On Loss, Love, and Loss Again

Grief, pregnancy, and miscarriage (again): a recap of my cloudy spring

For friends who need to be warned: this post is about recurrent miscarriage. If you can’t read this right now, I love you, I’m praying for you, I’m with you.

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It’s been a cloudy spring.

Not long after I started writing in this space, February arrived. February was supposed to be the month that our family grew by one more baby; instead, it was a month of grief. The womb that was supposed to give me a baby was empty. I knew my due date would be tough, but I wasn’t prepared for the entire month to be engulfed in a thick, dark cloud of sadness.

I shared that grief with my friends and community.

I wrote about it here.

I wrote about it privately.

I cried out to the Lord.

It was one of the hardest months of my life. Maybe harder than the month I had my actual miscarriage. It was like every bit of sadness, anger, and frustration bubbled to the surface. I could only bring myself to read lament Psalms from my Bible that month, I made a worship playlist with only the songs I could handle, and I let my people love me well (thank you, my people).

Then March arrived. It felt like I could see the sun shining through the clouds for the first time in a long time. I thought the darkness was coming to an end.

I’m convinced that God brought me through February to prepare me for what was coming next.

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On a not-yet-light morning at the beginning of March, an extra pink line appeared on a pregnancy test. It was as if restoration washed over me. Thank you Jesus for bringing a baby out of one of the hardest months of my life. Thank you for redeeming this brokenness so obviously. That was my prayer at the beginning of my fifth pregnancy.

Austin and I hugged in the hallway. I cried. We went to Disney World the next week and took announcement photos in front of Cinderella’s castle. I cut my caffeine consumption, started drinking green juice (don’t ask me why), added more prenatal supplements, called to schedule an early ultrasound, and trudged through the overwhelming exhaustion that is early pregnancy.

But something inside me couldn’t share the sadness from the month before.

My parents were the first people I told after Austin, and immediately after telling them, I retreated to my room and cried.

I shouldn’t be telling them I’m pregnant right now. I should be asking them to hold the baby for a few minutes.

And also.

I’m scared.

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As days turned into weeks, I settled into my new reality: a new baby was coming. He or she would share a birthday month with my husband. My family helped me celebrate this new life. A friend reminded me (more than once) that it’s okay to be excited even in my fear. The first ultrasound approached, and I started googling statistics.

What percentage of women have recurrent miscarriages?

1%

I can work with that.

We’d waited for the scan long enough that I was sure I’d see a heartbeat on the screen. That’s all I need, I thought. Once I saw the heartbeat, we would tell the rest of our people, and surely, my heart could go from being relieved we got pregnant again to rejoicing about this little life.

The tech started the ultrasound.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Silence.

I opened my eyes.

What I saw on the screen wasn’t new to me. A pregnancy that hadn’t progressed. A body that didn’t realize. No beating heart on the black screen above me. Only a broken one.

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April arrived, and it brought my dark cloud back. It was supposed to be the month that we announced our pregnancy to all our friends and the rest of our family; instead, it brought back my dark cloud. My miscarriage was confirmed. My body became infected. I underwent an emergency DNC.

Once again, my womb was empty.

I shared that grief with my friends and community.

I wrote.

I cried out to the Lord.

I’m convinced that God brought me through the month of February to prepare me for what was coming next.

May is here, and it feels like my cloud has moved in with me. It’s not as thick and dark as it has been, and on the days does thicken up, I know how to move through it a little better.

In February, God brought my sadness and questions to the surface so that I would already be in the habit of taking my whole self to Him––anger, sadness, frustration, and all. In April and May, I knew which lament Psalms to go to. I had the right kind of worship playlist prepared. I had already started the process of finding a therapist whom I now meet with regularly. My friends knew how to love me well through grief (thank you, friends).

Spring has been one of loss, love, and loss again. I’ve been formed into someone whose story is one of three pregnancy losses. I don’t know what to do with that yet.

It’s been a cloudy spring. Most days, the cloud feels dark and thick. Some days, I can see the sun peeking through.

Today, I am asking the Lord to bring me summer.