They don't tell you about the phantom pregnancy feelings you'll have for the next few weeks after the loss or the awful physical pain of losing a pregnancy naturally. They don't tell you about the emotional havoc that will wash over you or the guilt. They don't tell you about the financial stress over the hospital bills or what it's like to pick up the cremated remains of your baby in a plastic box. They won't tell you when it's time to try again. Or not. They won't tell you when you have to move on. They don't tell you that time will eventually heal, but never fully close that little hole in your heart.
We have two girls. Eva and Edi. When we had Edi we went the rounds on names. We finally committed the second day in the hospital. It was different with this last pregnancy, our fourth pregnancy, though. We knew the names before we got pregnant. Archer Rustin for a boy, Indiah Rose or Indira Rain for a girl. Indi no matter what. We were overjoyed when we got pregnant right away, considering it had taken over a year to get pregnant with Edi and Eva had been preceded by a loss. We thought our family was done, boy or girl. The closer we got to the second trimester, the more I began to feel that we were ending our family with another girl. We had done a pregnancy verification at Fetal Fotos around 8 weeks and she was growing normally and the heart beat was strong. We didn't go in for our first medical appointment till we were 13 weeks because of a career change and waiting on insurance info. In that 13 week ultrasound she was wiggling, healthy, and normal. Strong heartbeat, developed arms, legs, hands and feet. Her little brain was growing and developing. It was almost clear that she was a girl, but we were going to wait and find out for sure a tad early at around 16 weeks, like we had done with her older sister (but at 14.5 weeks). A few days before the ultrasound appointment I begin to feel antsy, like something was off. I called Fetal Fotos and arranged the gender appointment for that evening, instead of waiting for a few more days. My nerves were all over the place and my heart was racing all day. I tried to keep brushing it off, telling myself that it was normal.
We had only told a few people we were pregnant at that point. With Edi we hadn't really told anyone till 18 weeks, and we surprised everyone with a gender reveal along with the pregnancy announcement. We wanted to do the same for our third. That day I called my husband, let him know I had moved the appointment, and packed up the girls to meet him close to his office after he was done. We took our excited four year old and indifferent 15 month old into the appointment with us. We were taken back into a private room, hooked up, and the monitor was turned on.
"Can you take the kids out of the room?" The tech's question to my husband hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew what it meant. I hadn't even looked at the screen yet because I was fumbling with something. The bed, pants, I don't remember. I looked. There was my precious little baby with perfect forehead, nose, lips. Her little arm resting on her side and the other behind her head. She was still. So still.
"There's no heartbeat is there?" I asked, knowing the answer.
"No, I'm sorry."
She left the room. I looked at DJ, my husband. He was dazed, like he wasn't sure what had just happened. He had been managing my four year old who had been tugging on his arms while our 15 month old played in the corner. I sat up and told him how sorry I was. Over and over. Because they don't tell you that. How much guilt you feel. How you failed your husband. How you failed your children. They don't tell you that once you have a late term miscarriage, and your second miscarriage total, that it is most likely a maternal problem. Not the baby. You.
The tech returned and I asked her if she could just take some pictures for us, and verify the gender. She did. A girl. I'll treasure those pictures. The whole experience was almost like a flashback. I was alone the first time though, almost six years ago. Going in excitedly for my first appointment around 11 weeks. It was my first pregnancy so everything was new. I was ecstatic about all of it. I was taken into a room, prepped for the ultrasound. The Dr. measured the baby, 10 weeks along. Due date April 30th. Then he was quiet. He pushed the wand around for a while. I was oblivious, I had no prior experience. He told me he was really sorry. No heartbeat. He told me that just in case we should go down and see the ultrasound techs. I was confused and unprepared. I was wearing a green floral t-shirt and blue jeans. I kept looking down at them as tears began to well up. I left the office and called my husband. He met me and we cried. We drove around for a while because we weren't sure what else to do. He asked if I had had lunch and drove to a place to eat but we just sat there in the parking lot. He asked how he could love something so much that he had never met. We cried some more. We returned for the ultrasound to confirm what we had already been told, just a Dr. who needed to cover his bases. We had to sit in the waiting room 30 minutes, with a happy, excited family who had invited in-laws to come see their thriving baby. I hurt more than I thought possible. She asked if I wanted the pictures, I said no. I didn't want to remember anything. We drove home and my husband went back to work. I went through the house where we were living, picked up all of the baby stuff we had begun to acquire and threw it in the garage. I was so angry. The following days were painful. We were young, and didn't understand grief the way we are beginning to understand it now. It was a difficult time in our marriage but we made it through stronger. It taught us what we would expect with our second miscarriage.
