Facedown on the Temple Floor

[David] answered, “While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept. I thought, ‘Who knows? The LORD may be gracious to me and let the child live.’  But now that he is dead, why should I go on fasting? Can I bring him back again? I will go to him, but he will not return to me.”

                                                                                                       -2 Samuel 12:22 

It feels so awkward, so vulnerable to be dealing with this in such a public way - less than twenty-four hours after we joyfully announced our pregnancy in an equally public way...but writing has been God's gift for me to heal, and so, after a difficult and dramatic morning, I sit again in front of the keys and the screen.

Late last night, I got into an argument with Ross and got to bed quite late.  I found it extremely difficult to fall asleep, and almost as soon as I did, I was awakened by terrible stomach cramps.  I hurried to the bathroom, thinking I was reacting to something I had eaten.  Forty-five minutes later, I returned to bed, feeling better.  I had only gotten a few hours of sleep when my alarm went off, and I jumped in he shower, had my (one, precious, 8 ounce) cup of coffee, and prepared for work.  When I went to the bathroom, I saw blood and I immediately began to cry.  I screamed for Ross, who came to me at once.  Though all the pregnancy books I had read told me that a little spotting, a bit of pink or brownish blood was harmless, even normal, I panicked.  I called off work, I called the doctor.  Forty minutes later, a nurse called back and immediately scheduled an ultrasound for me, since I hadn't had one yet.  Ross called off work and we drove to the imaging center.  We were worried, but excited.  We weren't scheduled to hear the heartbeat for another week, so, providing that all was well, this was a special surprise!

The technician was polite as she explained what she was going to do.  Suddenly, there on the screen in front of us, was a little kidney bean.  I even murmured, "There's our little bean."  the technician didn't respond right away.  After a moment, she quietly said, "That is an eight-week embryo."  I thought, how strange!  The doctors got it wrong.  I must have conceived later than they thought!  Then the technician went on, gently, calmly.  "You're twelve weeks...we should definitely be hearing a heartbeat by now."

She didn't need to say any more.  As I began to sob, "My baby's dead," I heard Ross weeping next to me, grasping for my hand.  The technician whispered, "I am so sorry," and I choked out, "Did the baby just...stop growing?"  She nodded.

I couldn't stop crying, so ashamed.  I felt gutted there on the table, my legs in stirrups, my inadequacy somehow exposed, my obvious failure dissected for all to see.  As suddenly as I had learned I was pregnant, six weeks later, I suddenly...wasn't.

"There was nothing you did wrong," the technician soothed, then excused herself from the room to allow Ross and I to share our grief.

He held me tight, sobbing himself, and I kept apologizing to him.  All the books I had read told me that the mother had absolutely nothing to do with a miscarriage and there is no way to prevent one, but I still felt responsible.  Somehow, my body failed to do its job properly - the job it was created to do! - and now the only image of that child I will ever see is a dead black bean on the screen in front of me.

We talked right away to the gynecologist, who was less than comforting, but who again reminded me, briskly, that 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage and I had done nothing wrong.  Then she immediately went on to explain that, due to the age of the pregnancy, my body would not be likely to complete the miscarriage on its own, and I would need a procedure called a D & C.  The whole thing sounded to me exactly like what an abortion would be like, and so I began to cry again.  What were the chances that my baby was just...developing slowly?  In my heart I knew that the baby had already gone home to be with Jesus, but I had a tiny fantasy left.  Hadn't I just read a news article about a woman who was told she'd miscarried, but then discovered she was still carrying a healthy baby?  Couldn't that happen to me, too?  No.  The image of that little bean was enough to tell me so.  No movement, no little arms, no little legs.  No life.

Ross texted my father, saying that we were coming to visit him, and that things weren't good.  My dad knew, as we slowly walked up  the stairs, that he wasn't going to be a grandfather just yet.  He simply held us for a while, and the three of us cried.  No longer having to worry about caffeine consumption, I asked for a cup of coffee, and my Dad immediately gave me one.  We talked, and cried.  And cried.  We talked about loss, and grief, and God's plan, and the baby.  I told my dad, with quiet wonder as I realized it to be true, that I was in no way mad at God.  Not for a second of today's terrible events did I reject God or accuse him of anything.  Although I fail daily as a Christian, he gave me the strength to truly realize that he is not the source of my grief.  He gave me a brief glimpse of Tia, already in heaven and completely whole and healed, holding my baby - also whole.  He reminded me that my baby joined a million others in heaven - the unborn babies of my friends, my leaders, my co-workers.  

