I was a mother. For two short months, I was a mother. I found out I was pregnant the day before my birthday. It was the best birthday gift I’ve ever received. Something I longed for was finally mine. I would put my hand on my belly and would smile, sing, talk, and pray over this baby of mine. A relationship was already formed; I was in love.
And then one day, something didn’t seem right, pain that shouldn’t be there.
An unexpected ultrasound brought me the most tragic news of my life: my baby will die. It attached to the fallopian tube instead of the uterus; it didn’t make it far enough and my life was in danger.
I had a feeling. When the ultrasound technician asked me again if I had a positive pregnancy test, tears started streaming down my face, I knew something wasn’t right. My husband still had hope that everything was going to be okay.
And while we anxiously waited in a room for the doctors to tell us the result, all I could do from falling apart was to sing a song I’ve known since childhood that always brought me comfort: “I cast all my cares upon you, I lay all of my burdens down at your feet, and anytime I don’t know what to do, I cast all my cares upon you.”
And once the doctors arrived in the room after the ultrasound result, asking again what my symptoms were and why I came to the emergency room, I interrupted them and said “Just say it.”
Time stood still in that cold hospital room, and the worst emotions I’ve ever experienced in my life flooded my heart; and it actually felt broken. I could feel pieces of my heart being torn apart. My husband wept with me, and I’m sure his heart felt the same, as we are one.
After they injected me with a drug that would end the pregnancy, my husband and I got in the car, and didn’t stop driving until we got to the ocean, where we grieved hour upon hour. But it was somewhere deep in the grieving and the sobbing when I experienced something not of this world. I wanted to collapse, to just fall because it was hard to walk; hard to go on. But I felt these hands around my body, as if they were holding me up and supporting me. And I heard a voice whisper to me, “I am with you, I will strengthen and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” So that is what it feels like to be upheld by the righteous right hand of God. Now I know.
We thought it was over, until a week later when the pain wasn’t subsiding. We found out the drugs didn’t work, my baby was actually growing bigger and stronger; my baby didn’t want to leave me. Another ultrasound was done; we saw a little heart beating.
And so an emergency surgery was scheduled immediately to remove the pregnancy. As the preparations were taking place, my body was laying on the hospital gurney, but my spirit was somewhere up high, rocking my baby in my arms, saying it will be okay. “I love you my baby, my precious one, mommy loves you.”
And right before they filled my veins with anesthesia, the doctor told me they would also remove my left fallopian tube, and that it would lessen my chance for getting pregnant again.
When I woke up, I could sense this little life was removed from me. It felt lonely; barren. And now instead of a growing belly, there are scars.
One week later my nephew William was born, and he was perfect. I was there at the hospital the day he arrived, and I remember them laying him next to my sister, and her nuzzling him and making that sound of complete relief. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to do that or feel that way with my first baby was overwhelmingly painful; beyond belief. And then I held William, close to my heart, and I cried, and held him closer. Holding him was the first step towards healing.
Losing a child, no matter the circumstance, is devastating. It changes you. I’m changed. Within two months I had both the greatest happiness and greatest heartbreak of my life. This baby will always be a part of me and I carry him or her in my heart as I go about my days. And although my heart is healing, every once in awhile I still feel that sting, that sharp pain of loosing someone who is a part of you. After that day, a part of me was gone, a part of me that I’ll be reunited with eventually.
Through it all, I still have hope, that someday, I will have life within me again. That the next time I’m in a hospital gurney is when I’m holding my newborn baby who is crying in my arms, to feel the warmth, to smell the skin, to look into the eyes.
For now, I rest in knowing that my baby lives in complete love, within the arms of the Father of fathers. And although I didn’t get a chance to know my baby in this life, I already know him or her by heart, and I will recognize this incredible being in eternity. Precious baby of mine, first baby of mine, I have, and always will love you.
I dedicate this blog post to all the women who have ever felt the pain of loosing a child; women who felt life come then disappear. No one else can understand this pain, other than our Heavenly Father, when his only son, his only son, was slain and killed. He let his only son die. And that was a revelation for my husband. As Jason was standing in the kitchen a month ago, all of a sudden he started to cry, and said “I would die for my baby, and God let his only son die for us. I can’t imagine the pain God felt, to let his son die, so that we could be set free from sin, to be with our Father, and to have a relationship with him, just like Jesus.” We really are insanely loved, even on our worst days. And He knows our pain. And that is how my husband and I are moving forward, because we have a God who knows what it feels like; He’s been here before, and He knows exactly how to comfort us, exactly how to heal us, and exactly how to help us become more like Jesus, because that’s what it’s all about.
Life is fleeting. My baby lived here on earth for two months in my tummy. It was not for nothing. God will not waste my pain. Something beautiful will bloom from this deep dark ground of my soul watered by tears. And just like the dawn, God brings the light.
“For God so loved the world, that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” ~ John 3:16
If you’ve gone through an ectopic pregnancy or miscarriage and ever need someone to talk to, I’m here, and you can reach me at firstname.lastname@example.org. You’re not alone.