Eighteen years ago I carried you for a moment. Made with love, we wondered what you would be when we got to meet you, what it would feel like to hold you in our arms. We excitedly told family and friends we were expecting. I saw the most precious onesie on a hanger and bought it for you. Long sleeves and white with a brown teddy bear on the chest, I breathed in that new clothes smell and imagined dressing you in it for the first time.
The idea of you was lost just as quickly as the idea of you came on that warm summer day. I went to the bathroom at work and knew something was wrong. My heart raced as I left work and went to the doctor where the ultrasound confirmed what I knew deep down, you were gone.
At 25 years old, I didn’t know much about loss and grief, and I didn’t know anything about miscarriage. The doctor said a lot of words. They all sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher, “womp womp womp womp.” I left the doctor’s office in a daze, knowing only a few things: 1) inside my body was an empty sac that had stopped developing around three weeks. 2) my body should get rid of the sac naturally over the next few days or we would schedule a DNC, 3) it would be best to wait at least two cycles before trying again, and 4) I should fill the prescription for the pain meds.
The idea of you was gone. I went home to that teddy bear onesie and cried buckets of tears. I lay on the couch for hours at a time, watching TV with my new husband. Marriage had just got real—fast—as I continued to cry and cry and cry. In what could have been hours or days, my stomach began to contract. I was in terrible pain, agony really. My body was miscarrying you.
My husband asked me to take the pain meds, but I refused. What was left of you was leaving my body, and I wanted to feel it, as if that would make me feel connected to you, for the last time. I was in labor, but at the end, I didn’t get to bring a baby home. Instead of holding a baby in my arms, I now held grief and loss.
The weeks and months that followed our miscarriage were hard. Life goes on even when a heart is broken. Most people don’t know how to handle someone’s broken heart. Most people don’t talk about miscarriage. Most people tried to offer words of support and sympathy. They sounded like this: Maybe something was wrong with the baby, so it is better this way. It wasn’t meant to be. You’re young and can try again. I knew people meant well, I really did. I always offered a weak smile and nodded my head in agreement. I saved the crying for when I was alone.
I sometimes wished nobody knew we were pregnant in the first place. In hindsight, I know that would have been a bad idea. It would have isolated me even more than I already wanted to be. Unfortunately, a friend of ours miscarried right before we did. Through the grief and tears, we healed alongside one another, and I’ll forever be thankful for that friend.
Time continued to heal my heart, but when you’re in the thick of grief and heartache, time seems to move extra slowly. One day we received news from two couples close to us that they were both expecting. I wanted to be happy for them and deep down I was, but inside I crumbled and cried buckets feeling our loss all over again, missing the idea of you.
While I got to cry as much as I wanted, I did have a support system that helped me heal over time, my husband being my number one. The following year we delivered a healthy baby boy followed by another and another all 23 months apart.
Though I never did and never will understand why we lost that first pregnancy, I now know that God had a plan in it. It didn’t make it any easier, but I realize now that even in my pain, God can and will use it for something good. Over the years, I’ve been able to share my experience of miscarriage with others who went through it, helping them to feel seen, heard, understood, and normal. Eighteen years later, I’m now making a memory garden to honor and remember our loved ones who are gone but never forgotten, in our hearts and always loved.
by Jenny Albers 
by Brea Schmidt 
