Tuesday, June 5, 2012
We waited excitedly. Nervously. My stomach flipped anxiously, uncertain of what was to come. I had yearly check-ups; I knew what to expect. Not today. Today was different.
I was careful. My iPhone chimed everyday at 6:00PM, a musical reminder to take my prenatal. I'd been taking them since before we started to try. I read pregnancy books. Before bed, I filled Christopher in on just how big our baby was. A poppy seed, sesame seed, lentil . . . a prune. I felt pregnant. The signs were all there: nausea in the morning, exhausted all day, tender breasts...
I walked. Tired as I was, exercise was healthy for me, as well as for the tiny life inside me.
I prayed, "Lord, this is Your baby. I trust You. Please bless this baby. Keep Your baby safe, strong, and healthy. Please let this be our baby in eight months... seven months... six months..." Over and over, a hundred times a day, I prayed this little prayer.
I find myself breathing this prayer now. Still. After.
While the doctor poked and prodded, I knew what to look for. By ten weeks, there should be a tiny baby in the black. I saw the darkness. I saw nothing else. I held my breath as the doctor silently moved her wand, searching. Christopher squeezed my hand excitedly. He didn't know what the screen should reveal. I closed my eyes, pleading with God.
We took pictures each week, our faces lit with hope. We discussed names, giggling over silly ones, writing down names we loved. Christopher started working on the spare room again, a project he'd been putting off in the warm weather. We made announcement plans, deciding on Fathers' Day. Two days before 12 weeks was the perfect time to tell our fathers, our families.
We prayed, "Lord, this is Your baby. We trust You. Please bless this baby. Keep Your baby safe, strong, and healthy. Please let this be our baby in eight months... seven months... six months..." Every night before bed, we prayed this little prayer.
Christopher figured out what the doctor was going to say when she began speaking slowly, sadly. She said this was her least-favorite part of her job. Our baby was not where it should be at ten weeks. We should come back in two days to be sure, but our pregnancy no longer appeared viable. I was numb. Christopher's tears began to dot his collar, but I held mine in. My doctor hugged me, then left us alone.
I held my tears until we got home. Then we held each other for hours, gasping for breath, tears soaking the pillows.
We went back in two days, but it was over. I began miscarrying two weeks later.
A month later, the pain is still here. Sometimes, I gasp for breath. Sometimes, I feel okay. Our baby is with my mom, my grandpa, Christopher's grandparents . . . as much as I want our baby, I know he or she is in good hands.
I pray, "Lord, I trust You. Please bless Your babies. Keep Your babies safe, strong, and healthy. Please give us our babies soon." Over and over, a hundred times a day, I pray this little prayer.
I breathe this prayer now. Still. After.
*I wrote this because it is part of our story.
In the past few weeks, I have searched for stories to help me not feel so alone, stories to give me hope.
I've been hesitating to share this, but perhaps this story may help someone else not feel so alone.
May we hope together.
May we hope together.