Processing a miscarriage (part 2)

*Warning:  I don't go into a lot of detail, but I talk briefly about the actual miscarriage in this post.  If you get squeamish about such talk, please don't read.  And I apologize in advance if it's TMI.  I'm selfishly writing this more for myself.


My last post was my surrender to the sovereignty of God and my proclamation of His goodness and presence in the midst of disappointment.

This post is my questions, struggle, and human attempt to understand something confusing, which I know I can't fully understand.  But it's natural, I think, to wrestle and try to make sense of things.
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The actual miscarriage happened at home, thankfully with Matt by my side.

He was great and went into "doctor-mode," monitoring my fluid intake, checking my blood pressure, making me take iron supplements, even cleaning up accidental stains.

I felt badly for him and asked if he was grossed out, as it was startlingly more messy than we anticipated. But he said he's seen far worse these last two years, so he was fine.  He said he just felt "very alert and aware."

The cramps were manageable, and emotionally it wasn't as terrible as I had feared.

In fact, during the actual miscarriage, I felt emotionless.  Numb?  I don't know.  For whatever reasons, my emotions were turned off.

Maybe because a couple of dear friends lost babies further along than I was, I partly didn't feel I had the right to grieve as much as they did.

And with my case being a "blighted ovum," I wondered if my baby, well, existed.

I never saw the baby on the ultrasound.  Never heard a heartbeat.  Just saw an empty sac.

So how do I mourn this?  Do I mourn this?

I'm not seeking validation, just understanding.  I don't know what I'm grieving.

I started wondering if I was cold-hearted and cavalier about the miscarriage since I felt nothing emotionally at the time of it.

But in the days that followed, my mind started thinking things, and my heart started feeling things.  I tend to process events slowly over time.

Since Matt's a med student, I defer to him when it comes to medical knowledge.

"So was a baby in there ever?," I quietly asked him on the couch a couple days later.

"We just don't know," he quietly responded, looking at me with sympathetic eyes.

"So . . . (struggling to understand) . . . tell me about conception . . . How does that work . . . like really work?"

It was like a dad telling his teenager about the birds and the bees, but on a scientific level. Cells this, cells that.

The egg was fertilized - the start of a human life.  But the baby didn't develop much beyond that and never showed up on the screen.

It's possible the baby was reabsorbed into my body (that's a horrible thought) or never got past the "4-cell stage" or the "8-cell stage" as Matt has learned in med school.

4-cell stage?  So did a person exist?  Did its organs form before it all broke down?

For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.
- Psalm 139:13

But my baby wasn't knit together.  I imagine a ball of yarn and some sticks, but no scarf.  The material was there to make something, but nothing came of it.

It didn't have a face.  How do I think about this??  While I'm a Christian and a pro-lifer, I'm perplexed and seriously seeking, wanting to understand what exactly happened in my body.

I felt like a 6-year-old-child when wondering out loud to Matt if God picks out a person's personality and forms a person's face before it's actually formed.

When does He think of those details of a person?
When does He imbue them with a soul?  Before He forms them in their mother's womb?
As He's forming them?  Before the beginning of time?

Then I thought of that verse in Jeremiah, the one where God knew Jeremiah before He formed him.

I knew you before I formed you in your mother's womb.
Before you were born I set you apart and appointed you
as a prophet to the nations.
- Jeremiah 1:5

So does that mean God knew my baby before it was formed (or, rather in this case, wasn't formed)???

This 4 or 8-celled being - Did God have a personality in mind for him/her?
It was a clump of cells at best in me.  Is it a fully formed person in heaven now?  With legs? And arms? And a face? And a personality?  Does it laugh?  And talk?

Will I meet him/her when I get there?
Does he/she have a name?  Is it one I would have chosen?

I tear up at those thoughts and feel a lump in my throat.
All of a sudden, that feels much realer.  Like an actual loss.

Is it melodramatic for me to mourn?
Are my tears justifiable when others are losing their 5-year old children to cancer or car wrecks?
Children they have memories with. ?
Children they've celebrated birthdays with. ?
Children who have personalities.  And faces. ?

I don't know if I'm thinking of this rightly.  It's all mysterious and weird to me.

After reading my last blog post, a mom of one of my students sent me this song yesterday. . . and I wept.

While listening, I felt permission to grieve.

I guess I do have emotions to process and questions to ask.  And I'm glad God doesn't sneer at my childlike, ignorant questions.  I feel heard by Him.  Small and confused.  But loved and heard by Him.

Processing a miscarriage

Matt and I were thrilled to find out I was pregnant right after my 32nd birthday.  Baby due November 28th.

Having no symptoms for a few weeks, I thought I dodged the morning sickness bullet, like my mom did (she never felt sick).  But then the nausea came on in full force, right around the time I flew to Orlando for a job interview in April.

The first ultrasound didn't go as expected at my 10 week appointment.

Excited to see little "Lentil" (as we'd been calling it for weeks), I stared at the monitor in anticipation.

A black sac appeared on the screen.  An empty black sac.  I didn't quite realize that it was empty at first, because as a newbie, I didn't exactly know what I was supposed to be looking for.  But I could tell the ultrasound technician was perplexed and moving her little wand all around my tummy trying to see something more.  There was no talking between us. Then:

Me:  "Is it supposed to look like that?" 

