Seven years ago today I went into the ER and found out that my first baby, who I’d carried for eighteen weeks, was dead. The breathlessness, my heart skipping beats, unbelievable…I can still feel it. I had to have a surgery to remove the tiny body that was beginning to dissolve back into mine. One day you are pregnant and the next day you aren’t. Empty arms. No real closure. Secret pain.
It’s only after you have had a miscarriage that you find out how many other women have lost children. Because normally we don’t talk about it. It’s an unspoken grief that many, many of us carry alone. I don’t know why… Actually, I can guess why.
Another miscarriage seven months later, a significant surgery, two healthy babies, and seven years later here I sit in silence. My oldest daughter turns five tomorrow. Sometimes it feels like I should just be able to concentrate on the children I have and the happy life we enjoy together. That I should forget about the two years of hope and loss and pain. It’s usually pretty easy to forget.
I will tomorrow as we celebrate five years of life. But today I want to miss the children I lost. The ones few people know or think about.
We don’t talk about miscarriage because it’s awkward. I’m at camp today, surrounded by people, but I haven’t told anyone. Because if I did, they wouldn’t know what to say…I’m sorry maybe. But I’m not really looking for sorry… So I am quiet.
I don’t mind talking about it. Even when it makes me cry I don’t mind. They were hard years, but it was worth it. I learned to trust in a God that I couldn’t see or understand. I learned empathy. The pain softened and humbled me. Jesus became amazingly real.
Losing my babies is a part of who I am now, and I don’t regret the journey God had for me. But, I wish there was some way to make miscarriage less of a lonely burden.