, that it could be something decided to bleed, or I could be losing the baby, we wouldn't know until some tests were run.  He was kind, soft in his words. He didn't offer false hope, but he also didn't scare me.  We left for the hospital, two blocks away.  The same hospital where I had given birth to Bean.  We sent a quick text to my mother and the person watching Bean to let them know what was up.  I felt my hope slipping away...even more so as I realized the bleeding was getting worse.  I give the hospital a lot of credit.  They kept me in the ER rather than sending me to the maternity floor.  They put me in a room far away from all the other patients.  They were quick to get to me, hook up the IV, draw the blood and schedule an ultrasound.  The attending on call that day was hilarious and did his best to keep the tension in the room low while still showing the proper seriousness for what was going on.
They said they needed a urine sample.  The cup I returned to them looked like I'd filled it with Hawaiian punch.  Hope was a distant glimmer.  The pains were intensifying. I'd been here before.  I opted for a natural birth with Bean.
I went down for my ultrasound and the tech informed me they'd be doing both external and internal. She did the external and sent me to the bathroom.  Anyone who has ever had a natural birth will tell you that there's a point where your body just takes over and does what it needs to.  It pushes for you, draws all of your strength into that moment and pushes.
And that was the moment mine took over.  I felt it push.  I looked and saw a "clot" about the size of my fist and I knew.  Sprout was gone. This was it.  There was no more hope.  Not knowing what to do, I left everything as is and shut the bathroom door.  I returned to the ultrasound room and took the last of my courage to tell the tech what had happened and I didn't know what to do.  Her face echoed back some of my pain. She told me to lay down and she'd take care of it.  She was kind enough to call the attending from another room.  She came back and finished the ultrasound quickly and quietly as I tried not to cry.  She put me in a wheelchair and called for transport and I sat there.  Just trying to hold to it together and figuring out what I would say to Bug.  How had we gotten to this place?  I was 9 weeks along.  We should have been talking about creative ways to publicly share the news in a couple of weeks.  Instead, I had to tell him that we lost our baby.
As I sat there, a tiny infant was wheeled in and parked next to me.  That was the tipping point.  There was no holding back the tears. They fell, soaking my gown.  The transport lady arrived and I tried to tell her through my sobs what room I was in.
I walked in and a nurse was with Bug.  I threw myself into his arms and said, "I have no more hope." It was all I could manage.  He asked if something else had happened and I told him.  Then it hit me even harder and I knew I was about to throw up.  The nurse sprang to action and got me a basin and went running to ask my doctor if I could have something to stop it.  She came back with the necessary medicine and put it in my IV as another nurse came to take my blood pressure, all the while I was trying to pull myself together.  The attending and his assistant came in and he gently asked about my bleeding.  I sniffled and told him what had happened.  He looked at me and did what I must imagine is one of the hardest things for a doctor to do. He confirmed my baby was dead.  "We got your blood work back, your hormones are slipping. I'm so sorry, you've lost your baby."
I wailed. I leaned against my husband and I wailed.  I now understand what they are talking about in the Bible about the wailing of the mothers that could not be stopped.  The doctor told us he'd give us some time to deal with the news and pulled everyone but Bug away from me - even the nurse mid blood pressure read.  I looked to the doctor and asked if there was anything I could have for the pain since the baby was gone.  He said of course and left the room, saying that he would also call down someone from OB to assess me.
He left and shut the door and Bug and I just leaned on each other crying, baffled, hurt, sad, scared even.  Then I made the only call I was able to. I called my mom, and when she answered all I could say was "we lost the baby."  She knew what was coming. She'd been in my shoes and probably knew before I did because of it.  I asked her to make the necessary calls because I just couldn't.  She told me not to worry about it. She told me she was so sorry and she wept with me.  I hung up the phone and texted the couple of people I knew were waiting for news. "Baby Sprout is with Jesus now."  Bug called his parents and his sister, who was watching Bean.  He called Bean's godparents and in the midst of that call, the room started to get very dark and spin.  I gripped his arm and said something is wrong and told him what was happening.
He hung up the phone and ran for the nurses' station.  The attending was who returned.  He told me I was losing far too much blood and that he needed to get someone from OB down now to help things along and that they'd get me started on more fluids and hooked up to a monitor.  The nurses worked quickly and quietly, administered the pain medication which sadly didn't do much for the intensifying contractions I was feeling.  They were close together, and getting to be unbearable.  I think it was because this time I knew that there was no purpose to this pain. With Bean, every contraction brought me that much closer to holding her.  There was a reason for it, therefore it was tolerable despite the intensity.
The resident who came in tried to be sensitive. I felt bad for her. I think she said it was her second week of residency.  She called the contractions "cramps" for some reason, I think to soften the blow.  But then she reviewed the ultrasound report and said that it looked to be "a complete abortion" so a D and C wouldn't be necessary.  Abortion? That made it sound like I had a choice here.  I thought she was trying to soften the blow.  I tried not to be angry at her. It wasn't her fault that this is the medical terminology they use.
The chief resident came in after that and explained what she needed to do and warned me that it would be extremely painful.  She was right. I told her which medicine I'd received and she said good, this is really going to hurt.
I shudder to think how much it would have hurt if the medication had not been circulating through my system.  It was far more painful than giving birth.  Bug said one of the hardest parts of that day was seeing me there, writhing in pain knowing there was nothing he could do.
It was so unfair. There I was, going through the pain, the labor, the turning my body inside out...and I would not be going home with a baby.

