Most of the people in my life didn’t even know I was pregnant. Even those closest to me had only just learned the news when our baby left us.
Over the past year, I had seen so many friends miscarry that I thought somehow that I could be “safe” if I just waited to tell everyone. But, safe from what? Safe from the loss? Safe from having to deliver bad news? Nobody wants to have to say those words, but healing doesn’t happen in secret. It doesn’t happen in darkness.
We had just begun to tell our closest family the news when the bleeding started. I spent the second half of that day with my family in a complete fog…that day that was supposed to be so happy…that day we had decided weeks before that we would share the great news of a new baby on the way. I dragged myself home to lie down, but sleep didn’t come. I tossed and turned and in between tears and fervent prayers, I squinted at the blue light of my phone, looking for hope and answers on the internet. I found myself straddling a fine line between hope and surrender, not wanting to allow either one to completely overtake me. Michael was at work and I was home alone and mainly I was scared that I would lose our baby all alone in the dark.
I spent another half a day in a fog of sadness, trying desperately to keep my daughter from seeing my tears and from feeling my despair. When the baby finally left me, it came as a relief. Though not the resolution I wanted, it was at least a release from the unknown and the fear.
I was ten weeks pregnant and had six glorious weeks of planning and dreaming about who this new little person might be. I swooned at the idea of Evelyn becoming a big sister and couldn’t wait for her to be able to feel little baby kicks in my tummy. It’s amazing how quickly a mama (and daddy) brain can wrap itself around the idea of new baby. The connection is almost instantaneous. The love hits you like ton of bricks.
I wasn’t prepared for this. I was so certain about this baby right from the start. I knew I was pregnant long before the test told me so.
In the days leading up to my miscarriage, we had just started to tell Evelyn about the baby in mommy’s belly and she was certain that it was a boy baby. I like to think that maybe she knew something that the rest of us couldn’t have known. She proudly sported her ‘Big Sister’ T-shirt and announced the news to my parents. It feels so unfair that she won’t ever get to play with him and boss him around.
We had started to plan for the nursery and I bought a few teeny tiny cloth diapers from a friend. We even had the names all ready to go. This baby was real to us, even though we hadn’t yet seen him on a screen or heard a little heartbeat.
My thoughts and words here are starting to ramble as I try to make sense of something that can’t be explained away. I know I am only at the beginning of the grieving process, and I can’t fully articulate everything that I am thinking and feeling. But, I feel like talking about this loss is a way of remembering my baby. As Michael and I stopped for food after our long ER visit, I noticed the the other diners happily chatting away, waitresses cleaning tables and everyone just going about their business as the reality of our loss weighed heavily on our weary hearts. It was a great reminder to me that you really never know what other people are going through, what tragedy may have just fallen upon them.
While I have no regrets about waiting to tell people about my pregnancy, it scares me to think that I could just go about my business and most people would never even know what happened. They wouldn’t ever know that my baby existed. But, he did exist and he was loved and cherished and dreamed about and prayed for. For a time, however brief, he was ours.