Angels

When I began spotting Thursday evening, even though it was the lightest spotting (I had much heavier bleeding during my pregnancy with Amelia), I just knew something was gravely wrong. In fact, for about a week, I had already had a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that things were not alright with the baby, but I shooed those feeling away. I convinced myself it was fine, and I pretended Thursday and Friday that the spotting was normal. When I called the doctor on call Friday night (not my doctor) and she told me not to worry, I wanted to say "you're wrong, my baby won't make it," but instead I sighed a sigh of relief and pretended to believe her. All day Saturday, the feelings of dread grew stronger and harder to ignore. I had told Davis that I was spotting, but didn't tell him until Saturday night that I thought I was losing the baby. He said "go to the ER right now!"

And so I did. And as soon as I did, I could no longer ignore my dread. I felt a tightness in my chest, my heart raced and ached. Still, I wanted to hold it together in case I was wrong. I put on a brave face and told nurses things like, "I'm sure I'm just being paranoid, the spotting is light..." But right before the ultrasound tech put her wand on my stomach, the moment that I knew someone would know whether my baby was really alive or not, I completely lost it. I started sobbing uncontrollably. The tech couldn't tell me anything and her face was like stone, but during those 20 minutes that she scanned and scanned and scanned, and the hour afterward while I waited for the doctor to come tell me, things were dark. I felt profoundly alone and the dread was like a sucking black hole in the center of my chest - I couldn't focus on anything, I could no longer reassure myself. When the doctor finally walked in, I thought this is the moment I will remember for the rest of my life, whatever words he says now will stick with me forever. "Well, I have some bad news. There was no heartbeat. I'm sorry." Even though I already knew, those words tore through me, and I will remember them forever.

I had started reaching out and texting friends when I arrived in the ER. And by the next morning, they were texting and calling and emailing and showing up at my door. And they started praying. As some of my friends hugged me, I wept hard, and their embraces would tighten. More phone calls and emails and blog comments and texts flooded in from people praying for me. As I started feeling the isolation that comes with grief, I remembered those brave women who have shared their own stories of loss with me - directly or through their blogs.

One of the saddest moments of my life, was looking at my baby on ultrasound yesterday - my perfect, tiny baby, with feet and hands and a sweet little face. My baby who should have been waving and wiggling and bouncing around, was still. My baby's heart, which should have been flickering, was still. But as soon as my heartache became too much, my friend who was with me wrapped her arms around me and held me so tight as I cried. When I was briefly away from Davis in the pre-op area this morning, my dear friend and a deacon at church came and prayed with me and gave me a precious gift. As she held me, I heard the beating of her heart like the steady beat of a drum, reminding me that we are alive and not alone. When I was in the operating room, right before I was put to sleep, my OB walked up to the head of my bed and he stood there and looked me in the eyes - it's the last thing I remember, and all I felt was thankful and safe that I was in his hands.

And as those around me cloaked me in hugs and prayers, the peace came. For two days now, I have been at peace. I am intensely sad, but I am no longer anxious. I no longer feel out of control, there is no more sucking void, no more tightness in my chest.

This morning as I showered and dressed and packed my bag for the hospital, when I walked through those hospital doors - the same hospital where I had delivered my girls and spent days in Labor and Delivery in preterm labor with Henry - and when I filled out paperwork and answered hard questions asked by strangers, I felt calm. When I woke up from anesthesia and realized I was no longer pregnant, I was alone with a nurse I did not know, and I cried, but I did not feel alone. I was not consumed. When I lay in bed late at night in the dark and feel soaked in sorrow, I literally feel the arms of my friends around me. I can feel hands on my shoulders, I can feel being pulled closer, I can feel the beating of their hearts against my ear. And I don't feel alone. I feel their prayers like a shawl around me, protecting me. When waves of sadness come, it is those prayers and God's peace that keeps me from drowning. When I am alone, it is those lingering embraces that remind me I am not alone. When my body and mind need rest, it is only because of those prayers and God's peace that I have been given deep and merciful sleep. When I feel too fragile to walk out my door or write on my blog, it is the strength of those prayers and that support that I feel shielded and safe. Because of the bravery of those women who have shared their own grief with me, that I feel brave enough to do the same.

If you are one those angels who have been put in my path and prayed for me, reached out to me, hugged me, shared your own stories of loss - thank you. It is because of you that I am okay. And Lord, because of You I am not consumed; I have renewed hope every morning because of You.

The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in him, and I am helped: therefore my heart greatly rejoiceth; and with my song will I praise him.
Psalm 28:7