I know that people say - and it's medically true - that miscarriages are most often the result of a genetic defect or real problem with the growing fetus.  Although that is true, it doesn't make me feel much better.  After all, wasn't I the one who panicked to God about the chance of having a special needs baby, and fretted over not being able to love the baby enough?  Did God spare me the trouble?  I can only believe that, honestly and truly, the baby was so damaged that he or she would not have lived at all.

Those who know me understand that this isn't just a loss of pregnancy.  It's the loss of a child.  Since Ross and I believe that life begins with conception, we view this the same way that we would if the child were stillborn, or if we'd lost a toddler in a car accident.  But God spared me some of the grief that may have come in those situations.  Since I had never seen an image of the baby, or known its sex, or bought any clothes, or named it, I didn't have quite the same connection as I would have if I'd have held it in my arms.  It doesn't make me any less a mother, and it doesn't make me grieve any less...but my grief is a little more vague.

More questions spring up.  Was it Ross's sperm?  Was it my egg?  Both?  Is this a fertility issue or just a fluke?  Will I ever be able to carry a baby to term?  If I do, will it be healthy?  Will I?  How will my body recover?  When can - and should - we try again?  What if we never recover from the grief?  How will I break it to my friends and co-workers - who I just told yesterday - that they must suddenly save their congratulations for another time?  How do I regain my joy?  How do I tell my future children, if any, that they have a big brother or sister waiting in heaven for them?  How can I handle seeing my friends' beautiful infants and toddlers, while I continue to mourn my little lost kidney bean?  How do I breathe?  How do I breathe?

Of course nothing can answer those questions, not even medical science.  Not really.  And worry has never made an expectant mother - or anyone, for that matter - healthier or improved quality of life.  I must grieve now, for the time allotted to me - no more, no less.  I know that many grieve with me, and that their grief is real.  They wanted to hold my beautiful baby as much as Ross and I did.  I feel that I have let them down, even though I know that I could not have done a single thing to change the course of the pregnancy.

And God revealed something else to us as we quietly drove away from the imaging center.  This Friday, the day that my procedure is scheduled, is our Youth Night of Prayer at church.  The first ever.  And we had an obligation to these young people even before we knew about the baby.  We will be there to exhort them in prayer, intercession, praise, worship and prophecy.  Even if I never have biological children of my own (though I believe I will), I have been called to pour into these incredible young people and encourage them in the Lord.  That is any mother's legacy, whether or not the children were born of her womb or another's.  That is, too, a father's legacy, and Ross feels the same way I do.  No matter what the enemy has meant for evil, this week, we will knock down the gates of hell on Friday night.  The Bible says that the enemy owes seven times what he has stolen.  Although I am not claiming to want seven children someday, I will reclaim seven times the joy he stole so that I may laugh again, seven times the tears he reaped so that I may soon weep tears of gladness, and seven times the peace he plucked from my heart so that I may again be at rest in God's hand. 

Maybe it's not appropriate to display all these emotions and problems on the internet for everyone to see.  Maybe it's best to wrap everything up among friends and family, and sit quietly in prayer circles and ask God for his peace and perfect will and sob into homemade handkerchiefs.  But I know in my heart that he gave me words for weapons, words for healing and words for recovery.  And there is a woman out there who, this morning, was dealt the same horrific blow I was.  I don't know who she is, but this is for her.

You will recover, beloved.  Do not pull away from He who reaches out to you, for He is the only one who can heal your heart.  He holds your heart in His nail-scarred hands, and it is He who holds your baby until you meet again.  God is not punishing you.  God does not punish by dealing death.  God wants to draw you into him, in spite of this loss.  Turn your face to him and he will give you peace and life everlasting - as he has already given your child.