ITSOKTOLOOK


I've been asked how I got through it.  I've heard "I know you're a woman of faith, but THAT?"
Yes. It was easily the worst day of my life.  It was even worse than when my brother died.
If you've been there, you've got a good idea of how I can say that.  If you haven't been there, I pray you never find out.  Some asked if I was sorry I'd shared our news because now I had to take it back. I was not sorry. In fact, it made it easier to tell in some aspects - they knew about the baby, the estimated due date, all of the questions you usually hear when you tell someone you're expecting....so there weren't a lot of "oh wow, I didn't even know you were pregnant, how far along were you, was it a surprised, were you excited..." type statements.  Instead, it was a flood of support....or at least attempts at it.

I heard everything. "It was meant to be this way.  God needed the baby more than you.  At least you have Bean.  Just try again."  Some of the comments cut deep.   It was not that I thought I was pregnant and I wasn't.  I was pregnant.

There was a baby growing inside of me and it died.  There is nothing ok about that.

I also heard the things meant to be more supportive "It's ok to be angry at God" was something I heard a lot of.  I never was.
Looking back His hand was evident through the day.  Angry? No. Baffled? Absolutely.  I still don't understand how God could allow us to conceive a child that had no chances at survival.  We were told that the baby was so chromosomially deficient it couldn't survive.  That as harsh as it is to say, it was a mercy of sorts - that the handful of children this deficient that do survive to birth live very short, very painful lives.  I was grateful that my baby never felt pain.  I think it was a boy.  I have nothing to go on, but I think it was a boy.

So many people wanted to be sympathetic.  They tried, they really did.  But they just didn't get it and they didn't understand why I wasn't "better" in a few days.  Someone told me that most people understand the loss of a loved one, most people have lost at least one person in their life, but no one knows what to say to someone who has miscarried.  I told her I'd rather hear "I don't know what to say to you" than the "buck up" type stuff.  I think the biggest misconception is that people don't get that a miscarriage is a death too.

I read article after article, blog after blog about how much harder it is to grief the loss of an unborn child.

The easiest way it was explained was that when we lose a loved one, all of our emotions are rooted in the past.  The day we met, our lives together.  We have memories and photographs. There is a wake and a funeral to bring us closure.

With a miscarriage, all of the emotions are rooted in the future.  The due date, the name, who would s/he have looked like?  There is no wake or funeral.  In our case not even an identifiable body.  It went from feeling a life within me to an empty ache where the baby used to be.  And that's not something you just get over.  There was an instant bond that formed between Sprout and me the second I saw that positive test.  I fell madly in love with my baby as soon as I knew there was one.  To say goodbye before getting to say hello...it broke my heart.

