To others going through miscarriage --- there's hope beyond the now

I wrote this the week it happened, but I couldn't share it. It still hurts --- I'm sure it always will. But I pray someday these next few blogs will help someone else going through the same pain.

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With a spotting concern, I drove to the ER, hoping to get an ultrasound to see that our baby was kicking away and there wasn't anything unusual going on.

However, as a doctor entering the hospital for his shift told me to sit down and wait a minute until a nurse could check in with me, tears starting overflowing the fear that churned inside me.

The intercom turned on.

"Have you been helped?"

"No."

"What can we do?"

"I'm 15 weeks pregnant and I'm having some bleeding," I said, barely able to say the words through my the tears breaking my voice.

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The ultrasound popped up on the screen of the cart that was rolled into my room, and the physician's assistant that had walked past me when I first entered the ER entrance rolled the wand along my bare stomach.

"I don't like it," he murmured to himself.

I saw the blurred image on the screen, and I could see the bright spot in the center of the little body that a few weeks ago was blinking quickly. However, that bright spot was still.

He kept rolling the wand around in different angles.

"I don't see a heartbeat."

A sob rocked my body, and I pressed my hands over my eyes as I lay on the table, trying to keep my belly still as I cried so that the PA-C could continue his job. I felt the nurse's hand gently on my blanket-covered foot.

"It doesn't mean...that's just what I'm seeing right now and I want to tell you what I'm seeing."

No heartbeat on the monitor, no heartbeat other than my own on the doppler. The PA-C called a larger hospital that my OB-Gyn was based out of and decided I needed a more formal ultrasound.

"I hope I'm wrong, but I don't think I am," he said.

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We headed to the other hospital, but I told my husband what had happened and that I could see on the monitor there wasn't a heartbeat. Of course, I prayed that God would do a miracle and we would arrive there to find our baby was just resting and was up and moving.

It wasn't to be.

The ultrasound tech turned the lights off and started by "taking some routine pictures" of my uterus and ovaries. But I knew that if the baby was OK, she would have said immediately that she saw a heartbeat. She didn't.

She measured the baby, and the screen read 10w6d. I was supposed to be 15 weeks along.

She pulled up a view of the baby again.

"Do you want a photo for a keepsake?"

That was it. That was her way of saying it.

Our baby was gone.

"Did I read that right? The baby is measuring at 10 weeks?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

"That's when we had our first ultrasound. It was fine then, with a strong heartbeat. It must have happened right after."

She showed us where the skin had thickened on the little skull. She said that only happens when the child has been gone for a few weeks.

The ultrasound tech left the room after kindly asking if she could get our daughter some crackers as she was starting to get antsy. We declined but thanked her for the thoughtfulness.

Tears welled as I asked my husband if he would pray.

"I don't know what to say," I said.

He prayed for us --- for our sorrow --- and he thanked God that our baby was in the arms of Jesus and was able to circumvent the harshness of this world.

I hadn't thought of that. We had created a new soul, and although that little one never made it out to this earth, it was still a human and that meant it went to heaven that day more than a month before. It meant that it had the incredible blessing of never having to experience pain, disappointment, illness, heartache, fear. It was able to escape immediately to a place that God has created for all of his children.

That kind of blew my mind. If there's anything to be thankful for, it's that. What a blessing that our child never had to experience suffering.

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I didn't want to tell people. I selfishly didn't want to hear the sympathetic words or to see anyone else grieve our loss. It's too personal. I didn't want constant reminders as I tried to sort through my thoughts. My man is my rock, and he did what needed to be done. I don't know how I'd do life without him or get through something like this without him.

My thoughts are still churning. One second I'm fine. The next I'm heartbroken that I'll never get to see this child, never get to hold it in my arms. I'm terrified at how I'll feel when I have the surgery and I'm actually no longer pregnant, when this child that I know has been gone for a while is truly gone.

But our Romans commentary, which I made my husband read when I couldn't get the words out, talked about how the Holy Spirit suffers with us. Literally, that night it said when a mother holds her lifeless child, the Spirit is there is anguish right alongside us. No one can tell me that God wasn't directly speaking to me through that passage on that exact night.

Plus, the next day, as I continued to lean on Romans 8:26-27 --- now inscribed on a necklace I wear with a heart that bears the pregnancy and infant loss awareness ribbon --- my best friend texted me that she was praying this exact verse over us.

Again, you can't tell me that our dear Father wasn't speaking directly to us through other people.

So I keep crying out, "Lord." That's it. I don't really have any other words. I keep relying on the Holy Spirit to do the talking for me.

I look at my life, and there is so much good. I'm so thankful I have my daughter to hold onto when my arms are empty, and I have my husband to hold me when I can't hold myself up. Mostly, I'm thankful that our dear Savior has given us hope that those who believe in his sacrifice on the cross will have life after death. So it breaks my heart, but I pray that Jesus will tell our child --- who is now whole and perfect --- that I love him or her and I can't wait to meet him or her.

And I pray that on this side, good comes out of this as well. Maybe it will be a way that we can tell people about the hope of Jesus. Maybe it will be a way that we can empathize with others in the future. Maybe it will be a way for God to bring us even closer together, to make us more appreciative, to make us stronger, to help us know him more --- I mean, God lost a son too, on the cross. Maybe we'll never know what the good is, but God does. He promises that his plan is for the good of those who love him. There's going to be many more ups, downs, questions, fears, tears, thankfulness, pain and love, but I'm so blessed that I have hope beyond the now.