I’m struggle with how to start this post. I’ve been staring at a blank screen letting my eyes fill with tears and the fears about typing anything further.
To be honest, I’m kind of getting tired of writing posts like this. Recurrent pregnancy loss was a situation we didn’t expect to be in. After losing our first daughter at 21 weeks with no clear medical explanation for what happened, there was every reason to believe things were isolated to only that pregnancy.
We found our peace that for whatever reason she wasn’t meant to be here with us on earth. She was paving the way for whoever was supposed to be here. We thanked God for showing us that we could have a daughter. Even though our hearts will forever miss her and long to have her here with us.
We had all medical clearance and decided to try again, and thankfully got pregnant with no issues. The situation doesn’t seem to be getting pregnant, but staying pregnant. All testing and everything came back fine, growth was on track, and we were excited to be blessed with another baby.
There was no doubt I was nervous at times, cautious, and weary with every little step. But I didn’t want to live a pregnancy in fear. I trusted God had a plan for us. I still stand firm in that trust, but man, I would be lying if I didn’t say some days are harder than others.
I went in for my 14 week ultrasound with no indication that something was wrong, only to find out there was no longer a heartbeat again. Based on growth they believed it was something that happened a day or two before I came in. Another baby girl no longer with us.
I always said I feel like every girl deserves to have a sister, but this wasn’t exactly how I pictured it. My sister is my best friend, and I couldn’t imagine life without her.
The rush of disappointment flooded me. Eric wasn’t able to be with me again, and I felt helpless as the dr and nurses looked at me with sympathetic eyes wishing this wasn’t the news they were sharing.
I wish so badly this wasn’t the news I’m sharing. It’s a hard thing to navigate through when we didn’t even officially announce we were pregnant. I wrestled with if this was even something I would end up talking about. I know I have the option to be as open or as private as I want on this little space.
It didn’t feel right not to acknowledge her. I can’t go on with life and act as if my daughter didn’t exist.
I also think part of my fear in stepping out to share our story is the judgements people can make. Is there something wrong with you? Why would this happen again? Will it continue happening? At the end of the day, those speculations don’t matter because we know our situation.
If this could help one other person feel less alone, then it was all worth putting my heart on the line.
While we still don’t have clear answers for why our girls are not here with us, we have to stay hopeful. Pathology and genetic reports show there was nothing abnormal, I’ve been through a ton of tests where nothing indicates anythings wrong, and it’s rare that someone experiences two losses back to back. The doctors have said this is something called, unexplained recurrent pregnancy loss.
Ouch, those words hurt. How did we get here? We have three amazing boys and never thought this would be a part of our story. I want to spend a lifetime with my babies, not weeks.
It’s easy when situations like this arise to start to have doubts and fears, even when you’re a person of a faith. That probably sounds contradictory (aren’t you supposed to lean into God’s promises?). We Christians have a tendency to throw ourselves into scripture verses and cling to sermon points that help give us a sense of comfort. But what happens when all seems out of control and life feels unfair? We wrestle with our flesh. How am I still supposed to say that you’re a good Father when situations like this happen?
God understands we are humanly flawed and live in a sin filled world. I’ve questioned Him, why are you allowing this to happen, why are you allowing so much pain, what are you trying to teach me? My white flag is up. This isn’t adding up.
I was reading a book that I previously got, It’s Not Supposed To Be This Way. I started it when I lost my first daughter but put it down after we got pregnant again. I didn’t want to go back to a sad state reading about someone else’s sorrows. So it sat on my nightstand. Little did I know I’d be picking it back up again, and probably at the right time to finish it.
There’s a part in the book where it talks about the popular reference that Jesus is the potter and we are the clay. Then it goes on to say that sometimes He allows us to be broken, even shattered, leaving particles of dust. We want God to fix it all, edit our story so that it has a different ending and repair our heartbreaking reality (yup, I’ve begged and pleaded for that to happen). Then it goes on to say, what if fixing, editing, and repairing isn’t at all what God has in mind for us during this shattering time. What if, this time, God desires to make something completely new.
I thought that was interesting. A different perspective to look at and ponder. What if God can take my broken, shattered dust, and still make it into something beautiful.
It reminded me of the beauty of God’s grace. How He can take on our burdens, our sorrows, our heartache, even our angry moments at Him, and still give us an unexplainable peace and grace. That’s not to diminish from the real feelings of our own heartache we endure, but to hold our hand through it.
I might never get the full answers as to why my girls are not with us on earth. My heart will forever miss them until we’re reunited again. But I can continue to stretch my faith and trust that God can take my dust and still make it into something beautiful.
This doesn’t feel like closure for us. I have to believe that our story is still being written. Even though these are some chapters I could do without living through. Maybe one day, at some point, at some time, I’ll look back and make some sort sense of this.
To my girls who aren’t here with me, I will forever love you, miss you, and wonder about you. My peace is knowing that you are together experiencing the greatest love anyone can ever know from our heavenly Father.
That through all of this pain and longing, I can still say that you’re a good, good Father.
For anyone who has gone through pregnancy loss, I feel your pain, and I am so incredibly sorry. My heart is with anyone who is longing for a child.
