Pt 2: Surprising lessons from our recent loss

A few days after my ultrasound, morning sickness kicked in in full force. I was actually thrilled about this. I usually get sick right around 6 weeks, and that timing would line up exactly with the ultrasound dating. I also shared with several people and can’t hearing story after story of how they had had the same scenario, and baby just wasn’t as far along as they’d thought. A later ultrasound revealed a healthy, growing baby.

So that encouraged me. I found myself with all the familiar feelings of nausea, food aversions, all that good stuff. It was so comforting; I had never been so happy to feel awful! This continued for almost two weeks. I definitely felt weak, emotionally and physically, but there was nothing to do but keep putting one foot in front of the other. On a Thursday morning, I spoke to a lovely group of moms at Hearts at Home, then drove for my next ultrasound, feeling very hopeful and encouraged. I tried not to have expectations, but inwardly I thought through some scenarios for telling our families. I knew our kids would be wild with excitement, as they both want another baby. I prayed over the phone with a friend, and headed in.

As the technician began, I could see the dating/measurements on the screen: about 7 weeks. That lined up perfectly with my midwife’s prediction, so I breathed a sigh of relief. But then she finished and went to consult the doctor. Usually, I knew, they let you listen to baby’s heartbeat before they finish.

I sat in the chair, focusing my thoughts on truth, reminding myself over and over that no matter what happened, God was good and it would be ok. Beside me, a blurry black-and-white photo slipped out of the machine. There was my tiny baby. I stared at it, wondering weird things like, “Would they print me a photo if the baby were dead? Maybe that’s a good sign?” She came back in.

“There is no cardiac activity, so our work with you is done.” She opened the door for me to leave, then looked at the photo and hesitated. “Do you want the photo?”

I told her yes please, and thank you and the room started spinning and I walked, without seeing, back into the waiting room to pay my bill. The receptionist said to wait until she could figure out the a correct coding. So I sat in the waiting room and picked a spot on the ceiling to stare. Not yet. Don’t cry yet. Don’t cry yet. Hold on. Just hold on. I thumbed a two-word text to Jeff: No heartbeat.

After ten minutes or so, she figured out the coding. I smiled and thanked her so much for her time and she looked in my eyes and saw everything and her face silently said, I’m so sorry.

I walked out into the incongruent brightness of the sun, finally found refuge in my car, and … I don’t know how to describe it. Maybe you’ve felt it, where grief feels like it will swallow you whole. Where suddenly the accumulation of grief rushes up, and it’s not just one dead baby, it’s all of them and all of it, and I told God it feels like by the time this life is over I will just be a crushed, ragged, ripped-to-shreds heart that has been broken so many times it’s beyond repair.

And as I poured my heart out to God, looking for some comfort, some sympathy, the same verse came to mind again and again:

Be patient in affliction, be constant in prayer.

Romans 12:12

Honestly I felt a little like, That’s it, God? My heart is crushed and Your answer is “be patient”?!

Be patient in affliction, be constant in prayer.

Back home, I tried to avoid the questioning eyes of my kids, and fled to the refuge of my bed. Again, everything in me wanted to slip, sink, let myself go down into the depths of sorrow. All of it overwhelmed me. Another miscarriage? I’m traveling every weekend for the next month! When will it happen? Jeff’s going to Kentucky for a week, what if it happens while he’s gone? Will I be okay all alone? How can I keep traveling and speaking and going about life with a dead baby in my belly and not knowing when I will miscarry?

And, so strangely, over the next few hours, God’s good Word to me was not at all what I expected. It caught me so off guard. I didn’t like it, but had to believe. If He’s a good God, and His Word is good, then this word must be good. Out of Ezekiel, of all places:

The word of the Lord came to me: “Son of man, with one blow I am about to take away from you the delight of your eyes. Yet do not lament or weep or shed any tears. Groan quietly; do not mourn for the dead. Keep your turban fastened and your sandals on your feet; do not cover your mustache and beard or eat the customary food of mourners.”
So I spoke to the people in the morning, and in the evening my wife died. The next morning I did as I had been commanded.

Ezekiel 24:15-18

With kindness in His voice, God told me to “groan quietly; do not mourn for the dead.” In other words, Dry your tears, wash your face, and serve others. Put their interests above your sorrow. Don’t cancel anything. Don’t change any plans. Walk out the events of this next month and be patient in affliction.

Even re-writing this, tears well up a tiny bit. This was a hard word to receive. I wouldn’t have believed it was God if it hadn’t been straight from the Bible. I knew not everyone would understand (I didn’t, entirely!). They might think I was just faking, or pretending to be fine. I didn’t exactly know how it would work. But I got up the next morning and hosted company and served pumpkin bread with a smile and prepared for the next day’s speaking events and in alone moments cried quietly and asked God to please help me do what felt impossible on my own. I’m sure you, friends, have had to do hard things like this too…

More in a bit–good, joyful stuff! Thanks for hanging with me through the sad. It’s okay, really. He’s in it all. Bless you, friends. Thanks for reading.