I had my post all planned out. It was going to go something like this:
Do you remember that 90s song "Ironic" by Alanis Morissette? It's one of those songs that always stuck with me because it was so clever and because, well, it has a certain truth about it - life often really is ironic. Here are a few of the lyrics:
An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery and died the next day
It's a black fly in your Chardonnay
It's a death row pardon two minutes too late
Isn't it ironic, don't you think
It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought, it figures...
Well, life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
When you think everything's okay and everything's going right
And life has a funny way of helping you out when
You think everything's gone wrong and everything blows up
In your face
Here lately I feel like my life has become the next verse to this song. If I were a songwriter (which I most certainly am not), my next verse would go something like this:
You spend many years struggling with infertility
You spend tens of thousands of dollars on adoption and IVF
You're happy with your family of five
So you give away all of your baby toys and maternity clothes
And the very next day you learn that you're expecting again
Isn't it ironic, don't you think
We're not really sure how this happened (besides the obvious, of course). Despite our best efforts not to get pregnant again, we are expecting another little one in late December. When we found out, one of us may have cried and one of us may have cussed (you can decide who did which). This put a serious wrench in our plans. We thought we were done with babies.
But then I went to my first doctor's appointment, and I saw that little blinking light that is my baby's heartbeat. It was nothing short of miraculous.
After the initial shock wore off, we've started coming around to the idea of a family of six. When we go to amusement parks (if we could ever afford such a thing for six people), everyone will have a buddy to ride with. Maybe it will be a girl so that Wren will have a sister. Regardless, this baby will be as precious and as amazing as our other three, and we will love him or her more than we ever thought we were capable of.
So it was with this post in mind, ready to be published to share the happy news with the world, that I eagerly went to my twelve week doctor's appointment, my biggest concern being deductibles and maternity clothes. When the doctor couldn't detect the heartbeat, she reassured me that this was all perfectly normal and that I could just go have a sonogram down the hall to make sure everything was fine. When the technician put the device to my stomach, I could instantly make out the perfect profile of our baby. It had of course grown significantly since the last time I had seen it. There was now no doubt that it was in fact a baby. But there was something that was missing, and I think I knew deep down what the technician's next words would be. I will always remember exactly what she said. She was staring intently at the screen and said, "We don't have a heartbeat today." My first thoughts were, "Rewind. Rewind. Can we please rewind so that maybe she will say something else? She didn't really just say that." My next unvoiced thoughts were of the literal meaning of the words she said. "Today...no heartbeat today. Does that mean that if we come back tomorrow that there might be?" Of course, reason soon took over, and I knew that we couldn't rewind and that tomorrow's sonogram would be no different. That blinking light that I had marveled at just four short weeks earlier was gone.
Despite the blinding tears, I managed to make it home. I had called Tony on the way home and told him the news. I could tell by his reaction that it was the last thing he was expecting me to say. When I walked in the door I ran to him and then we just held each other sobbing, while the twins played at our feet. Somehow we managed to go about our normal business of working and then feeding, bathing and tending to our little ones.
This initial pain was just the beginning of a week's worth of physical pain as my body caught on to the fact that the baby inside of me was no longer living and thus began the miscarriage process. While the physical pain was terrible, it was nothing compared with the emotional turmoil that increased even as the physical discomfort decreased. It felt like a knife straight to the heart.
The true irony of the whole situation was not lost on me. We had not asked for another baby. We weren't even sure we could handle another child. Yet God chose to grant us this little miracle. And we viewed it as such - as a blessing straight from the hand of God. As it grew, so did our love and aspirations for him or her. We changed our plans. We started finishing our basement to make room for it. Then, this baby, and all of the possibilities that came with it, were taken from us after just 12 short weeks. Why would God give us something we never asked for, change our hearts and our future plans such that we were eagerly anticipating our new baby, and then take it from us, with no warning? What is the purpose in something so horrific?
I don't know the answer to these questions, and I don't expect that I ever will - at least not this side of Heaven. The verse that resonated in my mind, and continues to do so, is "The LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD" (Job 1:21).
In the apt and wise words of one of my dear friends (who has also experienced several of these losses), this is a pain only our precious Jesus can carry. How can such simple words ring so true?
As several weeks have now passed and most of the physical side effects
of both pregnancy and miscarriage have waned, my thoughts have been more
clear, and I can now see that God can even use this painful and
seemingly pointless scenario for good. There is nothing - no story, no
pain, no betrayal - that God cannot redeem and use for His greater eternal
purposes. I often think of all of the other people I know who have experienced the loss of a child (at all ages), and while I don't purport to know what it feels like to lose a child who is five months, seven years, or twenty eight years old, I now know what it feels like to lose a child. The loss of a child, even one as small and as young as mine, is something that will haunt me forever. It will always be an ache in my heart, and it is not something that I can just get over. My hope is that God can take this pain that we have experienced and help us to relate to others in similar circumstances - to tell them that we know how it hurts and that we're there for them - there to pray and there to cry. For it is those people in my life who have undergone something similar to this who have been the most comfort to me.
For now, I am focusing on joy and where my joy comes from. The two verses that I keep in the forefront of my mind lately are Nehemiah 8:10 ("And do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength") and Isaiah 55:12 ("For you shall go out in joy and be led forth in peace, the mountains and the hills before you shall break forth into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands..."). Ironically, that last verse was one that I had memorized when I first found out I was pregnant - when I was wondering how we were going to live with four kids. Now that I wonder how we will live without four kids, the truth in that verse speaks to me even more. What other people may call irony - a cruel twist of fate - I call God's providence in preparing me for what is to come and in using all things - the good and the bad and everything in between - for his own glory and the good of those who love him.
Psalm 126
When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion,
we were like those who dreamed.
2 Our mouths were filled with laughter,
our tongues with songs of joy.
Then it was said among the nations,
“The Lord has done great things for them.”
3 The Lord has done great things for us,
and we are filled with joy.
4 Restore our fortunes, Lord,
like streams in the Negev.
5 Those who sow with tears
will reap with songs of joy.
6 Those who go out weeping,
carrying seed to sow,
will return with songs of joy,
carrying sheaves with them.
I write this now for several reasons. First, it's
therapeutic for me just to get all thoughts that have been swimming
around my head onto paper. Second, I want those who have gone through
this (or will one day go through this) to know that we're here to
commiserate, and for those who have never gone through this, I want you
to know that the pain that comes with something like this is real.
Lastly, I want this to be a memorial to our unborn child. His or her
life was miraculous, and I don't ever want to forget that. Even as this
page holds his or her place in our family scrapbook of sorts, he or she
will always hold a place in our hearts.
