To Our February Baby: A Letter That Goes Unread

I decided to share this letter after some thought on the issue.  Christopher and I endured a miscarriage recently.  I wasn't very far along, which I am thankful for, but it still hurt emotionally and physically.  I mean, so many people get emotional just from having trouble conceiving, let alone trying for months, discovering a pregnancy, and then losing the baby shortly after.  I thought I'd feel better the next day, but the physical pain and emotional heartache were still there.  And worse.  I guess on the second day, I kind of realized that we really had lost the baby.  When you discover that you're pregnant, all you can think about for days is that baby.  When I lost the baby, that absence was all I could think about.  People don't talk about miscarriages that much, and I understand why.  I don't want to talk about it either.  I get through difficult times in writing, not speaking.

However, sometimes it seems that people think these things should be kept secret or gotten over quickly--and that isn't always healthy for a person emotionally.  I am still going through the physical healing process and feel afraid to try again.  In all my internet searching, I have found so many women eager to finish up healing quickly and start trying again.  Like buying a puppy after your dog died.  I'm sure I'll change my mind, but I feel the complete opposite.  I can't even think about trying again (for now).  To go from this sadness to suddenly happy followed quickly by worry and fear?  I couldn't handle that right now.  I suppose that is for the best because we are going to try to be safe and wait a few months before trying again.

Still, I have come away from this experience thankful for both my son and my eternally supportive, empathetic, and compassionate husband.  So, for the sake of honesty and in case someone out there needs someone they can relate to, here it is.

June 3, 2012

Baby,


When your dad and I found out about you, we were so happy, filled with pride, and excited.  We had been praying for you for months.  All that night, we kept looking at each other and your brother and saying it again and again.  You were really there!  We were really becoming a family of four!  We couldn't wait to start guessing if you were a girl or a boy and picking out names and thinking of your due date--probably mid-February.  Just like with Eliot, I began writing letters to you in a special journal that I had bought just for you.  I order a "big brother" shirt for Eliot to wear when we would announce you to the world.  Our five year wedding anniversary was coming up and I kept thinking about how it was going to be our best anniversary celebration ever.

A few days later, I was laying in bed with your brother as he napped.  I was so, so, so tired that day.  I told your dad that it felt like I had taken a Benadryl, but I hadn't.  After about 45 minutes of resting, I starting looking up baby things on the internet.  I read up on what you were probably doing and how you were developing at four and a half weeks.  I thought about names more too.  That's when I started to feel the cramps.  I wasn't worried.  Cramps can be normal and I figured it might be a good sign.

Then later, I felt the blood.  Not normal blood.  Bad blood.  I told your dad.  He got that look of panic and just said, "I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry."  I called the doctor right away.  The receptionist and nurse sounded worried.  They told me to come in for a blood test.  I went upstairs to get something.  I looked at myself in the mirror.  What was I looking for?  I didn't need anything.  Down again I went.  Your dad held me and said we'd be OK, that he loved me, that no matter what, we'd be OK, and that I was beautiful and brave.  I cried.  I grabbed the keys.  He offered to come, but I said no, to stay home and feed Eliot lunch.  I walked out the door in a tee-shirt, running shorts, flip flops, unbrushed hair, and glasses.  I never leave the house this way, but I didn't care.  All of my heart was set on you.

On the drive to the doctor, I tried not to cry.  I did this breathing exercise that my sister taught me in high school when our grandfather died.  She said it was supposed to keep your mind off of things to help keep you from crying, but I always just end up thinking about my grandfather's death and funeral instead.

I checked in with the front desk and went to the lab at 1:40 pm.  They called my name.  They asked if I was still cramping and bleeding.  Yes.  They asked if I was on birth control.  No...  What kind of stupid question is that?  They took my blood and told me to leave.  They said I could call back at 4:45 pm.  I left angry. I was angry for you.  No one told me any sort of plan.  I wasn't asking anyone to care.  I wasn't asking anyone to even be nice to me.  I don't know the general protocol for possible miscarriages.  I just wanted to know what they were going to do or what the test would tell us or what it all could mean.  They could have at least given me a pamphlet or print-out of some kind.  I shouldn't have to Google my way through a sensitive situation with the possible loss of my baby.

I called your dad on the way home.  It was easier to be angry at the doctor's office than be sad with the reality of losing you.  I got to the house and saw Eliot playing with his magnadoodle when I opened the door.  I held him close and your dad held me.  We would bounce between raving about how we should have been told at least some information to then trying not to cry to being thankful for your brother.

I called the lab at 4:30 pm.  No results yet.  I called at 4:51 pm.  I left a message.  I called again at 4:53 pm.  Still no results.  I'd have to wait until Monday.   Now we'd have to wait all weekend not knowing what was going on.

Your dad took me for a drive to get me out of the house.  When we got home, we took some snacks to bed and watched Bolt with Eliot until it was time for him to go to sleep.  I kept bleeding.  I kept cramping.  I know I should remain hopeful, but all signs pointed to losing you.  And I lost hope. I continued to bleed for days.  There was no point in calling the doctor for the test results--it didn't even matter anymore.

I don't understand and I have so many questions.  Doctors can't say when life begins, but I believe it begins very early.  When I saw your brother on the ultrasound screen at 10 weeks, there was no doubt in my mind that he was indeed very, very alive.  I believe he had life in him long before that ultrasound.  I don't know how far we were or how much you had developed, but I believe you were there, alive, growing, and real.  I don't know if maybe some day, somehow we will meet in Heaven and I will know you right away. 

Sometimes I worry that I am being punished.  I never took you for granted.  Not for one second.  However, I was less worried about losing you than I was with your brother.  Am I being humbled?  Am I being corrected for not being afraid?  I'm sure this is all the wrong approach, but I am sorry if I did something wrong.

I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to carry you.  I don't know why I wasn't.  I always thought that the chances of a miscarriage are much slimmer after one successful pregnancy.  If anything, I am more healthy than I was with your brother.  I'm trying not to blame myself somehow, but either way, I'm sorry I couldn't do what I was supposed to.  But, know this:  from the second we learned about you, we loved you and we will never forget those days filled with hope and happiness.