Hesitation

Writing tends to bring healing and a sense of clarity to my life - particularly when I am dealing with difficult situations, so I am not entirely sure why I waited nearly a week to write about my miscarriage.

Most likely it's because we kept this last pregnancy very hush-hush.  Only a few people knew: our parents, a handful of prayer-warriors at church, and a select group of friends - mostly moms themselves - who were cheering us on and hoping that this was finally the one they'd get to coo over and spoil rotten.

Sadly, we were all disappointed again.

Please note, before you read any further, that this post does contain some slightly graphic medical references.  If that sort of thing makes you uncomfortable - or if you would prefer not to know certain details about my anatomy, then do not continue.  I am choosing to share stories like this in order to raise awareness and offer hope and healing to others who have had similar experiences - not for shock value.  The content is neither crude nor vulgar, but since this is a family-friendly blog, I felt that a gentle reminder about the graphic nature of this subject matter is in order.  Thanks.

Although, of course, we're not happy with the outcome, I must start my story by saying that this miscarriage was very different from my previous two, probably because I had a different doctor.  After we lost Bennett, Ross and I visited our friends Matt and Jaime at their new house in Brentwood.  As it often does when we're with friends who mourn with us, the topic of the miscarriages came up.  I mentioned to Jaime that I felt that God was urging me to look into seeing another doctor.  The way I described it to her, it was like I was going to McDonald's instead of visiting a gynecologist.  I paid for my order and got what I asked for, but there wasn't a sense of human interaction or compassion.  Just...fries.  So, okay...maybe that wasn't the greatest metaphor, but I think she got it anyway.  I explained to her that things got worse when I went in for my two-week appointment after my D & C in May...and the doctor asked me where my 3-month old baby was.  She was referring to my first miscarried child, who had been due on February 29th.  She had not only performed that surgery, but had also performed the one two weeks prior!  I responded quietly that I'd lost both babies, but inside I was just dying.  Had she taken - literally - three seconds to review my chart, she could have seen that I had not given birth yet.  I understand that these doctors see hundreds of patients in a week - and frankly, they aren't really looking at our faces anyway - but that was a painful blow.

When I told her the story, Jaime reacted exactly as I expected her to - "GIRL!  NO.  ARE YOU FOR REAL?!  NO.  THAT IS NOT EVEN RIGHT!" - which made sense, since she had left the same practice for similar reasons (although fortunately for her they did not revolve around losing a baby).  Jaime excitedly and respectfully suggested I consider her doctor, a Christian who was both gentle and open-minded when it came to obstetrical medicine.  Funny thing was, I had been recommended the same doctor by about three other women.  I felt that it would be a wise move to at least schedule a consultation with him.  There had been no follow-up whatsoever to my previous miscarriages and, while I understand that two losses in an otherwise healthy woman don't automatically equal a medical anomaly, I thought there should have been more than a pat on the shoulder and a "Go ahead and try again."

I truly felt like I was obeying God when I switched doctors.  Everything was better - the staff was gentler, funnier and more personable.  The practice was considerably smaller, meaning that better care was offered (at least in my opinion).  My first meeting with the doctor left me feeling that I was in far better hands.  Little did I know that, nine days later, we would get pregnant and I'd be right back in the office again! 

I kept thinking that I was glad I had listened to God, because things would be different this time.  I would be getting more personalized care from a more engaged physician who took the time to ask me how I felt as well as the details of my medical history.  I was so relieved.  I settled back and tried to enjoy the first days of another pregnancy.

Unfortunately, it doesn't seem that the care of the world's finest doctors could have saved our baby.  From the start, things didn't seem right.  My hormone levels weren't consistent with the suspected date of conception.  Then, at our first early ultrasound, the technician misdiagnosed an ectopic pregnancy, which threw my already frayed nerves into a tailspin.  She then retracted and said that it appeared the sac was at the very top of the uterus - that it had literally implanted itself immediately upon emerging from the Fallopian tube.  I joked that it would be just like my kid to be such a lazy son-of-a-gun.

She didn't really think that was funny.

Neither did I.  She had almost just given me a heart attack.  I wanted to scratch her eyes out.

However, she noted that the sac appeared to be that of a pregnancy that was about four weeks old - but we'd dated the pregnancy to be over seven weeks old.  Still, that age was consistent with the hormone levels the doctor had checked.  I tenatively asked if we could have been wrong about our due date, because my cycle was irregular, and she agreed heartily.  We left the office with a tiny glimmer of hope.  I wasn't throwing up yet, and had few other pregnancy symptoms, but maybe that was just because we had miscalculated our dates.

Maybe.