Her:  "Well, that is your gestational sac.  But I'm not seeing the baby or hearing any fetal heart sounds."

Me:  "Would I have the sac if I wasn't pregnant?"

Her:  "No.  You're pregnant."

Me:  "Huh."

After a long time of her rubbing that little thing around and typing all sorts of measurements into her computer:

Me:  (tentatively) "What are some of the reasons, even the bad reasons, why we may not be seeing anything?"

Her:  (with a very kind and gentle tone) "Oh, honey, I'm going to let the doctors talk to you about that. They know more about that than I do."

Me:  "Okay"  (a little bit of concern settling in)

The doctor told me I could just be earlier along in my pregnancy than they originally thought. Orrrr it could be a sign of an impending miscarriage. She scheduled me to come back the following week for another ultrasound.

I left the office.  It was raining outside.  Sat in my car and called Matt.  Went to Panera across the street.  Ate lunch in thoughtful silence. Stopped to get a a large dark chocolate bar on the way home.

Once home and curled on the couch, I cried a little at the unexpected news and the possibility of something being wrong but found great comfort in the Psalms of trust (and that chocolate bar).

With a week to process the possible bad news, we felt somewhat prepared for the outcome.

The Lord buoyed me with hope and sustained me with his Word leading up to the next appointment.  The day before I was schedule to go back, I was meditating on Psalm 142:5 - 

I pray to you, O Lord, I say, You are my place of refuge. 
You are all I really want in life.

Psalm 142:5

I knew I would either experience Him as the Creator of a new little life in me or I would experience Him as Comforter.  Either way, I get to have Him.  And knowing His presence wouldn't leave me is what I clung to and found hope in going into my next appointment.

When the empty sac showed up on the screen again, I knew.  I didn't cry until the technician showed me sympathy and hugged me.  Then the tears flowed.  I felt sad.  Hope deferred really does make the heart sick.  We had wanted a baby so badly.

The ultrasound technician asked if I was alone, and I could tell she felt sad for me when I told her my husband couldn't be with me because he was taking his last med school exam.

But I knew I wasn't alone and sensed Jesus right there in that room with me.  Crying with me as I cried. His presence means everything to me.

I was grateful that Matt finished his exam in time to join me later at the doctor's office.  I told him the news and felt glad he was there with me.

Specifically, I have what is called a "blighted ovum" (empty gestational sac) measuring 7 weeks 5 days at my 11 week appointment.

Blighted Ovum (my layman's terms):  Something wrong happens during conception.  The gestational sac forms, but the embryo doesn't form properly.  The body thinks it's growing a baby though and makes pregnancy hormones, so you still get all the lovely symptoms of pregnancy though no baby is growing. Someone once described it as a cruel joke.

As odd as it may seem, Matt and I went to get sushi afterwards because I could have it now, and I wanted to celebrate him finishing his last final of med school.  I didn't want that accomplishment to get lost in the day.

It was a bizarre mix of joy and sadness that day, acknowledging both happy relief for Matt and sadness for the baby that never grew.

I felt for Matt, knowing the lightness he must be feeling after just taking his LAST FINAL of med school, while at the same time wanting to support his wife in her disappointment.  That's a tricky position to be in.

So we just talked openly about both realities, jumping back and forth in conversation.  We shared in each other's joy and grief the best we could, but (I think by God's good grace) understood it was unfair to expect the other to equally feel our own feelings.

It was what it was.

Matt is a wonderful support.  He sits by me and asks good questions and just offers his presence which I love.  I love being married to him.

My friends here have been wonderful too, some of them bringing meals this past week. When they offered, my first thought was "oh, that's not necessary", but then I felt urged to just let them be the Body of Christ for me.  If they want to do this, let them.  And it's been such a blessing and tangible way to receive God's comfort.  I'm so grateful to these sweet friends.

A coworker gave me flowers and a hug the next morning.  We took a moment and quietly cried as she hugged me.  Some people are just naturally good at entering into people's pain. Jean is one of them.

My heart stung a bit that next day when I helped my students write Mother's Day poems and make cards for their moms.  But my sadness ebbs and flows and coexists with hope.  The rest of the day marched on, and I felt pretty even-keeled for most of it.

Honestly, the busyness of ending the school year with my 2nd graders was a blessed distraction and even, at one point, allowed room for a little sarcastic humor - When I took my class to see the chicks that had hatched in the neighboring first grade classroom, my immediate thought was, "Well, I'm glad somethin's hatching." ;)

I know miscarriages are not uncommon.  It just feels so odd when it happens to you.  My heart aches with a new empathy for dear friends who have experienced loss in this area, some of their stories much more dramatic and heart wrenching than mine.

While I hope for children and have heard many post-miscarriage success stories, I know I'm not guaranteed or entitled to anything from God's hand and want to be careful not to put my hope in anything other than Himself.  I'm glad to be in His care, and I trust His plan.

Overall, I feel okay and am not in despair.  Just processing what was not and asking for a heart like David's, copying his prayer in hopes that it will take deeper root in me:

One thing I ask from the Lord, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the Lord and to seek him in his temple.

Psalm 27:4