I knew I was ready for another baby when pregnancy announcements made me jealous.
I created a secret Pinterest board for Baby #2. Began dreaming of a name, mentally decorating a room.
Over the summer, a faint second line and early hCG levels said I was pregnant. But those levels dropped and the line quickly faded, until they were gone.
It felt like tripping up stairs in the dark.
My OB’s nurse practitioner referred to it as a miscarriage. Conception that failed very early. However I have friends who have been told that a CP is merely a FP. False positive.
I didn’t and I still don’t know what happened or what to believe.
Months later, two very solid lines on two different tests, followed by promising blood levels. My progesterone was low again so I began taking supplements. Days turned to weeks and weeks became a month. As our ultrasound neared I was more and more excited. Three more sleeps until we see our baby! Two more sleeps until we hear the heartbeat! But 28 hours before my appointment, at eight weeks and two days, I knew something was wrong.
I tried to have hope. Scoured the internet for message boards of women with my symptoms who went on to have healthy babies. There are many. And yet, I knew I would not be one of them.
I prayed for a miracle but even as I did, I could almost feel my words bouncing back, hitting me in the face.
At the hospital, the ultrasound tech chose to take measurements before showing us the baby. Her quick glance at the start had shown her all she needed to see. Stillness. No flicker of a heartbeat. Finally she settled on the grainy, black and white image of a tiny human form, and confirmed our loss.
I nodded and thanked her for her time. But I did not cry.
In the room with the nurse practitioner, hearing the options in great, sympathetic detail, I asked questions and weighed my decision. But I did not cry.
I have moments, to be sure. Pity parties, where I wallow in the negativity. Blame myself for running too hard or drinking right up to the allotted amount of coffee. Blame my body and its low progesterone or seemingly hostile uterus. Blame God, Who must be punishing me for my sins.
But they are only moments. (OK sometimes entire afternoons.) Immature, absurd, ridiculous moments. I let myself feel them, then recognize them for the lies they are and let them go.
Tears do fall from my eyes, but this time . . . there are no distraught, grieving, gut-wrenching cries.
Not because this baby was any less loved.
Because I know what is waiting on the other side.
This sadness will not last forever.
The morning of the ultrasound, my Bible reading ended in Isaiah 66. That evening, I went back to find a line that had been repeating in my head all day:
For this is what the LORD says: I will extend peace to her like a river. (Isaiah 66:12)
I honestly do feel a current of peace running through me. It’s so strong, and would be inexplicable if I didn’t know better.
Our Father is faithful. Abundantly, extravagantly, consistently so.
He was so patient with me, as I questioned Him in loss and pleaded for reassurance while carrying Enzo. No question went unanswered, no request was ignored.
And now? I spend my days hugging and kissing a marvelously handsome answered prayer. My sweet, living proof of Romans 8:18 and 28. The pain that you’ve been feeling can’t compare to the joy that’s coming, and We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.
I am very sad, but not devastated. I know we will see our angel babies one day and God will redeem this hurt, in His time. Maybe with another healthy baby, maybe with continued peace and guidance to a new direction.
Meanwhile we choose to be grateful and joyful amid the pain, understanding His plan is far better than our own. He has proven He can be trusted. So trust we will.
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