Wednesday, January 22, 2014

This isn't the post it was supposed to be...

This isn't the post it was supposed to be...
It is supposed to be a post filled with pictures of balloons and pink or blue confetti floating around.
It is supposed to be a happy post.
It is supposed to be a post filled with baby bumps and pregnancy symptoms.

But it isn't.
I debated about even writing this post. I don't often record the hard times in my/our life. But ultimately I need to. It is part of me, it is a part of us. It's part of our story.

November 20th started out like any other day. I sent the kids off to school and set about my usual daily routine. I looked forward to Logan coming home from a work trip and I waited in anticipation for my doctors visit that afternoon. A doctors visit in which I was told I could find out the sex of my baby if he/she cooperated! I was so happy and so excited. I filled 8 balloons with confetti. 4 with pink and 4 with blue. I couldn't wait to surprise my kids with the news of a baby sister or brother! But my happiness was taken from me when at 16 weeks I heard my doctor say the words "I can't find a heartbeat." I was shocked. I was enamored by the ultrasound of the beautiful baby in front of me. I never expected to hear those words. I have had 4 healthy, easy pregnancies. How could this be happening to me? How could I be losing my baby?

Those few minutes and the ones that followed are moments that have replayed over and over in my head. I spent that night and much of the week crying. I wanted desperately to fix this. I was in denial. My body still looked pregnant and I was still experiencing all of the same pregnancy symptoms. I even seemed to feel my sweet baby move inside of me (which I read is very common). I hoped that the doctor was wrong. I'd just lost a baby. And it hurt. It hurt just to breathe.

A week later on November 26th I had a d&c procedure. I remember it like it was yesterday. It haunts me. It was weeks before I could go to sleep at night without replaying that morning in my mind. The image of the procedure room. The nonchalant way my doctor talked to me. My sweet husband who stood by my side, wiped my tears, and was my rock. The caring nurses. The tears that flowed as I woke up from anethesia. And the ultimate feeling that now my baby was really gone. And there was nothing I could do about it. My loving mother in law and sister in law who watched over my children, and my own mother who held me tight with care and concern.

Miscarriage is death. It brings with it all the agonizing grief that comes with losing a loved one. But miscarriage is also something that isn't often talked about. It's the reason that women hide their pregnancies during those first few months waiting to reach the safe zone before announcing their good and exciting news. There are no funerals with a miscarriage. No memorials. Instead, routines go on. And it seemed that everyone's life went on unchanged. Except my own. I was 16 weeks pregnant. That's a lot of mornings to wake up excited that there is a child growing inside of me. It's many long afternoons of fatigue and morning sickness. It's 112 prenatal vitamins. It's lots pregnancy aches and pains.

But the grief gets easier to bear. Most days are good now. I have gotten so much comfort from Logan and my kids. I'm grateful to be surrounded by their endless joy and their smiles. I'm grateful for the plan of salvation. I'm grateful for the knowledge that I will get to see my sweet baby one day. I'm grateful for those 16 weeks that I had with my baby. He/she was part of me, us, our family. Do I understand why this happened? No. I wish I did. But I do know that when I enter my Heavenly Father's kingdom my baby will be there waiting for me and I will be able to hold him/her for an eternity. Until then, I will hold him/her in my heart.




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