My Forever Child

Please stop reading

1) if you think this post is for attention or sympathy; it is not,

2) if discussions of miscarriages are triggering for you, or

3) if you think discussions of miscarriages should be private and not public.

If you continue reading, please

1) keep and open mind and heart,

2) say a quick prayer for grieving mothers and fathers everywhere,

3) hug and kiss your own kids extra hard today,

4) know that if you are pregnant, know that I am not jealous...I smile when I see you and am truly happy for you and your unborn child,

5) know that if you see me in person, there is no need to tiptoe around me...just treat me normally...I need normalcy in my life; so if you say you're sorry for my loss and then move on quickly in the conversation, I am ok with that; if you have questions, I am ok answering those, too :) Even better would be a good knock knock joke ;) Seriously, though. I am in a place where I can talk about this.

and finally... 

4) please...take a minute to count your blessings and express thankfulness for them. Go hug your baby or kiss your spouse or text your parents or post a funny link on your sibling's Facebook wall. Let them know you love them and are thankful for them. 

________________________________________________________

I have prayed and thought about whether to write this. As I type this, in the wee hours of the morning on August 29th, 2015, with a purring cat on my lap, alternating between typing and curling up in a ball on the floor sobbing, I am truly not sure when or if I will share this with the world or if I will just write to process my own feelings. I like to grieve in private, and I like to be "tough."

However, I assure you...my sincere and earnest prayer is that maybe my story will bring some semblance of healing or comfort to someone somewhere. I also pray that God would be glorified and His love, faithfulness, and provision would be evident throughout this story.

Dear, sweet, Lila Grace,

July 16, 2015, was one of the happiest, most confusing, most overwhelming days of my life. There had been a few months of "not avoiding" pregnancy and a few months of no success (and tears and worry on my part that something was "wrong" with us, even though I knew the statistics were in our favor). Every period I had was met with dismay, and I told your dad, "I'm not sure if I can do this, emotionally, anymore." However, I decided to stop worrying and really turn it over to the Lord. I started praying 1 Samuel 1:27: "For this child I prayed, and the Lord has granted me my petition that I made to him."

The month I started making that my prayer and not worrying, I didn't even realize when I was late. It was July 16th when I got not one, not two, but THREE strong positive pregnancy tests. Maybe overkill, but I was shocked it was finally positive- I've taken so many tests over the years, and they were all negative :) Your dad was surprised, too, but we were elated and immediately began planning your future. You were supposed to arrive on March 10, 2016, a date that will forever be so bittersweet for us. Your dad obviously wanted to name you either Luke or Leia, and he wouldn't have complained about putting light sabers in your nursery, either. On the other hand, I often daydreamed about which classic books I could use as inspiration for your name or nursery. The important thing for you to know, sweet Lila, is that you are and were loved, and you were SO very wanted. You were not an accident, and we were thrilled for the challenge and blessing of being your parents. It is important to me that you know that you were wanted and welcome and anticipated with much joy.

If you'd been able to stay on earth with us, you'd know that your mom likes to do everything by the rules and is a planner and, just maybe sometimes, can be a bit of a control freak. I'd already read so many journal articles, blog posts, and even books about pregnancy and childbirth, and my bookshelf quickly filled with even more books (thank you, Amazon Prime) to read in preparation for your arrival. I knew I couldn't be a perfect mom, but I did want to be informed and make every decision I could to ensure you were healthy and well cared for. I created multiple Google Docs with research about everything from birth plans to cloth diapers to breastfeeding. I went on a birth center tour and took a class on birth choices, and I began visiting my chiropractor regularly again. I started researching prenatal yoga and La Leche League. I wanted to do as much right for you as I could.

I chose, personally, to forgo any first trimester ultrasounds. Transvaginal ultrasounds have a very slight risk of increasing miscarriage (according to some research I did). I am so glad I made this choice, because even though I never got to hear your heartbeat, I have peace that your dad and I did everything we believe was right for your well-being.

So you can imagine my excitement when your 12-week appointment FINALLY arrived! I was going to meet with a midwife. I was going to hear your heartbeat. I was going to share our beautiful pregnancy announcement pictures with the world and let EVERYONE know how excited we were to welcome you!