Three days later, Ross and I were getting ready for work and I saw it - blood on the toilet paper.  I'd been watching for it since we first learned we were pregnant, which was the night of a youth meeting at our house.  I hadn't seen it, and I'd thanked God every time I didn't.  But there it was.  I took a breath before I panicked.  Sometimes, a pelvic exam - from an overly enthusiastic sonographer - could cause a little bit of bleeding during pregnancy.  I knew that was natural.  It had happened with Bennett before anything went wrong.  Besides, I had already scheduled an appointment with the doctor the week before, and I could talk to him in the afternooon.  I was not going to jump to conclusions.  But I heard disappointment in my voice when I told Ross what I saw.

At the doctor's office, when I gave my urine sample, I noticed more blood.  Just a little bit.  Not enough to worry a woman who hadn't already lost two babies.  I told the doctor, and he paused.  He told me not to give up yet, and that even though I was considered high-risk, that there was probably a 50% chance that things would be okay.  I clung to that...and I clung to the promises that God had given me...through the Bible, through his ministers and even through one young boy in our youth group, who bravely spoke over us the month before at summer camp.

I am  still shocked at how calm I remained through the rest of the week.  "God," I found myself praying, "I know what is happening in my body.  I am losing this baby.  But if this is the baby you want me to keep, I am not counting out a miracle.  I know what medical science says, but I also know that your power raised Christ from the dead.  Your power put worlds and stars in motion.  It is not too difficult for you to quicken a tiny cluster of cells inside my womb and breathe life into them.

If this is the baby you want me to keep."

I had dozens of people praying.  So much encouragement.  So much love.  And yet...the blood kept flowing.  From brown to pink to bright, bright red, and I knew that our baby was with his sister and brother in Heaven. 

The phrase still sounds unreal, even when I speak it aloud, lips and teeth forming reluctantly, questioningly around the words, "I have lost three babies."

So why was this miscarriage different, even more peaceful than the others?  Without a doubt, the doctor's influence was immense.  They weren't ready to give up at the first sign of trouble.  In fact, even after I had begun to bleed, they continued to monitor my hormone levels to make absolutely certain of what was happening.  I had a final ultrasound to determine if there was any chance at all of the baby surviving.  That was far, far more than my old doctor had done.  With Bennett, everything was fine up until our third ultrasound, when they could not locate a heartbeat.  I was scheduled for surgery the very next day.  No research, no questions, no compassion - and no follow-up.  My heart aches even now, wishing that I had gotten a second opinion.  When this loss was confirmed, I met with my doctor, who offered his sympathy and gave us a plan of action (he will be referring us to a high-risk specialist). 

The first thing he said blew my mind: I did not need surgery.  My previous doctors had struck fear into my very bones regarding surgery.  They said that it was crucial to ensure that the body would return to normal - that I could scar or become infected without it - that it would "clean" the uterus for a future pregnancy.  All these things may have been true, mind you, but the last place on earth I wanted to be was in an ugly dressing gown, stripped of my underwear and my dignity, waiting to be stabbed and swabbed in a freezing, sterile room with half a dozen nurses refusing to make eye contact and the other half dozen artifically sympathetic to my loss.

"Your body is handling things on its own," the doctor said gently.  "Of course, we can perform a D & C if you need it - if you continue to bleed very heavily, but let's see how things work out on their own first." 

I can't tell you how much peace I felt in that moment.  For the first time, my body was actually making its own decision to release the baby.  Before, I had felt that my body betrayed me with two awful missed miscarriages - continuing to "act" pregnant even after my babies had died.  But in this moment, I felt that my body was doing the right thing.  The baby was not growing - for whatever reason - and my body allowed its release.

Of course, that doesn't mean the following week was a spiritual nirvana.  I was in a lot of pain, I was sad, I overate, and I practically bought out Wal-Mart's entire supply of jumbo elephant-sized maxi pads.  Fortunately, I was also able to load up on the ibuprofin since I could not longer hurt the baby with any medication.  A sushi date with Ross was pretty well-deserved, too.

And, speaking of Ross, can I just tell you that, never in my whole life was I more sure that I married the right man than when I saw how he handled our miscarriages?  He wept with me, he tried to make me laugh, he reminded me that it wasn't my fault, he refused to ignore the situation, he gently whispered to me that God keeps his promises and that we will have children someday.

We had picked out a name for this baby early on.  In fact, I was already using that name to talk to the baby.  Yet...after we lost him, I felt that it was okay if we picked another name for him and saved the first name for the baby we will be allowed to hold.  Ross was in agreement with me, and we picked out the name Galen John for our latest little one in Heaven.  Galen is Greek for "calm" or "peaceful".  Even as I was in physical and emotional pain while I was losing him, I felt so much peace...peace in God's promises, peace in the fact that my body was making its own decision, peace stemming from my husband's love and the support of my family.

I know that my daughter and sons - named after healing, blessing, and peace - are among the great cloud of witnesses the Bible tells about, and those witnesses cheer us on towards the great goal - the prize of Heaven, an eternity with Christ.  One of my goals is to look my children in the eyes and tell them how much I love them.

But something tells me that they already know.