I sat there, a faded hospital sheet draped over my legs, blood sticky to my inner thighs. It was too early to find a heartbeat, but the blood draw confirmed there was a pregnancy, he said.

I was told there was nothing to be done, the “tissue would pass.” I was given a brown paper sack full of giant disposable pads and was told to call my OB on Monday to have another HCG test to see if the levels declined. 

And I walked out of the ER and went home to wait for my baby to die.

The pregnancy test was still wrapped for my husband to open. The new “Party of 3” sign was still en route on a FedEx truck to our house. I expected a weekend of excitement and celebration, but instead, I was going home to wait for my baby to die, I was going home to tell my husband he would be grieving when he did not yet have the opportunity to know there was someone to grieve. 

RELATED:  You Were Here My Angel

The tissue would pass. That sentence played over and over as I drove myself home. From the moment the word PREGNANT appeared on that digital stick, I had a child—she was blonde and giggly, I saw her dancing in the kitchen while standing on her daddy’s toes as he sang my favorite song. From the moment of the word PREGNANT on that digital stick, I saw a little boy jumping in puddles and snuggling his mama as he drifted to sleep.

Never once after the digital stick confirmed my greatest dreams, did I think of my child as tissue that would pass.

I got home and thought about saving my husband from this grief, keeping it to myself. I could shower and he would never know. He would think the pads are for my time of the month, and I could save him from this pain. I could save him from the gut-wrenching feeling of blonde giggles and warms snuggles vanishing from his heart with the words that are even hard for my mouth to form, “the tissue will pass.”

When my husband arrived home, I wanted to smile, I wanted to greet him warmly. I waited at the door planning a kiss and a hug, but I collapsed in his arms the moment his feet crossed the threshold and told him in one breath, and he collapsed with me to the floor.

The weekend passed and along with it, our child.

Our child who would have had blonde curly hair, I am sure, our child who would’ve laughed at my husband’s jokes, and snuggled me close. Our child who I dreamed of breathing in, our child who we loved even before the word PREGNANT appeared on a digital stick.

RELATED: A Mother’s Love Can’t Be Measured In Weeks

The doctor was right the tissue did pass but so did our child, because from the moment that digital screen showed the word PREGNANT we were parents, and we had a child. We decided to save the hearts of those we love and never told another soul about that weekend, but we know long before another digital stick appeared again with the glorious word PREGNANT, we had a child and we were parents.

So God Made a Mother book by Leslie Means

If you liked this, you'll love our book, SO GOD MADE A MOTHER available now!

Order Now

Check out our new Keepsake Companion Journal that pairs with our So God Made a Mother book!

Order Now
So God Made a Mother's Story Keepsake Journal

Her View From Home

Millions of mothers connected by love, friendship, family and faith. Join our growing community. 1,000+ writers strong. We pay too!   Find more information on how you can become a writer on Her View From Home at https://herviewfromhome.com/contact-us/write-for-her//

My Baby Was Made For Heaven

In: Grief, Loss, Motherhood
Woman looking at baby items

The sun was yawning its way down the horizon line as I stood on a beach in the Carolinas. I had stepped away from the crowd and stood just beyond the wave line in a short, blue cotton dress as I took in the views following the final rehearsal for my sister-in-law’s wedding. I was feeling—well—gorgeous and glowing. I rubbed my hands along my round belly and felt the little kick from the 7-months-brewing new life growing underneath those blue, cotton fibers. I looked down at my bump and then up to the sky where I had taken my eyes...

Keep Reading

Miscarriage is Sad, and It’s OK To Say it Out Loud

In: Grief, Loss, Motherhood
Sad woman hugging knees

I was 10-weeks pregnant, wiping ultrasound jelly off my stomach, and trying to focus on the weight of my husband’s hand on my shoulder to keep the room from spinning. Our doctor had just closed the door behind her, but the presence of her words still hung in the air, “There’s no heartbeat. I’m so sorry.” I clung to Garrett’s hand, but I didn’t know what to say. So I just repeated the doctor’s words “I’m so sorry” over and over again. Because I was sorry—for us, sorry for him, sorry we were suffering this loss. Sorry we had already...

Keep Reading

Maybe I’m Just a Bad Miscarriage Mom

In: Loss, Motherhood
Woman looking out window

“Maybe I’m just a bad miscarriage mom,” I whispered to my husband lying in bed one night. We were at the end of a miscarriage and he had asked me how I was doing. My sincere response was OK. Not the OK on the outside but crumbling inside kind of OK. It was the not great but not horrible OK kind of OK.  But I felt guilty being OK because it didn’t sound like what a miscarriage mom should say.  I’ve had four miscarriages. The first was an ectopic pregnancy discovered before it threatened my health and life. Numbers two...

Keep Reading