Family, overcoming, Tragedy

My Silent Miscarriage

I knew it. The night before I took the test, I just felt like I knew I was pregnant. This wasn’t unplanned, my husband and I had decided to start a family, the timing “felt” as right as it ever would. I felt a whole mix of emotions: joy, excitement and a little bit of a healthy panic. I’d been taking my prenatal like I was supposed to and eating well.

Typically, twelve weeks is customary before sharing the “big news” with the family. But when we had our first ultrasound and saw the heart beating that, “tha-thud”, “tha-thud”. I held my breath as the ultrasound tech showed us the baby moving and the heart beat, going so consistently, so miraculously. We knew we were out of the woods for a miscarriage–or so we thought.

I’d sent out the Christmas cards to the family and friends, letting them know that baby Bennett was on the way. And that was true–until I went for another ultrasound the next week. This time I was alone, and the tech had a very blank stare on her face–stoic. Last time, I had remembered there was a lot more fanfare, she showed us the monitor screen. This week, there was nothing.

“You can go ahead and get changed, hun. I’ll go grab the doctor for your consult. But stay here,” she ordered kindly but sternly.

I panicked, something was definitely wrong. This couldn’t be right? I mean, she didn’t show me any pictures, didn’t have me hold my breath for the heartbeat, nothing. My palms were sweating and my head raced to the worst case scenario.

After the tech came back she led me to a new patient room and I sat there, waiting. More damn waiting. Why can’t they just tell me what’s going on already? What’s the deal with this?

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity but was really maybe five minutes, my doctor entered the room with a female student in training.

She looked at me with the saddest blue eyes, full of compassion and said, “I’m sorry, Christina. But unfortunately, this is a miscarriage. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, you did nothing wrong, but sadly, this does happen.”

I felt like the wind was knocked out of me.

“So what does this mean? There’s nothing that can be done?” My mind raced to denial, I couldn’t take in the words she was saying, not yet.

“It looks like there wasn’t enough growth from last week, and the heartbeat can’t be found. It also looks like there were twins. I’m not sure how we missed that last time, but we did.”

Okay, so you missed that from last week and now you tell me my kids are dead? I couldn’t grasp all this news, not now and not at once.

Trying to be calm and methodical I asked with tears in my throat, “So what do I do now?”

“Well we could give you some pills to take home and that will release the in-viable pregnancy, you could wait to miscarry naturally or get a D&C procedure. Or for peace of mind, we could do another ultrasound next week, and then you can decide.”

I chose the latter.

She asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

I nodded no, really fighting the tears at that point.

“Can I give you a hug?” She asked softly.

I nodded, yes, as words just weren’t coming from my mouth.

As she hugged me, sitting there on that patient table in the doctor’s office, my tears came, came hard and unapologetically. Whatever dam I had been able to create to keep them back, had broken. She eventually stepped back and said she’d give me some time to sit and then check out with the receptionist. I did.

When I left, it felt like lead blocks had replaced my shoes. Every step felt like a mile, every moment felt like eternity. I cried, I made phone calls, I prayed. But nothing really brought me comfort. Nothing but time and that second ultrasound could bring a true sense of peace that I so desperately wanted, hoped for, begged for.

Those next few days before that second ultra sound felt like a lifetime. I didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, didn’t really know how to act. I cried until I had nothing left in my tear ducts. Why was God taking away my child? As much as my faith meant to me, at that moment, I yelled, I cried, and I defied. What use was God if He being all powerful, couldn’t stop this? And reader, I’d like to say that I know why, that I have the answers, but I don’t.

I went to that second ultrasound, and the news was the same, but this time, I felt calmer, more relaxed. I had a new sense of hope that the things God promises, will come to pass but it may not be when we think it will be. But somehow, He gave me the grace and the ability to keep going when I felt hopeless, devastated. It’s amazing how much love you can have in your heart over a person you’ve never met. But I did, and I don’t regret that. Someday when I’m before the pearl door of heaven, I’ll see them. But for now, they’re truly little angels, in God’s hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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