YES. I have gotten through this valley - but I will never get over the loss of my child.
The most helpful thing going through that pain was a sweet kindred spirit who reached out to me, shared her own pain and told me of her loss.  She checked in on me, told me I was in her thoughts and prayers and that if I needed to talk I could talk to her.
After that a few more women who'd been there reached out to me and I discovered that being able to talk with someone who had been there, to openly share what had happened, to hear their survival stories helped to heal the pain.

That's where the truly supportive things came from. "There is no expiration on grief.  Take your time. It's ok to cry.  Lean on your husband, share this with him, he lost a baby too. Keep your doctor in the loop, make sure to tell him about your pain level both physical and emotional."  My cousin sent me a care package and openly talked about how she and her husband handled their losses - the things that helped, the things that didn't; she understood when I needed to just talk through the day, every minute of it and try to figure out where it all went off the rails.  She comforted and offered suggestions, never a "you should..." but a couple of "look, this is a you need to" but never in a way that made me feel like I wasn't allowed to feel.

There were a couple of big ones in there.  Like talking to Bug and remembering it wasn't just my loss. I went through a period of self-blame. "I had one job. To care for this baby and grow it and safely bring it into the world and I FAILED. It's all my fault.  What if I ate something wrong?  What if...what if...what ifffffffffffffff"
My doc kept close watch over me, prescribing the necessary things as they were needed to help me heal physically and deal emotionally.  So I was covered there...but I was beginning to feel like I had to close off.  Just internalize my pain because people were "sick of me being a downer."  I had put a short message on facebook, simply asking for prayer and saying we'd had a miscarriage.  I figured it was the easiest way to spread the word because I was certain that there were those among the "inner circle of knowing" that had that moment of "I'm not supposed to say...but guess who's pregnant..."
It just seemed the easiest.  Yes, I opened myself up to many comments meant to comfort but instead hurt deeply.  I tried to focus on the intention instead of the words, but more often than not it just made me angry.

It was remembering those feelings that prompted this post....

If you're the friend/family member/loved one/spouse of a woman who has gone through this, you've never experienced it for yourself, but are reading this anyway, looking for ways to be comforting and helpful to the Angel Baby Mama, God bless you.  My best advice? Go at her pace. Let her talk about it as much or as little as she wants to.  If you can't handle the details of the actual loss, be honest and up front about that.  And one thing? Never say you know exactly how she feels because you don't and can't, and that is not a slam against you.  All you need to know is she is hurting.  Meals were incredibly helpful, offers of child care for my daughter were as well.  Notes/texts just to let us know we were being thought of were nice.  People understanding when we couldn't put our feelings into words, and just offering their condolences.  There were times I needed to just be silent, but there were times when I needed to talk through it.  Not having to be silent about my pain was huge.

If you're reading this because you've experienced that heartwrenching loss, first of all, I am so very very sorry for your loss.
I'm sorry you said goodbye before you could say hello.  I'm sorry you had to share the news that your good news is no longer good.  I'm sorry that you endured that physical pain.  I'm sorry that your heart hurts.  Talking is good.  Keep your doctor posted on how you feel both physically and emotionally.
I pray you are able to find peace and comfort.  Take your time, there is no expiration date on grief.
People are going to say unbelievably stupid things.  It's ok to distance yourself from those people.  It's not ok to isolate yourself completely and drown in your grief.  You need someone to talk to.  When I tried to bottle it, the illogical took over, the what ifs drowned out any sort of comfort...but when I was open with my husband, sharing OUR pain, I found a sweet comfort in the midst of the grief.  There was even comfort in crying together.
Talking to those women, other "Angel Baby Mamas" (I love that term.), showed me it was possible to get through this unfathomable grief.

You're not alone.  Your pain is shared.

Psalm 34:18 tells us that God is near to the brokenhearted; He's close to those who are crushed in spirit.  The message translation says "If your heart is broken, you’ll find God right there;
if you’re kicked in the gut, he’ll help you catch your breath."

It's my hope that my story offers comfort, peace, maybe even some wisdom.  I'm no expert.

I'm just a survivor.