The Fetal Foto tech who verified Indiah's gender gave us the pictures and told us that they had reversed the ultrasound charge on our card and gave us a certificate for a complimentary session in the future. I was so grateful for that. I went to my midwives office the next morning and spent the day trying to decide what to do. I had delivered our first baby a week after I found out we had lost it. I did it by myself in the dark hours of night. They don't tell you that you are going to go through real labor. They say it will be a strong period, but they don't tell you about the pain. I spent four hours transferring between the bathtub and sink so that I could throw up. I finally was able to pass the tiny little body. It looks like a baby at 10 weeks. Different, but a baby. I didn't know what to do. I am still traumatized by what I had to do. We chose to pass it naturally because the D and C was not something we could afford at the time. The second experience was much different. We inevitably chose to go in to have her removed, even though I originally wanted to deliver the body naturally. I checked into the hospital at five. The Dr. who performed the procedure told me I would have ended up in the ER hemorrhaging because of her size if I had tried to do it alone again. The hospital staff was kind, and the midwife that I had spoken to the day before had informed me of a program that the local mortuary Linquist offered for pregnancy loss. While I was coming out of the haze of the surgery, one nurse said to another that the mortuary had picked up the specimen. Baby I thought. You mean baby. My baby, my little girl. We named her Indiah Rose. It fit her, it always had.
It's not the same. Having a baby taken out as opposed to delivering one. There is a lot of joy surrounding a birth. There is nothing surrounding a miscarriage. Mostly grief. We chose to have her cremated, and I will forever be grateful to the people at Linquist who did the service for free. They have done burial services for countless children under 18 and I can't even begin to imagine what a relief that is for those who have lost older children and babies. It was such a relief to us. We chose to keep her ashes with us, and have sectioned off a part of our yard to create a memorial garden for her. Of Roses.
I have never really talked about our first loss publicly until a few years ago. Initially a few people knew. A women from our church came to my house, handed me a basket of treats and with tears told me she couldn't talk about it but she understood. She gave me a hug and left. I remember that experience so vividly. I was so grateful. With Indi, we could have just moved on with our lives. No one really knew we were pregnant even though we had just lost a beautiful little girl. I wanted her life to mean something. I wanted her to be something. Because she was something to us. I want to talk about it because I want to give others licence to talk about it too. No one is alone through this. No one has to be alone. We have been shown kindness from so much kindness. From people bringing food, bringing a meal, inviting us over, taking us places, sending gifts, leaving items, messaging us, the list can go on. I am so grateful to those who helped bear our burden.
I know that as we seek to bear one another's burdens, that they will all become exponentially lighter. That light will settle in the dark woods of despair. I know that God never meant for us to be miserable. Misery and pain is simply part of this mortal experience. We will experience those things no matter what. We can go through them with God, or we can chose to go it alone. I personally am not strong enough to attempt it on my own. I need God. I need His love, and His light. Even though the pain is intense, I know I have not been deserted by the Savior of the world who experienced that pain already. He lives for me. I want to devote my life to Him in word and deed. I know I fall short of the mark, but His grace is sufficient for me, just as it is for you. We get back up and we try again.
Over the past month I've been able to reflect on the experiences I've had with miscarriage and thought it might be helpful to compile a list of thoughts on miscarriage for those who have lost and those who want to help those who have lost. I think this can apply to grief of all kinds, with serving in particular.
