This entry will be long but I need to say every word.
This is just the beginning of my story and I don’t yet know how it ends. Wouldn't life be so much easier if we did? My husband and I have been trying to conceive a child for almost 4 years. I try to cling to the hope that one day my dreams of having a family of my own will come true but I’m struggling. We've had two very exciting pregnancies that both ended before we were able to hold a baby in our arms. The first time it happened was early on, (we had barely found out and then it was gone) and the loss was rough but easier. This last time was different. We had planned and prayed and loved that child for a few weeks before it was taken from us. I know I’ll remember that day for a lifetime. Each moment and every labored breath is etched into my mind for eternity...
He came in with that look on his face. The one that tells you its bad news before a word is even spoken. I knew in that moment my baby was gone. Anguish ripped open that place in my soul, the one place that was holding out hope that the baby – our baby – was okay. My world emptied and I couldn't respond. This wasn't a movie scene; no one wanted to see this young woman wail at the loss of her unborn child. No, this is the real world. This is the world where you smile and you act like you didn't just shatter on the inside. This is the world where suffering is done in private.
The doctor smiled tentatively as he went over hormone levels and numbers. It was all a blur to me; it was meaningless chatter, I already knew the end result. As I sat there I could feel the hysteria rising up from within me. “Your pregnancy has been unexpectedly terminated…” The doctor went on about going to a fertility clinic. I stopped listening. He was trying to offer me something I was tired of holding on to: hope. This wasn't the first time we’d lost a child and a fertility doctor had tried to help us. He was a nice man but he didn't have a clue. He had no idea that at this point my husband David and I were basically fertility experts. He sympathetically patted my arm and as he left the room so did my self-control.
“Babe…” David reached for me but I grabbed my clothes and ran into the sanctuary that was the adjoining bathroom. I slid on to the tile clutching my grief in the clothing I held. My shoulders heaved and my stomach turned. My soul had lost another fight to my body. My body refused to bear a child. It was impossible to escape the pain. I would never be whole again.
A small and confident voice stirred within me. How? I do not know. “Change,” it said, “just change out of this gown and get the hell out of here. You can do that, you’re strong.” Those words repeated over and over while I unclasped and re-clasped and danced into my too small pants. I stood in front of the tiny bathroom mirror and gawked at myself. I’m not different but I am. Why doesn't our outward appearance reflect inward change? It would be easier if I was missing a limb or my chest was torn and bleeding. Actually it would be better if someone had just ripped out my heart. My soul wouldn't have known the difference.
We tried to escape from the cell that held us before the nurses were ready “This will be quick; we just have to get your final blood pressure before we can release you” the blond nurse wrapped the cuff around my arm. My resolve was weakening and tear by tear my face began to speak the words I couldn't say.
“That’s fine,” I managed.
“Don’t worry I’d want to get out of here too,” she said.
I refrained from looking at her directly and just nodded a bit through my tears. We got the all clear and I practically jumped out of our room. David and I raced through the halls, him mostly chasing me and me trying not to break into an all-out run. Once we got outside David could wait no longer but I could have waited forever. I didn't want to hug him - touching him would make all of this real. I didn't want to be comforted; I wanted to run. But David pulled me into his arms and I broke. I sobbed in his arms and he serenaded me with choruses of “it’s okay,” and “we’ll be okay”
Somehow I ended up in the car and we began the drive home. I succumbed even further to my misery the moment the crunch of gravel sounded under our tires. Home. Just yesterday I loved this place. I had spent days scouring for Pinterest projects and arranging the baby’s room in my mind. I knew on the counter there was a bottle of prenatal vitamins. The Tylenol purchased specifically because it wouldn't harm the baby. In this house there were memories of countless excited moments we'd shared as we planned for our child. Too many desires that had been halted. I couldn't go inside. How could I face this? The death of future plans? The death of all my hopes and dreams? The death of my sweet baby? Emptiness swallowed me whole. I sealed myself in the car and cried.
Though I have no idea how, that small voice softly began, “Just get out of the car and face the house. You can do this, you’re strong.” My heart ached and somehow pulled all the energy from my already tired body and I began. The journey towards the door was bleak. In each step I confronted the memories and sorrow. In every stride that small voice repeated my new mantra, “you’re strong.” But I wasn't.
Thank the Lord that we don't have to carry these burdens alone. I'm still devastated but with each passing moment it gets better. A few days before the loss of our baby, I'd shared a wonderful time with God. I was driving home from leading a training in Denver. A storm accompanied me on most of the 4 hour drive and during one of the loudest moments of thunder the song "In Christ Alone" by Shane & Shane (you can play this song from the link at the bottom) came on my radio. It was a glorious experience. Words cannot truly express the amount of grace, love, and peace I felt in those moments.