The joy we felt about being your parents, captured by Lindsey Martin Photography. 



I went to my appointment alone, by choice. I knew I wasn't having an ultrasound yet, so it wasn't a super big deal that your dad wasn't with me. After a great check-up with the midwife, she pulled out the doppler and said, "Now, I might not be able to hear the heartbeat if the baby is turned in a strange position. So no panicking if you don't hear it, ok?" I assured her I'm not a freaker-outer and that I'd be calm. After about ten minutes of searching, the doppler gliding all over my slick-with-ultrasound-gel stomach, we heard no heartbeat.

So my midwife said, "I'm not going to let you leave today without hearing the heartbeat because I know you must be a little nervous right now. I don't do ultrasounds, but there's another midwife here who does. Let me see if she'd be willing to take a peek for you."

That other midwife, Melanie, is an angel. She was a gift from God on this tragic Thursday. She couldn't find a heartbeat either, but she said, "I'm kind of new working with this machine, so let me call the perinatal office next door and see if they have someone available who can check for you."

I'll be completely honest- by this point, I was mentally preparing myself for the worst. I was praying fervently to see a strong flicker on the screen, but I was also praying for the ability to stay calm and rational, if necessary. I saw you on the screen, small and still, not swimming around like I knew you should've been doing, not moving at all- so tiny, so human, so perfect.

Needless to say, the perinatal doctor couldn't find anything. I kept glancing over at Melanie the midwife, who accompanied me to the perinatal doctor, and I could tell my her stoic face that things weren't looking good. And even more worrisome was the measurement I saw on the screen: 9 weeks, 2 days. You were supposed to be at least 11 weeks, 5 days. Based on what I'd read about, I pretty much knew then it was what they call a "missed miscarriage."

Finally, the perinatal doctor delivered those devestating words, kindly and honestly, "I'm afraid I have some bad news: the baby is dead. There is no heartbeat, and it is measuring about two weeks too small. There is no way to know if the heart stopped beating two weeks ago or two days ago. I am sorry for your loss."

I thanked him, numbly and quietly, head spinning, reality not sinking in yet, and Melanie walked me back to her office. From there, I called your dad. That was the straw that broke my back. Having to tell your daddy, my high school sweetheart, that we'd lost you...hearing his voice...the tears I'd been so resolutely holding back were stronger than I was, and I cried. After talking to your dad, I made a plan with Melanie. We chose to have a D&C procedure (basically, it was described to me as all the "pregnancy" things being removed from my body and my uterine lining being scraped out). As much as I like to avoid procedures and let my body do what it does naturally, I knew the emotional turmoil of having you inside of me for one or possibly two more weeks would be too great and wouldn't allow me to start the grieving process.

I won't go into details about that procedure, but I have to take a moment to emphasize how utterly WONDERFUL the medical staff at St. Francis is. All my nurses and doctors (Chanda, Margaret, Lori, Cathy, Dr. M, and Dr. W) were just so kind and genuine. They all said they were sorry for my loss and hugged me or patted my arm. A couple of the nurses shared their own miscarriage stories, which helped me feel not as alone and brought me comfort. I have always had the utmost respect for nurses, but I want to give special thanks for them - I know they are overworked, underappreciated, underpaid, and yet they were the epitome of patient and kind. Truly angels walking on earth.

One nurse even said to me, "Someday I'm going to see you walking through the mall with a stroller and your own little bundle, and you won't remember me but I'll see you and be happy." I made a point of remembering her first and last name so that I can say hi to her when I DO see her in the mall someday ;)

The procedure went fine. I won't bore you with the details of the procedure and recovery. Family and a few close friends were lifting me and your dad up in prayer. Prayer is a powerful thing, my sweet child.

I feel so empty, like there is a giant black hole in my stomach, like something has been ripped from my gut, like part of me is truly missing. I have grieved before because I have lost people I love. But this grief is so... different. With others, I had fond memories to lean on and smile about. With you, I had hopes and dreams, and those will never come to fruition.



Your dad and I were so thrilled for this next step in our relationship.
Thanks again, Lindsey Martin Photography.