1. Acknowledge your loss.
The difference with Indi was that I was far enough along to know what she was. That made a big difference in how my loss was received. Even though we didn't carry our first long enough to know the gender, it doesn't make it any less of a loss than Indi. We had so many dreams that had to be grieved. Whether you lose at 6 weeks, or 10 weeks, or 20 weeks, your loss is a loss. It is a loss if you never even had the chance to see those lines on a pregnancy test. There may be a few or many who tell you things that will hurt.
"At least you didn't lose at xx weeks like so and so."
"There was probably something wrong, be glad you lost it early."
"At this point it wasn't a baby yet. Try not to feel sad about it."
"You can always try again. At least you know you can get pregnant!"
"I don't get why you missed that event, its been xx days. Did you just sit and cry all day?" (said to my husband)
I don't believe people say these things out of true spite, simply just ignorance to the pain. Be patient with those who may make those remarks and be extra grateful for those who are there to help.
2. Realize you are different
Many times you will hear "I know what you are going through". While many will be able to empathize, only you and God really know what you are going through. Turn to Him. Every one is just a little different in how they react to pregnancy loss. Perhaps you aren't feeling that sad at all. Don't feel guilty. Perhaps you are feeling like you won't ever get over it. Don't feel guilty. Be patient with yourself in however you feel and seek out help when you need it. Those who have experienced a similar loss or who have had family who have can be an incredible support. There are also groups to join to be able to talk about it. If you are feeling like you are beyond the ability to function, seek medical help.
Also, if applicable, realize that your spouse will grieve differently than you. Some will throw themselves into work, a hobby, etc to not think about it. They will also not receive the same support as you because many are not sure how to reach out to them. Realize their silence or sudden work drive is not a reflection on you. That would have helped the first time. The second time around we have realized how we grieve, and what the other needs. It has made a big difference. Communicate what you need to your spouse. Pregnancy loss can take a larger toll than you realize on your marriage, so be sure that your immediate family relationship (spouse and children) becomes a priority.
When you are ready, reach out to those who are going through what you have been through. Offer love and support and mention you have gone through something similar but understand everyone is different. You are loved by many, and one day the way you help others will ease your burden as well.
3. Celebrate your baby
My biggest regret of my first was not burying the little body. I don't know why it's intrinsically in us as humans to want to perform a burial for our lost. The difficult part of miscarriage is that there is often nothing to show for it. Having the ability to have Indiah is healing. In your mind your baby was 7 lbs of darling newborness all 9 months of your pregnancy. You probably never imagined it as anything else really. I didn't. I imagined what Indiah would look like if she was a girl, I had her nursery planned out, I imagined the relationship she would have with her sisters. She was always that perfect newborn to me. So was my first. Because I wasn't able to have a real end with the first we wanted to send balloons up in memory of him or her. We also named him or her Alma, a spanish word meaning soul and something that reminds me of my time in South America, which brings me joy.
When Indiah passed and before we had picked her up from the mortuary, we went camping one weekend. We found a quiet grove of Aspen trees while on an ATV ride. We had both wanted to carve her name in a small trunk. We found a perfect spot in a still, beautiful area. While DJ was carving, a doe and her fawn walked into the area. The girls were so excited to see them. We watched them quietly as they watched us. There was a moment of such peace that it was overwhelming. Then they walked out of the clearing. I had already designated Indi to have a fawn theme in her nursery, as Eva's was a bunny and Edi's was a fox and we loved the woodland idea. Seeing the fawn in that clearing was a tender mercy from God. I don't believe it was coincidence. I know He was aware of us, and that He loves us.
Find a way to celebrate the life of your baby. Even if it has been months or years. It can be healing to acknowledge the little life that you once carried, even if it was only for a moment. Sending balloons, having a family gathering, planting a tree, picking a name, or doing something special on a certain date can relieve some of that grief.
