I’m so pleased to share with you a post by my amazing friend Kristen.  She is one of the kindest and most gentle souls I’ve ever met who always has a kind word .  Often in our society, we don’t talk openly about trouble conceiving, miscarriages and infant loss.  Kristen has weathered such an experience, and she has some wonderful advice and perspective to offer.  Here is part one of Kristen’s experience.

Pregnancy, Loss and Love

It began with two pink lines on a pregnancy test.  That beautiful promise of new life and new beginnings.  My husband and I were overjoyed.  This pregnancy was a surprise, but a welcome and much wanted one for both of us.  We felt such joy as we anticipated this new baby that would be joining our family.  We already had three girls and a boy who brought us such happiness, we were thrilled to think of another sweet baby joining our family.

With four healthy children and four textbook pregnancies behind me, there was no reason to assume that this time would be any different.  Yet I was plagued with worry.  I chalked it up to typical worries about the unknown, the stress of a big family to care for during a pregnancy and a hundred other things.  But I couldn’t quite shake that feeling of worry and concern.  Despite my attempts to brush the worry aside, despite countless prayers for peace, the worry was never far from my mind.

My husband and I were looking forward to our second trimester anatomy and growth ultrasound when I got a call from my ob/gyn.  He said some numbers from my genetic testing had come back a little off and he wanted me to have the ultrasound done at a different location where they could get a better look at the baby.  He reassured me that there was a good chance it wasn’t anything, but as always, they wanted to be sure.  Although  I had been worried throughout the pregnancy, I was pretty optimistic about how this appointment would turn out and couldn’t wait to find out if this baby would be our second boy, or if we would be adding another girl to our family.

Almost from the beginning of the appointment, I sensed something was off.  The technician was not chatty, almost withdrawn.   I could see her repeatedly taking images of the head, the heart and the umbilical cord.  She didn’t explain what she was looking at as she took image after image of the baby. She delivered the news that we were expecting a boy matter-of-factly, with no excitement or enthusiasm.  When she was finished, she said that there were major problems with the baby and the doctor would be in to talk to us shortly.  The news was not good.  Our baby had serious developmental problems that would prove fatal, most likely prior to birth but most certainly afterward.  Despite several conversations and consultations with specialists over the next few days, we were given no hope that this baby would survive.  Most of us have heard stories of miracle babies, who overcame impossible odds.  Babies who received a devastating diagnosis, only to be born completely healthy.  Although somewhere in my heart of hearts, I desperately wanted this to be the case for us, both Cory and I felt almost from the very beginning that this would not be our miracle.  Whatever happened, we both felt that our baby’s time was short.

{Image Credit Tree Photography}

To say our hearts were broken is an understatement.  As a mother, I wasn’t at all surprised at how deep my feelings ran.  Even in only 20 short weeks, I loved this baby with my whole heart.  He was the tiny kicks I’d felt for weeks.  He was wiggly and active at night and when I woke up.  This baby was an individual.  He was our son.  He was the brother to our other children.  He was a part of our future.  He was a dream and a hope.  Only now he wouldn’t be.  There would be no midnight feedings where I could watch the moonlight stream across his rosy cheeks.  There would be no kisses on his soft baby skin.  There would be no darling baby coos or delightful giggles.  No pitter-patter of little steps as he toddled down the hall.  No romps with his siblings.  Just an empty space in my heart where he should have been.

Within two weeks, our baby was gone.

Although my physical recovery was fairly quick, my heart and spirit grieved for much longer. Each week that ticked by was not one week closer to a bouncing baby boy, but a reminder of all I had lost.  Each baby I saw made me miss and long for my baby.  It was painful to see the women who had been pregnant at the same time I was, deliver healthy, perfect babies.  Not that I wished them otherwise, but they did make me feel profoundly lonely.  Lonely for the baby I lost.  For my baby.  My arms ached to hold–not just any baby–but my baby.  I cringed every time I heard any version of the word “die” or “death” even when said in a casual or joking way.  I was scared to look too deeply into others’ eyes, afraid they might see the heartache I carried while I tried to carry on.

And while my heart was broken, I was not defeated. I was not alone and my life was not over.  Despite all that I had lost, what I found was even greater.

Read Part 2, Part 3

{Image Credit Tree Photography}