He came in with that look on his face. The one that tells you its bad news before a word is even spoken. I knew in that moment my baby was gone. Anguish ripped open that place in my soul, the one place that was holding out hope that the baby – our baby – was okay. My world emptied and I couldn't respond. This wasn't a movie scene; no one wanted to see this young woman wail at the loss of her unborn child. No, this is the real world. This is the world where you smile and you act like you didn't just shatter on the inside. This is the world where suffering is done in private.
The doctor smiled tentatively as he went over hormone levels and numbers. It was all a blur to me; it was meaningless chatter, I already knew the end result. As I sat there I could feel the hysteria rising up from within me. “Your pregnancy has been unexpectedly terminated…” The doctor went on about going to a fertility clinic. I stopped listening. He was trying to offer me something I was tired of holding on to: hope. This wasn't the first time we’d lost a child and a fertility doctor had tried to help us. He was a nice man but he didn't have a clue. He had no idea that at this point my husband David and I were basically fertility experts. He sympathetically patted my arm and as he left the room so did my self-control.
“Babe…” David reached for me but I grabbed my clothes and ran into the sanctuary that was the adjoining bathroom. I slid on to the tile clutching my grief in the clothing I held. My shoulders heaved and my stomach turned. My soul had lost another fight to my body. My body refused to bear a child. It was impossible to escape the pain. I would never be whole again.
A small and confident voice stirred within me. How? I do not know. “Change,” it said, “just change out of this gown and get the hell out of here. You can do that, you’re strong.” Those words repeated over and over while I unclasped and re-clasped and danced into my too small pants. I stood in front of the tiny bathroom mirror and gawked at myself. I’m not different but I am. Why doesn't our outward appearance reflect inward change? It would be easier if I was missing a limb or my chest was torn and bleeding. Actually it would be better if someone had just ripped out my heart. My soul wouldn't have known the difference.
We tried to escape from the cell that held us before the nurses were ready “This will be quick; we just have to get your final blood pressure before we can release you” the blond nurse wrapped the cuff around my arm. My resolve was weakening and tear by tear my face began to speak the words I couldn't say.
“That’s fine,” I managed.
“Don’t worry I’d want to get out of here too,” she said.
I refrained from looking at her directly and just nodded a bit through my tears. We got the all clear and I practically jumped out of our room. David and I raced through the halls, him mostly chasing me and me trying not to break into an all-out run. Once we got outside David could wait no longer but I could have waited forever. I didn't want to hug him - touching him would make all of this real. I didn't want to be comforted; I wanted to run. But David pulled me into his arms and I broke. I sobbed in his arms and he serenaded me with choruses of “it’s okay,” and “we’ll be okay”
Somehow I ended up in the car and we began the drive home. I succumbed even further to my misery the moment the crunch of gravel sounded under our tires. Home. Just yesterday I loved this place. I had spent days scouring for Pinterest projects and arranging the baby’s room in my mind. I knew on the counter there was a bottle of prenatal vitamins. The Tylenol purchased specifically because it wouldn't harm the baby. In this house there were memories of countless excited moments we'd shared as we planned for our child. Too many desires that had been halted. I couldn't go inside. How could I face this? The death of future plans? The death of all my hopes and dreams? The death of my sweet baby? Emptiness swallowed me whole. I sealed myself in the car and cried.
Though I have no idea how, that small voice softly began, “Just get out of the car and face the house. You can do this, you’re strong.” My heart ached and somehow pulled all the energy from my already tired body and I began. The journey towards the door was bleak. In each step I confronted the memories and sorrow. In every stride that small voice repeated my new mantra, “you’re strong.” But I wasn't.
He was.
Thank the Lord that we don't have to carry these burdens alone. I'm still devastated but with each passing moment it gets better. A few days before the loss of our baby, I'd shared a wonderful time with God. I was driving home from leading a training in Denver. A storm accompanied me on most of the 4 hour drive and during one of the loudest moments of thunder the song "In Christ Alone" by Shane & Shane (you can play this song from the link at the bottom) came on my radio. It was a glorious experience. Words cannot truly express the amount of grace, love, and peace I felt in those moments.
Now, I'm not perfect. I wish I could say that I felt the same amount of immeasurable presence of God in my brokenness. But I didn't. Graciously, God found me in the midst of all my misery and reminded me of His love for me and for my child.God is still good, even when life is horrific. The strength we find is in Christ alone. Only He directs our paths and calms our souls. "From life's first cry to final breath, Jesus commands my destiny." His love cannot be stopped by my prideful, stubborn heart and I've never been more thankful for this than in the past few days.
In weirdness and mutual suffering,
Alissa
Bawling. Gosh. Thank you for posting this my sweet friend. I've been so worried and anxious and this post--the end of this post--brought tons of peace. I've been struggling with it all but reading your words have given me more peace. Praying for you
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