4. Give yourself time
There is no indication when you will be over your pregnancy loss. It took months with my first. I was sick with worry the entire time with Eva's pregnancy. The day she was born I was certain she would be stillborn. Her cry was the most incredible sound I had ever heard. Later, Edi shared Alma's due date. It was healing. With Indi I have had so much peace in my recovery. There are still waves of pain, but they come less often. I still hurt for her daily, but my body has realized it's not pregnant anymore. There aren't any more flutters, no more nausea. This chapter is closing but the book will never be finished here. Some want to get pregnant right away after loss and that's ok. Some will want to wait a long time and that's ok too. Other children will never replace that loss, but they do help to fill your heart. Time can be the biggest healer. As we have thought about the future now, I'm not sure we will attempt another child. We felt so strongly that Indi was our last. Indi was due at Christmas and I know it will be hard to go through that time without her, but I am beginning to feel a lot of peace with the family that I have now. And that's ok. What you have may not be what you wanted, but I know that there can still be overwhelming happiness.
5. When you are ready, seek to serve
There are still moments when I just want to sit in the closet and cry. When I would do anything to feel her kicking, to listen to her heartbeat. To make plans. But I know that eventually I have to turn outward. When you are emotionally and physically ready from no matter what heartache you experienced, you will eventually want to as well. One of the most common things we hear or say is "Let me know if I can do anything to help" or "Let me know if you need anything". The truth is no one will probably take you up on that, even if there are a million things that come to mind. When you see someone in need, don't ask that. You wouldn't ask that to someone drowning on the side of your boat. It would be absurd! Instead you would immediately run for the life ring. Or you'd jump in with a life jacket and pull them to safety.
Instead of saying 'let me know if I can help', instead ask them when you can perform a certain service for them. Ask if you can do something at a specific time or day, rather than waiting for them to reach out to you. Some ideas:
*I'd love to bring you a meal on Tuesday evening. Is anyone else coming then?
*I'm coming to mow your lawn (that you haven't been able to think about for a few weeks). Will Thursday work for you? Or just mow their lawn. They won't object.
*Can I take your kids on x day from this time to this time?
*I can pick up x child from school this week, will that work for you?
*I'd love to go to lunch with you on x day so you can talk. Are you up for that?
*I brought by these brownies because I know you love them and was thinking of you.
*Hey I know everything is just overwhelming, can I come clean your kitchen on x day?
*I'm doing laundry this week and want to pick yours up. Will this time work?
*Hey I'm sorry about you and your wife's loss. Just wanted you to know we are thinking about you. We'd love to have you over for dinner on this night if that works for you.
*I know I live across the country but I'd love to have dinner delivered to you. (I politely declined this offer, but it meant SO much for it to be offered)
*Drop off something that helped you through a similar experience that you feel might help them
*Send a snail mail note letting them know you care (It will come with the hospital bills and give them some peace)
*Offer to stay with your friend or family member during the miscarriage if they are alone and want someone with them
*Text them often for the first little while to let them know they aren't alone
Everyone is different. Some will want certain types of service and not be able to handle others. No one, however, will be ungrateful for your genuine offer of caring and love. Let others serve you. We often look to be independent in all situations, but when we allow ourselves to be helped, the burden is bearable. We will also be in a position later to want to reciprocate. Forgive others if you needed help and no one came, and seek to help others so that they don't feel that pain.
The emotional roller coaster of grief has been a companion often in my life, and I learn a little more each time. How to be more compassionate, how to be kinder. How to hurt, how to be happy. I think that is why we're here after all, for experiences that humble us and make us a little bit better. It never replaces the little one you thought you'd hold, the years you thought you'd spend with someone when they were taken too soon, the relationships you thought you'd have, the life you dreamed of living.
Our four year old has had a difficult time understanding why the baby is gone. Almost every morning she asks if Indi is back with us on earth, or if Indi is in my tummy again. It sends a million needles into my heart each time. But she knows without doubt that she has a little sister, and that one day she will get to see her again. She is just having a hard time waiting for it. I think we are all like that.
Although I'm impatient at times, I know that families can be together forever through the sacrifice of our Savior. I know that one day my little Indi will be mine again. Just as my first will be too. Despite the pain, there is always the chance for relief. If you allow it to, the rain can be just as beautiful as the sun. I pray that we always allow it to.
