It’s been seven years to the day since we lost our Story baby, and the memories of miscarriage have yet to lose their sharpness or fade away. I remember every detail, every tear, every horrible lie I believed, every cherished moment of my pregnancy.
I remember the faintness of the blood I found in the bathroom. I remember my heart racing and the silent screams in my head. I remember going into the kitchen at our friends’ house and pulling Nate aside, heart pounding, and telling him we needed to go. I remember the beautiful prayers and hugs and hopeful reassurances that it would all be alright. I remember Stefanie tucking me into our car so that we could visit the local emergency room.
I remember getting to the desk, unsure of what to tell the receptionist as to what was ailing me. I remember sitting for forever, just waiting to get called back, frantic because to me every second mattered. There were a lot of seconds that were passing. I remember changing into the hospital gown and the chill that I couldn’t shake. I remember the doctor – a kind stranger – saying he didn’t see anything on the ultrasound. I remember him telling us to go see the ultrasound tech down the hall. I remember being wheeled down there and waiting and waiting and waiting some more.
I remember the kindness of her smile – the ultrasound tech who left her child’s basketball game to come in and see if we still had a baby. I remember her checking everything, talking sweetly and even making me laugh. I remember as she shared the heartbreaking news that she couldn’t see anything and it would be best to visit the OBGYN in the morning. If ever there was someone God wanted to tell me those horribly sad things, it was her. I remember standing at the window, waiting for Nate to finish signing our paperwork so we could leave. I remember that it cost $100 to have our dreams shattered late one Wednesday night in February.
I remember silently lowering myself into the car, Nate shutting the door behind me. I remember calling my mom – those silent cries were no longer silent. Knowing what it means to be a mother now I can’t imagine how excruciating it must have been for her to hear her own baby sobbing hundreds of miles away. She held me – with her words – til I could calm down. I remember we drove home, and I remember I was in and out of consciousness the whole way back.
I remember getting home, our dogs so eager to see us, and having nothing left to give. I remember summoning the strength to brush my teeth and climb in bed. I remember the enemy telling me over and over again that it was me – I screwed this up. I lost the baby. And now that life was withering away inside of me. I remember somehow I drifted off to sleep.
I remember the next morning not going in to work, but rather driving to our OBGYN’s office instead. The sun was shining, people were drinking coffee and singing along to music in their cars, but for me the earth was standing still. I was angry. I remember walking into the OBGYN’s office, jam-packed with pregnant women. I remember seeing the one doctor that was available. I remember the dread on her face when she confirmed that our precious baby was no longer alive. I remember saying OK to the D&C.
I remember going into surgery, those last few moments before the anesthesia took effect and I drifted off. I remember waking up in that teeny room with the white curtain around it, Nate anxiously standing beside the bed. I was crying as I woke up. I hated my life in that moment, hated that my own body had betrayed me, had betrayed my baby. I hated it all. There are times when people talk about being dead inside, and I can tell you for certain that in that moment I was dead.
I remember Nate picking Chili’s for dinner – giant bacon cheeseburgers and huge soft drinks and a mountain of fries. We ate it at home, and it was good although I was so stuffy from the hours of crying that I couldn’t taste much of it. I remember Robbie & Stefanie coming over – dear friends – and I remember watching The Hangover and When Harry Met Sally. We didn’t talk about the baby. We didn’t talk about the surgery. We tried to laugh. And when they left Stefanie handed me a gift – a tiny bear and a note – that I will cherish forever. She said she hated that I didn’t have a baby to hold, and a stuffed bear isn’t a child, but it was more than nothing.
I remember all of the bleeding, the 5-times-a-day (at least) reminder of the fact that my baby was gone. I remember Lindsey coming down the stairs at work, knowing exactly what happened by the look on my face, and I remember her crying with me there in the lobby. I remember my boss being so kind and a little more lenient in my time off because she knew what I had been through.
I remember the horror. I remember the tears. I remember the loss. But what I also remember is this: that through me sharing my Story online I have met incredible women who will be friends for a lifetime. My Story brought hope and comfort and love to women who were suffering alone through miscarriage. My Story has brought more women to Christ and has led more families to cherish one another than I ever have. My baby that I never met has left a legacy far greater than I could dream of because my Story taught me how much I love my children. I will never forget the pain, but I will always remember the beauty that has come from the ashes of loss.
Story baby, I miss you. One day we’ll see you, whole and beautiful, and til then we will love you. Your brothers – our rainbow babies – will know how loved they are because you taught us not to take a moment of this life for granted. You continue to bring joy and healing to our lives and the lives of others, and it is such a gift being the mother of a child who changes lives for the kingdom of Christ.