Your dad and I both thought (and I firmly believe) you are a girl, so I found myself wondering if you'd play volleyball (and sometimes even what position you'd play, obviously hoping you'd be a setter but trying to tell myself maybe you'd get lucky and be tall and be able to play middle). If you'd like playing in the mud and fishing like I did or if you'd like playing with Barbies (I would've been ok with either!). If you'd be feisty and opinionated like me or calm and gentle like your dad. If you'd love the Encyclopedia Brown books, like I did. If we'd argue about your skirts being too short and you wanting to get your nose pierced someday. If you would sing or play piano or be drawn to some other creative outlet I'm not, like dancing or drawing.

I had so many questions- would you get the sushi-loving gene from my dad's Japanese side of the family? Would you let me braid your hair before bedtime so it wouldn't be tangled in the morning? How wrapped around your little finger would your sweet daddy be? Would you stand on top of his feet and dance with him around the kitchen? Would he succeed in getting you to love Star Wars? Would you be able to convince him to get a dog?

My heart is utterly broken, and I am aching knowing I will never, ever  know the answers to those questions. 

But...I cannot emphasize this enough... I am so thankful for you. Being your mom, even if only for a few weeks, changed me. I prayed more frequently and fervently than I ever have in my life. I tried to take good care of my body. I found myself praying for every pregnant woman I saw. I found myself looking at difficult people and saying, "They are someone's baby, too," and thinking about how I'd want someone to treat you. I am so thankful God gave you to us. We were so honored to be your parents. 

As I am sure you can tell from this letter to you, your dad and I firmly and unapologetically believe you were a human life, a baby. And perhaps that is part of what makes grieving so hard. In our society, many would disagree with us. After all, how can someone say, "I'm sorry for your loss" on one hand but think it's ok to abort a baby your age on the other hand? The two are incongruent to me. I have always been staunchly pro-life, but this experience has solidified that belief even more. It pains me to think that some people don't view you as a baby. You are, and always will be, our baby and our first child, and the love I feel for you is truly indescribable. How can I love someone I've never met SO much, so deeply, to the core of my being?

Perhaps the most important thing to note, sweet baby, is that I am not angry at God. There have been a couple times I've wanted to be. But I feel His peace and His comfort around me, so real and so palpable, like a weighted blanket covering me and shielding me. I am not sure what God's plan is, but I trust Him. He is faithful, and He is good, and He is gracious, and I praise Him and thank Him for the blessing you were to your dad and I (and to our family and friends who shared in our joy).

I know you are with Him now, and I cannot wait to see you someday and hold you in my arms, my arms that are aching to hold you. I just want to snuggle you and kiss the top of your downy head and breathe in your sweet baby scent and count your fingers and toes and tickle you and sing to you. I want to hear you call me "Mom" and crawl up into my lap for a bedtime story. I want to check on you when you sleep, see your tiny chest rising and falling. I want to change your smelly diapers and try to comfort you when you're crying and struggle through the hardest job on earth: being a mom. I want that more than I have every wanted anything. You are so loved, and so missed, and we will always remember you.

Some people have said some rude and insensitive things to me. I try to remind myself their intentions are good. I know that sometimes people don't know what to say.  But really, people just saying they are sorry and praying is the absolute best thing. Not, "Your baby is better off with God right now." Not, "You're young! You still have time to have another." I know they are trying to be helpful, and I know that in the past before this experience, I might have been tempted to offer platitudes or Christian-ese phrases, but honestly, they are just not helpful in this situation. The most helpful thing is when they just say, "I'm so sorry. I'm praying for/thinking of you guys." Or when they listen to me talk about you-- that helps a lot, too, because it me feel like more people will remember or know about you, thus solidifying that you were a tiny person and not a blob of cells.

Maybe I will have kids sometime in the future, but none of our future children will ever replace you. Maybe this is what God wanted, but it is still utterly devastating. Maybe it is the result of living in a sinful world, but that doesn't make it any easier to accept. Maybe I wasn't further along in my pregnancy, but you were and are still our child.

We love you, sweetheart. Thank you for blessing us and being God's instrument to bring us more joy than you can imagine. You are the best thing that has happened to us. We can't wait to meet you in heaven someday. 

"I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always.

As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be."

With all a mother's love,

Your mama